Messiah: The First Judgement (Chronicles of Brothers) (22 page)

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. ‘She’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.’

‘And how
is
my elder brother?’ Nick asked, his eyes blank.

Julia grimaced.

‘Busy – what else would Jason be? Chasing his latest mergers, cementing deals, drinks with the president...’

‘The US President?’ Nick raised his eyebrows. Julia nodded. ‘He’s working with Beijing – some huge merger with VOX Media and the Chinese government. Very complicated ... involves the White House. Uncle Lawrence keeps me up to date; he still sees him occasionally on his trips to New York. And you? Have you heard from him?’ The waitress returned with the tea and champagne.

Nick shrugged his shoulders.

‘Why would I hear, Jules? He cut me off after the accident. No – never a word. Adrian keeps me in the loop, though. Thank God for Adrian.’

Julia studied Nick. ‘I know he’s been good to you.’ She poured Nick’s Earl Grey tea into a cup.

‘Thanks, sis.’ Nick leaned back in his chair. ‘More than good, Julia – he sent me to the top clinics, paid for all my treatment ... he kept me alive.’

Julia lowered her voice.

‘It’s tragic about Melissa – she was so young and beautiful –
and
the baby.’

Nick shook his head. ‘Adrian didn’t deserve that.’ Julia lowered her eyes.

‘The medication’s working – you look stronger.’

He gave a wry smile. ‘You were always a terrible liar, Julia. The treatments stopped working – it’s Russian Roulette.’ He shrugged. ‘I’m in the hands of the gods.’ He took a sip of his tea. ‘Not that there
are
any gods.’

Julia bit her lip. ‘Uncle Lawrence is so proud of you,’ she said softly. ‘When Lily and I were with him in Greece, he mentioned you’d made this incredible find in Petra, but it’s been kept under wraps for years by the Jordanian government – can’t we release it to the press? Get you some serious mileage...’ She shook her head.

‘God knows, Nick, your face has been splashed over the tabloids with all the ghastly inner workings of your personal life ... the cocaine and the AIDS ... We could get incredible mileage from this – turn the tables on the London gutter press and paparazzi, kid. Portray you as the serious archaeologist you are.’

Nick gave her a pained look. ‘Nah, I can’t, Jules – I’ve given my word.’

She frowned.

‘I’ve taken the money. The price of silence.’

‘The Jordanian government?’ He nodded.

‘It was huge, Jules.’ He smiled sheepishly. ‘With my trust fund frozen, I had to take it. God – Dad hated my relationship with Klaus.’

‘And that pretty Jordanian princess ... the archaeologist?’ She smiled at him gently.

Nick flushed. ‘Yes.’ His eyes grew soft. ‘She’s quite something.’ He changed the subject abruptly. ‘Dylan Weaver’s meeting me at Terminal Four...’ Julia frowned.

‘The brain...’ Nick prompted.

‘Your old roommate?’ Distant memories flooded back. Of Nick surrounded by tanned, adoring American girls on his summer vacations in Cape Cod and of the pasty, chubby spectacled boy, his best friend from Gordonstoun College in Scotland, who would arrive with Nick, his laptop in tow, and eat them out of house and home. Nick and Dylan had been inseparable.

‘He still detests megalomanic Jason,’ Nick grinned.

‘–but had a crush on you!’ Julia laughed. ‘That’s because I found him the only supplier of British fish and chips and mushy peas on the entire USA East Coast! ‘Nick grinned. ‘He’s chief of IT security for Microsoft Europe...’

Julia raised her eyebrows. ‘Impressive!’ She took a long sip of champagne.

‘You’re meeting Uncle Lawrence tomorrow?’

‘In Alexandria, at the monastery. How is he?’

‘He’s good – amazing for nearly eighty-six. He’s with your mother in Bali at the moment, tracking down some ancient monstrosity for the British Museum. He escorts her to New York, then flies straight out to join you in Egypt.’ Julia looked at her watch. ‘Your plane leaves in four hours. I’ll drive you to Heathrow. I’ve a working dinner appointment at Hampton Court – it’s not far out of my way.’

Nick topped up his tea. ‘Thanks, sis.’

He was looking forward to seeing that tough old man that was Julia’s great uncle – ex-Jesuit priest turned CIA agent turned antiquities expert – the enigma that was Lawrence St Cartier.

Chapter Twenty

Kerf Kenna – AD 27

It was dusk, and the flaming torches of the bridal party lit up the main street of Kerf Kenna. Mary, now in her mid-forties, older but still beautiful, stood with the older women in the doorway of the bride’s house, her face radiant. She gazed down the road, hoping for a glimpse of Jesus. There He stood, a tall, lean figure in the centre of the crowd, applauding the bridal couple loudly, swept up in the gaiety of the precedings, His face wreathed in laughter.

The handsome young prophet from Nazareth.

Mary passed the garland in her hand to an old woman next to her, then grabbed a jar of oil and a basket of nuts, and ran down the path towards her son. Immediately she was set upon by a horde of excited children, all reaching out their hands. She pushed her hair back from her face. Dipping her hand into the basket, she threw the nuts and sweets high in the air. The children shrieked with exhiliration. Then one of them caught sight of Jesus. The five-year-old let out a raucous scream of delight and ran full tilt straight towards Him, with a horde of other children yelling behind him. The children tugged at His robe, their grimy hands feeling inside the folds and bringing out handfuls of sweetmeats. One small boy of two years with unruly black curls, crowded out by the bigger children and unable to reach Jesus, started to cry stridently. Jesus bent down and winked at him, secretly passing him a sticky-looking cake.

The toddler tore the wrapping off eagerly, stuffing the cake into his mouth, his face smeared with the dark sticky substance. Then Jesus hoisted him onto His shoulders, His robe still being plundered by the other unruly youngsters.

Mary studied her son, her mind suddenly racing back to when Jesus Himself had been just such a young boy, running loudly and exuberantly to her, tugging on her garments for sweet cakes just as the children had tonight.