The foursome left the restaurant and strolled through the torch-lit Roman streets until they came to a promenade that led toward the basilica of the Universal Communion. As Ana approached the great building she was reminded of the first time she came here with Teo. Back then the wicked Exterminati fiercely oppressed the Christiani. Although that society of assassins hadn’t disappeared altogether, their power was greatly diminished when they lost the battle in the basilica’s square.
In a nearby piazza a soloist began to sing a madrigal, accompanied by a lute. “Let’s go listen to it,” Marco suggested.
“You two go ahead,” Ana replied. “I’d rather enjoy the quiet right here.”
Vanita’s glance signaled she understood Ana’s desire to be alone with Teo in the final days before he left for his mission. “Alright, sweetie,” she said agreeably. “Have a lovely evening.” Vanita followed Marco down a quaint alleyway toward the piazza, leaving Teo and Ana alone.
Ana stood still for a long time, inhaling the night air as she gazed across the open space encompassed by two curved colonnades. Moonlight gleamed on the pavement, turning the stones pale white. “Deu gave us a great victory here,” she remarked.
“I know. Let’s never forget it.”
The pair strolled up one of the arcades, its columns looming like stone trees. Suddenly Teo slid his arm around Ana’s waist and tugged her into the shadows. At first she thought he was being amorous, but his urgent whisper told her otherwise.
“See those men over there?”
Ana nodded.
“They’re Clansmen.”
“How do you know?”
“Something about their clothes, their build, the way they move. Marco pointed them out to me.”
Ana gripped Teo’s sleeve. “They’re coming this way. Let’s get out of here.”
“Better to stay in the shadows. Hold still and we’ll watch.”
Ana’s heartbeat accelerated as the men approached. They stopped at a dark spot in the plaza’s cobbled surface.
“What are they looking at?” she whispered.
“It’s the crater where I set off our weapon.”
The two Clansmen rooted around in the depression in the pavement. Though their voices were muffled, Ana caught a few words as they argued. Finally one of the men uttered a cry of triumph. He held up a jagged object that glinted in the moonlight.
A shard of the bomb, Ana realized.
The man with the shard pulled out his knife. He scraped a substance from the metal fragment onto a paper held by the other man. The paper was then curled, and its contents were funneled into a bottle.
“What are they doing?”
Teo grimaced and shook his head. “Looks like they’re interested in the explosive powder.”
“Why would the Clan want that?”
“I don’t know. But I can guarantee you they wouldn’t use it for good.”
Teo craned his neck to see better. The movement caused a pigeon to burst from the colonnade in a noisy flutter of feathers and wings.
“Who’s that?” shouted one of the Clansmen. He and his comrade began to hurry over.
“Teo!” Ana hissed. “Kiss me—quick!”
“What?”
She slipped her arms around him. “Kiss me!”
Discerning her ruse, Teo obliged as the two Clansmen drew near.
“Hey! Have you been watching us?” one demanded.
Teo turned from Ana’s embrace. “No. I was just looking for a place to be alone with my girl.”
One of the Clansmen caught Ana by the arm. “Pretty little thing,” he sneered.
Teo tensed, but Ana shot him a firm glance and a tiny shake of her head. Having seen him in battle she knew he could put these two run-of-the mill thugs on the ground before they knew what hit them. Yet she preferred to avoid confrontation.
“We didn’t mean to disturb you gentlemen,” she said, shaking her arm free.
The two Clansmen took a closer look at Teo. Something about his steely gaze made them shrink back. One of the men licked his lips, while the other flicked his hand dismissively. “Get out of here, innamorati,” he snapped.
Teo offered Ana his elbow, and she took it gladly. I think I’ll steer clear of the Clan from now on, she thought as she let Teo escort her away.
The Papa sat under a shady olive tree in the gardens behind the basilica. It was a gnarled old tree that must have stood there in Ancient times before the Great Destruction. The Papa liked to think that Christiani from centuries gone by had enjoyed the tree as well.
Times were good for the Universal Communion at Roma. The Papa’s grateful prayers ascended to Deus, whose recent blessings had been abundant. Enemies had been defeated. Captives had been released. New opportunities had opened up. And best of all, the second Testament of Deus’s Holy Book had been recovered after forty years of searching. The Papa expected to see the first printed copy shortly.
A papal aide arrived, escorting two men. One was Ambrosius, the Overseer of a lost city far to the north. He bore a ragged scar across his forehead from a self-inflicted wound that signaled his solidarity with the broken yet beloved people under his pastoral care. The other man was named Sol, a white-haired scholar from the land called Ulmbartia. Sol’s main task over the past six weeks had been to transcribe an official Latin text of the New Testament. The text came from a remarkable source: the incredible memory of Liber, a man whose mental faculties were feeble in every other way. No one had expected Deus to demonstrate his power through such a weak vessel. Blessed with this new text from the vault of Liber’s mind, the Overseer had supervised the team of monks who translated it from Sol’s Latin version into Talyano. The two languages were quite similar.
“Your Holiness, I believe you know your guests,” the aide said, bowing. “I will leave them with you.”
“Thank you.” The Papa rose from his bench and welcomed Sol and the Overseer, receiving a brotherly greeting in return. “I see you come bearing a gift,” he said.
“Indeed we do.”
The Overseer held out a carved wooden box, and as he did, the Papa couldn’t help but notice his maimed left hand. Ambrosius’s fingernails had been ripped out under torture for his faith. A steadfast confessor, the Papa thought.
He lifted the box’s lid and saw a book inside. “Marvelous!” he exclaimed as he removed the beautiful volume from its case. It had been printed on a press—a skill retained from ancient times. The Papa opened the calfskin cover and leafed through the pages. The verso on the left contained the Latin text of the New Testament in an elegant Roman typeface, while the facing recto was a translation into Talyano.
“This first edition is for you, Your Holiness,” the Overseer said. “It is to be your personal copy for study, meditation, and preaching.”
“I will treasure it! All praise be to Deus.” The three men paused for a moment in recognition of the sacred gift that had returned to the world.
The Papa turned toward Sol. “What news from the convent at Lido di Ostia, brother?”
“As you can see, I have been very busy there with my transcription work,” answered the old man with the long white hair. “I spent many hours listening to Liber chant. The Old Words are recorded in his head just as if a scribe had written them down.”
“The ways of the Almighty never cease to amaze me,” the Papa remarked. Forty years ago he had heard rumors of a boy with such a prodigious memory, though he never expected to meet him.
“I have also been working on a version in the speech of the Chiveisi,” Sol continued. “I have some knowledge of that tongue. However, Teofil is responsible for the bulk of the labor on that project.”
“Ah, yes—our brave hero Teofil is also a linguist. Some men are doubly blessed.”
“And I’m grateful for it,” the Overseer said as he held up his mangled hand. “It was Teofil who came to me in the dungeon and helped me escape.”
“He disobeyed my orders in that matter, though I now see it was the will of D
eus.” The Papa looked at Sol. “What do you hear from our brother Teofil? Do you know if he intends to carry out the mission I assigned him?”
Sol nodded. “Yes, Your Holiness. He asked me to tell you he is pleased to accept the responsibility.”
“Excellent! I am more than a little desirous of establishing contact with the Knights of the Cross at Marsay. And there may be other people in the vicinity who wish to hear the good news of Deus and his son.”
“Teofil is just the man for that sort of thing,” Sol agreed. “Harrowing adventures in faraway lands seem to be his specialty.”
“Is our sister Anastasia willing to relinquish his company for so long a time? Teofil’s task will occupy him until next spring. The two of them are bound together, so her cooperation is essential.”
Sol cleared his throat. “Actually . . . ”
The Papa shot Sol a sharp look. “The lady is obstructing?”
“No, Your Holiness! Not at all! Anastasia is a righteous woman who understands the high calling of Deus.”
“What then?”
“Teofil believes he can fulfill his mission at Marsay this fall. He hopes to return here before the stormy season sets in.”
The Papa let out an exasperated sigh. Deus had gifted Teofil in extraordinary ways, yet as was often the case with such men, he had a mind of his own. Certainly he was not an easy sheep to tend within the flock. “Teofil will have to learn that the plans of Deus cannot be circumvented for any reason—not for the storms of the sea, nor the much more turbulent storms of the heart.”
“He’s a good man,” Sol said. “He will learn.”
The Overseer broke into the conversation. “Holy Father, I would ask you a question if I may.” Receiving a nod from the Papa, he continued. “What exactly is the message you intend to send to Marsay? We have received this great gift”—the Overseer inclined his head toward the new book—“yet have you digested all its teachings? Have you discerned the message we should preach far and wide?”
The Papa stared into the distance, remaining silent for so long the two visitors began to shift uncomfortably. The Overseer was right: the book needed to be studied in depth to determine its central message. Although the Papa was normally a confident man, he felt inadequate to such a great task. What if he misinterpreted the text? What if he missed a vital point? It would be a grave mistake to send out Teofil—or anyone else, for that matter—preaching a false gospel.
The sun beat down on the little garden, so the Papa returned to the shade of the gnarled olive tree as he wrestled with his problem. How can I make certain I don’t err? A gentle breeze rustled the waxy leaves, cooling his face as it passed. Suddenly a flash of insight struck him. It was a grand idea, one that captured the Papa’s imagination the moment he thought of it. He knew it could only be from Deus. Excited, he turned toward Sol and the Overseer.
“I know precisely what we need,” he announced. “It must happen within a fortnight.”
“Would you share your intentions with us?” the Overseer asked.
The Papa tipped his head back and laughed. “Of course! You two will be involved in the planning. Letters must be drafted. Hospitality must be arranged. The Painted Chapel must be readied. There is much to do!”
“For what, Your Holiness?”
The Papa grinned at his two visitors, amused by their wide-eyed expressions as they leaned toward him. “My friends,” he said, “I have decided to call the First Council of Roma.”
The doe’s ears twitched, then the animal stepped clear of the forest thicket. After a few paces it moved from a rear shot to quartering away. The time was now.
Stratetix released the sinew bowstring and let the arrow whisper from his fingers. The shot entered behind the foreleg, exactly where he intended. Though the doe jumped and ran, the broadhead did its work, and soon the animal was down. Stratetix and Shaphan went to retrieve their kill.
“I call the backstraps,” Shaphan said, smiling.
“You can have them. Just save the liver for me.”
Stratetix watched the olive-skinned Chiveisian youth wield the skinning knife. At times his movements were awkward. Stratetix offered a few pointers, having field-dressed more deer in his life than he could recall. He thought of Shaphan almost like a son-in-law, since the young man was married to his niece, Lina.
But not to my daughter. I’ve lost Anastasia.
Stratetix shook his head. Such morbid thoughts plagued him often.
The two men carried the doe on a pole for a league or two. When the smell of woodsmoke reached Stratetix’s nose he knew he was nearing his campsite. Caution settled onto him now, for he was not actually in the woods to hunt, but to commit a capital crime.
Lina, a pretty girl with white-blonde curls, rose from the fire. Her mother, Rosetta, was there too, along with a third woman, Stratetix’s beloved Helena.
“Have you seen anyone?” he asked his wife.
“No, my love, and there are no tracks along the trail but our own.”
Stratetix nodded. The rest of the group looked at him expectantly. He glanced around at the trees, which caused everyone else to do the same. “Check the trail one more time, Shaphan.”
The man with the dark wavy hair left the campfire but soon returned. “No sign of anyone, sir.” He was a respectful youth who had started calling Stratetix “sir” after he married Lina.
“Very well. Let us begin.” Stratetix reached into a cavity in the trunk of a hollow oak. His hand closed on a leather satchel wrapped in oilskins. He untied the thongs and opened the bundle. Inside were scrolls.
“Today we will read from the book of Hymns. I have chosen the second song in the book for our consideration.”
“Good choice,” Shaphan said. “It was one of the last hymns Captain Teofil translated before . . . ”
Though Shaphan’s voice trailed off, Stratetix knew everyone in the little group was finishing the sentence in their minds: before Teofil and Anastasia left Chiveis forever.
No, Deu! Not forever! I will trust in you!
Stratetix unrolled the scroll. In hushed tones he began to read:
Why this tumult among the nations,
These vain thoughts among the peoples?
Why do the kings of the earth raise themselves up,
And the princes join forces with them,
Against the Eternal One and against his anointed?
“Let us break their links,
Let us free ourselves from their chains!”
The one who sits in sky laughs.
The Lord mocks them.
Then he speaks to them in his anger,
He terrifies them in his rage.
“It is I who have anointed my king on Sion, my holy mountain!”
Stratetix paused. A squirrel skittered along a branch above, and bumblebees buzzed among the wildflowers. “Does anyone have an observation about the hymn so far?”
“The rulers of the earth are often arrogant,” Shaphan said. “They join together to oppose Deu. Just like we see here in Chiveis. King Piair and the High Priestess commit great evil!”
Shaphan’s emphatic assertion drew a few gasps. Lina put her hand on her husband’s arm. “Don’t say such things out loud, Shaphan,” she urged.
“Why not? It’s true, isn’t it?”
“It is true,” Rosetta agreed. “But Lina is right. Prudence is required.”
Shaphan scoffed and folded his arms across his chest with a frown.
Beckoning the little group closer, Stratetix asked, “What else do you observe about this text? Speak your mind, yet do so quietly.”
“The Lord Deu is not threatened by the kings of men,” Helena said. “He sits in heaven and laughs at their pitiful attempts to rebel against him. We should remember that. Though we may feel the thumb of oppression bearing down on us, our God is not threatened by earthly rulers.”
The listeners fell silent as each considered Helena’s words. Like everyone in Chiveis, they could identify with her remarks
about oppression. The king had become a tyrant, imposing harsh laws and restricting civil rights. Heavy taxes had been levied to fund the official cult of Astrebril and the three lesser gods. The citizens of the realm cowered in fear before the Royal Guardsmen who used to be their protectors.
“I have a question,” Lina ventured. “Who is the anointed king on the mountain? Is it King David, who wrote some of the hymns?”
“I wondered that myself,” Stratetix said. “I haven’t read of any greater king than him in the Sacred Writing.”
“We only have a small portion of it,” Shaphan observed.
“Yes. Perhaps the king is another man described elsewhere in the Sacred Writing. We’ll never know unless somehow Ana . . . ”
Stratetix broke off, unable to endure his grief any longer. Helena intertwined her fingers with his, then lifted her face to the sky. “Let us seek divine aid,” she said. Everyone joined hands as Helena prayed that Chiveis might experience a glorious return—of loved ones, of the Sacred Writing, and of Almighty Deu himself.
Helena was still speaking when Shaphan hissed, “Shh! Someone’s coming!”
Stratetix’s heart leaped into his throat. He heard the hoofbeats a moment after Shaphan’s warning. “Get to your places—quickly!”
He dashed to the hollow tree and stuffed the satchel inside, then hurled a handful of dried leaves on top of it. Behind him, horses turned off the main trail and broke through the underbrush into the clearing.
“What’s going on here?” demanded one of the riders. He wore the uniform of the Royal Guard. His insignia indicated he belonged to the Second Regiment.
“Hunting, sir,” Stratetix said, sweeping his arm toward the women. They sat near the fire, their hands smeared with blood. Lina held up the skinning knife.
The guardsman prodded his horse forward. “Why are you peasants gathered out here in the woods?”
“When’s the last time you saw deer roaming around Edgeton?” Shaphan shot back. Stratetix winced at his tone.
The soldier stared at Shaphan with narrowed eyes, then dismounted and strode over to the youth. His hand was on his sword’s hilt. Spurs jangled on his boots. “So, farm boy! You think you’re ready to take me on?”
The Kingdom Page 3
