With a rush of horror, Ava realized what was about to happen.
The Skoptsy were drenched in petrol.
She stared around, her mind whirring.
She could not jump out of the doorway to tackle him. She was far too high above the courtyard below.
Ferguson had also seen what was happening, and was already on his way out of the donjon. But Ava already knew that he would not get to Durov in time. He had to get out of the donjon, run round the keep, then along and into the courtyard, and finally to Durov.
There was no way he would make it.
By the time he got there, the Skoptsy would be a holocaust.
Her rational thought process confirmed what her intuition had already concluded.
It was down to her.
She ran back into the donjon, desperate for a weapon.
She could not see anything – just the MLRS launch control unit, radio, and battery pack. But they were all far too heavy.
She ran over to where Durov had been standing. His thumb knife was on the floor, but it was useless.
Choking with frustration, she ran back out through the doorway and onto the platform.
Durov had now covered half the distance to the Skoptsy, holding the torch out in front of him, its yellowy-orange flames dancing in the night air. The crowd was sheltering at the far end of the bailey, subdued and passive from whatever Durov had put in the wine.
Ava was keenly aware she was running out of time, when her attention was caught by some cabling and a length of grey hose tacked to the bottom of the doorway. Following it, she saw that it ran out of the donjon’s doorway and under the small wooden platform jutting out over the bailey.
Dropping to her knees, she peered under the boards of the platform, and saw that the electrical cabling was feeding the two large flat screens. Beside the electrical wires, she could make out that the hose was plugged into a T-joint which fed two tubes running out towards the walls of the bailey. She followed them, and with a rising sense of excitement saw that they were the tubes she had spied up on the wall when she had been down with the Skoptsy.
As traced the route of the hoses, she saw they were fixed to the bailey’s walls several yards beneath the row of flaming torches at the top. At the far end of the bailey, where the Skoptsy were gathered, they must be pierced with holes, which were still spraying a fine flammable mist over the crowd.
Glancing over her shoulder and back into the donjon, she saw that the hose ran down below the old walkways to the original stone ground floor far below, where it was connected to a pump and a tank of liquid.
The Cyrillic words stencilled on the side of the container were meaningless to her, but she recognized the international hazard sign of an orange diamond with black outlined flames.
Flammable liquid.
Crouching down in the doorway, she grabbed hold of the tube under the platform and pulled as hard as she could. The screws holding its small fastening clips tore easily out of the wood, and the hose came free of the T-joint.
The air was suddenly filled with the smell of petrol, as she held up the tube, which was now gushing liquid.
Down in the bailey, Durov was still dragging himself towards his followers – the flame edging ever closer to their petrol-sodden clothes.
Ava stood up on the platform and pinched the end of the hose together with her fingers.
Immediately, a pressurized jet arced out from its tip, sending a sparkling rainbow of flammable fluid high into the night sky.
It landed a few yards behind Durov, spraying a wet patch of petrol onto the courtyard’s floor.
She squeezed more tightly and angled the hose a fraction higher, watching as the stream of fluid jumped forward and hit Durov’s back and shoulders.
She let it continue to pour directly onto him, soaking his body from his shoulders to his feet.
As the liquid hit him, his head turned to follow the jet of petrol, and he raised his glance to the platform where Ava was standing.
His eyes locked onto hers, and his expression twisted into a mask of animal rage.
She looked at the torch in his hand, and then at the crowd ahead of him, unsure if she could do what had to be done.
It was one thing killing in self-defence – she had done it before. But it was quite another making a cold calculation about who lived and who died.
Her mind flicked back to the photographs Jennings had shown them back in MI13, of the Skoptsy man and woman who had undergone the ceremony of the Great Seal.
She looked out over the courtyard, at the mass of Skoptsy huddled at the far end, and at the children sitting in a line in front of them.
Durov was a monster.
The Skoptsy were not the first, and they would not be the last, to fall under the spell of a charismatic cult leader. She had no sympathy for their views, but whatever they had got themselves into, they did not deserve to be the victims of Durov’s perversions.
He was the one responsible for mutilating them.
And now he wanted to incinerate them.
He was still snarling up at the platform as she took another look ahead at the crowd of Skoptsy huddled in the shadows, then gently inclined her wrist a fraction.
The parabola of petrol inched forward from Durov’s back, and – as if in slow motion – hit the flaming torch he was carrying.
Ava watched, transfixed, as Durov erupted into an orange fireball. The conflagration started at the torch, then moved back to engulf his entire body.
She let the hose keep pouring for another second, fuelling the blaze, then squeezed the tip closed, and allowed her arm to fall to her side, pouring the petrol harmlessly down onto the rocks at the foot of the donjon wall.
Up ahead, Durov was rolling on the ground, a flailing inferno in the middle of the ancient courtyard.
Through the sound of the flames roaring, she could clearly hear his screams.
Down to the left, Ferguson ran into the courtyard through the north doorway. He made straight for Durov, who continued spasming for what seemed like an age, until eventually he lay still at the heart of the lapping flames.
Ava looked away.
It was over.
Chapter 71
Château de Montségur
Languedoc-Roussillon-Midi-Pyrénées
The Republic of France
AVA RE-ENTERED THE donjon, and made for the old walkway.
From there, she could see a long ladder down to the original stone floor of the keep and the tank of petrol. She quickly climbed down it, and shut off the pump.
There had been enough burning for one night.
When she had turned the tank’s tap off as well, she climbed back up and out of the donjon, and headed round into the bailey.
Up ahead, Ferguson was standing a few yards from Durov’s still-burning body.
She approached, holding up her hands to shield herself from the heat.
It was a horrific sight.
Inside the orange flames, she could clearly make out a body curled into a foetal position. Most of its face and hair had gone, leaving skull bone visible inside the rolling flames. The rest of the body was equally ravaged, with the torso and limbs little more than smouldering chunks of scorched meat.
She pulled off the white robe she was wearing over her clothes, and tore off a strip. She wound the narrow material carefully around her neck as a bandage to staunch the bleeding where Durov had cut her, before throwing the remainder of the robe onto the fire, where she watched it disintegrate in the flames.
“But the fearful, and unbelieving, and the abominable, and murderers, and whoremongers, and sorcerers, and idolaters, and all liars, shall have their part in the lake which burneth with fire and brimstone,” Ferguson pronounced over the burning cadaver, reading from the small pocket Bible he had brought from the residence in Toulouse.
Ava looked at him quizzically.
“It’s from the Apocalypse,” he answered ruefully. “I read it last night, and the image kept me awak
e. I’ve seen too many bodies burn. It’s not something you forget.”
He closed the Bible, and started walking towards the rocks at the foot of the donjon wall.
Ava followed, stopping beside him next to the still form of Mary.
Whatever damage had been done to her skull to cause all the blood was not visible. Aside from the impossible angle of her head, her body was unmarked by the fall.
Ferguson bent down and gently closed her eyelids. “Rest in peace, Mary. May perpetual light shine upon you.”
“I’ll tell the Vatican,” Ava added quietly after a pause. “They’ll make arrangements with the French authorities to fly her back to Rome. I’m sure they’ll want to bury her with full honours.”
Ferguson nodded and stood up.
Ava pulled out her phone, and looked across to the Skoptsy at the other end of the bailey. Heaven only knew what drugs had been in the wine Durov had fed them. They were all likely to be in shock, and in need of medical attention.
She dialled 112, and informed the operator that there was a large group of people in the Château de Montségur in need of blankets and first aid.
“There’s just one more thing before we go,” she called over to Ferguson, then turned and headed for the northern doorway out of the bailey.
Chapter 72
Château de Montségur
Languedoc-Roussillon-Midi-Pyrénées
The Republic of France
BACK IN THE donjon, Ava approached the table, and knelt down beside it.
Reaching underneath the floor-length purple drapery, she felt a tremor of excitement as her fingers brushed the familiar texture of old vellum.
Thank God it had not gone up in the flames.
She pulled the roll towards her, and gently took hold of the soft bundle. It was heavier than she had imagined, with densely furled thick leaves.
Lifting it up, she placed it carefully onto the table and stared at it for a moment, trying to calm her emotions.
It was definitely not a stage prop.
The pale washed-out colour, the inconsistencies in the sizes of the stitched vellum sheets, the overall squashed look, and the irregular discolourations caused by the centuries, were not the sorts of details found on even the best theatrical replicas.
She found her eyes irresistibly locked onto it, as she wondered if she really could be in the presence of an original manuscript of one of the most famous religious texts in the world.
Ferguson approached, and stopped beside her. “Go on then,” he encouraged.
“Before we do this,” she looked up at him, “you need to know that, if this is real, then it predates any known copy of the Apocalypse by over two hundred years. It will also be the oldest-known biblical book by far – one of the most important physical links between apocalyptic Judaism and early millennial Christianity.”
She took a step closer to the table, suddenly mindful that the roll was perhaps contemporary with Professor Amine Hamidou’s extraordinary pottery shard with the names of the disciples.
Was that a coincidence?
It did seem extraordinary that she had come across both – in the same week – each capable of rocking the world’s understanding of early Christianity.
She pushed the thought aside.
There would be time for that later.
“How come it’s a roll?” Ferguson asked. “I’ve seen really early Bibles. They’re books.”
Ava nodded, focusing back on the manuscript in front of her. “Books only really started around AD 300, as did the first Bibles. When John was writing, at the end of the first century, people still used rolls.”
Ferguson peered down at it. “Which way does it open – horizontally or lengthways?”
“The answer will tell us a lot,” Ava replied, moving the roll carefully to the middle of the table top. “If it’s sideways, then it’s a volumen, which is what it should be. If it’s lengthways – like royal proclamations in Hollywood films – then it’s a rotulus, which was much more common in medieval times, and usually for ceremonial purposes.”
“Let’s find out then.” Ferguson inched closer to the table.
Ava took a deep breath and placed both hands on the roll.
“Look.” She pointed to the outer leaf, where Durov had cracked the brittle black seal. “On most rolls, the first leaf is heavily worn and damaged because readers always have to handle the roll there to open it, regardless of which section they want to read. It’s also where readers start winding the skin around the baton that they insert to make it easier to handle.”
They both peered at the outer leaf, which was in pristine condition. The leading edge was still straight, with no sign of any damage or wear.
Ava held the end down, and started to roll the ancient cylinder out.
As she did, she gasped.
The inside surface was covered in small clear black Greek letters with no spaces between words. The text was meticulously arranged in four-inch columns of writing running from the top to the bottom of the skin.
It was stunning.
And it was unequivocally a sideways-opening volumen.
She stared at the immaculately spaced regular blocks of letters – fully justified on the left and right margins – not quite believing her eyes.
She began to read. “Apokalupsis iesou christou hen edoken auto ho theos deixai tois doulois autou ha dei genesthai en tachei kai esmanen aposteilas dia tou aggelou autou to doulo autou ioanne.”
“What does it say?” Ferguson asked quietly.
Ava looked up at him, her eyes shining, before turning back to the text. “The revelation of Jesus Christ, which God gave him to show his servants the things which must soon occur, and which he made known through his angel to his servant, John.”
She turned to Ferguson again, her face flushed. “It’s the opening of John’s letter.” She swallowed to stop her voice from trembling, and added with awe. “I think this is one of the seven original copies of the Apocalypse.”
Ferguson reached out and held his hand just above it.
Ava smiled, breaking the tension. “You can touch it. You don’t need gloves. The oils from your skin are actually good for it. They’ll stop the skin from drying out.”
She watched as he gently unrolled it further. “It’s a work of art,” he marvelled. “How did one man write seven of these?”
“Eight, if he kept his own copy,” Ava peered over his shoulder. “John was an illiterate fisherman. There’s absolutely no way he would have known how to read or write. He would probably have dictated it in his native Aramaic. A professional scribe would have translated it into Greek then copied it out. Just look at it. This is definitely a skilled scribe’s writing.”
“Wouldn’t a scribe have been expensive?” Ferguson unrolled a little more.
She nodded. “And vellum cost a fortune.”
“So, probably not written by a fisherman in a cave?”
Ava smiled. “To make eight of these took someone with very deep pockets.”
They gazed at the ancient words, hidden from daylight since they were sealed up on an Aegean island almost two thousand years ago.
After a few moments, Ferguson broke the silence. “What are you going to do with it?”
Ava hesitated.
It was not the most important artefact she had ever handled. How could anyone rank one over another?
She had worked on the tablets of the Epic of Gilgamesh – the first known story in human history. She had handled the treasures of Nimrud and Babylon. They were all unique and irreplaceable for what they preserved of the ancient world.
But there was no doubt that an original book of the Bible was going to create one of the biggest storms archaeology had ever seen.
The media frenzy would be intense.
Scholars and theologians were going to pore over it, letter by letter, to see the actual words the writer used, and correct the proliferation of errors that had inevitably crept into subsequent versions as it had been c
opied down the centuries.
The ramifications would be immense for Christians, and for scholars of early Christianity and its writings.
The results would be electrifying.
It was going to be a sensation. The museum that held it would be on every front page, and the tourists and researchers would come flocking for years.
She looked at the doorway out onto the platform, and saw again in her mind’s eye Mary bundling Durov over the edge.
“Our friend gave her life here – partly for this manuscript,” Ava answered quietly. “She once told me that she felt Rome had everything, if only people knew where to look. The Vatican was very important to her, and that’s where it should go – on condition they lend it to all the world’s great museums, starting with London.”
“I think she would’ve liked that.” Ferguson nodded slowly. “Maybe they can call it the ‘Mary Apocalypse 504’.”
“I’ll make sure of it,” Ava replied quietly. “And I’m sorry – about Mary.”
Ferguson looked at the doorway she had hurled herself out of. “It was her choice.”
“I know,” Ava replied. “But you and she were…”
“Were…?” He looked confused.
Ava chose her next word carefully. “Close.”
He frowned.
“In Rome, when you both came to the library…”
Ferguson shook his head. “Back in London, when she told me about the child killed by the gang, and how she came to be working at the Vatican, I ended up telling her I joined the army when my parents died.” He paused. “The guilt of the child’s death weighed on her mind. It was something she wanted to talk about. She thought I might understand. She needed someone to tell her it was okay. That these things happen.”
“So you weren’t…”
“Weren’t what?” Ferguson looked bewildered.
Ava could not believe she had got it so wrong. “But I thought you two…”
Ferguson put his arm on her shoulder, a grin spreading across his face. “Well, you thought wrong. I wondered why you were being a bit odd.”
The Apocalypse Fire (Ava Curzon Trilogy Book 2) Page 35