The Lost Apostles

by Brian Herbert

  Arsinio cleared his throat, as he often did. “OK, I thought about it. Let’s just assume for a moment that she’s right. What are you driving at?”

  “Just listening to Consuela,” Raffaela said, “it’s difficult to believe what she’s saying, her outlandish story of a harrowing escape from death when she and her baby were attacked inside a church. In a church? Impossible, my mind tells me. Her words are not convincing enough, not even with her terrified demeanor. But when all of this is added to the peculiar, even bizarre behavior of her baby, it gives me pause.”

  “You’re saying it all adds up to something?”

  The large woman nodded. “My darling, we lead sheltered lives. Each day you go to your office and decide what to export and how much to charge, while I go to the university and lecture students. But beyond our safe cocoons, our sheltered, predictable social life and pleasant vacation trips to the coast, there is a more dangerous realm, where strange and inexplicable events occur.”

  “You’re saying you believe her, that she’s really being chased by ‘bad doctors?’”

  “I don’t know, but you have to admit her baby is unusual. That could mean something. I’d like to hear a translation of what little Marta is saying. It doesn’t sound random to me; I hear a rhythm and a cadence, like a language. From a child who is only seven months old! And her eyes are so alert, so probing.”

  “All right,” Arsinio said. “Let’s assume for a moment that bad people—real doctors or doctors in disguise—want this child. For what, I can’t imagine.”

  “I can.”

  Surprised, he looked at her.

  “While we were in town, I bought a newspaper. A story on page two jumped out at me. It’s about the new Holy Women’s Bible. You said something to me about it the other day.”

  “Just what I overheard at the mercado about some crazy women who put together a heretical book. The Pope says it’s evil, that no good Catholic should look at it.”

  “Did you hear about the children?” she asked.

  He looked at her blankly.

  She handed the newspaper to him, folded open to the story. “Read the part I circled first.”

  Her husband did so, studying three circled paragraphs. “Could it be?” he asked, as he finished. “They babble in a strange language—” He looked toward the bedroom where the child slept.

  Raffaela nodded.

  “But the UWW already has twelve she-apostles, it says here.”

  “Not exactly,” she said. “I heard on the radio that a guard accused Dixie Lou Jackson of using a fake she-apostle, of falsifying part of their Holy Women’s Bible. If one of them is fake, it leaves eleven real ones. Or, there are really thirteen of them.”

  “Don’t get drawn into this, Raffy. The Bible says there were only twelve apostles, and all were men.”

  “We’re already drawn into this, mi esposo, and we need to be extremely careful. Consuela said a woman attacked her in the church, firing a gun. I don’t think we should tell anyone about the baby yet.”

  “Well, the boys aren’t talking. Consuela pleaded with them not to, and they’re taking her seriously. For now, the secret is safe.”

  “Yes, but for how long? I’m very worried about this, Arsinio, very worried.”

  * * *

  After a four hour flight, the formation of aircraft landed at a private airstrip near a large city, the twinkling lights of which Deborah Marvel could see across an expanse of water.

  The passengers disembarked and hurried into black, shiny motor homes, said by a UWW officer to have stealth capabilities, as did the aircraft in which the group had flown here. Dixie Lou entered a large vehicle, while Deborah and the other councilwomen were escorted to a smaller one, accompanied by a muscular female driver. Deborah sat in the back, a plush blue velvet enclosure with leather bucket seats. The air smelled factory-new.

  Security was everywhere, heavily armed women in pale gold uniforms with UWW patches on their lapels and sleeves. With Dixie Lou’s motor home in the lead, the caravan rolled toward the city specified by Dixie Lou when she described her plan to the council.

  Roma . . . Rome, Italy.

  The motor homes slipped into underground parking slots, beneath a television station building. Dixie Lou, wearing a heavy black coat, boarded an elevator, followed by her entourage of women carrying twelve imitation she-apostles.

  She had an appointment for a recording session.

  Chapter 17

  Nothing is more destructive than righteous energy.

  —Finding of the U.S. War Commission, a non-profit think-tank

  Pope Rodrigo stepped back from the videophone image as loud, angry words poured across the connection, like a shrieking storm. Even though he was the most powerful, most influential religious leader in the world, he still had to endure this—his aged, senile mother in one of her moods. He closed a folder, pushed it to one side of the wide desk top and looked at the image of his tiny, stooped mother.

  This was the office of one of his cardinals, who had gracefully loaned it to him while remodeling work was being performed in the papal offices. It was one of the last renovation tasks in an extensive schedule of construction and rearranging that had been ongoing for more than five years, throughout Vatican City. The changes had been controversial, as some purists criticized altering the arrangement of furnishings and art works that had been untouched for centuries, except for cleaning and repairs. But Pope Rodrigo had ignored the naysayers, and all of the cardinals agreed with him that the world headquarters of the old church needed to be refreshed. During the work, the catalogue of art pieces was continually updated, as were the Vatican maps, so that the public could keep track of where priceless artworks were now being kept.

  “You’re such a big shot now,” his elderly mother said, in her native Catalonian Spanish, which her family had spoken for centuries. “You don’t come and see me anymore, so I always have to take the train to Vatican City. That’s a long way for an old lady to travel.”

  He responded in the same dialect. “Mama, I’m busy. You know how it is. I’ve tried to explain so many times.” Nervously, he spun an ink pen on the high-polished mahogany and inlaid-pearl desk top. The office was dimly illuminated by porcelain table lamps. Through his window he saw the lights of Rome, outlining the modern and ancient structures. The “Eternal City” that had survived for so many centuries, and seen so many political changes.

  “How many mothers do you have, Rodrigo?”

  “You know the answer to that.”

  “Do I? For all I know, with your influence upstairs you have another mother on order, to take my place. A nice old lady, she’ll probably bring you bollos, the little sweet cakes you love.”

  “Mama, you know that’s not true. You’re my one and only.”

  “Then come to Segovia and visit me.”

  He sighed. “I will.”

  “Do you promise?”

  “I promise. I’ll check my schedule.” With the pen, he doodled on a piece of parchment, occasionally dipping the writing instrument in an inkwell for replenishment.

  “Rearrange things if you have to. Cancel the President of France and the Prime Minister of Canada. Come and see your mother instead. I may not have much longer to live.”

  “You’re in perfect health.”

  “Perfect health for a ninety-eight-year-old lady isn’t so great. When may I expect you?”

  “Soon, Mama, I promise.”

  As he completed the call and shut off the connection it occurred to him, as it had before, how much she resembled the outlandish, Gaudi-designed apartment building in which she lived. An art piece to some and an eyesore to others, it had molded stucco walls without any perceptible uniformity and a fantasy park on the rooftop. He disliked the bizarre place, but she refused to leave it.

  Emerging from the office into the mosaic-tiled reception area, he saw Sister Meryl sitting on a bench, with a thick, rough-bound book open on her lap. A tiny woman with large eyes, she wore a bl
ack habit with white trim around the hood.

  He cleared his throat in an indignant fashion.

  Startled, she closed the book and stood up. “Your Holiness, I brought the heretical material you requested. It has been printed from the Internet. I was just checking the page numbering to make sure it’s all here.”

  “It looked like you were reading it.”

  “I would never read blasphemy, Your Holiness.”

  “Oh? And I would?”

  “I didn’t mean it that way. It’s just that everyone knows that this Holy Women’s Bible is ungodly. Everyone’s talking about it.”

  “Then it’s your sacred duty not to listen.”

  She bowed, and handed him the heavy volume, which had an unmarked cover.

  As the Pope hurried to his office he took a deep, agitated breath. Previously he’d seen only a packet of draft pages obtained for him by a Greek priest, a computer printout comprising only a portion of the profane tome. Now he was anxious to see the complete version. He wouldn’t read all of it, just enough to select the most sacrilegious sections, which he would publicly condemn from the steps of St. Peter’s Basilica.

  He collapsed into the leather chair at his immense desk and wished God had never permitted the hadean invention of computers. The devices were causing a lot of trouble, especially when combined with the Internet, making the Pope’s job much more difficult. He’d never learned to operate one himself, and never would, especially after this. Perhaps with prayer, God would find a way to rid the world of them.

  The Holy Women’s Bible lay in front of him, an ominous presence. He flipped it open to the title page, then looked away. That nun had been behaving strangely. Should he have her investigated? She was a woman, after all, and these days a man—even a servant of God—could not be too careful. A lot was at stake.

  For long moments, seeking inspiration, he stared at a fifteenth century painting of the bearded Jesus. No, he finally told himself. I’m just acting paranoid. It has nothing to do with Sister Meryl.

  He glanced down at the desktop, at the folder he’d been reading before his mother called. His fingers tapped the gold Vatican seal imprinted on the cover. Inside was a letter. One of those arriving periodically on his desk, it had been scrutinized at lower levels of the church bureaucracy and referred higher and higher, each time with a comment sheet and recommendations, seven of which were now in the folder. Another problem . . . so many of them nowadays.

  He reread the suggestions, then scanned the letter again, which had been written by President Markwether’s brother. Odd sort of fellow, Zack Markwether, and most peculiar that he would send the letter directly, instead of passing it through channels. This had not come from the President of the United States, as it bore no cover letter from that office. Filled with recommendations to tighten security, the letter had at first annoyed the Pope, and then—after further study—he had been frightened by it. Could the allegations possibly be true? Were there really gaping holes in Vatican security, dangerous oversights that were large enough to steer an ocean liner through? Such impertinent wording, but what if the man was right?

  He sighed, looked at a medieval sculpture that depicted the Virgin Mary and the infant Jesus. The gaze of the Madonna seemed to be focused directly on him, and for the first time her eyes were not filled with compassion and love. Instead he saw—or thought he saw—worry in them, and fear.

  With a smooth stroke of the pen, the Pope wrote an order to the Chief of Vatican Security, Aldo Gasperi. Then he turned to the other problem, the book of heresy.

  Chapter 18

  Brain researchers know that women generally use two sides of their brain at once, while men only use one. Consider, does this suggest greater potential for women, or for men? It might be argued either way, with women claiming that their brains operate more efficiently, and men insisting that they have accomplished much more than women using only half of their brains. But what have men really accomplished? Haven’t we had enough of their destructive male energy?

  —Amy Angkor-Billings, Discourses

  “We’re over Palermo now,” the pilot announced to Lori, who sat beside her in the cockpit. They’d left early in the morning, and had been flying for a couple of hours. The weather had been mild and warm, with almost no wind.

  Outside her window, the teenager saw the white buildings and churches of the Sicilian city below the helicopter. Another time, perhaps in another lifetime, she might have enjoyed exploring the picturesque, byways down there, purchasing food and crafts from street vendors, dining in charming outdoor cafes. But today, with her destination lying farther to the north . . . the Italian mainland . . . she had other things on her mind.

  Lori felt like a bloodhound on the scent of a fleeing felon, but it was not a redolence in the traditional sense. Rather, she followed a trail through the sky that was revealed to her almost instinctually, a visceral sensation by which she discerned the spoor left in the air by Dixie Lou Jackson. It was an extension of the information she had gleaned earlier while holding hands with the she-apostles, when she learned that the UWW leader was bound for Rome. This was a confirmation of that fact.

  Though she had these had two linked processes providing her with the same information, Lori still didn’t understand exactly how she knew where Dixie Lou was going, but she knew nonetheless, and she was as certain of this as she was of the breaths she took and the thoughts that rushed through the neural pathways of her brain. It was a wordless truth.

  In one sense this pursuit was a compulsion for her, driven by a subconscious impulse that could not be ignored. Certainly it must have something to do with her personal dislike for Dixie Lou, especially for the Chairwoman’s part in the death of Lori’s mother, Camilla Vale.

  In considering this, however, Lori took a deep breath.

  The force driving her with such intensity involved much more than personal animus. She needed to stop Dixie Lou for a larger reason. Lori had eleven she-apostles with her, but where was the twelfth, Martha of Galilee? Had Dixie Lou killed her? Lori needed to find out. She needed to expose the frauds of this abominable woman, and the homicide she had committed at Monte Konos. That murder, witnessed by Lori and Alex, was undoubtedly just the tip of the iceberg.

  Since the attack on the goddess circle, events had been going at a breakneck pace. Through it all, trying to keep up, Lori sensed a change inside of her, a strange feeling that she was very old. Even so, this did not fatigue her. In a conversation with Alex earlier in the day, she had told him she felt energized, stronger and wiser.

  Now, feeling a powerful impulse, Lori went to the jump seat at the rear of the cockpit and switched on the small flat-screen television set, mounted on a bulkhead. She turned up the volume, heard a female announcer say that the enigmatic leader of United Women of the World was about to deliver a speech that would be telecast all over the world. News of the impending address by Dixie Lou Jackson had been on every satellite news station for hours. It was not live; the announcer said she had recorded it the evening before.

  The screen flickered, and Dixie Lou Jackson appeared, dressed in the long gold vestment of a priestess. Around her neck hung a golden sword-cross on a chain. Looking very distinguished, she stood at the podium of a studio theater, gazing into the camera. The Sword of She-God, never far from her, rested on a stand at her side. Behind her stood matrons holding small children.

  The Chairwoman cleared her throat. “I am in Rome, Italy, broadcasting from an unnamed studio. For the moment, security does not permit me to say any more than that. Sadly, I have enemies who wish to do me harm. I am like all of the women who have ever been threatened by men, except I am taking steps to fight back.”

  I was right, Lori thought. She’s in Rome. . . .

  Dixie Lou’s elegant robe, which Lori had never seen before, bore the green-and-orange UWW emblem on each side of the collar. Draped over one shoulder was a colorful stole adorned with twelve boxes, each of which, Dixie Lou explained to her television aud
ience, contained an artist’s rendition of the face of a different she-apostle, as that child appeared during the creation of the sacred Holy Women’s Bible.

  Looking on, Lori noted that one of the boxes contained the face of the counterfeit Martha of Galilee, and the other eleven faces were phony as well. None of them were the actual she-apostles.

  One by one the compact black woman introduced all of the supposed she-apostles personally, from the toddlers (Veronica, Mary Magdalene, Priscilla, Sarah, Kezia, Candace, and Lydia) to the babies (Esther, Hannah, Abigail, Rhoda and Martha). These children represented all the major races of humankind, she said, and Lori thought that their appearances looked remarkably close to the authentic she-apostles. Some of them were nearly exact replicas, in fact, she thought as she looked closer. Dixie Lou must have had makeup artists perform changes to those children’s faces, because the real ones had already been seen in public.

  As Dixie Lou introduced the children, matrons brought them forward. To her disgust, Lori noted that all of the she-apostles appeared to have been given sedatives. They looked listless, ready to nod off. Dixie Lou said each child was born with a different name in modern times, but revealed their apostolic appellations as soon as they began speaking in ancient Aramaic.

  A story that was based in truth, but which applied to the wrong children.

  Presently, Dixie Lou motioned for the matrons to step back and continued her speech, in her Southern drawl. Her often tense mood was exactly the opposite now, as she quipped about the purported she-apostles’ antics, bantered with them and announced to the women of the earth the great joy of the Holy Women’s Bible that had sprung from the reincarnated minds of these children. Somewhat correctly, she related the history of the book, how it included not only the Testament of the She-Apostles but also The Old Testament and The New Testament, edited to give the correct view of women.