Brenos paused to beat at the sparks on his robe, then glared at Smyrna’s mask. Its feminine features seemed to metamorphose into those of the caulker’s daughter who had humiliated him long ago. He rubbed his eyes. What kind of sorcery were the Harlot and Alpha-Omega practicing on him? John wrote to the city of Smyrna that Satan would put some to the test. Was the Harlot testing him, like the Hibernian girl? Would this fornicator with kings mock him, just as the caulker’s slut had? No. This time he would be victorious, just as John had promised to the faithful.
“Brandub…Black Raven!” Brenos cursed, then leaped at Smyrna to tear off his mask.
When the apparition deftly stepped aside, the momentum of the abbot’s thrust carried him through the curtain and into a hallway. His wet sandals slipped on the tiles and he sprawled to the floor with an involuntary scream at the pain in his side. Ahead, he saw stairway leading to a second level. Smyrna has hidden the papyri upstairs. Brenos crawled to the steps and clambered halfway up on his knees, but when he tried to stand, tripped on the hem his robe. Smyrna, close behind, grasped at his foot. Brenos wrenched free, leaving a sandal in his enemy’s hand, and clawed his way to the top stair.
Orange light spilled from a doorway at the end of a hall. Brenos stood and limped to the room. Breathing hard, he leaned against the doorframe and looked around. Several oil lamps with wick spouts in the shape of cockerel heads illuminated the chamber. By the flickering light, he gradually made out cases and shelves that displayed every conceivable type of rooster figure. Life-sized sculptures of the fowl stood in rows on the shelves. Some were molded in unglazed terracotta, others brightly painted or finished in the blue-green patina of faience work. Almost as many were fashioned of bronze or silver. Several glittered with the luster of gold. Among the statuary lay ceramic and silver platters, also decorated with rooster motifs.
Brenos picked up one of the golden figures. What sorcerer made these images to mock my Gallican symbol? he thought, then heard the sound of trickling water coming from a device in one corner of the room. Curious, he walked closer. A tall column inscribed with lines and numerals from I to XII was fastened above a circular tank. The brass statue of a rooster, with a pointer in its beak, indicated one of the numbers.
As the abbot circled the device, trying to understand its use, the sound of running water increased and a clicking noise came from inside the tank. The rooster slowly turned toward the column, which began to rotate. It stopped when the brass bird’s pointer indicated the numeral III.
Fascinated, Brenos waited for something further to happen, aware that the smell of chicken dung seemed stronger. He heard the clucking of poultry outside the shuttered window. Half mad with pain and frustration, he flipped the retaining hooks off the shutters and pushed them open. When he leaned out to look around, a spattering of rain wet his face and a streak of lightning whitened the muddy yard below. In the instant of brightness he was able to make out an enclosed arena that reminded him of a cock-fighting area the guards at Autessiodurum used for their sport. Smyrna—someone—trained fighting birds here. Brenos looked around, searching for the cocks, and noticed a stone shed across the yard. They were probably inside, he thought, huddled together against the storm and cackling aimlessly from fright. Yes, he could hear them.
Holding the golden rooster, Brenos wiped rain from his eyes with one hand and stared at the stone building. Suddenly, the white light flooding his mind also seemed to illuminate the place where he would find the Nazarene’s last will.
Of course! That rooster coop is where the papyri are hidden! It makes sense.. its guardians are the cockerels at the Villa of the Red Rooster. They will give me the Nazarene’s will. Are they not the birds the Gallicans chose for their symbol? In gratitude, they will reject this Smyrna, this Satan, and restore the will to its proper owner, so the prophecy can be fulfilled. I…I must get down to that shed.
Brenos turned away from the window. He was face to face with Smyrna.
“You daemon, I will see what human form you have!” The abbot lunged forward to tear away the mask, but the apparition pushed hard at his chest. Brenos lost his balance. Still clutching the golden figurine, he felt himself somersault backward through the wet air and slam down on his back into the muck of the yard, with an impact that left him gasping for breath.
Dazed, he lay still a moment, struggling to regain his breath by sucking wet air into his lungs. When Brenos looked up, blinking at a cold rain that washed his face clean, he saw Smyrna gazing down at him from the window. He had taken off the mask and was holding it in one hand. The man’s features were blurred, but his mocking laugh sounded like the cackle of a hen.
Brenos spat mud out of his mouth and struggled to get up. He could not move his legs. In panic now, he recalled seeing the same paralysis in a worker who had fallen off a scaffold at Autessiodurum. The man had never walked again.
Brenos of Slana, Abbot of Culdees, closed his eyes and licked moisture from his lips. It was gritty and tasted of chicken dung. When he looked up again, the heads of several roosters blocked out his view of Smyrna. The birds were eyeing him with cold stares that seemed more sinister than curious.
Then the seventh angel poured his bowl upon the air;
