Messiah: The First Judgement (Chronicles of Brothers) (8 page)

‘Is this ME?’ Herod screamed, red in the face. ‘Is it Herod the Great they prophesy? Is it Herod? Or is there...’ He spun around. ‘...ANOTHER?’ he hissed, his two chins shaking.

The chief priest gulped. Suddenly finding courage, in a holy fervour he blurted, ‘There is another.’ His words were soft but unmistakable. ‘The Messiah, the ruler of Israel – His kingdom shall see no end.’

Herod rose, apoplectic, from the throne and smashed the sceptre against the chief priest’s chest. The priest rolled down the marble stairs, blood flowing from his head onto the marble floor. The council stood terrorized, silent.

Herod lifted up his voluminous robes. ‘GET OUT OF HERE! Get out!’ screamed Herod. ‘OUT!’

The council scattered like geese, out of the throne room, two of them dragging the semi-conscious priest behind them. Herod’s advisers clustered around his throne, trembling and whispering feverishly.

‘Stop your infernal mumbling,’ Herod snarled. ‘What is it that you whisper of now?’

His chief adviser stepped forward. ‘We speak of the caravan, Your Majesty, that draws nigh to Jerusalem from the East.’

A second counsellor bowed. ‘The caravan is of exceeding wealth and pomp, Your Majesty. It is the talk of all Jerusalem.’

Herod sat back heavily on his throne. ‘Yes, yes, my magi informed me. They are Parthians – interferers ... kingmakers! They fell kings from thrones at their whim!’

He bit his fist, his eyes gleaming with insanity. Sweat poured from his furrowed brow below his crown. ‘It is a plot. The Parthians take me for a usurper – they would murder me ... dethrone me. And put this ... this infantile king of the Jews...’

‘Nay, Your Majesty. This caravan belongs to a king, Aretas, sovereign ruler of Arabia.’

‘Aretas! The king of Petra – why, he is no philosopher, no magus’s accomplice.’ Herod relaxed visibly. He exhaled deeply and readjusted his wig.

‘He is a pragmatic man, one who has seen bloodshed.’ Herod’s eyes glittered. ‘Does he come in peace or war?’ He bunched his robe in his fist, trembling. ‘War!’ he whimpered. ‘He seeks revenge. He comes to murder me and annexe Judea to the Nabateans!’ A thread of spittle hung suspended from his chin. He was seized by paroxysm, coughing up blood into his handkerchief.

His chief attendant held out a sealed missive. Herod snatched it and tore it open, eyes wild, scanning the contents.

‘He would honour me and solve our border disputes.’ He wiped his brow with a silk handkerchief. ‘He seeks peace.’ He exhaled heavily in relief and held out his trembling hand to his cupbearer, who immediately placed an ornate goblet of wine in it.

‘This upstart king could well threaten Aretas, also.’ He sipped from his cup delicately. ‘Get word to his ambassadors that my palace awaits him. He shall indeed be my welcome guest.’

Herod caressed the goblet thoughtfully. ‘The royal houses of Petra and Judea would do well to make alliance. Together we shall destroy this upstart king!’

* * *

Herod turned to a tall, sinister figure to the right of his throne. ‘Mephisto, relay to me the Necromancer’s counsel.’

Mephisto chanted, and slowly the thirteen Warlock Kings of the West materialized next to him, unseen by Herod. Dracul, their ruler, spoke, echoed by Mephisto, almost as an alter ego, speaking with him in a strange, unearthly unison. ‘Let them make careful search for the child and report back, that you may find him and destroy the newborn king.’

* * *

Gabriel thundered bareback on his stallion, through the lush rain forests, across the vast bulrush meadows of the Eastern plains of Eden in the First Heaven, his flaxen hair flying. He came to a halt leagues beneath the holy mountain, near the base of the throne room’s rubied entrance, outside the western labyrinths of the seven spires. He dismounted and entered the underground entrance to the sacred caverns. Seven hidden chambers in the mountain each ascended into the inner sanctum of the labyrinths. Gabriel walked, head bowed, his path lit only by the flaming eternal torches high against the cavern walls.

As he ascended higher into the chamber, an unaccountable dread clutched his heart. His ascent continued, deep into the heart of the labyrinths, until he reached the sixth burning lamp. Nine tall silent warriors stood with flaming broadswords. The Watchers, guardians of the hidden sanctum of Yehovah. They raised their flaming swords to Gabriel, bowing in acknowledgment.

Gabriel continued through the dim passage, ascending until he saw them: Yehovah’s dread warriors, the Watchers of the seventh flame.

The Watchers beheld him, and as one they lifted their flaming swords, which had barred his way to the seventh chamber. Ever so slowly, Gabriel walked on through the huge iron grid, magnetised towards a blazing light on his left. The Watchers drew back and disappeared. He moved deeper into the cavern. In front of him blew a stormy wind, and out of the wind burned a great indigo cloud with great lightning and flashings caming from out of the inferno.

Gabriel stared ahead in wonder. There before him stood Jether, in the very midst of the burning flames, his arms raised, his staff, the staff of the white winds, held high. His hair and beard flew in the tempests that rose from the indigo cloud. Blue lightnings blazed from the staff. His face glowed as burnished bronze, his skin burning translucent. Dimly visible in the midst of the coals of fire lay seven enormous gold-bound lapis-lazuli codices, their pages blazing with a fierce blue fire – the codices of the White Judgement. Gabriel watched as two majestic flaming cherubim became visble through the flames. The first lifted the top codex from the midst of the burning coals. He stretched forth his hand and passed the sacred tome to Jether.

Jether clasped it, holding it high. ‘The Codex of the First Judgement!’ he cried. ‘The secret counsels of Yehovah are unveiled!’

* * *

Herod nodded and slowly opened the voluminous red velvet curtains. Before him stood King Aretas, Balthazar, Caspar, Melchior and a hundred magi, with coffers of gold and precious stones. Herod bowed deeply to King Aretas, who bowed as well. Herod looked at the overflowing caskets, simpering like a child. He sat down on his throne, motioning to Aretas to sit opposite him on a smaller, ornately gilded throne.

‘Your royal name has travelled often across the desert plains to me, great Sheikh Aretas of Petra and Arabia, Aretas the noble, the warrior, protector of his people.’

‘Your royal name is one of fame and renown throughout the eastern plains, O Herod of Idumea, Herod the Great, feared by all.’ Aretas bowed again.

A smile of pleasure spread across Herod’s slack-jowled face. ‘You come to Jerusalem not only to seek peace, Aretas. You seek a king other than myself. Of this I am convinced.’

Aretas stared deeply into the old king’s eyes. He was debauched and evil, but he was no fool – even near death, a formidable enemy. This Aretas knew. ‘I seek to pay my respects to Herod the Great, but yes, you are correct in your assumptions. There is another that I seek, O Herod.’

Balthazar stepped forward and bowed deeply. ‘Your Majesty, we seek the one who has been born king of the Jews. We saw his star in the East and have come to worship him.’

Herod’s eyes narrowed. He clutched Aretas’ arm and drew him away from the magi. ‘You are a brilliant man, Aretas...’ Herod lowered his voice ‘...to have realized the threat of a new king who would ravage our kingdoms, and to have allied yourself with the very magi who can locate his presence.’

Herod turned back to the magi and smiled agreeably. ‘My chief priests tell me that the newborn king is to be found in Bethlehem. Go, make careful search for the child. And when you find him, report to me, that I, too, may go and pay my homage to him. My armies are at your disposal, as is my hospitality.’

He clapped his hands. ‘Our minor disputes – the Dead Sea Valley, Syllaeus – are all behind us. Melech, show my royal guests to their quarters.’

Chapter Six

Christos

The princeling Darsoc stood at the head of the Grey Magi, his cultured, sinister demon sorcerers. Ruthless and cunning beyond compare, the Grey Magi were Lucifer’s finest informants, serving as his senior intelligence corps. Archivists, philosophers, intellectuals. They stood, a hundred strong, their white hoods pulled down over their faces, shadowed in the darkness.

‘Shepherds! Pah!’ Alastor, Grand Wizard of the Black Courts snarled to Darsoc. ‘This is no king’s dwelling!’ He turned his black charger around impatiently. ‘You and your magi waste my time!’

Darsoc stood, not a muscle moving, every sense alert. Alastor threw back his silver turbaned head, his squat blood red cat eyes gleaming with disdain.

‘A fool’s errand!’ he spat. ‘
We
intend to return to the Black Courts in possession of the facts!’

‘Then ride, Alastor.’ Darsoc’s words were spun like silk laced with venom. ‘You would not want to disappoint your unforgiving Master ... Grand Magus Charsoc. And forfeit your jewels ... and advancement.’ A small evil smile played on Darsoc’s lips. ‘Or your head.’

Alastor turned his black charger to face his company of Black Court Wizards. ‘Turn back, there is nothing here – we ride to Persia!’ he cried, thundering away on his monstrous fire-breathing stallion, his blazing staff held high.

Darsoc threw back his hood. His pale, fine features exuded a strange luminosity. Only on closer scrutiny was it noticeable how his once perfect skin was now marred and how his beautiful grey eyes glinted a dark evil. The gusts blew his long strands of hair across his white cloak.

‘I smell the scent of the Revelators on the winds,’ he hissed. He held up a grey gloved finger to his pale lips.

A tremendous wind blew overhead, accompanied by the sound of a monstrous beating of wings. Instantly the sky was filled with thousands upon thousands of giant white eagles, their wingspans a hundred feet, their collars and talons of molten gold.

‘The scouts of the White Knighthood.’ A malicious smile spread across Darsoc’s face as he watched Alastor and his company of Charsoc’s Black Court Wizards ascending into the black skies in the direction of the east. ‘Michael is here...’ he murmured, a gleam in his cruel eyes. ‘We wait.’

* * *

King Aretas, Balthazar, Gaspar and Melchior led the great caravan, seated on white Arabian steeds. Balista and Ayshe, Aretas’ manservant, followed close behind. Balthazar gazed up at the star, now stationary, fixed directly above a summit that lay in the distance, then pulled on the reins of his horse, gesturing to the party to do likewise. He dismounted, his heart pounding, swiftly leading the way up the terraced hills of Bethlehem guided only by the solitary lamp that swung from the centre of a rope hung across the entrance of a lone inn ahead of them. He stopped outside the low structure, built of rough stones. It consisted of an enclosure where a small herd of cattle were huddled together, tied up for the night. Above the enclosure were six small stone rooms. Balthazar walked slowly past each low chamber, studying the inhabitants closely, then turned to Aretas and Melchior and shook his head. Frowning, he walked further out to a crude stone grotto attached to the inn as a stable. Four small dogs, their ribs sticking through their mangy coats, yapped at him relentlessly, nipping at his feet. He covered his face with his robe as the pungent stench of waste from cows, mules and camels hit his nostrils, stopping outside the filthy area where the mules and horses were tethered. Hesitantly, he peered inside, then turned, gesturing to the party to follow him. Aretas frowned. Balthazar nodded. Aretas shrugged in assent as Gaspar and Melchior followed Balthazar further inside the stable. There among the hay and straw spread for the food and rest of the cattle, sitting cross-legged on a mat in the far corner of the threadbare room sat a young girl, scarcely more than a child. Her thick waist-length tawny locks framed her fine olive features with its high cheekbones, aquiline nose and soft rosebud mouth. She stared at the guests, exhausted, but her brown eyes were exultant. Her gaze turned to the babe in her arms. As one, the magi fell prostrate. She placed the infant gently back down in the manger, then walked across the straw floor towards Balthazar.

Aretas watched silently from the doorway, staring at the empty stable, the wooden manger, the only furniture in the room. Balthazar fell to his knees, tears falling down his wizened ebony cheeks. ‘All these years ... these aeons, we have faithfully guarded these,’ he whispered. Kept them safe for the Jewish Messiah prophesied by the great Hebrew Daniel.’ He bowed his head, trembling.

A pale Gaspar gently laid the gifts at Mary’s feet. ‘The cup of frankincense; the box of myrrh...’

Melchior stepped forward. ‘The gold rod of Aaron. With these we pay homage to the Messiah.’ He knelt, his head bowed.

Mary lifted her head, brushing the long dark tresses of hair away from her enchanting face. ‘We humbly receive your gifts,’ she replied.

‘We thank you.’ Joseph quietly watched from behind the manger.

Balthazar raised his hands. ‘That I would live to see this day.’ He lifted his head and turned to Aretas, who still stood pale, and silent by the door. ‘Aretas, come.’ Balthazar’s eyes shone. ‘It is He whom our forbear Daniel longed for.’

Joseph held out his hand to Aretas, who shook his head. ‘I am not a religious man...’ he stated firmly.

Balthazar grasped his arm firmly and guided him over to the sleeping babe, no longer wrapped in the snug swaddling bands of his early days. Aretas stood back, his hands held before him. Mary smiled tenderly and held out her hand to Aretas.