by Mark Carver
No one paid any attention to Julian, who stood on the outskirts of the crowd and watched the scene unfold. His mind was a dizzying whirl of amazement, pride, and horror, and he unconsciously took a step forward, intending to help the suffering.
Something held him back. He stopped in mid-stride, and his brow furrowed. After a moment, he stood up straight, and he peered coldly at the chaos and death sprawled out in front of him.
Like a conqueror walking across the field of battle, he strode into the midst of the rubble, ignoring those lying helpless on the ground. The eyes of the crowd turned towards him as he jumped up onto the carcass of the fallen obelisk and raised his arms.
“Everyone! Listen to me!”
As the smoke and dust fell back to the earth, everyone looked up at Julian poised above them. He stood motionless with his arms high above his head. The only movement came from his black coat billowing in the wind.
No one made any move to apprehend him. They stood beneath him, waiting expectantly. Even the cries of pain seemed to fade away.
Julian’s eyes roamed the crowd, glaring through the haze at the bruised and bloody faces.
“Behold! The wrath of God!”
A sharp breeze slithered through the plaza.
With a cry of rage, the crowd rushed forward, their hands stretched out like claws, hate and malice twisting their faces.
Julian reached into his coat and drew out two black handguns. The mob halted instantly, cowering in fear as the gun barrels swung towards them.
“You are standing on holy ground!” Julian roared, his eyes flashing with fire. “The Great Dragon has fallen! This land and this church belong to the Most High God, and I demand that the Church of Satan relinquish its claim to Vatican City!”
A policeman stepped forward, staring up at Julian through his blood-spattered riot helmet.
“You are under arrest!”
Julian shot him in the face.
The crowd screamed in terror as the policeman fell heavily to the ground. Julian pointed his guns towards the sky and glared down at the trembling crowd.
“I am Julian Rossa Monte! The day of the Lord is coming! The father of lies shall be cast down and trampled into the dust! The Great I Am shall reclaim His throne on earth!”
With startling agility, he leaped down from his perch atop the fallen obelisk and dashed towards the Templum Satanam.
St. Peter’s Basilica, Julian shouted silently as his feet carried him rapidly across the massive square. It will always be St. Peter’s Basilica.
He heard a sharp crack behind him and an unseen force pulled him to the right. A spark flashed on the ground about two meters in front of him. He veered towards the double rows of massive columns that ringed the square. Bullets wouldn’t be able to find him so easily in there.
Heavy footfalls pounded the ground behind him. He didn’t turn around; he flew through the rows of columns like a black wind, his coat flapping crazily behind him.
He heard a rough voice command him to halt, but he paid no attention. There were only a few people in this part of the square, since nearly all of the regular tourists and worshipers had been frightened off by the violent protest.
Without breaking his stride, Julian glanced up at the Templum Satanam, majestic and defiant in the twilight as giant lamps cast beams of light across the gorgeous facade like chains attempting to restraint a mighty beast.
Adrenalin surged through Julian’s body, and despite the mortal danger he was in, his heart felt a shock, as if touched by a divine finger.
This was still the house of God. He knew it; he felt it deep within his soul. There was no trace of Satan or darkness upon that glorious church.
Everyone will know, he thought as his flying feet matched the rhythm of his panting breaths. I see it now, but soon the eyes of the entire world will be opened.
The strange but soothing voice within him spoke again.
Yes, Julian. The world will know, and you will be the one to show them. I have appointed great things for you. All you have to do is obey.
I will obey, Julian immediately answered.
He felt something smile inside of him.
Good. Now turn around and shoot.
Julian leaped into the air and twisted, whirling about to face two policemen who were surprisingly close.
In the feeble light, Julian could see the shock and amazement on their faces. As he flew backwards through the air, he aimed the guns with remarkable steadiness and fired.
The pursuing officers dropped instantly, and Julian rolled across the pavement, springing to his feet like a cat. He stared at the corpses for a moment, then dashed behind a gigantic column.
What now?
The answer was spoken as a stern command.
Wait.
Julian exhaled. He flattened himself against the cold stone.
I’m going to get caught.
The voice was insistent.
WAIT0.
Julian closed his eyes, allowing his ears to see for him. He heard shouting, screaming, sirens blaring… Footsteps fast approaching… Orders barked with authority… The whiny pattering of a Vespa scooter…
His eyes snapped open.
A Vespa?
He heard a new command.
Go.
Julian leaped out from his hiding place, brandishing his guns. The young man driving the scooter yelped with terror as he stared at the black barrels, and he immediately lost control. The front wheel wobbled crazily and both the vehicle and rider toppled to the ground. The scooter spun to a stop a few feet away from Julian, who stared at the vehicle in disbelief.
Really?
He winced as the voice shouted with anger.
GO!
Throwing a quick glance at the young man who was shaken but uninjured, he righted the scooter and leaped onto the seat. He revved the engine, wincing again at its pathetic horsepower, but he knew this was his only chance to escape.
He pushed the engine to full throttle and sped past the forest of columns, ducking low to counter the backward pull of his black coat flapping in the wind. He leaned to the left and banked sharply. The Vespa and its rider bounced onto the streets of Rome and were immediately lost in the swarm of people and cars.
PART II.
I do not fear Satan half so much as I fear those who fear him.
- Saint Teresa of Avila
CHAPTER 5
Father DeMarco leaped from his chair and rushed to the front door.
“Benito! We were looking everywhere for you!”
He embraced the young man, then held him at arm’s length.
“What happened?”
Donatella rushed over and screamed.
“Dio bono!”
Lorenzo and the others gasped with horror.
“Are you hurt?”
Benito shook his head. He trudged weakly to the kitchen table and slumped in Father DeMarco’s chair.
“Please,” he croaked, “water…”
No one moved. They could only stare at Benito’s blood-spattered face.
He peered at them one by one from beneath his dark brows.
“Water…”
Donatella jerked as if by electric shock, then stumbled to the counter and poured water from a pitcher into a glass and handed it to Benito. The young man downed it in two gulps, then hung his head.
“Benito?” Father DeMarco reached out to touch the boy’s shoulder, then quickly drew his hand back.
Benito’s shoulders quivered with silent sobs. Father DeMarco glanced at the others, then knelt down and placed a comforting hand on Benito’s knee.
“It’s okay, my son. Tell us what happened.”
“It was the woman!” Benito blurted as hot tears started streaming down his face. “She told us to do it!”
Father DeMarco’s eyes widened with confusion. “What woman? What did she tell you to do?”
Benito was crying uncontrollably. He tried to form words but they came out as incoherent sobs. Father DeMarco
rose to his feet, his face creased with concern.
“Benito,” he repeated, his voice becoming firm, yet still gentle. “Please calm down, my son. You’re home and you’re safe. No one can hurt you here.”
Benito sniffed back his tears and wiped his nose. After several deep breaths, he regained control of his nerves, and he looked at the worried faces surrounding him.
“An angel came to me,” he whispered.
Donatella suppressed another cry. “An angel?”
Benito nodded. “A woman, wearing white clothes. She was…beautiful. I’ve never been so frightened in my life. She told me…”
His voice vanished like smoke. The others leaned forward, eagerly awaiting his next words, but none came.
“What did she say?” Lorenzo snarled.
Father DeMarco shot him a silencing glare, then put his hand on Benito’s shoulder.
“What did the angel say to you, Benito?”
The young man looked up at the priest.
“She told me to go to the church.”
“The church? What church?”
“The Cathedral of Saint Guisto.”
Father DeMarco grabbed the back of the chair for support. “The temple? Why?”
“It’s not a temple!” Benito cried, jumping to his feet. His enraged expression was made even more frightening by the streaks of blood smeared across his face.
“It’s a church of God!” he continued. His mood completely changed – the sorrow and fear were gone, replaced by anger, defiance. “Those heathens were infesting it like vermin, and now it has been cleansed!”
A shudder passed through Father DeMarco’s body. “Cleansed? What do you mean?”
Rivers of sweat poured down Benito’s forehead, mingling with the blood and streaking his face with red stripes.
“The angel didn’t just come to me. She appeared to all of us, at different times and different places. But she spoke the same message: cleanse the church.”
Father DeMarco seized Benito’s shoulders. “What do mean, cleanse?”
Benito stared at the priest with silent fury.
“Answer me, boy!” Father DeMarco snapped.
Benito twisted out of his grip and stepped back against the wall, his eyes darting across the room like a cornered animal.
“She was an angel! A messenger of God! Her words are His words!”
Searing pain scorched through Father DeMarco’s skull.
“What did you do, Benito?”
“We are His vessels!” the boy cried. “We are tools in His hands! It is not our right to question His commands!”
Father DeMarco’s eyes blazed. “WHAT DID YOU DO, BENITO?”
“We killed them!”
Benito’s words hung in the air like a vibrating chord. No one could move or breathe; every muscle was frozen.
Father DeMarco struggled to regain his voice.
“Benito… I want you to tell us exactly what happened.”
The boy tried to stand up straight and look the priest in the eye, but he couldn’t. He collapsed in the chair and squeezed his head in his hands. When he looked up, his eyes were sparkling with tears.
“She was so beautiful,” he said. “And she spoke with such…such power. She commanded me to go to the Temple of Set, and said that others would join me. We were going to be the sword in God’s hands and take back the church.”
He let out a sigh, though it was more like a sob.
“And we did. We stormed the church, killed the heathens, and destroyed the idols. There were about twenty of us, but we felt like a thousand. I’ve never felt power like that before, Father. It was so…so…”
“Intoxicating?”
Benito frowned, then his face brightened with agreement. “Yes, intoxicating. I felt as if I could do anything, that no one could touch me. I truly felt the hand of God protecting me. But…”
He looked down at the dried blood caked on his fingertips.
“…We didn’t need protection. No one fought against us. Maybe they were too scared, or too old, but whatever the reason, it was a slaughter. We killed everyone in that church, Father. The ministers, the people in the pews. Everybody.”
He looked up at Father DeMarco like a criminal pleading for mercy.
“And she was there, the whole time! Watching us from the upper level. She never said anything; she just watched. She had a strange smile. But I could hear her, in my head. Whispering to me, telling me who and where to strike. And I listened. I did everything she said.”
Father DeMarco looked over his shoulder, exchanging nervous glances with the others in the room.
“Who was with you, Benito?”
The young man shook his head. “I don’t know who they were. They were all Christians, I guess, brought there by the angel.”
Father DeMarco swallowed a lump of fear and asked his next question.
“What did you do when you were…when it was finished?”
Benito scratched red flakes from his fingernails. “I don’t know. It was like a candle going out. One moment we were all fighting together, smashing the heathen icons and ripping down the tapestries, and then…the feeling was gone. We all looked up, but the angel had disappeared. At that moment, I felt sick. I saw the blood and the bodies on the ground. I threw up on a bust of Nietzsche. It was so strange. I felt…this sudden feeling of guilt that wasn’t there before.”
Lorenzo took an angry step forward. “You stupid, stupid little runt!”
Father DeMarco placed a firm hand on his shoulder. “This is not the time.”
He turned back towards Benito, wincing in agony as another white-hot wave of pain rolled through his skull.
“What happened then?” he grunted.
Benito shrugged, eyeing Lorenzo with caution. “I don’t know. I dropped whatever I was holding and ran back here.”
“Did anyone follow you?” Lorenzo demanded.
Benito shook his head. “I don’t think so. We all got out of there pretty quickly.”
“What about the police?” Father DeMarco asked.
“There was no time. The attack happened so fast. I don’t even know how I got to the church so quickly. One minute I was walking in the field up near Santa Carmina, and the next thing I knew, I was in front of the church with a bunch of people I had never seen before. There were two security guards inside but they didn’t put up much of a fight. I don’t think they were expecting anything like this to happen.”
Father DeMarco was disturbed by the almost proud tone in the young man’s voice. This was quite baffling, considering that he had been in tears just moments ago. He knelt down and looked Benito square in the eyes.
“Benito, what you have done is terrible. Unspeakable. You must repent.”
Benito held the priest’s gaze. He spoke with a clear, measured voice, a stark contrast to his barely audible words spoken earlier.
“How can obedience be a sin, Father?”
Father DeMarco stood up and turned to the others.
“We must leave. Now.”
“We can’t!” Benito cried.
“Why not?”
“Because our work here isn’t finished. The angel said that – "
"It wasn’t an angel!”
Benito’s jaw fell open. Donatella instinctively grabbed Lorenzo’s arm. None of them had ever heard such anger in the priest’s voice.
The pain in Father DeMarco’s head shrieked like a train whistle. He glared at the boy with withering eyes.
“No angel of God would ever command you to do this! You have been deceived! This is insanity!”
Benito drew himself up to his full height. “Insanity? Was it insanity when the Lord commanded the children of Israel to slaughter the Canaanites?”
“Please, Benito…” Donatella began.
He silenced her with a fierce glance. “No! This is our time to rise up! The Voice of Satan is no more, and Christians all across the continent are taking to the streets! The angel said that the cathedrals will be our
s again. She said we’re not the only ones.”
His eyes flitted across the astonished faces in front of him. “This is the beginning of a movement. A revival! Satan’s power is broken, and we must act now!”
“Murdering innocent people in their pews?” Lorenzo spat. “This is worse than what those damned assassins were doing when all this started. The father’s right; God would never command His children to go down this path.”
With a cry of rage, Benito reached out and seized Lorenzo’s collar.
“What are you saying? That I imagined it? That I dreamed it?”
Lorenzo threw Benito back.
“Get a hold of yourself, boy! I don't know what you or anyone saw; I just know that you’re a fool and now all our lives are in danger!”
“He’s right,” Donatella piped up. “The police don’t know we’re here but they’ll find us sooner or later.”
Benito stepped back towards the door, shaking his head as tears welled in his eyes.
“You have no faith. You all have no faith!”
He grabbed the door handle and twisted it.
With astonishing agility, Father DeMarco flung aside the chair and sprang across the room. He grabbed Benito’s shirt in a bunch beneath his neck and pinned him against the wall.
“You see those people?” he growled, motioning behind him. “You have put all of their lives at risk with your stupidity, and I hope that God has plenty of mercy saved up for you, because you’re going to need it.”
He threw Benito to the ground, standing over him like a prizefighter. Then a lightning bolt seared his brain and he collapsed to the ground, his fingers clawing at his temples.
“Father!” everyone cried in unison as they rushed to his aid.
He felt someone lift his head and cradle him in their arms. The ceaseless waves of agony blurred his vision and stupefied his senses, but out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lorenzo holding Benito, who was sobbing pitifully.
The priest felt a different pain pierce his heart, and for a moment, the torment splitting his skull seemed to dim.