by Ken Fry
He lashed out frantically, attempting to grasp at branches to break his fall, and hoping to God the inevitable bullet would miss him. He hit the ground holding handfuls of leaves, unharmed. The shot was close, but it missed him. Ducking low, he prepared to dive for cover. Throgmorton’s yell bought him to a halt.
“One step more, Ladro, and I’ll blow her head off!”
Ladro skidded to a stop behind a thick vine. He shouted back in a voice he knew wasn’t his ... it was his.
“Judge, don’t even think that’s an option. One bad move and you will never see what I’ve got. I’ll burn it and this place down, and you’ll go up in flames with it. I swear by God that will and must happen.”
The night froze, and the soft moan of wind whistled its way through cloisters and the leaves of fruiting vines.
Silence.
§
Throgmorton stood still. He knew Ox must have been dealt with … but by Ladro? That wasn’t possible. If he was out of the game, Ladro must’ve had help.
If the worst happened, he reasoned, he still had De Witt’s work. If played correctly, that could still be worth millions. But at the end of the day, he knew it was a fake. While if he killed Ladro, whatever he had would be his.
He moved to the side and grabbed Ulla by her injured arm causing her to call out in pain. He held it up at the shattered window and at the same time ripped off the dressing. The barrel of the gun was pressed firmly into the side of her head, which was bent sideways, and her face bore an expression of severe pain.
“Is it worth it, Ladro? Her life for the secret you have?” He pushed Ulla forward so that she was bent over the window frame and half hanging out, her bloody arm twisted behind her neck, and the gun to her head. He knew a shot from Ladro had a fifty-fifty chance of hitting both him and Ulla. Ladro wouldn’t risk it. “What’s it to be?”
Ladro didn’t reply and the Judge bent low and whispered into Ulla’s ear. “I don’t think he cares what happens to you. I might as well finish you off here and now.” He shifted his body position and looked as if he was about to blast her.
“Don’t do it, Judge.” Ladro’s urgent voice rang out into the night air. “I’m on my way up.”
Ulla’s wound had begun bleeding again and blood stained the front of her blouse and trousers. She looked white, her head hung low and she looked defeated. Both Sister Agnes and Maria got up to assist her.
“Over there, you three, sit on the floor and I don’t want to see any of you move. When he gets here, you do and say nothing.”
He thought he heard sounds from outside the room.
The door flung open with a crash. There was nobody outside where Ladro should be standing. Throgmorton blasted off three ear-splitting rounds in rapid succession into the vacant space.
“Damn you, Ladro. Show yourself or these women die… I’m not joking!” His voice rose to a screech. To emphasise his point, he fired another round into the wall next to the door, filling the air with plaster and the smell of cordite.
Maria and Sister Agnes curled up on the floor in tight foetal positions with their arms around each other. He swung around making a grab for Ulla, at the same time attempting to keep the doorway covered. Ulla ducked, but he caught hold of her hair and yanked at it with a vicious twist.
Ulla screamed out. “Take him, Brodie! Take him now!”
The Judge twisted her around using her as a human shield. “Try it if you dare, Ladro. If you do, she gets it.”
There was no response. Ladro had disappeared. All that remained was an ominous tension. The three women looked at each other as the Judge shifted backwards gripping Ulla harder and knowing he should be in control but also knowing he wasn’t.
“Get in here, Ladro, damn you! I’m about to do something you’ll regret.”
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” said the quiet voice behind him.
CHAPTER 61
Disbelief registered on Throgmorton’s face as he spun around still holding onto Ulla. The gun remained at her head. Unseen, Sister Agnes and the Condesa hauled themselves to a standing position.
“How the fuck?”
Ladro said nothing, his face remained expressionless. A night breeze from the open window caused the curtain to flutter. He saw Ulla’s wide-eyed look of desperation. He could read her thoughts.
Do something, Brodie ... kill him!
He ignored the request. In his outstretched hands was the bundle that had hung from his back. His eyes fixed firmly on Throgmorton who gave a quick glance at the open window.
“You came through the window.”
“Whatever,” said Ladro. “I think this is what you have been after.” He nodded at the roll he offered to him.
The grip on Ulla relaxed. “How do I know it’s genuine, a miracle worker?”
“You don’t. Why don’t you try it with the Condesa?”
“Of course. Now put it on the table over there, very, very gently. When you’ve done that, face me, take off your jacket, lift your arms, turn around and then kneel with your back towards me. No tricks or sudden movements or I’ll pull this trigger.”
Ladro knew Throgmorton had nothing to lose. He was already wanted for questioning over the De Witt murder. He began doing as he was asked. The women’s lives had to be the priority.
In desert march or battle’s flame
In fortress and in field,
Our war-cry is thy holy name.
Brodie glanced at the Condesa ... she knows. Her body had straightened. The sickness remained but her eyes shone with inner strength. As he knelt, he felt Throgmorton checking him for weapons. He would find none.
“Where’s your gun?”
“I don’t have one.”
“Where’s my man, Ox?”
“He tripped and had a nasty fall.”
Ladro put up with another body search and was relieved the judge wasn’t too good at it.
“You won’t find anything.”
“You’re a bigger fool than I thought, Ladro. You could have left alive, but that’s not going to happen now. None of you are going to escape to tell the tale. Why you walked in here unarmed, I don’t understand, but you did and that was a big mistake. Giving me what I’ve been after isn’t going to save you, either. You know too much.” He gestured at Sister Agnes. “You, get over here next to him.” He waved the gun at her.
She moved across with a look of immense disdain.
“That’s right. On your knees facing the wall.”
Ladro whispered to her. “Don’t worry; we’re going to be fine.” She gave an appreciative nod. “How’s Maria?” he added. She clenched her fist tight. At that moment, he recognized her strength.
A crash caused him to turn his head. Ulla lay flat on the floor and this time her hands were bound behind her. Throgmorton had his foot on her back and the gun pointing at the Condesa.
“You, your majesty, get over here and bring that bundle with you. Don’t get any wrong ideas.”
“Shit,” whispered Ladro, “that complicates things.”
Angustia superveniente requirent pacem et non eri...
The words tumbled through his mind. A black cross fluttered…
Destruction cometh; and they shall seek peace and there shall be none.
The knife pressed flat against his back reminded him of that. If he was to do anything, he would have to be quick. He accepted the force attempting to take him over.
Ladro bent his head ... he recognised who it was. Reverberating in his head like a thousand church bells, he heard him, and he knew.
I am Custodio Baez, Guardian of Lazarus and Christ’s Holy Eyes. By Christ and Jacques de Molay’s blessed name, the robber and heretic will not live, or I shall perish.
He turned his head and saw Maria carrying the rolled-up bundle to Throgmorton.
She placed it in front of him and he gestured for her to begin unwrapping it as he covered the room with the gun.
The only sound Ladro could hear were the ribbons being untied
by her trembling hands. An air of hushed expectancy filled the room. His fingers moved towards the hilt of the knife. Ulla had twisted her head around and was looking straight at him.
She mouthed silently. Kill the bastard.
All he could do was nod.
Finally, the ribbons lay undone alongside the roll of canvas. The Condesa stood back, and Ladro could see her face was a mixture of hope, fear and bewilderment, as she stared first at Throgmorton and then the canvas, uncertain of what she should be looking at.
“Lay it flat on this table,” Throgmorton demanded.
Using both hands, she averted her gaze and began to unroll it, taking small backward steps alongside the table. She kept going until the canvas was open to its fullest extent.
The lights began to flicker.
CHAPTER 62
For a fraction, the brightness of the full moon shone like a distant lighthouse giving a momentary silhouette to the figures in the room.
Ladro released the knife, transferring it to the front of his belt.
The clash of armour ... horses shrieking ... the cries of wounded and dying men ... red and black crosses.
It was time.
The Condesa stood back, not daring to look at what she had unravelled. She placed her arms and hands across her chest and tilted her head back. Sister Agnes stood and moved beside her, clasping her arm.
Throgmorton said nothing, and he kept his foot pressed into Ulla’s back. Maria could see he had no idea what he was looking at. He made no move to prevent her daughter from being next to her. She detected a tremor in his hand and puzzlement on his face.
The clash of armour ... horses shrieking ... the cries of wounded and dying men ... red and black crosses.
She heard and saw them, and knew Ladro did, too.
Keeping her arms crossed, she lowered her gaze to look at the canvas. Her heart raced and her mouth went dry as she stared at a swirl of subdued colour. The work of the descendants of Zevi who had witnessed Christ’s miracle, and whose secret was transmitted through divinely chosen guardians and artists up to the time of Cortez, and now, she believed, through Broderick Ladro.
She forgot about the dilemma they faced. Throgmorton wasn’t there. All her prayers and lamentations over the last two years confronted her. The impossible had become possible. The room became gripped in an awesome stillness as she attempted to understand what was in front of her.
Christ stood to the left in a swirl of sand particles, reminiscent of El Greco meets Edward Hopper. He was dressed in black and his face shone white but dripped with sweat. His arms appeared to be raised but were lost in a blaze of yellow and greens. His gaze looked distorted. The tomb resembled the interior of a desert cave, dark and frightening as twelve faces stared out from the walls in expressions of wonderment and disbelief. Emerging from the tomb, a figure, expressionless and swathed in red and blue colours ... faceless. The initials KORL and a black pattée were in the lower right corner.
The risen Lazarus.
§
Its blankness, if it had a face, was positioned as if it would be staring out at the world from inside its potential frame. Outside appeared to be suggestions of indeterminate figures, staring into a promised hope.
It did not meet her hopes ... it exceeded them.
The painting was unfinished, and Ladro had understood as she hoped he would. One ingredient was missing, and she knew what that was.
The judge wanted a miracle and that he wasn’t going to get ... yet. Never in her life had she been so certain of anything. She kept her eyes closed, aware of Throgmorton staring at her with the eager look of a man watching an execution. No one spoke and all she felt was her daughter’s grip on her arm, and Brodie Ladro’s thoughts. She let a minute pass by before she appeared to say a prayer, opened her eyes to gaze down on Lazarus and then, with the hint of a smile, lifted her head to confront the Judge.
The lights flickered once more, first bright and then dim, before a glowing dance restored normality.
CHAPTER 63
Whatever he anticipated happening, had not. Throgmorton’s snarl filled the room as he attempted to keep Ladro and Ulla under control while he checked out the ageing Condesa in front of him. There were no cries of joy from her, and the painting looked incomprehensible.
“It hasn’t worked, has it?” With blazing eyes his yell filled the room. He spun around and aimed his gun at Ladro. “What sort of crap stunt are you pulling, Ladro? If you think I can be fooled by this junk, then you’re more pathetic than I thought. Answer swiftly or I start pulling this trigger.” He clenched his teeth and fired a round into the wall close to Ladro, at the same time stomping hard into Ulla’s back. With swift ease, he reloaded.
Ladro had ducked and barely had he begun to rise when the Condesa’s voice, powerful and loud, rose over and above the drama.
“Stop! Stop now or you shall never know ... you shall never know.” Her last words produced an enigmatic hush.
Throgmorton obeyed. He didn’t know why he did but her entire presence was directed at him. He stepped off Ulla. “Get up and stand with those two.” He gestured to Maria and her daughter. She got up and shuffled over, her arm at an awkward angle.
“You, Ladro, get with them. I want you all where I can see you.”
Ladro kept his head bent low,
Our war-cry is thy holy name!
He didn’t look up but moved over to the other three. He placed his arm around Ulla.
“I’ve a feeling I’m missing something here.” Throgmorton looked at them all. He had the means to finish them all off there and then and no one would be any the wiser.
Tempting.
“What won’t I ever know, Condesa?”
“The truth of the Lazarus lineage. You see, there are things you don’t know that have been known to my family and passed down to me across the centuries.”
Her voice its clarity and confidence left Throgmorton in little doubt that she was speaking the truth as she saw it.
She continued. “The legacy of Lazarus has been known to our family since it all began through the early Mozarabs of this country, the Crusaders who were given the task to protect and guard our secret up to the time of Cortez. The artists were never random painters. They didn’t choose to paint the event by themselves but were, believe it or not, chosen by Divine Ordinance. Although they never knew it.”
“Legacy, my arse.” His contempt was obvious. “So, how do you know this and nobody else does?”
“My ancestry extends back to the eleventh century Kingdom of Aragon. At the time of Queen Petronila, when the Moors were defeated in the thirteenth century, the painting was rescued and hidden at Valencia Cathedral … before it too disappeared forever. Those who were in most need of its powers received healing, if they believed it was blessed by Christ himself. It was said that every painting is doomed to vanish or disintegrate, heralding a potential successor. That period can come to pass immediately, or it may take centuries. I believed the work of Cortez still existed, but I was mistaken. I know now that it has been replaced.” She slowly and with reverence began to kneel in front of the large canvas, making the sign of the cross.
Total silence.
Throgmorton shifted, feeling ill at ease. He looked at them all and saw they all were transfixed on the Condesa, all apart from Ladro. He wasn’t looking at her, but his head was tilted back, and his gaze was fixed on the ceiling. His lips moved as if he was praying.
De Witt’s painting had now become of more importance. This performance was going nowhere, and he knew he had to make a major decision about them all. The entire episode was a step too far and a load of religious hysteria. He now wished he’d never got involved.
God, I’m going to have to do it.
His finger tightened on the trigger.
“Our war-cry is thy holy name! Beau-seant! Be glorious!” Ladro’s immense roar filled the room.
CHAPTER 64
The veins in his temple stood out.
Beau-
seant! Ad maiorem! Dei gloriam!
His grip tightened around the gnarled bone handle and the six-inch blade of his knife glittered and as if in slow motion, rose upwards. He raised his arm to its fullest extent, propelled his body upwards and towards the startled Judge.
Not yet! Not yet!
The voice of the Condesa rose in his mind. His attack faltered.
Throgmorton spun around, quick enough to sense his uncertainty. Ladro’s arm struck down the barrel of the gun as the judge pulled on the trigger, twice. The shots peppered the wall behind Ladro, but his momentum sent him crashing onto the floor, still clutching the knife. He attempted to get up, but Throgmorton had completed a full circular swing and Ladro took the full force of the gun butt on the side of his head. It sent him sprawling to the floor again in a bloody ball.
Throgmorton pointed the gun and aimed at his head, his fingers closing around the trigger.
“Stop! If you kill him, you will never know the final secret.” The Condesa’s voice, icy, high-pitched, sliced through the air and brought Throgmorton to a halt.
He didn’t look up but kept his eyes locked onto the back of Ladro’s head.
“You think I’m some sort of fool? You attempt to tell me this rubbish is a painting possessed with miraculous powers, painted by this idiot? I’m going to kill him and then all of you.”
Ladro began to regain consciousness, enough to hear the exchange. He couldn’t prevent the groan escaping from his open mouth. He managed to stutter. “Don’t. She’s right, there’s more.” He realised the longer he kept him talking, the greater his chances were for living. From the corner of his eye he could see Ulla and Agnes, and they looked like they were in a state of shock.
Brodie, I am here. Listen to me. I know who you are...
He was powerless to prevent the Condesa’s voice and the images from breaching his everyday reality.