by J. F. Penn
Tucson, Arizona, USA
May 21, 11.09am
Joseph Everett was reading Eusebius’ ‘On the Martyrs’ in his study. He punctuated the passages by pacing back and forth as he considered his plan. After the death of the homeless man, he had taken the stone to Michael and put it around his brother’s neck. He thought he had seen a glimmer of fire in the dead eyes but there was no change. He was disappointed and desperate for an answer. Now he was scouring these ancient texts for clues as to how the deaths of the saints might transform the stones to instruments of healing and power.
As he read, he noted the inventive ways they had of killing people in those early centuries. In the face of such horrific death people became even more fanatic for their faith. Emotion stirred up by the murder of martyrs seemed to be what sustained the growth of the Church. Perhaps blood and violence were the price to pay for vibrant faith? He knew that people valued something more when the price was high. For those willing to give up their lives for their beliefs, it must have been a heady time. He stopped pacing as the implication of his thoughts hit him. Maybe he needed to remind Morgan just what was at stake here, how high the cost could be if she didn’t bring him the stones. He speed dialed a number on his phone.
“Take the woman out to the desert but leave the child.”
He made another call to his property manager.
“Start the fire in the kiln, I’ll be needing it later. We’re driving out now. See you in a few hours.”
Joseph’s fascination with flames went back for many years, a pyromania that fed his soul. It was creation in destruction, leaving a path for new life in the wake of old. The sense of power was intoxicating, that a tiny spark could grow to consume whole cities and it was the elemental spirit of fire that he craved. The fires of Hell were nothing to a pure soul and the Christian iconography had those pure in heart walk through the fires unharmed. He loved the story in the book of Daniel where the faithful walk in the furnace with the angels and then emerge, triumphant and unscathed. He had devoured the details of mass cremation of the bodies at Auschwitz; the Nazis had been experts on disposal of physical evidence and so he had learned how fire could be used to hide dark deeds. Joseph had started with arson as a young man but the risk of prosecution soon became too great as his business and political ambitions grew, so he had found sublimation for his pyromania in pottery and kilns. It was a socially acceptable way in which he could indulge his visceral need for flame, his own addiction. The physical act of feeding the fire, the colors that danced in the kiln, were an alchemy that he ached for, a fiery transformation of matter to his desire. Over the years, he had found that the kiln could be used for other purposes than just firing pots.
***
Joseph headed out in his four wheel drive to the desert scrubland south west of Tucson. The kiln was on his desert property giving him the privacy to indulge himself out here. It was far away from the city and desolate enough that no one would even want to trespass here. The land was technically owned by one of his subsidiary businesses, buried in shell companies so it couldn’t be traced back to him.
As he drove, Joseph thought of Michael in the hospital, listless in his bed. Then he shook his head as if to clear the thoughts - he shouldn’t focus on the past, but on the future. The search for the stones energized him now, as if a part of his mind clung to a primitive belief, desperate that the power of God in the stones would heal them both. Joseph smiled, his mirrored sunglasses flashing in the harsh Arizona sun. He had faith in business and money but increasingly in an ancient power. Not a personal Jesus but a primal energy that lifted the dead from the ground, brought fire and wind to earth on Pentecost and burned the early Church into the consciousness of millennia. He would call this power back to earth soon enough.
Out in the desert, Joseph pulled up to the basic hut that was a few hundred meters from the kiln. Another car waited by the hut where two of his men sat in the air conditioned interior with the woman, Faye. She was tied, her hands behind her back and a gag over her mouth. The men got out as Joseph approached.
“Take the rest of the wood to the kiln and stoke it up,” he said. “I need it burning at its hottest today. I have a special firing to do.”
The men moved away and Joseph opened the door where Faye sat restrained. She was shaking but her eyes were defiant.
“Oh, my dear, what you will experience today,” Joseph said, reaching towards her. She turned her head away, the only motion she could manage in her constrained state. He moved his hand swiftly into her hair and pulled it savagely back, exposing her throat. Leaning close, he whispered, “And your sister is going to watch.”
Laughing, he let go and walked away from the car, leaving her to sit in the heat while he joined the men by the kiln. It was the size of a large cupboard with shelves for pots, but with room for a person in the middle of the space to make it easier to stack the shelves. There was a thick glass window in the door so the pots could be watched. It took hours to build the temperature high enough for firing but at that point, the flames would burn blue and bright. It was almost ready now.
Joseph set up a video camera at the front of the kiln, turned it on and then motioned for one of the men to bring Faye. She struggled and kicked, screaming into her gag. The man ended up throwing her over his shoulder and carried her, kicking all the way. They finally got her tied to a chair, facing the door of the kiln. Tears ran down her cheeks. She was shaking with terror.
Joseph bent down to her.
“This is what happens if your sister doesn’t bring the stones to me by Pentecost.”
He pulled his gun and whipped around quickly, using it to smash the face of the man who had carried her over. The man was knocked to his knees, briefly stunned and he shook his head, trying to clear it as blood poured from his nose. Joseph laughed and turned to kick the man, his boot connecting with a thud and the man fell back, his face confused.
“What …?” he tried to ask what was going on but Joseph was on him, his heavy desert boots audibly breaking the man’s ribs as he rolled over to protect himself. Faye could see a mania in Joseph now as he called to the other man.
“You, help me.”
Together they opened the door of the kiln and threw the overpowered man in. The flames roared as they sucked in the oxygen from the air and a surge of dry heat washed over Faye as she watched in horror. The man’s brief screams were terrible as the heat immediately caught his body. Through the window she could see that he seemed to dance in the blue fire before falling to his knees. Finally he curled up on the floor as the flames consumed him.
Faye had shut her eyes, but Joseph forced her face towards the blaze. He spoke into the camera, his voice low and mesmerizing, hypnotized by the sight.
“Watch how he burns, Faye. There are demons in the flames, you can see their shapes dancing, and they draw you in. You want to caress them, to capture their essence between your fingers, but they will destroy you if you get too close.”
He leaned in closer now, his breath hot on her face with the flames burning behind.
“Yet we are still drawn to it, enraptured by its beguiling dance and sensuous nature. We love to be naked with it, warmth dancing on our skin, candle wax dripping, burning but hurting in a deeply pleasurable way. Imagine what it would be like to feel the lick of that tiny tongue of flame along your skin, Faye. It looks so gentle, like it would tickle you. But that blue orange dancer is pain and death, its caress the last pleasure you would feel in this life.”
With these words, he licked the side of her face. He held her chin steady, his tongue darting around her jaw line and swirling into her ear. Faye squirmed and tried to evade his wet tongue, the overwhelming heat from the kiln seeming to burn through her. He wound his fingers through her hair and held her in a tight grip again, the tears running down her face soaking the gag that choked her.
Joseph spoke louder, his words a challenge with the backdrop of the raging fire behind him.
“Fire is a cruel m
istress, taking to itself as much as it would have before dying out when there is nothing left to consume. Fire is elemental, it is the key to life, but it also burns, destroying whatever it touches. Fire feeds the soul and spirit. The saints died by fire and the smoke from candle flames take the prayers of the faithful to heaven, crossing the boundary between earth and spirit.”
Joseph stood straight, taking the stance of a preacher before his church. Faye cowered beneath his upraised arms. He knew what a powerful image this would make on the film he would send to Morgan and ARKANE and he reveled in the feeling of authority.
“Fire has ever been the basis of myth. Prometheus brought fire to humans from the Gods. He stole it from Zeus and with it transformed humanity from bestial needs to higher thought. Fire was such a precious and secret gift that he was punished for his crime by being tied to a rock while a great eagle ate his liver every day, only to have it grow back overnight and be eaten again the next day, for all Eternity. From fire mankind’s highest purpose was born and is fed to greater heights.”
Wheeling around, he pointed into the kiln itself, where the blackened body was burning still.
“Volcanoes brim with fire and Vulcan works there, shaping weapons for the gods from the flames. Fire goes down to the center of the earth, an ever shifting core of molten element that waits to overtake us with destruction. Then the phoenix rises from the flames, a mythical fire spirit with wings of flame gold and scarlet. It is a sign of resurrection, the being that rises again from destruction, a continuing cycle of rebirth from the ancient to ancient again.”
He broke off and pointed dramatically at Faye sobbing with her eyes shut.
“The Pentecost stones will bring resurrection to my brother and the beginning of a renaissance in faith and miracles. Bring them to me or she will be my sacrifice to the gods of flame.”
Joseph fell silent then and stared into the fiery kiln as the sound of Faye’s sobbing and the roar of the flames filled the air. There were no angels in the fire today, only djinn of dirty smoke. He knew the glaze today would be stained with dark red, russet like the desert earth and the blood of men.
May 22
St Peter’s Basilica. Vatican City, Italy.
May 22, 8.40am
Morgan and Jake stood on the Ponte de Castel St Angelo, looking over the Tiber towards the cupola of St Peter’s. Neither had slept on the plane from Iran to Italy, not after Marietti had sent them the video. Morgan’s mind was still filled with the images of the flames consuming that body, petrified it had been Faye and then seeing her, terrified, tied to a chair and gagged, the reflection of flames flickering in her eyes as the madman Everett ranted at the screen. They both held steaming cups of black coffee, deep dark circles under their eyes. Now Morgan cradled her cellphone under one ear, listening as David cried and then screamed at her, venting his rage and helplessness. She turned away so Jake couldn’t hear their conversation, as her voice broke with the anguish she felt.
“I’m trying David, I truly am. I’m so sorry. We’ll get them back. I promise.”
After Tabriz, Morgan had thought that the four stones they already had would be enough to start bargaining for the lives of her sister and niece, but the video made it clear that she needed to get all of them. There would be no bargaining. With no other leads, they had decided to refocus on the places where the Apostles’ bones were known to be kept. Rome, the parish of the Holy Father, home of the Catholic Church, was the obvious next step. The stone of St Peter would surely be kept near the Popes in the basilica named after the saint. It was just a question of narrowing down the potential locations. The myths of the stones emphasized one of the spiritual gifts was an enhanced creativity, a stunning ability to render the earthly as divine and surely this place was the pinnacle of artistic creative expression.
Morgan gazed up at the Papal fortress and the tomb of the Roman Emperor Hadrian towering above them. The castle was linked to the Vatican by the Passetto di Borgo, a covered, fortified tunnel but today they would not be secretly stealing in a back entrance. They would be walking straight in the front door. People came from all over the world to see Il Papa, and twice a week he performed an early Mass in the magnificent church. Lines to enter the Basilica only started around ten when day trippers made their way there, so to get a seat in a service before that time was easy enough, and this would be their way in.
Jake was speaking on his cell phone, making last minute plans for their pickup. If they were to take something from the Vatican, they would need a quick exit. Morgan stood beneath the replica of Bernini’s Angel with the Crown of Thorns. It gazed down at her with blank eyes, holding one of the instruments of Christ’s passion. Bernini was the final architect of St Peter’s, his works were all over the cathedral. It was his vision that finished the dome after Bramante, Raphael, and Michelangelo and he was also known as a creative genius, perhaps touched by divine power so Bernini’s fingerprint would be the one they sought in the basilica.
Martin Klein had been analyzing the potential location of the stone of St Peter, and it made sense for it to have been kept in Rome for millennia. Morgan knew that Peter was ‘The Rock’ of the Church and the iconography of stone was deeply bound into the Vatican, a persistent theme in the art and architecture of the ancient city within a city. Martin had proposed a theory that the Apostle’s stone had been handed down by Keepers within the Vatican who were touched by the power of the stone, a blessing of creativity. He had traced the potential Keepers down to Bernini, the sculptor, artist and architect, but then the trail had disappeared. Their best chance was to follow Bernini’s creations, and they were all over the Vatican, culminating in St Peter’s Basilica itself.
They walked the short distance from the bridge up the Via della Conciliazione to the grand oval of Piazza San Pietro. Morgan looked up to the top of the colonnades surrounding the Piazza, to the saints who watched over the pilgrims. One hundred and forty saints sat atop the colonnades, men and women of faith throughout the ages, many martyred and standing here as testimony to the power of their God. Bernini had designed these colonnades along with the fountain in the forecourt, but it was the ancient red granite obelisk that dominated the piazza. It dated back to the fifth dynasty of ancient Egypt, brought to Rome by the Emperor Augustus, and was the only obelisk not to have toppled since ancient Roman times.
Jake and Morgan walked over to the tourist entrance, waited in line for a short time and passed easily through security at the gates. They walked through the colonnade, past the Swiss Guards in their red, yellow and blue striped tunics. Their primary job was to protect Il Papa and that’s what Jake and Morgan were counting on today. Once the Pope was in the cathedral, all attention would be on making sure he was safe and they could act while backs were turned.
They filed into the church with the other worshippers, past the statue of Moses with the Ten Commandments, up the steps and into the imposing Basilica. There was a palpable sense of expectation in the air. Pilgrims to the Basilica were praying and weeping at the culmination of their journey to this center of the Christian world. The scent of incense filled the air, dispersing in clouds towards the dome of Michelangelo and Morgan was vividly reminded of the cathedral in Santiago. A smile crossed Jake’s face and she could see he was thinking about it too but there would be no attention-drawing stunts here. This time it was all about remaining unnoticed.
They walked into the main nave of the church, past the groups of people waiting for seats while others thronged the aisles trying to get into a good position to see the Pope when he entered. Morgan looked around her. The overwhelming color in the Basilica was gold, reflecting light from the high up windows. Even in the gloom, gold shone from the statues and decorations. From her study of ancient religion, she could see the influence of ancient Roman polytheism incorporated into the Catholic Church. The statues of previous Popes sat as gods on podiums with the faithful at their feet, praying for intercession. The cadavers of great Popes lay embalmed behind glass so the beli
evers could look upon them and pray for their eternal souls. Morgan’s favorite part of the Basilica was Michelangelo’s Pieta, set in a niche by the door. The lips of the Virgin were soft, almost pliant, lifelike even in marble. She barely looked the age of her dead son.
Just then, the choir begin to sing the Magnificat, filling the church with spiritual balm. It was the beginning of the pre-service, aimed at calming the crowd and instilling a sense of devotion before the Pope himself entered. Morgan loved the singing. It was a peace she often sought within the walls of Blackfriars although Father Ben seemed a long way away right now. She wanted to stop by one of the soaring columns and listen for just a minute, but Jake motioned for her to follow. They had two places to check for the stone and little time to do it in. Morgan looked at her watch. Eleven minutes until the Pope entered for Mass.
They made their way through the praying crowd to the tomb of Pope Pius X, his body lying behind glass near the front of the basilica in the Eastern arm of the cross. His body had been disinterred and was remarkably well preserved despite not being embalmed. It was said to be a miracle and other wonders had apparently occurred at the tomb so it was possible that this Pope had been a Keeper of the stone. Morgan and Jake knelt in front of the tomb and bent their heads to pray, looking through their fingers into the glass and bronze sarcophagus. Perhaps it was buried with him as miracles were said to have occurred here.
