Messiah: The First Judgement (Chronicles of Brothers) (24 page)

‘We are prudent. We prepare.’ The panther paced beside him, its heavy gold collar studded with rubies. Lucifer bent down and stroked its glossy black head. ‘The gathering assembles. Prepare my ceremonial robes, Balberith. I retire early. We will conspire at dawn.’

Chapter Twenty-one

AD 27

Jotapa walked across gleaming black marbled floors through the palace corridors, crossing into the eastern wing, to the crown prince’s chambers. She pushed open the doors to the huge library. Hundreds of shelves were filled with scrolls from China, India, Persia, and other distant lands.

She continued on towards the immense gilded doors of the crown prince’s bedchamber. Two of the royal guard stopped her. The lower half of their faces were covered in thin gauze.

‘Duza!’ she cried. It was Zahi’s boyhood friend and one of her own childhood companions.

He shook his head gently.

Jotapa grasped him by the wrist so tightly that her nails dug into his flesh. He gently but firmly removed her hand. Then gave her a severe look.

‘You are
certain
this is your choice.’

‘He is my brother – my mother died in childbirth delivering him. He is crown prince of Arabia. He is my childhood friend, my joy, Zahi the tender.’ Jotapa’s eyes flashed. ‘I am certain this is my choice.’

Duza bowed his head. ‘He awaits you, princess. He knew you would come.’ Duza stepped aside, motioning to the second guard to do the same. They pushed the doors open.

Jotapa walked into the vast chamber, and the great doors swung closed behind her with a thud.

Far across the chamber, by the farthest window, stood a tall, frail figure.

‘Jotapa, my princess...’ He spoke softly. His voice was cultured, refined.

‘Beloved older sister, protector, and friend.’

He stood unmoving at the window, his back still towards her.

‘Zahi!’ Jotapa ran towards him.

Instantly he spun around. ‘No! Jotapa!’ he cried fiercely. ‘You may
not
touch me!’

Halfway across the room Jotapa faltered, staring at him in horror. His face was completely wreathed in a thin, gauzelike muslin material, as were both his hands. Only his eyes were visible, with holes for his nose and mouth. He was frail, his breathing shallow.

Jotapa reached out her hands to him imploringly. Zahi stared fiercely at her, then started to unravel the muslin from one of his hands. Jotapa stared down as the cloth dropped to the floor, then stepped back in distress and sank to her knees, her mind spinning with shock and revulsion.

Zahi’s hands were disfigured beyond recognition. The long, slim fingers that once penned beautiful Syriac and Aramaic letters on his library scrolls were covered with nodules and partially rotted away. Where his thumb had been, only a bloody stump remained.

Tears rolled down Jotapa’s cheeks. She stared up at Zahi with passion, watching as the gauze that covered his face grew wet with his hot fierce tears.

They exchanged a long intense glance; then Zahi unfastened the muslin. His lips and ears were distended, swollen three times beyond their natural size, his lashes and eyebrows gone from his staring eyes. She lowered her eyes from his hideous disfigurement.

There was a soft knock and Duza entered, followed by Aretas’ most prominent royal physician, accompanied by a swarthy stranger. Jotapa knew at once, by the immense height of his turban and the length of his sleeves, that he was a Babylonian physician or magician of great importance.

Aretas’ physician bowed deeply to her. ‘We greet you, princess. Abu Mansur, great priest and choice physician of the caliph of Persia, has traversed the great deserts and the great waters to be our guest. He brings with his ointments the medicines of the great Indian physician Sushruta for the treatment of leprosy: chaulmoogra oil.’

Jotapa stood silent, then walked over to Zahi, clasped him to her, and kissed him on the head. She strode out of the room, followed by Duza.

She turned to Duza, her hands planted on her slim waist, her head held high. ‘When did my father last visit my brother?’ Duza looked at her but did not reply.

‘When, Duza? You must tell me.’

Duza lowered his eyes to the floor.

‘I command you. Speak, Duza.’

‘You command me as a princess or as a friend?’

Jotapa sighed. ‘As a friend,’ she said softly. ‘–a friend of both myself and my brother.’

Duza nodded. There was a long silence.

‘He has not entered these chambers for almost five years, Your Majesty.’

Jotapa stepped back in horror. ‘Sacrilege!’ she cried.

This time Duza grasped her arm so tightly that she winced. He would not let go. ‘Do you not comprehend? It is his firstborn son, the precious fruit of his loins. It is his agony that prevents his coming here. He came each dusk and dawn for four years, till it broke his heart and he could no longer bear it.’

‘I
cannot
accept it!’ Jotapa cried.

‘Accept it, Jotapa!’ Duza’s voice was very stern; he would not let her go. ‘Your father spends his royal fortunes scouring the East for the most prominent physicians and magicians. He spends lavish monies and his vast royal treasuries on these priests, physicians, pharmacists, and conjurers – renowned healers such as you saw today. He leaves no stone unturned in the hope...’

Duza faltered.

Jotapa glared at him. ‘There is no hope, Duza!’ she cried.’ His doom is sealed. These tricksters, these magicians, these parasites who would bleed my father dry with their potions...’

She broke off in mid sentence as Duza paled visibly and dropped to one knee.

Jotapa turned. Zahi stood in the entrance, a terrible sorrow in his eyes.

Duza stared at Jotapa. Incensed.

Zahi looked down at Jotapa with pity.

‘Beloved sister,’ he whispered, ‘while we have breath, there is hope...’

Jotapa knelt, clasping his hand, her tears falling down onto the fresh bandages.

‘The Babylonian Rab Mag Daniel’s writings speak of the unknown God...’ Zahi whispered, staring past her out towards the shimmering dusk skies, a strange ecstacy in his gaze.

‘One day He will find me.’

Chapter Twenty-two

Gerasene

Jesus stepped out of the boat at Gerasene, onto the narrow shore. The horizon was barely visible, obscured from view by the strange haze suddenly descended over Galilee, the residue of far-flung sand storms from Arabia. He stared upward at the stark cliffs rising above Him, then bent down and cupped His hands in the lapping lake, drenching His face in the cool, refreshing water. He pushed His long dark hair off His forehead, exhausted, the earlier feverish activity of the day starting to take its toll.

The young stranger from the wedding in Cana walked towards Him across the sand, clutching a large sheaf of papyri.

‘Documents, papyri,’ Peter grumbled. ‘Always something to write or sign ... You know why he was missing last night, Master? He was counting money again. Only twenty-three, and he acts like a grandmother.’

Thomas glared at him. ‘He is able and prudent, with the gift of administration – something you lack.’

‘
Someone
has to count the money, Peter,’ Jesus said. ‘He has left both his education and his possessions in the south to serve our cause. Let us be generous.’

Judas ignored Peter. ‘The agreements, Master. The tax collectors pester me; they eye our purse with relish. The deadlines approach. These must be dealt with.’

Jesus lifted His hand wearily. ‘Leave it until the morning, Judas ... The documents can wait.’

Judas uttered an ill-concealed sigh of exasperation.

Jesus placed His hand gently on his arm, and immediately Judas’s expression softened. ‘Forgive me, Jesus, it is only that...’ He looked deeply into Jesus’ eyes in respect.

‘That we are always so busy.’ Jesus finished the sentence softly, looking into the ardent young face.

Judas nodded. ‘You are always pressed for time. The crowds demand all Your attention, so I grasp any opportunity that presents itself. It is important that You – that the organization is without reproach in all we do ... that the Pharisees and Sadducees find no deficiencies in our records.’

Jesus nodded. ‘We must adhere to the rules.’ A faint smile glimmered on His lips. He looked at Judas compassionately, as though at a young child lacking in understanding.

Judas frowned. ‘You know that I would give my life for the cause. I am totally committed,’ he clasped Jesus’ shoulder, ‘...to You, Master.’

Jesus looked at him for a long moment. ‘Yes, Judas, I know this. I give you My word. Tomorrow morning, before we cross to the far side of Galilee.’

Judas pressed Jesus’ hand in gratitude.’Thank You...’ Jesus raised His hand to quiet him, as though hearing something. Slowly He turned. Standing by the jagged, rough-hewn tombs at the bottom of the cliffs, completely naked, was a deranged man, staring directly at Jesus. He was filthy and bleeding, pus oozed from hundreds of rough cuts and weals all across his chest and thighs. On one wrist and both feet were broken iron fetters, the chains still dragging behind him on the sand. He stood, foaming at the mouth and snarling.

Jesus slowly raised His head, giving the man the full force of His gaze.

A terrible, unintelligible roaring rose from the naked figure, and he fell down at Jesus’ feet in mortal terror.

Jesus moved a step nearer.

‘What have You to do with me, Jesus?’ he screamed, holding his hands over his head as though in intense pain. ‘Son of the most high God!’ he shrieked insanely, dragging himself across the jagged rocks to the cliffs, battering his matted head against the hard grey boulders.

Judas watched, ashen. Peter and John looked on in fascination.

‘I beg you!’ he screamed. ‘Do not torment me!’

Jesus held His hand towards the man’s head, and Judas watched, mesmerized, as a thousand demons, looking like fiendish, clawed vapours appeared.

‘What is your name?’ Jesus commanded.

The wild man opened his lips. ‘Legion,’ growled a thousand dark decadent depraved voices in unison.

Judas nearly fell over Peter and Thomas as they all scrabbled back across the sand, sheltering behind a large rock, staring at Jesus and the demoniac, horror-struck.

‘Leave him!’

The screaming changed in tone to high-pitched terror, the wild man clutched his head, screaming as thousands of blackened, dissolute, gnarled figures materialized from the wild man’s breath.

‘Reveal yourself!’ Jesus demanded. The twisted ghoulish figures transformed one by one into fallen angelic beings – a monstrous horde of Lucifer’s fallen. Nearly six thousand. Their tangled straw-coloured hair fell over their pock-marked faces, their red eyes glinted in terror. Intent on the Nazarene. The fallen legion waited. Jesus stood, His linen robes billowed in the wind. He raised His arm.

‘Not the Abyss ... Christos, we beseech You!’ wailed the voices.

The strapping leader of the monstrous horde stepped forward. ‘I am Daemuk,’ he rasped, ‘General of the 102nd legion. My master is Folcador, Grand Duke of hell.’ He fell down on one knee before Jesus, his head bowed. ‘I beg You, Christos. Do not banish us, the fallen, to the Abyss before the time.’

Jesus moved nearer. Daemuk clasped his head in agony.

‘You invade My kingdom. You defile the Race of Men.’ Jesus replied, His voice unyielding.

Daemuk gestured to a herd of swine feeding on the mountain.

‘Suffer us, the fallen, to inhabit the swine, Christos.’

Jesus closed His eyes, then lifted His arm. ‘Go!’ He commanded, His voice blacker than thunder.

Judas watched from the shelter of the rock in wonder, trembling, as the horde of the fallen vanished and immediately the herd of swine ran violently over the edge of the cliff drowning in the deep waters below.

Jesus pushed His dark locks from His eyes, staring out across the Sea of Galilee. ‘The tyranny of Satan nears its end. The First Judgement hastens.’

* * *

From above the skies and from under the earth they flew – the menacing powers of evil and terror – to the crypts of the Underlords beneath Lucifer’s Black Palace on the desolate smouldering, lava wastes at the edge of hell.

The Darkened Councils of hell were gathered.

Charsoc stood before the great assembly.

‘My Master, Lucifer, crowned satan, only true King of the World, welcomes your presence.’

Dagon and Lucifer’s elite guard drew back a huge magenta curtain, revealing Lucifer, all glorious, seated on the Seat of Satan in the Great Chamber of the Underlords. He was dressed in his white ceremonial robes fringed with ermine. His diamond crown rested on his raven hair. He held his sceptre in his right hand, the great damson ring of Satan on his ring finger.

‘We are here with only one aim,’ he declared, slowly surveying the great assembly of thousands of the dark rulers of the world.