“What is it?” She whispered and reached for Gregory’s arm.
“You are the daughter of the Dove?” A thin, wavering voice drifted to her ears, and Gregory caught her as the recent events of the evening caught up with her.
Chapter Eleven of Seventeen
affliction shall not rise up the second time
Cardinal Paolo Gambrelli tugged at the constricting collar of his clerical vestments before knocking on the door built for a Goliath, but occupied by a rather diminutive little man, made even smaller by the weight of the papal mitre on his balding head. Pope John Paul the Twenty-somethingth. Gambrelli didn’t know the number and didn’t really care. The only thing that mattered to the ambitious Cardinal was that he could knock on this most holy door at any hour of the day or night and expect to be admitted without question to the inner sanctum.
The Pope’s personal valet opened the door, peeked out, and then opened it wider at the sight of the stern-faced cleric. The two Vatican guards, dressed in their colorful outfits designed by Michelangelo, himself, stood ramrod straight on either side of the gilded chamber door, staring straight ahead. The Cardinal, never-the-less, cast stern scowls at the two young men before entering the private bedchamber of the Pope.
“Your Grace,” the Cardinal muttered the words he feverishly hoped to someday hear others saying to him, before kneeling in front of the aging Pontiff. He kissed the Pope’s ring and then sat down on a low foot stool. The Pope was having his head massaged. Another migraine, no doubt.
“Yes, yes, Paolo,” John Paul waved one gnarled hand at the Cardinal. “What is it now, my son?”
The Pope knew the Cardinal was bursting with a new tale of eminent disaster. He could read the glee in his dark eyes.
“I have just had wonderful news from the east, Your Eminence.” Paolo smiled and looked very much like a great white shark, showing off his dining utensils.
“More here,” the Pope said softly and pointed to a spot just over his right ear. The valet changed positions and the Pontiff closed his eyes as the pain retreated a bit. “Do tell, Paolo. Do not hold anything back for my sake.”
A flicker of anger crossed the Cardinal’s face and then disappeared quickly.
“I received a private dispatch this morning from Count Polunsky of Romania. He has had news from the Arabian Peninsula. These devastating floods have spared most of the peninsula as well as some of the Sinai, the greater part of the Holy Lands and parts of Egypt.”
“That is good news, indeed,” John Paul perked up a bit. “We should proceed with our plans to send colonists as soon as possible. We may yet save some of our heritage from the elements. Do you have news of Israel in particular?”
“It is not Israel that should interest us at this point in time. I know of something even more interesting than Jerusalem and Bethlehem.”
“Oh?” John Paul turned slightly on the stool in front of his dressing mirror and narrowed his eyes at the Cardinal. Nothing had been more urgent of late than the fate of the Holy Lands. Wild speculations, guesses and pessimism had ruled the days since the comet impacts. At first, they had been overjoyed that Italy and most of Europe had been spared from the disaster, and then they had been shocked and sickened as the news had trickled in concerning the massive loss of property and life in the affected parts of the globe. The news had been sporadic, unreliable. They had been waiting for days for news of the fate of Israel and Egypt. The European alliance had been making plans to take back the wastelands and launch an all out war against the dark powers ensconced in New Babylon.
“The Ark, Your Grace,” the Cardinal whispered and leaned forward, his dark eyes blazed with nothing less than overt greed.
“The Ark? You said the Templars had destroyed the Ark. Taken it to Mount Sinai and destroyed it!” The Pope’s headache vanished.
“So that was the plan, Your Grace… but apparently things did not work out as planned. The will of God…” Cardinal Gambrelli sat straight up and pointed one finger toward the ceiling. His face was a mask of self-righteous indignation.
John Paul looked up at the ceiling as if he thought the Creator, himself, might be hovering somewhere near the chandelier. He lowered his eyes and nodded slowly.
“Do tell, my son.”
“God was against them,” Gambrelli continued. “I tried to warn them, Your Eminence. You well know the story by now. They ignored your orders completely and mocked me to my face. They blasphemed against the Church and laughed at Papal Authority. It is the same now as it was long ago, Your Grace. The poor Knights of Solomon’s Temple are heretics. They have always been heretics, and they are still heretics! Why, the Grand Master himself has demonically changed his own appearance in order that he might appear more attractive to young girls, whom I hear he enjoys nightly in his tent…” Gambrelli crossed himself and the Pope made the sign of the cross before shuddering to his toes. “And God forbid I should bring up old wounds, Your Grace, but he called you a pompous ass again, in front of everyone!” Gambrelli accentuated his words with the appropriate hand gestures. “They used demonic powers to prevent us from taking the Ark from them as you know and left us crying out for reason and truth in the dust of their heels. It was almost impossible to bear, Your Grace…” Gambrelli paused long enough to allow a single tear to fall, and the Pope reached out to him, taking his hands sympathetically.
“I was so very embarrassed and shocked by his behavior, and the King of Britain and the King of France… they were right there, backing him up. Heretics! All of them. Disgracing the name of our most Holy Sovereign Jesus Christ.” They crossed themselves again.
“But Paolo, tell me…” the Pope wiped at his own wrinkled cheek. “The Ark?”
“Oh, forgive me, Your Eminence,” Gambrelli sniffed and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. “My zeal has clouded the issue. Good news! God is still on our side, Your Grace. It seems our fine-feathered Templars and their cronies were saved by the powers they sought to destroy.”
“Come again?” The Pope frowned at him.
“They were caught on the slopes of the mountains when the flood came up the Persian Gulf, killing everything in its path. But they were saved by the Ark. They and all their soldiers. The Franks and the Brits as well as Baron de Goth’s troops. It is even said a group of local herdsman was saved along with them. God is merciful.”
They crossed themselves again.
“Even to those undeserving of His mercy.”
“So it would seem.” The Pope turned his back on the Cardinal and had his valet begin the massage again. “And it would seem they did not destroy it after all.”
“No, Your Grace. It has been saved by the hand of God. A miracle. If only we had detailed reports.”
“What do you suggest we do now, Paolo?”
“We should muster our forces and go after it before they lose it again.”
“Is that what Count Polunsky suggested?” The Pope turned a discerning eye on the blood thirsty Cardinal.
“The Count indicates he is at your disposal, Your Grace.” Gambrelli smiled and folded his arms across his stomach.
“Hmmm,” the Pope sighed as he propped one elbow on his dressing table and rubbed the bald spot on top of his head. “It is a shame such is the case concerning the Templars. I had hoped we would no longer need worry about them. I know Beaumont will be equally disappointed. He was ready to seize power at the first word of their demise.”
“Your Grace.” Gambrelli stood up and leaned down to whisper in the Pontiff’s grizzled ear. “Beaumont should remain ready. If we can get hold of the Ark, we may yet rid ourselves of the heretics. I will send dispatches to Polunsky and the Doge. They will notify the others. In the meantime… might I please borrow the key for a short space? I believe I am close to making a break through.”
The Pope jerked his head up and then moaned as the pain renewed itself with increased vigor.
“You must be careful, Paolo. You must be mindful of the powers of darkness. These things can b
e used only for the good of the Church.”
“You have no need to remind me of that, Your Eminence.” Gambrelli bowed over his hand and kissed his ring again. “I am your eternal servant and my life is devoted to the Cross of Christ. I would never presume to know enough to be careless.”
The aging cleric nodded his head feebly and pulled a gold chain from inside his robe. There were several large keys attached to the chain. He picked one of them out with trembling fingers and handed it to the Cardinal. The Cardinal deposited the key in his inner pocket and kissed the Pope’s ring a third time before leaving him to his migraine.
(((((((((((((
Catharine de Goth closed the door to her bedroom quietly and tiptoed to the balcony railing. Below her, in the great hall one of the castle guards was setting up for the nightly music lessons. The island ‘orchestra’ had grown to fairly grand proportions compared to the number of inhabitants. Almost everyone played or sang in the band, which had been put together over a number of years. There were pipers and drummers, fiddlers and flutes, guitars and mandolins and even a harp. Catharine especially like the dulcimer and sometimes played with the impromptu gatherings. Tonight, however, she was especially mournful. It was her birthday and no one knew other than herself. She had even lied to Lucio and told him she did not know her birthday because he did not know his precise date of birth. They simply celebrated his birthday at Easter with an extra cake and a bottle of whatever they could manage, but now he was gone and she had been unable to ‘see’ him since the comet’s debris had clouded the atmosphere and disrupted the natural flow of energy through the earth’s ley lines. Tonight, she would go up on the roof and check the signs. Tonight, perhaps, she would hear something of her love.
She walked down the balcony and climbed the spiral staircase leading to the roof. She made her way nimbly up and over the wall to the flatter roof where the old chapel sat, its windows glinting darkly in the moonlight. The sight of the place always made her shudder and it was now inconceivable to think she had spent so many months confined within its macabre interior. She pulled her sweater closely about her and wished she had worn her overcoat. The westerly wind blowing in off the big island was colder than she had imagined possible. Skirting the chapel, she made her way to the southeastern corner of the keep’s flat roof and looked away to the south and east in the direction she knew her love could be found. She had no idea where he was precisely or what he was doing, but she knew he was not dead. Whatever had occurred in the Middle East as a result of the Centaur strike, he had survived. That much she knew, but how, was another unknown.
Closing her eyes, she concentrated her attention on Lucio’s face and tried to envision him in her mind in every detail in preparation of an attempt at making a mental connection with him. She smiled as the image of the laughing Italian sprang to life easily on her mental canvas. His smile was beautiful, even with the terrible scar on his cheek, and his eyes sparkled when she returned the smile. She could almost touch him. Almost smell him. Almost hear him say…
“Santa Maria! It’s freezing up here!”
Catharine shrieked as a cold hand gripped her arm. She spun around to find Lucio’s unsmiling face very close to her. He was almost blue with cold and without a stitch of clothing.
“Lucio!” Catharine shrieked again and wrapped her arms around his neck, kissing him frantically, saying his name over and over.
He pushed her away after a moment and then shrugged slightly in embarrassment.
“Oh my God! I’m sorry… wait!” She pulled off her sweater, and he wrapped it around the coldest parts. “When did you… where did you… how long have you been up here?”
“I just arrived,” he jerked his head toward the chapel where one of the doors was now standing open. “Do you know there is nothing in there? Nothing at all? I thought I was going to have to make a spectacle of myself… again.”
Catharine took his hand and then they hurried toward the stairs together, laughing like two schoolchildren up to no good.
(((((((((((((
“Abaddon?” Mark Andrew used the toe of his boot to nudge the crumpled figure of the dark angel. He lay in a disheveled heap in the middle of the plush Persian rug. After a moment or two, he raised his head slowly and looked at Mark. He had taken on his original form and looked very much like the old style image of the devil from the illustrations of a medieval Bible. His leathery wings were tucked around his equally leathery body and his scaled face and red eyes were wet with tears. It was a highly disturbing and incongruous sight to see the devil crying.
Mark knelt on one knee beside him and looked into his glowing eyes.
“Abaddon? Are you all right?” He asked again.
“I am ruined, Master.” Abaddon hung his head and pressed his clawed hands against his face. The pain in his voice actually made Mark’s heart hurt.
“What happened? Why are you like this?” Mark looked around the deserted bedchamber. It was opulent, fit for a queen, even in desperate times.
Only moments before, he had been forced to hide in a rat infested fissure opened by the bombardment, when the queen mother had come from the room, leaving behind the piteous Lord of Scorpions. Abaddon’s long, spiked tail twitched and swished back and forth in agitation.
“She made me,” he wailed. “She made me take off my human form, Master. She wanted to see my hideous nature.”
“You’re not hideous,” Mark lied and cringed before standing up. “You’re just…. Abysmal. Some might find you quite attractive.” Mark moved around the room looking for anything useful. The skull perhaps or the silver braid.
“She took it with her.” Abaddon stood up and made a terrible face. “She took everything!”
“Shhhh!” Mark placed one finger on his lips and shook his head. “She might hear you. Be quiet. Don’t worry.”
“But I am ruined! I am impure. I have been violated, Master. Horribly violated. You don’t understand.”
“Oh, I might understand more than you think.” Mark continued to poke about the room, using his sword to move cushions, pillows and clothing aside. “I might understand more than you can ever know. You’ll live. Trust me.”
“But, Master!” Abaddon followed him about the room. His clawed toenails clicked on the marble floor and his tail knocked over a lamp and a small table. “Inanna will never have me back now. She will learn about my indiscretion and she will shun me. Did you speak to her?”
“I haven’t had the chance yet.” Mark raised one eyebrow, but did not dare look back at the miserable beast. “She’s been busy, you know. What with the war and all. Quite helpful, very helpful. You would have been proud of her.”
“Then you have seen her often.” Some of the pain left the dark angel’s voice to be replaced with curiosity.
“Not often. I have seen her a few times, yes.” Mark pulled the top from a decorative urn and then wrinkled his nose at the smell of heavy incense.
“And she is well? I heard of her passings, but did not dare show myself. She doesn’t know about me, does she? I mean, she would not have recognized me, would she?”
“No, no. I don’t think she would have known you. In fact, I’m sure of it.” The Knight of Death got down on the floor and looked under the bed.
“That is good to hear, Master.” Abaddon sat down on a table and the expensive piece of furniture splintered under his weight. “Oh, I’m sorry.” He stood up again as Mark finished his search.
“Is she still wearing the necklace?” Mark asked him as he headed for the door.
“Yes, but she doesn’t like it. She will not allow the Tuathan near her.”
“That’s too bad. It might have…” Mark stopped suddenly and held up one hand.
Abaddon rose up on his toes and sniffed the air.
“Brimstone!” Mark spat the word and started for the door just as the first crack appeared in the ceiling of the room. A low rumble issued from the floor below them and the entire floor began to vib
rate.
Water was flowing down the hall in a thin sheet before they reached the stairs. They made it to the fifth level and started down the dim corridor toward the cell where the healer waited for them in the dark. Mark pulled up short again and turned back toward the stairs, holding up his hand to signal the dark angel to be quiet. Someone was coming down the stairs. A golden light shone through the wire-glassed windows and the sound of footsteps echoed hollowly beyond the door.
“Elves!” Abaddon hissed and Mark shook his head.
“Not elves.”
The Knight looked around quickly and saw no place to hide. He took up a defensive stance with the golden sword held out in front of him while Abaddon leaned and swayed behind him with reptilian movements, turning his head first one way and then another as he listened to the sound of looming danger.
“Perhaps they will pass,” Mark whispered and then the doors burst inward, blinding them momentarily in brilliant light. “Perhaps not, “Mark amended as he surveyed the problem.
Lucifer led the charge from the stairwell. His red cloak flapped behind him and his eyes blazed when he recognized the form of Abaddon, the Destroyer, silhouetted in the angelic light.
“Apollyon!” Lucifer drew up in front of Mark and smiled. His warriors piled in close behind him, each of them staring curiously at the appalling form of the demonic Scorpion Lord, known to some as Apollyon.
A low growl issued from the dark angel and he crouched, ready to leap into action. Desperation had turned to a suicidal rage at seeing his old enemy.
“Uriel,” Lucifer greeted Mark in a more cordial tone. “What a surprise to see you here protecting this worm. Has your heart turned so black? How long have you been consorting with the enemy?”
“You have always been quick to condemn and slow to learn, Lucifer.” Mark moved slightly to one side, putting himself directly in front of Abaddon. “Have you no room in your heart for forgiveness? No room in your mind for thoughts contrary to your own perceptions? Still you have learned no humility. Still you have not learned your place. Things are not always as Lucifer deems.”
The Centaur Page 24
