Messiah: The First Judgement (Chronicles of Brothers)

by Wendy Alec

Jesus raised His head, His dark mane lashing against His high cheekbones. His face radiated with such a brilliance that Saleem and his generals held their arms in front of their eyes.

  Jotapa stared at Him apprehensively. He was about her age.

  Her unruly black locks blew over her face under her hood. Jesus reached out His hand, gently moving her hair from her eyes. She stared at Him, thunderstruck, her mind racing back to a distant far flung memory – a moment in time more than thirty years earlier when the young King and princess first met. He turned her left palm around; she gazed at a small scar hardly visible on her palm.

  The whip slid from her hand onto the desert floor. She stared at Him in stunned silence. ‘Your father, Aretas, protected My house once,’ He said softly. He took her slim painted hand in His. ‘Tell him from Me, Jotapa, that his Hebrew friend has not forgotten. My Father shall not fail to protect his house. That My kingdom is come.’

  Jotapa stared at Jesus, strangely mesmerized.

  Saleem, now recovered, strode towards Jotapa, his sword raised. ‘Princess!’ he cried, gesturing behind them at Antipas’ royal guard, now fully visible, thundering towards them on the horizon. They will slaughter us.’ He glared at Jesus darkly. ‘With no mercy!’

  Jesus smiled. ‘There is no need to press the stallions, faithful servant of Arabia.’ His voice was calm. ‘Antipas’ men have turned back. Ride in peace.’

  The hardened Saleem looked over his shoulder, then stared, dumbstruck. The desert sands were empty, silent. The furious gales had abruptly reduced to a gentle breeze.

  Saleem frowned, bewildered. Strange tears pricked his eyes. He bowed his head to Jesus and saluted, then turned back to his generals, brandishing his sword high. ‘The gods have protected the king’s daughter. Let us ride to Arabia!’ he cried.

  When he turned back, Jotapa stood staring, transfixed, at the vast expanse of desert. The imperial white figure had vanished.

  * * *

  Charsoc paced up and down the portico of the exotic hanging gardens in Lucifer’s newly created summer palace listening to the faint thundering that echoed through the crimson dusk, the sound of the fallen in their monstrous war chariots, returning from Mount Quarnel in Palestine. The thundering grew to a crescendo as the legions of war chariots set down on the rolling lush lawns of the palace.

  Lucifer’s elite black guard stood at attention, petrified as Lucifer stormed down from the chariot, his cloak wrapped tightly around him, whip in hand, his countenance like thunder. His steel boots pounded ferociously on the sapphire pathway as he strode beneath the canopies of the willow and juniper, down the majestic pavilions of cedars and great oaks, trampling down the beds of lilies fiercely in his path. Close behind followed Asteroth and his elite guard. Storming through the golden vaulted rooms and out onto the great eastern terraces, he threw his scarlet cloak onto the marbled floors. He flung himself down on the silver throne at the head of the immense table, draped in white satin and elaborately set for a huge banquet to celebrate his certain victory over the Nazarene. Six immense golden candelabras, each holding a hundred black tapers, illuminated the terrace. The frankincense burned and spluttered fiercely.

  Lucifer sat in silence, and then held out his hand. Nothing stirred. Balberith lifted a silver flagon filled with exotic berry elixirs and, with trembling hand, poured the liqueur into Lucifer’s jewelled goblet. Eighty courtiers stood around the terrace, waiting in trepidation. Lucifer sat like stone. Moments passed. Then slowly, deliberately, Lucifer turned the goblet upside down. He watched the crimson elixir pouring out, staining the satin cloth, his expression inscrutable. Then with one wrench, he heaved the cloth from the table, the fine crystal goblets and silver dishes smashing into smithereens onto the lapis lazuli floor.

  Flinging off his outer robes, he dived into the deep indigo waters of the immense pools that flowed outside the terrace’s magnificent sapphire balconies.

  Lucifer’s powerful limbs sliced through the water with a savagery that set the colossus Asteroth trembling uncontrollably. Charsoc walked up through the gardens, to the pool’s edge.

  ‘The Nazarene?’ Charsoc raised his eyebrows to Asteroth.

  ‘He did not succumb. The Nazarene won the contest.’ Asteroth stared at Charsoc, ashen.

  ‘We failed,’ Charsoc whispered in dread.

  Lucifer heaved himself out of the pool, and Balberith ran to his side with a white satin robe. Lucifer snatched it from Balberith’s grasp and flung it over his shoulders, then slowly placed his feet in the silver slippers laid out for him. He walked over to the very edge of his hanging gardens. Silent. Not a muscle of his face moving. Restraining his rage with iron discipline.

  ‘We leave for Perdition at dawn with the Ark of the Race of Men,’ he muttered. Lucifer turned to Charsoc.

  ‘Let us be prudent.’ He plucked a golden pomegranate from a tall tree hung with thousands of white blossoms and took a large bite. ‘Summon the Darkened Councils of hell to the Black Palace. Summon them from the Second Heavens and from under the earth.’ Lucifer’s voice was very soft. Dangerously soft. A smile flickered on his lips.

  ‘How much damage can a carpenter from Nazareth do?’ he shrugged. He held the pomegranate to his lips, then turned back to his staring out across the vast Babylonian plain, his expression sphinx like. The pomegranate fell from his hand onto the grass.

  ‘How much ... indeed?’ And he ferociously crushed the half-eaten fruit under his slippered feet.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Zahi

  Jotapa rode like the wind on her grey mare, exhilarated, feeling the rush of adrenaline as she raced past the palace pavilions and the amphitheatre, leaving the magnificent Arabian ornamental gardens and the royal hunting parks far behind her. She was back in her beloved Arabia.

  She raced across the vast palace grasslands, under the stately rows of ancient palms, past the royal pistachio, cashew, and wild olive groves onto the burning white sands. She slowed down the horse’s pace as she arrived at the royal black tents where Aretas’ royal relatives dwelled. Six young Nabatean princes, intent on training the royal horses, waved furiously as her mare sped by eagerly, shouting to her, their voices rising in excited gabbled Aramaic salutations as she galloped past.

  Finally Jotapa arrived at the entrance to the sumptuous Royal Stables, with its ornate gold fretwork. She dismounted. Aretas was unaware of her arrival, absorbed in fellowship with his favourite Arabian stallion. He whispered endearments and fed him from his hand.

  ‘Papa!’ She ran to him, flinging herself into Aretas’ arms. Aretas kissed her on both cheeks, and then held her fiercely to his breast. He looked down at her, his eyes moist, deeply moved.

  ‘I am so thankful you are safe, my child,’ he whispered, wiping an errant tear from his cheek with the back of his hand. ‘I climbed at dusk to the high place and sacrificed in appreciation to the gods...’ He hesitated, ‘And to the Hebrew.’

  Jotapa nodded. Gently she unclasped herself from Aretas’ arms and stepped back and studied the Nabatean king.

  He looked older, much older than when she had left Petra to become a young bride. His hair was greying, and the handsome face was lined, but she loved it. He looked like the wise and mighty sovereign he had become, devoting his life to the welfare of his people. They walked arm in arm out of the stables, their hands clasped together in great affection into the area of the great tents, Aretas leading the great Arabian steed by its halter.

  ‘You remember the legend I taught you when you first learned to ride?’

  ‘I was but four; I rode with Mother.’

  Aretas nodded, his eyes suddenly moist.

  ‘And the angel Gabriel took a handful of south wind and from it formed a horse, saying, “I create thee, O Arabian.” He whispered, “To thy forelock, I bind victory in battle. On thy back, I set a rich spoil, and a treasure in thy loins. I establish thee as one of the glories of the earth...”’

  Jotapa continued softly, ‘“I give thee flight without wings
...”’

  ‘Look at his form,’ Aretas murmured. ‘Have you ever seen such symmetry, Jotapa? Such beauty? Our horses are the finest in the world – bred for endurance,’ Aretas’ eyes gleamed. ‘Agility ... and speed!’

  Aretas stopped in mid stride as they passed one of the black tents. One of the young princes, a small brown-skinned boy of twelve, was whipping a young mare, which was snorting and whinnying.

  Aretas frowned fiercely, grasping the boy’s arm in a vice-like grip.

  ‘You blunt her senses by the overuse of the whip.’ He threw the whip down onto the sand, then looked up, noticing spurs on the horse. His expression grew black and thunderous.

  ‘Spurs! You abuse the royal horses!’

  ‘She was rearing, Your Majesty.’ The child lay on the ground trembling, his face in the dust. ‘She kicked Mahmoud.’ He pointed to a four-year-old lying trembling on the sand, then hastily reburied his face in the sand.

  ‘Your voice trains the horse to habits of gentleness and attachment, so its senses are not blunted by abuse. As it feels the touch of your hand, the coaxing of your legs, it darts away like the wind. If the rider is dismounted in the chase, the horse instantly stops till he has recovered his seat. These are the royal Arabian horses of Aretas, King of Arabia.’

  He walked over to the sobbing little boy lying in the dust. ‘Hush, Mahmoud,’ he whispered, examining the bruised leg. Then, scooping the child up in his arms, he cradled him to his chest, moved over to the mare, and placed him on her back. The mare looked into his eyes with her own clear trusting ones.

  ‘You recognize her, Mahmoud; it is Felah – she used to share your tent – you used her neck as a pillow when you were an infant. Now, speak to her, Mahmoud – as I taught you.’

  The boy whispered in the mare’s ear. Instantly she calmed down and started a slow even canter around the tents. Gentle. Perfectly calm. Jotapa watched intently as Aretas signed the horse deftly.

  ‘Papa...’ she hesitated, ‘the Hebrew used your secret signals on our horses.’

  ‘Impossible!’ Aretas turned. ‘Our horses are trained to respond only to the sign of the king and the royal guard – these signs are an ancient Nabatean kings’ signs. Known only by myself ... and my generals.’

  I saw him with my own eyes, father. I know these signs also from when I was taught as a child. He conversed with our horses just as you do. With the secret signs of a Nabatean king.’

  Satisfied Mahmoud – and the mare – were safe, Aretas led the way through the pistachio and wild olive groves to a private arbor. He clapped his hand, and four servants appeared. One placed goblets of gold and silver on the table.

  ‘Tell me, Jotapa, what kind of man is the Hebrew?’

  ‘There are all manner of stories circulating around Tiberias, Papa. I have heard that He tells His followers that love is mightier than the sword.’

  Aretas frowned. ‘He is not a warrior, I fear.’

  Jotapa looked at him mischievously. ‘Oh, and, Father, He single-handedly stopped Herod Antipas’ forces.’

  Aretas smiled, relieved.

  ‘He had a message for you, Papa. He said that you had once protected His royal house, and that the house of Aretas shall never fail to be protected by Him.’ She looked up at him enquiringly.

  Aretas nodded, strangely moved. ‘But did he speak of Rome, Jotapa? When does he plan to overthrow the Roman occupation?’

  ‘He said to tell you that His kingdom is come.’

  Aretas frowned. ‘The Hebrew speaks riddles – but He is talking of Rome – I am sure of it!’ He held out his hand to his cupbearer, who refilled his goblet with wine. ‘So He will overthrow the tyrant Antipas and set Himself up as King of the Jews. I shall await His war and then join the armies of Arabia with His armies – the King of the Jews and the king of Arabia shall be a force to contend with – together we shall overthrow the Romans!’ Aretas stood.

  ‘Papa...’ Jotapa looked out towards the veiled windows of the palace’s eastern wing. Aretas followed her gaze, his countenance growing clouded.

  ‘What ails Zahi, my beloved brother, your treasured son, the crown prince? His chambers are barred, and the windows are veiled. I sought for his company, but Duza says he is resting.’

  Aretas sighed. ‘You must be strong, Jotapa.’ He paced the grove steadily. ‘Jotapa ... I would have saved you from this anguish. I could not bring myself to write to you about what has befallen him.’

  Jotapa paled, intuitively. She stared into her father’s eyes, trembling, awaiting the words.

  ‘Your younger brother is sick unto death, my child. He has leprosy.’

  * * *

  2021

  London

  – Julia –

  Nick De Vere slammed the black taxicab’s door and strode towards the Harrods entrance. He passed four London policemen in body armour holding machine guns. Five police vans were stationed at the top of New Oxford Street. It was a common enough sight in London now. The past five years had seen a new acceleration in terrorist attacks all across the British Isles and Europe. After the dirty bomb detonated in Trafalgar Square, the ancient centre of London had been demolished and abandoned. Security procedures had been revolutionized all over the UK. But last month four huge bombs had been detonated in New Oxford Street, in stores during prime time shopping hours. Two thousand people killed. It had been a massacre. The New London police were taking no chances, and the normally resilient British public was growing increasingly weary.

  Nick looked down at his watch – he was late. Two security guards inside the Harrods entrance threw his bag on the conveyor belt of a sophisticated screening centre, then ushered him through the iris recognition system that Adrian, during his term as British Prime Minister, had fought fervently to install in every public place in the British Isles. Today, it was commonplace. Nick couldn’t even shop at his local Sainsbury’s grocery store without ‘IRIS’, as she was affectionately called.

  He took the elevator up to the third floor.

  Julia was waiting for him in the Punch Café, as he knew she would be. It was an exact replica of the original café from the early 2000s. Nick remembered it well. She and Jason used to bring him here for lunch on their frequent business trips from the States when he was young.

  There she was, seated at the far end table, near the paintings. Nick smiled. She was talking on her phone. As usual.

  Age had been good to Julia. She had always been pretty, but now she was stunning. Quite stunning, Nick thought. Jason had been a fool to let her go.

  He leaned over and kissed her freshly made-up cheek. She smelled of Chanel – not the No. 5, he thought. Of jasmine ... He placed his sunglasses in the pocket of his faded leather jacket, then sat back in his chair and studied her.

  She had aged well. Gracefully. She would be forty-one in November, but she could pass for thirty. Her platinum blonde shoulder-length hair was painstakingly highlighted. Her pretty face was perfectly made up. Her big hazel eyes smiled up at him from under her fringe as she continued her phone conversation. She wore faded boot-cut jeans with a simple black and silver belt and a short-sleeved white T-shirt with some designer logo in black. Always a logo with Julia, he thought fondly. Jason was crazy; she was the only thing that had worked in his entire personal life – besides Lily, of course.

  Julia placed her fine-boned hand, with its studio tan and polished acrylic nails, on his own affectionately.

  Nick smiled. It still amazed him.

  Everything – absolutely everything – about Julia St Cartier was processed and contrived. Except Julia herself. From her nails to her hair extensions to her tan, she was thoroughly artificial, yet she was possibly the one solitary human being he knew who had always remained deeply, utterly, madly true to herself. Her complete lack of pretence was disarming.

  ‘Nick...’ She smiled broadly. ‘It’s been too long.’

  Nick nodded, taking her hand. ‘How’s Lily?’

  Her eyes reflected his deep concern. ‘Sh
e’s doing well – really well, Nick. She’s a survivor, like her father. She uses that wheelchair like it’s an extension of her own body ... She loves her school. Everything’s good.’

  Nick thought back on the accident. How long ago had it been? It was one of the big De Vere family parties. Lily, only seven, was exhausted, and Nick had offered to drive her home early. A huge pantechnican had jack-knifed in front of them from out of nowhere. They hadn’t a chance. Nick, though concussed, had only bruises and scratches, but Lily was paralysed from the waist down. Crippled – crippled for life. He had had one beer – well below the legal limit. Julia never needed any convincing that it was all beyond his control. But Jason – well, that was another matter. His brother hadn’t talked to him from that day forward.

  ‘Nick ... Nick?’ Julia said softly. Nick started, suddenly reeled back in from deep in the past. The waitress stood waiting patiently. Julia smiled. ‘I’ll have the crayfish tails open sandwich on brown bread, and a glass of dry champagne.

  Nick shook his head. ‘Not hungry – just a pot of Earl Grey.’ Julia frowned at him.

  ‘I was with Adrian last week,’ she said, as the waitress left.

  Nick nodded. ‘He told me. You did his big Jordanian gig? He said you were phenomenal.’

  Julia nodded. ‘It was a nightmare to organize – but it’s great publicity for Lola...’

  Nick smiled. After the divorce, Julia had decided not to return to her previous role as chief editor of Cosmopolitan New York, although they had offered her an exorbitant financial package. Instead she had returned to England and started a small but exclusive PR events firm, running it from her new house in Chelsea. She had named it ‘Lola’ after her beloved artistic mother, the late Lola St Cartier Deschanel. It had taken off beyond her wildest dreams, with clients such as the England football team, Chanel, and the newly appointed European president, Adrian De Vere.

  She hesitated.

  ‘Jason was there,’ she said softly. ‘I saw him for the first time since the divorce ... in Aqaba.’