by J. F. Penn
Here in North London, faith was a complicated thing. He was only a few streets from the Finsbury Park mosque where extremist Islamic clerics had once preached a message of hate. Michael had always considered the Muslims he worked with as his friends, but then he had seen them keep their jobs when he lost his. Perhaps Britain should be only for the truly British after all.
As the audio played, it seemed that God was speaking to him directly, and the things He said resonated with Michael’s own feelings of increasing isolation. He talked about how the Muslims weren’t like us, they deserved to die. Look at the terror they had inflicted on the world and how they were marginalizing British people in their own country. The music behind the words changed tempo and became a call to arms, a thumping in Michael’s blood. Where there had been peace and calm, he now found empowerment for his deep seated anger, a rage that could explode into violence and a target that was now identified. As the drugs raced through his system he listened to the words of God, his fists tightening in anticipation.
New York, USA. 9.12am
Shahzia Mohammad sat in the tiny bathroom and put the new headset on. It was the only place she felt private, as if Kamil could feel she had been doing something forbidden in any other room even when he wasn’t there. She ignored the stained bathtub and cracked sink and pretended the hard toilet seat was a soft cushion. She pushed one of the tiny pills from the packet and swallowed it, her throat catching in her haste to get it down. She needed the calm the audios brought her and she trusted that the new pills would just enhance the experience.
Shahzia had identified as Muslim on the Zoebios site so she knew the program would be appropriate for her. It had to be better than the women at the health center who preached Jesus in one breath and insulted her in the next. She pressed Play on the tiny mp3 player, closed her eyes and let peace wash around her like a warm pool. It strengthened her and made her feel safe. She had tried to blend into this American world, so far from her own, but she desperately missed her mother and sisters. She knew Kamil wanted his children to be brought up as true Americans with no trappings of the past, but her own anxiety had grown because she had no anchor for her life. There was no longer any ritual or extended family to ground their new life in this alien place. Their roots were growing in thin soil here and she didn’t know how to make things better.
As Shahzia relaxed she began to feel a presence with her in the tiny bathroom, a glimmer of someone or something hovering just out of reach. The God of her childhood had been there when she was afraid; maybe now He had come back to help her again. She began to pray fervently, rocking back and forth on the seat. It squeaked rhythmically but Shahzia didn't notice. Her words were desperate pleas for God to help her, to show her the path. How could she change this life in which she had found herself?
Suddenly she stopped rocking. She could hear words now, faint but surely coming from God himself. He spoke of how she could change her life, show her obedience and make a difference. An image filled Shahzia’s mind of St Mary’s Catholic School, the bowed heads of rich white Christians in the classroom overlooking the road. She walked past it every day, taking her own two girls to the predominantly Muslim school a few blocks away. Shahzia felt bile rise in her throat. She felt sick at what she was being asked to do but it seemed that God himself wanted her to act. He wanted her to be an instrument of his judgment and this school was the way she could show her obedience.
British Museum, London, England. 6.41pm
As the evening sun cast lengthy shadows across the courtyard, Morgan walked up the steps to the British Museum. Tonight’s event was a private viewing for a collection of religious relics where the gruesome manner of the saints’ death was depicted in excruciating detail on the caskets that held the grisly mementoes. Morgan had been an advisor for the research on the psychological motivation of martyrs, and although it had been months since she had been part of the University team, she now needed the connection for the investigation. With Ben’s tentative recognition of Arkady’s son, she needed evidence that Milan Noble was the one they sought. Marietti wouldn’t normally have sanctioned any overt investigation into the multinational CEO without further evidence, but his own past with Arkady Novotsky had forced the Director’s hand.
The Museum also had experts in medieval manuscripts, some of which were in the collection tonight, so Morgan hoped to gain some insight into where the missing pages of the Devil’s Bible might be. She had seen from the advance publicity that the Zoebios Foundation was one of the major donors and Milan Noble had been particularly interested in this exhibition. He had even called in favors to help source some of the reliquaries from churches that would have otherwise refused to lend their treasures. Milan would be there tonight and Morgan intended to see what he was like in person. Given the setting, there was no danger so she went independently, much to Jake’s chagrin at being left behind.
Checking her coat, she walked into the great hall of the museum, lit from above by the vast skylights. Even though it was nearly seven, the sun still lit the cream colored walls of the rotunda. Passing into one of the museum's great halls, Morgan took a glass of Semillon Blanc from one of the waiting staff and walked through the giant basalt pillars into the Enlightenment Gallery. There were a few early patrons wandering the high ceilinged hall, speaking in hushed whispers and clutching their glasses of wine. This was one of Morgan's favorite places in the Museum, representing the age of reason, discovery and learning, a time when men had wanted to unlock the mysteries of the universe by studying natural and man-made objects. Great collectors, some would say pillagers, wanted to classify and catalogue, to understand and control their environment.
This room contained objects from all over the known world and Morgan began a slow circle of discovery, since there was time before the speeches began and the new exhibition was opened. She ran her fingers over the surface of the Rosetta Stone, gently skimming the words in hieroglyphics, Greek and cuneiform. This stone had unlocked the knowledge of ancient Egypt, enabling the revelation of treasure and curses buried for generations. Civilizations with no writing die, Morgan thought, with no way of finding out what they believed, or how they lived. In a way, it was as if they hadn’t even existed. It was part of the reason to come to the museum, a kind of memento mori, a reminder of the short span of our existence, to make the most of our time before we become dust. She passed by a Sati stone, an 18th century sandstone memorial to an Indian wife who had thrown herself onto the pyre of her husband. Morgan shuddered at the knowledge that most went unwillingly and the brief reminder of how Pentecost could have ended for her twin sister, Faye, immolated on top of a madman’s pyre.
The walls were lined with books in glass fronted cases that rose to the balcony and then up to the ceiling. Morgan gazed into the cabinets, wishing she could take the books from the shelves and delve into their crumbling pages. ‘The History of British India’ and ‘Lives of the Queens of England’ lined up next to bricks from ancient Babylon inscribed with the name of Nebuchadnezzar. This was a treasure house of collective memory that resonated across time.
Morgan bent over another case where precious stones had been burnt and shriveled from a great heat. This was considered evidence of the divine retribution that befell the Biblical Near East, evidence of God's punishment when fire rained down on the sinful cities. Morgan smiled. We see whatever we want in these ancient stones, she thought, but that is the beauty of the past, for we can read into it our own fate. In another cabinet were wax seals from the astrologer and mathematician John Dee, known as the magician of Queen Elizabeth I. They were inscribed with occult symbols for conjuring divine spirits. The thousands of years separating these objects demonstrated that humans never changed. They will always grasp after the supernatural, a glimpse of the divine, and a reason for this brutish and short existence.
Morgan caught sight of the Curator, standing talking to a man who must be Milan Noble at the front of the room. They were near the podium, preparing to speak. The C
urator looked up and caught her eye, lifting a hand in a brief wave as Milan followed his gaze and Morgan felt him look at her. She didn't meet his eyes but waved briefly back to the Curator in recognition as a small bell rang and the Museum chairwoman rose to speak.
“Good evening. It is with great pleasure that I welcome you here tonight, as respected and important supporters of the Museum. This collection could not have been brought together without your support. Tonight we acknowledge in particular the generosity of the Zoebios Foundation.”
At this she turned and acknowledged Milan Noble, who bowed slightly from the waist, giving a charming smile.
“And now ladies and gentleman, here is the Curator, who will tell you about the collection.”
Morgan sipped her wine as the Curator spoke about the relics. She watched Milan Noble, his attention focused on the speaker. He was built like a sprinter with sleek powerful muscles under a charcoal tailored suit and his racing green tie matched his striking eyes. His jaw was just as chiseled as the magazines portrayed. A gorgeous man and an enigma, apparently single and reclusive, but what could possibly interest the CEO of a multinational health organization in an exhibition on ancient Christian relics?
“And now, please feel free to enter the exhibition and do let us know if you have any questions.”
The Curator finished speaking to the restrained applause of those around and small groups started to move towards the exhibits. Morgan could see Milan busy in conversation, so she drifted in with a party of academics. The collection was housed within a great dome constructed in the middle of the entry hall of the Museum. The vaulted ceiling with hues of aquamarine and deep indigo was lit with tiny spotlights, and dotted with scarlet crosses. Looking up, Morgan felt it was like looking into a sky flecked with blood.
The exhibition was organized into a timeline of faith, from the early Christians who were persecuted and killed, to the time of Thomas à Becket and beyond. The deaths of the Christian martyrs were gruesome and imaginative: torn apart by wool combs, roasted on griddles, devoured by wild animals as well as death by crucifixion. The bones were collected by the faithful and divided up before being sent to rest at churches all over the world. People who worshipped there would have only been aware of the relic they had; they wouldn't have seen the millions of others. But in this collection alone, it was clear how much forgery was a part of the relic business. How many bones from the body of St James were there? How many pieces of the true cross were worshipped?
Morgan stopped in front of a huge reliquary. Over a meter long, it contained two hundred compartments, each with a small package of silk containing a relic labeled with the name of the saint from whom it came. Parchment labels in spindly writing were tied to the little parcels. It reminded her of a kind of spiritual pick’n’mix, a sweet shop of saints’ remains. She leaned in to look more closely.
“Fascinating, isn't it?"
Morgan turned to see Milan Noble next to her, a glass of champagne in his hand. "How many of those pieces of bone do you think were from real martyrs?" he asked in a quiet voice.
"I was just wondering that myself," she smiled up at him. He was significantly taller than her, even in her heels.
"Milan Noble," he said, stretching out his hand.
She shook it firmly, looking him boldly in the eye, ever one to meet the challenge.
"Dr Morgan Sierra, and I do know who you are."
He raised an eyebrow, humor sparkling in his green eyes.
"I can hardly keep a low profile these days. I thought perhaps I could stay away from the crowd at this event since no one is here for the living. And why are you here, Dr Sierra?"
Morgan turned back to the cabinet.
"I consulted for the team who wrote the texts for the exhibits and I know Samuel, the Curator. He and I even worked on some exhibits in Israel and please, do call me Morgan."
Milan smiled, and leaned towards her. She could smell his cologne, subtle, with notes of lapsang-souchong tea, smoky and intoxicating. Morgan felt a magnetism in his attention, a dangerous eddy under his immaculate exterior.
“So what do you think of these relics?” he asked. “Is this just an art exhibition or is there something to this kind of belief?"
Morgan hesitated and the brief moment of thought was filled by the music that played in the chamber, a religious chant of monks extolling the virtues of God in the Alleluya, Dulce Ligname, Dulces Clavos.
"That's a difficult question,” she replied. “There are still martyrs today and people believe the bones of saints continue to perform miracles. The bones of the holy have always been honored in some way, but I find it a strange mix of deep rooted belief and cynical profiteering. Like this.” She indicated a gold reliquary. “You can see St Lawrence being roasted slowly on a grill saying as his flesh burns, 'turn me over so the other side can cook as well’. Then you have all his bones, sold so that the church could fill their coffers. It turns my stomach in a physical sense even while I’m fascinated by the psychology behind it.”
Milan's gaze was penetrating and Morgan found that she wanted to look away from those eyes.
“Cynical perhaps on the part of the Church,” he said. “But these people died for their true faith. Perhaps they could see a reward in heaven that was better than their days on earth?"
"I'm sure they did, but the glorification of their suffering was trumpeted by those educated enough to escape that type of death. Who knows what the true story was behind the deaths of these martyrs?”
They strolled around the exhibits together, walking in companionable silence. Morgan felt that Milan exuded a repressed energy, like a force field he was reining in.
“There is a story,” he said as they stopped at one of the glass cases. “It is perhaps apocryphal, but it might interest you. In 1190, the Bishop of Lincoln visited the Abbey of Fecamp in Normandy to venerate the monastery’s greatest treasure, an arm bone of Mary Magdalene. It wasn’t enough for him to see it in its silk wrapping. He demanded to see the bone itself in order to kiss it. To the horror of the monks, he tried to break off a piece, then began to gnaw at the bone and eventually broke off splinters which he pocketed to take back to his own church.”
“Oh, that’s disgusting,” Morgan said and they both laughed. “Exactly why I have severe doubts about these relics.”
“Perhaps, but he was defiant in his faith and claimed that he had honored the saint as Christians venerated Christ when they ate his flesh and drank his blood at Communion.”
Morgan found Milan intriguing. Clearly he had a deep interest in this realm of relics, a strange fascination and one she shared. But there was still no evidence that he was behind Thanatos and she needed to focus on her reason for being there.
Milan steered her towards a case containing a gold filigree cross studded with garnets.
“You would look beautiful wearing this, Dr Sierra.”
Morgan gazed in at the cross and smiled.
“I love the garnet, but did you know that the colors of the stones have a spiritual meaning as well? The garnet and ruby are the blood of Christ, the amethyst invoked to staunch the flow of blood, the sapphire for the holy blue of the Virgin and heaven itself.”
“The question is whether there is actually any residual power in the physical form of the relic,” Milan said. “Part of my funding for these relics and their research is to test samples of the bones and blood to see if they are special in some way. Is there some primal power that we can use? For Zoebios research purposes of course. If we can find the miraculous at the cellular level, we could use it to improve the human race.”
“Really, and have you found anything yet?” Morgan asked, trying to hide her shock at his words. Perhaps there was some hidden aspect of eugenics behind Zoebios.
“We have some interesting investigations in progress,” Milan continued. “But we keep the research and results quiet because much of what we find would invalidate the claims of many of these relics. If for example, these aren’t the bone
s of a first century saint, and those thorns date from 600AD, would that impact people’s belief?”
“I don’t think that matters much to true believers. It’s more about faith,” Morgan replied.
Milan grasped her elbow lightly and led her on. His touch on her skin was possessive in a way Morgan couldn't define, and yet she didn't shrink from it. They walked together through the final room of the exhibition which held the relics of Thomas à Becket, the famous English martyr slaughtered after his fight with King Henry II in 1170. Morgan examined one of the golden scenes that showed the saint praying as his head was cleaved open by the blow of a sword. The soldier then scooped the brains out onto the floor of Canterbury Cathedral. The monks had collected the blood and bodily fluids, diluted and stored it in flasks and sold it to the faithful. Thomas was canonized soon after his murder and Canterbury soon became one of the most popular and venerated pilgrimage routes, the basis of Chaucer’s Canterbury tales. The shrine was destroyed in the iconoclasm, the destruction of religious images carried out under Henry VIII, but some of the saint’s body was saved and displayed in the church.
They were almost at the end of the display and Morgan knew she needed some indication that Milan was involved in the recent events. She couldn’t go back to ARKANE with nothing.
“Why are you so personally interested in relics?” she asked. “I thought your company was a promoter of life and health?"
“What is life if not the flip-side of death?” Milan replied. “Look at how obsessed the public is with dismemberment, death and decay. There are bodies and bones in forensic shows, violent crime novels and films. We are obsessed with it.” Milan turned and gazed into the last cabinet as he spoke, "I have always been interested in the entwined dependence of life and death. They often meet in religion, where everlasting life is promised on bodily death but where physical life is squandered. Religion preaches the sanctity of life even as it destroys."
