“Sounds like superstitious horse shit,” Adam expected from Ba’al, yet it was Adnihilo who spoke. “Sounds like home,” he said, but the former scribe had already moved on.
The man was bewitched in his element, paging through notes like a magic tome, every name an evocation, his ink pen a wand with which he directed the young men’s attention. “See the mural there?” It was impossible to miss. On either side it covered twice the wall’s surface as the northeastern Tarshir gate. “They’re painted at every entrance. It’s the story of how King Solomon came into power.”
“Shepherd’s skin,” whispered Lilum into Adam’s ear—a shortened version of a phrase made common during their journey. Riding double as they had since they departed old Iisah, the priestess never missed an opportunity. Every time either Jordan or one of his apostles spoke, her nose would nuzzle in his hair and her breath tickle his neck. “They are the wolves who wear the shepherd’s skin,” she would say to him; and he would nod, compliant, while in his heart there spread his skepticism. But not this time.
The pastor’s son caught Zachariah’s eye and cut him off mid-tale. “Liar,” he said, no hint of jest in his voice. “You don’t have to be a Brother Scribe to know the stories of Solomon. Back in our parish in Babylon, I taught those scriptures myself, and they definitely don’t say anything about that.” He pointed to the wall, to the image of a man no older than himself bearing in one hand an oil lamp and in the other a signet ring—on its face a six pointed star, inverted triangles intersecting. And from the lamp there leapt a shadow, its head antlered, its hands laden by some kind of book or tablet.
“Don’t they, though?” the former scribe asked, smiling. He looked to Jordan who was bringing his camel around. “Should I tell them, my Lord, of the true gnosis?” The Messiah nodded, and Zachariah returned to the conversation. “Why don’t you tell me what you see and what you believe you should see?”
Adam glared. This felt like a trap, but he was curious, so he agreed and started, “King Solomon was the fourth of the Tsaazaari kings. He inherited his rule young—that much of the painting is correct—but there were no stars or demons. It was God who came to Solomon to see if he would prove worthier than his spoiled brothers. And he did. When God offered him whatever his heart desired, Solomon asked for the wisdom to become a virtuous ruler.”
“And both wisdom and rule were bestowed upon him,” Zachariah finished for the pastor’s son, “but then I must ask, is that not what you see there in the mural?”
“No, it’s not.”
“Tell me, Adam, how does one commune with divine but through symbols and invocations? You don’t recognize the ring—though I suppose that’s not your fault; it’s been made blasphemous to mention the form of the old covenant—but the lamp should be familiar. The burning of oil remains part of the Messai faith. It is the creating of light from darkness, of fire from the abyssal deep as God did with his kingdom of Heaven. Something from nothing. Something from anything.”
A fury swelled in Adam’s chest. “Sure. And next you’re going to suggest that that shadow is supposed to be God.”
“No, only that God is what that demon was called by the Scribes who recorded the histories. Before then, there were but the mysteries, wisdom passed down from demiurgic beings, those evil and good alike.” He looked again to Jordan—another nod of approval—then Zachariah sighed as if a tremendous burden had been placed upon him. He said, “Adam, it is you who has confused God and demon kind, as have so many others. Look there,” he pointed his pen at the opposite side of the gate, the second half of the mural. There was the King as before, but older and holding different treasures: an antlered crown, a miniature temple borne in his left hand, and a serpent coiled in his right palm. “There are many devils within the deep: those who have fallen and those who creep up from the primordial sea. The latter are more ancient, more dangerous. We believe it was one of these that gulled our poor friend Kashim, just as King Solomon was tempted by the power of his own leviathan—that serpent painted there, the Shamir.”
“It’s a terrible thing to look upon the face of God.”
Then is it not the face of the Devil? He thought it through; three images cycled. The serpent god of the Impii, Kashim’s blind leviathan, and now King Solomon’s Shamir. The snake appeared in every instance. He looked to Adnihilo’s neck. The skin there had darkened, but the brand was yet visible. Was that not a serpent coiling about the symbol of Ba’al’s god’s crown? Another devil—was he surrounded? The only unmarred were Lilum and the apostles. Adam scoured his memories for glyphs studied inside the Father’s Temple. To the Iisah, the serpent was the tyrant, the Traitor. Was I wrong to doubt her? Just then, a pair of pale arms wrapped the young Messah. Lilum’s lips nuzzled against his ear. “Shepherd’s skin,” she said, embracing him. Until then, he hadn’t realized he’d been shaking.
It was a long while after before he could calm himself, and wading through Mephisto customs didn’t help. Entry into the city was overseen by Solomon’s Royal Swordsmen—The King’s Sons, the locals called them. With dark, rough hands they searched each man and camel. It reminded Adam of Venicci and of Hassan’s Hostel: chatter in the Tsaazaari tongue, hard dark eyes and black wiry beards, and even their clothes. They wore dyed linen coats, topaz blue or green peridot, with large bronze discs on breast and back. Smaller plates covered their thighs as well as their shoulders—on every one a mirror polish—their helmets as well.
