Messiah: The First Judgement (Chronicles of Brothers) (16 page)

He smoothed his robes. But this dusk, his attire was simple. A tunic of a pale lilac silk covered his loins, rather than the rich deep-purple silks of his formal royal garments. He was determined. Tonight he would lay aside his station as Aretas the king, and for one fleeting evening he would be simply Aretas the man.

His entire royal household was already en route with the festival tents to his summer encampment at the Gulf of Aqaba, and at this very moment his manservant was saddling his favoured stallion, Aswad. He would ride as he had when he was very young – so young that his face had been hairless and smooth. He would ride the desert paths that he had ridden with his father decades before, across the white sands to the Gulf of Aqaba, its crystal-clear waters fringed by the lapping white palm sands.

He would relish the sensation of the warm water lapping against his skin as the steady northerly breezes from the Negev Desert fanned him.

There was a soft knock at his chamber door, and Malichus, his cupbearer, entered. He held out a scroll.

Aretas smiled. A missive from Jotapa! ‘Thank you, Malichus. Inform Yohanna that I am ready.’

Malichus bowed in reverence as he backed away and closed the chamber door.

Aretas tore open the missive and studied the contents, imagining Jotapa’s spontaneous, abandoned laughter and her soft voice.

...My husband, though a hard man – like all kings, surely! – treats me with grace. Yes, all is well here in Judaea – except, of course, for your absence, dearest Papa ... But when I am lonely my soul is comforted by the gardens of the princes; they bring me close to you, and to Arabia...

Like yourself, I hear many stories of the Hebrew here in Tiberias, Papa. There are rumours inside the palace walls that His feet tread these shores. I shall make discreet inquiries of the Hebrew’s whereabouts.

Aretas folded the letter carefully. He looked down at the beautifully carved wooden cross on his desk. How long had it been since he last saw the infant King? He cast his mind back to the gruelling journey from the monastery in Alexandria back to Judaea. He had ridden for days across the desert, escorting the child and his parents to the borders of Judaea. He vividly remembered how the three-year-old had insisted that he keep the cross – had thrust it with His small, chubby fingers into his palm and closed Aretas’ strong, brown fingers over it. And indeed it had comforted Aretas. There were times when he felt that it had a strange power. He shook his head.

Over twenty-seven full years had passed, and he had never seen the infant king again. But his spies came on occasion, filled with wild, unsubstantiated tales of the Hebrew’s eloquent, earnest soliloquies and fierce, courageous confrontations with those Jews the Hebrews called Pharisees. Aretas laughed at the thought of those pampered religious exploiters of the commoners, with their soft, lily-white hands. Aretas was comforted. The Hebrew was discerning. Aretas would ask Jotapa in his next missive to keep an eye on his compatriot King – his friend.

Aretas laughed out loud. An Arabian king and
the Hebrew
. He caressed the cross and laid it gently back down on his desk.

He raised his hands to his head and unbraided his long, curly hair from its ribbons, picked up a spear from his collection, placed it over one shoulder and strode through the portico doors. Aswad stood patiently tethered in the Garden of Kings. The stallion’s chest was broad, his back was short but strong and his shoulders sloped, the source of his immense power. His noble head was held high. Aretas lovingly stroked the silky black mane.

‘Aswad,’ he murmured. The stallion nuzzled him affectionately, his clear black eyes gentle, as Yohanna, the royal saddler, released the tether.

Aretas hesitated, then took a step back, his gaze moving far upward towards the eastern chambers of the golden-roofed royal palace. A solitary lantern was burning and a form stood at the window. Aretas nodded in acknowledgment. For a fleeting moment his shoulders slumped, and a terrible weariness clouded his countenance.

‘Malichus,’ he said, seeming suddenly older than his sixty-eight years, ‘tell Zahi that he is in my prayers and in my heart while I am gone.’

Then he mounted Aswad, leaned over and whispered in his ear. At once the magnificent black stallion sprinted forward, its black high and hollow hooves kicking up the sand as they raced like the wind past the grand pools, past the royal hunting parks, across the white desert sands, out towards the Red Sea.

* * *

Jether closed the last tome, placed the quill pen beside it and rubbed his eyes wearily. He rose from the table and walked towards the cascading fountain.

‘So the contest hastens.’

Jether froze at the sound of the distinctive elegant tones.

Charsoc smoothed his voluminous mulberry taffeta sorcerer’s vestments and adjusted his lilac silk neckerchief with pale jewelled fingers. He stared at the cascading fountains around the lush gardens.

‘You are too self-assured, Jether, my compatriot.’ He held out a goblet to catch the elixir, then sipped delicately. ‘Tayberry, my favourite extract – one of the wonders of the First Heaven!’

‘You outstay your welcome.’

‘And
you
underestimate the fog that this Race of Men contends with on that muddy little orb – Earth. It dulls their senses, Jether; it veils their souls.’ He drank the elixir down with one elegant swig.

‘It veils His soul ... the Nazarene ... thirty years, Jether,’ he whispered, circling Jether. ‘Thirty years encased in matter, born of a woman.’ His voice was very soft. Compelling. ‘Birthed of the mud and dust that clouds their sense – it clouds His, also. Each and every dusk, Jether, the memory of Yehovah fades from the Nazarene’s mind, until it becomes just a distant imprint.’

‘He will pass the test,’ Jether said quietly. He walked alongside Charsoc as he had done each dusk thousands of aeons past when they used to walk – two bosom friends engaged in intimate conversation across the same manicured lawns.

‘The Nazarene has forgotten Yehovah. Now His soul will play to fame and recognition ... to all that dwells in the fallow breeding ground of men’s souls.’ Charsoc’s eyes glittered. ‘Do not be deceived, Jether. This is no walkover. Lucifer is well prepared. If He obey’s even one of Lucifer’s commands – His soul is ours.’

Jether gazed out over the battlements to the Sea of Zamar. ‘We do not underestimate,’ he said softly, his back to Charsoc. ‘We well know the fight for His soul.’

Charsoc reached inside his robes and removed a missive embossed with the seal of Perdition. ‘My master’s demands. An extra proviso that he would incorporate in the tenets.’ Jether stared at him. Sober. Waiting. ‘He would choose the location of his contest with the Nazarene.’ Charsoc held out the missive to Jether. Jether took it and placed it in his robe.

‘I will deliver it to Yehovah.’

Charsoc’s face was raised to the skies, and a strange ecstasy played on his features. His eyes were wide open, drinking in the vast panorama of lilacs and vermilions that he had once loved so well. His long white hair blew loose in the tempests. For a fleeting moment, Jether studied him. It was almost as it had been.

Slowly Charsoc turned. ‘You pity me, Jether.’

‘I know you miss our world,’ Jether said softly.

‘Do not grieve for me.’ Charsoc looked long and hard into Jether’s weary pale blue eyes. ‘I sold my soul aeons past.’

A long serpent writhed across Charsoc’s legs. He reached down and grasped the snake, which became a silvered cane with the head of a serpent. He lifted his face to Jether’s, his pale eyes expressionless – sightless once more. ‘Even I do not know what I am capable of.’

And then, just as in days of old, he vanished into the white, rushing mists.

* * *

2021
Aqaba, Jordan
– Jason –

The event was going brilliantly, better than even Julia St Cartier could have imagined. The contemporary open-air set designed by her London events company, ‘Lola’, had been phenomenal. The caterers had outdone themselves, the live satellite connection to VOX Communications had gone without a hitch, and any international journalist worth his or her salt had been waiting next door in the crowded pressroom since dusk. She decided to give herself a short but desperately needed luxury of a powder room break and walked through the marquee, checking as she walked how many new bottles of champagne would be needed. She glanced over to the enormous helipad where the Princess of Jordan had landed earlier. Other VIPs were now arriving in quick succession. Suddenly her heart turned to ice. There he was – striding down the helicopter steps. She couldn’t mistake
that
stride and the severe set of his face – it was Jason De Vere.

Her heart raced. Why, he never came to these functions! He
hated
them – would complain for days after being dragged to one. There must be a new merger or some spectacular opportunity for him to appear, even though it was his brother’s big moment. She watched as he embraced Adrian and they launched instantly into deep conversation.

She continued walking to the powder room, her mind all at once a fog. This was the first time she had seen Jason up close and personal since their divorce thirteen months earlier. Maybe the leopard had changed his spots; maybe their split had given him a new lease of life.

She pushed open the powder room door, staring blankly at her reflection in the huge, gilt-framed mirror. She felt tired tonight – old – as old as she was – forty. ‘Get a grip on yourself, girl,’ she murmured. Why should she care? She and Jason were over. He had his new life; she had hers. Trembling, she unclasped the travel compact and touched up her eyeliner and brows, then dabbed on a hint of clear gloss and touched up her foundation. All age defying. She smiled. She idly wondered if her expensive cosmetic creams actually worked. She closed the compact and shook her highlighted blond mane.
Okay, into the lions’ den
.

She walked out back into the marquee, fighting her way past the dance floor and through the growing crowd, her eyes intent on the floor. Suddenly, a pair of large, black-shoed feet barred her way.

Heart sinking, she slowly raised her head. Jason De Vere stood in her path, his whisky glass already half empty, his face flushed. He’d most likely had two since he arrived, she thought cynically. He was staring at her.

‘Jason ... what a surprise.’ She stared back at him, blankly.

‘Julia.’ He continued to stare at her. Silent.

Julia rubbed her neck. ‘I have to go. I’m running...’

Jason looked around them. ‘You’re running the event. Congratulations. Pity the lawyers didn’t know that before you took half my assets.’ he drawled sarcastically.

Julia glared at him. Fuming. Her deep-brown eyes flashed. Only Jason could make her
that
infuriated.
Instantly
. She walked away.

Jason grasped her arm. Hard. His fingers dug into her flesh.

‘Sorry ... sorry, okay? It’s been a tough day.’

Julia unclasped his hand. Incensed.

‘And mine’s been tougher!’ she spat.

‘Of
course
,’ Jason retorted mockingly. ‘Your needs always
were
the overriding factor.’

‘Don’t you dare.’ Julia’s voice trembled with rage. ‘
...Dare ... dare
. Jason Ambrose De Vere...’ Her eyes flashed dangerously.

‘Eighteen years
..., I spent eighteen years of my life subordinating my entire life to your needs.’

‘
My
needs!’ Jason slugged down the remains of his whisky. ‘You spent more time at your high-flying New York designer hairdresser than you did at home...’ He glowered at her. ‘Or in the bedr–’

He caught himself. Not the time to risk being slaughtered in cold blood, in full view of a thousand of Adrian’s guests. She dragged him by the arm out into the kitchen galley.

‘Do you
have
to make a scene?’ Julia hissed.

Jason placed his whisky glass on a passing wine steward’s tray and raised both hands in submission. ‘Okay, okay. Fine – I was a selfish, boorish husband. It’s
all
my fault. Let’s try again. I’m sorry. Apology accepted?’

Julia glared darkly at him.

‘I mean it, Jules, I was a terrible husband ... I took your advice, went to therapy – they told me I had intense deeply buried anger and resentment. Okay?’ He raised both his hands.

‘You ... you actually went to therapy?’ Julia stared up at him in amazement. Stunned.

He nodded.

‘That’s remarkable.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘How many times did you go?’

Jason tugged at the knot in his tie. ‘Once,’ he said sheepishly. Julia rolled her eyes in frustration.

Jason looked around at the festivities. ‘Seriously, I’m really impressed with Lulu.’