“Oh no.” Grief struck Sarah like a blow in the stomach. She had to lean back and swallow several times to choke down the heavy bile that rose in her throat. Initially, Melman had been misguided, but he had lost his life in the effort to help them.
The questioning continued and the spokesman repeated himself, then someone shouted, “So who’s running the world?”
The question came from someone outside the knot of reporters on the television screen, and from the look on Shamir’s face, Sarah could tell he wasn’t pleased with the questioner’s jocular tone. “All matters of international security are firmly under control,” he said, his brows drawing downward in a frown. “I assure you, all governments are fully operational. If any person or provincial government”— his gaze swept the crowd—“thinks they can override the president’s authority during this moment of crisis, they are sorely mistaken.”
Sarah looked at Thomas Parker, who squatted on the floor before the television, one hand pressed to his chin. “Do you think it’s possible?” she asked, hearing a hopeful note in her voice. “Might some of the other governments rebel? Has Isaac given them the courage to act?”
Parker scratched gently at his bearded chin. “I don’t know. The Bible indicates that several national leaders will rebel against the Antichrist during the latter years of his reign—”
“What is this, if not his latter year? He’s dead, Parker.”
The American only rocked back on his heels, his gaze fastened to the television. “We’ll see.”
The next day, in the twilight hour just before sunset, Sarah and Parker met again in the small apartment. The squatters who lived there, an Arab doctor and his wife, had several times provided medical care to the refugees hidden in and around the Temple Mount. Tonight Sarah and Parker were picking up a box of stolen antibiotics to take them to the refugee settlement at Petra.
After quickly pulling his guests into the safety of the apartment, the doctor pulled the precious box from a hiding place in the wall, then sent her and Parker on their way with a prayer for safety.
Their scouts had been watching the roads long enough to know when the guards changed shifts. As the sun balanced on the western horizon, the new shift approached from the city and the tired patrols lingered to exchange a smoke and a bit of gossip.
Crouching low, Sarah and Parker ran through the lengthening shadows, then reached the station where others had hidden a pair of motorbikes. By the time sunset stretched glowing fingers across the sky, they were on their way to the remote outpost known as Petra.
Sarah had good reason to feel happy about leaving Jerusalem. After the attack on Romulus yesterday, Ephraim and Rabbi Cohen had smuggled Isaac out of the city almost immediately. She had not had an opportunity to speak to him since the incident.
Her spirit lightened considerably once they reached the narrow passage that led to the stone city. An atmosphere of gaiety permeated the settlement; the mountains themselves echoed with the sound of a joyous chant as they arrived: “Le Chaim! To Life!” As Sarah moved among the refugees, accepting gratitude and congratulations for her small part in yesterday’s drama, she found morale and enthusiasm high. Romulus had been dead two days, and many in the Petra settlement felt that no one in the Universal Movement could effectively take his place. Soon, an older man assured Sarah, the Universal Network would collapse, national governments would rise again, and they could all return to their homes.
Her heart nearly stopped when she finally found Isaac. He was leaning in a doorway of a cavern, watching her with eyes that bathed her in admiration. She flew into his arms, then wrapped her arms around his neck and covered him with relieved kisses.
Laughing, Isaac forcibly peeled her away. “Wife, you act as though you are surprised to see me.”
“Maybe I am,” she answered, reaching out to touch him again. “But I’m very glad you’re here.”
Knowing that time was short, Isaac led her into the small room hewn out of stone. The accommodations were rough— only an air mattress, a blanket, and a basin for water, but one of the refugees had managed to hook a laptop computer up to a portable generator. The computer sat on the air mattress, a screen saver floating idly across its silvered surface.
“We’re planning to watch the state funeral tomorrow,” Isaac told Sarah, smiling grimly as he slipped his hands into his pockets. “Only when Romulus is dead and buried will I rest safely.”
“You don’t really think—”
“I don’t know. But I know it’s not over. Only forty-two months have passed since the Disruption, and the prophets say we’ve another forty-two months to go before the Lord will return. So something will happen—I’d stake my life on it.”
“That’s why I’m going to the Temple Mount tomorrow.” She lifted her chin as Isaac’s jaw clenched. “I know what you’re going to say, but I’m a big girl and a trained officer. I can handle myself in a crowd. Besides”—she looked down as her resolve wavered—“I have to do it for Director Melman. There are several Shabak agents who don’t agree with Romulus. I think they’ll agree to help us, if only for Danny’s sake.”
Isaac stared at her, the veins in his throat standing out like ropes, then he smoothed his disheveled hair and sat on the ground, radiating offended dignity. “You could at least let me protest. It’s a husband’s duty.”
“A husband’s duty,” she said, sinking to his level, “is to love his wife. And you do a marvelous job of that, Isaac Ben-David.”
His gaze caught and held hers as she wrapped her arms around his neck. “I wish I could go with you.”
“Now that is too dangerous.” She forced her lips to part in a curved, still smile. “You’re the most wanted man in the world, Husband. So you will stay here among the rocks, hidden out of the way. You can watch the entire spectacle on the Net.”
“I’d rather watch it with you.”
Love, strong and sweet, wrapped around Sarah like a warm blanket. She bent and kissed her husband’s forehead, then ran her fingers through his wavy hair. “I’m taking the point tomorrow. We’re going to be spread throughout the outer court just in case the Universal Force patrols try to take out half of the crowd in retribution for Romulus’s death. The UF patrols won’t realize it, but every last one of them will be shadowed by a member of the resistance.”
She tilted her head back and watched as guilt flickered across Isaac’s face. He was struggling in the same way she had after Binyamin’s death. She knew he didn’t feel guilty for killing Romulus—that was an act of war, and Isaac had been trained to fight for the defense of his country. No, his guilt rose from the fact that he had worked for Romulus and participated in the process that bound Israel to the worst sort of evil.
“You couldn’t have known what he was,” she whispered as a tremor passed over Isaac’s face. “How could you, a Jew, know what the Book of Revelation predicted?”
“There were other writings, Sarah.” Reaching into the space between them, Isaac pulled the worn Bible from his coat and fumbled through the thin pages. “Listen—even the prophet Zechariah wrote about the false shepherd who would come to lead Israel. God told the prophet to write, ‘I will give this nation a shepherd who will not care for the sheep that are threatened by death, nor look after the young, nor heal the injured, nor feed the healthy. Instead, this shepherd will eat of the meat of the fattest sheep and tear off their hooves. Doom is certain for this worthless shepherd who abandons the flock! The sword will cut his arm and pierce his right eye! His arm will become useless, and his right eye completely blind!’”
Sarah watched with acute and loving anxiety as her husband closed the Bible. “Israel did not accept the Good Shepherd, the true Messiah, and so God has sent them a foolish, greedy, and corrupt shepherd,” Isaac explained. “The Good Shepherd gave his life for the sheep, but the false shepherd will destroy the people because he cares nothing for them. But the sword will cut his arm and pierce his eye—it is written!”
A thrill of frightened anti
cipation touched Sarah’s spine. “What are you saying?”
Isaac’s expression darkened with unreadable emotions. “I didn’t tell you, Sarah, and the news reports haven’t given details, so I don’t expect you to realize . . .”
“What, Husband?”
Isaac looked up at her, his mouth tight and grim. “I threw the spear at Romulus without thinking. I should have taken the time to aim for his heart, but he was moving, and I was horrified—”
“What are you saying?”
“The spear went through his arm and pierced his right eye.”
Surprise siphoned the blood from her brain, leaving her lightheaded. “You think—”
“I think it may not be over.”
Throwing up both hands, Sarah stood and stepped away. “I don’t want to hear any more of this kind of talk. You killed him, Isaac, and I’m glad of it. You were trained as a soldier, and you have sworn to protect Israel. That’s all you did—you killed an enemy of the state, a man who was killing your people, so you don’t have to let yourself be tormented by guilt or—”
“I’m just saying,” he interrupted, the tenderness in his expression amazing her, “that it might not be over. And you need to be ready for anything.”
She pulled away, preparing to leave, but Isaac stood and caught her hand. “Promise me?”
“What?”
“You’ll be careful tomorrow.”
A knot rose in her chest as she stared at the man she loved. She had been relieved to hear of Romulus’s death, grateful that their time of fear and insecurity might finally be at an end. Romulus had died, and that simple fact had proven that he was a man like anyone else. He was no god, but her husband seemed suddenly unsure . . .
“Do you trust me, Isaac?” she asked, struggling to speak over the lump in her throat.
“With my life.”
“Then trust God. He led you to strike at Romulus, and he is still in control. And he is far more dependable than I am.”
She pulled her hand free, and Isaac reluctantly let her go.
TWENTY-EIGHT
THE NEXT MORNING, SARAH AND A CIVILIAN ARAB resister who had volunteered for service three days earlier left the honeycomb of tunnels and flowed into the crowd of somber pedestrians making their way toward the Temple Court. In the manner of the Muslim women, Sarah wore a black robe and a matching veil that hid the headset and earpiece she wore. She and the Arab would work the lead position near a pair of guards stationed only twenty meters from the closed casket. Her co-conspirators at Shabak had assured her that due to the somber aspect of the ceremony UF patrols would not be scanning for Universal Chips on the Temple Mount.
Sarah had accepted this news with a lifted brow. The “no scanning” measure might be a trap to draw outlaws out of hiding, or it might be a simple public relations measure designed to insure the largest crowd possible at the event. In either case, she decided, this unusual freedom would work to their advantage.
Fog had seethed into the city overnight. It roiled along the street, softly nosing at the ankles of those who trod the steps leading to the Court of the Israelites. As she walked with her silent companion beneath an overcast sky, Sarah thought the Temple Mount had never looked lovelier . . . or more strange. Red roses covered every wall; their sickly sweet fragrance lacing each breath of wind that blew over the open area.
The casket itself, an ornate creation of white marble, sat on what used to be the altar in the inner court. A host of uniformed Universal Force guards stood around the casket, ostensibly to prevent any grief-stricken mourners from rushing toward the bier, but the faces around Sarah seemed more grim than grief-stricken. As she signed a false name to the book of remembrance in the outer court, she heard a few people weeping, but here, in the very presence of death, a certain resolute satisfaction seemed to fill the air.
The casket was not the only object in the Court of the Israelites. A large portrait of the late leader, depicting Romulus holding the Spear of Longinus, stood beside the casket. Someone had draped a garland of white roses over one corner of the gilded frame, and the flower petals moved gently in the breeze.
Just looking at Romulus’s image gave Sarah a cold chill. He looked so confident, so defiant in that pose—and the spear in his hand was the very instrument her husband had used to send Romulus to his grave. What could Romulus’s people have been thinking when they positioned the portrait so close to the casket?
A trumpet sounded, reminding her of the procession three days before, then a mournful drumbeat echoed over the hills as a mounted entourage moved toward the Temple. An elevated video screen high on the wall displayed the progress of the procession as it wound through the streets of old Jerusalem, through the Beautiful Gate, toward the outer court. A chorus of weeping and wailing followed the funereal parade, and Sarah watched in fascination as men and women along the route tore their clothes and collapsed in a frenzy of grief.
What was wrong with those people? Could they not see that Adrian Romulus had been another Hitler?
As the procession grew closer, she studied the screen. Three horses led the ceremonial parade, followed by a detachment of mounted Universal Force patrols and a band of funeral musicians. Sarah recognized the two men riding at the front almost immediately: Gen. Adam Archer, wearing a dress uniform with a black band at his upper arm, rode a splendid bay stallion, and Elijah Reis, garbed in his black robe, rode an ebony horse. Between the two men pranced a restless white stallion, a spirited creature that pulled at the reins in Reis’s hand and tossed his head as if he did not care for the pounding drummers in the distance.
When they reached the Court of the Gentiles, Archer and Reis dismounted and entered the Court of the Israelites, where Sarah and a host of others waited and watched behind dark veils and hats and cloaks. Despite her training and her resolve, Sarah began to tremble as fearful images built in her mind. What if Archer ordered the guards to fire into the crowd? Romulus was nothing if not a megalomaniac, and it would be like him to want to go out in a frenzy of mourning. He was cast from the same mold as Herod the Great, who, on his deathbed, had confined all the Jewish rabbis of Israel in the hippodrome and ordered that they be executed at the moment of his death so “there would be grief throughout the country at his death rather than joy”!
Adam Archer fell back, stopping to hold the horses’ reins as Elijah Reis stepped to the side of the great white casket. Lifting his arms, he murmured something over the casket, then turned to face the television camera discreetly mounted on a platform in a corner of the courtyard.
“Citizens of the world,” Reis said, his voice commanding the court, “today we have gathered to witness a miracle. The man you know as Adrian Romulus was no mere man. He was an elevated human, one who had burned away the dross of flaws and human imperfections through meditation and struggle. He had put human weakness and frailty behind him, and his spirit routinely ascended to levels far above this earthly plane. And though his body lies here, lifeless and slumbering, his spirit still moves among us.”
The television camera zoomed in upon Reis’s face so that his countenance filled the video screen on the wall. “Call to him,” he said, his voice little more than a whisper in the silence. “Call to him from beyond the grave, and he will hear your prayer. Call, and he will come!”
Sarah felt an icy finger touch the base of her spine as the whisper began from the edges of the gathering. “Rom-u-lus! Rom-u-lus!”
She glanced at the Arab next to her. With wide eyes, he shook his head slightly, then together they wheeled to look around the room. Not a single person was speaking in the area where she stood, yet the sound grew like the crashing of a wave, growing stronger and more powerful with each repetition.
“Rom-u-lus! Rom-u-lus!”
Sarah drew her veil closer to her face as a shiver of panic swept through her. The rose-scented air around her suddenly felt heavy and threatening.
The sound continued to intensify. “Rom-u-lus!”
She closed her ey
es and pressed her hand to her temple. Something was happening inside her head. The sound was all wrong, the voices distant, fuzzy, and unfocused. The people around her stirred with agitation, yet the refrain grew louder, as if every voice in the room had lifted to call Romulus from beyond the grave . . .
“Behold!” Reis shouted, lifting his arms. “I show you our leader!”
With a dramatic flourish, Elijah Reis turned toward the casket. A spotlight fell upon the gleaming portrait, highlighting each trembling petal on the floral garland. A fresh wail arose from the Romulus admirers in the outer courtyard, and Sarah froze, her eyes narrowing as she wondered what sort of tricks Elijah Reis had up his sleeve. Would he claim to “channel” Romulus’s spirit through the portrait? Would he declare that it embodied the spirit of a god and place the cursed picture in the Holy of Holies?
And then, while she waited and mused, Reis tensed his fingers and turned his hand slowly, as if he were turning an unseen dial. Before Sarah’s eyes, the cascade of roses atop the casket trembled in the breeze.
“Citizens of the world!” It was Romulus’s voice; Sarah would have recognized it anywhere. The sound seemed to come from the casket, but Sarah could see no sign of audio speakers on the casket or its base. Still, a prerecorded digitized tape could be played and broadcast from almost anywhere.
“Citizens,” the voice continued, “stand and prepare to worship the Man of Men.” Sarah felt her stomach drop, and the empty place fill with a frightening hollowness. What did Reis have planned?
An unnatural silence prevailed as the crowd waited. The voice did not speak again, but every head within the court turned to look at the closed casket.
As Sarah stared in horror, the still air in the Temple shivered suddenly into bits, the echoes of a harsh grating sound repelling the guards who stood near the casket. The lid moved! Before Sarah’s wide gaze, the heavy lid shifted . . .
The Spear of Tyranny Page 26