by Gilliam Ness
Christian swayed on his feet. Along with this sudden realization came an unobstructed awareness of his father’s repugnant presence in him. In that moment he realized that it had always been this way. Since his early childhood, Christian’s father had infested his body and mind. The problem was that Christian had never known any other way of being, and as such, the violation had always been undetectable. A reactionary rage flooded into Christian, erupting in a murderous fire.
“Get out of me, you filthy piece of shit!”
Christian heard the words escape from his lips like venom; words he would never before have dared to utter. He spat on his father’s face.
To Christian’s utter surprise he saw a dry smile appear on the beast that lay below him, the last of its tentacles withdrawing from his psyche as it began to die.
“Nautonnier!” cried his father suddenly, expending the last of his strength.
Christian bent forward despite himself, a look of disgust contorting his features as he strained to hear the words that followed.
“It is done, Nautonnier,” his father whispered. “The boy is ready.”
From out of the shadows Christian saw the figure of a brittle man emerge. His head was covered in a hood, but hints of the ancient face within could be seen in the lamplight.
“Behold, Christian,” the man hissed, removing a serpentine ring from his father’s finger and giving it to Christian. “Your father is dead. You are master now. Use your power wisely.”
CHAPTER 11
Rome, Italy.
Gabriel awoke suddenly, the only light in the room coming from the wood-burning stove that glowed warmly in the corner. The same person who had covered him in a blanket must have also turned out the lights.
“What time is it?” he whispered, looking down at his watch.
The dial glowed a bright blue in the darkness. 11:23pm. Gabriel sat up stiffly and made the calculations in his head. It took him quite a while. He was still half asleep.
“Let’s see. I got here at around six-thirty this morning. Finished breakfast by eight...”
He stopped short with a sudden realization.
“I’ve been asleep for more than fifteen hours.”
Rubbing his face back to life, Gabriel found his way to the end table and switched on a lamp. There was a note resting directly beside it. It was written in the calligraphic script of the Bishop, a little shaky, but still assertive and elegant.
I hope this note finds you well rested, my son. You have been through quite an ordeal. Please feel free to make yourself comfortable in the guest room. I will see you for breakfast at eight-thirty sharp.
M.D.L.
Gabriel put the note down sleepily. Had he read it more carefully, he would have understood that it was not his regular room that he was being told to use, but rather the guest room; a suite next to the chapel that had always been used for more prominent visitors.
Entering into the hallway Gabriel found it to be much colder than he had expected, and as he made his way along the dimly lit corridor he was suddenly taken by a desperate urge to urinate. With his bladder ready to burst, Gabriel rushed frantically along the corridor until he arrived at the door of his usual room. Here he would find a toilet, and with no time to spare.
He moved the latch slowly, not wanting to wake the sharp-eared Fra Bartolomeo in his chambers next door. There was no time to even reach for the light switch. He knew that just to the right, past the armoire, was the door to the bathroom. He entered into it without hesitation, finding the toilet and relieving himself in a single, perfectly executed motion. The relief that fell over him was encompassing, and he sighed fully and deeply.
“Twenty-four hours without a leak,” he muttered, reveling with satisfaction at the deep rumbling sound of his stream.
He threw back his head, smiling proudly at the musical quality of an accompanying note of flatulence. Feeling invigorated, Gabriel moved to the sink and proceeded to rinse his hands. It was there where he noticed that something was not quite right. Reflected on the tiles he could clearly see a dim light where there should have been no light at all. It was coming in from the bedroom outside, a fact that puzzled him greatly, considering there had been no lights on when he had entered. A feeling of dread suddenly washed over him.
“Shit,” he muttered, the last of his grogginess vanishing.
He recalled the Bishop’s note.
The Guest Room. Shit!
Turning slowly, Gabriel made his way to the bathroom door. It was ajar. Through it he saw that a lamp in the room had indeed been lit. Whoever was outside was clearly awake. He stood there without moving. Listening.
“Hello?” he said at last. “I think I might have just used your restroom.”
A young woman’s voice replied almost immediately.
“Yes, I believe you did.”
Her voice was calm and timid, her accent clearly Italian, but schooled in American English.
Gabriel was at a loss.
This is not good. There’s a girl out there and I just barged into her room, pissed in her toilet, and blew a massive fart to boot. Marcus is going to kill me.
He tried to think of what to do next, but no solution presented itself. She was clearly in her bed, so he could not just walk out, but he could not remain where he was either. His mind seemed to stall. There was an awkwardly long silence.
“Will you be staying long?” asked the young woman, clearly annoyed.
It took a moment before Gabriel could respond.
“No. I’m quite done.”
There was another long pause.
“You can pass through,” she said. “I am covered.”
Gabriel made his way out into the bedroom and froze. Wrapped in the blankets of his bed, the bed he had slept in since he was a boy, was the most stunning woman he had ever laid eyes on. The soft light of the bedside lamp made her look angelic, and her startled eyes were almost childlike. Thick chestnut hair fell over her shoulders in heavy ringlets. Gabriel swallowed hard.
“My name is Natasha,” she said carefully.
Gabriel was silent for a moment.
“I’m Gabriel.”
Her stern expression made him want to smile, but something told him to be careful. His eyes twinkled despite his best efforts.
“I’m sorry,” he said as sincerely as he could. “It’s just that I normally stay in this room. Bishop Marcus is like an uncle to me. I was half asleep.”
“I did not know that Uncle Marcus had a nephew,” she said, sitting up and eyeing him distrustfully. “And you would think I would know, considering that he is like an uncle to me.”
Gabriel was too unpolished for Natasha’s tastes. He had a shaggy, travel worn look about him that made her want to throw him in a bath. She sat up a little further still.
“And for your information,” she added, “this is the room where I normally stay.”
Gabriel’s mouth hung open. He was about to speak when a soft knock sounded at the door. A second later Fra Bartolomeo poked his head into the room.
“Natasha,” he whispered. “What is going on here? I thought I heard the voice of a man.”
He looked around.
“Gabriel!” he cried. “What are you doing in this young lady’s room? Have you lost your senses? This is completely unacceptable!”
“No, Fra. It was a mis—”
Gabriel’s words were cut short as the old Brother burst into the room. Reaching up he took hold of Gabriel’s collar and escorted him out with practiced agility. Fra Bartolomeo had long been a school master before his retirement.
“Please, Fra,” pleaded Gabriel as he was removed from the room. “I thought this was my bedroom.”
CHAPTER 12
The Atlas Mountains, Morocco.
“You have betrayed me, and now you are lying to me!”
It was Najiallah Nasrallah who spoke, his voice was as greasy as his shoulder length hair, and his accent impossible to trace. He wore a shiny black suit under a blood
spattered apron, his gaudy silk shirt the colour of dried mustard. A huge, muscle-bound man slumped before him under the trembling fluorescent light; naked and battered, and strapped to a barber’s chair. They were in the middle of a windowless chamber, deep in a Moorish dungeon.
“No, Master,” said the giant of a man, his deep voice broken but still dignified. “There was talk in the streets. An American was asking about the relic. His name is Gabriel Parker. There were many leaks after the robbery. The informer could have been anyone.”
“Do not lie to me!” snapped Nasrallah, venomously poking a cattle prod into the prisoner’s ribs.
A deep and resounding scream ensued, and much to Nasrallah’s annoyance, the tortured man slipped into unconsciousness. Nasrallah turned to face a middle-aged doctor who stood nearby. His lab coat was heavily bloodstained, his gaunt face pale and haggard.
“Why did the drugs not prevent this from happening?” hissed Nasrallah through grey and crooked teeth.
The doctor scrambled up to the victim to take his pulse.
“I gave him a massive dose, sir, but he is still only human. If you continue this he will die.”
With the prisoner’s tortured head now tilting to the side, it was easy to see the large scar that bisected his face. In charge of two hashish production operations in Tangiers, and a smuggling ring in Algeria, he was Nasrallah’s top Captain; the only one left alive who had been involved in the Cube’s robbery from the Museum of Antiquities. Nasrallah scowled with hatred.
You have betrayed me, Bahadur. You are a slithering worm.
Within hours of Gabriel’s escape, Nasrallah had ordered his helicopter to Morocco to collect the giant, and bring him back. His family had also been taken, and they were currently being held in another cell within earshot of his screams.
“Son of a whore,” said Nasrallah in disgust, stripping off his apron and turning to leave. “He had a hand in this. I am sure of it. I should have killed him with all the others.”
Nasrallah stopped at the door, his mobile phone ringing. He held it to his ear.
“Yes?” he said, his expression changing as he listened. “But Father Vanderwerken, how can this be? No sir, I do not doubt you. If you say it is, the Cube must be in Rome. Yes. Most certainly. Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. Kindly relay all your data and I will send a team out immediately. Yes, sir. At your service.”
Pocketing his phone, Nasrallah turned to face the doctor, his mouth twisting with hatred.
“Clean him up and make him well enough to work! I’ve got plans for him yet.”
CHAPTER 13
Rome, Italy.
Gabriel sat in a plush leather armchair, scanning the guestroom he had just been escorted to. He was completely awake now, and he looked around with a refreshed alertness that was more in keeping with early morning than the time on his watch. His eyes fell on his leather duffel bag. He could see it resting on a rosewood table at the foot of his bed.
“Couldn’t hurt to have a look,” he muttered, rising from his seat. “Anything to take my mind off that girl.”
Even before Natasha had introduced herself, Gabriel had known in an instant that she was the woman mentioned in his father’s notes. According to the Professor, the Cube was as much hers as it was his. He rubbed the stubble on his face.
She said Marcus was like an uncle to her...
It made no sense. Surely somebody would have said something about her. The thing that bothered Gabriel the most was the way she had made him stop in his tracks.
“I don’t know who that girl is,” he grumbled, opening the duffel bag, “but she’s got high-maintenance written all over her face. Another prissy little Princess.”
Gabriel shook off his misgivings and produced the container that housed the mysterious Cube. As he had noted before, it was surprisingly heavy, having a density that reminded him of an uncooked roast. Stopping suddenly, Gabriel turned away from the artifact to face the window. A noise from outside had caught his attention. It had sounded like something had fallen with a crash. He remained motionless.
Most likely a tree bough downed by the storm.
In truth, the rain had yet to let up. Roman winters tended to be very rainy, but this season had been particularly cold and damp. Outside, the downpour pummeled the wooden shutters, and Gabriel was glad of the fire that burned low in the hearth. It was a foul night, and the room was really quite comfortable. He moved to the desk and placed the artifact down carefully.
It was such an odd thing, this Cube, quite unlike anything he had ever seen before. When closely scrutinized it was easy to see that the thing was not at all what it appeared to be on the surface. Its density was of course the first give away, but surpassing this was the lack of attention that had been given to the actual illuminations that adorned it. Compared to the detailed work that had gone into the carving of its external framework, the illustrations themselves seemed overly crude in contrast; each side containing the same image of a single apple with its peel removed and arranged in a coil around it.
Gabriel noticed something peculiar. Having studied similar quadriforms of the same epoch, he knew that their frameworks were always attached last, thus preventing any of the vellum from peeling off the artifact’s surface over time. In this case however, that precaution had not been observed. Gabriel could clearly see that the edges of the vellum were peeling up, even if ever so slightly.
“Wait a minute here,” he muttered, gently passing his finger over an upturned edge. “Is it possible that there could be something behind this illustration?”
Gabriel groaned as the full realization dawned on him. These were not merely illustrations of peeled apples; they were instructions. Producing his pocket knife, he tested a loose edge to find that the old vellum offered little resistance to being peeled back. He stopped himself.
What the hell am I doing? I’m about to mutilate a twelve-hundred year old artifact.
Even still, something drove Gabriel onward, and he was soon uncovering a golden sub-layer, one that was so well preserved that in his excitement he forgot to breathe. One side at a time, he carefully pulled away the outer layers, revealing a shining artifact beneath.
Adorned in intricately worked parchments of deep ruby reds and glowing emerald greens, it was a gold encrusted work of medieval art the likes of which he had never before seen. Reminiscent not only of the Islamic and Christian works found in the cathedral of St. Sophia Hagia, the piece also reflected an uncanny similarity to the mystical arts of India, as well as the sublime elegance of those masterful works originating from the Far East.
“This is unbelievable,” he whispered, turning it slowly under the light.
The truth of the matter was that he had quite simply never laid eyes on such a masterpiece. It was beyond a doubt, the finest example of medieval craftsmanship in existence, and there could be no doubt as to its authenticity. It was only upon arriving at this conclusion that Gabriel noticed something that dumbfounded him.
“Wait a minute,” he said aloud. “This can’t be right.”
Reaching for his pack, he retrieved an examination kit, producing a large magnifying glass. After a moment’s inspection, there could be no mistake. On each of the six sides were miniature texts belonging to six distinct world religions.
“Buddhism,” whispered Gabriel, turning the Cube under the magnifying glass, “Judaism, Islamism, Taoism,” his eyes were wide with amazement, “Hinduism, Christianity. This is impossible.”
The likelihood of there existing a ninth century artifact that housed texts belonging to the six major world religions was unheard of. In this artifact was evidence of a cultural contact that, according to the history books, would not occur for another four hundred years. Gabriel placed the Cube back on the desk and reclined in his chair, trying to digest what the existence of such a piece could signify. Who had made it? Why had they made it? Who in the ninth century would have had such detailed knowledge of the six major belief systems, not to mention knowledge of their la
nguages? And what would have inspired them to want to unify them in such a manner?
“This is certainly very unusual,” he muttered, taking his eyes from the Cube to look around the room. “What the hell is going on? Why is all this happening? Why did my father say that the Cube was my birthright? What the hell was that supposed to mean?”
All the while that Gabriel studied the Cube, and hours passed without him knowing, there resided in his heart a strange and disturbing familiarity for the object, one that he could not begin to explain. It was as though he had dreamed of the Cube, or seen it as a child. An elusive recollection of the artifact seemed to be hovering just out of reach, like a word on the tip of his tongue. Perhaps he had simply slept too much. Sensing that he had had enough, Gabriel packed away the strange artifact and headed for the bathroom.
It’s almost two-thirty in the morning. I could use a shower and a shave.
CHAPTER 14
Natasha jerked herself into a seated position. A scuffling sound had just awoken her. It was coming from outside.
What is that? Is it the rain?
She left her bed silently, approaching a louvered set of doors that lead into the cloisters outside. Through the downpour she could see a wet dog sitting patiently in the shadows. Its fur was glimmering in the lamplight. He pawed at the door again and Natasha gasped in surprise, her intuition peaking.
“You again,” she said, biting her lip. “But how can it be?”
Natasha’s rational mind was sounding its objections. Florence was almost three hundred kilometers away from Rome. There was no possible way that the dog could have found her here. Even still, something in her was absolutely sure that the dog outside was the same one she had seen in her storeroom. She took a deep breath and opened the door.
