by Jon Steele
Harper looked at the lad’s lantern on the slab. “By bringing it to Jerusalem?”
“This is only one spot on the map, brother. The music festival in Lausanne? It was cover. Thousands of partisans got into Lausanne and left with shreds of flame from the first fire. They passed right under the noses of the enemy, who were too busy screaming with glee to notice. As the partisans got to their bases across Europe, Sergeant Gauer started making drops around the world like friggin’ Santa Claus.”
Harper looked at the lad’s lantern, watched the way the light pulsed in the polished surface of the Anointing Stone.
“We’re lighting up the planet.”
“Bingo, brother.”
Harper looked into the tower. Up there the pulsing light gathered in small pools.
“Astruc is setting up for the same trick he pulled at Montségur with his son. He’s using a comms satellite to upload a new set of triangulations into Blue Brain. This time he’s using the sextant to plot the coords of the crucifixion and the million fires spread around the world. All he needs is a third point of reference.”
He looked at Krinkle and Katherine.
“All he needs is another comet.”
Silence.
“Is there another comet coming?”
Astruc’s voice from the shadows now: “Yes. Emanating from the constellation Pleiades as soon as you give the all-clear that Madame Taylor’s child is safe.”
Harper turned as Astruc stepped into the light. “Sorry, Padre?”
The priest walked to the duffel bag, grabbed three SIGs, twenty mags of ammo, and two killing knives. He talked as he sorted his kit.
“The triangulations based from Montségur plotted the Earth’s exact position in the universe. The triangulations centered from this site will confirm the next stage of evolution has already begun in paradise. At least that’s how it reads in the sacred hymns of the Amini family. In the hymns, this conflation of scientific knowledge and human imagination is called ‘the Night of Nights,’ from which either the sons of darkness or the sons of light will triumph in battle during the midnight hour. Though in the hymns the process of using cosmic triangulations as comms is called ‘the True Alignment of the Heavens,’ you are called the man of signs and wonders, Max is the third child conceived of light, and saving paradise from mass extinction is called attaining ‘the wisdom of the angels.’ Et voilà, the locals are ready to be contacted from the other side of the universe.”
Harper glanced back to where the priest stashed the audio speaker. “Contacted. By whom?”
“By someone who answered our SOS aboard Voyager 1 as it crossed into interstellar space.”
“What?”
Astruc tucked his weapons in his belt and pulled a cell phone from his coat. He swiped the screen, then tapped it. The church filled with a hissing sound, then a high-pitched screech for half a second; the hissing sound and the same high-pitched screech again, for two seconds this time. Silence. The priest dropped the phone in his coat.
“Those are sounds recorded by Voyager 1 from interstellar space and beamed back to Earth over a period of six months. The first burst was discovered in November 2012, the second in May 2013. They have not been repeated or heard again. Scientists at NASA called the sounds vibrations of plasma clouds or ionized gas. Six months ago, Goose began analyzing the sounds, looking for mathematical structures that might suggest intelligence. He discovered phonology, phonetics, syntax.”
“Language,” Harper said.
“Not only language, but a voice. The voice was using Voyager 1 as a transmission device, asking for confirmation that all was well in paradise and that the next stage of evolution had begun. If confirmation was not received during the midnight hour, the voice said another attempt would be made in one thousand years of Earth time. One more thing: The voice chose to communicate in Zend.”
Harper checked with the roadie. The roadie already knew the question in Harper’s head.
“I know what you’re thinking, brother. The little guy in the white coat in the basement at EPFL in Lausanne.”
“Peabody. Professor Peabody.”
“That’s him. He ran the research through Blue Brain. It’s solid.”
“Does this voice from the other side of the universe have a name?” Harper said to Astruc.
“The Amini hymns have a thousand names for the voice. The most common is ‘Creator of All.’ And according to the hymns, He is watching the world this Night of Nights, waiting for the man of signs and wonders to guide Him in with an all-clear.”
“Just like that. Say the magic words and presto. How’s that work exactly?”
The priest shrugged. “I tell you how it works, as soon as you tell me why just now there are massive bursts of gamma rays and X-rays radiating from dead center of the Milky Way, twenty thousand light-years above and below the galactic plane. For lack of a better term, scientists are calling them Fermi bubbles. I would call it one more mystery of the universe, no more odd than the man of signs and wonders giving the all-clear to hail the arrival of a comet.”
Harper scanned the priest’s eyes. Insane he still might be, but his eternal being was fully awakened, calm and steady. Harper looked down at the Anointing Stone. He rubbed the back of his neck.
“You need a hit of something again, brother?” Krinkle said.
“No. I don’t want anything. Just trying to wrap my head around the mysteries of the bloody universe.”
The roadie sighed. “Yeah, and if we had time to think about it, we would. But listen to me, brother, right now we’ve got end-times crashing down in the real world. We are losing this war—in fact, it’s friggin’ lost if the enemy slaughters Max. A thousand years from now, when the Creator of All comes around again, there won’t be a soul left to save—paradise will be a lifeless rock. This is it, brother. This is the sharp end of our two and a half million years on earth. We’re flying into our last battle on the back of myths and legends, but it’s all we’ve got.”
Harper looked at Katherine.
“None of this explains why you’re here, Madame Taylor,” he said.
“I told you. I’m here to get my son back.”
“Right.”
Harper scanned her eyes. She was telling the truth, but not the whole truth. He turned to Astruc. “Anything else in the hymns I should know, Padre?”
The priest pointed to the things of Christ. “That you will use the cup to resurrect the third child of salvation, and the nails of the crucifixion to wound evil unto death.”
“Rather poetic.”
“Beautifully so. Which is why you will need these,” the priest said. He held out two metal vials.
“For Max?”
“They need to be mixed in the cup at least sixty seconds before they are administered or they will have no effect.”
“Why not just use injectors?”
The roadie shook his head. “We tried—the efficacy of the mix disintegrates in the injectors. Besides, we’re skating such a fine line between us and the real world, we don’t know if we’re coming or friggin’ going. HQ says we stay with myths and legends to be on the safe side.”
Harper took the vials and dropped them in his trouser pockets. “Makes sense. But just so I’m clear, how do I use the nails to wound evil unto death? And while we’re at it, how do I give the all-clear and call in the comet? Anyone know the magic words?”
Astruc traded glances with Krinkle and Katherine.
“What’s wrong?” Harper said.
“Well, brother, we thought you would’ve figured that out by now. That intel was in the seventh scroll.”
“I didn’t read it.”
“Oh shit. Why not?”
“What’s in the seventh scroll is for Max, and Max alone.”
Katherine’s mouth hung open. Krinkle spoke the words she was thinking. “No friggin’ way!”
Astruc raised his hand. “Peace. Our warrior angel will know what to do and when to do it.”
“How?”
Katherine said.
“Comme ça.”
Astruc took Harper’s gloved hands. He laid his thumbs over the wounds on Harper’s palms. He did not press down, he just looked Harper in the eyes. “Feeling stubborn, or will you see him again?”
Harper flashed the Vevey Clinic before coming to the Holy Land. The priest had dug his thumbs into the wounds to send shock waves of pain through Harper’s form . . . then, for a Planck unit of time, Harper had seen a suffering man fall under the weight of the crossbeam lashed to his shoulders. He blinked, saw Astruc waiting for an answer.
“Lead the way, Padre.”
“Passover eve, 36 AD, Jerusalem. In the dungeon of Pontius Pilate’s praetorium. Intuebitur eam.”
Harper ripped back on his timeline. It locked and rolled. He heard pitiful screams.
iii
The suffering man’s arms are wrapped around a stone pillar, his hands bound with ropes and hooked to a wooden peg. He dangles like a broken thing. The man’s robes are stripped from his back and his flesh has been torn open by the cat-o’-nine-tails in the hands of the soldier who takes great pleasure in torturing the prisoner. The suffering man cries out each time the iron nails in the leaded tips of the whip strike and rip at his flesh. The five soldiers watching laugh at the man’s anguished cries.
A Cyrenian slave attends to the soldiers and fills their cups with wine. He will wash the stone floor of blood after the suffering man is taken away to be crucified. It has been his job for more than ten years, and he has witnessed the art of inflicting pain many times. He knows to scourge a prisoner is not to kill him; it is part of the ritual. It is designed to break his will and prepare him for sacrifice. The slave watches the whip tear at the suffering man’s flesh again. The man cries out in despair, and his head falls to the side. The slave can see the man’s eyes. The light of his soul is dying, but the soldiers are too drunk to notice and the torturer brandishing the whip is in a trance now. The smell of the suffering man’s blood, the sound of his cries raises the torturer to a place of wicked joy, and the soldiers are lifted with him. They praise the gods of Rome with each scourge and tearing of flesh.
The slave shuffles to the commander, freshens his cup with wine.
“Centurion,” the slave says. “Pilate will not be pleased if the man dies before he is to be crucified. You know the Governor’s temper at such things.”
The commander recovers his senses. “Enough,” he calls out.
But the torturer continues to flay the suffering man. The commander rushes at him, pulls the whip away.
“Enough, I say!”
The commander drops the whip to the ground, examines the prisoner.
“Throw salt water on the Jew’s back.”
The torturer obeys. The suffering man writhes in agony as the salt burns his wounds. The commander shouts at his men.
“Stop! He has had enough for now, we will let him rest. There is plenty of life left in him yet. We will all have a turn at the whip, but he must live long enough to be slaughtered properly. One of you go to the gate. There is always one of the Essenes nearby waiting to attend to Herod if needed. Tell him there is a Jew in need of healing, tell him to be quick. The rest of you go into the garden, make a crown of thorns. That will freshen the prisoner for his crucifixion.”
The soldiers dress in their armor and collect their swords. The commander falls onto a stool and leans against the wall. He dozes, but then snaps awake.
“Be sure one of you makes his death plaque for the cross. Make it read ‘Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews.’ Those are our orders, do you hear?”
The soldiers acknowledge their orders and leave the dungeon. The commander reaches into the leather pouch on his belt. He takes out three pieces of silver, holds them out to the slave.
“You are wise, old man.”
The slave knows the commander is a ruthless executioner who enjoys inflicting pain on the weak and making it last as long as possible. The slave takes the coins, bows his head.
“As you are generous, Centurion.”
The commander is unaccustomed to such familiarity from the old Cyrenian. “What is your name, slave?”
“I do not know my name, Centurion. I only know I am here.”
“You dare to mock me?”
“No, Centurion. I fear you for the terrible death on the cross you will bring to me. But know that the instruments of my crucifixion will be used to wound evil unto death. Then shall it be, with my final words, that the light of the Pure God is revealed in paradise.”
“What . . . do you say? Are you a sorcerer?”
The slave passes the palm of his hand before the commander’s eyes. “Dulcis et alta quies placidæque simillima morti.”
The commander becomes like stone. The slave takes the cup of wine from the soldier’s hand and dumps the wine onto the stones. He shuffles to the suffering man, searches his eyes for light. The man is delirious, his consciousness sinking into darkness.
“I thirst,” he murmurs.
The slave reaches in his cloak and removes a small calfskin pouch. He opens it and pours iridescent liquid into a cup. He raises it to the suffering man’s lips.
“Drink this. It will ease the pain.”
He offers the cup. The liquid spills from the man’s mouth.
“Drink, you must drink.”
The suffering man raises his head and sees the old slave before him.
“My God has forsaken me,” the man says.
The slave shakes his head. “You are not forsaken, and your suffering is at an end. This day your soul will take its place among the stars.”
The man’s head sinks, death is taking him. The slave moves closer to him and holds the man in his arms.
“Look into my eyes, Yeshua ben Yosef, listen to the sound of my voice. The light of your soul will not die, it must never die. Drink of this cup. Drink so you will escape forever death, drink so your name will be remembered.” The Cyrenian holds the cup to the suffering man’s lips again and he drinks . . .
iv
Harper blinked.
The priest let go of his hands.
“Am I supposed to thank you for that trip through beforetimes?” Harper said.
“In fact, it is we who should thank you. After all, you’re the one who lived it, and you’re the one who must live it again.”
Harper looked at the broken cup on the Anointing Stone. The same cup he held to the lips of the suffering man. Drink so you will escape forever death. Harper bent down, picked up the pieces of the cup and the four carpenter nails. He handed the cup to Krinkle.
“You don’t happen to have any glue in your duffel bag, do you?”
“I’m a rock-and-roll roadie, I got gaffer tape.”
“Do it. Then keep the cup in the pouch of your overalls.”
The roadie fitted the pieces of the cup together and secured them with tape. Harper stared at the four carpenter nails. He wrapped them in a piece of calfskin, tucked them in his belt. He lifted the lad’s lantern from the Anointing Stone, stared at the delicate flame atop the wick.
“We need candles. Lots of them.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
i
There was a gift shop at the end of the passage leading to the Place of Mourning. It took Krinkle 4.5 seconds to pick the lock. Inside was a cavernous room with religious postcards and calendars, crosses and icons, bottles of Holy Water from the Holy Land, and thousands of candles laid out on a long table. The smallest candles were five shekels each—a dollar and a quarter. A small cardboard sign announced the shop also took euros and Jordanian dinars. Harper did the math: A dollar and a quarter times twelve million tourists a year equals money changing is still alive and well in Jerusalem.
“Stuff your pockets with candles,” Harper said.
They grabbed them by the handful and loaded up.
“Let’s go,” Harper said.
“Wait a sec,” Katherine said. “Who’s paying for the candles? We can’t just steal from a church.”<
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Astruc made the sign of the cross over Katherine’s head. “You are forgiven, my child.”
They ran to the rotunda. Harper lifted the lantern and a cloud of light filled the space under the great dome. It was like the inside of a layer cake. Four rings of gothic arches supporting a dome sixty feet in diameter. A hundred feet up, the ceiling was decorated with stars and golden rays of light emanating from the dome’s center. Harper stared at the peak of the dome, saw a dark circle at the center and small points of light within it. A window framing a star-studded Night of Nights, he thought. He lowered his eyes to the shrine beneath the dome. It was an odd-looking thing. The stone was darker than the Jerusalem stone of the church’s interior walls, and the structure seemed bound together. He stepped closer, held the lantern close to the shrine. Red marble, not Jerusalem stone; all enclosed in a cage of steel beams and crossbars to keep the thing from falling apart. Lamps hung along the sides, but with electricity to the Old City cut off, the lamps were dark. Harper saw trays of sand attached to the side of the shrine and candle stubs standing in the sand. He saw thousands of scorch marks burned into the red marble. He could imagine the scene: pilgrims buying candles, lighting them, then snuffing them out against the red marble of the shrine. The candles would be wrapped like holy things and carried back into the real world. Harper scanned the rotunda. Pillars and arches, open passageways in walls, and old wooden doors. He looked at Astruc.
“You know this place, yeah?”
“I was a priest. What do you think?”
“If we draw them into the rotunda, can we cover our flanks? Reach an escape route if needed?”
Astruc scratched his goatee and thought about it. He pointed to the opening between two walls facing the shrine. Light from the rotunda spilled into a large rectangular room. Harper saw the Byzantine Christ in the ceiling looking down.
“That’s the Catholicum,” Astruc said. “At the far end, beyond the two thrones, there are two doors leading into the ambulatory. Just across are steps heading underground. They lead to the Chapel of Saint Helen. In the corner is a stone alcove, the Chapel of the True Cross it’s called. It’s protected on three sides and there is no getting above us.”
