by Gilliam Ness
“Indeed, he was,” said the Bishop slowly. “Jesus was also thirty-three when he was crucified.”
Gabriel shook his head and frowned.
“Genetically speaking, thirty-three is also the age when a human being reaches its full development. After that, our DNA begins to develop errors during mitosis.”
The old Bishop looked down at the tattered journal, his face growing dark.
“The prophecy admonished that if the corpse of the hermaphrodite were taken to the portal before the day of its thirty-third birthday, and buried there in a special ceremony, the Fourteen Emissaries would not be able to enter onto the earth sphere, and humanity’s transition out of the fifth age would be made less catastrophic. This was what both of your fathers died trying to do. They failed.”
Gabriel pushed back his messy hair and gazed into the flames of the hearth.
“So what you’re saying is that their deaths were no accident.”
“It would appear not,” said the Bishop. “Something caused their plane to crash, and I believe that it was a supernatural force that did it; a demonic force to be more specific.”
Natasha looked at the Bishop, her big eyes filled with fear. She had felt that same demonic force in her workshop. She was certain of it.
“What did the myth say would happen if Osiris and Isis failed to find their way out of the labyrinth?”
The old Bishop cringed at her question, and just then the catacombs seemed to close in around them. A frigid draft had suddenly entered into the chamber. It sent chills through them all.
“The myth spoke of perpetual night,” he said solemnly. “It spoke of a Great Dying, and the loss of all hope.”
It was at this moment that Shackleton rose from his resting place in front of the fire. He approached the door with stealth, his nose raised and sniffing and the hair on his back on end. He turned and focused an intense look at Natasha, just as Fra was opening an eye and cocking his head to listen.
“Someone is coming,” whispered Natasha. “I think they have found us.”
CHAPTER 23
Amsterdam, North Holland.
Christian awoke with a start, his heart racing from the remnants of a nightmare. After the Steering Committee meeting he had retired to his room to drink a bottle of wine. He had fallen asleep and dreamed of the four hooded figures. He could still hear his father’s voice echoing in his mind.
“Heed the Zurvanites! Heed them! Heed them!”
Christian passed his hands over his face. He was drenched in sweat. The telephone rang, giving him a start.
“Yes?” he said dryly, picking up the receiver before the first ring had ended.
“Christian,” came the Prince’s brittle voice. “Proceed to the Vanderhoff suite immediately.”
“Bloody Christ,” groaned Christian. “I’m taking a nap.”
Prince Vladimir coughed angrily.
“There is no time for your insolence!” he hissed. “The Nautonnier has summoned you!”
Christian heard the line go dead.
The Vanderhoff suite was located in the same wing as Christian’s penthouse, and it was not long before he found himself stumbling there, a tumbler of wine in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other. He recalled what his uncle had told him of the Nautonnier earlier that day.
“He is a figurehead,” the Prince had said, his voice tinged with hatred for the old man. “He is a remnant of old traditions and outdated superstitions. In all my life I have never seen him do anything of any importance. Your father feared him. Why, I do not know.”
Christian thought back to the first time he had seen the Nautonnier. It had been at his father’s deathbed, and a sinister power had radiated from the man, one that he could still feel. The Nautonnier’s sudden appearance on the lawn earlier that day had only increased Christian’s trepidation. The old man had been standing directly where the hooded figures had appeared; as though he and they were somehow connected.
Christian drained his glass and tossed it away. If his father had feared the Nautonnier, it must have been for a good reason. He made his way along the plush corridor, feeling the tyrannical presence of his father more poignantly than ever now. It settled around him like a cold fog; pressing down on him; suffocating him.
All power is based in fear. Fear must be maintained at all costs.
Christian arrived at a pair of towering doors, only to see them open of their own accord before him. The light from the hallway was doing nothing to illuminate the room within.
“Come in, Christian,” said a brittle voice, and in that moment, Christian was filled with a deep and inexplicable dread.
“Fear me not, boy,” came the voice again. “I am no stranger. Be so kind as to close the door behind you. Your eyes will soon grow accustomed to the darkness.”
Christian did as he was told, shutting the door and waiting for his eyes to adjust. It was not long before an ancient man materialized before him. He was seated at a small table, the light of a dim candle illuminating his strange and unsettling features. He sat regally, his brittle white hair as thin as cobwebs, and growing from a pasty grey head that appeared to be moulting.
With the exception of his long, hooked nose, the Nautonnier’s bone structure was almost reptilian. He had no eyebrows or facial hair of any kind, and his tripe coloured skin was like newly grown scar tissue, thin and brittle like old parchment. He reminded Christian of a pagan oracle; powerful and merciless, and almost skeletal. The hard line that was the Nautonnier’s mouth transformed into a slit when he began to speak.
“I have summoned you here so that you might fulfill the final part of your inheritance,” said the Nautonnier. “In order to do this, you must be made aware of certain facts that have been kept from you. After this, you must make a special pledge.”
“A pledge?” asked Christian, arriving at the table. “What are you talking about?”
“Sit down, boy.”
Christian obeyed, lowering himself slowly into a chair.
“You are of an ancient linage, Christian,” said the Nautonnier, his voice like dry leaves. “Your family has always held power over others. It is no coincidence that things have been this way. Many attempts have been made to usurp your family’s control, but there has always been a force that has kept it intact.”
“Yes,” said Christian. “It’s called ruthlessness.”
The old man smiled crookedly, and it seemed to Christian that his skin could be heard cracking as he did so.
“Yes,” he replied. “And the driving impetus behind this ruthlessness has always been granted from below.”
Christian cocked an eyebrow.
“What are you talking about?”
“I am speaking of Ahreimanius,” said the Nautonnier. “The Dark Lord of Matter. The highest servant of Lucifer.”
Christian stared into the Nautonnier’s reptilian eyes and then began to rise from his chair.
“I’m leaving.”
“Sit down!” came a sudden hiss, but it had clearly not been the Nautonnier who had uttered it.
Christian felt as though something invisible were pushing him back into his seat. His head swelled dizzily. His father was present. He denied it.
“You need not be fettered as you are, boy,” continued the Nautonnier more urgently. “Forfeit your will to that of the master’s, and you will be more powerful than any man alive.”
“You will assume your responsibilities,” hissed the voice.
Christian scanned the shadows. There was no denying it now. The voice was clearly that of his father’s. His mind reeled. His father was dead. They had buried him.
“What the hell is going on here?”
The Nautonnier smiled dryly, holding up a wrinkled hand in a gesture of peace.
“I am a fair man, Christian. I will answer any questions you might have. When you are satisfied, you may proceed with the pledge, or you may choose to abstain from making it. Is this acceptable?”
Christian could feel the
hold on him lessen in intensity, and he took the opportunity to reposition himself in his chair. Whatever it was that was happening, he would have to play along. The man before him was obviously his superior. His father had feared him. He was beginning to understand why.
“What kind of a title is Nautonnier?” he asked. “What makes you so important?”
The old man nodded.
“Nautonnier is the title given to the leader of our ancient society. It means, The Great Navigator. It is a lifetime position, and one that has been held by very important personages throughout the ages. It is a position that is held until it is taken away, for there can only be one Nautonnier.”
“And who is Ahreimanius?”
The old man gazed into the flickering candle, his eyes betraying a deep fear.
“He is the greatest demon of the Luciferic Order. He is a son of Lucifer, and was first called Ahreimanius by the followers of the ancient prophet Zoroaster. He is his father’s arm and fist on the earth sphere. Ahreimanius is merciless and terrible.”
“And why can’t Lucifer be terrible himself? Why does he need Ahreimanius?”
“Lucifer cannot access the earth sphere in his bodily form. He can exist here only in spirit. For this reason Lucifer bestows great power onto Ahreimanius, along with all the souls who are loyal to him. We are such souls, you and I.”
Christian scanned the shadowy room. All the shutters and drapes had been drawn tight. Not a sliver of light could be seen anywhere.
“And what is there to gain by serving Ahreimanius?”
“By serving Ahreimanius, we serve ourselves,” said the old man. “In exchange for our loyal acts we receive power over others, and great dominion over the matter that he is the master of. Everything that you have in this life, Christian, you owe to Ahreimanius.”
Christian was not a spiritual person, yet he could distinctly feel a dark and sinister presence around him. He was certain he must be imagining things. The doses of his medications required altering. He would call his psychiatrist when he was done.
“Your soul is much older than you realize, Christian,” continued the Nautonnier.
“What do you mean?” he asked, his fear and confusion mounting. “What are you talking about?”
“The soul of every being that inhabits this planet is ancient, to be sure, but whereas most of these souls are lowly, and of no importance, your soul has been in league with Lucifer since the time of the Great Fall. You are a Prince among the Fallen Angels, Christian. It has always been so, and just as in each of your many previous life incarnations, the time has come when you must renew your pledge to the master once again.”
Christian locked eyes with the Nautonnier. As irrational and superstitious as it seemed, he sensed that this was no trivial request.
“Have you any more questions?”
Christian remained silent in his confusion.
“Very well,” said the Nautonnier slowly. “There will be other opportunities for you to learn more. As I promised, I shall now permit you to decide how you wish to proceed.”
“I choose to sleep on it,” muttered Christian, rising slowly from his chair. “I’ll get back to you after the conference.”
The Nautonnier gave a dry chuckle.
“Oh no, Christian,” he said. “I made no mention of giving you time to deliberate. That is not an option. You must decide now. You are free to take any decision you choose, but know this: Should you decide to abandon Ahreimanius, your special place at his table will naturally be taken from you. You are free to decide, but you must decide now and forever. Be sure not to err. Ahreimanius knows not the meaning of forgiveness.”
Christian could feel the psychic tentacles of his father worming into him again.
All power is based in fear. Fear must be maintained at all costs.
“Follow your heart, Christian,” whispered the Nautonnier. “What is it telling you to do? You are free to decide.”
Hearing the old man speak had a great effect on Christian. He suddenly felt as though it were still not too late. A sense of urgency filled him. Around him the room had begun to warp and twist.
“What do you want me to do?” he whispered, his eyes wide.
“Merely to sign a contract,” said the old man. “It is but a symbol of allegiance to Ahreimanius. A formality. It states that you align yourself with him, and offer up to him all that you possess.”
The Nautonnier placed a large book on the table and opened it. It was ancient and brittle, and Christian could see that it was a ledger of sorts; a record of all who had signed their souls into the service of Ahreimanius and Lucifer. The Nautonnier took Christian’s hand and pricked his thumb, filling the quill of a pen with the blood that emerged. He laid the pen next to the open book.
“You may sign it here,” he said, his crooked finger pointing to a spot at the bottom of the page.
Christian took up the pen and watched his hand move the quill to the age old parchment. A mark was made, and knowing that it was done, he quickly finished the stroke.
Christian felt a dizzying surge of dark power flow into him, and then shuddered unexpectedly. Something was awakening in him; something that should never have been disturbed. He looked up to see that the Nautonnier was watching him intently now, an expression of cold malice spreading across his repugnant features.
“It is done,” he hissed, blowing out the candle.
“Wait a minute,” said Christian as the room plunged into darkness.
A sudden realization had flooded into him.
“What have I done? What have you made me do?”
“The way to Ahreimanius has been opened,” came his father’s hiss. “Behold the newborn son of Lucifer!”
Christian staggered through the darkness, finding the door to the suite and jerking it open. The light from the hall filled the room, but the Nautonnier was nowhere to be seen.
“What’s happening to me?” he gasped, squinting into the shadows, his eyes wide with panic.
In the corner of the room he could see the shapes of four hooded figures, their bodies jerking violently from side to side, and coming in and out of existence.
“The Cube!” they hissed in unison. “The Cube!”
“No!” gasped Christian. “This is impossible!”
CHAPTER 24
Rome, Italy.
“We must move quickly!” whispered the Bishop.
Gabriel tiptoed to the entrance and poked his head out into the cold, dark passage. He heard footsteps, and then saw a light flash suddenly in the gloom. Within seconds, two figures had become visible. One of them was holding a lantern, but both of them were holding guns. They were clearly Nasrallah’s men. He darted back into the chapel, intending to alert Fra and Suora, but finding them both awake and on their feet. He motioned Natasha and the Bishop to draw near.
“Nasrallah’s men are just up the tunnel,” he whispered. “I don’t know how they got there. We should have seen them pass.”
“They have come from above,” said the Bishop.
“But that’s impossible. The only way they could have found us would be through the nunnery tunnel.”
The Bishop took hold of Gabriel’s shoulder and passed him his father’s journal. He had sealed it in an envelope. He drew Natasha nearer as well, and spoke to them both.
“There are dark forces at work here,” he whispered urgently. “Their knowledge of where the Cube is at any particular moment is directly related to the amount of spiritual separation that exists between the two of you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Gabriel.
“Listen carefully, my son,” said the Bishop. “When you retrieved the Cube without Natasha being present, it would appear that you inadvertently directed certain dark forces to her. These forces have been with her ever since, and according to the Professor, they will continue to follow Natasha until you and she are able to fully merge.”
“Merge?” whispered Gabriel urgently. “This is no time for superstit
ious nonsense, Marcus! The bad guys are just down the hall. What are you talking about?”
“The answers are in the book, my son. Until you resolve these problems, you will find that the enemy will always have a general idea of where you are.”
Gabriel and Natasha looked at each other and then back to the Bishop. He was gazing up at the scaffolding now. In the light of the fire it could be seen rising up the frescoed wall and ending at the ceiling. There was an old ladder strapped to its side.
“If memory serves me correctly, there is a trap door up there,” he said, pointing. “I believe the scaffold is hiding it. It will lead to the next upper level. Go now. You must still find your way out of the catacombs. That will be no easy task.”
“But, Uncle,” said Natasha, her eyes suddenly welling with tears. “The three of you could never make it up that scaffold.”
The old Bishop noted her tears and dug for his handkerchief.
“We will not be going with you, my child,” he said gently.
Well familiarized with the Bishop’s grubby handkerchiefs, Gabriel stuffed a clean tissue into Natasha’s hand before the Bishop could offer up his own. Natasha shot Gabriel a teary-eyed look of thanks. She was no stranger to her uncle’s hankies either.
“The three of us will stay here and hide,” said the Bishop, pocketing the handkerchief absently.
Gabriel frowned.
“They’ll find you and they’ll kill you!” he said, a little too loudly.
“That is not certain, my son,” smiled the Bishop. “There are spirits of God here who are helping us. Have faith, and fear not for us.”
“But, Uncle—” pleaded Natasha.
“Go!” said the Bishop, a rarely seen anger flaring up in his eyes. “There is more at stake than you can possibly imagine, and there is no time!”
To everyone’s surprise, Shackleton took to the ladder in a single leap, making his way to the top swiftly and without pause. From below the others watched him disappear onto the top platform, only to see him poke his head out and look down at them.
“Who would believe a dog could do that,” whispered Gabriel, shaking his head in amazement.
