by Jones, Rick
PANDORA’S ARK
Book 4 of the Vatican Knights Series
Rick Jones
© 2012 Rick Jones. All rights reserved. Second Ed.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and should not be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For more information e-mail all inquiries to: [email protected]
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www.rickjonz.com
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Also by Rick Jones:
Vatican Knights Series
The Vatican Knights
Shepherd One
The Iscariot Agenda
Pandora's Ark
The Eden Series
The Crypts of Eden
The Menagerie
Familiar Stranger
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Epilogue
PROLOGUE
Jerusalem, 956 B.C.
At the precise moment of dawn when Jerusalem became capped with a blood-red sky, the old priest stood along the edge of the parapet that surrounded the city and measured the vast numbers of Shishak’s army that stretched endlessly across the desert landscape.
Days earlier, runners brought forth news that Shishak’s ranks had taken the city of Judah in the north, and planned to march on Jerusalem for treasures of gold and coin to proffer to their false gods.
To the Hebrews he was known as Shishak. To the Egyptians, Sheshong I, the warrior king of Egypt’s 22nd Dynasty, who knew no boundaries when it came to war. With a league of 1200 chariots and 60,000 horsemen made up of Libyans, Sukkites and Cushites packed so close together, not a foot of land could be seen between them.
As the old man stood there in examination a warm breeze began to stir, causing his triangular-shaped beard to flag over his shoulder as an undeniable sadness filled him with a horrible reality. Even with the heat of the desert sun as an ally and towering walls to stop an approach, they were not enough to counter the pharaoh’s army.
Jerusalem was about to fall.
High within the sentry towers horns blared in warning, a harsh and caustic sound that galvanized the masses to frenzy. The wealthy instinctively grabbed as many coins as they could, while those in lower castes took arms to help bolster troops along the walls. Those who saw the futility of challenging Shishak’s ranks, however, took flight through the southern gates where they were met by the Sukkites, who cut them down with the savageness of intoxicated hunters.
With the priest’s face bearing the weight and looseness of a rubber mask, as his eyes watched the bone-cutting slaughter by the wielding swords of Shishak’s army, he began to regard the treasures within the Holy Temple. Physically challenged by age and infirmity within the joints of his limbs, Abraham took to the ladder with the slowness of a bad dream and began to descend the rungs, asking the Lord in silent prayer to give him enough time to save the greatest of His gifts from Shishak’s authority.
Getting a foothold on Jerusalem’s soil with tiny plumes of dust taking flight from the impact of his sandals touching down, the priest fought his way through panicking masses in order to get to the Holy Temple.
The ornate columns, grand doorways and golden dome of the temple appeared like something unattainable sitting at the very edge of an endless road, the temple always too distant no matter how hard the old man tried to close the gap between them, his glacial strides caused by his constant struggle of wading through hordes of people who ran the streets with abandon.
When he finally reached the gateway he allowed his eyes to gaze upon the horizon where he noted the colorful preface of a new day, the moment of dawn when the warmth of the rose-colored light began to alight upon his face. And for as long as he could the priest relished the moment, knowing that this was going to be the last sunrise he would ever see again.
#
With detailed examination Shishak studied the city of Jerusalem from a distant rise with eyes so dark they seemed without pupils. Yet as cruel as they appeared, they also possessed great intelligence and the weight of supreme confidence.
To the Jews he was known as Shishak. To the Egyptians, Sheshong I, the warrior king of Egypt’s 22nd Dynasty who knew no boundaries when it came to the atrocities of war.
Mounted on a white steed that possessed a mane as blond as corn silk, Shishak sat as still as a Grecian statue overlooking his troops. He was tall and lean, with skin the color of tanned leather. His head was shaved, his physique strong, with a strong and firm jaw line that was framed by rawboned features. In totality, with every cord and sinew of muscle showcased beneath an ornamental collar of jeweled gold, Shishak looked his part as the ‘Warrior King.’
Beside him was Darius, his most celebrated lieutenant, whose skin was so dark that it resembled the color and sheen of eggplant. The wide breadth of his shoulders, the large expanse of chest and thickness of arms, had all been borne from years of wielding a weighted sword and shield.
For the moment the lieutenant was having a problem maintaining control of his horse, the mare whinnying, then rearing, its front legs pawing the open air before settling under Darius’s control with a pull of his reins.
“My king,” he said, gaining control, “the sky. The color of blood is never a good omen. Even my steed senses ill forebodings.”
“Your steed,” he told Darius, before giving him a sidelong glance, “does not bear the foresight of an oracle. The dark omen you see is an omen issued from your own heart.” He turned back to view Jerusalem with passive repose. “Whereas you see menace,” he said evenly, “I see a sign from Ra that the blood of our enemies will cover the ground and become one with the sky.” He nodded, as if to confirm his thoughts. “Like those in Judah,” he added, “their blood will serve as a testament of our victory rather than the dark prophecy you see it to be. Today the color red is a good color. And before the day is through, Darius, the hooves of my stallion will leave imprints in the sand that will be thick with the blood of our enemies.”
Shishak prodded his horse forward and surveyed his army. The sheer number alone was incomprehensible. The
terrain was laden with soldiers as far as his eyes could see.
Pleased, he returned to Darius’s side. “Alert the battalions,” he told him. “And prepare them for victory.”
“Aye, my King.” Darius then signaled to his field commands to prepare for battle by raising his sword high, its blade silhouetted against the blood-red sky, then rode along the front line shouting rants to fuel the blood lust of 60,000 men.
When Darius returned to his position beside the pharaoh he sheathed his sword. Around them Shishak’s warriors thrust their pikes and swords in the air, chanting victory in the name of Ra.
“They’re at your command, my Lord.”
Shishak slid his sword from his jeweled scabbard and raised it high, the cries of his army escalating, the anticipation of battle now at fever pitch. He then turned to Darius with his eyes burning with the eagerness to fight and thrust and kill. He would not sit back as a spectator perched from afar, but engage in a bloodletting until the air smelled ripe with copper. “I want all the riches within the Holy Temple,” he told him. “Everything is to be proffered to the Temple of Ra, as homage to our victories.”
“Aye, my King.”
“But we have to get there before the priests do,” he added.
“The Sukkites are cutting a path through the city from the north as we speak, my King.”
Shishak raised the point of his sword to its highest point. “Then advance the others,” he ordered. “I want the one thing they covet most.”
“Our sources say that the most holy of treasures sits in the Chamber’s center surrounded by mounds of gold.”
“Then let us claim what rightfully belongs to Ra,” he said. And with that he pointed his sword in the direction of Jerusalem, which incited cries from his forces, and watched his army charge the city walls with the intent to leave no one left alive.
#
In Jerusalem he is called Abraham, a high-ranking priest who is coveted by the masses and wise beyond his years. Yet in his seventy-plus years of living he had grown so aged and weary that his flesh looked like the tallow of melted wax, giving off the impression that he was as ancient as the sands that surrounded the city. Though driven by conviction despite the burning sensation in his lungs and growing heaviness in his legs, Abraham hurried along darkened corridors toward the Sacred Vault with markedly forced strides.
Before he reached the Chamber door, he came upon three young men adorning the cowled robes of priests. They were not quite men of stature, but boys on the cusp of growing their first beards that would eventually identify their positions within the sacred hierarchy.
The moment they saw Abraham, a priest held his hand out for the old man to grab in purchase to better steady him. With lungs wheezing and his face taking on the pallor as pale as the underbelly of a fish, Abraham was eased against a wall to calm him.
“You must find others,” he told the priests between hitches of breathe. “When you do . . . then send them to the Sacred Chamber . . . where I will meet them.”
“Is it Shishak?” a priest asked. “Is he moving on Jerusalem?”
The old man offered a hasty nod, then: “Hurry! We haven’t much time!”
“What about you?”
Abraham waved his hand in dismissal. “I’ll be fine,” he said. “Go!”
Without further questioning the priests moved with urgency, leaving Abraham to gather enough strength to press on. With the alacrity of an aged man in faltering condition, he made his way through the hallways on legs that were going boneless. But his priestly convictions to save the Lord’s treasure drove him forward by reserve alone.
As the old man descended the stairway the atmosphere became sepulchral and dead, the air unmoving. On neighboring walls his shadow danced with macabre twists as flames from the heads of wall torches lapped the air. And in servitude to his Lord he begged for added strength, his words no longer coming in whispers.
“Please, God! Give me the power to serve You in this time of need. Give me the power to see this through.”
As the last word left his lips, Abraham reached the landing of the Chamber’s floor.
Not less than twenty meters away stood the bullet-shaped archway that led to the Sacred Vault.
After opening the thick wooden doors that were held together by black steel bands and rivets, the sight of the treasure never failing to steal away the old man’s breathe.
Along the walls several torches burned. The light of their flames danced in play over every piece of gold, casting a spectacular aura even from the smallest coin.
The Chamber was perfectly circular with pyramidal mounds of gold and rubies and sapphires lying everywhere, some piles as high as a man is tall. Against the wall opposite the Chamber doors were the Gold Shields of Solomon, nearly three hundred in total, each glittering spangles of gold as the light of the nearby torches reflected off their surfaces. But in the center of the Chamber was the most coveted item of all, something that carried brightness beyond what gold alone should have given it. Casting a perfect nimbus in ethereal shades of yellow and white, sat the Ark of the Covenant.
The high priest moved cautiously within its spectacular golden glow—into a light that appeared to be alive—and with his hands held out so that his palms faced ceiling-ward, he began to pray.
The Ark was brilliantly crafted, having been made from the wood of the acacia tree and covered with the purest gold. It was a cubit-and-a-half broad, a cubit-and-a-half high, and two cubits long with the upper lid, the mercy seat, surrounded by a rim of gold. On each of the two sides were two gold rings where two wooden poles are placed, so that the Ark could be carried. Situated on top of the Ark were two cherubim figures that faced each other with the tips of their outspread wings touching the others, forming what was considered to be the throne of God while the Ark itself was judged to be His footstool.
With Shishak getting closer, Abraham prayed for divine guidance, his answer coming in the form of eight men wearing hooded robes with knotted ropes that cinched their waistlines.
“The poles,” said Abraham, pointing to the long dowels covered with the decorative sheathing of gold. “We haven’t much time!”
Once the poles were inserted through the golden loops and fixed, Abraham grabbed one of the torches and beckoned the priests to follow.
Even with eight men The Ark of the Covenant was quite heavy as each man labored to carry it across the Chamber floor.
With Abraham leading the way the light of his torch lit upon an opening against the far wall. The access, however, was lost in shadows so deep that the light of his torch barely penetrated the darkness, until he was right upon it.
“This way,” he said.
The Covenant was led down a corridor, the surrounding walls rough and poorly bored, the surface which they walked upon often descending, then ascending, like the caps of rolling hills, a difficult terrain to manage with such a heavy weight to transport. The ceiling was also uneven, often rising and lowering in spaces which barely gave the Ark enough clearance. But at the corridor’s end lay a magnificent chamber, a second chamber, one that was capped by a hand-smoothed dome that transitioned downward into walls that were without blemish. In the center of the room lay an elevated block of stone on which to rest the Ark upon.
After the priests settled the Ark upon the platform, Abraham went along the chamber walls lighting one torch after the other, the light reaching the Ark from all sides. As it did the Ark seemed to come alive with something tangible and intangible at the same time, a spiritual force of unbridled warmth that prompted the priests to take to a bended knee.
Abraham, however, stayed his feet and moved with urgency.
Next to the last torch was a circular recess—a hole—that was large enough for a man to reach up his shoulder. Reaching inside, Abraham grabbed a steel ring and turned it counter-clockwise. And then the earth came alive. There was a grinding noise as mammoth stones rubbed against each other, the ground beneath them trembling, shaking, the entire chamber
floor threatening to open into a chasm.
While the priests continued to kneel by the Ark, dust cascaded from the ceiling, showering them until their cloaks became the color of sand. And then with a final shudder the entrance collapsed with tons of falling rock blocking the way, the corridor imploding as thick, cloying dust raced into the chamber in a plume.
And then with a final shudder the shaking stopped, the chamber now a dust-laden cavern with no way in or out. A horrible silence fell over them.
One of the priests got to his feet, a fledging. The look on his face was incredulous with the realization that the fate of his life had been determined by the twist of an old man’s hand. “But why?” he asked him.
The old man placed the torch within its holder, and then ventured closer to the priests who were now standing. “Please forgive me,” he said. “I couldn’t allow Shishak the right to bear the Ark.”
“But there are the Shields of Solomon and the other treasures?”
“This is the only treasure,” he countered.
“And what about our lives?” asked another. “You didn’t even grant us the opportunity to save ourselves.”
“I couldn’t afford to,” said Abraham. His tone was truly sorrowful, but not repentant. “If Shishak got hold of any of you, then he would have stripped the flesh from your bones to obtain the whereabouts of the Ark.”
The old priest closed his eyes with his palms held ceiling-ward, and then turned toward the Ark. “This is bigger than all of us,” he told them. “Is it not better to die in the presence of God than by the hands of the Pharaoh Shishak?”
The other priests bowed their heads, one by one, with each man coming to terms that the elder priest was right. Dying in the presence of God was Glory compared to the tortuous blades of Shishak.
In unison, the Keepers of the Ark began to pray.
#
Jerusalem had fallen, the bodies of its citizens lying in waste in city streets, their blood running and becoming one with the blood-red sky as Shishak ordained. In the end it was not an omen of ill fate as thought by Darius, but an oracle of glory sent by Ra. This Shishak was sure of.
