Messiah: The First Judgement (Chronicles of Brothers) (4 page)

Although only in his late thirties, the young monarch exuded a power and authority far beyond his years, one normally attributed to great and ancient rulers. Aretas IV, king of Petra and Southern Arabia, was pragmatic and decisive in temperament. His lean six-foot frame was burned brown by the harsh Arabian sun, his sinewy hands hardened from manual work. Long, dark ribboned locks framed his strong, dark features and quicksilver smile.

Balthazar studied him. He was different from his father, Balthazar’s old and trusted compatriot, the judicious old Nabatean king. The younger Aretas was a proud king, fiery and hot-blooded, on occasion overly imperious and leaning towards inflexibility. He would mature in time, as his father had before him; Balthazar was certain of it.

He followed Aretas and the royal guard down the colonnaded street, captivated by the beauty of the ornate royal tombs and lesser palaces. Aretas pointed proudly at his newly built amphitheatre, which could easily seat three thousand. They rode through the narrow, dusty streets bounded by the towering stone walls of Petra. The stench of rancid goats’ milk mixed with incense and spices invaded their nostrils as they rounded the corner to the open-air lower markets. Hundreds of Chinese, Arab, Indian, and Roman tradesmen jostled across uneven pavements, haggling boisterously at hundreds of stalls over the price of incense, silks, and spices. Balthazar stared in wonder at the paradisos, Petra’s magnificent ornamental pool and gardens.

Ahead of them loomed the imposing triple-arched Temenos gateway, decorated with sculpted busts and ornately engraved inscriptions.

Aretas veered right and dismounted outside the imposing Temple of the Winged Lions. Balthazar stared up at the exquisitely carved winged lions and griffins that decorated the limestone capitals of the colossal temple pillars. Aretas led the way up the temple’s wide, gilded steps, striding up the nave, with Balthazar and the other magi behind him, until they reached the silver-clad pillars of the inner sanctuary. A huge magenta veil hung from gold rods above the darkened stone altar. Aretas, uncharacteristically solemn, dropped to one knee. Immediately, two high priestesses draped in gossamer white robes reverently opened the purple veil, then flung themselves prostrate on the marble floor, followed by the magi.

Aretas slowly rose, and the high priest drew open the gossamer inner veil. Facing them on the dark, damp stone altar was an ornate silver casket carved with cherubim and seraphim. Aretas turned to Balthazar and nodded. Slowly he lifted the great silver lid to reveal a golden cup, a small stone box and a golden rod. He stared in undisguised awe.

‘Daniel’s wonders...’ said Balthazar.

‘The cup of frankincense, the alabaster box of myrrh...’ Aretas murmured.

‘And the gold rod of Aaron...’ Balthazar raised his head to Aretas, his countenance radiant. ‘The relics of Solomon’s temple...’

‘It has been over half a millennium since the Hebrew Daniel entrusted them to our royal house for safekeeping.’ Aretas hit his golden staff twice on the ground.

The stewards rose immediately.

Balthazar turned to Aretas, tears welling in his eyes, overcome with emotion. ‘The prophecies of great magus Daniel must be fulfilled. We must present the relics to the newborn king.’

Aretas nodded. The high priest clapped his hands, and immediately six priestly stewards reverently placed the casket onto their shoulders.

Aretas walked slowly back through the temple. He stood on the steps, staring out over the Nabatean city, deep in contemplation. ‘My father’s house looked eagerly to this day,’ he murmured.

Balthazar nodded. ‘Your father, my old and trusted compatriot.’

‘Revered Balthazar, you know that I do not share his religious sentiment.’ Aretas turned to Balthazar, an unusual vulnerability on his face. ‘But for my father’s name’s sake, I would accompany you to Jerusalem.’

Balthazar nodded, moved by the offer.

‘Who knows, old friend?’ Aretas smiled. ‘If this babe is the future king of the Jews, I could make an alliance with him and stop the eternal disputes over our borders.’ Aretas stopped as his royal household chariot drew up outside the temple steps. Four royal maidservants alighted.

A toddler struggled vigorously out of her royal maidservant’s arms, ran over to Aretas, and flung herself headlong into his arms. ‘Papa, Papa! I go with you...’

Aretas’ countenance immediately softened as he embraced the tiny girl, and then held her at arm’s length, gently brushing the unruly dark locks that tumbled down her face. ‘Jotapa! At all times you are a princess of the royal household of Aretas. You have been playing in the
dirt
again?’

Jotapa giggled. ‘Jotapa build castle ... for Papa, the king...’

Aretas threw back his head, laughing loud and long. ‘I go to visit a young king, Jotapa, a king of the Hebrews.’

Tenderly he stroked his daughter’s pretty heart-shaped face. ‘If he is gracious and just...’ Aretas looked adoringly at Jotapa. ‘...and handsome...’ He sat her on his knee. ‘...very,
very
handsome, we could arrange a marriage, an alliance of the houses of Arabia and Judea.’

Balthazar smiled and shook his head, gently laying his hand on the king’s shoulder. ‘My dear Aretas...’ He gazed strangely into the distance. ‘This is no earthly king we seek...’

‘You speak as my father spoke. You are aware that I am not a religious man, Balthazar. Your deep sayings are best left for the evening feast, when I can digest them with jugs of wine!’

Aretas raised Jotapa from his lap high into the air and, amid her squeals of laughter, remounted his stallion and placed her in front of him, where she sang softly to herself. Balthazar rode at their side through the colonnaded streets until they reached the gleaming marble courtyard of the royal palace.

Gaspar and Melchior strode through the courtyard towards them. Gaspar bowed low. ‘The star ... the star, it moves, my lord Balthazar!’

Both Balthazar and Aretas looked up at the heavens. Balthazar dismounted, exultant. ‘It moves towards the northwestern regions, Your Majesty. It is there we will find the Messiah, our compatriot of whom Daniel spoke.’

Aretas dismounted and placed Jotapa firmly on the stone floor of the palace courtyard.

‘We must make haste to the councils of Jerusalem, Melchior,’ Balthazar instructed.

Aretas lifted his hand. ‘My ambassadors are in contact lately with him they call Herod the Great, vassal king of Judea.’

Melchior’s face grew somber. ‘Herod the Edomite?’ He frowned.

Balthazar’s brows furrowed. ‘The stories of his cruelty have circulated even to Persia, Aretas. He murders chief priests of the Sanhedrin. Even his wife and three sons...’

Aretas paced the courtyard, hands behind his back. ‘You have heard, I am sure, from my father, that Herod’s mother, Kufra, was a Nabatean princess ... that Herod spent time in our midst as a boy.’

Balthazar nodded. ‘This I know. I know also that when Herod was forced to flee Jerusalem, your father repulsed his request to find asylum in Petra.’

‘Yes, there has been bad blood – Cleopatra ... Syllaeus...’

‘It is precarious at best. Be assured in this matter,’ Balthazar stated grimly.

Aretas nodded. ‘He is a cruel and ruthless tyrant, of that I am aware. Not to be trusted – but various political relations exist between our countries, and the disputes over our borders have intensified these last months. He presses to meet with me.’

He knelt down and caressed Jotapa’s chin gently. ‘Now learn a king’s wisdom, my princess. The size and dignity of our caravan will at least bid him be hospitable until he searches out our real purpose. He will aid us in our search, with the intent of using us for his own...’

Gently he handed Jotapa to his royal steward, amid her protestations. He kissed her lovingly on both cheeks and waved them away.

Aretas stood upright and looked at Balthazar soberly. ‘Rather, we will use him for ours!’

He clapped his hands and servants presented themselves immediately. ‘Prepare the caskets of gold and spices for the king of Judea...’

He turned to Balthazar and smiled. ‘We shall receive a king’s welcome in Jerusalem, old friend – and Herod the Great himself shall summon us!’

* * *

2021
Alexandria, Egypt

Nick De Vere pressed down on the accelerator of the rented silver 2009 sport Range Rover. He had arrived at Cairo airport this morning from Heathrow, exhausted, to find this, the only four-wheel-drive vehicle left in the car rental bays.

‘Not bad for an old girl,’ he murmured as he roared up the sprawling western desert highway at high speed towards Alexandria. It had been eight years since he last visited Alexandria, the ‘Pearl of the Mediterranean’. Then the road had been desolate, traffic free and truly barren but now great swathes of agricultural land, horse-breeding farms and palatial estates lined the roadside. Thirty kilometres outside Alexandria’s city limits, just before the Desert Roads City Gate toll station, he made a sharp right turn, pushed the gear into four-wheel drive, and sped across the desert plains, leaving a huge cloud of dust behind him.

Nearly an hour later, far in the distance, the formidable fortification came into view. The ancient granite walls of the Monastery of Archangels, carved from the huge mountain behind the monastery fortress that had withstood centuries of Roman persecution against the Egyptian Christians, stood between ten and thirty-five metres tall and three metres thick. And now this was the final resting place of the greatest archaeological discovery of the twenty-first century: the secret annals of Lucifer.

Five weeks ago, the priceless antiquity had been moved from the high-security archaeological vaults of the Royal palace museum in Amman, Jordan, to the monastery, immediately after the tenuous cease-fire pact following the bloody Pan Arab-Russian – Israeli War. And here the antiquity would remain.

Nick’s jaw clenched. It had been
his
discovery, three-and-a-half years previously, from his archaeological excavations at Petra. And the entire world was oblivious of the fact – and would remain so, thanks to the royal household of Jordan. And to his overriding need for the inordinate sum stashed in a Swiss Bank account in his name, in exchange for his silence. Nick sighed.

He slammed his hand on the steering wheel in frustration. Pulling to a stop directly outside the towering western gate, he found it deserted. He eased his tall, lanky frame out of the Range Rover and walked over to the gate.

Nick De Vere would be twenty-nine next month, the youngest of three brothers belonging to an inordinately wealthy banking dynasty, the De Vere family. He was handsome, almost pretty, with intelligent deep-set grey eyes above an aquiline nose and high cheekbones. His fine sunbleached hair, cut long, grazed his dark grey T-shirt.

Life had recently dealt Nick De Vere two hard blows in succession. His trust fund had been frozen by his father, James De Vere, the evening before his fatal heart attack. And now Nick, too, was dying. Of AIDS. He had been on the most advanced antiretroviral therapy for four years, but now his body was failing rapidly.

He swiped the blond fringe impatiently out of his eyes. Peering upwards, he could vaguely make out two Bedouin men playing backgammon, gesticulating and talking in rising voices, oblivious to his presence.

Nick got back into the Range Rover, slammed the door, and leaned on the horn. Instantly the two Bedouins scrambled to their feet and hurried to the gate, their long robes flying behind them. There was a loud scraping and groaning of wood as a huge lift contraption descended over the side of the monastery wall.

Nick looked in disbelief up at the swaying lift. The older Bedouin pointed down at him.

‘You get in...’ he said giving Nick a wide, toothless smile.

‘Open the gates!’ Nick demanded.

‘Gates no open – you get in.’ The man pointed to the wooden contraption, then pointed upward to a door in the wall, thirty feet up.

Nick closed his eyes in disbelief, then banged on the car bonnet.

‘My car?’

‘Only foot ... and helicopter,’ the Bedouin shrugged. ‘No motor,’ he stated emphatically.

Nick slammed the car door, rolled his eyes and walked into the wooden lift, which started to swing wildly as the two Arab men hauled it up towards the small door by a system of pulleys.

* * *

‘This way! This way!’

An elderly priest gestured for Nick to follow him through the fields, ripe with vegetables, pomegranates and herbs. They walked past rows of date palms and olive trees, past an olive press, then through a second inner courtyard. Nick had the distinct feeling he was being watched ... observed. As they continued past the monks’ refectory towards an ancient watchtower, Nick slowed down, staring up towards the rotating Solar Telescope dome on the monastery observatory. The priest frowned, motioning him forward.

Nick obediently followed the hunched figure through a walled garden of sycamore trees onto a small stone path that twisted past a vast pond filled with exquisite pink lotus blossoms that rose above the murky waters. They stopped at a rusted metal gateway, the entrance to the sprawling ancient wing of the monastery.