She remembered Malchus’s cold sadism that afternoon—the dead expression in his eyes as he had interrogated her. “Let Malchus get away? Give up the Ark?”
She shook her head slowly.
He sighed. “You’re on the outside these days, Ava. You left. There is no salvation outside the Church, remember? I can’t protect you if it gets serious.” He looked at her pleadingly. “You won’t help your father by getting yourself killed.”
“I appreciate the concern.” She shot him a sideways glance. “But I don’t need protection—from you or anyone.”
“You Curzons are all the same.” He looked resigned. “Please, as a personal favour?”
She knew what he was going to ask. “I can’t drop it, Peter—not now.”
“At least think about it.” He looked at her hopefully. “It’s not your job anymore. There’ll be others who can handle it. And none of it’s going to bring him back.”
She wanted to be honest with him. “You’re not going to change my mind.”
He put a hand on her arm. “Well, just think about it. And meanwhile, for God’s sake be careful who you trust. I don’t know what you’re getting into, but I don’t like what I’ve seen so far. As I say, if I’ve learnt anything in too many years at this job, it’s not to trust anyone.”
That was fine. She did not trust Prince, and had no intention of involving others. She preferred working alone anyway. In her experience, additional hands may help, but they invariably brought unwelcome complications.
She glanced over to the south bank, where the second half of DeVere’s evening was about to start. “Come on, then.” She took one last look at the dark still water. “Let’s get back. We don’t want you to miss Caesar and Cleopatra’s big moment.”
DAY SEVEN
——————— ◆ ———————
52
Undisclosed location
Nobody ever came to the secluded house by the lake.
Ever since the infamous Englishman had made it his home all those years ago, no locals had visited. They avoided it like the plague, even shying away from the nearby roads.
It suited Malchus fine.
He relished the isolation.
Glancing out of the large window overlooking the smoky-black water, he saw that the first glow of morning was just beginning to purple the sky.
He had timed it perfectly. Dawn—the moment between two worlds.
He finished bathing, before drying off and anointing himself with the sacred oil he had blended according to the recipe in the thirtieth chapter of the book of Exodus. It was a powerful formula, and he had followed the biblical instructions to the letter—slowly steeping the myrrh, cinnamon, calamus, and cassia into the olive oil.
Now ritually clean, he put on a dark robe and perfumed sandals, before padding through the hallway to the room at the north-western corner of the house—to the small doorway inside it.
He turned the large iron key and pulled the cellar door open, revealing a three-inch-thick steel door immediately behind it.
Taking the thin gold chain from around his neck, he inserted its slim magnetized hexagonal rod into the anodized key plate.
Next he turned to focus on the door’s two main features—a combination tumbler lock and a large wheel.
He spun the tumbler the requisite number of times to the left and right—a simple exercise in gematria. When the mechanism clicked quietly, he took hold of the steel wheel and turned it to the left. As the metal ran through his fingers, he could hear the sound of the three locking bars withdrawing from the mortises buried deep in the reinforced doorframe.
It was his only concession to security.
What was below was private.
The heavy door swung open easily, revealing a black stone staircase—unlit save for a dull glow rising from the cavernous cellar below.
Striding confidently down the bare stairs, he descended lower, increasingly aware of the thick bitter-sweet qetoreth incense rising from the underground chamber.
Like the sacred anointing oil, the historic incense’s recipe was also preserved in the book of Exodus, from the instructions to the Temple priests. It called for equal measures of stacte, onchya, galbanum, and frankincense. While the last two were easy to source, many seekers down the centuries had struggled to identify stacte and onchya. But Malchus had been entrusted with the knowledge by one of the Kohanim of Prague—although yielding it up to his violent visitor had been the very last thing the elderly priest ever did.
Malchus inhaled deeply. It was a good smell—a sign things were finally progressing, as he had planned for so long.
Stepping off the last stair, he gazed with intense satisfaction at the sight that greeted him.
The room was a concrete cube.
There were no windows or skylights, and the walls, floor, and ceiling were painted a uniform matt black.
Inlaid into the floor was a large five-pointed star, its tip pointing to the far wall and the whole bordered by a circle. He had built it himself, trusting no one else with the precision required.
Its six lines were scored into the cement, each channel as wide and deep as a fist. They were painted the same black as the floor—clearly visible in the flickering light thrown by the ten wide black candles, one at each of the star’s angles.
His eyes moved up to the walls, flicking rapidly across the riot of intricate blood-red glyphs.
He knew that to uninitiated observers the malevolent shapes looked like the insane ravings of a demonically possessed mind.
But the arcane alphabet made complete sense to him.
The symbols were the angelic sigils—seals used by adepts down the ages to name and summon the Guardians: a code passed down each generation from master to disciple.
Even though he had spent weeks painting the sigils onto the walls, he never tired of looking at their powerful jagged lines and the energizing forces they exuded—like electrical symbols or lightning bolts.
He smiled with satisfaction as he surveyed them one by one: “Danel, Turel, Satarel, Ananel, Batarel, Tamiel, Ramiel, Kokabiel, Zaqiel, Sariel, Jomjael, Rameel, Ezeqeel, Samsapeel, Baraqijal, Semyaza, Arakiba, Asael, Armaros … .”
He read them slowly, mouthing them to himself as if in a prayer, savouring the sounds as he breathed air into them.
Their names were raw power. Assembled together in the same place in this way, they oozed dominion.
His usually lifeless green eyes were shining more brightly now, illuminated by the sigils’ dark potency.
Of the thousands of angels he could have selected, he had chosen the two hundred Watchers—those immortals who fell to earth from heaven in the Great War, fuelled by their uncontrollable lust to pleasure themselves with mortal women.
He smiled knowingly.
He liked to imagine what the battle between the angels had been like.
Carnage, destruction, and agony, he was sure—on a celestial scale.
He sneered at the thought of the chubby winged toddlers who passed for angels on a million church ceilings, chocolate boxes, and Christmas cards.
Did no one read any more? The Bible gave detailed physical descriptions. It was all there if anyone cared to look.
And there was nothing serene or innocent about them.
He closed his eyes and pictured the cherubs—Yahweh’s terrifying guardians.
They had the bodies of men, the cloven hooves of calves, and could see simultaneously in all directions from their four faces: man, lion, ox, and eagle. They protected Yahweh, speeding alongside his chariot on their four great wings.
Malchus savoured the image. He felt especially connected to cherubs, because according to the book of Ezekiel, one of them was the seal of perfection, full of wisdom, and perfect in beauty.
Lucifer.
But despite their famous fallen leader, the cherubs were not the mightiest of the angels.
More powerful still were the seraphs, or burning ones. Malchus saw them in his mind, flyin
g above Yahweh’s chariot—the ultimate guardians: all-seeing from the hundreds of eyes covering every inch of their bodies, even the area under their six great wings.
“They lie in ignorance,” Malchus snorted with contempt. “Audiunt sed non auscultant.”9
As he looked around the room, he felt gripped by the feeling he always had when he was down here.
It was an oratory of power.
Stepping into the middle of the pentagram, he picked up a thick glass amphora with rams-head handles, and began pouring scented oil from it into the floor’s star-shaped grooves.
He had made the oil himself, but it was not the anointing oil from the book of Exodus. This particular mixture was altogether darker and muskier.
Once the star was glistening wet and the viscous liquid had run freely around the never-ending channels, he knelt down and dipped his left hand into the small pool of oil left in the amphora, blessing himself with it—drawing four upside-down crosses from his head to his navel. Counting aloud as he touched himself, each time he reached six he restarted at one. When he had completed the fourth cross, he stopped and traced a large upside cross in the air in front of him with two bold strokes.
His ritual gestures totalled three sixes—the most perfect number.
To finish the opening ceremony, he picked up one of the candles and knelt, touching it to the oil in the floor.
With a gratifying speed, the fire leapt along the length of the deep grooves, instantly transforming the oiled channels into a flaming circled pentagram.
Now he had prepared both himself and the sacred space, he finally allowed himself to look up towards the east end of the room, where the fifth point of the blazing star pointed to the high altar.
Lifting his eyes, they came to rest on the focal point of the oratory—the object he had been lusting after for all these years.
It stood on a black velvet podium behind the granite altar that usually took pride of place in the dark chapel.
He gazed raptly at the ancient chest, savouring how its hammered and cast-gold decoration flickered and glinted in the low candlelight. By a trick of the shimmering rays, it looked as if its dozens of bas-relief figures were moving jerkily across its beaten panels. Even the wings of the vast cherubs on the lid, whose tips touched to form the Mercy Seat, seemed to be undulating gently.
He stared long and hard at the ancient artefact, feeling his heart rate rising as it always did when he came down to gaze upon it.
He could barely believe it was finally his, after so many years of preparation.
Few people had any concept of the ancient chest’s true significance. He felt nothing but contempt for them. At some stage in their pathetic meaningless existences they had decided it was long lost, or a misty legend, or a benign cultural relic with no relevance to their lives.
He despised their ignorance.
They would soon be forced to reassess that view—along with any simplistic Sunday-school idea it was merely an ornamental chest for carrying around the golden pot of manna, Aaron’s rod, the stone tablets of the commandments, and the first Torah scroll.
Its true purpose was infinitely more powerful.
Yahweh, the ultimate warrior God, had chosen it as his earthly throne—making it a unique and sacred gateway: a mystical place where the earthly and heavenly realms met, a portal of unique power and potential.
What would happen was inevitable. It would not be his responsibility. It should come as no surprise to anyone. It was all there, in the Bible.
He looked about with a deep contentment.
The flames from the pentagram were low—no more than four inches high, but they threw off enough heat for him to have started gently sweating.
Good.
It was time for it all to begin.
The ceremony would be an important turning point.
He walked to the north-west corner of the room, where he found the small wicker basket exactly as he had left it.
Inside, motionless apart from the rhythmic bobbing of its head, was a young cockerel—its sleek dark feathers gleaming in the candlelight with a purplish-black sheen, contrasting strikingly with the deep red of its comb.
Unbuckling the basket’s leather strap, he flipped open the lid and grasped the cockerel by its thin neck, lifting it clear.
Carrying it to the other end of the room, he approached the altar, and laid it onto the hard black granite surface.
Sensing imminent danger, or perhaps seeing the wide-bladed knife Malchus had picked up, the cockerel began to struggle—writhing to escape his steel grip.
As Malchus leant on it harder, pinning its small body onto the cold stone, the bird thrashed more wildly, flapping its wings—struggling to be free of the weight bearing remorselessly down on it.
Holding the ritual knife to his lips, Malchus softly kissed both sides of the wide blade. “Suscipiat dominus sacrificium de manibus meis,”10 he murmured, raising it high above his shoulder.
The burnished silver glinted as he brought it down in a great arc—its sharp heavy blade easily slicing into the flesh of the young bird’s neck. Its razor-sharp edge passed straight through the carotid, jugular, cartilage, and windpipe, before finally shattering the bone of its spinal column.
As the bird’s head rolled away from its body, blood sprayed out in jets from the ragged stump of its neck.
He raised the knife again, and touched its bloodied blade to his lips and tongue. “Dominus, sum dignus,”11 he whispered, relishing the taste of the hot metallic fluid.
Leafing through a copy of the Old Testament propped against an ornate stand on the dark stone altar, he turned to the twenty-ninth chapter of the book of Exodus.
“Take some of its blood and put it on the lobes of the right ear,” he intoned, at the same time smearing his right ear with the cockerel’s lifeblood.
Reading on further, he did as the Bible commanded, daubing blood onto the thumb of his right hand, then the big toe of his right foot.
It was an ordination ceremony, and he knew that for what was to come, he had to follow the instructions precisely.
“Splash blood against the sides of the altar,” he recited, grasping the cockerel’s warm twitching body and pointing the ragged neck stump at the altar, spraying it with the still-pumping blood like some obscene modernist mural.
Moving to the middle of the room, he picked up the oil amphora and returned to the altar.
Wedging the shredded stump on the cockerel’s shoulders into the amphora’s neck, he watched as the blood dribbled down, creating deep red blobs floating in suspension on the oil.
Reading further into the ancient book of Exodus, he dipped a small silver asperges rod into the amphora, and flicked the bloody oil onto his robes in a gesture of sanctification.
The blessings complete, he picked up the cockerel’s warm but now still body, and placed it in the centre of the altar’s granite top.
Still reading aloud, he took up the bloodied knife again, and slit open the bird’s abdomen in accordance with the ancient instructions.
As the entrails slithered out, he separated off the internal organs, slicing them out one by one, meticulously observing the details stipulated in the ritual—taking especial care to collect the fat from the viscera, the long lobe of the liver, both kidneys, and the right thigh.
Satisfied, he lifted off a metal grill in the top of the altar and lit the kindling nestling in the recess under it, before replacing the plate into position.
When the flames had died down, he placed the fat, liver, kidneys, and thigh onto the grill.
They hissed quietly as the fat dripped down onto the ashes below.
“Burn them on the altar,” he recited, closing the book of Exodus, “for a pleasing aroma to the Lord.”
The acrid scent of the charring fat and bloody offal filled the room, mixing with the incense.
He inhaled deeply, relishing the spicy bloody meaty aroma.
He knew Yahweh was pleased by animal sacrifices.
He sneered at the sanctimonious hypocrites. Had Yahweh not been pleased when Jephthah sacrificed his daughter, or when Josiah consecrated and sacrificed the pagan priests to him on their own blasphemous altars?
He frowned, not understanding why people could not see it. The Bible was as clear as could be. The book of Deuteronomy explicitly commanded the faithful to put all non-believers to death and torch their towns as a burnt offering to the Lord.
He felt nothing but contempt for them.
Did they really believe Yahweh shied away from bloodshed? The same Yahweh who killed and commanded the death of hundreds of thousands of people, all painstakingly recorded in the Bible. Who according to the book of Samuel had slain fifty thousand and seventy men just for daring to gaze upon the Ark?
And there was more.
Much more.
Had he not sent his angel to execute every first-born in the whole of Egypt so there was not a house in which someone had not been killed?
And in the book of Ezekiel, had he not given the order to the men entering Jerusalem to slaughter all inhabitants—men, women, nursing mothers, even small children?
He could think of countless examples.
He had studied them all.
Yahweh was, then and now, a god of war and conquest, mayhem and destruction, pride and conquest, jealously and revenge.
And his currency was blood.
He felt a mounting excitement as he gazed up with anticipation at the Ark.
They would know soon enough.
——————— ◆ ———————
53
All Hallows College
University of Oxford
Oxford OX1
England
The United Kingdom
As Ava climbed into Ferguson’s four-by-four outside the pub the previous evening, he had flicked on his work laptop and hooked it up to the internet via mobile phone.
After quickly entering a sequence of paired passwords, each part-generated by a biometric fingerswipe, the laptop’s webcam had verified the unique pattern of blood vessels on both his retinas.
The Sword of Moses Page 30
