The Lost Apostles

by Brian Herbert

  After a couple of attempts, Lori left Alex with the children, since he was so good with them. . . .

  Back in her apartment, she returned to another matter she had been contemplating, the reason she had come to Rome. Initially she had wanted to dislodge Dixie Lou from the leadership of the UWW and the harm this was doing to the cause of women. Now she had an additional reason to bring her down, because of the Vatican pulpit she had taken so forcefully, in such an ignominious fashion. None of this was doing women any good.

  Deep in thought, the teenager thumbed through an international newspaper that Fujiko and her daughter Siana had obtained, reviewing all news on the Vatican takeover. Breathing a long, exasperated sigh, she finally folded the paper and set it aside, with a photograph of the imprisoned Pope Rodrigo on top. Her gaze lingered on the pontiff’s kindly face briefly, without fully focusing on him. Then she thought of something to do. It would involve changing the story she had made up about the terminally ill adults and children in her care.

  It would require telling the truth, to a lot of people. And the payment of more money to Mrs. Capo and Domingo Petrovese.

  * * *

  Styx Tertullian was slow to awaken. He had always been this way and invariably it upset him. He was the kind of person who wanted to get to work right away since he had so much to do, but his body was uncooperative, requiring two cups of espresso every morning to prime its biological engine.

  In the kitchen, situated next to his bedroom, he heard Mrs. Bonham scuffling around as she used her walker. He remembered coming to stay her in West Seattle a short while ago, for a visit with the octogenarian who had been his mother’s closest friend. He did this for a few days of much-needed vacation where no one would bother him, in a hideaway where he couldn’t be located and hounded for decisions. After all, he didn’t know what to do about the heretical UWW women who had taken over the Vatican. All options seemed woefully inadequate to him, and his brain had been fatigued from the unending meetings, the long hours, the steady stream of crises.

  His arms felt heavy. He tried to force himself to sit up, and in doing so he heard the disturbing rattle of chains. Something was secured to his wrists! Looking down without his eyeglasses, he saw the fuzzy images of his wrists in handcuffs, connected to the bedposts by chains and padlocks. He noticed his eyeglasses on a side table, but could not reach them.

  “Good morning, young man,” the elderly Mrs. Bonham said pleasantly, as she shuffled into the room, gripping the rails of her walker. The walker had a basket in front, containing a folded newspaper, a white-and-gold book, and a plate of fudge squares.

  The angular old woman stopped at his bed, and he saw that the book was a softcover copy of the Holy Women’s Bible. He swore under his breath, and his pulse raced. A little over a week had passed since the blasphemy had been published on the Internet.

  “What are you doing?” Styx demanded. “Release me immediately!”

  “For what purpose?”

  “I need to get back to my office, of course. Have you gone mad?”

  She extended the plate of fudge, to within his reach. “It’s fresh out of the oven.”

  “I don’t want any,” he said, pushing the plate away.

  “Too bad for you. It’s the last treat of a condemned man.”

  “What do you mean, you crazy old woman?”

  Placing the Holy Women’s Bible on his lap, she said, “Read Psalm 37:40, and then I’m going to have to kill you.”

  “Just because I won’t eat your fudge?”

  “Hardly. What a shallow thing to say.”

  “But why?” Tertullian whined. “I thought you were my friend.”

  “You have no female friends,” the old woman said. “Not even me.” Something bulged in the pocket of her dress, and she brought it out. A large, heavy meat tenderizer. She raised it overhead, with the teeth of the tenderizer block pointed toward him.

  “No!” he said.

  “Read the scripture!”

  “I need my glasses!”

  Setting the kitchen tool down, she slipped his wire-rimmed eyeglasses onto his face.

  The lenses were smudged, but in a quavering voice he began reading: “‘The She-God shall help us and deliver us from wicked men, because we trust in her.’”

  He looked up. “But this isn’t Psalm 37:40! It’s been changed!”

  “Men changed it first! We only restored it, and this is the way the sacred text shall read evermore!” She had the meat tenderizer again.

  “God is not female!”

  “Call upon your God to protect you then!” the old woman howled, raising the improvised weapon high above him.

  He began to pray, a feverish outpouring. On a table just beyond his reach sat his black leather briefcase, containing a laptop computer that could connect him to BOI military forces around the world. If only he could find a way. . . .

  With demonic strength Mrs. Bonham swung the tenderizer repeatedly, ripping Styx’s pillow open with the sharp teeth, but not striking him. A cloud of goose quills fluttered all around.

  He whimpered and cried and cowered, and spit goose quills out of his mouth. With trepidation, he opened his eyes and peered at her.

  Finally the old woman set the heavy object aside. “Now,” she said, breathing hard. “Won’t you reconsider having some fudge? I get so upset when people won’t eat what I cook.”

  “OK,” he murmured, barely able to speak.

  * * *

  In the Piazza di San Pietro, Dixie Lou assembled all of the nuns in their black habits, along with female office workers, a small army of bishops, cardinals, and other male Vatican officials. It was a brisk evening, and the crowd shivered in a cold wind. New green-and-orange banners fluttered on the buildings, replacing Vatican flags that had been taken down. Somewhere in the throng was the nun who had smuggled information out to the UWW, but Dixie Lou didn’t care to deal with her any longer; she was of no more use to the cause.

  As she stood above the plaza on a dais that was bathed in light, Dixie Lou wore a black-and-gold robe. Speaking into a microphone that floated by her face, she said, “All of you nuns and other women will be happy to learn that you are, from this day forth, free of the yokes of your former masters. I’m liberating you! As for most of the other women and the men who have been on staff here, I’m firing you. I want all of you to leave the premises, immediately.”

  To enforce her bidding, UWW guards began prodding the crowd, guiding them all toward the main entrance of the square. Dixie Lou smiled as she watched them depart in disarray. She only needed the Pope, her own soldiers and guards, computer experts, and a skeleton crew of Vatican employees to run the place—along with the Pope’s construction crew, which she intended to put to her own uses. This made the situation more manageable for her. . . .

  * * *

  “I think we should put the Pope on TV,” Bobbi Torrence said, after clearing her throat. “Get him to assure more than a billion Catholics that he’s unharmed and we’re treating him well.” A special evening meeting of the council was just getting underway.

  “Maybe we could actually bring him on board with us,” Nancy Winters suggested. “We might be able to convince him that all twelve of our she-apostles are authentic. If he goes on the air and makes that announcement, it would be a huge victory for us.”

  “The Pope?” Dixie Lou Jackson snapped, incredulously. “Don’t be ridiculous. We don’t need him!”

  Inside St. Peter’s Basilica, she sat high on the bronze Throne of St. Peter, where she had been lifted by two of the guards, despite the protestations of her council, who had expressed concern about defiling sacred objects. The most holy relic of United Women of the World, the sacred Sword of She-God, lay across her lap.

  Not saying much so far today, Deborah Marvel sipped a cup of Lapsang Souchong tea, already her fourth of the day. She heard construction noises from nearby offices, an extensive remodeling project that the Chairwoman had ordered right after their arrival, to accommod
ate her twisted view of reality. The work was being performed by contractors who were under constant guard, and Dixie Lou said she intended to convert the Vatican into the world headquarters for United Women of the World.

  Deborah felt dismal, didn’t like this Vatican situation at all. The UWW had over-extended itself, and was in danger of alienating most of the civilized world and destroying the cause of women for centuries. But Dixie Lou Jackson thought things were going well, having cited volumes of supportive e-mails and letters, and demonstrations taking place all over the world in support of her. She had tunnel vision in this regard, however, as she ignored wide-scale, mostly peaceful, protests against what she had done.

  “Bring the Pope on board with us?” Dixie Lou said, continuing her response to the council. “The man who won’t allow women in the priesthood or in the College of Cardinals? The man who opposes abortions and who treats nuns as his personal servants?”

  “I just thought we might try to explain ourselves to him,” Nancy said, her tone apologetic. “I’ve heard that he is a good man, and he might understand the plight of women.” The council members stood around the apse, gazing up at Dixie Lou.

  “There are no good men, you fool! Explain ourselves to him? It is he who must explain himself to us! Are you daft?”

  “I guess I am. Pardon me.”

  “Well, what about the Pope, then?” Deborah Marvel asked. “What are we to do with him?”

  “Actually, I’ve been thinking about executing him,” Dixie Lou responded, in a wintry tone. Casually, she flicked a fly off one of the ornate bronze arms of the throne.

  “We can’t do that!” Deborah exclaimed.

  All of the councilwomen voiced alarmed concurrence, and Deborah pointed out the strategic mistake of such a radical course of action, since a captive Pope gave them bargaining power. In reality, Deborah wished she’d been able to raise a voice of objection before the UWW attack, but that had been impossible at the time, since she hadn’t even known what Dixie Lou had in mind. She felt like a piece of flotsam in a tidal wave, unable to extricate herself.

  “You don’t think Vatican City, with all the greatest art treasures and books in the universe, gives us bargaining power?” Dixie Lou thundered, so that her Southern drawl carried out of the throne apse and onto the nave of the immense church, the largest in the world.

  “Of course,” Deborah agreed, but—”

  “Anyway,” Dixie Lou interjected, staring at her own fingernails with a spoiled, displeased expression. “If I eliminate him I intend to do it quietly, so that no one will know.”

  Shifting uneasily on her feet, Deborah said, “You can’t—uh, you shouldn’t do that without the advice and approval of the council. We must consider each action carefully, weighing all possible consequences.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” Dixie Lou said. A cruel smile worked at her mouth, and she said, “And maybe you’re wrong.” She fiddled with the hilt of the sword on her lap.

  “Pope Rodrigo should have more suitable quarters, don’t you think?” Deborah said, nervously chewing at the inside of her mouth.

  “Where is he now?”

  “Exactly where you instructed. At the Vatican Palace, locked inside the Pauline Chapel.”

  “Oh yes, his private house of worship, the one containing those wall paintings.”

  “Two magnificent frescoes by Michelangelo,” Deborah said. “The Conversion of St. Paul and The Crucifixion of St. Peter.”

  “I thought it would please him to be there,” Dixie Lou said. “He can pray all day and all night.” She looked bored with this line of conversation, as if she was only humoring the council members by making them think she was considering their opinions.

  Deborah found herself seeing the Chairwoman from a new angle, detecting things she hadn’t noticed before. The woman was a full-blown lunatic, a candidate for the asylum. But she had set up safeguards preventing anyone from attacking her. She had a force of guards and soldiers, as well as an explosives detonator that she carried on her person all of the time. If she ever activated that, it would blow up Vatican City.

  “He’s sleeping on a mattress on the floor and using a porta-potty,” Deborah remarked. “Shouldn’t we arrange for something nicer?”

  “Oh, all right,” Dixie Lou said, in an irritated tone. “I’m putting you in charge of him from now on. Just make sure he’s watched closely. Popes are tricky.”

  * * *

  “But this must be so expensive,” Consuela said, upon learning what her benefactors had in mind. She sat in the back seat of the boys’ dune buggy, a converted motorcar with oversized tires, holding her child on her lap. Raffaela sat beside her as they bounced over a rough section of road, with her sons in the front, Gilberto driving. They followed the red Alfa Romeo driven by Arsinio.

  “Don’t worry, we can afford it,” Raffaela assured her. “Mexico City is too far to drive with the baby. This will be more comfortable for both of you.”

  “But you have two cars. There is plenty of room for all of us.”

  “No, dear. We insist.”

  The cars pulled onto the gravel parking area of a small airfield and came to a stop by a sleek black jet that gleamed in the afternoon sun. This and other private planes were parked at the edge of the runway.

  “Your airplane,” the peasant girl said, breathlessly. “It is so beautiful.”

  “My parents leased it with a pilot,” José said as he opened the passenger door and tilted the bucket seat forward.” Gilberto and I are driving the cars to Mexico City.”

  Consuela climbed out onto the gravel and looked up. “I’m going way up in the sky with my baby?”

  “That’s the general idea,” Gilberto said.

  “I’ve never been in a metal bird before.”

  “Don’t worry, dear,” Raffaela said. “It’s perfectly safe. We fly all the time.”

  They would spend several days in Mexico City, while Raffaela and Arsinio made arrangements for an overseas flight to Rome. It could be dangerous, but they had to do it.

  Chapter 23

  The reputed “sins within our skirts” are nothing in comparison with the shameless mass violence of men, much of it conducted through the cover of their religions. Thousands of years before the Christ, goddess religions ruled the earth, and peace reigned supreme. It was only later, when the male-dominated religions took hold, that the mass killings of warfare and genocide began, invariably “in the name of God.” Such hypocrisy! To kill in the name of God? Jesus was the Son of God Almighty, speaking for God, but he preached love. It is no accident that when Jesus Christ rose from the dead, he appeared before the women first, including Mary Magdalene.

  —Amy Angkor-Billings, Monte Konos dedication speech

  The next morning, Lori made a holo-recording, and had it delivered the largest television station in Rome. For security reasons, she could not go there personally, especially not with all of the she-apostles that she wanted to appear with her in a major public announcement. To solve this concern, Alex Jackson left a parcel in a park near the studio, and then notified them where it was, and the subject of it. He also told them that they had only three hours to make the broadcast—a major news announcement—or Lori Vale would contact another station.

  While waiting to see what they would do, Lori went to Mrs. Capo and Domingo Petrovese in her apartment, to tell them the truth. She had Rea and Fujiko with her, and both were armed, just in case. Domingo greeted them at the door, and invited them in.

  Mrs. Capo’s apartment was filled with expensive antique furnishings, and she had several glass fronted bookcases in her main living area. She sat in a rocking chair with a shoebox of old photographs on her lap. Domingo took a seat on the couch near her, where he had left a newspaper. They had their robes on, and china cups of coffee sitting on tables by them.

  “I’ve been going through my photographs,” the old woman said. “Trying to sort them out. It’s quite a formidable task.”

  “I can imagine,” L
ori said. Standing with Rea and Fujiko behind her, the mature teenager got straight to the point. “In a short while, the world is going to learn the truth about us, and about the children. We’re here to discuss that with you.”

  Mrs. Capo arched her gray eyebrows. “The truth?”

  Lori went into considerable detail, revealing that they had eleven authentic she-apostles with them, and that she was going on the air to announce this to everyone. Looking stunned, the old woman and her companion listened without saying anything.

  “We don’t like the lies that Dixie Lou Jackson has been telling,” Lori said, “and we’re going to do something about it. We’re also deeply disturbed that she’s taken Pope Rodrigo hostage, and is defiling the sacred Vatican. It is a sacrilege.”

  “A sacrilege,” Mrs. Capo said. “Yes, it is a terrible thing.”

  “What can we do to help?” Domingo asked. He smiled. “We are Catholic.”

  “I thought so,” Lori said, because she had seen both of them wearing crosses. “You can help by not telling anyone where we are. No one. It’s a bigger secret than before, and we’re willing to pay you more, a lot more.”

  “Helping you and the children is not something we should be paid for,” Mrs. Capo said.

  “And stopping a sacrilege,” Domingo added. “We will accept no additional payment, and will guard your privacy with renewed passion.”

  “Thank you,” Lori said. She felt tears coming on, and wiped her eyes. “This means a lot to me. It means a lot to the world. Believe me, this is very important.”