Comes a Horseman (49 page)

“Does Scaramuzzi have those physical traits?” asked Alicia.

“He does,” Ambrosi said, nodding. “But even if he did not, he would find a way to turn the prophecies to his favor or discredit them.”

Brady asked, “Is the Bible itself as specific in identifying Antichrist?”

“Specific, yes. But Scripture is more difficult to interpret because of its language. It sometimes sounds vague because God wrote it to last millennia, regardless of the culture pressing on the mind of the person reading it. It transcends time, geography, society.”

“
God
wrote it?” Alicia questioned.

“God breathed His word into the men who did write it. That's the way He often works. Through us. Or through what we would call nature.”

He stopped at an intersection of passageways and turned. The light bounced off the floor to fill his eye sockets with shadows. He smiled past Brady to Alicia.

“Scientists now say the parting of the Red Sea, which allowed six hundred thousand Jews to escape Egypt, was entirely possible because of a reef that extends from one shore to the other. Four miles of reef. They say if the wind had blown sixty-seven miles per hour, it would have cleared the reef of water for travel on foot. Imagine that. This way.”

He took off down a different corridor.

After about ten yards, Brady said, “Who are these people watching for Antichrist?”

“They are the God-fearing souls who want to brace themselves for the troubled times the appearance of Antichrist promises. They are well intended, but I wish I could say to them, ‘Just live for God and you will always be braced.' Then there are the intellectually curious, who will delight in seeing prophecy unfold, even if they have not cast their spiritual lots with one side or the other.”

He stepped into a square room the size of a single-car garage. Corridors branched off into three walls. An opening in the fourth wall showed stairs bending and climbing out of sight. Ambrosi started up.

It was a wide, circular stairway, wrapping around a pillar of stacked stones. Up they went, around and around, until the cardinal stopped on a small landing. Beside him was a wooden door, whose deep grain conjured in Brady's mind a castle's drawbridge, heavy and old.

“We will continue up, but I thought you would like to see where you are.”

He pulled back an iron bolt, and the door swung outward. A great rush of fresh air swooped in on them, carrying the fragrance of wood and pulp. Electric light filled the space. Leaning out with the door, Ambrosi made room for Brady and Alicia.

They were looking into a room that was identical to the rooms they could see from the desk of the archive secretary. In fact, through an open door opposite them were those very rooms. This room, however, was furnished as an office. Bookcases. Filing cabinets. And from behind a big desk, Monsignor Vretenar stared at them, his jaw unhinged.

Ambrosi said, “
Buona sera
, Monsignor Vretenar.”

Vretenar dipped his head. “Your Eminence.”

Alicia waggled her fingers at him like a schoolgirl.

Ambrosi pulled the door closed. He headed up the stairs.

In the gloom, Brady could barely make out Alicia's grin.

They followed the stairs up and around. Shortly, long slits in the outer wall admitted the sun, and Ambrosi switched off the flashlight. They reached another landing and another door. Brady noted, however, that the stairs did not continue. This was their highest point, their destination. Ambrosi unlocked the door with a key and pushed it open. They stepped into a large, round chamber. The only light came from slits in the wall, identical to the ones in the stairwell. It had a plank floor. The ceiling was high above them, beyond cobwebbed rafters. Metal hooks were affixed to the wall at head height; a gas Coleman lantern hung from each.

Ambrosi swung the door shut. Dust motes puffed into the air and swirled in the shafts of light like miniature galaxies.

“My tower,” he said. “Would you mind?” He held out his lighter to Brady and indicated the lanterns.

Brady walked around the room, lighting each lantern. Five of them.

Two crescent-shaped tables sat on opposite sides of the room. Each was stacked high with books and loose papers. Under them were wooden crates packed with documents. Bookcases lined the walls where there wasn't a table, a window, or a lantern. In the center of the room was a peculiar table, the likes of which Brady had never seen before. It was large, stout, and shaped like a doughnut. In the open space at its center sat a high-backed chair, scuffed and old. Papers of all sorts filled the table's surface—maps, photographs, drawings, handwritten manuscripts, pages torn from magazines and newspapers; some were white and crisp, freshly printed, others were yellowing and crumbling with age. Only a two-foot section of the table was bare, where the work surface hinged up, allowing access to the chair.

Ambrosi noticed Brady's scrutiny. “I'm told this was St. Francis of Assisi's writing desk,” he said. “It allows messy researchers like me a chance to spread our work out without being too far from any of it.”

“What do you research?” Alicia asked, leaning over an ancient-looking document resting on the table. The florid script was foreign. In each of its corners was a highly detailed drawing of an execution: a person being burned by fire at a stake, a beheading on a tree stump, a body whose arms and legs were tied to horses running in opposite directions, and a person being hurled off a cliff by a hooded figure.

“Antichrist, of course,” he said plainly.

They gaped at him.

“Yes, I'm one of those. The Catholic Church has always had someone in my position, because the church should be among the first to recognize the beginning of the end, don't you think? In fact, most religions and some large governments like your own employ scholars who watch and wait and study the texts in order to watch and wait better.”

“What do they hope to accomplish?”

“To be on the winning team. To not be blindsided by a sudden shift in political power. To hedge their economies against the financial pull of Antichrist's interests. There are as many reasons as there are watchers. Scripture says this man will be like no other who has ever walked the earth. Eventually, he will even perform miracles, because Satan will possess him and give him power. Scholars have long accepted the idea that this man's presence will create a sort of gravitational pull on everything human. Religions and armies, whole industries and societies will flow toward Antichrist and orbit around him. It will start slowly but gain speed and force.”

Brady said, “I understand the Bible enough to know the influence Antichrist exerts on the world is so strong it leads to Armageddon, mankind's final battle. I just never considered what that meant in practical terms.”

“There are certain people who do consider it,” Ambrosi said. “All the time, from childhood on. Rich, powerful people. Their organization—their secret society, if you like—was formed a thousand years ago.
Collegium Regium Custodum et Vigilum Pro Domino Summo Curantium
. Literally, the ‘Royal Order of Guardians and Watchers for the Supreme Ruler.' Now they're known simply as the Watchers.”

“Excubitor,”
Alicia whispered, looking at Brady with wide eyes.

Ambrosi's eyebrows shot up. “Yes, one of their early monikers. Where did you learn it?”

“There's a theory that the group spirited away an entire Norse village, called the Western Settlement, in the 1300s.”

“Ah, yes . . .” The old man rubbed his chin in thought. He appeared to come out of a memory and continued where he'd left off. “The group accumulated more power and wealth than any other private entity in history. I don't know if the Catholic Church is wealthier; certainly, it is less powerful, if power is defined by political influence. The only thing the Watchers want, all they have ever wanted, through forty successive generations, is to hand over the Church's vast resources to the one true Antichrist.”

“Why?” Brady asked, deeply perplexed.

“
Collegium Regium Custodum et Vigilum Pro Domino Summo Curantium
started as a religion in the 1100s. Trying to understand why people believe what they do is a futile effort, but the founding members had backgrounds in Satanism, Zoroastrianism, and primarily, a sect of Gnosticism known as Cathari. The Cathars professed adherence to Christian theology, but they believed the only way to achieve divine form and spend eternity with God, as God, was through the end of humankind. For this reason, they developed an unhealthy interest in Antichrist. Pope Innocent III recognized the danger and in his wisdom”— Ambrosi shook his head—“had nearly all followers of the movement slaughtered. The survivors recruited several like-minded people of great power and wealth and formed the Watchers. Since Antichrist was identified in Scripture as the being who brings about the destruction of all humans, they got it into their heads that the most spiritual thing they could do was help him achieve his purpose. They figured that Antichrist's goals—as stated in prophecy—would require vast amounts of money and manpower and political influence. Most of them were already extremely wealthy. They pledged to build their fortunes and clout and to de liver these to Antichrist when he appeared, no matter how long the wait.”

While speaking, Ambrosi had sauntered to one of the crescent tables, pulled a sheet of rolling paper from its package, creased it down the middle, and sprinkled in a line of tobacco, which he stored in a humidor. While a slight tremor still haunted his hands, they were much steadier than they had been in the chapel. Brady wondered again if there just might be something with more relaxing properties than tobacco in that “beloved blend from Lecce.”

Ambrosi rolled the paper tight and sealed it by moistening the edge with his tongue. He felt for his lighter.

Brady realized he was still holding it. He walked over, lit the cigarette, and handed him the lighter.

The old man pulled in a lungful, savoring the taste. He blew it out and continued.

“Each generation reared its children to take their places as leaders in society and as Watchers. Some families lost their wealth and influence, and with a few exceptions, they were replaced by whoever at the time had the gold and could be converted to their ideology. Eventually this group of twelve became strong enough to ensure that none would lose their status. They learned to help each other through difficult times, staying loyal even if it took several generations for a family to bounce back. Each member of the current group can trace his or her heritage as a Watcher back at least eight generations. Through the years, there have been rumors of infighting. Aside from differing opinions about Antichrist candidates, the primary cause of contention appears to be that some Watchers are not content to relinquish their assets for mere ideological rewards. They want positions of power in Antichrist's cabinet—or whatever his body of advisers will be called when the time comes. Even so, every Watcher takes his duties very seriously.”

“There are only twelve?”

“Twelve who sit on the Council of Watchers. The ones with the money and power. The order itself has tens of thousands of members. Each must pledge fealty to Antichrist and to the Council in his stead. In addition, they must give their oath to abide by a strict code of conduct. They must contribute to the coffers, according to their ability. They must protect the secrecy of the order. They must rear their children in the ways of the order.”

“It's a cult,” said Alicia.

“Very much so.” Ambrosi removed his cigarette, looked at it, and then stabbed it back into his mouth. “The most valuable contribution each member makes is of his talents. And among their numbers are those with dubious skills. Spies. Thieves. Assassins.”

He let these last words hang in the air like the slowly dissipating tendrils of smoke.

Alicia walked to one of the window slits and peered out. The sun was going down, bruising the sky with shades of purple.

She sighed, turned around. “Okay,” she said. “There's a guy out there who thinks he's Antichrist, and there is a group of fat cats who have nothing better to do than wait for the Antichrist to come along and take their money.” She glanced at Brady, turned to Ambrosi, and opened her hands. “What does any of this have to do with us?”

“Everything,” Ambrosi said. “And you have to know it, if you expect to face your enemy and survive.”

The cardinal's eyes sparkled in the lantern light. He was in his element, explaining what he had spent a lifetime learning. He moved slowly to a bookcase. As he walked, he crushed out his cigarette in his palm, then brushed it to the floor. From a sagging chest-high shelf, he pulled an eight-inch- thick, leather-bound volume. Holding it in both arms as though it were a baby, he carried it to St. Francis of Assisi's doughnut table and thunked it down.

“Come, the both of you,” he said, lifting the volume's cover. “Take the only weapon I have to offer. Knowledge of the Beast.”

65

T
he pages were vellum, thick and brown and curling at the edges. A smell like fine leather and dust wafted off them. The words on the first page had faded into the darkening animal skin. Squinting, Brady could make out just enough to realize he was looking at Latin written in longhand. Centered at the top was the official name of the Watchers. Under that were a signature and a date—1564. The year Michelangelo died.

“This is a record of Watcher activity for the past five hundred years,” Ambrosi said. “The first six pages were inscribed by my predecessor, fourteen times removed. There are two earlier volumes, but they are in the archive's climate-controlled vaults, each page preserved in a silk-screen sheath.”

Neither Brady nor Alicia could read Latin or Italian, so the book's value to them was more theatrical than practical. Brady supposed Ambrosi could use it as a guide to the intelligence he should impart, but he seemed to know its contents by heart anyway. He hoped Alicia would not lose patience with the old man's flair for the dramatic. When he looked at her, she appeared entirely engrossed in the lesson, even following Ambrosi's gaze when it dropped to a page. Her investigator's heart knew the difference between the trivial and the requisite.