Prophecy. An ARKANE thriller. (Book 2) (18 page)

Morgan caught sight of the Curator, standing talking to a man who must be Milan Noble at the front of the room. They were near the podium, preparing to speak. The Curator looked up and caught her eye, lifting a hand in a brief wave as Milan followed his gaze and Morgan felt him look at her. She didn't meet his eyes but waved briefly back to the Curator in recognition as a small bell rang and the Museum chairwoman rose to speak.
 

“Good evening. It is with great pleasure that I welcome you here tonight, as respected and important supporters of the Museum. This collection could not have been brought together without your support. Tonight we acknowledge in particular the generosity of the Zoebios Foundation.”
 

At this she turned and acknowledged Milan Noble, who bowed slightly from the waist, giving a charming smile.
 

“And now ladies and gentleman, here is the Curator, who will tell you about the collection.”

Morgan sipped her wine as the Curator spoke about the relics. She watched Milan Noble, his attention focused on the speaker. He was built like a sprinter with sleek powerful muscles under a charcoal tailored suit and his racing green tie matched his striking eyes. His jaw was just as chiseled as the magazines portrayed. A gorgeous man and an enigma, apparently single and reclusive, but what could possibly interest the CEO of a multinational health organization in an exhibition on ancient Christian relics?
 

“And now, please feel free to enter the exhibition and do let us know if you have any questions.”
 

The Curator finished speaking to the restrained applause of those around and small groups started to move towards the exhibits. Morgan could see Milan busy in conversation, so she drifted in with a party of academics. The collection was housed within a great dome constructed in the middle of the entry hall of the Museum. The vaulted ceiling with hues of aquamarine and deep indigo was lit with tiny spotlights, and dotted with scarlet crosses. Looking up, Morgan felt it was like looking into a sky flecked with blood.
 

The exhibition was organized into a timeline of faith, from the early Christians who were persecuted and killed, to the time of Thomas à Becket and beyond. The deaths of the Christian martyrs were gruesome and imaginative: torn apart by wool combs, roasted on griddles, devoured by wild animals as well as death by crucifixion. The bones were collected by the faithful and divided up before being sent to rest at churches all over the world. People who worshipped there would have only been aware of the relic they had; they wouldn't have seen the millions of others. But in this collection alone, it was clear how much forgery was a part of the relic business. How many bones from the body of St James were there? How many pieces of the true cross were worshipped?
 

Morgan stopped in front of a huge reliquary. Over a meter long, it contained two hundred compartments, each with a small package of silk containing a relic labeled with the name of the saint from whom it came. Parchment labels in spindly writing were tied to the little parcels. It reminded her of a kind of spiritual pick’n’mix, a sweet shop of saints’ remains. She leaned in to look more closely.

“Fascinating, isn't it?"
 

Morgan turned to see Milan Noble next to her, a glass of champagne in his hand. "How many of those pieces of bone do you think were from real martyrs?" he asked in a quiet voice.
 

"I was just wondering that myself," she smiled up at him. He was significantly taller than her, even in her heels.
 

"Milan Noble," he said, stretching out his hand.
 

She shook it firmly, looking him boldly in the eye, ever one to meet the challenge.
 

"Dr Morgan Sierra, and I do know who you are."

He raised an eyebrow, humor sparkling in his green eyes.
 

"I can hardly keep a low profile these days. I thought perhaps I could stay away from the crowd at this event since no one is here for the living. And why are you here, Dr Sierra?"

Morgan turned back to the cabinet.
 

"I consulted for the team who wrote the texts for the exhibits and I know Samuel, the Curator. He and I even worked on some exhibits in Israel and please, do call me Morgan."

Milan smiled, and leaned towards her. She could smell his cologne, subtle, with notes of lapsang-souchong tea, smoky and intoxicating. Morgan felt a magnetism in his attention, a dangerous eddy under his immaculate exterior.
 

“So what do you think of these relics?” he asked. “Is this just an art exhibition or is there something to this kind of belief?"

Morgan hesitated and the brief moment of thought was filled by the music that played in the chamber, a religious chant of monks extolling the virtues of God in the Alleluya, Dulce Ligname, Dulces Clavos.
 

"That's a difficult question,” she replied. “There are still martyrs today and people believe the bones of saints continue to perform miracles. The bones of the holy have always been honored in some way, but I find it a strange mix of deep rooted belief and cynical profiteering. Like this.” She indicated a gold reliquary. “You can see St Lawrence being roasted slowly on a grill saying as his flesh burns, 'turn me over so the other side can cook as well’. Then you have all his bones, sold so that the church could fill their coffers. It turns my stomach in a physical sense even while I’m fascinated by the psychology behind it.”

Milan's gaze was penetrating and Morgan found that she wanted to look away from those eyes.
 

“Cynical perhaps on the part of the Church,” he said. “But these people died for their true faith. Perhaps they could see a reward in heaven that was better than their days on earth?"

"I'm sure they did, but the glorification of their suffering was trumpeted by those educated enough to escape that type of death. Who knows what the true story was behind the deaths of these martyrs?”

They strolled around the exhibits together, walking in companionable silence. Morgan felt that Milan exuded a repressed energy, like a force field he was reining in.
 

“There is a story,” he said as they stopped at one of the glass cases. “It is perhaps apocryphal, but it might interest you. In 1190, the Bishop of Lincoln visited the Abbey of Fecamp in Normandy to venerate the monastery’s greatest treasure, an arm bone of Mary Magdalene. It wasn’t enough for him to see it in its silk wrapping. He demanded to see the bone itself in order to kiss it. To the horror of the monks, he tried to break off a piece, then began to gnaw at the bone and eventually broke off splinters which he pocketed to take back to his own church.”

“Oh, that’s disgusting,” Morgan said and they both laughed. “Exactly why I have severe doubts about these relics.”

“Perhaps, but he was defiant in his faith and claimed that he had honored the saint as Christians venerated Christ when they ate his flesh and drank his blood at Communion.”

Morgan found Milan intriguing. Clearly he had a deep interest in this realm of relics, a strange fascination and one she shared. But there was still no evidence that he was behind Thanatos and she needed to focus on her reason for being there.
 

Milan steered her towards a case containing a gold filigree cross studded with garnets.
 

“You would look beautiful wearing this, Dr Sierra.”

Morgan gazed in at the cross and smiled.
 

“I love the garnet, but did you know that the colors of the stones have a spiritual meaning as well? The garnet and ruby are the blood of Christ, the amethyst invoked to staunch the flow of blood, the sapphire for the holy blue of the Virgin and heaven itself.”

“The question is whether there is actually any residual power in the physical form of the relic,” Milan said. “Part of my funding for these relics and their research is to test samples of the bones and blood to see if they are special in some way. Is there some primal power that we can use? For Zoebios research purposes of course. If we can find the miraculous at the cellular level, we could use it to improve the human race.”

“Really, and have you found anything yet?” Morgan asked, trying to hide her shock at his words. Perhaps there was some hidden aspect of eugenics behind Zoebios.
 

“We have some interesting investigations in progress,” Milan continued. “But we keep the research and results quiet because much of what we find would invalidate the claims of many of these relics. If for example, these aren’t the bones of a first century saint, and those thorns date from 600AD, would that impact people’s belief?”

“I don’t think that matters much to true believers. It’s more about faith,” Morgan replied.
 

Milan grasped her elbow lightly and led her on. His touch on her skin was possessive in a way Morgan couldn't define, and yet she didn't shrink from it. They walked together through the final room of the exhibition which held the relics of Thomas à Becket, the famous English martyr slaughtered after his fight with King Henry II in 1170. Morgan examined one of the golden scenes that showed the saint praying as his head was cleaved open by the blow of a sword. The soldier then scooped the brains out onto the floor of Canterbury Cathedral. The monks had collected the blood and bodily fluids, diluted and stored it in flasks and sold it to the faithful. Thomas was canonized soon after his murder and Canterbury soon became one of the most popular and venerated pilgrimage routes, the basis of Chaucer’s Canterbury tales. The shrine was destroyed in the iconoclasm, the destruction of religious images carried out under Henry VIII, but some of the saint’s body was saved and displayed in the church.
 

They were almost at the end of the display and Morgan knew she needed some indication that Milan was involved in the recent events. She couldn’t go back to ARKANE with nothing.

“Why are you so personally interested in relics?” she asked. “I thought your company was a promoter of life and health?"

“What is life if not the flip-side of death?” Milan replied. “Look at how obsessed the public is with dismemberment, death and decay. There are bodies and bones in forensic shows, violent crime novels and films. We are obsessed with it.” Milan turned and gazed into the last cabinet as he spoke, "I have always been interested in the entwined dependence of life and death. They often meet in religion, where everlasting life is promised on bodily death but where physical life is squandered. Religion preaches the sanctity of life even as it destroys."

“Death isn’t remarkable, and neither is life, in the grand scheme of things,” Morgan replied. “It’s only when you look at an individual life that meaning can be seen in these special moments. Your company seems to be helping those who are struggling, so you must believe life is precious?”

Milan seemed to be hypnotized by the gold that glinted from the reliquary of St Thomas, and he spoke in low, mesmerizing tones.
 

"Eros and Thanatos, the life and death instincts, they rage inside us all.” He stopped abruptly. “Now Dr Sierra … Morgan … I must go. It has been marvelous to meet you and I hope very much to see you again."

He shook her hand, snake green eyes challenging hers, and then strode off towards the exit, a head taller than those around him. Morgan stood speechless in front of the display case. The use of the word Thanatos had taken her by surprise. Could the ‘Lord of Life’ really be involved with the death of others?
 

London, England. 11.18am

The sun was already high and Michael Jensen was trying to keep cool in his bulky coat as he sat in the shade of a chestnut tree on a tiny grassy patch opposite Finsbury Park mosque. It fitted easily into the suburban landscape with its red brick exterior and minimal white minaret. There seemed to be some kind of festival and he could hear the sound of chanted prayers as large groups of people entered as he watched. The school holidays meant there were many children and young people in the crowd, some obviously dragged there by their parents but others hurried ahead, keen in their youthful devotion. Michael felt a jealousy as he watched the banter between friends and close knit families going in together for he had never felt part of such a community, even as a young man. A little boy ran along the street ahead of his parents who turned to each other in pride, their love for each other evident even as they kept several paces apart.