Victory of Coins (The Judas Chronicles, #7)

by Aiden James

  “I’m just glad it’s the white guys among immortals who are getting blamed for this shit!” Cedric teased, lighting up a panatela.

  “You’ve had ‘commerce’ with Kaslow, too, you know,” I jested back, after waiting for him to blow his first stream of smoke. “You’re up to your neck in the same shit, man.... And, just remember that I’m not completely ‘white’, being born as a genuine Hebrew in Judea and all.”

  It was good to share a laugh, and even Roderick chuckled a little.

  “What about you, Rod?” Cedric swiveled his chair to face Roderick directly. “Are you gonna try to wiggle out of being a Caucasian, too?”

  More laughter.

  “Actually, I’m not a white guy anymore,” he said, smiling wryly. “At certain times of year, some might consider me ‘bluish’ or ‘opaque’ since porcelain-colored skin isn’t considered a race... at least I don’t feel treated like one yet.”

  We laughed some more and warmth flowed into my heart. Although I knew it wouldn’t last long, I hung onto the feeling of happiness... determined to savor it. The fleeting essence of joy was still with me when the last chuckles subsided and it was time to return our attention to the seriousness of what we would soon face.

  “So, what kinds of messages did the two of you get in the pile of iPads back in Abingdon?”

  “You sure you want to know?” Cedric grimaced, as if he would just as soon forget it all.

  “Yes... I’m game.” Not that I needed to know everything, but Kaslow did indicate he had delivered some important clues.

  “I believe we should stick to the messages that are most relevant to our task,” Roderick advised. “It will do no good to reiterate the lurid threats Kaslow made to us, William. Nor will it do any good to bring up things that will no longer affect us, or events that have nothing to do with the task at hand.”

  Was Roderick talking about details surrounding what happened back in June? Perhaps Kaslow had revealed how the coin appeared at the monument in Shiloh, when it hadn’t been there minutes before. Or, maybe he divulged the details of how the bombing was planned and carried out....

  “It will do little good to know the ‘what’ and the ‘how’ if the ‘why’ remains a mystery, my brother,” said Roderick, peeking into my head again. He mouthed an apology to Cedric, who frowned and shook his head.

  Roderick was right. Knowing how Kaslow went about setting up the coin for discovery, or the explosives that killed Beatrice, Amy, and Jeremy was pointless without also understanding why he did it. Besides, Kaslow had already given me a bullshit reason for his heinous act... blaming me for my lack of focus on recovering my cursed coins. That alone would haunt me for the rest of my earthly days.

  “The best thing to do is focus on the clues he has given us, although few they are,” said Roderick. “Like the adhan calls from the minarets I saw in the last message to me, where Kaslow addressed me from what looked like a courtyard. The architecture was Moorish, but different... and it looked like a slum sat nearby.”

  “That could count for locales in a slew of third world countries,” I said. “Maybe someplace Byzantine... Kaslow leaned against a desk that could be anywhere in the Balkans or other places in Eastern Europe....”

  I suddenly realized the cunning former KGB officer could be giving us no clues at all, since it could take years to investigate his intimations that represented multiple countries and cultures.

  “I saw obelisks in two of my messages,” said Cedric. “Obelisks and Greek Orthodox-looking churches beyond a courtyard....”

  He wanted to say more, but looked at Roderick, as if this were an instance of telling too much.

  “Go ahead and say it, Cedric,” I said, imploring Roderick with my eyes to not interfere, even slightly. “What did you see?”

  “I saw a man get beheaded,” he said. “Dude begged for his life, and I wish to God I understood his language. Kaslow spoke to me, and it was a black man beheading another black man behind him. He told me this would be my fate if I came along with you both. I think he knew I was coming anyway....”

  “So, are you both counting on what Bennevento will share with us to somehow fill in the missing puzzle pieces on where to look next?” I asked, cutting to the chase. “Kaslow’s no longer returning to Rome, correct? I mean, why would he, if he has already gleaned what he needed from the best Damascus Coin experts available? I sure as hell wouldn’t be back, if it were me... unless....”

  Unless Kaslow wanted to taunt us while we bumbled about as a hapless trio looking in all the wrong places for answers to the clues we had. That could be great sport for a fiend who enjoyed cruelty for its own sake.

  “Yes, I believe Bennevento will point us in the right direction,” said Roderick. “In fact, I’d be willing to bet he will tell us where to travel next, soon after we arrive, and is merely waiting to tell us in person. He is convinced that Kaslow can intercept anyone’s emails and texts... which we know he certainly can.”

  “Along with doing the same shit you do, Rod,” added Cedric. “Kaslow and you are two peas in a pod when it comes to being a ‘peeping tom’ in someone’s head.”

  “I never do it with malicious intent,” countered Roderick, his tone revealing a wound from Cedric’s latest barb. “Would you rather deal with his voyeurism? I haven’t practiced astral projection in nearly one thousand years—as William can attest—and I’ve never peeked in on someone during intimate activities. There are no such boundaries with Kaslow, however, and everything he has access to will be used to gain an edge.”

  Roderick’s point turned out to be the last thing we discussed about Kaslow on the plane, as if we all were suddenly conscious of the fact our nemesis could well be watching and listening in. We still had nearly eight hours left before we would reach Leonardo Da Vinci Airport. Cedric took the opportunity to rest, and Roderick returned to the Internet to resume his Kaslow/Damascus Coin research.

  That left me with plenty of time to myself, which unfortunately led to more reminiscing about Beatrice and Alistair. Even so, I managed to focus on the better moments we enjoyed together while forcing myself to ignore the temptation to return to Shiloh and Corinth in my mind. Finally, we arrived in Rome, where four armed escorts waited for us to step off the plane after our Customs review.

  “Do you think this is Bennevento’s private guard, or do these guys work for the Vatican?” Cedric mused softly, as we followed the guards to where a limousine was parked on the tarmac. “They look familiar from the last time we were here.”

  “Definitely private,” Roderick advised. “The Catholic Church has steadily distanced itself from Bennevento over the past few years, and he recently mentioned that his relationship with the latest pope and all but a few cardinals had become noticeably strained after Kaslow’s latest attack on the Vatican’s staff.”

  “Well... maybe this will be the last time we bother our old friend on my account,” I said, drawing pained looks from them both. “It’s not self-pity prompting that comment.... Just a hope that we can win this race against Kaslow, and that the prize of my final coin will mean more than a hollow victory of crossing the finish line first.”

  Bennevento was presently holed up inside a previously abandoned palace located near the top of the tallest hill in Rome, a place called the Janiculum or Gianicolo Hill. Certainly, he had called in favors of the older families in the city in order to take up residence there, since the ‘Hill’ is mostly known for its locally cherished landmarks. The property in question had been set aside to become a museum, and Roderick advised that it had languished for decades while waiting on funding to complete the transformation.

  Now it would have to wait indefinitely to be outfitted as a museum—at least until Bennevento could move his family to a new permanent home.

  “I am very sorry for your loss, Judas,” said Bennevento, shortly after the three of us were led into a large atrium, to the right of the building’s main foyer. Water from a nearby fountain, likely as old as me, trickled in
a soothing pattern. Meanwhile, I had already braced myself for the formal condolences to come from any immortals that had met Beatrice—especially from those who became fond of her during our last visit to Europe.

  “Thank you,” I told him, unable to say anything else. I needed a distraction, and quickly. “Nice place, although I miss the mantels in your villa.”

  Now he was the one with the pained expression, and his brilliant blue eyes dimmed for a moment, as if Death’s shadow had suddenly crossed his path. Our host was usually jovial in disposition, and fervent warmth quickly returned to his countenance. Still, it was obvious that Viktor Kaslow’s ire had taken a physical toll on the diminutive former cardinal. Apparently, the elixir that had kept him youthful all of these years was susceptible to the effects of prolonged emotional stress.

  I’ve often compared Bennevento to a young Santa Claus, due to his thick brown beard and slight portliness around the waistline. Yet, the fine lines around his eyes were deeper than when we last spoke face-to-face, and his dark brown hair carried gray streaks most prominent in his beard around his mouth.

  Kaslow scared the holy hell out of him, and the advent of the Russian’s physical aggression had worsened Bennevento’s fear of what could befall him and his family at any time.

  “It will do for now,” he said, following my gaze up the elegant marble staircase along one wall. No doubt there were other similar staircases in this place, and my eyes were drawn next to a pair of immense chandeliers hanging from the atrium’s glass ceiling. The palace had several prominent owners in its long history until the early twentieth century, when it fell on hard times. “But we plan to move to Switzerland in August.”

  “Why Switzerland?”

  “I have a mortal son who lives there; one whom I trust implicitly. He has offered to take my family, myself, and my closest servants....”

  His voice trailed off as if he pictured a harrowing escape from Italy, but then the twinkle returned to his eyes and he motioned for the three of us to join him at a table near the fountain. “Come, let’s talk about your situation and what I have recently learned in regard to your coin.”

  I recognized the high-back chairs from Bennevento’s previous home, although the long mahogany table was likely a more recent purchase, or had come with the palace. Cedric and Roderick took seats nearest the fountain, and our host and I took our seats toward the middle of the table, where we could face each other directly.

  “It appears that Viktor Kaslow took his prisoners to Ethiopia,” advised Bennevento, soon after we sat down. “Unfortunately, our brotherhood’s most cherished historian, Adlelberto Cirillo, is dead. What was left of his remains has been returned to Rome, and it came in pieces shipped in small crates to Vatican City.”

  “You mentioned last week that you were still holding out hope for the professor’s return,” said Roderick. “When did this change?”

  “Cirillo’s head and heart arrived three days ago,” he advised. “The rest arrived yesterday morning, along with an advisement for you, Judas. It wasn’t sealed, being wedged in between the forefinger and thumb of Cirillo’s severed right hand. The Vatican kept the note, as per the request of Interpol enforced by the local police. But I was able to obtain a copy from one of the few contacts I have left. Here it is....”

  Bennevento removed a folded piece of paper from the vest he wore, pushing it across the table to me. I unfolded it tentatively, unable to shake the fear of infection from what the printed words soon revealed.

  My Dearest William,

  By now you have realized that your procrastination in getting started has been much more damaging to your coin search than you previously expected. However, fear not.... I am a man of my word, and I told you that I would leave one of these fine historians alive for you to interrogate. It came down to a choice of personality, and I like the Englishman’s jokes better than the Italian’s.

  Dr. Anderson waits for you in the place an old friend of yours once visited and made famous, deep in a forgotten land of black obelisks and orthodox churches. If you are wise you won’t delay coming after me this time. Like all flesh destined to rot, the good doctor has an expiration date that will come due very soon.

  All my best to you and your companions,

  Viktor

  “As I mentioned, Mr. Kaslow is referring to Ethiopia,” said Bennevento, once I finally looked up after reading the letter for a second time. “The location he talks about is most likely in Axum, which is—”

  “Yes, I’m familiar with the place,” I said, interrupting him and nodding to Roderick. We had visited the famed ancient city many times, when its opulence once rivaled any of Egypt’s metropolises, and I daresay the more famed locations along the Mediterranean coast. “Sorry, Bennevento... no offense intended. Do you and your contacts believe Dr. Anderson is still alive?”

  “It’s hard to say for certain,” he replied, his voice subdued after my rudeness. “Was the reference to your ‘old friend’ about the fellow disciple known as Saint Thomas?”

  “Yes,” I replied. “It can only be him, since he was the only one willing to take Jesus’ teachings to places deemed ‘uncivilized’ and a waste of time by the others. My former colleagues would minister to the Jews and Gentiles who had culture... it wasn’t the Lord’s idea, but that is what would come up in our conversations away from Him. Becoming missionaries was something long intended, and in fact would’ve happened regardless if Jesus had avoided the cross, or not. We were all destined to move out into the world at some point....”

  I couldn’t finish, since it brought back painful memories for me. I hated the idea of being teachers instead of warriors. One of my points of disillusionment with Jesus of Nazareth was that I felt He had failed to seize the moment—the crowds were getting bigger, and at one point we had the assured power to overthrow the local monarchy and Herod’s Roman babysitters in one fell swoop. However, Jesus advised that He wanted us—His closest companions—to soon go out to all the surrounding nations and preach love, forgiveness, and inner healing. He especially wanted us to be vigilant in finding ‘those who would hear the truth’....

  “Do you recall that we heard rumor of one of your coins being buried with other Hebrew artifacts in the bowels of the original Church of Saint Mary at Zion?” Roderick asked, snapping me out of the painful nostalgia.

  “Yes, unfortunately I thought of that when Bennevento first mentioned Ethiopia,” I replied. “We should’ve made the trip to find it back then, since the Crusades had just started. But, like I did with the Damascus Coin, I figured it would still be there for me when I finally got around to looking for it in earnest.”

  “Wouldn’t it be ironic if it turns out that the coin we had always assumed was hidden in Axum and the Damascus Coin were always one and the same?”

  I doubt that Roderick immediately recognized the cruelty of such an observation.

  Wouldn’t that beat all? Two of the ‘save them for later’ coins were actually one and the same—a single coin.... Oh my God, I could’ve been done with this damned search centuries ago! If only....

  “I don’t believe your coin is anywhere in Ethiopia,” said Cedric, after observing my reaction and the uncomfortable looks on Roderick’s and Bennevento’s faces. “All the legends you two have talked about... some of those are from four hundred years ago. Right? According to what you’ve stated before, the Damascus Coin was most recently hidden someplace in Asian Minor, or some shit.... What would that place be called now? ...Iraq? Syria? Israel? Shit, take your pick.”

  “Maybe the coin isn’t there, but something that points to where it is hidden is there. Perhaps that’s what Dr. Anderson can tell you,” said Bennevento. “If he’s still alive, and if he is coherent enough to tell you... although that’s some very fragile ifs.”

  “Only one way to find out,” I said, rising from my chair and addressing Bennevento for perhaps the last time. “Sorry, old friend. Looks like we’ll need to postpone a longer visit until after you’re settled
in your new home in Switzerland. We need to be on our way.... How about it Rod? Can we get another chartered airplane, you think? Or do you suppose Justin can handle another flight tonight?”

  “It depends on when you want to leave,” Roderick replied, as he and Cedric also rose to their feet. “You’re correct, Judas. We can’t afford any more unnecessary delays, especially since we know where our next destination will be.”

  “I understand, too,” said Bennevento, seemingly relieved. No doubt he was less than thrilled to have us present, should Kaslow suddenly take offense to the hospitality shown to us and descend on his home and family.

  “If Dr. Anderson is still alive, getting there sooner than later would be imperative. The flight to Ethiopia will take at least twelve hours. So, if we can make it an early evening flight, that would leave enough time for Justin to rest,” Roderick advised, “I’ll go ahead and contact him.”

  And so our trip to Rome became a mere stopover on the way to our true destination. I prayed that Kaslow wasn’t lying to us about our historian, or worse... setting us up for another trap.

  Chapter Eight

  It was almost midnight Wednesday when our latest chartered jet arrived in Axum. Due to security issues, our original flight was routed to Addis Ababa, Ethiopia’s modern capital, and then allowed to backtrack another two hours to Axum, located near the northern tip of the country. From there, Roderick arranged for a Jeep to be ready for pickup, even though we would have to wait until the following morning to begin our search for Dr. Geoffrey Anderson.

  We rented a single room together at the Exodus Hotel, since it was considered the finest establishment in Ethiopia’s ancient capital—a locale that once flourished as the center of the Axumite Empire, but was now a modest town of fifty thousand souls. Compared to the much larger Addis Ababa, which housed nearly four million residents and was by far the most modernized metropolis in the country, it was a mere afterthought for most of the nation’s populace. Only the deeply religious Christians, Muslims, and those who dreamed of making it past the armed guards protecting the famed Hebrew Arc of the Covenant that was supposedly stored on the grounds of the Church of St. Mary of Zion, ever visited this place from outside Axum... or so I gathered.