Messiah: The First Judgement (Chronicles of Brothers) (44 page)

Failenn, queen of the demon witches, rose from the back of the assembly.

All eyes were riveted on her. She wore a long, flowing diaphanous dress of white gossamer, her porcelain skin visible beneath it. Her floor-length auburn hair, woven with lilies, fell thick and gleaming down her back. She walked towards Lucifer, her voice beguiling, honey-tongued yet poisonous as hemlock. ‘Lure them with our enticements, my lord. Persuade them with our intellects.’ She flung around, transformed in an instant into a hideous, hunched crone with wrinkled green skin like a toad’s, a long, twisted chin, gnarled and clawed hands. ‘Deceive them with our enchantments!’ her chilling scream rang out. Lucifer rubbed his fingers together in pleasure.

The Dread Warlocks of Ishtar stood, all ten thousand speaking as one voice.

‘Venerated Excellency.’ Their dark depraved tones echoed through the Chamber. ‘We must dethrone the Nazarene in the minds and souls of the Race of Men until they consider Him as just one of themselves – no greater, no lesser. We will humanize them. Secularize them. They will call Him virtuous. They will call Him good ... but they will not call Him
God
.’

‘They shall call Him noble,’ the Banshees screeched.

‘They shall call Him good,’ cackled the Witches of Babylon.

‘They shall not call Him
God!
’ the Necromancer Kings cried.

‘They shall call Him noble,’ the Demon Witches wailed.

‘They shall call Him good,’ the Warlocks of Ishtar rasped.

The entire assembly stood.

‘THEY SHALL NOT CALL HIM GOD!’ they roared.

Lucifer and Charsoc exchanged glances.

‘And if he is
not
God,’ Lucifer murmured, ‘he is dethroned ... in the hearts and souls of the Race of Men.’

A great cry broke out across the War Chamber. ‘Dethrone the Nazarene!’

‘Dethrone the Nazarene!’

Lucifer stood, an evil smile on his lips.

‘We shall erase His name and face forever from the records of the Race of Men. The terrible sacrifice shall be a mere myth for the weak and stumbling and the babes in arms. The sacrifice on Golgotha shall be in vain, for they shall not heed it.’

Lucifer raised his voice to the heavens.

‘Mobilize all armies of the damned to deceive the Race of Men. Above the earth and under the earth, rulers of the dark places. Powers. Principalities. Thrones. Satanic Princes, Shaman Kings, Warlocks, Witches, Magi, Harpies – all who are subject to you – are my loyal subjects. We shall next convene at the turn of the second decade of the second millennium of the Race of Men.’

He ran his pale fingers slowly through the dark stubble on his head.

‘The Nazarene shall wish He had never stirred the wrath of the son of destruction.’

* * *

AD 33
Five Years Later

Jotapa stood outside Aretas’ chambers, folding and refolding the now crumpled, tear-stained missive that had arrived from Jerusalem only an hour before. Five years had passed since the Nazarene’s death on the cross on Golgotha.

Ghaliya was now with other believers in Jerusalem and communicated with Jotapa faithfully. The Hebrew’s death had not been in vain. Zahi and hundreds like him had insisted on staying with the disciples in Jerusalem. The Hebrew’s followers had multiplied in number all over Palestine and Asia Minor.

Two years ago, Zahi and Duza had left Jerusalem, travelling to Phoenicia and the isle of Cyprus, journeying through Thessalonica and finally arriving in Antioch, in Syria. Jotapa smiled through her tears. Zahi knew her exotic tastes and would send her colourful and outlandish trinkets from the marketplaces of the cities where they toiled, preaching of the Hebrew’s Father and of the First Heaven. But four months ago, the trinkets and missives had stopped.

And today she had received the awful confirmation from Ghaliya.

First, the brilliant and gifted youth Stephen with the tight black curls, whom Zahi had loved and tutored at nights in all the great languagues of Arabia, had been stoned to death outside the city of Jerusalem. But worse news was to follow. Written in the swarthy fisherman Peter’s hand, the missive was only barely legible – but legible enough to send her running from the room, screaming.

The faithful Ayeshe had soothed her with the ancient Arabic lullabies, but neither of them knew how to break the appalling news to the king, Aretas.

‘I have to do it, Ayeshe,’ she had whispered. ‘It is a daughter’s task.’ And at last Ayeshe had agreed.

Since the night of the conversation of the Hebrew’s resurrection, Aretas had withdrawn from Jotapa, from Arabia, and from his God. His body had weakened alarmingly, and though physicians had come from all over Arabia, Persia, and India with their potions, still Aretas grew frailer. Jotapa knew that both Zahi and Duza prayed for his soul faithfully, that he would remain steadfast in his faith in the Hebrew. And now this last hideous blow.

She paced up and down outside his chambers incessantly, then finally nodded to Aretas’ royal guard, who at once opened the huge golden doors.

Aretas stood, aged and frail, leaning on a cane, his hands behind his back, staring out at the fountains in the Royal Pavilions.

He turned.

‘Jotapa.’ His expression was soft.

‘I have missed your fellowship, daughter.’

‘As I yours, father,’ Jotapa replied softly.

He looked down and saw the tear-stained missive clutched in her hand. His face turned to stone. Without a word, he limped across the marbled floor and snatched it out of her grasp.

Unfolding it, he quickly scanned the contents. He uttered a terrible, almost noiseless scream, the papyrus fluttering from his hands to the floor, he stumbled to the window in a daze.

‘My beloved tender Zahi...’ He stared out of the windows, tears streaming down his face, unheeded.

‘Crucifed
upside down!
’ He turned to Jotapa, his face ablaze with a terrible fury.

‘Tell me, Jotapa, WHERE is the love and mercy of the God of the Hebrew? It is a farce!’ he raged, slamming his fist on the table. ‘A desperate myth for gullible children as they build their dirt castles on the desert floor ... My son, dead,’ he whimpered.

‘Never – Jotapa!’ He snatched up the cross from the altar and smashed it down on the table. It shattered into three pieces on the marble floor.

‘
Never
will His name be spoken again in the house of Arabia.
Never
will the Hebrew’s name be heard.’ He turned, his eyes flashing dangerously with rage.

‘Never again will a Hebrew be our friend.’

Jotapa watched helplessly as Aretas beat his feeble fists against the wall, his arms flailing.

‘My son is dead,’ he lamented, his eyes glazed and unseeing. His frail body collapsed under him, and he slid down the wall to the floor. ‘Zahi...,’ he moaned.

Chapter Forty-seven

The Rubied Door

Aretas lay sleeping, propped up by seven fringed vermillion satin pillows. Jotapa sat next to him, his frail veined hand clasped in hers. He was restless, thrashing from side to side, his silk bedclothes soaked with his perspiration for the fourth time that day. He drew deep, rasping breaths.

Ayeshe smoothed his brow with old, veined fingers. Too often before, he had heard the death rattle as life ebbed out. Simple as the old Bedouin was, he knew that King Aretas was dying. It was all connected with the Hebrew. Of that, Ayeshe was certain.

Jotapa rose from his bedside, re-lit the sputtering lanterns, then poured out another draught of medicinal potion into the king’s goblet. The potion, the latest of a dozen this month alone, had arrived by camel that dawn from the caliph of Persia in the east.

Aretas’ old compatriot, Abgar of Edessa, had journeyed across desert and plains to visit him, but Aretas would tolerate none of the Armenian king’s stories of how the Hebrew had healed him when he lay dying; indeed, Aretas had sent the great and generous king away, grieving for the loss of their old friendship.

Ayeshe shook his head.

‘His malady is a sickness of his soul. The potion will do nothing!’ Ayeshe threw his hands up in the air, muttering darkly in Syriac under his breath. ‘It is
all
to do with the Hebrew.’

Jotapa sighed. ‘He is slipping away from us, Ayeshe. He has become a shadow of the great king of Arabia he once was.’

‘He has not forgiven the Hebrew for dying on the cross or for taking his firstborn son from him.’

There was a soft knock at the door. Jotapa frowned. It was late, only a few hours before dawn. She reached for one of the lanterns and walked across to the bedchamber door, softly opening it, gasping as a brilliant light radiated through the entrance.

In the centre of the brilliance, facing Jotapa, stood Jesus.

She dropped to her knees.

Her gaze moved upward, from the hem of His indigo silk robe to the platinum sash around His waist.

His face radiated a light so brilliant that His head and hair seemed white as snow, but as the shimmering waves of light settled, she could make out the deep, flaming dark mane. Resting on His head was a golden crown, set with three great rubies.

She stared mesmerized at the high, bronzed cheekbones, the blazing clear eyes that flashed from hues of blue to emerald to brown like flames of living fire. The great King of Heaven.
Her
King. Beautiful beyond imagining.

Jesus walked slowly over towards Aretas. He stopped beside the bed, Jotapa watching from the door. He gazed down at the sleeping king with a look of infinite tenderness and compassion.

‘My friend, Aretas,’ he murmured, bending over him, gently stroking the thinning silver hair on the dying king’s head.

‘Blessed are all those who have not seen Me and yet still believe,’ he murmured in wonder. ‘He looked down at Aretas with a deep compassion in His eyes – a compassion that understood a king’s confusion, that forgave a king’s scepticism, that washed away a king’s bitterness, that embraced Aretas the man, Aretas, the friend who had protected Him as a babe in arms.

Jotapa gasped as her father’s eyelids fluttered. Slowly his eyes focused. He frowned, and gazed long and hard into Jesus’ face. A fleeting recognition lit his features.

He shook his head in disbelief, and a smile of incredible joy broke over his face. He stared, enraptured, his eyes never once wavering from Jesus’ face.

‘It is You,’ he gasped, attempting to prop himself up with feeble arms. Clumsily he clasped Jesus’ strong hands in his two frail ones. Then he frowned. He turned Jesus’ hands around until the palms were facing him.

He stared at the harsh, jagged wounds, then cupped his mouth with both hands, horror-struck, the tears coursing down his face.

Jesus smiled and nodded. Aretas buried his face in Jesus’ hands, his tears falling on the gaping wounds. Jesus clasped the frail old man to His breast, deeply touched. Jotapa looked up through her tears, laughing exultantly in sheer, abandoned joy.

‘My Hebrew friend,’ Aretas murmured though his wracking sobs. And Jesus wept. Jotapa stared, transfixed as a shining white seal slowly materialized on Aretas’ forehead in the sign of a cross.

‘Come, My friend,’ Jesus said. ‘There is something I must show you.’

With infinite gentleness Jesus eased Aretas out of the bed and, clasping him tightly around his waist, led him over to the huge palace doors that opened onto the exotic oriental gardens. He pulled back the heavy pale rose silk curtains.

There, at the base of the marble steps, stood Zahi, radiant, his arms outstretched to his father.

Aretas looked back to Jesus, his eyes wide and questioning. Jesus nodded.

Jotapa moved towards him, tears streaming down her face.

‘You are taking him?’

‘If it is his wish,’ Jesus said quietly.

Aretas looked at Zahi, then at Jesus, then back to Jotapa. ‘It is my wish.’ He turned to Jotapa, torn.

‘I would go with them, Jotapa,’ he whispered. ‘I would visit the land of the Rubied Door.’

Jotapa flew into Aretas’ arms. He clasped her tightly to him. She held him as though she would never let him go, her tears staining his night-robe. Finally, she looked up at him, her words hardly distinguishable through her sobs.

‘I will miss you, dearest Papa ... Go,’ she sobbed. ‘Go and be with those you love.’

Aretas kissed her fiercely on the head, as he had done when she was a child.

‘You will make a great queen of Arabia!’ he declared, then turned to Jesus, who nodded.

And unaided, he strode through the grand doors, down the marble stairs towards his firstborn son, whose arms stretched wide to greet him. He turned once more to look back at Jotapa, and then he was gone.

Jotapa turned from the doors to find Ayeshe, his face awash with tears.