James Acton 03 - Broken Dove (26 page)

Acton nodded. He
was
still shaken. He could only imagine how Laura was feeling. She most likely thought he was dead, just after having such a life altering experience.

I have to get her a message.

Acton eyed Nazario’s belt. A satellite phone was clipped to it.

“Why don’t you call for help?”

Nazario’s hand dropped and touched the phone without looking, as if making sure it was still there. “It would give away our position.”

“True, but at least people would know we were alive. They could mount another rescue.”

Nazario shook his head. “No, once we are across the border, I will make a call. We have people throughout Turkey who can help us. In Iran”—he shrugged his shoulders—“not so much.”

Acton decided not to press. “Why threaten to kill the Pope? And for that matter, why didn’t you just kill
me
? You killed the Father.”

Nazario made a sign of the cross. “That was an accident. An overzealous youngster”—he glanced back at Federico—“who doesn’t know his own strength, and the frailty of older men. As soon as Sir Battista was informed of the death, he and I personally returned the body to the Father’s quarters so he could receive a proper burial. A man of the cloth should never be killed on consecrated ground.”

“And now that we are not on consecrated ground, what of us now?”

“Sometimes knowing too much can be a dangerous thing.”

Acton reflected on that statement for a moment.
We’re going to die.
He was sure of it. These were zealots, and he and Chaney knew a secret they weren’t supposed to know, and the Pope was a pretender to the Crown in their minds.

“Is there a crystal skull in the Vault?”

Nazario turned to Acton then grabbed his left wrist, peeling back his watch band. He threw the arm back. “You are not Triarii?”

Acton shook his head. “Definitely not.”

“Then what concern is it of yours?”

“I know they seek it.”

“So?”

“Well, if they were given it, then they would leave the Vatican, never to return.”

“You believe so?”

Acton glanced back at the Pope, who Chaney was almost carrying now, the old man’s arm over his shoulder, Chaney’s arm around the man’s waist. “Yes I do.”

“You might be right, however the skull has been declared heretical, and is forever to be contained in the Vault.”

“And there’s no removing it, even if the Triarii were to promise to lock it away?”

“No, not that I believe they would ever agree to lock it away. They seem to think having these things free to wander the earth are in mankind’s best interest.”

“Doesn’t that prove they aren’t heretical?”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, the Church has known about these skulls for quite some time, and many I’m sure are quite easy to steal with the Church’s resources, yet they have only one.”

“What of it?”

“Well, doesn’t that mean the Church no longer considers them heretical, if they let them roam the planet?”

Nazario grunted. “You may have a point, but you don’t know what I know, and why that particular skull was taken.”

This caught Acton off guard. He paused, evaluating the statement. “Why, what’s special about this skull?”

Nazario shook his head. “Nothing. I have said too much already.” Nazario surged forward. “Enough of this talk.”

But Acton wasn’t done. “What of the Gospel of Mary. You said it’s real.”

Nazario growled, but answered. “It’s real, but not what they think.”

“What is it then?”

“What’s with all these questions?”

“Like I said, I’m an archaeologist.”

“And remember what I said about the curious cat?”

“I’d rather die knowing why I died, than ignorant.”

“You may just get your wish.” Nazario looked back at the Pontiff. “And he may be the next Pope to die over the Vault.”

“You mean another Pope died because of the Vault?”

“Yes, one, long ago.”

855 A.D.

Papal Procession of Pope John VIII

Via Sacra, Rome

The crowd cheered as the procession passed, filling the Pope’s heart with joy if but for a moment, the fear of the present situation quickly consuming that joy and tossing it aside. Another cramp, this the worst so far, and only a minute after the last, doubled the Pope over in pain.

We must go faster.

Faster, to the safety of the Papal chambers, otherwise the terrible secret would be revealed.
Her
terrible secret. For
she
was not the
he
the world thought. She was a member of the Order of the Blessed Virgin, nearly wiped out five hundred years previous, but reestablished by the final surviving member, Sister Joanna, after she had tracked down the priest who had stolen the last known copy of the Word. Unfortunately it had been too late. He had already delivered it to Rome. But he had kept his promise. It had been locked away, not destroyed. And Sister Joanna had sworn that it would someday be retrieved.

And that day was supposed to be today.

She had been Pope for almost two years, the fools of the Roman clergy having chosen her, her androgynous features, her soft spoken way, and her towering intellect and faith in God having won them over. When she had arrived in Greece from England, she had immediately taken on the persona of a man, and having been schooled in religion since her youth, was able to quickly rise through the ranks of the Church, and eventually, to the Papacy, a sin that, if revealed, would surely cost her life. But she would gladly pay it to deliver the Word to the people again, and prayed the Blessed Virgin would forgive her this sin, and grant her access to worship for eternity at her side in Heaven.

She doubled over again.

“Are you not well, Your Holiness?”

She winced as she breathed through the pain.
It isn’t time. This shouldn’t be happening.

“I’ll be fine, just get me home, quickly.”

Few knew her secret, of her being a woman. In fact, outside of the inner circle of the Order, only two people were aware. One was Cardinal Martino, who had discovered her secret years before, but had kept it to himself, and the two had become close, and on occasion, too close. Including eight months before.

The horror at knowing she was pregnant, was one thing. But as the baby grew inside her, she had become attached to it, and she knew, if she weren’t able to accomplish her mission before the birth, she would be forced to give up the baby, and continue her charade, until she did succeed. Which was why today was supposed to be a glorious day. She had found the book, in the Vault, locked away for over five hundred years, just as the priest had promised. It had taken almost two years of searching, but she had found it. And it now rested, locked, in the Papal offices. Tonight she was to receive a visit from a Mother Superior of a nearby convent.

But it was merely subterfuge. The book would be handed over to the Mother Superior, who was actually a member of the Order, the book would be taken to safety, then she would make her own escape, dressed as a nun, and simply walk from the premises. No one would challenge a woman leaving.

Twenty four hours, and it would all be over.

She cried out.

The carriage came to a halt as the coachman called for help. She was in too much pain to protest, to tell them to move on. Her water had broke just as they had started the journey. Her limited experience in these matters told her that she had hours, plenty of time to reach her chambers before the baby would be born, and by then she could have sent for help she could trust.

But something was wrong.

The baby was a month early. And it wanted out. Now.

She screamed in agony.
Oh, Blessed Virgin, was it so with you? Was there this much pain?
But she knew the answer. She had read the scriptures. She knew there had been no pain.
Oh Lord, please take this agony away from me!

The head of her guard climbed onto the side of the carriage. “Your Holiness, what is wrong?” Then he gasped, looking at the floor of the carriage, covered in blood, the pure white robes, soaked from the waist down. She looked at him and he knew. He knew by the way she held her stomach, he knew from the expression of pain on her face, he knew because he had seen his own wife go through the very same thing on several occasions.

He knew. And he looked at her in horror.

“You’re a—” He stopped, apparently unable to say the word that would change everything.

She nodded. “You must remain silent. Get me to my chambers.” She screamed, and felt something between her legs. Something she shouldn’t be feeling. She pulled her robes up, revealing her blood soaked legs. The guard looked away for the sake of modesty, as she confirmed what she feared.

A foot.

“Your Holiness, sir, I mean, ma’am, I must call a doctor.”

And before she could stop him, he had jumped off the carriage, running to the rear where the Papal Physician rode, forever accompanying his charge. Within moments Giovanni, the doctor for the past three Popes, was in the carriage, and as she winced in pain, she could immediately tell he was aghast at what he saw, his jaw dropped, his eyes wide in horror.

“But this cannot be!”

“But it is, Giovanni,” she said, grabbing his arm. “And no one must know.”

His eyes still wide, Giovanni shook his head. “No, I cannot keep this a secret. This is”—he paused, as if searching for the right word—“blasphemy!”

She hiked her robes again, revealing the footling breach in progress. “You are a physician, save this child, for it is a child of God and deserves to live, regardless of the shame that brought it into the world.”

Giovanni seemed to snap back to reality as he saw the wiggling foot. He nodded, then did the one thing she hadn’t expected, and would set her on a course of no return. He stepped down from the carriage and ordered two of the guards to lift her to the street. The remaining guards created a cordon around them, pushing back the gathering crowds, as two of her aides held their robes open as wide as they could, in an attempt to block the view. She felt the doctor between her legs, manipulating the baby, and she felt herself slipping away, the crowd growing distant, the shouts of Giovanni a faint echo, telling her not to push until he said so.

The world around her grew dark.

“Push!”

The word cut through everything, and brought her back with a roar. She screamed as she pushed with everything the Blessed Virgin provided her. The crowd, now massive, knew what was happening, and knew their pope was a fraud. Anger started to mount, and she felt fear in her heart. She tried to block it out, to block out the hate, but then she felt a searing pain in her shoulder as something hit her.

“One more push!”

She ignored the pain, the pain in her shoulder, the pain racking her entire body, and pushed. Then she felt the tiny body slip out and a wave of relief spread through her like a stiff glass of spirits, and she fell back on the ground, gasping for air. A smack and a cry signaled the entry of a new life into God’s creation.

“Is it healthy?”

“Yes
he
is.”

A rock smacked the doctor on the back and he fell forward, nearly dropping the baby. He reached into his bag and pulled out a knife, cutting the cord and tying it off, the final separation of mother and bastard complete, her sin now on its own in a world that would never accept him. Another rock narrowly missed them, hitting the wheel of the carriage.

“We must get out of here!” yelled Giovanni.

She looked around for the first time, and saw the throngs, shaking their fists, screaming in hate, eyes bulging, vengeance on their minds. Chants of “blasphemer” and “false father” filled her ears, echoing off the cobblestone and surrounding buildings. Her guards, always loyal, always willing to lay down their lives for her, held back the crowds, but all to a man stared at her over their shoulder, their shock and confusion, and anger, plain to see in their eyes.

More rocks, the stones of the very street she lay on, were thrown as the crowd tore up the ground they stood on to exact justice at the affront they had just discovered.

“Save the baby!” she said to Giovanni. “Leave me now, and get the child to safety. My life is forfeit. Take my guards, take my carriage, I do not care. But save my son.”

Giovanni put a hand on her shoulder. “I do not know what to say, this”—he waved his hand over her female form—“is too much for me to comprehend at this time, but”—he paused—“but may God have mercy on your soul.”

She smiled at him and nodded. He rose, climbed in the carriage with the child, and yelled for the procession to continue. The carriage immediately lurched forward, and the guard shifted to clear the crowd from their path, leaving her alone on the street, covered in blood, the crowd divided between chasing the procession, and surrounding her. The hate filled eyes, burning red with rage, closed in on her, but through their feet, she caught a glimpse of something on the far side of the road. A group of robed figures, standing shoulder to shoulder, their hands clasped in prayer as they looked at her. She caught the eye of one, and immediately recognized her. The Order was here, the Order was with her. And she wept at the opportunity lost, and at the knowledge she alone had gained in reading the Word, and how wrong they had been.

She closed her eyes and clasped her hands, praying to the Blessed Virgin for deliverance as the blows of stone and feet rained on her body until she could feel no more.

15 Miles Inside the Green Zone

Iran

Every bone, every muscle, in Acton’s body ached. He looked at the aged Pontiff and could only imagine what he must be feeling. But he never complained. He simply walked, accepting the assistance of Chaney or Acton without comment.
His faith gives him strength, but how long will it last?
It was only a matter of time before the well he had been tapping would dry up, and he would collapse. The farmland was behind them, the terrain now covered in rocks, or rock itself, slowly ascending. It was late afternoon, and the rocks strewn across the area cast long shadows, providing occasional refuge from the heat, but also concealing hidden dangers.