by Mark Carver
“What will it take, Father? What will convince you that I am the one to lead the church out of darkness?”
“You are leading her into darkness, signore. I know that it is not the Holy Virgin Mother who bestows her blessings upon you, but a demon from the depths of hell.”
Gasps of shock arose from the clergymen, and Julian’s face fell into shadow.
“Beware of foolish accusations, Father,” he warned. “To doubt me is to doubt God Himself.”
Several clerics murmured their agreement. Patric, still on his knees, rose quickly to his feet and scrambled to the edge of the altar.
Julian and Father DeMarco faced each other like prizefighters. The air practically crackled with electric tension. Then Father DeMarco raised his hand and pointed his finger directly at Julian’s face.
“You have everyone fooled, and I don’t know how, but I am undeceived. My honored brethren have been seduced by your tricks and miracles, but they forget that Satan can do miracles too.”
Some clergymen leaped to their feet.
“How dare you!”
“He is the second messiah!”
“He blotted out the sun!”
Father DeMarco whirled around to face the protests. “I do not disbelieve what happened, but I know that he is not anointed by God! Think, my brothers: would God advocate storming into the streets and waging a bloody war with our enemies? All just to reclaim ancient buildings of stone and glass?”
“They are more than that,” Julian answered loudly. “We are making a statement to the world that this world belongs to our Father in heaven and we will tolerate the stain of Satanism no more.”
“So we resort to extremism?” the priest shot back. “Like the fanatics in the Dark Ages, or the radical Muslims before the Manifestation?”
Julian squared his jaw and glared at him with furious eyes. “Call it what you will, Father. I call it obedience in service of a righteous God, a God of love and of wrath. He sent the Israelites into Canaan and the land ran red with blood. If that is what it takes to reclaim our place in this world, so it shall be again.”
Father DeMarco glared at him for a long, tense moment. “You have deceived even yourself, boy.” He spat the last word like it was a curse. Julian’s lip curled with anger.
But the priest wasn’t finished. “Satan has pulled the wool over your eyes so you cannot even see the darkness that surrounds you and works through you.”
He turned to face the clerics and raised his right hand high above his head. Patric squinted in the dim light and saw that the priest carried not one, but two chains. He noticed Julian’s face turn pale.
Father DeMarco did not say anything for several moments. He let the heavy chains and the symbols they bore swing together like a pendulum. Patric couldn’t clearly make out what they were but he knew they were important, judging from Julian’s reaction.
“What is this, old man?” Julian snapped. Cracks were beginning to show in his mask of arrogance.
“This,” Father DeMarco declared, “came from the neck of your second-in-command, the man who calls himself ‘Father Shen.’”
He separated the chains and held one of them out for everyone to see. At the end swung a massive gold gross. Set into the center of the cross was a large red stone, a ruby. Everyone recognized it, even Patric. It was so ostentatious and contrasting with the Asian man’s humble appearance and manner that it was hard not to be struck by its brilliance. He glanced at Julian again. The man looked like he was preparing to call down fire from heaven on Father DeMarco’s head.
“Where did you get that?” he roared. “Where is Father Shen?”
“He is resting,” Father DeMarco answered with the slightest glint of mischief in his eyes.
Patric groaned silently. So that was where the priest had been…
Julian took a frightening step forward. “You dared attack a man of – “
Father DeMarco cut him off by thrusting his other hand forward. In his fist he held another chain. But it did not bear a cross.
Everyone stared at the gleaming gold pentagram in astonishment. Julian blanched white, then turned red.
“Where…where did you get that?” he croaked.
Father DeMarco threw the medallion at his feet. “Where do you think?”
Julian recoiled from the chain as if it were a snake. “You lie!” he exploded. “This…this could have come from anywhere! This place was in the hands of devil-worshipers only days ago! Who knows what blasphemous relics are still strewn about?”
“A priest’s neck is a strange place to find blasphemous relics.”
“Liar!”
Julian lashed out and struck Father DeMarco full across the face. The priest whirled like a top and collapsed before the altar. Patric gasped and rushed to his side.
“Father! Father, are you all right?”
Father DeMarco looked stunned but other than a slight trickle of blood from his lip, he seemed to be okay. His eyes took a moment to focus, then a dark shadow passed over them.
“You see!” he cried, rising shakily to his feet and addressing the clergymen. “He cannot abide the truth! The man who led us into this sacred building wore that heathen symbol around his neck, hidden in his robe, out of sight. This travesty is just a metaphor for this entire charade! Brothers, I beg you: do not be lured by promises of power and prestige at the cost of our beloved church. Do not be enchanted by these signs and wonders. A magician who weaves the devil’s power does not belong on St. Peter’s throne! This man is a false prophet, and he is the liar!”
He fell to his knees and opened his arms wide. “Many of you know me, and you know that all my life, I have only sought to serve God and the church. I have never sought wealth, fame, or power, and I have suffered greatly during these dark years. I cannot work miracles or heal the sick, but in my heart I know the truth. Please, my brothers, do not follow this man. If you do, then only God’s mercy can save us.”
No one spoke or stirred. Even Julian was as still as a statue. Patric stared at Father DeMarco, wondering if he was looking at a dead man or a hero.
Finally, Julian broke the silence. “You have heard the accusations,” he said to the clerics. His words were sharp with barely-disguised venom. “The choice is simple: do you believe what this man says, or do you follow me?”
His eyes were like razors, cutting through flesh and bone and slicing into their souls. Several of them did indeed know Father DeMarco well, but none rose to their feet to side with him.
With each passing moment, Patric’s heart sank lower and lower. He looked down at his scarred but fully functional hands. What diabolical power had restored them? Was he now infected with that evil? He stared at his hands as if they were crawling with insects.
Father DeMarco remained on his knees, pleading with his eyes. Julian stood a few meters to his left, tall and unmovable, like a Roman conqueror.
So this is it, Patric realized. The priest had played his hand, and now it was time for the masses to decide.
Julian studied the frozen clerics with an arrogant smile. He gestured with open arms and said, “Brothers, if you side with me, if you wish to see the glory of God’s kingdom restored in this life as well as in the next, rise now.”
For a moment, there was total silence. Then, one by one, the clerics rose to their feet. Their faces were grim, some even regretful, but they stood nonetheless.
Every one of them.
The air evaporated from Patric’s lungs. He watched Father DeMarco’s shoulders wilt, as if they were made of ice and left out in the hot sun.
With a satisfied snort, Julian lifted his chin and gazed down at the priest. “Stand up, old man.”
Gone was the priest’s confidence and boldness. To Patric, he seemed more frail than ever. But he obeyed Julian’s command and rose to his feet, swaying noticeably. He lifted his eyes and stared straight at his enemy. He said nothing.
Julian held his gaze for several moments, then looked out at the clergymen stan
ding like tombstones. “Brothers, search your hearts, and you will know that I speak the truth. Our savior Jesus Christ used signs and miracles to prove His divinity, and the apostles were anointed with incredible power to heal the sick, cast out demons, even raise the dead. And now this power is manifested before you again. Your decision is clear, and as one body, we rise up to affirm that which we know to be true.”
Like a heavy millstone turning on its axis, he slowly pivoted on his heel and glared at Father DeMarco with eyes that flashed with the fires of judgment
“Father Stefano Dmitri DeMarco, you are hereby accused of heresy and blasphemy. You have attempted to corrupt this esteemed assembly with your lies and baseless accusations. You seek to bring division and strife to our family when we must stand united, and for this, you shall find no forgiveness.”
He drew in a deep breath and pointed his finger at the priest. Patric trembled, half-expecting him to fall down dead.
“I cast you out!” Julian bellowed. His voice practically shook the soaring arches over the sanctuary. “You are excommunicated and exiled from this and every church on earth! You shall wander, desolate and alone, in a wasteland of your own folly, and with your last dying breath, you shall beg for mercy that will never come. Be gone from our midst, vessel of poison and ruin! Never show your face amongst true believers again!”
Patric felt his stomach turn to jelly. He watched Father DeMarco carefully, hoping for some sort of response but also terrified of what it might be.
The priest did not tremble, or weep, or explode with rage. He merely turned to the clerics. No one was able to meet his eyes.
“Is this the will of the church?” he asked.
He waited for an answer, but there was none. A few robes rustled, one or two throats coughed. But no one said a word.
Father DeMarco drew his jaw muscles tight. His eyes seemed to glimmer in the dim light of the sanctuary, but Patric couldn’t be sure if it was his own vision shimmering with tears. He watched the priest’s right hand tremble, then release the chain holding the massive golden cross. The cross clattered to the floor with a loud clang that rang out like a funeral bell.
Father DeMarco scanned the bowed heads, then nodded wearily. He cast a sorrowful glance towards Patric. The message in his eyes was clear.
I’m sorry.
Patric was rooted to the floor. He wanted to scream, to launch himself into the pews and smack those cowardly sheep across their bulging jowls.
Damn them all, he seethed. If they can’t see the face of Satan when it’s staring right at them, then let their precious church burn and die.
Father DeMarco turned and crossed himself before the giant crucifix looming behind the altar, then ambled down the broken steps with the stride of a man who has lost everything.
“Wait!”
Patric’s eyes were wide as saucers. Every head turned towards him. He gasped when he realized that it was he who had cried out.
Julian glared at him like a disapproving schoolteacher. “Do you have something to say, Monsieur Bourdon?”
Patric’s heart pounded against his ribs and he blinked away drops of sweat that seemed to race unnaturally quickly into his eyes.
Did he have something to say?
The priest stopped at the foot of the steps and stared up at him.
Patric looked away, up into the darkness that shrouded the vault. Then his eyes fell and he looked down at his hands, at the ugly but harmless scars marring the center of his palms. A torrent of emotions flooded his nerves, but then a face materialized in the midst of the chaos.
Her face.
Maybe the ancient priest had been lying. Maybe he had wanted to tantalize Patric with the possibility of seeing her again just to keep him in his seat. After all, it seemed that he was no match for someone of Father DeMarco’s size – who knew if his mind was as weak as his body?
A voice spoke up inside of him, small but sharp.
And what if he was telling the truth?
Patric looked at Father DeMarco for a moment, then glanced at Julian before lowering his head.
“No,” he said quietly. “I have nothing to say.”
He didn’t need to see the priest’s face to know the look of sorrow and despair that passed over it. He kept his head bowed, like an obedient servant in the king’s court, as he listened to Father DeMarco’s footsteps echo throughout the sanctuary. When he finally did raise his eyes, the priest was only a shadow about to be swallowed by the greater darkness at the nave entrance. A door creaked open – not the massive central door, but a small one to the left – and then closed again. The sound reverberated between the sanctuary walls for several seconds.
All eyes were on Julian. His jaw was firm and not a muscle in his body moved, except for his hands, which clenched and unclenched repeatedly. When the sanctuary had once again fallen into silence, he inhaled a deep breath and pointed towards the darkness.
“Let that be a reminder to all of you,” he said. “Stand with me, and together we will change history. Oppose me, and you will be cast out into despair. For I am the chosen one, the Second Christ, anointed by God and the Holy Mother, and granted powers beyond any mortal man. I demand complete and utter allegiance, and all who serve me shall reap unfathomable rewards.”
As if pressed down by invisible hands, the clergymen all knelt down on the cold stone floor. For many, it was clearly a painful action but no one dared protest. Patric sank slowly to his knees as well. His heart felt like it was breaking, but with a different kind of pain than he had experienced before.
“Arise.”
Everyone stood up at Julian’s command.
“Chambers have been prepared for you,” he went on. “Rest well tonight, and tomorrow we will discuss many important matters.”
The clerics exchanged uneasy glances. Julian seemed to read their minds. “Everything you need will be provided for.”
He offered no further explanation. As the clerics began to file out of the pews, he spoke up once again.
“Do not worry yourselves about Father Shen. I am sure that wicked priest did not harm him.”
Despite his confident tone, his face betrayed more than a little anxiety.
A figure appeared to the left of the chancel. His face bore no expression and his clothes were simple and functional, indicating no religious office. He was clearly a servant of some kind, but his appearance startled Patric. Where had he, and presumably the rest of the staff, been hiding all this time?
Patric felt a slight tingling on his skull, as if an insect had flown into his head. The sensation wasn’t painful but it wasn’t particularly pleasant either. He glanced with alarm towards the mysterious servant, but the man had disappeared into the darkness with the clergymen trailing behind him.
The curious feeling vanished almost as soon as it began. Patric stared into the shadows which seemed to loom over him like great trees in a dark forest.
The lion’s den…
He flinched when he noticed Julian staring at him. He was mesmerized by the man’s gaze, feeling like a piece of paper dangling over a fire, ready to burst into flames at the slightest twitch of Julian’s hand.
Instead, Julian gave him a nod and a slightly crooked smile, as if to say, You made the right choice.
“Come,” he said, extending his hand. “Since you are not a member of the clergy, we have prepared special quarters for you. I am sure you have many questions and perhaps many doubts as well, but I assure you that you have nothing to fear. You are my most honored guest.”
As Patric followed him down the steps leading away from the altar, he suppressed a shudder.
It could have just been his turbulent imagination, but he felt that Julian hadn’t looked at him as a man looks at a guest.
He had looked at Patric like he was a pet.
****
Father DeMarco pulled the door closed behind him. He looked up at the Roman night sky that glowed red with the lights of scattered fires.
A tear fe
ll from his eye and trailed down his cheek. He did not weep for himself, for his humiliation and rejection, or for the lost and blinded souls fighting each other at that very moment across the city.
He wept for Patric. Through this whole ordeal, his heart had been in constant prayer for the young man’s soul, pleading with heaven that he would finally see the light. But now he was in the clutches of that madman, a madman who didn’t even realize his own insanity. What hope did Patric have, trapped in this place for who knew what devious purpose?
The tear dropped from his face and fell unseen to the dark ground beneath his feet. He felt foolish for hoping that Patric would come to his defense. The boy was a Satanist, after all. Maybe a relapsed one, but he was certainly not in God’s camp. He saw the fear in Patric’s eyes, how he withered beneath Julian’s menacing glare. Of course Patric would look out for his own safety first. Why had he expected anything else?
He instinctively started to burn with anger against God for leading him into such a futile situation, but he stopped himself. He had been through more than enough trials and tribulations to know that anything was possible in this bizarre world. Even the darkest despair can transform into joy and relief in an instant.
The sky seemed to bleed above him, and the slight stench of smoke drifted into his nostrils. He exhaled a heavy sigh and started walking, traversing St. Peter’s Square in silence. His footfalls made almost no sound despite the hardness of the stone beneath his feet. He knew that the square was ringed with police and probably throngs of protesters and supporters, but at the moment, he was alone. Utterly, completely alone.
As he approached the decimated stump of Nero’s Obelisk, he paused. He refused to add the “Saint” to Nero’s name, since the maniac had been anything but saintly. It was only a cute but trivial perversion the Satanists had employed simply to rile ultra-conservative believers who were easily offended. That was the essence of Satanism, after all: perversion. The devil does not create; he corrupts. And his children follow in his footsteps, but with far less imagination.