The Revelation of Gabriel Adam (18 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Gabe entered the vault room with his father to catch Carlyle and Micah in mid-embrace. They parted, and the Scotsman wiped a tear from her cheek before returning to his desk. He seemed softer somehow.

Makeup ran on Micah’s face, and she tossed her hair as if it might help her gain some composure.

Carlyle pointed to the chair next to her. “Please have a seat, Gabe.” The large man seemed to have trouble finding his thoughts. “The enemy, as you know, has moved faster than we anticipated. How they’ve managed to enter our world without our knowledge remains a mystery. Whatever they’ve done to breach the seal, if indeed it has been breached, is beyond our knowledge. It’s possible that the supernatural connection that remained allowed for a doorway to open under extreme circumstances, but what’s done is done. Our last order of business before you undertake the Entheos Genesthai ritual is to introduce you to our only weapon—the Gethsemane Sword.” Carlyle excused himself to the vault.

Micah sat in silence. Gabe wanted to reach out to her and comfort her, but she stayed hidden behind the curtain of black hair hiding her face.

When Carlyle returned, he carried a long rectangular case wrapped in what looked like a burial shroud. The ornate material, with embroidered roses and crowns, draped over the case like a tablecloth. It was paper-thin and fluttered in the air as he walked.

He put the case on the desk and removed the cloth, then folded it and set it gently to the side. The wood lid had but one latch, which he unhinged and opened.

Micah and Gabe looked inside to see a flash of metal and a red handle wrapped in gold embroidery.

“This is the Gethsemane Sword, a Roman short sword that cut Jesus during his capture at the Gethsemane Garden. It is said that to the shock of the soldier that wounded him, Jesus then blessed the sword and tended to the wounds of the Romans wounded by his disciples.” Carlyle removed the sword from the box and held it out for closer inspection.

The weapon captivated Gabe. Its blade forked at the end like the tongue of a snake, forming a double-tipped point in the steel. Grooved slots lined the inside of the V shape, allowing for something to slide into place. Symbols had been etched up the metal in a vertical line, one after the other, from tip to hilt. They looked like hieroglyphs he’d seen in documentaries about the pyramids in Egypt, only cruder.

“Is it broken?” Micah asked.

“No. Incomplete. When Rome crucified Jesus, they speared him to hasten death. That spear tip makes up the other half of the weapon. Eventually, the sword was given to the governor of Judea, the Roman Prefect Pontius Pilate, who took the two pieces and fashioned a trophy sword as a gift for Emperor Tiberius Caesar Augustus and as a boast of Pilate’s success in quashing the discontent of Judea.”

“So then, why do you have it here?” Gabe asked.

“Because as the sword tumbled through the ages, from frontier to frontier and from general to general, it was used as a symbol of Rome’s might to be held by its army’s most successful leaders until it landed here in northern Britain, the last battleground of the empire’s expansion. It is a relic of Rome’s unfinished business, much like Hadrian’s Wall.” Carlyle paused and presented the blade. “Incidentally, the spear tip was made of iron stone. Thus became the
stone in the sword
. Later translations would inverse the words, giving us the sword in the stone, from which an entirely separate legend grew. What I have in my hands is the true sword Excalibur, the legendary weapon used in the defense of the invading tribal hordes of what is today Scotland. The sword has remained here ever since.”

“This is King Arthur’s sword?” Micah asked.

Gabe stared, slack jawed, and then caught Micah’s glance. She lingered for just an instant and then looked away.

“Yes,” Carlyle said. “Though the legend is only inspired by fact. The Roman Army knew him as Lucius Artorius Castus, the last general to earn the trophy. This sword was actually of far greater value than the Romans ever could have guessed. According to the
Apocalypse of Solomon
, an object that has been blessed by an anointed being can be used to evoke the power of God if done by one who is ordained to wield that power. Ordained in such a manner as say, an archangel.”

“So where is the stone?” Gabe asked.

“Safe and secreted from the blade until needed,” Carlyle said. “They are kept separate should one fall into the wrong hands. It is only by the grace of God that we possess these pieces now or that they weren’t lost to history. There will be a time when you awaken the sword to the power you possess and harness its use for our cause. Which one of you will do it, and when that is, remains to be seen.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Nearly a week had passed since Gabe last saw Micah at the vault. With Carlyle giving up his daily lectures in favor of study and preparation for the Entheos Genesthai, Gabe found himself more alone than usual, especially for a Friday. Mostly, he’d used the extra free time to catch up on his suffering schoolwork, though the distraction of mind-altering drugs and the feeling of abandonment from Micah left him less than inspired.

When his last class of the afternoon ended, the professor pulled him aside before he could escape. She was kindhearted but demanding and easily his hardest teacher. Luckily, the class, Christianity in Context, was one of his best. Still, he knew what was coming from the look of disappointment on her face. After his last paper, a pathetic analysis of the effect of the Jewish Temple’s destruction on the writing of the New Testament Gospels, it was only a matter of time before she said something about his steadily slipping grades.

“Big plans this weekend?” Ms. Bernstein asked.

“No, ma’am. Not any more than usual at least. Catching up on my work more or less,” Gabe said.

“That’s why I stopped you.” She produced his paper, the first page riddled with red marks. “I have to say, there has been a distinct shift in the quality of your work. Factually, it is accurate. Probably more accurate than the rest of the class. Your grasp of the subject matter is not in doubt. But your writing—it’s rushed. As if you don’t care.”

“I do care, Professor.”

“Which is why I’m offering you an extension on this paper, an opportunity to put your best foot forward. You have wonderful potential, dear boy, which not so long ago you wielded almost effortlessly. I’d like to see more.”

Gabe hung his head, not used to the sinking feeling of a bad grade.

Ms. Bernstein handed him the paper. “Is there something outside of class interfering with your work that we can remedy? Are you having difficulty acclimating here?”

Interfering?
Gabe repeated the notion in his mind. Her question made him want to laugh out loud.
Where do I
begin?
“No, ma’am. I’ve been temporarily distracted. It won’t happen again.”

“Fine. Have the revised paper back to me by Wednesday of next week. Do try and enjoy the weekend, Mr. Adam.”

Gabe exited the building near the courtyard of Castle College. Gone were the usual gray skies, replaced now by cloudless afternoon. Sunshine reflected off the snowy ground and the white branches of the trees, as if Durham had been covered in a blanket of glitter. But instead of giving him the happy, fuzzy feelings everyone else seemed to have plastered across their faces, it merely aggravated his bad mood. Worsening the stress over his poor academics, the shock of brightness ignited that tiny, familiar pain in the back of his head.

He walked down the hill into the city center, across the bridge, and past The Swan & Three Cygnets, hands cupped over his face like horse blinders to shield out the glare. As Gabe attempted to cross the intersection of New Elvet Street, the sound of a cab’s horn caused him to jump back to the curb. It missed him by inches and sped away up the hill toward the New Inn.

The fright turned the dull ache in the back of his head into the full-on beginnings of a migraine. As if to get in on the action of what was quickly becoming the Worst Day Ever, his stomach growled as hollow as an empty keg.

At Yuri’s party, someone had mentioned how a morning fry-up would be needed for the next morning’s hangover—something to do with greasy food did the trick. Gabe recalled his first day with Carlyle and how he’d cooked everything for breakfast in one skillet.

Comfort food
. Exactly what he needed for this depression that was beginning to consume his day.

One thing he learned about the traditional pubs was that they served food at all hours. Even breakfast. The pub seemed like the best place to undo his funk.

Gabe found The Court Inn across Elvet Bridge on Court Lane. Inside, ceilings hung low with dimmed light. Without any patrons, the inn maintained a steady quiet, which his headache appreciated. He snagged a menu and a table off in the corner and made his order with the barkeep.

A short while later, the generous helpings of beer-battered fish and French fries more than met the medicinal grease requirements to cure his mope. He felt better with every vinegary, greasy bite. Enough to even try the green peas.

Above the bar, a television was tuned into an international cable news channel, with the volume on low. The barman seemed hypnotized by it. On the broadcast, the world stood on the brink of war over the Western Alliance’s interest in oil fields and the promotion of democracy in a cultural region that didn’t seem to appreciate either. The breaking news banner trickling across the screen reported that in a sudden change of policy, Turkey, the region’s staunchest supporter of the Western Alliance, now protested any aggression toward their neighbor to the east and threatened to cause unrest in the region by mobilizing its military to the border.

The Turkish president had begun to adopt an extremist view of his country’s first religion, despite the very outspoken dissention by his own people and of one of his top military commanders, General Simon Magus. The experts sitting behind the desk salivated to suggest the possibility of a coup d’état. On the screen, they christened the news as the Genesis of World War III.

In light of his circumstances, Gabe wondered if there was any validity to the claim. He recalled his father’s description of how the nations would be pulled into their conflict.
Is it beginning already?

As he finished his lunch, the door chimed and a man entered. He took a seat facing Gabe at a booth across the pub. The barman went to ask if he needed anything, but the man said nothing and waved him off.

Gabe scooped up the last of the tiny green peas and shoveled them into his mouth on the edge of his knife. He noticed the man staring and shrunk in embarrassment. His caveman manners were probably a bit offensive in the land of teatime.

“Sorry,” Gabe said and held his hand up apologetically to the gentleman, but he remained still. If not for the thousand-mile stare, the man would be unassuming. His short stature and bald head framed in thick round spectacles were nothing noteworthy.

But his eyes
. They seemed unfocused and vacant, but they did not wander.

The man’s constant gaze left Gabe feeling uneasy. He pushed away his plate and grabbed his backpack.

Before he could get out of the booth, a power surge caused the television and the lights to dim. The air felt charged with electricity. Hair stood up on Gabe’s arm. Then the screen flashed static, and the plastic-looking anchorman froze in midsentence.

The barman didn’t move, either. He looked like a statue reaching up to adjust the television.

“Your fears of the world are not unfounded,” said a nearby voice.

The man now stood at Gabe’s shoulder. “The signs foretell a war amongst men that shall ignite the War of Wars. It is the beginning of what is to come.” He held a wooden box about the size of a cigar humidor. “I am Enoch,” he said. “Greetings, Fortitudo Dei.”

Gabe felt the blood rush from his face. Memories from his visions flooded into his mind.
The bleeding man.
Yet Enoch looked different, shorter and bald as opposed to the commanding presence of the black-haired man. “What happened to the bartender? What did you do?”

“Only what I must.”