The Sword of Moses

by Dominic Selwood

  “Bring them on,” Ferguson urged him. “I can’t wait. Is it going to hurt?” He was smiling at Saxby, taunting him.

  Saxby ignored him, and looked back to Ava. “As you have no doubt noted by now, we have a special regard for the occult side of the Third Reich. Historians don’t talk about it much, but it was a core tenet of the SS, who were the finest embodiment of its ideals. Pagan Nordic solar celebrations were instituted for them, and SS men even had special pagan wedding ceremonies. Their rings, daggers, and uniforms all bore magical Nordic runes, and here at Wewelsburg, the spiritual nerve-centre of the SS, Himmler was building an SS city steeped in the occult. More buildings were to be attached to this castle, and the northern tower, where we stand, was to be the tip of a vast building complex shaped like the Spear of Longinus.”

  “How do you reconcile all this half-baked religious mumbo-jumbo?” Ava interrupted again. “One minute you’re speaking of Yahweh and The Sword of Moses. Then it’s the Christian saint, Longinus. Then there are Nordic pagan solar ceremonies and Götterdämmerung. That’s without mentioning Dr Dee’s occult beliefs and Aleister Crowley’s Thelema. How on earth can you follow all these creeds and traditions at the same time?”

  Saxby smiled. “The Templars introduced me to freemasonry. Although I have nothing but contempt for their dramatics and charities, they have got at least one thing right. They teach that there are many paths, but that all are travelling on the same journey. Whether it’s religion, philosophy, or magic—all traditions are merely aspects of the Magnum Opus, the Great Work.”

  “So you’re an alchemist, too?” Ava shook her head. “Another one of your beliefs?”

  Saxby’s face darkened. “Be careful what you mock. Alchemy is the most complete expression of the processes underpinning all religions and philosophies.” He turned to stare at Ava. “And that is why you fit so neatly into the plan, Dr Curzon. You see, since we first met, you have been walking down the oldest path in history.”

  “Enlighten me,” Ava stared back at him, her jaw tightening.

  “Ever since you began this quest, you have been spiritually purifying yourself for the ceremony tonight.”

  It was news to Ava.

  “It always starts with nigredo, the blackening or putrefaction, when all the shadows circle and fill the vessel of the mind with conflicts and confusion. In your case, it was when you discovered the truth about your father’s death, when you began to hunt Malchus, and when you found out about the Ark and desired it so much you were prepared to do anything for it, including sacrificing helpers like Drewitt. That was your nigredo, reducing you to the core passions that bubble within you.”

  “I did not sacrifice Drewitt.” She was finding it difficult to control her anger. “Malchus murdered him for his own pleasure.”

  Saxby ignored her. “Then comes albedo, the whitening. It’s the beginning of the stage of purification. For you, it occurred when you sensed a higher aim—a need to keep the Ark, the Menorah, and The Sword of Moses away from us for the good of mankind, at least as you see it. Your thinking had evolved, and you were no longer just acting for your own base instincts. You had developed a purpose—one you thought was noble. That is the process of purification.”

  “And you’ve been on this path, too?” Ava’s tone was mocking. “How does what you do constitute anything noble?”

  “It has taken me many decades to explore my own path, and I have found what it is I must do,” he replied simply. “The Fourth Reich is for the benefit of all mankind.”

  “You’re insane,” Ava shook her head in disbelief. “No-one could ever call mass murder noble.”

  “Next to last comes citrinitas,” he continued, ignoring her jibe, “the yellowing, in which the luminousness of the sun replaces that of the moon, and all is turned to burnished gold in the light of realization. That is what is happening to you now, as you begin to appreciate what this has all been for.”

  “And the last?” Ava recognized the stages of classical alchemy, but not the deranged interpretation he was putting on them.

  “What the alchemists called rubedo, the reddening. It has many names, and is also known as the coniunctio oppositorum, the chemical wedding and the hieros gamos or sacred marriage. It is the final act of spiritual union, when the opposites within us and outside us are brought together and reconciled to form the perfect whole. It has many manifestations—gold, the philosopher’s stone, the hermaphrodite born of Hermes and Aphrodite, mystical sex, and even the Jungian inner union of the self.” He gazed at her. “But for you, it will be very special.”

  Ava had heard enough. “You’re not going to get that lucky.”

  He continued as if he had not heard her. “You’ve heard of the goddess Anat?” His tone was now bordering on the reverential.

  She nodded. “In early Hebrew traditions, when they were still polytheists before the Babylonian captivity, Anat was widely recorded as one of Yahweh’s wives.”

  Saxby voice dropped. “She was the ultimate warrior goddess for the ultimate warrior god. She is described as wading knee-deep in battlefield gore, tying severed heads to her breastplate and hacked-off hands to her sash. She was the sublime destroyer.”

  “This is all very interesting,” Ferguson growled. “What’s your point?”

  “As you ask so bluntly,” he turned to face Ferguson, “I shall tell you equally plainly. From the moment we met, I’ve been watching Dr Curzon’s every move with interest. I wondered to myself if we could use her in our movement. And I’m now convinced we can.”

  Ava glared at him with contempt as he turned to look her up and down again.

  “You’re the perfect Anat. It’s one thing for us to summon Yahweh. But wouldn’t it be so much better if we offered him an earthly incarnation of Anat, sacrificing her life to him in a blood offering, knowing how sweet the smell of burning flesh is to his nostrils.”

  Ava went cold.

  Was he serious?

  It sounded so implausible she did not know whether to laugh or cry. But with an icy chill twisting in the base of her stomach, she realized that Saxby undoubtedly meant what he said.

  Unless she thought of something, he was going to slaughter her like a sacrificial animal, then burn her flesh on an altar.

  She could feel herself beginning to lose her grip. She recalled once hearing that people on death row regularly went mad, as the human mind was not able to cope with knowing the time of its own death.

  Malchus’s attempt to kill her that afternoon had come as a complete surprise. But here was Saxby, calmly telling her she was to die tonight.

  Her heart was beating so fast she thought for a moment she would pass out. But she was brought back to reality by the sound of Ferguson’s voice. “So you and all your followers are here tonight. You have the Ark, the Menorah, Dr Dee’s paraphernalia, and The Sword of Moses. What exactly are you going to do with it all? How will it begin the establishment of the Fourth Reich and the new Aryan Imperium?”

  Saxby gazed into the middle distance.

  “Major Ferguson, tonight we will perform the Great Ceremony in this unique and powerful setting, in front of a packed audience of national socialists from all over the world—all of whom have come to see something special, but they do not yet know what. We will, of course, record it for release so the world will know who we are, and what we have achieved.”

  “And what exactly will you have achieved?” Ava asked.

  Saxby’s eyes were gleaming. “We will summon Yahweh, one of the greatest battle gods the world has ever known. I like to call it Project Emmanuel, which I do not have to translate for Dr Curzon, I am sure. It means ‘God is with us’.”

  Ferguson snorted. “You don’t seriously believe you can summon a god, do you?” His tone was incredulous. “What are you going to do when he doesn’t appear?”

  Saxby smiled slowly. “Traditional Christians believe, and have done for centuries, that every time a priest makes a sacrifice at his altar, their God physically come
s down and enters bread and wine for them to eat and drink. Their priests do this conjuring every day of the week all over the world, and billions of people have no trouble accepting it. We are doing no different.”

  He paused. “We do not expect Yahweh to appear—please, we are not imbeciles. But Yahweh is clearly with us. What other conclusion can anyone draw from the fact he has let us have his Ark, his throne, where he used to sit, along with the Menorah lamp that was made to burn to his eternal glory. I don’t expect everyone to believe in Yahweh or other gods. But, tell me this—how will Christians or Jews, who both believe they have been specially chosen by Yahweh, how will they explain that for over two thousand years he has kept his Ark from them, but now he has chosen to give it to us? It will mean their total humiliation. And that, Major Ferguson, will be the unbreakable corner stone on which we will raise the Fourth Reich.”

  On the other side of the room, Malchus let out a bellow of frustration. He jumped up from the bench and stalked over to Ava. “Where is it?” he hissed at her malevolently.

  “What do you mean?” Ava asked.

  Without warning, Malchus punched her hard in the gut. A sickening pain erupted in her abdomen as her muscles went into spasm.

  He waved Professor Stone’s notes at her. “This is merely another copy of the London manuscript.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Ava gasped, still reeling from the pain.

  “I saw you both enter Duke Humfrey’s Library this morning,” he snarled. You had official passes. Don’t play innocent. It doesn’t suit you.”

  This time she saw the punch coming. She braced the muscles in her stomach as he unleashed another savage blow at the soft flesh of her abdomen. Stifling the urge to scream with the pain, she bent her torso in an attempt to protect it, lifting her feet off the ground. But it only served to transfer the pain directly to her wrists and shoulders, which felt like they would dislocate.

  Saxby’s eyes narrowed on her. “For your sake, I hope you’re not lying.”

  Malchus pulled Ferguson’s Sig Sauer out of his pocket, and jammed it into the crook of Ava’s leg, behind her knee. “Gunshot injuries to the knees are among the nastiest. They’re some of the most painful, and there’s nothing surgeons can do to mend the splintered bone and cartilage fragments, nerves, and arteries. You’ll never walk again. So one more time,” his voice was rising in a crescendo, “where’s the real manuscript?”

  Ava could feel a cold sweat breaking out. But she knew she had to conquer the fear. From what Saxby had said, The Sword of Moses was crucial to the ceremony. It followed that if they did not have the manuscript, then they would not be able to go ahead with their plans.

  By way of reply, she stared at Malchus defiantly, unblinking.

  She could do this.

  She braced herself for the gun’s explosion and the unbearable pain that would follow. If she was lucky, she would pass out.

  Malchus returned her gaze, watching her carefully.

  “So, what are you waiting for?” she hissed.

  With no warning, he spun round, and rammed the gun into the back of Ferguson’s knee instead. “We can start with his knees,” he suggested to Ava softly, “then move on to his ankles, elbows, and wrists—until you’re ready to tell me.”

  Ava felt sick.

  This could not be happening.

  She looked across at Ferguson. He was flushed, and she could see a light sheen of sweat breaking out on his face. He caught her eye, and nodded his head, almost imperceptibly.

  So he was ready to take the fall.

  Her mind was racing.

  “You have three seconds to make up your mind.” Malchus cocked the gun. He began to count. “One … .”

  She knew that above all she had to stop Malchus and Saxby from holding the ceremony. And keeping the manuscript from them was the best chance she was going to get.

  But even without looking again at Ferguson, she knew she could not do it.

  He had been there for her since the beginning, had put his neck on the line in getting her information about her father, and had saved her life from both DeVere and Malchus. Without him, she would have died in Stockbridge House and on Malchus’s chair.

  At least if they both stayed alive for now they might be able to find another way of sabotaging Saxby’s plans.

  She breathed out heavily, signalling defeat. “I’ll get it.”

  “Good,” Malchus crowed. “That’s better.”

  “Call the operator, and get me a connection to the Oxford University Security Department,” she instructed him. “Then pass me the phone.”

  Malchus pulled a slim mobile out of his pocket, and did as she asked. After a moment, he held the phone up to her ear.

  “I need to speak to Dr Hendey, the librarian at Duke Humfrey’s Library.”

  “Do you know what time it is?” the voice replied lazily. “The library closed hours ago.”

  “I’m quite aware. Please put me through,” she replied.

  “It’s closed,” the voice informed her. “You’ll have to call back in the morning.”

  Ava had to struggle to keep her voice calm. “Instead of arguing with me, which we can do all night, please just connect me to his home address. Tell him it’s Dr Curzon from the looted artefacts project in Baghdad. He’ll want to speak to me, I assure you, and will be very unhappy in the morning if he finds out you hung up on me. I wouldn’t count on still having a job by this time tomorrow if I were you.”

  There was a pause at the other end of the line as she was put on hold. There was no jaunty music. After a few moments, she heard the librarian’s sleepy voice. “Dr Curzon? Is there any news? The police aren’t telling us anything.”

  “No. Nothing,” she answered. “But tell me, do you have remote access to the library’s archival database?”

  “Yes.” he sounded hesitant. “Why? Is there another problem?”

  “I need you to send me a digital file of your manuscript, the Oxford copy, of the work we were discussing this morning, The Sword of Moses.”

  There was an intake of breath. “I’m afraid that’s not going to be possible,” he replied. “The manuscript is only to be consulted in the reading room. I’m afraid I have no authority to send anyone a copy.”

  “Look.” Ava had no time for this. “Unless you want two more people to end up like your friend Professor Stone in the next five minutes, I’m asking you please to send the copy of the manuscript.”

  There was a pause.

  “I haven’t lied to you, have I?” Ava coaxed. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but you’re the only person who can help. I’m not requesting the original manuscript—just a digital copy.”

  There was another pause, before the voice came back again, resigned. “Okay. Give me the e-mail address. It’ll be with you in two minutes.”

  Ava gave him an internet e-mail address, and indicated for Malchus to hang up.

  Her calves were now on fire. It was as if someone had taken out the tibia in each leg and replaced it with a red-hot poker.

  Malchus walked back to the bench and put the phone down beside his battered leather bag. Opening it, he pulled out a slim black laptop.

  “Give me your e-mail logon and password,” he ordered Ava.

  “No,” she answered bluntly, the word ringing out clearly around the room.

  Malchus and Saxby both stared at her in astonishment.

  “Let me down off here. I’ll do it,” she added.

  Malchus shot her a blazing look. “Let’s not play games. Just give me the—”

  Ava interrupted him. “Unless you’ve suddenly learned to read ancient Hebrew and Aramaic, you’re going to need someone to go through the files to check they’re genuine copies. Or do you have someone else in mind?”

  Malchus glanced over to Saxby, who was leaning against the far wall. The older man nodded to the guard, who walked over to Ava and unlocked her hands, taking the cuffs off, and dropping them into his pocket.

&
nbsp; Her calves were agony as she crossed the room, but she had no intention of letting it show.

  Sitting on the bench between Malchus and his bag, she took his laptop from him and found an unlocked internet network. Clicking open a browser window, she quickly logged into her internet e-mail.

  Malchus and Saxby were standing beside her, eyeing her every keystroke.

  She had half hoped they would leave her the opportunity to send an emergency e-mail calling for backup.

  No chance.

  They were watching her like hawks.

  As the e-mail pane opened, the message from Dr Hendey was already there.

  Clicking on the file, she enlarged it on the screen so they could all see it.

  The manuscript itself was physically small. Five inches high by four wide according to the first image, which showed the aged brown leather cover sitting between two white plastic rulers placed at right angles.

  Although there were other manuscripts bound into the ancient volume, Dr Hendey had sent her just the pages of The Sword of Moses.

  She clicked onto the first page of text and the screen filled with a sheet of brown vellum. It had some minor water damage, but the small medieval writing was firm and clear, running in perfectly straight lines right to left with no smudges.

  She began to read out loud, translating it as she went.

  “In the name of the mighty and holy God, four angels are appointed to the Sword given by the Lord … .”

  “But does it have the names?” Malchus hissed, interrupting her excitedly. “The magical names of Yahweh that were missing from the London version—the core of the conjuration. Are they there?”

  Ava skimmed through the files.

  As she got towards the end, she found them—a list of dozens of magical names: a standard feature of ancient magical rituals.

  She nodded, pointing to the image. “Here they are.”

  Malchus and Saxby peered closely at the screen, staring at the minute Hebrew characters.

  She doubted they meant anything to them, but keeping her eyes fixed firmly on the writing, she took the opportunity to stretch her right hand out behind her. Feeling her way over Malchus’s bag, her fingers at last brushed the cold metal of his mobile phone.