The Lost Apostles

by Brian Herbert

  As Dixie Lou Jackson ran through the hallway, shouting at her elite guards, ordering them to follow her, she thought they behaved clumsily and stupidly, that none of them were qualified to do what needed to be done. She was the most important woman in the history of the world, but found herself surrounded by a garbage dump of humanity.

  Much of this was her own fault, she realized. If she had been using good sense, she would have kept Martha of Galilee and Pope Rodrigo in living quarters adjacent to her own (moving them during the day to keep them close to her) so that she could make her last stand, using both of them as hostages. But deep in her consciousness, in that portion of her soul that could only be dealt with truthfully, she knew that she deserved this state of affairs, and a lot worse. She deserved the fate that awaited her when NATO soldiers finally got her in their sights and opened fire. Helpless as a moth, she could only flutter into the flames.

  She had the detonator in her pocket, but could not bring herself to activate the explosives that had been rigged all over Vatican City. Something prevented her from taking that last, final step. She did not want that to be her epitaph, that she had failed, and had taken so much down with her.

  Maybe, just maybe, she could still figure a way out of this.

  Upon hearing the signs of an attack, her first impulse was to run for the Pope and leave the child behind. She could have carried Martha to the Pope’s quarters, but Dixie Lou had been terrified of the little she-apostle, and took the first excuse to get away from her, even if it cost her important time and leverage.

  I didn’t want to know what Martha would say next, didn’t want to learn what lay next around the corner of my own memory.

  Now she tried to tell herself it didn’t matter leaving Martha behind. Pope Rodrigo was the biggest prize anyway, and he was just down this corridor, through the wooden door at the end, in the servant’s quarters.

  Passing through the light of a security scanner, she and seven elite guards surged into the apartment. But it was empty. The Pope was not there.

  Running back out into the corridor with her guards, Dixie Lou encountered a group of Holy She soldiers, some wounded, who described a violent confrontation one floor down, outside Martha of Galilee’s room. Her guards and soldiers surrounded her in a protective cocoon. The officer of the guard asked her what they should do.

  “Wait out here,” the Grand Messenger commanded. And she reentered the apartment.

  Chapter 42

  Jesus had a brother, James, and three sisters. The sisters’ names, in order of birth, were Susanna, Ruth, and Phoebe. The youngest died before her first birthday, while the older sisters were present at the crucifixion of their brother, and wept inconsolably.

  —Gospel of Hannah 12:24–25, the Holy Women’s Bible

  With great trepidation, Lori approached the crib, then stopped as she heard a scream, and saw a blur of movement on her left. A brown-skinned woman emerged from an adjacent room and ran directly at her.

  Anda! the woman shouted. No toca la niña!

  Lori braced herself to take a headlong charge. But, abruptly, the woman stopped, only inches from Lori. Looking past Lori, into the crib, the woman said, “Marta? Qué quieres, mi querida?”

  In the crib, the child was reaching out . . . reaching for Lori.

  “Are you the mother?” Lori asked, glancing at her.

  Nodding, she said, “Si, si. Yo soy la madre.”

  “I won’t hurt your daughter,” Lori said, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. “I came to save her. Please trust me.”

  The woman, her face torn with emotions, nodded, though she obviously did not understand all of Lori’s words. She pulled away from the teenager and took a step back.

  Taking this as a sign of approval, Lori lifted the baby out and sat with her on a settee. She felt no sensation of change, but realized she had not been touching Martha’s skin, only her clothing. With bated breath, Lori pressed the baby’s tiny hands between her own, and gradually the sounds of conflict from the corridor faded.

  Suddenly a powerful current tugged at Lori, causing her entire body to tingle. She felt herself drawn into an infinite void, and gradually the unpleasant feeling subsided, to a smooth, even hum. In only a few seconds, she was no longer Lori Vale of Seattle. A blur of faces appeared before her, creased and darkened from an unrelenting desert sun and searing hot, dry winds.

  Though Lori’s eyes were open, she saw nothing of the palace room, and she was instead transported to a faraway place in a long-ago time. She sat beside a young woman—a brunette known to her as Martha of Galilee—on a bench in a rooftop garden, with the whitewashed buildings and narrow streets of a familiar city visible in the distance.

  Roman Jerusalem.

  The realization shocked and terrified her, and she wanted desperately to withdraw. She tried to break contact, but could not. She could only look and listen. Everything stood out in sharp focus, and she seemed to actually be in that ancient city. The sun was too bright and hot, and she needed relief from it. A warm afternoon breeze carried the fragrance of the garden to her, but it was not a pleasant scent, and somehow gave her excruciating pain.

  In a faltering, almost dreamlike voice, Martha spoke in an ancient tongue, but Lori understood completely. Martha told of the apostle Judas Iscariot, who was her lover, and the man with whom she had betrayed Jesus Christ for a mere thirty pieces of silver. Her voice breaking with emotion, Martha said she never would have committed such an atrocious act if Judas had not lied to her about Jesus, convincing her that he was an instrument of Satan, a false prophet, and that God wanted him destroyed.

  Quoting from the Fifth Book of Moses, Judas had said to her: “‘But the prophet, which shall presume to speak a word in my name, which I have not commanded him to speak . . . that prophet shall die.’” All the while, Judas had concealed the real reason from Martha, that Jesus had rebuked him after the apostle Matthew—who had experience with monetary matters—proved that Judas was a thief.

  From across the centuries, while these things were revealed to Lori in the timeworn Vatican room, she listened with rapt attention, as if she were caught up in a powerful whirlwind. . . .

  “Most of the terrible events have not occurred yet,” Martha said, “but they are predestined, and there is nothing I can do to stop them. Jesus knows what is about to happen to him and to those around him, episodes so frightful that I can barely describe them—” Her voice broke, and she fought back sobs. . . .

  The images shifted, and Lori found herself looking through Martha’s eyes instead of her own, while Martha resumed speaking to her: “Today is the day after Judas accepted the thirty pieces of silver. He and I are summoned to appear before the Sanhedrin, the high tribunal of the Jews. In a large chamber, we face High Priest Joseph Caiaphas, who stands on a dais in a white robe. A woman in a white dress stands beside him.”

  Lori saw the man and woman in white, and found herself transfixed by the woman’s dusky eyes, which seemed frozen in her skull.

  “Salome,” Martha said, her voice trembling. “Wife of Judas Iscariot and younger sister of the High Priest. He demands to know if Judas and I are lovers. We deny it, but Salome shouts that we are adulterers and liars. From a fold of her dress she produces a knife, and takes a step toward Judas, until her brother grabs her arm, holding her back.”

  As if viewing a narrated film, Lori saw all of this. A cold draft seemed to run down her spine as she continued to listen, and she trembled.

  “Terrified of his own wife, Judas continues to deny the charges. Then, to deflect the attention from himself, he makes even more false statements, asserting that Jesus has been engaging in sexual relations with all of the she-apostles, including me. Judas Iscariot charges that all twelve of us are, in effect, the harem of a would-be king.”

  Martha shuddered with anger. “None of it is true, of course. Jesus is celibate, and has always treated us with the utmost respect and courtesy. I am outraged at the lies, so I scream at Judas. I know
I have made a big mistake in trusting him, and I tell him I want out of the terrible bargain I have entered into with him, that I only went along with it out of my love for him, my belief in him. Judas tells me to shut up, that he and I have never been anything to each other. He strikes me in the face and knocks me down.”

  Lori continued to look through Martha’s eyes as Martha hit the hard tile floor, and blackness enveloped her. When her eyes flickered open, Lori saw the sandaled feet of the priest and his sister, and the bottoms of their robes. As she looked higher, she saw something that chilled her to the bone: Dixie Lou’s eyes peering down at her from Salome’s skull.

  Abruptly, Lori no longer heard Martha’s words, and actually seemed to experience the long-ago events. The High Priest told guards to take hold of Martha and Judas, then released his hold on his sister.

  “I sentence all of the she-apostles to death,” the High Priest said, “as abominations before God.”

  Martha fell to her knees and prayed, while Judas whimpered and pleaded for his own life. Salome stood before them with the knife.

  “Spare Judas,” the Priest commanded. “He still needs to earn the thirty pieces of silver we are paying him.”

  As Martha knelt, Salome plunged the knife into her back, then fell upon the she-apostle in a murderous frenzy, stabbing her repeatedly. Lori did not feel the physical pain of this, but was horrified. As moments passed, and Martha bled to death on the floor, Lori felt a disconnection and all went dark. But it was only temporary, and again Lori was sitting on the bench in the garden beside Martha of Galilee, with a warm breeze washing over them.

  “That is how I will die,” Martha said, in a voice from the vault of time.

  Martha went on to say that God was not a bearded old man in the sky, as portrayed in Christian literature and art, and was not male or female, either, but was instead both, a multidimensional deity. The She-God referred to by the she-apostles was not really a separate entity, she said, but was instead a reference to the feminine side of God, to the counterbalance needed to keep the male side under control.

  Martha spoke excitedly, lovingly. “God is both physical and non-physical, both matter and antimatter. God is a loving entity, but a thunderous one as well . . . a complex force of peace and war. God is omnipotent and omnipresent, heavenly light and eternal darkness.”

  More information followed, of a nature that was even more damaging to Dixie Lou Jackson, and as she listened Lori felt foreboding and mounting fear. Hypnotized, she had to hear the entire story anyway, every fascinating word of it. . . .

  * * *

  In her dreamlike state Lori reached out, and was about to touch the blessed, bearded face of Jesus. Suddenly his serene brown eyes became troubled, and his expressive mouth formed words. But someone else spoke, not him.

  “Watch out!” a woman shouted. It was the voice of Martha of Galilee, one of the apostles of Jesus.

  In a fraction of a second Lori felt herself break free, and she was transported across centuries, back to the third floor of the Vatican Palace, where she sat with the baby. Her senses accelerated. Compressed into a fragment of time, she felt the warmth of the child in her arms, smelled talcum powder and baby’s milk.

  Lori opened her eyes. Something bright and metallic glinted, a sword blade, and Dixie Lou was thrusting it toward her!

  Quickly, Lori rolled off the couch with the baby, onto the floor, using a method of falling that she had learned in t’ai chi class.

  The Grand Messenger, her eyes burning with primal fury, had emerged from a hidden wall panel, having reached the room via the honeycomb of secret passageways inside the walls. She lunged with the Sword of She-God, but fell across the settee, narrowly missing her target. Curses flew from her mouth.

  Rushing up behind Dixie Lou, unconcerned for her own personal safety, Martha’s mother chattered excitedly in Spanish and pulled at the assailant’s sword arm. Dixie Lou kicked her away, and the woman crashed against a side table, knocking it over and hitting her head hard. She groaned and fell to the floor, stopped moving.

  The first priority for Lori was to protect the child, so she placed her on the floor behind herself. Lori went into a defensive karate posture, with her hands stiff and arms cocked. But she was only a beginner in that discipline, and didn’t feel confident in her skills yet. Darting to her left, she grabbed a fireplace poker and used it to ward off the attacker’s sword.

  Lori heard pounding on the hall door, and the anxious voice of Alex, calling her name. The door was thick, and had been fortified with electronics. On the floor, Martha’s mother was not moving. Lori tried to dash around Dixie Lou to reach the door and open it, but the stocky black woman drove her back by brandishing the sword.

  “No one can save you,” Dixie Lou said. “I am the supreme law, and I sentence you to death!” The Grand Messenger’s dark eyes peered through narrow slits; her lips were tight as she spoke.

  Taking a deep breath to calm herself, Lori remembered one of her martial arts instructors telling her about the flow of chi energy in her body and throughout nature, and the need for balance. She felt the weight and balance of the poker, used it to deflect the sword and drive her opponent back, but only for a few steps before she rushed at Lori again.

  “It will look like you murdered Martha and then took your own life,” Dixie Lou said. “Why did you do it, Lori?”

  The blade slashed the sleeve of the teenager’s blouse near her wrist, cutting through to the skin. She felt raw, burning pain. Blood seeped onto the sleeve.

  She heard more men outside the room, rattling the door handle and shouting. They were having trouble getting through.

  Lori’s injured arm ached, but with it she still swung the fireplace poker. It struck Dixie Lou on the side of the head, and with a cry the woman fell back. Now Lori rushed at Dixie Lou with the heavy iron, striking her on the top of the head and on her arms, which she put up to ward off the blows. The Sword of She-God clattered onto the hardwood floor.

  Blood ran in Dixie Lou’s eyes, inhibiting her vision. Nonetheless, she was able to grab one of Lori’s ankles and topple her. The girl thudded to the floor, lost hold of the poker.

  Lori tried to roll away and grab the sword. But Dixie Lou moved with the quickness of a black cat, and before Lori could escape, the powerfully built woman was on top of her, using demonic strength to tighten her fingers around Lori’s throat. Blood dripped from Dixie Lou’s face onto Lori’s.

  With a surge of strength, Lori curled her legs and kicked her attacker. Grunting in pain and surprise, Dixie Lou fell back, but saw the sword. It lay within her reach.

  Just as she was about to grab hold of it, however, the sword lifted high into the air and floated toward Lori. Little Martha was on her feet looking upward, her eyes focused like laser beams as she struggled to keep the weapon in the air. But it was a mighty effort of telekinesis for the developing child, and the mental muscles began to falter. The sword drifted down, halfway between Lori and Dixie Lou.

  Leaping for the sword, Lori got hold of the hilt and rolled, then sprang to her feet with the legendary weapon, both hands gripping it. She wanted to kill this evil woman more than anything, most of all for what she had done to her mother, not getting her the medical attention she needed.

  Dixie Lou held up her hands. “Please,” she whimpered. “Don’t!”

  For an instant, Lori tasted the terror on the face of the Grand Messenger, and she savored it. The sword blade was razor sharp, and with a strong swing she might decapitate her hated adversary, or maim her. But the teenager wondered if she could go through with it. A moment’s doubt was erased when she told herself she had to.

  But still she hesitated. . . .

  As Dixie Lou looked at the young woman in front of her, holding the weapon so uncertainly, she realized who Lori had been a long time ago, and much more. She knew who she had been herself, under a different name.

  I was Salome, sister of High Priest Caiaphas.

  An overwhelming feelin
g of guilt overtook the Grand Messenger of the Holy She, and she knew that no matter what she did in this lifetime, no matter the lies she told or the steps she took to conceal her past identity, the horrible truth would still come out, over and over again. She could not escape the eyes of the Supreme Being, or the judgment of history.

  “I confess my sins and ask for forgiveness,” she murmured. “I was the sister of Joseph Caiaphas and the wife of Judas Iscariot, the man whose mistress was Martha of Galilee, a female apostle of Jesus. I did terrible things.”

  “The Savior forgives you,” Lori said.

  Tears streamed down Dixie Lou’s face. “Blinded by jealousy, I stabbed Martha to death, in front of my brother and Judas. The following evening, after the Passover meal, I brought Roman soldiers to the Garden of Gethsemane, where they arrested Jesus and nine she-apostles who were with him. Only the hand of God prevented all of the male apostles from being arrested as well, and two she-apostles—Mary Magdalene and Veronica. But they were not there.”

  Lori had never beheld such anguish as she saw now on the face of this woman whom she loathed for causing so much grief, not only to her personally, but to the entire world.

  “From my brother I obtained the key to the women’s cell, and with the blood of Martha still on my blade I stabbed nine she-apostles as they slept. It was katilta—slaughter. Afterward, I saw Jesus in the courtyard of the prison. Somehow he’d gotten out of his own cell. Unarmed and completely unafraid of the knife I waved at him, he approached me. In shame, I dropped it and ran away.”

  Lori didn’t know what to say. The immensity of the story seemed to weigh Dixie Lou down, causing her entire body to sag. “After everything I’ve done, it’s too late for me,” she said. “I am eternally damned.”

  “It’s never too late to seek forgiveness,” Lori said. She wanted to reach out and comfort the pathetic woman, but held the sword steady, remaining wary of this mortal enemy.

  Two she-apostles survived the slaughter, Lori thought. Mary Magdalene and Veronica.