And when he was done, and no reply could be found in his listeners, Malachi would begin to speak again. He would speak of mysteries that even he did not comprehend, true mysteries that had eluded the mind of man since the beginning of time. And then he would leave them to ponder foundational questions of truth that their shallow philosophies could not begin to fathom.
And though he had won every argument, Malachi knew that he had failed. As he was doomed to fail, from the beginning. For he discovered that they weren't searching for anything so humbling as truth. No, it was power they had sought, and they had finally found it, in the end. Fears for his own life faded into nothing when Malachi remembered that, in all the long centuries, those evil masters of ancient Mesopotamia had never stood closer to uniting the kingdoms of the Earth than they stood in this hour.
Malachi's tired eyes continued to study the wall, and then his gaze rested upon the cherished plaque displayed prominently behind his desk:
Presented to Malachi Josiah Halder, Ph.D., Th.D.
Professor of Archeology and Ancient Languages
Saint Matthew's Theological Seminary
From Sarah
Sarah, his beloved child.
Wearily, feeling the frailty of his 72 years, Malachi turned and beheld once more the reassuring presence of the massive door. He placed a trembling hand against the rough-hewn timbers, comforted by its solidity, noticing once again how deeply the iron bolts were set into the frame, appreciating the unbending bars that held the stout beams in place.
And as his weakness sometimes prompted him in times of personal suffering, his mind returned to centuries long past for comforting thoughts. He remembered the noble history of the door, this very door that now stood between him and his enemies. Ironically, in 1656 this portal stood between a small force of persecuted Italian Christians and a merciless, mercenary army.
Though it cost Malachi a small fortune to have the door restored and transported from the long abandoned sanctuary of Saint Constantine, it was worth the sacrifice because it never ceased to remind him of that lost and noble age, an age of heroes.
The portal's history had begun on April 25, 1655, in the village of Rora, a tiny community once located high in the Italian Alps, where the Marquis de Pianessa had issued a proclamation forcing all Protestant believers to swear allegiance to the Church of Rome or suffer execution. Throughout the villages and provinces surrounding the township, thousands of Protestant men, women, and children who refused to submit were beheaded in an orgy of wholesale murder, survivors fleeing into the mountains. In the end, only Rora remained, besieged as the last surviving Protestant stronghold.
An army of 500 experienced soldiers attacked in the early morning. But the impoverished villagers of Rora, inspired by a Protestant captain named Joshua Gianavel, organized and fought with their families to their backs, defiantly holding the Catholic army at bay for six months. Until, in frustration, the Marquis de Pianessa, dark commander of the expedition, hired mercenary forces that increased his army to almost 8,000 men.
Enraged to insanity and vowing to see indomitable Rora razed to the ground, the Marquis ordered the entire Militia of Piedmont to the field beside his mercenary troops, and with a combined force of 15,000 men launched a three-front attack. In the long and savage end, Rora's defenders died holding their positions or were captured and burned at the stake, father and son holding each other upon the pyre.
Some, however, including Gianavel, slashed a path through the mercenary troops and escaped into the mountains where, in time, they reorganized to launch merciless and cunning counterattacks against the Marquis's army. Until the winter of August, 1656, when the diminutive force was cornered in the monastery of St. Constantine.
And it was there that the final, bloody battle ensued.
Lost to a past that he knew as well as the present, Malachi ran his hand across the scarred wooden timbers of the door, wondering at what savage conflict had passed this portal in that doomed and defiant last stand.
"Yes ... an age of heroes," he whispered softly, his fingers touching a smooth, deeply carved cleft that was once slashed into the wood by ax or sword.
Slowly, the memory moving him, Malachi lowered his hand and ascended the staircase that led to his bedchamber. But he knew that he would not sleep tonight. Indeed, with the sad news that he had received in recent days, he was uncertain that he would ever sleep again. For Simon, wasting away beneath that malignant illness which physicians could still not fully diagnose, had returned to the Vatican, presumably to die.
Malachi knew that this malady was not the bane of nature; it was the hand of man. And he suspected that soon he, too, would fall to this mysterious and unseen foe. For he had stood beside Simon deep within that ancient grave in the Negeb, had seen what was unearthed, and witnessed the testament that stretched forth from the tomb in that skeletal hand ...
Feeling anew the initial sensation of the unexpected discovery, Professor Malachi Halder, revered Harvard archeologist and man of science, saw once more in his mind the spectral scene: the sight of the long-dead messenger, still armored in rusted iron, locked in a mortal embrace with his slayer.
Long buried within the subterranean corridor beneath ancient Horvat Beter skeletal arms intertwined, the dead men had lain for two millennium, each the victim of the other. Each warrior still held the iron blade of the era buried deeply through the petrified ribs of his foe. Malachi could only imagine what hideous drama had unfolded in the tunnel during that distant, desperate hour. But he believed that he knew. Even as he had retrieved, shoulder to shoulder with Simon, the all but obliterated parchment from the armored hand and initiated the thrilling translation, he had begun to understand.
As Malachi reached the top of the stairs, walking heavily towards his bedchambers, he cursed that unexpected discovery and swore sorrowfully that the crumbling manuscript had not been buried deeply enough.
"No," he whispered, and he felt the plague of the abomination darken him within, "it could never be buried deeply enough."
Rome itself, the Citie del Vaticano, had financed the archeological dig on the ruins of Horvat Beter, just as the Vatican had financed many of Malachi's expeditions over the years. And faithful Father Simon, longtime friend of Malachi and himself a respected archeological scholar within the Catholic hierarchy, had accompanied Malachi on the excavation, just as he had accompanied the professor on a hundred similar expeditions over the last half-century.
As always, Malachi was grateful for the wise company. For he had long ago found a valuable and faithful friendship with old Simon. Mutually beneficial, Malachi provided the higher understanding of science, the more technical reference of knowledge, while Simon personified the more sensitive spiritual acumen, and also commanded the power and protection of Rome.
More than once, to Malachi's astonishment, Simon's quiet, humble voice, with his fearful evocation of the Roman Catholic Church, had preserved both their excavations and lives in countries as diverse as Iran, Syria, and Egypt. Though, for the most part, they executed their last expedition in the Negeb of Israel without incident until that day of remarkable discovery, when the horror was unearthed, and the terror began.
Fulfilling his solemn responsibility, even as his duties required, Simon immediately sent a dispatch to Rome, alerting Pope Clement. Then Malachi and Simon began an immediate translation.
Malachi remembered how they had worked ceaselessly through the next 48 hours, carefully completing a Latin translation of the ancient book that was long ago sealed with the emblem of Titus Flavius Vespasian, Emperor of Rome. By the time they finished the translation, the scorching desert air had almost obliterated the original writing, leaving only isolated lettering and the faintest swirling on the crumbling parchment. But by that solemn hour, both he and Simon had realized, with the most profound regret, what they had truly discovered. And, as reluctant brothers in a horrible crime, they planned to burn the parchment.
It was an act that went against everyt
hing Malachi knew and believed, for his was a life dedicated to the discovery and preservation of lost artifacts and texts and civilizations. But the manuscript was not part of history, he told himself. No. It was part of death itself, and had no place in the world of men. Before the dark deed could be completed, however, an official emissary from Rome arrived, demanding the manuscript under the authority of Clement. Always loyal, old Simon reluctantly surrendered the parchment.
Malachi never saw it again.
Awakened from his memory, the professor found himself in his bedchamber. He touched the lamp upon his desk, and the room was instantly bright. But he sensed a presence beside him in the chamber, and his heart skipped a beat as he turned, gasping and livid, towards the still form sitting in the chair at his bed.
Malachi froze, unable to run, unable to shout, and struggled to meet death as he had always intended, with dignity, his faith defiant to whatever painful end was forced upon him. Yet the stranger did not move, did not speak, and the professor squinted, peering, to discern the form.
The stranger was dressed in subdued clothing, a vague array of gray and black. Yet the athletic build was evident, muscular but lithe, like the body of a professional boxer. Not over muscular, it was hardened and powerful, even in stillness presenting an impression of explosive power and swift agility.
Recovering with each moment, Malachi studied the stranger's features. Though only in his early thirties, the man's deeply tanned face betrayed the weathered signs of long exposure to sun and wind; it was lined and toughened, aged beyond his years. His collar-length dark brown hair was raggedly cut, providing a shaggy frame to the lean face. The faint image of a thin white scar descended from an area beside his left eye, drawing a line past his cheekbone. It was almost imperceptible, as if the wound had occurred long ago. Smaller scars crisscrossed the weathered face: the white trace of another cut, a long, scarred burn mark, narrow as a man's finger, on the left side of his neck.
The face reminded Malachi of photos he had seen of the last Apache warriors, those hardened desert fighters who had savagely refused surrender until they were finally, brutally conquered only by superior force.
The man's mouth was tight and slightly frowning, as if stoically indifferent to pain or pleasure. But it was the narrow eyes, seeming to shift from blue to gray, that struck Malachi as remarkable, and held him.
Predatory and purposeful, the eyes did not blink, did not move as Malachi staggered back. They remained locked on him, had been locked on him with hypnotic intensity since the professor had first recoiled. Unwavering in their focus, they were almost opaque with concentration, the stare of a panther crouching before a kill.
And then, with a breath, Malachi knew. "You!" he began before he stopped, remembering the secret.
As if commanding the professor's submission to his will, the man suddenly rose – a fluid, strong movement of confidence that demonstrated his power to subdue and control. But when the man moved slowly forward the gray eyes somehow softened and step by step became more and more open to reveal a pained and tormented soul.
Malachi felt the first strange sense of safety.
With only the faintest trace of emotion, of remorse, the stranger spoke.
"Simon is dead."
*
SIX
Unable to stand, Professor Malachi Halder sat back heavily in the mahogany chair at his desk. The stranger was beside him, touching his shoulder, reassuring.
"Rest," he said.
With a trembling hand, Malachi wiped sweat from his brow, sweat sliding on sweat. Finding his breath, he inhaled and felt the room suddenly warm. But his flesh was chilled, and he unconsciously massaged a place below his sternum. Finally, forcing a calm, he looked up.
"I'm here to help you," the man said softly, then stepped away, moving cautiously to the window. Malachi saw that the curtains had been closed. The man edged back a corner of the curtain, staring into the street.
Malachi found his voice.
"You're Gage," he whispered.
"I'm Gage."
Malachi felt something returning; an ability to reason, to measure the situation. He realized that the stranger could have killed him easily, armed or unarmed. And yet the man had done nothing.
"How did you get in here?" Malachi asked, a deep breath following the words.
The stranger was expressionless. "I disabled your security system."
Amazed, Malachi wondered how the man had accomplished such a task.
"It's a simple thing, professor."
Malachi gazed evenly at him, said nothing. He had seen this man called Gage only once before, but the face was wrapped in bandages, burned by flame, sun, and sand. One arm was in a crude cast, the body mangled by wounds. Malachi was unable to identify that broken form with the strong figure standing before him.
Remembering the cunning of his enemies, the professor nodded and placed a hand on his chest, attempting to ignore the pain. Head lowered, from beneath his gray brows Malachi studied the man, struggling to conceal his suspicion.
Gage remained motionless, gloved hands open. "You'll know soon enough, professor," he said simply. "When they come for you, you'll know."
"What has happened?" Malachi's eyes narrowed, and he was surprised to hear the emptiness in his own voice.
"Simon is dead," the man said bitterly. "And you're probably next. Or Sarah. Or the translator. But I promised Simon that I would defend you.”
Malachi straightened, moved by the words. But even as he began to rise the stranger stepped to the side, cutting him off from the door. Malachi's analytical abilities had not deserted him, and he noted that the man had reacted even as he had thought of rising, not waiting for the initiation of the movement. The stranger's step toward the door had appeared slow only because it had begun so early in Malachi's decision to stand. But in truth the man had moved deceptively fast, simply without the appearance of haste. When Malachi had fully risen, the man was standing solidly between him and the exit. Malachi noticed he had taken a position that allowed him to view the hallway, or the room, with only the slightest shifting of his eyes.
"How do you know that Simon is dead?" Malachi asked. "I went to see him yesterday and I was informed by Archbishop McBain that he had fallen ill. I was told that they had flown him back to Rome for long-term treatment.” He waited. “Are you certain of this?"
"He's dead," said the man coldly. "He's dead in a house in Westchester. I was there." He hesitated. "He told me to help you if I could."
Malachi looked around, sighed deeply. The room seemed strangely unfamiliar to him.
"So,” he murmured, “it begins."
The stranger nodded. "Yes. And we don't have any time. You're going to have to trust me. Where's Sarah?"
Malachi's eyes centered on the man. "But how can I trust you? How can I know you are not here to kill me and my daughter, as well?"
The man took a single swift step, and it was as if a cloak fell away to reveal the predatory savagery of the most ruthless killing machine. "If I wanted to kill you, professor, you would be dead. And Sarah is easy to track down. But I don't have time. I knew I could find you quickly. And I know that you can find her. Now, take me to her and I'll put you both someplace where you'll be safe – at least for a while." The man grew tense. "It's all I can do right now."
Malachi was silent, weighing the conviction. He was not as afraid as he had expected to be. Logic suggested that this man standing before him, this man he had seen only once and for a brief time was, indeed, who he claimed to be.
Still, Malachi hesitated, the caution of a half-century overruling all else.
The stranger stared out the bedroom door. Strangely, Malachi thought that he was gazing at the chandelier suspended above the main room and the staircase. The action confused the aging professor until he realized—the globe. The man was studying the golden, polished globe that decorated the chandelier, watching the reflected area of the first-floor entrance that could not be seen directly from the
doorway.
And Malachi knew.
Whether it was reason or instinct or something entirely beyond him, Malachi could not discern, but he was suddenly certain that this stranger was, in truth, the mortally wounded, dying American soldier that Simon had found beneath the desert moon of Israel over three years past.
The man turned back again. "Where's Sarah?"
Malachi moved toward the door. "She is just outside the city, at Saint Matthew's Seminary in Ridgefield. It is an hour's drive from here, but we can take the Lincoln Tunnel to save time. We must hurry!"
"Stay here," Gage commanded, cutting off the professor's movement. He pointed a finger at Malachi. His voice was a snarl. "Don't move until I return."
Malachi opened his mouth to object, but the man was gone, moving quickly down the hallway, toward the back stairwell. The steps descended into the kitchen, near the rear entrance.
Alone, his concern overriding all else, Malachi's pulse increased. He was frustrated and enraged to know that his daughter's life might be finally forfeit to those unseen enemies who had long threatened them all. But he felt helpless to combat his foes. As always, the situation remained beyond him. In the heat of the moment he found himself caring little for his own life. It was his child, who might now be lost, doomed by the cruelty of these ...
A dark form moved towards him. Gage paused in the doorway, leaning close. "Do exactly what I say, professor. When I say. Don't ask questions. Do you understand?"
Malachi nodded, bracing. "I have no pride, young man. And I now find that I have very little fear. Do what you must do. I will do anything to save my child."
Gage leading, they moved quickly down the hallway. Gage passed the front staircase and Malachi, out of habit, angled towards the spiraling steps.
"No," Gage said shortly, looking back. "This way."
He descended the rear staircase towards the kitchen, not switching on the light. Malachi noted the gesture and was careful not to reach for the switch from reflex. But descending the steps in the dark caused him instant disorientation. He reached out to locate his position with the wall and crept hesitantly down the stairs. Distantly, he heard Gage moving in the darkness below him, descending smoothly and quickly before the faint sounds was completely gone.
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