by Wendy Alec
‘Busy – what else would Jason be? Chasing his latest mergers, cementing deals, drinks with the president...’
‘The US President?’ Nick raised his eyebrows. Julia nodded. ‘He’s working with Beijing – some huge merger with VOX Media and the Chinese government. Very complicated ... involves the White House. Uncle Lawrence keeps me up to date; he still sees him occasionally on his trips to New York. And you? Have you heard from him?’ The waitress returned with the tea and champagne.
Nick shrugged his shoulders.
‘Why would I hear, Jules? He cut me off after the accident. No – never a word. Adrian keeps me in the loop, though. Thank God for Adrian.’
Julia studied Nick. ‘I know he’s been good to you.’ She poured Nick’s Earl Grey tea into a cup.
‘Thanks, sis.’ Nick leaned back in his chair. ‘More than good, Julia – he sent me to the top clinics, paid for all my treatment ... he kept me alive.’
Julia lowered her voice.
‘It’s tragic about Melissa – she was so young and beautiful – and the baby.’
Nick shook his head. ‘Adrian didn’t deserve that.’ Julia lowered her eyes.
‘The medication’s working – you look stronger.’
He gave a wry smile. ‘You were always a terrible liar, Julia. The treatments stopped working – it’s Russian Roulette.’ He shrugged. ‘I’m in the hands of the gods.’ He took a sip of his tea. ‘Not that there are any gods.’
Julia bit her lip. ‘Uncle Lawrence is so proud of you,’ she said softly. ‘When Lily and I were with him in Greece, he mentioned you’d made this incredible find in Petra, but it’s been kept under wraps for years by the Jordanian government – can’t we release it to the press? Get you some serious mileage...’ She shook her head.
‘God knows, Nick, your face has been splashed over the tabloids with all the ghastly inner workings of your personal life ... the cocaine and the AIDS ... We could get incredible mileage from this – turn the tables on the London gutter press and paparazzi, kid. Portray you as the serious archaeologist you are.’
Nick gave her a pained look. ‘Nah, I can’t, Jules – I’ve given my word.’
She frowned.
‘I’ve taken the money. The price of silence.’
‘The Jordanian government?’ He nodded.
‘It was huge, Jules.’ He smiled sheepishly. ‘With my trust fund frozen, I had to take it. God – Dad hated my relationship with Klaus.’
‘And that pretty Jordanian princess ... the archaeologist?’ She smiled at him gently.
Nick flushed. ‘Yes.’ His eyes grew soft. ‘She’s quite something.’ He changed the subject abruptly. ‘Dylan Weaver’s meeting me at Terminal Four...’ Julia frowned.
‘The brain...’ Nick prompted.
‘Your old roommate?’ Distant memories flooded back. Of Nick surrounded by tanned, adoring American girls on his summer vacations in Cape Cod and of the pasty, chubby spectacled boy, his best friend from Gordonstoun College in Scotland, who would arrive with Nick, his laptop in tow, and eat them out of house and home. Nick and Dylan had been inseparable.
‘He still detests megalomanic Jason,’ Nick grinned.
‘–but had a crush on you!’ Julia laughed. ‘That’s because I found him the only supplier of British fish and chips and mushy peas on the entire USA East Coast! ‘Nick grinned. ‘He’s chief of IT security for Microsoft Europe...’
Julia raised her eyebrows. ‘Impressive!’ She took a long sip of champagne.
‘You’re meeting Uncle Lawrence tomorrow?’
‘In Alexandria, at the monastery. How is he?’
‘He’s good – amazing for nearly eighty-six. He’s with your mother in Bali at the moment, tracking down some ancient monstrosity for the British Museum. He escorts her to New York, then flies straight out to join you in Egypt.’ Julia looked at her watch. ‘Your plane leaves in four hours. I’ll drive you to Heathrow. I’ve a working dinner appointment at Hampton Court – it’s not far out of my way.’
Nick topped up his tea. ‘Thanks, sis.’
He was looking forward to seeing that tough old man that was Julia’s great uncle – ex-Jesuit priest turned CIA agent turned antiquities expert – the enigma that was Lawrence St Cartier.
Chapter Twenty
Kerf Kenna – AD 27
It was dusk, and the flaming torches of the bridal party lit up the main street of Kerf Kenna. Mary, now in her mid-forties, older but still beautiful, stood with the older women in the doorway of the bride’s house, her face radiant. She gazed down the road, hoping for a glimpse of Jesus. There He stood, a tall, lean figure in the centre of the crowd, applauding the bridal couple loudly, swept up in the gaiety of the precedings, His face wreathed in laughter.
The handsome young prophet from Nazareth.
Mary passed the garland in her hand to an old woman next to her, then grabbed a jar of oil and a basket of nuts, and ran down the path towards her son. Immediately she was set upon by a horde of excited children, all reaching out their hands. She pushed her hair back from her face. Dipping her hand into the basket, she threw the nuts and sweets high in the air. The children shrieked with exhiliration. Then one of them caught sight of Jesus. The five-year-old let out a raucous scream of delight and ran full tilt straight towards Him, with a horde of other children yelling behind him. The children tugged at His robe, their grimy hands feeling inside the folds and bringing out handfuls of sweetmeats. One small boy of two years with unruly black curls, crowded out by the bigger children and unable to reach Jesus, started to cry stridently. Jesus bent down and winked at him, secretly passing him a sticky-looking cake.
The toddler tore the wrapping off eagerly, stuffing the cake into his mouth, his face smeared with the dark sticky substance. Then Jesus hoisted him onto His shoulders, His robe still being plundered by the other unruly youngsters.
Mary studied her son, her mind suddenly racing back to when Jesus Himself had been just such a young boy, running loudly and exuberantly to her, tugging on her garments for sweet cakes just as the children had tonight.
How the years had flown, she pondered.
And the boy had become a man. With maturity His features were now strong and refined. His eyes were still deep mercurial pools, changing hues with His moods as when He was very young. At times, like tonight, she still glimpsed the humour and mischief of His youth. Mary smiled. He had been strong – even when He was small – strong-willed to the point of stubborn when He believed He was right. And courageous. Fiercely protective of those weaker than Himself. Compassionate. How the years had flown. Mary gazed at her son. He had just turned thirty. The thick dark chestnut hair was streaked by the sun and still had a tendency to be unruly, but now it fell down across His broad shoulders like a gleaming mane. He still had His dimples, which had never disappeared ... and that smile.
She shook her head. That smile that must have broken a thousand hearts since the age of four. The room became electric whenever Jesus walked in, even as a toddler. The girls had always found Him irresistible. Her old maiden aunts baked Him cakes and had spun childhood robes and sashes for Him. Children adored Him. His boyhood friends were ardently devoted to Him, and His uncle and cousins had always been fiercely protective of the gracious, noble child.
Her expression grew soft, as she remembered how Jesus used to regale all His young friends with His stories of the land of the great Rubied Door. There was one particular dusk that particularly stood out in her memory shortly after Jesus’ sixth birthday.
Fourteen of His young friends and neighbours had gathered in the meadow behind the small stone house, clothed in their bright scarlet and blue tunics, sitting cross-legged in a circle. Jesus sat in the centre, on an overturned wooden crate of Joseph’s. Jesus’ face had shone, almost with an unearthly glow as He told about an enchanted land of crystal palaces and portals that peaked into seven spires. Of labyrinths and hanging gardens, where two silver trees stood and where blue and silver pomegranates grew
and flowers sprang back up after being trodden on.
The band of small boys and girls from Nazareth had hung onto every syllable, entranced by the storybook land whose streets were of transluscent gold, where beaches stretched for leagues of pearl sands – and a soaring crystal palace was carved out of one immense diamond – the home of the Great King.
Then Joseph, weary from a day’s hard work with his hands, had come quietly and sat, as had the ageing Rabbi and his teenage pupils from the local synagogue. Mary too had stopped her spinning and sat quietly under the branches of the wide, spreading fig trees to listen. She had watched as the strain and weariness of life seemed to literally ebb away from the men’s and women’s eyes and faces as Jesus spoke of heavenly councils of ancient angelic monarchs, the governors of heaven, their white hair like cascades of spun silk falling to the floor, and golden crowns upon their heads. And of one called Jether the Just, who reigned over twenty-four. Jesus closed His eyes as He spoke of the chief princes of heaven, the archangels. Of the imperial Michael, commander of heaven’s armies, and noble Gabriel, the Revelator.
The breathtaking world that lay beyond the Rubied Door. A world where no tears were shed, no sorrow existed. A world where there was no death, only love and peace and always laughter.
And then Jesus stopped and His eyes misted over. Mary could still hear His awed whisper describing the great golden Rubied Door, ablaze with light, that was embedded into the jacinth walls of the tower – the entrance to the throne room.
And the old Rabbi’s eyes lit up with exhilaration as he clutched the boy’s hand with his old wrinkled one, drinking in every word. ‘Tell us again of the Great King of the Universe.’
And tears would well up in Joseph’s eyes, and an awed stillness would fall over the giggling children, so that the only sound was the murmuring of the doves.
‘His hair and head...’ Jesus whispered.
‘...are white like snow,’ the children murmured.
‘His eyes flash...’
‘Like flames of living fire,’ the children shouted in awed unison.
‘Tell us of His great and tender compassions,’ the old Rabbi murmured.
And Mary could still picture the exquisite anguish on Jesus’ face as He had gazed up to the heavens, His eyes filled with adoration.
‘Abba is so beautiful...’ He had whispered in longing, staring out towards the cloudless blue horizon.
Remembering, Mary took in a sharp breath. When He had been but four years old, she had heard Him sobbing in the night and had rushed to Him. He had clung to her, the hot tears coursing down His cheeks. She had raised His heart-shaped face to hers,
‘Mama! Mama!’ He had cried, hardly able to speak for the intense sobbing. ‘I want the Ruby Door ... I want My Abba! The anguish of an infant separated from His beloved father had imprinted itself on her very soul.
She had never heard Him sob in such a manner again, but on occasion through the years as He grew older, long after midnight, she would find His bed empty, and she knew that He was walking the lush Galilean hillsides under the vast glittering starry skies ... talking to His beloved ‘Abba’.
She held all these things deep in her heart and pondered them. She started, her reverie broken by the loud uproar that broke out as the young bride neared the bridegroom’s house. A nervous-looking young man was pushed forward, down the small dusty street by a clamouring crowd of his teenage friends. He walked towards the young bride and took her hand. Jesus and the crowd erupted wildly as the bridegroom conducted her into his house, walking among the excited throng and through the open doorway.
The dining hallroom was brilliantly lit with candelabras and lamps. Massive tables groaned under the weight of the sumptuous provisions for the seven-day feast. Chickens, salads, brightly coloured fruits were crammed together on the tables. A small orchestra played their lyres for the hundreds of guests, standing or seated on couches and cushions. The children and youths whirled and danced with unending energy in the centre of the hall.
Jesus was quickly surrounded by children, clutching at His hands, drawing Him towards the dancing. In no time at all, He and the children were all dancing exuberantly and out of time to the music, singing and chanting loudly and off key. Mary watched from the kitchen, shaking her head in merriment.
The orchestra stopped, and Jesus wiped His brow. He turned to where Peter and John sat reclining on couches. Jesus heaved a sigh of relief and walked over to a couch and sat down, exhausted. Peter passed Him a cup of water, then ripped the leg off a chicken and munched on it, chewing loudly. Jesus looked at him from under His eyebrows. Pained. Peter grinned sheepishly.
‘Get some rest, Jesus. First the crowds, now the children ... always the children.’
Jesus removed His sandals, closed His eyes in bliss, and leaned His head back.
Mary gently placed her hand on His shoulder. ‘They have run out of wine.’
Jesus’ eyes remained closed, but He leaned back and clasped His mother’s work-worn hand affectionately. He was silent a long while.
‘Dear lady, what does this matter have to do with Me?’ He smiled.
Mary stood patiently. Waiting. She smiled, looking down at Him.
Finally Jesus opened His eyes and sat up. He looked at her deeply. Tenderly.
‘My time is not yet come, Mother.’
She saw that old mischief in His eyes and followed His gaze over to six huge stone jars that lay nearby, customarily used for ceremonial washing, each able to hold up to thirty gallons of water. Suddenly He smiled brilliantly.
Mary grabbed His face in her hands and kissed His forehead. Then she grasped the steward’s arm. ‘Whatever my son instructs you, do it!’
Huddled in the far corner, his striking features half-shadowed by the flickering lanterns, an educated stranger from the south watched intently as Jesus instructed the servants to fill the jars to the brim.
The man’s name was Judas Iscariot.
* * *
Herodias reclined on her golden throne. Her butler passed her a platter of grapes while four young maidservants rubbed oils into her milk-white skin. She looked languidly up at Herod.
‘Oh, let us winter in Macherus, Herod, my dove. I am bored beyond endurance.’ She plucked a handful of grapes from the platter. ‘And Salome will be there – we would make sport with the Baptist.’
Herod sat deep in thought, his mind a thousand miles away. She leaned nearer and grasped his bangled arm.
‘Stop thinking about avenging that Arab wench!’
Herod frowned. ‘Leave the Baptist, my dove. Since he was arrested my sleep has been racked with strange and unsettling dreams. Find another arena of sport ... I implore you!’
Herodias sat bolt upright. She waved the maidservants away imperiously, then glared furiously at Herod. ‘He is vile and insubordinate. He commits treason by his accusations against us. He has cursed us. The rabble of Judaea,’ she hissed, ‘they all fall under his spell! It bodes ill for us.’
Herod walked over to the palace balcony, staring over the gardens of the princes, towards the lake. Herodias walked over and joined him.
‘His oratory is compelling,’ he murmured, deep in thought.
‘You are weak, Antipas.’ Herodias pushed him from her roughly. ‘You couldn’t even dispose of that Arab wench you took as a wife.’ She spat. ‘She ran back to Papa, and now you have Aretas’ bloodthirsty mob screaming for our blood.’
She paced the balcony like a panther. ‘Why can’t you be like your father – strong, decisive?’ He would have had that Baptist’s head the first day he started uttering his poison!’she declared.
Herod placed his hands over his head, then stood to his feet.
‘Prepare the caravan, Caspius! We will winter in Macherus!’
* * *
Lucifer sat behind his ornate mother-of-pearl desk encircled by his vast private library of angelic antiquities, his expression one of rare tranquility. He had returned to Perdition only a few moons ago a
nd had been unexpectedly comforted by the familiar surroundings of his Black Palace. The unrelenting pervasive gloom of Perdition agreed with his soul and his mood, after his defeat at the hands of the Nazarene. Here he could forget his humiliation, and bury himself in his antiquities. His music. His myriad intellectual pursuits. Away from the mewling crassness of the Race of Men, he mused.
His raven tresses gleamed and fell unbraided over his favourite cadium orange silk gown, past his shoulders. His long, slim fingers were bare, except for a single golden signet ring embossed with the royal crest of the House of Yehovah. A deliberate token – a reminder of the presence of the ‘Nazarene’ on his planet.
He smiled down at the magnificent young black panther, who lay, purring, its head on Lucifer’s jewelled sandals. His latest acquisition to soothe his wounded honour. Another reminder, this time of Ebony, his panther from aeons past in the First Heaven. He picked up a soft jellied saffron sweetmeat and placed it in his mouth, then continued writing in his journal, his beautiful italic lettering filling the linen pages.
Charsoc stood at the arched onyx entrance. A vulture shaman rested on his left shoulder, its eyes glittered red. Charsoc bowed low. ‘There has been an incident, Your Majesty. It concerns the Nazarene.’
Lucifer continued his lettering with his left hand, holding out his right hand to Balberith, who lifted a silver flagon filled with exotic berry elixirs and poured the liqueur filling Lucifer’s goblet, Still Lucifer did not look up.
‘Of what manner of incident do you speak, Charsoc?’ he mumbled.
‘It seems ... Your Majesty, that there has been a matter of transubstantiation.’
‘Speak plainly, I command you.’ He sipped, darkness clouded his countenance.
‘The Nazarene – He is using His powers to change molecular ... that is, He changes water into wine.’
Lucifer scowled. ‘Child’s play,’ he muttered. He dipped his quill in the purple ink and continued his lettering.
‘The terms of His status are altered by His passing the temptations, sire. He passed the test as one of the Race of Men, thereby securing divine right to use His supernatural powers from the First Heaven.’ Charsoc said.