The Zygan Emprise: Renegade Paladins and Abyssal Redemption (52 page)

Spud didn’t meet my eyes. “Not any more. My
Queen and Country no longer exist.”

* * *

John and I did most of the talking for the
rest of our meal. Spud sat back in his chair, arms folded,
appearing lost in thought, but the tense outline of his neck
muscles made it clear that he was anything but calm. Better not to
poke the sleeping dog. Spud’s bite was
much
worse than his
bark.

Neither our Zygan or our black market Ergals
had a any additional data that could help us find Yeshua or flesh
out his history, so John and I used the tablets to search for
houses of worship whose priests might be able to give us some clues
as to Yeshua’s sad end and interment.

The closest temple we located was a massive
brick structure two miles away sporting several obelisk-shaped
towers decorated with ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics. After a
pleasant walk, we entered its spacious lobby, our footsteps echoing
up to the flat high ceiling above us from the mosaic tiles on which
we stood. The inner walls around us were filled with bright murals
storyboarding myths I assumed portrayed the life stories of the
gods Horus, Isis, and Osiris.

Standing respectfully before the paintings, I
felt obligated to whisper. “I’m awed.”

“Yes, you are,” was my brother’s snide
response. Obviously he wasn’t as impressed by the temple as I was.
I favored him with the appropriate glare.

“Are you men of the Mysteries?” a voice
behind us asked in Arabic.

I guess I could look like a guy with my short
hair, especially from the back. But “Mysteries” were a mystery to
me in this context. I let John answer.

“What?” he said, in Ergal Arabic. Real good,
bro. I could’ve pitched that.

“Are you participating in the lesser
mysteries this morning?” the voice repeated.

“Um, yes, sure.”

“We are bringing the Kista to the
Hierophant,” Spud intervened. “Please inform him we have
arrived.”

I heard the sound of receding footsteps and
peeked over my shoulder to see a red toga disappearing behind a set
of wooden doors. John clapped Spud on the shoulders, adding,
“Thanks for helping me out there. Where’d you learn all that?”

“British public schools,” I muttered. “Fill
us pagans—I mean non-pagans—in.”

“The Mysteries are ancient rites and
ceremonies that church members participate in as a way to access
the highest truths of their religion.” Spud Ergaled an ornate
wooden chest by our feet. “This is a Kista, and it contains some
holy objects. A snake, seeds, laurel leaves, dried basil, and a
curved dagger. It also contains a few doses of
psilocybe
mushrooms,” Spud paused, “to help achieve this state of
understanding.”

“Ha,” I laughed, “In that case, half of
Hollywood should be on its way to Nirvana by now.

“Nirvana has no place in the Cult of Isis,”
Spud said, frowning. “Isis began as the Egyptian goddess Aset. The
Sanskrit word Nirvana is traced to India.”

John and I both rolled our eyes, just as Red
Toga strode back into the room, followed by an olive-skinned old
man with a long scraggly gray beard.

“You are not participants!” bellowed the
priest, his eyes resting on the B-cup domes on the front of my
chest.

“No,” John said, moving in front of me, “but
we bring you gifts in exchange for your wisdom.”

“Heretics,” the priest cried, pointing a bent
finger at Spud’s face. Two more red-togas covering muscular
acolytes appeared in our view. Neither seemed to be radiating
hospitality.

“Am-scray,” John whispered in English, “On
‘three’.”

We were back out the door and running down
the block by ‘two’.

* * *

By evening, we had visited a few more
temples. Only one, its Doric columns making it look more like a
courthouse than a church, had a cleric who was willing to hear out
our questions.

“False prophets abounded one to two thousand
years ago,” the priest reflected. “Poverty, pestilence and plague
prevailed. The dire conditions were conducive to promoting an
apocalyptic mentality—the world was ending and the promise of
paradise was irresistible.”

John snorted. “I don’t agree. Have you read
the versions of Genesis?”

The priest nodded. “Of course. Unlike some of
my colleagues, our temple’s clerics are progressive and work
collaboratively with religious leaders who worship Yahweh,
Zarathustra, the Buddha, and even non-theists. We have studied the
Torah.”

“Well, Adam and Eve were expelled from Eden
for corrupting their ignorant bliss with the fruit of the tree of
knowledge,” John said, “but the driving search for paradise, for
heaven, is to absorb
all
knowledge, to learn the answers to
all
our questions, to understand
all
. That passion is
not inspired by unpleasant material circumstances, but by an
obsession for the truth.”

“I believe my own interpretation of Genesis
is that the absolute truth can be devastating and destructive.” The
priest reached over and picked up a gold chalice, offering it to my
brother. “Perhaps if you try some of our grapes, you can quench the
fire that seems to be burning your soul into ash.”

“Pah.” John shook his head and turned away.
“Keep your wine and your mushrooms. I’ll nurture my vice until we
meet in heaven.”

“Well,” I said, exhaling. “That’s gotten us
nowhere.” I swung my arms to release the tension.

“Perhaps you will find the information you
seek at the University of Isaiah,” the priest said, patting my
hand. “Let me see your tablet.”

Spud handed the tablet to him, and we watched
him pull up a map of Alsharif. “Here,” the priest pointed to a ring
around the city, “is the old wall. The renowned University of
Isaiah has a large campus in the West Quarter. You should speak to
Professor Malamud in i Department of History, Philosophy, and
Religious Studies.” He returned the tablet to Spud. “Please
transmit my wishes of ‘Greetings and Health’.”

Grumbling, John was already on the
street.

* * *

Isaiah University, Alsharif—alternate
present day

Professor Malamud burst into laughter when I
relayed the priest’s message. “His wishes were rather the opposite
when I declined his request that I become his fourth wife.”

Another surprise. We’d expected to meet a
grizzled old man, the middle-eastern version of Lester Moore, when
we made our way to the University of Isaiah. Instead, Professor
Malamud was a tall, slim young woman in her late twenties, whose
long dark hair framed delicate features. Unlike the majority of
people in Alsharif, Malamud seemed to eschew the togas in fashion,
instead wearing a form-fitting, sleeveless tunic, and a pair of,
yes, shorts. I noted that John’s eyes seemed to be focusing on
their mid-thigh hem.

“I was not aware that priests were allowed to
marry,” Spud muttered.

Malamud’s voice was melodic. “Asit, Isis,
herself had several husbands. Polygamy is said to honor the example
of Isis and Osiris.” Her tone indicated she wasn’t on board.
“Fortunately, like most moderns, I’m not a practitioner of any
religion. So, I’ve always been a one-man-at-a-time woman.” She
smiled at me and Spud and then rested her amused eyes on John.

“Uh, sorry. I was just, uh, wondering why
you’re not-“ John stumbled, a hint of pink teasing his face.

“Wearing a stola?” She shrugged. “I find
these clothes more comfortable in the heat, and they do not inhibit
my activity.”

John nodded. “It’s good not to be inhibited,”
escaped his lips before he froze, embarrassed.

Another tuneful laugh. “I agree,” Malamud
said, patting his hand. To us: “How can I be of assistance?”

“We are seeking the burial site of an ancient
prophet,” Spud began, “As a Professor of Comparative Religion you
may be able to guide us as to its location.”

Malamud sighed. “I can try. But human history
has provided us with more prophets than knowledge. What is your
prophet’s name?”

“Yeshua Bar Maryam,” I volunteered.

Malamud’s olive skin turned ghostly pale.

* * *

“We have no proof that Yeshua even lived,”
Professor Malamud said, folding her hands in her lap to hide an
obviously unwelcome tremor. “Only fragments written by a follower,
Paul, almost two thousand years ago have been discovered. They have
never become an official part of the Torah.”

“Does that jibe with what you read in Nea
Alexandria?” I asked Spud. Would he play it close to the vest—I
mean waistcoat?

Spud nodded. “According to Paul, Yeshua was
crucified by the Romans, buried in Judea, a footnote in Hebraic
history. But,” he glanced the Professor, “Josephus, the renowned
chronicler of the era, didn’t mention him at all.”

“So no resurrection,” said John, to Spud’s
dismay.

“On the contrary, resurrection is a theme
throughout many documented religions,” the Professor countered.
“Osiris and Dionysus were both gods who returned to life after
death.” She smiled at John. “You are correct, though, I have found
nothing to indicate that a Yeshua Bar Maryam did so.”

My hands unconsciously crept to stroke the
Somalderis I was wearing under my toga. I kept my eyes aimed
towards my feet.

“Paul’s writing has described a general
region where his alleged mentor might be buried,” she continued,
“but the grave has never actually been found. Why would you be
interested in such ancient remains?” I could feel Malamud’s gaze
burning my forehead.

John staved off a lecture from Spud with a
loud sigh. “Professor—“

“Aliyah, please.”

“That’s beautiful. Aliyah,” he continued.
“Call me John. I’m a research scientist myself, and I spent years
searching for the elusive components of our universe’s creation,
like the Higgs boson, which people often mis-named ‘The God
Particle”. I finally realized that uncovering the building blocks
of mass would bring us closer to understanding the laws of our
universe, but wouldn’t clarify its history and its purpose. The
productive investigation of Quantum Physics, in the end, may be
truly inseparable from the study of Metaphysics.”

A snort from Spud’s direction and a chuckle
from Aliyah’s.

“Though I’ve turned my back on my own
religion,” she admitted, “I’m still convinced that
all
particles are God’s particles.”

Sarion would have been proud of me--I
couldn’t resist the joke. “Hey, Bro, a woman after your own
Quark.”

Everybody groaned.

Chapter 19

A Grave Mistake

Isaiah University—alternate present day

“The site you seek is beyond the old city
walls.” The Professor handed Spud the tablet on which she had
entered directions and instructions. “This monorail,” she pointed
to an elevated track which ran a course through the University
campus, “will take you to your final destination.”

I wish she hadn’t chosen those particular
words.

“Can’t we talk you into joining us?” John’s
voice belied his eagerness.

Aliyah held his gaze for a moment, before
shaking her head. “I have a seminar to present this afternoon. If
you don’t find what you are looking for, return this evening and I
may reconsider.” A warm smile. “If you are successful in your
quest, you can meet me here tonight and we can celebrate.” Wishing
us all good luck, she leaned in close to John and patted him on the
arm.

John followed us to the station, grinning
from ear to ear. I sighed. What is it with my companions and “wuv”
lately?

We boarded the gleaming monorail at the
campus station, and settled in for the journey. As the monorail
skimmed quietly along its route, Spud recited our travelogue from
the data files the Professor had highlighted on his tablet. John
and I pressed our faces to the window, gawking like children at the
fantasyland below. The old city wall had remained as a crowded
tourist attraction filling the suburban villages surrounding
Alsharif with travelers; travelers whose diverse toga styles spoke
of far-off homes. As we approached the wall, our monorail glided
over a busy boulevard labeled Via Laetitia.

“Avenue of Joy,” Spud explained
unnecessarily.

A prerecorded message accompanied by faint
bouzouki music startled us as the car moved forward. “You are
leaving the Old City of Alsharif,” our Ergals translated from the
Arabic, “may Isis and Gaia safely guide your journey to the
provinces beyond.”

“That was sweet,” John said with a tiny trace
of sarcasm.

“The next stop should be ours,” Spud warned,
“Gulgalta.”

“We will,” I said, gathering our things.

* * *

Gulgalta—alternate present day

We walked a few yards to a rocky knoll whose
dome shape resembled nothing as much as Benedict’s balding scalp.
As in the Old City we’d left behind, the landscape we faced was
green with medium-sized bushes and grasses, their stalks and leaves
wafting in the gentle soothing breeze. The stone path to the edge
of the hill split off before us into spokes, each curving along
parcels of land blanketed with manicured lawns.

A few tourists were ambling along the smaller
paths, stopping to look at the small statues that populated the
green section. Noting a statue not far from where we stood, I loped
over to it and pulled out my Ergal to translate the writing on its
pedestal. “the…ashes…Alharbi…beloved—“

“Serapis,” said Spud over my shoulder

“Huh?” I stood up. “No, I think it’s some
kind of a giant urn.”

“Serapis was a Egyptogrecian God who was
reputed to be vying with Osiris for Isis’ affections.”

“And we care why?” John said

“All these statues represent Hellenic, Roman,
or Egyptian deities. This tract is most likely a burial ground for
the cremains of the citizens of Alsharif, guarded by their god of
choice.”