Stealing Sacred Fire (2 page)

Writing this book affected me
greatly. It was as if I was tapping into some primal vein of
archetypes, using symbols that have great meaning for the human
race. The scene involving the well in St Menas (I won’t say more to
avoid plot-spoiling) made me feel physically sick. It was one of
the most difficult scenes I have ever written.

Some of the scenes were
inspired by dreams that I had during the writing process. The
episode in the mountains of Kurdistan, when Daniel has a vision of
the holy twins, was lifted directly from a dream I had a couple of
days before. The appearance of the Crystal Chambers and their
history was inspired by the visions of a psychic called Bernard,
who worked with Andy Collins on this subject in 1985.

The time when I was writing
this novel is long past, the pseudo-Millennium spent, and we have
returned to mundane routine. The sky did not open at mid-night on
December 31st, no angels flew against the stars, and humanity did
not change miraculously for the better. As to what will happen at
midnight on the eve of the year 2001, who can say?

At this point in time, I cannot
emulate the introduction to ‘Scenting Hallowed Blood’ and give
directions to readers who might want to investigate the areas I’ve
written about, because war and political regimes have made them
inaccessible to Western travellers. We cannot seek the valley of
Kharsag and soak ourselves in its history. But in fiction, we can
dream better futures, better worlds. We can dream of living
there.

Storm Constantine

March 27th, 2000

Iraq

The mound reared up incongruously from
the rubbled hot-plate of the desert. It did not look like a city at
all. Around it, the plains of scorching rocks were flat, like the
dun, shattered terrain of some hostile planet, where only parched
lizards blinked at the sun. The mound, or tell, had lain dead for
many thousands of years. Here, at the hot girdle of earth, ancient
secrets smouldered beneath miles of dust and memories. Shunned and
feared, remembered only as the lost dwelling-place of demons, who
had no place in the world of more recent, jealous gods, the tell
had lain untouched by human hands for millennia. But now men had
come here, religious taboos broken in the crack of stone, the
opening of the earth. On the side of the tell a wound had been
made, a simple, black hole that oozed cold. Carrion birds wheeled
over the excavation; dark angels against the intense blue sky.
Their cry was an echo of forgotten calls to buried gods.

An old man, squatting near the
opened earth, glanced up at the ragged shapes and said to himself,
‘Death is here. The eyes of the ancient ones have come.’ He made a
protective sign with his fingers and shivered as the cold breath
that came out of the ground touched his cheek. Some hours earlier
he had heard shouts below, and felt deep in his ancient fibres a
tingling. The hot ground seemed fragile beneath him, as if it could
open up like a hungry mouth, or a cut made in flesh by a blade, and
swallow him into itself. They had found something momentous in the
forgotten city below; something that should not have been found.
Nothing would induce him to enter the tunnels of the excavation,
not even the generous pay offered by the king to those who would
work there.

Presently, having been advised
of the new discovery, the king arrived at the site, his jeep
throwing up a spray of desert grit. He alighted with dignity, trod
purposefully up the slope in his shiny boots; a tall man in the
prime of life. Like many dictators before him, he was dressed in
khaki, his dark-skinned face half hidden by a neatly trimmed
moustache. But, unlike his predecessors in this turbulent land, his
hair was long and oiled into coils and on the second finger of his
left hand, over his leather glove, he wore a large, golden ring,
which bore an ancient seal. All creatures would kneel before him
and did. He had named himself Nimnezzar, having been taught in a
dream his true origins. He believed that royal, unearthly blood ran
in his veins.

As the king strode up the side of the
tell, scattering stones, the old man made an obeisance. ‘Do not
enter, great one. The secrets of the ages must remain in
darkness.’

The king paused. His expression
was unreadable as he peered down at the old man, although the
fingers of his right hand tapped his khaki-clad thigh. ‘Why is
that?’ he demanded. ‘You know why we are here.’

The old man ducked his head in
deference. ‘Yes, oh great one.’ He pointed to the sky. ‘But the
eyes of the Old Ones behold your subjects desecrating the ancient
domain. I speak only to warn you.’

The king stood motionless for a
moment. His eyes seemed empty of feeling. They were eyes that could
watch death in all its forms without flinching. He could snuff out
a life with a twitch of his fingers. Yet he did not call for his
guard to punish the old man for his outspoken words. He smiled.
‘Hassan, I am of the ancient line. The eyes of the Old Ones are my
eyes. They are here to attend this great moment, like serpents
drawn to the birth of a divine king. Do not fear for me.’

Again, the old man ducked his
head. ‘I have served your family long, great one. I know that your
blood is sacred, yet the shadows of those carrion wings hang over
me... Once you have beheld what lies within the darkness, there is
no going back.’

The king reached down and
touched the old man lightly on his shoulder. ‘This is a new age,’
he said, with a tenderness that seemed inappropriate from his lips.
‘The world is different now.’

He climbed over the rubble and
then on, into the darkness. His personal guard followed him,
casting cold glances at the old man as they passed. He did not look
at their faces, only their guns.

Within the excavation, the
tunnel sloped downwards steeply. Temporary lighting hung from the
walls, trailing ropes of cable and emitting an electrical hum. The
air smelled musty, but also sweet, and it was hot upon the lungs.
This was unexpected, for the king had been told by experts that in
the underground cities temperatures remained constant. The bright
lighting must be heating the air.

The chambers in the levels
nearest the surface were empty, and had been constructed at a later
date than those beneath them. They were crude in design and had
perhaps been storehouses, or else barracks for military, but who
could really tell how the inhabitants of this alien place had run
their community?

Markers had been placed to show
the way through the labyrinth to the lower levels. The king and his
entourage emerged from a twisting corridor onto the lip of what
first appeared to be a ledge. The king paused. He made no outward
sign, but there was no doubt the scene before him surprised and
awed him.

He and his officers stood at
the brink of a great circular shaft; their heads nearly brushed the
ceiling. Dark openings punctuated the walls of the shaft, visible
in the sporadic glares of yellow light. Further below, there was
darkness.

A curl of worn, spiralling
steps led down to the lower levels from where the king stood. It
could be seen that before each doorway in the circular face of the
rock, there was a narrow platform. The shaft was crawling with
workers, their voices shrill yet strangely muffled. Wooden
carriers, some empty, some full of rubble and broken artefacts,
glided up and down the sheer stone face, via pulleys and ropes.

A short man dressed in dusty
khaki appeared over the ledge. His moustache was rimed in white
powder, like snow, and also his black hair. He bowed to the king.
‘It is an honour to welcome you, great one.’ He brushed at his
moustache self-consciously.

The king nodded, looking past the man.
He pointed. ‘This is impressive, Rashid. You have worked hard.’

The man, who was the chief
archaeologist of the dig, made a self-deprecating shrug. ‘All we
needed to do was clear the upper levels. It was all waiting for
us.’

‘Good, good,’ said the king,
sticking out his lower lip. He waved his hand at the yawning chasm.
‘All the little openings down there. Where do they lead?
Tombs?’

The archaeologist smiled, but
not too broadly. ‘No, great one. What you perceive as small
openings are in fact very large. Twenty feet high, perhaps. They
lead out into the city, which has lain hidden beneath the tell
above for thousands of years.’

‘So what have you found?’

The archaeologist gestured
towards the steps. ‘If you would allow me to precede you, great
one, I shall take you to it. Take care. We have set ropes into the
wall for support, but the steps are still shallow and very worn.’
He did not mention the six workers who had already fallen to their
deaths from the steps. As yet, the team had not penetrated to the
bottom of the shaft.

Slowly, the royal entourage
made its way down the steps. Occasionally, the archaeologist would
pause to indicate features of interest to the king. ‘At one time
the whole of the walls would have been painted, but most of it has
gone now. At least in this place. There are treasures to be found
further within.’ They looked into some of the openings, but Rashid
did not lead them inside.

As they descended, Nimnezzar
noticed that the air changed. It was no longer humid, but almost of
blood heat. It smelled dry and faintly electric. He had expected
mustiness, the stench of corpse-dust, perhaps a trace of ancient
incense.

‘Here, great one.’ The
archaeologist had paused on one of the ledges.

The king joined him. Within, he sensed
the bustle of industry. ‘In here?’

‘Yes. Please lead us. It is
quite safe.’

The king entered the opening,
and as he did so, a strange, fleeting feeling gripped his body and
an echo of a sound — a deep, resonating tone — vibrated through
him. He was aware of the antiquity of the stone walls around him,
aware of their memories. He belonged in this place. It knew
him.

The walls here were painted
with figures; winged men, goat-headed guardians, serpent women. The
king had never seen art like it anywhere else in his kingdom, and
he examined every excavation personally. He paused and touched one
of the walls. It felt warm beneath his fingers. These are the faces
of my ancestors, he thought.

His party waited for him to
enjoy this private moment, their breath stilled.

Then, he exhaled through his
nose and continued to walk down the corridor. Everyone
followed.

Open doorways appeared on both
sides of the tunnel. The king stopped to look into each chamber.
All were furnished, with long tables and shelves.

‘We think this was a market
quarter,’ said the archaeologist. ‘Remains have been found of
cloth, jewellery, coin, even dried food. It is amazing that so much
of it remains given the age of the place. It has never been
plundered. No-one has found it before.’ Rashid frowned, clearly
remembering he was perhaps touching upon the volatile politics of
earlier regimes. In those days, all interest in the pagan past had
been seen as heresy and men such as Rashid, who had a keen,
academic interest in antiquities, had known it prudent not to talk
about their obsessions. Rashid had resigned himself to a life
working behind a desk, but since Nimnezzar had seized power, things
had changed dramatically. There were now whispers that previous
rulers had known all about the forbidden legacy of their land, but
had kept quiet about it, no doubt believing it was the work of
Iblis. Still, for Rashid, it meant that a life of bureaucratic
dullness, with no prospects, had been changed to that of limitless
possibilities. The king thought well of his archaeologists and
rewarded them highly. Rashid could smell the exciting perfume of
his land’s ancient heritage; he could taste its dust in his
mouth.

Nimnezzar was not thinking
about the recent past. It meant nothing to him now, for he had
changed the course of the history of his people. He considered that
perhaps no-one had dared venture here before, and then remembered
the warning of the old man, Hassan.

‘Who lived here?’ asked one of
the king’s guard, a senior officer.

The archaeologist smiled
widely. ‘Why, sir, the ancestors of our beloved king. The Arallu
lived here, demon lords, the sons of angels.’

‘Yes.’ Nimnezzar nodded. ‘They
were here.’ He spoke with authority, and no-one doubted that he
could hear the voice of the past welcoming him home.

‘Have you found... any bodies?’
asked the officer.

The king flicked him an
admonishing glance. The question lacked propriety.

The officer made an apologetic
gesture. ‘I mean, is there any physical evidence remaining of the
Revered Ancients?’

The archaeologist steepled his
fingers beneath his chin. Otherwise, his body was perfectly still.
‘No-one was left here. The city was clearly abandoned. They left
belongings, but nothing else. No animals, no birds. There are no
catacombs. But...’ He flapped his hands. ‘Come, come. See for
yourselves.’

Now he preceded the king down
the corridor. They came across a huddle of workers outside a
doorway. All dropped their tools and panniers, and fell to their
knees at the king’s approach, placing their foreheads carefully
against the stone floor. The king ignored them. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘And
this?’

‘You sense its significance,
great one,’ said Rashid. He bustled through the prostrate
crowd.

They entered a circular
chamber. The walls were painted with sentinel figures, their
attenuated, ophidian faces grave and watchful. They wore long robes
of dark red, over which lay cloaks of feathers. There was another
opening opposite the entrance, but it did not appear to be a
natural doorway, rather that it had been hacked out from the stone
walls. Rubble lay to either side. The king frowned at the sight.
‘What has happened here?’