by K. T. Tomb
He looked over himself, dressed in flimsy robes which the society garbed him in, and then to One Eye, who was heading the ceremony. If it had not already been proved, One Eye would still think that the sun went around the Earth. His ideas were archaic and chaotic, but in technical terms the man, whose name he had never learned, actually outranked him in this arena. Something to do with 12th level Observator privilege which struck Tony as ironic, given One Eye’s obvious biological lack of depth perception.
Tony, on the other hand, was the one who looked at the stars to tell the positions of the Earth. He was the one who investigated and believed and did not go on blind faith. He was a practical man, a fast thinker, an actor. Cop. How did he get into this? Of course he remembered why, it was the promise of power. Advancement. The realization that the tendrils of the society went so far and so deep that to ignore them was to accept slavery and to remain another member of the bovine herd instead of ascending to the higher echelons and attaining the divine. What a joke, the only real divinity was in the exertion of power. The strong always survived, and the best chance of survival which Tony had was with Illuminati Reborn.
The chanting around Tony grew louder and louder until his ears and head ached. All he wanted was for this to be over, but he followed with the rest of them, reciting his parts with an external show of fervor.
As the ritual neared its end, everyone gathered around the altar where the now disemboweled creature had finally stopped wailing. He was lying dead in a heap of blood and entrails that ran from inside him to under the mahogany table that served as the sacrificial altar, collected by a silver bowl which overflowed with gore. The stench was sour, fecal, sanguine and profane. As he had seen before with these cowled figures, none of whom he knew the true names, although he suspected they all knew his, the sacred event would soon be followed in the wake of slaughter.
He saw One Eye smear his hands in goat blood and pour on it a tar-like, black substance which caused some kind of chemical reaction with the blood of the goat, fizzing in alkaloid alchemy, producing great gouts of sputtering green-black smoke which engulfed One Eye. Tony had once been told that the ritual was once performed with the blood of virgin girls. As an unfortunate side effect of greater documentation of the human populace over the last century, not to mention the perceived relaxation of social attitudes toward promiscuity, the society had made the reluctant decision to replace human blood with that of livestock to the detriment of the quality of the ritual. Of course, the last human sacrifice for divination had taken place long before Tony had been illuminated, so to him, the ritual was as mythical as the covenant of the Catholics or the nature worship of the druids. Unlike those forelock tugging fools, by whatever manner of description Tony chose to apply to the event or the reasoning behind it, the sacrifice always produced results. The smoke formed pillars in the air around them, great Moorish styled columns which floated in the windless environment, moving and positioning themselves with no external influence that Tony could see into great banks, filling the sacrificial chamber. One such apparition passed right through him, reforming itself on the other side of his body, and leaving a salty taste in his mouth as well as bitter fumes in his olfactory system. Over the body of the goat, at the center of the grid formed by the columns, the smoke pooled into a great flat disc four feet in diameter. A minute or so passed, and Tony looked around to the dozen men around him, who stood stock still, saying and doing nothing. He was smart enough not to question the inactivity aloud, but to be patient. After an excruciating wait of several long seconds, the pulsing and pounding of the blood in his ears the only sound apart from his shallow breathing, a change came over the apparition. A building formed in the mists, by the looks of it a Christian church. It was a style popular in the Mediterranean during the pre-Renaissance era. Moorish pillars, surrounding a Christian church. There was only one place that Tony knew of that juxtaposed the two; but why were they being shown this vision? What did it mean with regard to his goals?
“Mezquita,” One Eye said.
“Mezquita,” repeated the cloaked figures in unison.
Tony gritted his teeth. It was all well and good invoking these rituals, they never failed in their guidance, but why was everything always so obtuse? The candles which illuminated the chamber went out, and by the time he had fumbled his way to the exit, he realized he was alone, apart from One Eye, who had discarded his robes and stood in his conventional clothes. Tony felt ridiculous, but could not simply drop the consecrated garments. How did he do that? Tony followed One Eye in silence to the rooms above the chamber, through a palm print activated security door and into the office where he had left his bag and his civilian clothes. Once suitably dressed, another invasion of his privacy as One Eye watched the entire process with his one eye. The two men left the building via the exit usually reserved for diplomats and governmental aides. The United Nations building was sixteen miles from John F. Kennedy Airport, but with a diplomatic plated car and police escort, the journey would be quick even with late afternoon traffic. From previous experience, Tony knew that by the time they arrived at their destination a plane would be waiting to traverse the Atlantic to Spain.
Chapter Four
RSS feed. Lana Ambrose, 2014
The Mosque-cathedral of Córdoba, also called the Mosque of Cordoba or Mezquita de Córdoba is a medieval Islamic mosque that was converted into a Roman Catholic Christian cathedral in the Spanish city of Córdoba, Andalusia. The cathedral is regarded as one of the most accomplished monuments of Moorish architecture. Since the early 2000s, Spanish Muslims have lobbied the Roman Catholic Church to allow them to pray in the cathedral. This Muslim campaign has been rejected on multiple occasions, both by the church authorities in Spain and by the Vatican.
Lufthansa Flight LH780 to Malaga was quiet, cool and relatively silent, with limited disruption from mewling children or drunken holiday makers, thankfully.
Although used to flying by private plane or at the very minimum first class, it had been agreed that Found History would travel under assumed identities, and by coach and apart from each other as much as possible. While being a legitimate, UNESCO-endorsed investigative firm had its benefits when dealing with almost any official around the world, it had certain drawbacks when discretion in transit was a requirement; and when dealing with Agent Anthony Stewart, it seemed prudent to assume that no matter what the team did, he would hear about it, eventually. With that in mind, Chyna had sanctioned no unnecessary breaches of confidentiality which included flights, no chauffeured cars, alternate passports for everyone (not entirely legal, but sometimes it had to be considered that international law took second place to secrecy and security). Not to mention the entirely illegal smuggling of five handguns into a country in the European Union rather than arranging with local authorities for temporary licenses to carry concealed weapons. That last requirement necessitated certain special provisions, which fortunately were relatively easy to source, under the counter in Switzerland. Hermetically and magnetically sealed flight cases built for transporting guitar amplifiers had been Oscar’s idea; Chyna suspected an amusing play on the stereotype of traveling musicians who were really assassins, but in an absence of any superior plans at hand and with a restriction on the preparation time available, she gave the go-ahead for him to proceed. The Lufthansa flight subsequently loaded five bulky steel boxes containing the shells of amplifiers, some x-ray resistant lining and five pistols.
The passenger cabin had lights dimmed, and Chyna dimmed her own lights with the aid of two Valiums and a vodka tonic. In theory, she was not supposed to mix the two under any circumstances, let alone in a pressurized environment, but seeing as the prescription wasn’t hers in the first place and there was a three hour hop to try and finally get some sleep in, Chyna decided the reward outweighed the risk.
The toffee thickness of the pills cloyed her mind and slowed her motor functions deliciously. Everything was fine. She wanted to giggle at the ridiculous idea that Tony was waiting
for them in Spain with a hundred men at his command, that the rosary was a poisoned chalice. Oscar was in his customary fashion when traveling, already fast asleep and snoring, propped against the window, mouth open. The flight was slightly under booked, so there were plenty of open seats between them all. She had a spare seat in beside her upon which she had piled files of notes and printouts relating to everything Lara had managed to glean from the internet regarding the rosary. Chyna considered them, and giggled at their ridiculousness; a rosary which drove men to the brink of insanity and beyond. Was it cursed? Did curses even exist, for that matter? And what does that mean, if the rosary is a catholic relic? Did that mean that Christians were actually right?
Chyna’s historian inner self giggled some more. All the gods were false, just a fairy story to assist the weakling human race in coping with mortality and absolving themselves of true morality and responsibility for their own actions. She thought about how her own actions had led her to where she was, and wondered if there were any of them she should have carried out differently. How much blood was on her own hands? There was a lot of death on her conscience from the past, but, justifiable deaths, she reasoned. Criminal men who were bent on stealing history itself. Without doubt there would be more justifiable deaths in her future, at least one, of that she was sure.
The bastard. Maybe she’d make him wear the rosary, send him mad, make him plead to God for forgiveness before she put a bullet between his eyes.
She ordered another vodka tonic from the flight attendant, a handsome man in his twenties who, contrary to her own preconceptions, showed no sign of effeminacy. Perhaps she could take a couple of minutes to get to know him better. No. That was the Valium and vodka talking, loosening her grip. Must maintain focus. If she didn’t maintain focus she’d end up losing control entirely and she had just spent two months recovering from the consequences of that.
Focus.
Chyna leafed through some of the notes pertaining to the case, but the letters were jumping around and were illegible. Probably turbulence. She looked at the screen in the back of the chair in front of her, which showed a route of the plane’s flight plan and a little pulsing dot to show where the plane was along the line. Somewhere over the Mediterranean, but that too was jolting around, so she shuffled on her half asleep buttocks and looked up the aisle instead. The seats occupied by the Found History team were toward the rear of the plane, so she had quite a good view of the occasional back of head and the air steward making a pass at a pretty stewardess. She let her gaze wander, down the aisle, over the uniform seats with the uniform head sticking out from the top, to the uniformed stewardess and steward, eventually falling into a pair of bright blue eyes.
It was a child, maybe five years old, leaning over his arm rest and dangling his legs over the side of the chair. He waved at her. Chyna waved back, halfheartedly. The child turned back around in his seat, and Chyna couldn’t see him. What was it like to be so young, so innocent? Free from fear and guilt and pain? She couldn’t remember. How long have I been doing this, running around the world chasing things that were lost? Things that people had no real need for? And for what? What did it mean? Was she really happier, alone, on the run from a shadowy organization which proclaimed to want to control, well, everything? Most people her age were married and had children of their own. They weren’t running around the world killing people. What was any of this for?
She finished the vodka. She thought about ordering another, but wave upon wave of the Valium caressed her into a dreamless, unconscious sleep, broken only with a jolt and a nervous twitch when the wheels of the plane touched down on the tarmac a couple of hours later.
Chapter Five
RSS feed. Lana Ambrose, 2014
The Heir: Nobles in Castile were rallying to usurp the throne of Castile and put Alfonso in the seat of power. They saw Enrique as a weak king, which indeed he was, and the behavior of his wife was an insult to their virtuous culture. In 1467, Alfonso’s supporters proclaimed him King of Castile. Civil war exploded in Castile: Enrique’s forces against Alfonso’s supporters. In the end, neither side won, but instead Alfonso mysteriously died at the age of 14 in 1468, probably poisoned on Enrique’s orders, though some say that he died of the plague. Alfonso’s supporters turned their attention toward Isabel, and proclaimed Isabella as Queen of Castile. Isabella decided to not take the crown from her brother, which delighted him and made him name Isabella as his heir, which enraged his wife and his daughter, who fought to crown Juana ‘la Beltraneja’. However, Isabella had wars of her own to fight at home. Queen Juana and King Enrique were both searching for a suitor for Princess Isabel. Among them were: Charles, Duke of Berry; Richard, Duke of Gloucester; Pedro Giron, Enrique’s friend; King Alfonso V of Portugal, Queen Juana’s brother. As her brother and sister-in-law decided who to marry Isabella to, Isabella continued her relaxed lifestyle. She and her governess, Clara, and confidante, Beatriz de Bobadilla, were deep and close friends, and defied the expectations of a Castilian woman by educating themselves deeply. Isabella learned histories, arts, languages, and was very skilled in diplomatic arts.
“Ferdinand, my love.” Isabella I of Castile, or Bella, as her husband so affectionately called her, threw open the gates to the room and sprinted inside even though she knew a royal meeting was underway.
“You are all dismissed,” she said bluntly. “The meeting can continue later in the day.”
The sixteen advisors around the table looked at each other in confusion and then at the King. Ferdinand, on the other hand, was staring at his wife, wondering what she was getting at. Whatever it was, he knew by her grave expression that she was right. The meeting could continue later in the day. He turned toward them, and with a wave us his hand gave the order, “Leave us, please.”
In an instant, the hall emptied out. They wanted to talk; his advisors. They wanted to mention the queen’s consistently erratic behavior. She had changed by leaps and bounds since the day she had ascended to the throne with the king. Albeit her decisions were wise and sound, something that they did not expect from a woman, they thought she needed to go back and revisit her classes in royal etiquette. The only problem was that King Ferdinand believed her. For him, his wife was his light. He encouraged her to think, to act and what he had just done meant that he condoned her behavior as well. But for the sake of their safety and for keeping their heads on their shoulders, they remained quiet, played their part, bowed to their highnesses and went out.
As soon as she heard the door close behind them, Isabella moved toward the windows and shut the drapes, creating darkness where there had been day. She then turned to Ferdinand, who was eying her with curiosity.
“I had another,” she whispered.
His reply came fast. “What?”
She nodded gravely, and her hand reached to her neck upon which she wore the rosary. She took it off as if it were something miraculous, as if it were the treasure of Solomon, “I had another vision, Ferdinand. And... and it’s disturbing to me.”
“What was it, mi amour?” Ferdinand reached her in an instant and cupped her cheek. “You needn’t be worried or afraid. Tell me what it was and I will help you.”
“It was only fleeting, my love.” She sat down at the table where her subjects had sat only moments before, “But the Virgin is concerned. She says our land is too full of outsiders. It is plagued with people who do not respect our religion; do not follow its customs. They worship different gods, have different rituals and celebrate different festivals. Under our reign, Ferdinand! Under our reign! She says that they are the reason Spain cannot prosper. They are holding us back! Their very presence is a dark cloud which overshadows all the good deeds our faithful priests and nuns and people work so effortlessly for. The Moors and the Jews, Ferdinand! They are the ones!”
The air in the room became more and more charged with hysteria as she spoke and sobbed at the same time, and Ferdinand felt a whirlwind of emotions under his own skin. He was thankful for his wi
fe’s gift, grateful for God’s timely intervention, and just like his wife, angered by the ones who were holding his country back. Spain had seen enough turmoil as it was.
***
“Gentlemen,” Ferdinand announced to his advisers after a lengthy discussion with his queen. “We have a grave matter to discuss.”
They were all back at the table, but had been joined by the queen, who looked tired but resolute. No one could tell from afar, but there was a fire in her eyes, just under her pupils, which burned brighter by the minute, and consumed every inch of her soul.
“My wife, the queen, has been in prayer. She believes in God with all of her pure heart, and it is because of her that this meeting has resumed and will take a different tack. Your queen, she fears for the future of our country, as do we all, I’m sure.”
The advisors looked on with a mixture of expressions from doubt to confusion. Had the meeting been called solely because the queen had been in prayer? What was the meaning of it all?
“Gentlemen.” Ferdinand paused before letting out the secret he and Isabella had guarded with their lives. He didn’t want to, but it was impertinent given the circumstances.