by Wendy Alec
Aretas’ countenance immediately softened as he embraced the tiny girl, and then held her at arm’s length, gently brushing the unruly dark locks that tumbled down her face. ‘Jotapa! At all times you are a princess of the royal household of Aretas. You have been playing in the dirt again?’
Jotapa giggled. ‘Jotapa build castle ... for Papa, the king...’
Aretas threw back his head, laughing loud and long. ‘I go to visit a young king, Jotapa, a king of the Hebrews.’
Tenderly he stroked his daughter’s pretty heart-shaped face. ‘If he is gracious and just...’ Aretas looked adoringly at Jotapa. ‘...and handsome...’ He sat her on his knee. ‘...very, very handsome, we could arrange a marriage, an alliance of the houses of Arabia and Judea.’
Balthazar smiled and shook his head, gently laying his hand on the king’s shoulder. ‘My dear Aretas...’ He gazed strangely into the distance. ‘This is no earthly king we seek...’
‘You speak as my father spoke. You are aware that I am not a religious man, Balthazar. Your deep sayings are best left for the evening feast, when I can digest them with jugs of wine!’
Aretas raised Jotapa from his lap high into the air and, amid her squeals of laughter, remounted his stallion and placed her in front of him, where she sang softly to herself. Balthazar rode at their side through the colonnaded streets until they reached the gleaming marble courtyard of the royal palace.
Gaspar and Melchior strode through the courtyard towards them. Gaspar bowed low. ‘The star ... the star, it moves, my lord Balthazar!’
Both Balthazar and Aretas looked up at the heavens. Balthazar dismounted, exultant. ‘It moves towards the northwestern regions, Your Majesty. It is there we will find the Messiah, our compatriot of whom Daniel spoke.’
Aretas dismounted and placed Jotapa firmly on the stone floor of the palace courtyard.
‘We must make haste to the councils of Jerusalem, Melchior,’ Balthazar instructed.
Aretas lifted his hand. ‘My ambassadors are in contact lately with him they call Herod the Great, vassal king of Judea.’
Melchior’s face grew somber. ‘Herod the Edomite?’ He frowned.
Balthazar’s brows furrowed. ‘The stories of his cruelty have circulated even to Persia, Aretas. He murders chief priests of the Sanhedrin. Even his wife and three sons...’
Aretas paced the courtyard, hands behind his back. ‘You have heard, I am sure, from my father, that Herod’s mother, Kufra, was a Nabatean princess ... that Herod spent time in our midst as a boy.’
Balthazar nodded. ‘This I know. I know also that when Herod was forced to flee Jerusalem, your father repulsed his request to find asylum in Petra.’
‘Yes, there has been bad blood – Cleopatra ... Syllaeus...’
‘It is precarious at best. Be assured in this matter,’ Balthazar stated grimly.
Aretas nodded. ‘He is a cruel and ruthless tyrant, of that I am aware. Not to be trusted – but various political relations exist between our countries, and the disputes over our borders have intensified these last months. He presses to meet with me.’
He knelt down and caressed Jotapa’s chin gently. ‘Now learn a king’s wisdom, my princess. The size and dignity of our caravan will at least bid him be hospitable until he searches out our real purpose. He will aid us in our search, with the intent of using us for his own...’
Gently he handed Jotapa to his royal steward, amid her protestations. He kissed her lovingly on both cheeks and waved them away.
Aretas stood upright and looked at Balthazar soberly. ‘Rather, we will use him for ours!’
He clapped his hands and servants presented themselves immediately. ‘Prepare the caskets of gold and spices for the king of Judea...’
He turned to Balthazar and smiled. ‘We shall receive a king’s welcome in Jerusalem, old friend – and Herod the Great himself shall summon us!’
* * *
2021
Alexandria, Egypt
Nick De Vere pressed down on the accelerator of the rented silver 2009 sport Range Rover. He had arrived at Cairo airport this morning from Heathrow, exhausted, to find this, the only four-wheel-drive vehicle left in the car rental bays.
‘Not bad for an old girl,’ he murmured as he roared up the sprawling western desert highway at high speed towards Alexandria. It had been eight years since he last visited Alexandria, the ‘Pearl of the Mediterranean’. Then the road had been desolate, traffic free and truly barren but now great swathes of agricultural land, horse-breeding farms and palatial estates lined the roadside. Thirty kilometres outside Alexandria’s city limits, just before the Desert Roads City Gate toll station, he made a sharp right turn, pushed the gear into four-wheel drive, and sped across the desert plains, leaving a huge cloud of dust behind him.
Nearly an hour later, far in the distance, the formidable fortification came into view. The ancient granite walls of the Monastery of Archangels, carved from the huge mountain behind the monastery fortress that had withstood centuries of Roman persecution against the Egyptian Christians, stood between ten and thirty-five metres tall and three metres thick. And now this was the final resting place of the greatest archaeological discovery of the twenty-first century: the secret annals of Lucifer.
Five weeks ago, the priceless antiquity had been moved from the high-security archaeological vaults of the Royal palace museum in Amman, Jordan, to the monastery, immediately after the tenuous cease-fire pact following the bloody Pan Arab-Russian – Israeli War. And here the antiquity would remain.
Nick’s jaw clenched. It had been his discovery, three-and-a-half years previously, from his archaeological excavations at Petra. And the entire world was oblivious of the fact – and would remain so, thanks to the royal household of Jordan. And to his overriding need for the inordinate sum stashed in a Swiss Bank account in his name, in exchange for his silence. Nick sighed.
He slammed his hand on the steering wheel in frustration. Pulling to a stop directly outside the towering western gate, he found it deserted. He eased his tall, lanky frame out of the Range Rover and walked over to the gate.
Nick De Vere would be twenty-nine next month, the youngest of three brothers belonging to an inordinately wealthy banking dynasty, the De Vere family. He was handsome, almost pretty, with intelligent deep-set grey eyes above an aquiline nose and high cheekbones. His fine sunbleached hair, cut long, grazed his dark grey T-shirt.
Life had recently dealt Nick De Vere two hard blows in succession. His trust fund had been frozen by his father, James De Vere, the evening before his fatal heart attack. And now Nick, too, was dying. Of AIDS. He had been on the most advanced antiretroviral therapy for four years, but now his body was failing rapidly.
He swiped the blond fringe impatiently out of his eyes. Peering upwards, he could vaguely make out two Bedouin men playing backgammon, gesticulating and talking in rising voices, oblivious to his presence.
Nick got back into the Range Rover, slammed the door, and leaned on the horn. Instantly the two Bedouins scrambled to their feet and hurried to the gate, their long robes flying behind them. There was a loud scraping and groaning of wood as a huge lift contraption descended over the side of the monastery wall.
Nick looked in disbelief up at the swaying lift. The older Bedouin pointed down at him.
‘You get in...’ he said giving Nick a wide, toothless smile.
‘Open the gates!’ Nick demanded.
‘Gates no open – you get in.’ The man pointed to the wooden contraption, then pointed upward to a door in the wall, thirty feet up.
Nick closed his eyes in disbelief, then banged on the car bonnet.
‘My car?’
‘Only foot ... and helicopter,’ the Bedouin shrugged. ‘No motor,’ he stated emphatically.
Nick slammed the car door, rolled his eyes and walked into the wooden lift, which started to swing wildly as the two Arab men hauled it up towards the small door by a system of pulleys.
* * *
�
��This way! This way!’
An elderly priest gestured for Nick to follow him through the fields, ripe with vegetables, pomegranates and herbs. They walked past rows of date palms and olive trees, past an olive press, then through a second inner courtyard. Nick had the distinct feeling he was being watched ... observed. As they continued past the monks’ refectory towards an ancient watchtower, Nick slowed down, staring up towards the rotating Solar Telescope dome on the monastery observatory. The priest frowned, motioning him forward.
Nick obediently followed the hunched figure through a walled garden of sycamore trees onto a small stone path that twisted past a vast pond filled with exquisite pink lotus blossoms that rose above the murky waters. They stopped at a rusted metal gateway, the entrance to the sprawling ancient wing of the monastery.
Nick watched intently as the priest reverently made the sign of the cross, then swiftly entered a code in the sophisticated security system. The metal gates slowly opened. They made their way along numerous winding ancient corridors, permeated with the aroma of inks and leather mingled with myrrh, then through an enormous library occupied by hundreds of monks silently archiving data into state-of-the-art Apple Mac computer systems. Nick ducked as they continued through a low dank tunnel. Finally they reached what appeared to be a crypt door.
Two broad-shouldered soldiers holding submachine guns materialized, as if from nowhere, on either side of Nick. Their heads were clean-shaven, and he immediately recognized the digital pattern on their uniforms, Jordan’s elite special operations command.
The old priest handed a document embossed with the Royal Hashemite seal to the taller soldier. ‘He has been granted access to photograph the annals.’ The old priest lowered his eyes to the floor, bowed, then scurried away.
Nick frowned. Suddenly he was shoved hard against the stone wall, his arms splayed out, and rigorously searched by the first soldier. The second grabbed his camera and unceremoniously dumped the contents of Nick’s pockets and bag onto a tray, which he sent through a sophisticated-looking scanner.
He glared at the guard. Five seconds later, he was pushed roughly back towards the door. The first soldier gestured for him to remove his belongings from the tray. Seething, Nick bent down and stowed them back in his bag. He held his camera tightly.
The taller soldier gestured to Nick to follow him through the door. There he found himself in an enormous antechamber, surrounded by at least twelve separate smaller chambers containing the most magnificent collection of antiquities he had ever laid his eyes on. Egyptian, Etruscan, Persian, Assyrian, and Chaldean artefacts, Arabian mosaics and frescos, Greek and Russian icons, original works by Raphael, Leonardo Da Vinci, Titian, Perugino. Priceless treasures.
But ahead of him was the largest chamber. Nick stepped inside, his attention caught by a diorite statue to his right. He frowned. It seemed strangely familiar ... Now he remembered. Its photograph had been circulated throughout Europe on Interpol’s red list of looted Iraqi antiquities. Fascinated, he moved nearer. Hundreds of volumes of manuscripts lay stacked from floor to ceiling. He caught sight of a stone tablet lying inside a glass case. He stared at the tablet, enthralled at the wedge-shaped depressions.
‘The lost legacies of ancient Mesopotamia ... the priceless collection of cylinder seals...’ He stared at the tablet, mesmerized, feeling in his pocket for his camera. Slowly, carefully, he lined up the palm-size digital camera directly with the tablet. ‘Unbelievable.’
Slim manicured fingers snatched the camera firmly from his grasp.
‘No photographs here, Mr De Vere. You must abide by our conditions.’
Nick swung around to find himself staring down into a pair of flashing brown eyes. He bowed his head respectfully.
‘Your Majesty...’
‘We don’t suffer fools gladly, Mr De Vere. Please make sure you respect our agreement, or I can assure you that all licences that we, the Jordanian people, have approved for your work shall immediately be revoked.’
Nick studied the princess before him. She seemed young ... much younger than in any photograph he had ever seen of her – twenty-two, he guessed, definitely not more than twenty-four. She was petite and slim, fine-boned, her high cheekbones and regal features framed by gleaming black tresses that fell past her shoulders. She was understated, dressed only in a pair of faded jeans and white cotton T-shirt, the only sign of inordinate wealth the slim diamond Audemars Piguet watch on her left wrist.
She watched him surveying her, and a slight smile flickered across her mouth.
‘The cuneiform tablets with the missing parts of the epic of Gilmagesh, the earliest written words, a bronze relief from 4000 BC – worth a hundred Mona Lisas,’ the princess of Jordan uttered softly, as though reciting a sacred doxology.
‘Our government returned to the state of Iraq thousands of stolen antiquities that had been smuggled into Jordan during the war in the early 2000s,’ she continued. ‘The sacred vase of Warka, the statue of Entemena, the remainder we bought back, for hundreds of millions of dollars, off the black market in Switzerland. They emerged everywhere: Teherani bazaars, Paris. A US Airport.’ She hesitated. ‘We were patient. Most of the looted treasures eventually surfaced in London.’
She looked directly into Nick’s piercing grey eyes.
‘The world’s largest centre for trade in Islamic art,’ Nick murmured. ‘Uncle Lawrence...’
The princess nodded.
‘Lawrence St Cartier’s network of contacts was extremely useful to the royal house. We now own the largest and most important collection of illuminated manuscripts in the world, apart from the Vatican’s.’
She continued walking. ‘In 180 BC, the Nabateans were bequeathed this monastery by an ancient caste of priests connected with the Royal Courts of Egypt. Egyptian governments throughout the centuries have held its historical heritage in high esteem and continue to honour its present treaty with the Hashemite Kingdom. The royal household of Jordan has kept its priceless treasures hidden from the prying eyes of the outside world, confined behind these walls, in these crypts. We are deeply indebted to your sister-in-law’s uncle’ – she hesitated – ‘and, of course, to you.’
Safwat, her chief of security, walked towards the princess. He was lean and clean cut.
‘Your Majesty,’ he spoke in a low voice in clipped Arabic tones. ‘Your helicopter arrives in fifteen minutes.’ She nodded in acknowledgement, then turned to Nick. ‘Follow me.’
She walked briskly back into the antechamber and turned left down a narrow, dimly lit tunnel.
‘Your English is impeccable, Your Highness,’ Nick said. ‘I read that you were educated at Oxford.’
‘Ancient history and classical archaeology.’
Nick followed closely behind, keeping pace with her through the narrow winding corridors. He could distinguish the faint aroma of myrrh.
‘An English education ... like your father...’
‘Ah,’ the princess replied, ‘but you, like us, are not British, either, Mr De Vere. Let me see...’ Her English accent carried only the faintest Arabic inflection. ‘You were born in Washington, DC, into the De Vere dynasty. Your father was named American ambassador to the United Kingdom five years after you were born. You grew up in Great Britain – Regent’s Park, to be precise. Educated at Gordonstoun, studied serious archaeology at Cambridge, Mensa IQ, gifted, your Achilles’ heel drugs and a playboy lifestyle. Black sheep of the family, trust fund frozen. Your eldest brother, Jason De Vere, US media tycoon extraordinaire, owns a third of the Western world’s television and newspaper empires.
‘Middle brother, Adrian De Vere, youngest prime minister of the United Kingdom and newly appointed president of the United States of Europe; Nobel Peace Prize nominee.
‘In 2014 you were involved in an accident in which your eldest brother’s daughter was permanently crippled. You were the driver; you were inebriated at the time. Jason De Vere has not talked to you from that day on.’
Nick glared in the direc
tion of the princess’s fast disappearing back.
‘You contracted AIDS four years ago. Adrian De Vere paid for the best treatments in Switzerland, London and the Mayo Clinic, but alas, in the past five months, your body has not responded favourably to any of the treatments.’
Nick fought to control the rage building inside him at this prying teenage royal. ‘My private life is no concern of...’
‘You are a fool, Nicholas De Vere,’ she interrupted sharply. ‘Since your brother’s stellar political ascent, your entire family has been under every government’s close surveillance: Interpol, Europol, the CIA, M16, Mossad, SAVAMA, the FSB, and the Jordanian secret service – all are watching you.’
She turned abruptly sharp right down into a small dank stairway. Nick followed.
‘My brother, the crown prince, and I meet with your brother and the United Arab Nations next month in Damascus for the signing of the greatest peace accord in the twenty-first century. For the first time, we are all at the same table: China, North Korea, Europe, the Pan-Arab Union, the United States, Russia, and Israel. There may finally be peace in our time.’
She turned towards him in the stairwell. ‘We have granted your access to continue your study of the annals. However, Lawrence St Cartier asked me to return a favour – strictly business. You wished to see the cross that is spoken of in the annals?’
Nick drew a deep breath; all his anger instantaneously evaporated.
‘The cross exists, then?’
Nick stepped towards the princess, a strange glitter in his eyes. ‘Oh, yes, Nicholas De Vere, it exists...’
The princess walked briskly down the damp stone stairs.
‘Legend has it that it possesses strange healing powers.’ Nick’s voice echoed after the disappearing princess. He clambered down the stairwell after her.
‘Legends are very powerful in the minds of those who believe,’ the princess countered.
‘Legend has it that Aretas the Fourth protected the Christ child in His flight from Egypt...,’ Nick’s eyes shone with exhilaration, ‘that he brought Him here to this monastery, to an ancient caste of magi...’ Nick stopped, sweat suddenly pouring down his brow. He grasped the stair rail to steady himself.