Messiah: The First Judgement (Chronicles of Brothers) (20 page)

‘He faints from hunger,’ Michael murmured.

‘He is weary of the contest,’ Jether whispered. He covered his head with his hood with trembling hands and bowed his head. In supplication for Jesus of Nazareth’s soul.

* * *

‘Forfeit the contest, Christos.’ Lucifer moved closer; his voice was soft, seductive ... compelling. ‘They do not deserve Yehovah’s love. They are renegades ... treacherous ... lovers only of themselves.’

Lucifer’s eyes blazed with fury. ‘Men serve me willingly; they enjoy my rewards. They are reprobates; their transgression against our Father is unpardonable. Why should You proclaim Your kingdom when their ears are stopped and their eyes are dim with their own lusts and self-will? All this authority over the Race of Men I will give to You because it is mine, for it has been delivered to me and mine, to give to whomever I wish.’

Lucifer’s eyes gleamed in exhilaration. ‘I
wish
to give it to You, Christos...’ He moved his face closer, so close that his cheek brushed Jesus’ own. ‘...
if
You worship me.’

Jesus’ head remained bowed; Lucifer’s face contorted into a vicious mask of loathing.

‘Now bow, Nazarene,’ he snarled, ‘As
You
made me bow in the penitentiary, when You humiliated me before my kingdom ...
Worship
me...’

Very slowly Jesus raised His head. ‘It is written that you shall worship the Lord your God, and Him only you shall serve.’ His voice was as soft as the breeze but sharp as a blade.

‘Before your rebellion – you worshipped Me as seraph.’ His fierce clear eyes stared directly into Lucifer’s shadowed sapphire gaze.

Jesus’ words rang clear and unmistakably through the skies of Mount Quarnel, echoing in the First Heaven.

‘Get ... behind ... Me ... Satan.’

Lucifer shielded his eyes from the blinding light emanating from Jesus’ form. Jesus raised His arm. Instantly, Lucifer was thrust violently to the desert floor, his body shaking uncontrollably in loathing and terror.

* * *

‘Yehovah!’ Jether cried out in exhilaration. A tear ran unheeded down his weathered cheek.

Gabriel closed his eyes in reverence.

‘The kingdom of the First Heaven descends on the Race of Men!’

A great rushing of wind filled the eastern horizon as Yehovah’s huge white eagles flew over the steep onyx foundations, under the heights of the clouds towards Mount Quarnel.

Michael stood.

‘We make haste to our king!’ he cried.

* * *

Moloch stared, paralysed at the searing light erupting from the wilderness heights towards the fallen host. Dagon fell like lead to his knees on the desert floor, gasping for breath.

‘Retreat!’ he gasped, clutching his throat as hundreds of Lucifer’s black stallions bolted, overturning war chariots and stampeding across the wilderness.

‘Draw back!’ Moloch screamed. ‘The Nazarene wreaks havoc against us!’

Uproar broke out among the confused fallen horde as thousands of monstrous war chariots took off into the blazing dawn skies above Mount Quarnel.

Only Astaroth stood silent, his great fists grasping the reins of Lucifer’s monstrous war stallions that pulled his chariot.

The stallions remained calm, but Astaroth’s entire body shook as he watched from the shelter of the chariot, his gaze riveted on the imperial figure in white far in the distance. He stared transfixed as Christos raised His hands to the skies in rapture.

Slowly, the ferocious light softened and Astaroth moved from the shelter of Lucifer’s war chariot to the open plains watching the skies. Michael’s company of ten thousand times ten thousand heaven’s great angelic company descended on the vast desert terrain of Mount Quarnel, their angelic shofars blowing from the north, south, east, and west of the horizon, led by Michael’s golden chariot. Astaroth watched as Michael alighted, tall and imperial in his silver armour. He removed his helmet, shaking his long blond hair loose from its braids, then strode straight towards the blazing white form, where he knelt before him.

Astaroth turned away, a thousand unsolicited emotions invading his soul.

Then he raised his gaze upwards to a monstrous form that flew straight towards him across the desert, his six dark seraph wings outstretched, his raven hair flailing across his scarlet cloak that blew wildly in the desert winds, his eyes burning with an evil crimson fire. His master – Lucifer.

I lowered my eyes from the malevolent hatred of his gaze that day – the day of his grievous defeat at the hands of the Nazarene.

‘I shall wreak my vengeance, Gabriel!’ he spat as he pulled his scarlet cloak around his imperial form.

Then he disappeared with Astaroth in his war chariot on the flashing thunderbolts, following his menacing, iniquitous horde of the fallen.

Returning to his summer palace on the Babylonian plains of the Race of Men ... to conspire once again against the Nazarene.

2021
Petra

Nick drew up outside the Movenpick Nabatean Castle Hotel, ten minutes from the entrance to Petra. He handed the keys for his rented convertible to the concierge, then turned towards the mountains, drinking in the spectacular views over the Great Rift Valley. He ran his frail fingers through his long, tousled hair with its fashionable dirty blond lowlights.

‘Match me such a marvel save in Eastern clime,’ he murmured in his distinct London accent. ‘A rose red city...’

‘...half as old as time,’ the familiar melodious Arabic clipped English-accented voice softly finished his sentence. Nick turned, an unusual softness on his features.

‘The Victorian traveller and poet, Dean Burgon – his contribution to the magnificence that is Petra,’ the princess continued. She studied Nick intently. He was frailer than the last time she had seen him, a month ago. Still attractive ... far too attractive.

Four years ago, at twenty-four, Nick De Vere had been the toast of Western society, sex symbol of the year in all the hottest Western gossip magazines – the rich, pretty young playboy whose prime occupation had been to dissipate the first tranche of his inordinate trust fund in a bevy of exclusive private clubs strung from London to Monte Carlo to Rome, seven nights a week. His antics had been splashed across the front pages of the
News of the World
and
The Sun
, much to his father’s chagrin and his mother’s despair – and his elder brother’s outright horror. Finally his father, James De Vere, had frozen Nick’s trust fund the night before collapsing with a fatal heart attack. And now Nick had AIDS. One evening too many – the sex, the heroin, the adrenaline of the chase. Nick De Vere was dying.

‘You came?’ Nick seemed surprised.

He strode after her and her entourage of clean-shaven bodyguards into the hotel lobby, where she was greeted by the management. Jordanian secret service agents were already stationed at intervals throughout the hotel.

Princess Jotapa stepped into the lift with the manager. She looked at Nick intently. ‘We share a similar passion for ancient artefacts. You said you had discovered an antiquity ... something I would find of immense interest.’

Nick nodded.

‘Your Majesty...,’ the manager interrupted, bowing.

Nick glared, furious, as the lift doors closed on him.

He legged it up the stairs, arriving out of breath just as the princess stepped out and walked through to the terrace. They had seen each other on only one other occasion since the meeting in Alexandria, across a room at an after party in Amman, during Adrian’s fleeting Middle East tour.

‘You have good architectural taste, Nicholas.’ The princess raised her eyebrows. Impressed. ‘This hotel was designed by the renowned Jordanian architect Rasem Badran, winner of the Agha Khan Award for Islamic Architecture.’

The manager led Jotapa to a private table at the very end of the terrace and held out the chair for her. Nick followed, scowling at the two secret service bodyguards who stood, earpieces in place, next to the princess. He pulled out his own chair and sat heavily, beckoning the waiter over as Jotapa studied the menu.

‘Movenpick’s pistachio ice cream...’ Jotapa smiled up at the waiter.

‘Mint tea,’ Nick said.

The waiter hurried away as Jotapa turned her clear gaze to Nick. ‘I would have thought we would meet at the resort hotel.’

‘The Al Nadeem Bar has the most spectacular sunset in Jordan.’ Nick gazed back at Jotapa intently. A soft, pinkish flush crept from her neck until it reached her ears. She lowered her eyes.

‘Saiid, Mahmoud...’ She waved them back. They both bowed their heads in respect and moved to the far end of the terrace.

Nick nodded in the direction of the minders. ‘How do you live in this fishbowl?’

Jotapa sighed. ‘I grew up surrounded by bodyguards – it’s part of my life.’ She smiled gently at Nick. ‘I don’t resent it, Nick,’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘I have been entrusted with many, many privileges as a princess of Jordan, and as a princess I embrace the burdens that are also thrust on me. It is my duty to serve my people.’

‘But don’t you wish that just once you could throw it all to the wind? Be free?’ He stared at her amazed.

‘No, Nick De Vere, not even once do I consider it. That is the difference between us. You threw everything – fortune, privilege – to the wind to be free...’ She hesitated. ‘You see, I am free, Nick.’ She lay back in her chair, studying him. Amused.

He took out an object wrapped in a beige coloured cloth. ‘For you,’ he said unceremoniously, laying it on the table. ‘Without you, I would have no access to the Jordanian dig.’

‘You realize, of course, that your unprecedented access was not just royal favour, but your reward for sacrificing the world stage.’ Jotapa smiled, her eyes never once leaving the cloth. ‘And for keeping your mouth sealed.’

Nick was silent for a moment, remembering the white mist fading as two huge golden-bound codices became visible in the upper compartment of the casket. He recalled his wonder at the first sight of the pulsing angelic script – he could almost taste the moment when he first traced his finger along the title, the glowing Arabic lettering instantly transforming to English. He pushed the bag across the table to Jotapa. ‘Here’s to extended royal favour. There.’ She looked at him. ‘Open it.’

Carefully she unwrapped the cloth. Her eyes glittered with curiousity. Lying on the table before her was a bundle of papyrus scrolls.

‘Your namesake,’ Nick said quietly, ‘King Aretas the Fourth of Petra – his daughter Jotapa’s private royal journals, unearthed from our dig at Petra.’

She looked up at him. Dumbstruck.

‘Where did you...?’

‘In our excavations of the Temple of the Winged Lion.’

Nick pushed back his chair and stood, his tea untouched.

Jotapa reached for his hand. Suddenly vulnerable.

‘Did you...?’ She hesitated. ‘The cross,’ she murmured. ‘The legend...’

Nick pushed his fringe from his eyes.

‘It didn’t...’ She faltered.

‘It didn’t heal me, Jotapa,’ he said softly, walking towards the door.

Her face fell, and she nodded in acceptance. He walked through the entrance, then doubled back.

‘I didn’t touch the cross, Jotapa – I couldn’t bring myself to. Your legend still stands.’

And without another word, Nick De Vere was gone.

Chapter Eighteen

Flight – AD 27

Aretas’ generals raced at breakneck speed on their royal Arabian stallions, flanked by the king’s ferocious royal guard. Just lengths behind them the royal guard of Herod Antipas rode in hot pursuit, masked from their view by the fierce Arabian sand blizzards that raged across the desert plains as the party of Arabians fled from Macherus across the vast barren desert plains towards Petra.

Jotapa sat clinging to the waist of Aretas’ most trusted general, the fierce and noble Saleem, her waist-length, gleaming black hair flying wildly behind her as they rode. Her eyes were wide with fear.