Solomon's Grave

Nathan moved his lips, feeling the emotion, the rejection creep along his skin and settle in his chest. He finally managed to say, “No, I guess not.”

“Thanks for calling. I’ll talk to you later.”

The line disconnected. Nathan continued to hold the phone, even when its warning klaxon bleated in his ear.

On the other end of the severed connection, Art Dinneck buried his face in his hands and leaned on the cubicle’s desktop. He took a deep breath through closed fingers, willed himself not to start sobbing. Why had he spoken like that, to Nate of all people? Why did he do the same thing to Beverly every time she asked the same question? It was as if some switch in his head turned on whenever someone pushed him for answers. They’re intruding, a buried voice said, How dare they ask you about us? You’re a grown man—you can make your own decisions. At times it sounded like an actual voice, but when he tried to place it, the sensation passed.

Beverly must suspect more than he originally thought. If Nate was so quick to see the guilt in his father’s eyes, surely Bev saw much more. One night. One stupid drunken night, and everything changed. What had he been thinking? He loved his wife, loved his family and God. But if that was true, why feel such a strong desire to keep away from the church? If anything, he should be falling to his knees and begging for forgiveness, from both the Lord and Beverly; two absolutions which would quickly pull him from the confusing spiral in which he found himself these last few months. Instead, he returned to the men’s club, night after night, pulled there like an addiction.

Waiting for the woman to return, perhaps? the voice asked.

“No,” he whispered through his hands, and hoped no one heard. Too much to drink that night, that was all. For him, who normally had no more than an occasional beer or glass of wine, he must have passed whatever limit his body could handle that night, so much that later events blurred in his memory. The odd thing was he didn’t remember having more than one beer. Still, if it wasn’t for Manny Paulson filling in the blanks as he drove him home that night, Art likely wouldn’t have remembered any of it. Maybe that would have been better. Ignorance is bliss, as the saying went.

Art leaned back in his chair, absently tapped the space bar on his keyboard to keep the screen saver from kicking in. Even now, he had trouble visualizing details about the woman. She had frizzy red hair, he was sure of that. White blouse, big smile. He remembered talking to her after she’d entered the club, something about a car broken down, stranding her for the moment. She decided to stay, “and party.” Those two words were clear. The club hadn’t been crowded that night—Paulson, Quinn, and a couple of others who’d already begun to drink themselves into a quagmire and became lost in their usual poker game. Art did recall that first beer, at least. He wondered, not for the first time, if something had been added to the drink. That implied someone there had done it, and...

...everyone in the Hillcrest Men’s Club can be trusted, the voice in his head said. It is safe there.

No, it couldn’t have been anyone there. Why would they lie about that? After all, he’d come to his senses in the back room, the woman lying beside him with a contented smile. The memory sent a pained revulsion through him.

He leaned forward to pray for forgiveness, for clarity in thought. And, like the other times he’d tried this, he felt only a hesitancy, an unwillingness to give this burden over to God. An invisible hand seemed to fall over him. He grew angry...

...weak man, can’t depend on his own strength....

He cursed his weakness. Was this the man he’d turned out to be? So what? He was drunk that night. Nothing wrong with that. If something happened with the woman, he wasn’t to blame. He couldn’t even remember it except in quick flashes, as if he’d been watching rather than participating. He loved his wife, and would not feel guilty the rest of his life over one mistake.

...if the church tries to make you feel guilty, you should forget all about it....

He looked at his computer screen, focusing through the reflected overhead lights on the program he’d been working on. In the reflection, he could make out the edges of the cubicles behind him. A man with short white hair stood there, watching him.

Art spun in his chair. No one was standing in the aisle outside his cubicle.

There never had been, of course. The building was secure enough in that regard. Peter Quinn would not have been allowed in without an escort. He was seeing things again. The need to go to the club tonight—just for a little while, for crying out loud—came over him like a junkie’s need for a fix.

Not that Art thought of it that way. To him, it was a perfectly natural desire for a man to have.

Part Two: Departure

Constantinople, 1204 A.D.

Everard of Dampierre had only a few minutes in the cavernous room to consider the proper direction to move. Already the remaining crusaders, all of whom were well-acquainted with this “secret” basilica under the Church of the Apostles, were regrouping above. Everard could divert them only temporarily, giving their troop leaders directions with his sacred Voice. Scattered among the city and other corners of the cathedral, they would not immediately stumble upon the passage which would lead them here. The knights of the Crusade, dedicated and loyal to their leaders for the past two years, could maintain ranks only so long. For most, the promise of riches beyond their feeble imaginations was the primary incentive for leaving their families in the first place. So close to such wealth and treasures, they would soon be uncontrollable in their lust. Nothing was sacred. Everything profane.

It was a wonderful day.

The six men under his command were carefully chosen over the past year as their troops, from ships off the Byzantine coast, angrily watched this city’s bloody politics unfold. Their financier, the newly reinstated emperor Alexius IV, and his son—who had successfully rerouted Pope Innocent’s troops to Constantinople in the first place —managed to get themselves decapitated only a few short months after regaining power. For Everard, the turn of events proved advantageous. Father and son had outlived their usefulness. Rumors of wealth below both this church and Hagia Sophia drew him into the city and surrounding islands. His ability to control others allowed earlier visits to this fabled, cross-shaped room to be possible.

His men now stared in wonder about the basilica. The riches in this place were beyond counting. Everard spoke to each man individually, telling them all of this belonged to them provided they did what he asked of them right now. In truth, mobs of their fellow knights would be here soon, but they did not need to know that.

They followed the knight to a spot beyond the Column of Flagellation. Thankfully, none of the others knew its significance. Enough distractions were about to make the task of controlling them difficult, as it was.

“Sire,” called a squire named Marcus, no older than sixteen. He held up a broken sandal. “I found this on the floor. Over there.” He pointed to a section of wall just beyond the Column. To the others, the discovery meant nothing. To Everard, it meant someone had beaten them down here!

“Quickly!” He felt along the wall, as he had done the last time he’d visited this room. Now, however, he knew what he was looking for. Had, in fact, entered the next chamber only one week earlier. Everard had stood before the very Ark of the Covenant and wept with joy, an uncharacteristic display of emotion but one which he allowed himself just that one time. But he had dared go no further. Haste killed. Everard had returned to his ship to begin the too-easy task of influencing the Crusaders to at last take matters into their own hands. Alexius V, the anti- Rome replacement to the headless former emperor, was refusing any trade negotiations with Rome. Things then moved along of their own accord. The men were eager for battle, among other more immoral pleasures available in such a vast city. The invasion of Constantinople by the forces of the Fourth Crusade was the culmination of Everard of Dampierre’s master plan. And of the great god Molech, known by many names over the centuries: Bringer of Chaos and Death, Loki, Lucifer.

Now, finally, the prize his master had sought since the days of Solomon’s fall would be his. No flea-ridden priest or knight or whoever was inside would stop him. Everard had stood beyond this stone passage, seen with his own eyes, heard with his very soul the power of such a relic. He understood more clearly now than perhaps