The Age of Apollyon Trilogy (The Age of Apollyon, Black Sun, Scorn)

by Mark Carver

  He turned his attention to Father DeMarco. He seemed to smile at the priest’s apparent misery.

  “What is your affliction, Father?”

  Patric felt Father DeMarco’s body shudder under the strain of raising his head, as if his skull weighed a hundred pounds. The priest glared at Julian and spoke with a raspy voice.

  “My affliction is I am standing in the house of God but its tenant is a tool of the devil.”

  The clerics who were clustered around the throne gasped and crept closer. Patric sensed that they were curious to see Julian’s reaction, and the looks their faces expressed a morbid desire to watch Julian explode the priest where he stood.

  But Julian did not react, at least not visibly. He simply stared at Father DeMarco for a long, terrible moment, then stretched out his hand. Before Father DeMarco could turn away, Julian pressed his palm to the priest’s forehead. Father DeMarco started to cry out, then froze.

  Julian withdrew his hand and smiled. “Jesus told the paralytic that his faith made him well. I tell you that in spite of your lack of faith, you are now well.”

  Father DeMarco blinked as if awakening from a deep sleep. He looked at Patric with a mixture of fear and amazement written on his face. Patric knew right away that the crippling headache was gone.

  His heart almost stopped when he saw Julian staring into his eyes. He had never seen eyes of that color before. It was as if they shone with the light of a second soul.

  Julian’s hands shot out and grasped Patric by the shoulders. Fear paralyzed Patric’s body and he could only stare at the man with wide, fearful eyes. Julian smiled warmly, though the unsettling light in his eyes did not go away.

  “Do not be afraid,” he said in a gentle, almost soothing voice.

  His hands slid down Patric’s arms like snakes, and he gingerly held his wounded hands. The clerics moved closer, mesmerized. Father DeMarco was also as motionless as a stone. Patric’s heart was pounding, and every part of him wanted to jerk his hands away and flee through the first open door.

  But he didn’t. He couldn’t. He was a prisoner of that haunting gaze and that gentle touch. His nerves tingled with fear, but also anticipation. This man had just healed Father DeMarco. Would he also…?

  Julian released Patric’s hands, which fell limply at his sides. He gasped as if he had received an electric shock. He stood absolutely still, his nerves exploring his body from the inside.

  Nothing had changed.

  With a curt bow, Julian turned and passed through the flock of onlookers like a hot knife through butter. The clergymen followed him, once again leaving Patric and Father DeMarco behind.

  Father DeMarco looked at Patric with anxious eyes. “Patric,” he whispered, “this man is dangerous. I could feel the hand of Satan when he touched me. …Patric?”

  The priest’s hushed words reached Patric’s ears, but he didn’t hear anything. He stood there like a statue, watching the back of Julian’s head as he marched back towards the throne of St. Peter. He felt like the life had been drained from his body.

  You are a fool, Patric. A damn, stupid fool.

  ****

  Master Ko crept through the halls like a slinking thief, clinging to the shadows and hugging the corners. He knew it was silly, thinking he could elude the all-seeing eyes of –

  “Master Ko.”

  He lurched to a halt, feeling every muscle and tendon in his body lock into place. He felt like a child who had come home with an angry note from the teacher and was hoping to avoid his mother’s rebuke.

  He should have known that some mothers cannot be evaded.

  Drawing a deep breath through his nose, he turned slowly, hoping his movement appeared nonchalant, but he knew he probably looked like a mechanical toy in need of oiling.

  “Yes, Mistress?”

  His eyes swept the shadows, but he saw nothing. He glanced to his left, where the darkness seemed most deep, assuming that was where she would materialize. When his gaze swung to the right again, he gasped.

  Her white, expressionless face was inches from his own.

  Her eyes pierced his skin, his skull, his mind. He could almost feel himself turning into stone, like Medusa’s victims. One thought raced through his brain: Do not show fear…do not show fear…

  Do not let her see your fear.

  The woman in black stared at him with eyes made of the blackest obsidian. Diluted moonlight that managed to squeeze through the clouds filtered through the narrow windows and illuminated the striking features of her face – her angular, lofty cheekbones supporting her stern brow like elegant marble columns, her lips drawn into a line that looked strong enough to crush coal into diamonds. Master Ko was mesmerized and terrified all at once, and it took every ounce of strength he had to keep from crumpling to the floor.

  After several agonizing moments, the woman in black allowed one corner of her mouth to pull up into a mirthless smile. “I noticed the priest and the assassin’s brother among the sheep.”

  Master Ko swallowed with great difficulty. “Yes, they are here.”

  “WHY?”

  Master Ko cowered at the sound of her voice. It was like the roar of a typhoon amplified a thousandfold in the confines of the chamber. He immediately collapsed at her feet.

  “F-f-forgive me, Mistress,” he stammered. “I too was surprised to see them arrive, and I thought it would lend credibility to our charade to include them in our grand deception. They are both prominent figures in this realm we have entered and I believe we can use them to our advantage.”

  “How?” the woman in black snapped as she began pacing with her hands clasped behind her back.

  Master Ko could almost see the sulfurous fumes rising from her porcelain skin. “Well…the assassin’s brother is not even a Christian; in fact, he is for all intents and purposes still a Satanist, though I am sure he bears no love for our order after being crucified in St. Nero’s Square. Still, that does not mean the entire structure has been destroyed, and any damage can be repaired with time and patience.”

  “Neither of which do I possess.” The anger in her voice simmered like lava. “And what is your plan for dealing with the priest? He knows who I am, who we are. Even the cripple with him can see through my disguise.”

  Her eyes took on a far-away look, if it was even possible. “You should have seen his face, that day in the Temple of the Dragon. When the woman he loved slaughtered his brother and then told him that the child she bore wasn’t even his, after the lengths he had gone to bring the assassin right to the Temple’s doorstep…”

  She smiled with wicked delight, reveling in her cleverness. “That was my moment of triumph. And now the seeds have begun to grow and the tree is flourishing, and you allow the vermin that can destroy us into our house!”

  Master Ko felt his heart wither in his chest. “Please, Mistress, I assure you that it is not as dire as you think.”

  He shivered as she fixed her blazing eyes on him. “What is your plan?”

  “Mistress, the puppet is already putting the plan into motion right now. You said so yourself that humans are drawn to spectacle, and he has quite the flair for drama. Signs and wonders carry more weight with these buffoons than principles and precepts.”

  The woman in black cocked one eyebrow. “So you will use the priest’s faith against him?”

  Now it was Master Ko’s turn to smile. “His challenge will be answered quite sufficiently. It is fortunate that he has shown up here, since it gives the puppet the perfect excuse to show off.”

  “Take care, boy,” the woman in black warned. Master Ko struggled to hide his indignation. “After the priest serves his purpose, he must be removed. He cannot be allowed to remain within these walls, lest his words take root in weak minds.”

  “Understood,” Master Ko replied with a nod. “And do not worry about the assassin’s brother. He is the priest’s pet, nothing more. I was surprised to see him at first, but now I realize that he can be an asset, considering his celeb
rity. He was a near-martyr, after all.”

  The woman in black couldn’t hide her perverse grin. “I almost regret interrupting such magnificent theater. If it had been entirely up to me, I would have waited until the fool was lit up like a candle before initiating the puppet’s grand entrance.”

  “It would have been magnificent indeed, Mistress,” Master Ko said with a reverent bow. “But fear not, he will be even less of a nuisance than the priest.”

  The woman in black made no reply. She gave a slight nod and began gliding across the polished marble floor towards the shadows, like a rogue drop of oil returning to the puddle.

  “Mistress,” Master Ko blurted.

  She stopped, letting a tense moment quiver in the air before turning around. “Yes?”

  Master Ko blinked quickly, wrestling with whether or not to venture his next question.

  “If I may ask, what happened to the woman and child the assassin’s brother sought to redeem?”

  Even in the minimal light, Master Ko could see her eyes narrow and focus on him with a lizard-like glare. But when she spoke, her voice sounded casual, even cheerful.

  “Why, she’s here.”

  Master Ko’s eyes widened. “Here?”

  “Of course. You think you know every secret chamber and hidden room in this place?”

  “But…but…” Master Ko was having a hard time organizing his thoughts. “Why is she here?”

  The woman in black threw her head back and laughed scornfully. “Poor child. You don’t like being left out of the party, do you?”

  Master Ko didn’t know how to reply, so he simply stewed in his silence.

  The woman in black continued. “There’s nothing particularly special about her, or about her child, for that matter. She is simply a seed, and I am a gardener. I cultivate many crops, in the hopes that one will bloom and yield the fruit I seek.”

  Something churned in Master Ko’s stomach, though he wasn’t sure if it was caused by revulsion or excitement. “Many crops?”

  He could almost feel her midnight eyes pierce his soul with their gaze. “Our master is not content to simply sit back and watch this putrid world writhe down an unpredictable course. The conditions will soon be ripe for the One to ascend the only throne that matters.”

  Master Ko inhaled slowly. “Jerusalem.”

  “Yes. Jerusalem. The desolation will be made complete, and this world will truly belong to our master. No more games, no charades, no more slinking in the shadows, and most importantly, nothing to fear from self-righteous priests who think they can derail the course of history.”

  Master Ko bowed low once again. “I am humbled by your foresight, Mistress.”

  She waved away his flattery as if it were a fly. “Just make sure that any bumps in the road are smoothed over, no matter how insignificant. One thing I have learned from my time on this plague-ridden planet is that molehills have an irritating tendency to become mountains.”

  With an ice-cold gust of wind, she whirled around again and began to melt into the shadows.

  Master Ko didn’t realize he had spoken until he heard his voice echoing across the corridor.

  “Where is this…garden?”

  The woman in black spun around so quickly, it was as if her face had materialized through the back of her head. For a moment, Master Ko was actually in fear for his life.

  Then a crafty smile spread slowly across her face.

  “Let me show you.”

  ****

  Patric felt like a kid who had stumbled into a grown-ups’ party. After Father DeMarco’s dramatic healing and the snub (at least it seemed that way) that followed, Julian had led the crowd of clergymen out of the Sistine Chapel. Just before he exited the chamber, Patric realized with a shudder that the walls had been completely painted black.

  Father DeMarco seemed to be in shock, or in a trance, or both. He shuffled after the flock of cassocks and crucifixes, but his eyes seemed to be focused on a point far in the distance. Patric wanted to say something to him, to ask him if he was really healed, how it felt to be touched by Julian’s supernatural hand, whether or not he felt the devil in him. But the vacant look in the priest’s eyes informed Patric that his mind was far away and would not appreciate being disturbed. One more thing bothered Patric: Father DeMarco’s lips weren’t moving. The prayers seemed to have dried up like a stream in a drought.

  So I’m on my own, then. Patric was the last one to leave the chapel, unsure if he would be welcome among the ranks of venerable Christian leaders. But he also wanted to stay as far away from Julian as possible. Part of him was irritated that Julian had withheld his healing powers, but the primary reason for maintaining his distance was that he knew the man was not under the influence of a heavenly power. That vile woman was here, in this very building, masquerading as the Virgin Mother to these idiots who were somehow blind to her real identity. Patric glared at the backs of their heads with condescending eyes: they, the leaders of God’s church, were unable to recognize a demon when it hovered less than five meters above their heads, while he, an avowed Satanist, not only saw her for what she was, but had actually spoken with her.

  He wished she was just a woman. Then at least he would have a chance to choke the life out of her. He craved vengeance in some form, any form. But what could he do that would hurt a demon?

  He vowed that he wouldn’t leave until he found out.

  Perhaps this was why he was here. He clearly didn’t belong among the ranks of the murmuring sheep following their blasphemous shepherd. He didn’t even bow to the God that these men claimed to serve. But he had been allowed into this place, one of the most mysterious structures on earth, and no one had confronted him or even noticed him, except for the second Messiah himself and his mysterious Asian assistant.

  Patric glanced around. Where was that old man?

  He regretted bringing up the rear of the crowd. This place was practically bristling with shadows, and there was at least one demon slithering through these cavernous corridors. Who knew what otherworldly horrors were concealed by the darkness?

  He looked at Father DeMarco walking a few paces in front of him. He really wished the old priest would snap out of whatever was clouding his mind. They were in the lion’s den, and Patric didn’t have any idea what to do next.

  He was relieved when he saw a warm, amber-colored glow shimmering at the end of the corridor. But something in his mind told him not to relax just yet.

  It was then that he realized they were back in the sanctuary of St. Peter’s Basilica. The pulsing light had come from the heaps of candles piled on the altar, which strangely did not seem to have burned down since he had first seen it more than an hour before. He frowned at his childish paranoia. Obviously someone had changed the candles while they were out of the sanctuary.

  His eyes swept the soaring nave. It was a perfectly good theory, except there didn’t seem to be anyone here.

  “Brothers.” Julian’s voice rang out. Even though Latin was the traditional language of the Vatican, he now spoke in English. Patric’s English level was only moderate, but he had a strange sense that Julian’s language choice was made with him in mind. It would have been odd if he had chosen to speak in French, but English was a smart compromise that wouldn’t raise too much suspicion. “Please be seated.”

  The clerics sat down, creating a din of creaking pews and grunts of discomfort. As he chose his seat a few pews back from them, Patric couldn’t help feeling contempt for how frail and ancient they all seemed. Why would God choose such unprepossessing men to be the caretakers of His flock? For the first time, he felt the smallest amount of respect for Julian. At least he looked and acted like a leader. He had the same bearing, the same muted arrogance as…

  Patric closed his eyes.

  …As the Voice of Satan.

  He suddenly realized he had lost sight of Father DeMarco. He scanned the heads of the clerics seated in front of him but they all looked the same: old and gray. His eyes swept t
he sanctuary but he didn’t see any sign of him.

  Come on Patric, he’s just in shock. It’s got to be disconcerting to be healed by a man you claim operates with the power of the devil.

  He looked down at his bandaged hands. Healed is healed, regardless of how it happens.

  “Brothers,” Julian said again, standing in front of the altar and raising his hands like a rock star before his adoring audience. “Thank you for your courage in coming here. I know the hour is late, I know you are confused, perhaps even afraid. But fear not: you are safe, and you are welcome. You are about to be a part of history as we lay the foundation for a new glorious age for our blessed church.”

  The clerics murmured to themselves, then someone began cautiously applauding. The others joined in, but it was scattered and awkward. Patric got the feeling that applause wasn’t something they were used to giving.

  Julian didn’t seem to mind. His face wore a broad, confident smile, though his eyes remained fierce. “Brothers, I do not need to tell you what a trial these past years have been. I know that every one of you has experienced suffering, persecution, and loss. The Scriptures tell us to count it all joy, but it does not say we must accept our afflictions indefinitely. And we have now been granted the power to fight back, to overthrow our oppressors. We know that God’s kingdom is not of this world, but we are here in the world now, and it would be blasphemy if we did not do everything we could to make this world as close to heaven it could possibly be.”

  He raised his hands higher, towards the lofty vaulted ceiling. “Look around you… This was the vision of the master architects who constructed the great cathedrals of the Middle Ages. They sought to build heaven on earth, and many would say they succeeded in some small way. But now these monuments to God’s glory are infested with vile perversions and unholy rituals. Some of mankind’s greatest achievements in the name of God have been reduced to rubble, and others have been converted into blasphemous temples for the heathens’ black masses. Some would claim they are just buildings, but they are much more than that! They represent God’s glory to the masses living in darkness, a refuge for the weary, a chapel for the penitent, a sanctuary filled with the train of His robe. We will reclaim what was taken from us, from you. Your positions will be restored, your prestige and respect returned. For too long, you have been wandering in the wilderness, watching your flocks dwindle. But I promise they will return, once they see that they have nothing to fear. Upon this rock, He shall build his church, and the gates of hell will not prevail against it!”