Messiah: The First Judgment

  Xacheriel, one of the First Heaven’s eight high elders and Jether’s close compatriot, appeared from a small door in the wall. Xacheriel was the Ancient of Days’ curator of the sciences and universes, one of the twenty-four ancient kings under Jether’s governance. He and his wise ones were the devoted executors of Yehovah’s unutterable marvels, governors of the three great portals, and custodians of the sacred vaults of the flaming cherubim and seraphim, which housed the countless billions of DNA blueprints, genome codes, and the boundary lines of Yehovah’s innumerable galaxies, seas, and universes.

  He fell in step with Jether, his great white eyebrows knitted together, striding the corridors in his violet experimentation galoshes. Carrying Xacheriel’s train was Dimnah, a short, dumpy, freckled youngling, shuddering violently from the blue arced electrical currents that were shocking him from Xacheriel’s person.

  Jether stopped, tapping Xacheriel on the shoulder. ‘Humph,’ he coughed surreptitiously into his handkerchief.

  Xacheriel frowned impatiently.

  Jether pointed to the now convulsing Dimnah, blue electric arcs swirling in and out from his tight ginger curls down to his striped stockinged knees. Xacheriel looked down at his indigo rubber gloves and scowled.

  ‘Rakkon! Jatir!’ he bellowed.

  A group of younglings all attired in rainbow-coloured galoshes and rubber gloves instantly appeared as if from a vapour.

  ‘Disconnect the dullard Dimnah!’

  With immense difficulty, the younglings managed to pry Dimnah free from Xacheriel’s train.

  ‘No galoshes!’ muttered Xacheriel. He waved his hand towards the languishing Dimnah, now fallen to the floor in a dead swoon. ‘A high-voltage experiment, and the dunderhead wears no galoshes!’ Xacheriel sighed in exasperation, scrabbling beneath his oilskin in the voluminous pockets of his orange robes, and bringing out a small, sticky half-eaten cake with the consistency of an English doughnut with an indigo curd centre, which he thrust between the long-suffering Dimnah’s lips.

  ‘Brain food!’ he declared, rubbing his large hands together, and continued his great tramping along the corridor.

  Jether shook his head, his eyes twinkling with amusement, and followed.

  ‘Lucifer and his cohorts are dangerously close to the truth, Jether,’ Xacheriel declared darkly.

  Jether looked up at him from under his eyebrows, without breaking stride. ‘Lucifer’s revelation of Yehovah’s ways has waned these past aeons,’ he replied. ‘He and his evil magi seek after one born of a royal house of Earth – one of power and nobility.’

  They walked out of the sapphire corridors across the lush lawns of the lower gardens of the Tower of Winds, through the lower chambers of the sixth spire, where they were met by two more younglings, holding the reins of two white-winged chargers.

  Jether raised his eyebrows to Xacheriel as he placed his foot in the stirrup.

  ‘We have a little time yet,’ he said grimly.

  Jether and Xacheriel mounted effortlessly and flew above the glistening diamonds paving the vast winding road through the massive pearl gates, two hundred feet high, across the crystal bridge, finally landing on the vast eastern pearl sands on the very edge of the Sea of Zamar.

  Seated on jacinth thrones, under the open heavens on the eastern sands, were the high council of the eight ancient kings, Yehovah’s high elders. Six ancient monarchs were already seated around a golden circular table, their heads bowed, each dressed in vibrantly coloured robes. Their lips moved silently in supplication to the Ancient of Days. Michael sat on a carved silver throne.

  Jether dismounted, and the six ancient monarchs and Michael rose as one and bowed reverently to his person. Jether nodded and took his seat at the throne at the head of the table, Xacheriel at his left. Jether bowed his head, his lips moving in supplication. He nodded to Michael.

  ‘Lucifer is suspicious of these magi,’ Michael said. ‘My reconnaissance informs me that the sorcerers of the royal court of Herod of Judea consult with the Warlock Kings of the West.’

  Zebulon, an elder with a long white beard and a gentle demeanour, raised his head from his supplications. ‘Yes, this is true, Michael, but Dracul and his Warlock Kings also consult continually with Melsoc of Persia and Babylon and with Babiel of the Medes.’

  Methuselah raised his white-crowned head. ‘Dracul keeps his options open. He speculates.’ His words were calm and measured. ‘All they are certain of is that the prince shall be born of the Race of Men, in the East.’

  Maheel, a third ancient elder, raised his bowed head; his watery blue eyes were distant.

  ‘You may speak, Maheel,’ Jether said quietly.

  ‘Our greatest danger comes when the star stands still again, this time over its resting place, Bethlehem.’

  There came a thundering as Gabriel galloped across the sands on his white steed, escorted by ten Revelators. He drew to a halt under the great willows. Gabriel dismounted and strode towards them, speaking as he walked. ‘Forgive my tardiness, my honoured elders, my revered brother Michael. I received urgent word from my Revelator scouts. Our greatest danger, I regret, is almost upon us. Lucifer dispatched Darsoc and the Grey Magi this very dawn to follow the magi. It will be only a matter of time before Lucifer realizes that the newborn prince of the East, and Christos, are one and the same.’

  All around the table lifted their heads; Michael and Gabriel exchanged a grave look. Lamaliel shook his head. ‘His wrath will be unbridled.’

  Issachar stroked his beard. ‘His first action will be to investigate the constituents of Christos’ blood.’

  ‘We are well aware,’ said Xacheriel, drumming his large fingers, rather too loudly, on the table next to Jether.

  ‘Lucifer’s evil genius is no match for the unfathomable wisdom of Yehovah,’ said Jether, closing the book of Eternal Law. He placed his wizened hand softly on top of Xacheriel’s to restrain his pounding.

  ‘He becomes blinded by his own preconceptions,’ stated Issachar.

  ‘His choice to consistently despise Yehovah’s treaties struck with the Race of Men in aeons past could ultimately lead to his demise,’ Gabriel said.

  Jether nodded.

  ‘His pride renders him more careless. He is contemptuous of the accords which will be to our advantage.’

  Xacheriel stroked his bushy eyebrows. ‘He will be more easily persuaded with his misgivings satisfied.’

  Jether nodded. ‘We must have faith.’

  ‘Lucifer is become drawn to the Eastern regions,’ Michael rose. ‘He dispatched Dagon and his Black Horde deliberately to divert me to the West. I sent forty legions after Dagon to dispel my brother’s unease – eighty of my legions remain hung well back in the First Heaven. They await my return to the East.’

  ‘My Revelator legions are mobilised,’ Gabriel added. ‘The Proclaimers and scouts left for the Eastern horizons at dawn. They await your command, brother.’

  Jether stood up slowly from the table, as did the seven elders. Jether clasped Michael’s arm, and they followed Gabriel across the pearl sands to the marble-columned pergola, up the gilded steps to the lush tropical gardens where the archangel brothers’ thrones stood beside the waterfalls of nectar. The blue gales blew violently. Jether stared out past the Sea of Zamar at the winged stallions galloping across the pearl beaches. Far above the stallions an enormous white eagle with golden talons soared towards them.

  The eagle landed gracefully on the sands next to Jether, who unclasped a missive with the seal of Yehovah from its diamond collar. He read silently.

  ‘Yehovah summons me,’ he murmured, then turned to gaze up at the shimmering indigos and lilacs of the rainbow overarching the Crystal Palace. To the north of the two massive trees in the hanging gardens, above the labyrinths, a colossal ruby-encrusted door, ablaze with light, was embedded in the tower’s jacinth walls – the entrance to Yehovah’s throne room. There were few, so few, who had ever gazed upon the beauty of Yehovah’s countenance. Jether, faithful
steward of Yehovah’s mysteries, was one.

  Jether closed his eyes. ‘The codices of the White Judgement,’ he whispered. ‘They are to be opened.’

  Michael stepped back, stunned.

  ‘The codices of fire,’ Gabriel echoed.

  Jether nodded. ‘The Day of the Seventh Stone approaches.’

  He mounted the great eagle, sitting astride the golden saddle and stroking its soft white neck feathers. The eagle looked up at Jether, its piercing brown eyes gentle, awaiting his command.

  ‘Faithful Vespar, I would journey to the labyrinths of the seventh spire,’ he said, his eyes strangely misted.

  ‘Michael – make haste to the eastern heavens. Gabriel – meet me in the seventh spire of the labyrinths. Let us never forget, my angelic princes, that we fight on behalf of Yehovah for the greatest prize in the universe.’

  His voice shook with passion as Vespar ascended into the skies. ‘For the redemption of the Race of Men from their tyrant king, Lucifer!’

  Chapter Five

  Herod

  Ahuge group of the councils of Jerusalem, including the seventy-one members of the Jewish supreme council, the Sanhedrin, and all Herod’s scribes and his own magi, were gathered in the palace’s inner court. Herod sat on his elaborate golden throne in the inner court of his palace. He was dressed in the most ostentatious purple finery, his crown awry on top of his thick, ill-fitting ginger wig. He limped heavily over to the nearest window to stare balefully at the pillar of fire that blazed in the night sky.

  ‘The star burns brighter with every hour!’ His face was florid with rage. ‘You knew I had a rival, yet you did not warn me?’ He slammed his sceptre down on an ornate vase, smashing it to the floor. ‘There is a king of the Jews; your Hebrew writings are clear on it.’

  He rose from the throne and swung around to the chief priest, who was shivering with terror. ‘They are clear, aren’t they?’

  ‘The writings are clear, sire,’ the chief priest stammered.

  Herod flung open the Torah scrolls. ‘Bring him nearer, that he might know his subject more intimately.’

  Herod’s guards grabbed the chief priest by the arms and thrust him in front of Herod. Herod pushed the Torah in front of the chief priest’s face.

  ‘Where is this king of the Jews to be born?’

  Petrified, the priest fumbled through the scrolls until he found the book of Micah. Trembling, he stopped. Herod snatched the scroll away from him and scanned it avidly, his fleshy jowls shaking as he read.

  ‘Where, where does it say “king of the Jews”?’ He pushed his face right up to the high priest. ‘Show me.’

  ‘In Bethlehem of Judea, for thus it is written by the prophet Micah: “But you, Bethlehem, in the land of Judah, are not the least among the rulers of Judah; for out of you will come a ruler who will shepherd my people, Israel.”’

  ‘Is this ME?’ Herod screamed, red in the face. ‘Is it Herod the Great they prophesy? Is it Herod? Or is there...’ He spun around. ‘...ANOTHER?’ he hissed, his two chins shaking.

  The chief priest gulped. Suddenly finding courage, in a holy fervour he blurted, ‘There is another.’ His words were soft but unmistakable. ‘The Messiah, the ruler of Israel – His kingdom shall see no end.’

  Herod rose, apoplectic, from the throne and smashed the sceptre against the chief priest’s chest. The priest rolled down the marble stairs, blood flowing from his head onto the marble floor. The council stood terrorized, silent.

  Herod lifted up his voluminous robes. ‘GET OUT OF HERE! Get out!’ screamed Herod. ‘OUT!’

  The council scattered like geese, out of the throne room, two of them dragging the semi-conscious priest behind them. Herod’s advisers clustered around his throne, trembling and whispering feverishly.

  ‘Stop your infernal mumbling,’ Herod snarled. ‘What is it that you whisper of now?’

  His chief adviser stepped forward. ‘We speak of the caravan, Your Majesty, that draws nigh to Jerusalem from the East.’

  A second counsellor bowed. ‘The caravan is of exceeding wealth and pomp, Your Majesty. It is the talk of all Jerusalem.’

  Herod sat back heavily on his throne. ‘Yes, yes, my magi informed me. They are Parthians – interferers ... kingmakers! They fell kings from thrones at their whim!’

  He bit his fist, his eyes gleaming with insanity. Sweat poured from his furrowed brow below his crown. ‘It is a plot. The Parthians take me for a usurper – they would murder me ... dethrone me. And put this ... this infantile king of the Jews...’

  ‘Nay, Your Majesty. This caravan belongs to a king, Aretas, sovereign ruler of Arabia.’

  ‘Aretas! The king of Petra – why, he is no philosopher, no magus’s accomplice.’ Herod relaxed visibly. He exhaled deeply and readjusted his wig.

  ‘He is a pragmatic man, one who has seen bloodshed.’ Herod’s eyes glittered. ‘Does he come in peace or war?’ He bunched his robe in his fist, trembling. ‘War!’ he whimpered. ‘He seeks revenge. He comes to murder me and annexe Judea to the Nabateans!’ A thread of spittle hung suspended from his chin. He was seized by paroxysm, coughing up blood into his handkerchief.

  His chief attendant held out a sealed missive. Herod snatched it and tore it open, eyes wild, scanning the contents.

  ‘He would honour me and solve our border disputes.’ He wiped his brow with a silk handkerchief. ‘He seeks peace.’ He exhaled heavily in relief and held out his trembling hand to his cupbearer, who immediately placed an ornate goblet of wine in it.

  ‘This upstart king could well threaten Aretas, also.’ He sipped from his cup delicately. ‘Get word to his ambassadors that my palace awaits him. He shall indeed be my welcome guest.’

  Herod caressed the goblet thoughtfully. ‘The royal houses of Petra and Judea would do well to make alliance. Together we shall destroy this upstart king!’

  * * *

  Herod turned to a tall, sinister figure to the right of his throne. ‘Mephisto, relay to me the Necromancer’s counsel.’

  Mephisto chanted, and slowly the thirteen Warlock Kings of the West materialized next to him, unseen by Herod. Dracul, their ruler, spoke, echoed by Mephisto, almost as an alter ego, speaking with him in a strange, unearthly unison. ‘Let them make careful search for the child and report back, that you may find him and destroy the newborn king.’

  * * *

  Gabriel thundered bareback on his stallion, through the lush rain forests, across the vast bulrush meadows of the Eastern plains of Eden in the First Heaven, his flaxen hair flying. He came to a halt leagues beneath the holy mountain, near the base of the throne room’s rubied entrance, outside the western labyrinths of the seven spires. He dismounted and entered the underground entrance to the sacred caverns. Seven hidden chambers in the mountain each ascended into the inner sanctum of the labyrinths. Gabriel walked, head bowed, his path lit only by the flaming eternal torches high against the cavern walls.

  As he ascended higher into the chamber, an unaccountable dread clutched his heart. His ascent continued, deep into the heart of the labyrinths, until he reached the sixth burning lamp. Nine tall silent warriors stood with flaming broadswords. The Watchers, guardians of the hidden sanctum of Yehovah. They raised their flaming swords to Gabriel, bowing in acknowledgment.

  Gabriel continued through the dim passage, ascending until he saw them: Yehovah’s dread warriors, the Watchers of the seventh flame.

  The Watchers beheld him, and as one they lifted their flaming swords, which had barred his way to the seventh chamber. Ever so slowly, Gabriel walked on through the huge iron grid, magnetised towards a blazing light on his left. The Watchers drew back and disappeared. He moved deeper into the cavern. In front of him blew a stormy wind, and out of the wind burned a great indigo cloud with great lightning and flashings caming from out of the inferno.

  Gabriel stared ahead in wonder. There before him stood Jether, in the very midst of the burning flames, his arms raised, his staff, the staff of the white winds, he
ld high. His hair and beard flew in the tempests that rose from the indigo cloud. Blue lightnings blazed from the staff. His face glowed as burnished bronze, his skin burning translucent. Dimly visible in the midst of the coals of fire lay seven enormous gold-bound lapis-lazuli codices, their pages blazing with a fierce blue fire – the codices of the White Judgement. Gabriel watched as two majestic flaming cherubim became visble through the flames. The first lifted the top codex from the midst of the burning coals. He stretched forth his hand and passed the sacred tome to Jether.

  Jether clasped it, holding it high. ‘The Codex of the First Judgement!’ he cried. ‘The secret counsels of Yehovah are unveiled!’

  * * *

  Herod nodded and slowly opened the voluminous red velvet curtains. Before him stood King Aretas, Balthazar, Caspar, Melchior and a hundred magi, with coffers of gold and precious stones. Herod bowed deeply to King Aretas, who bowed as well. Herod looked at the overflowing caskets, simpering like a child. He sat down on his throne, motioning to Aretas to sit opposite him on a smaller, ornately gilded throne.

  ‘Your royal name has travelled often across the desert plains to me, great Sheikh Aretas of Petra and Arabia, Aretas the noble, the warrior, protector of his people.’

  ‘Your royal name is one of fame and renown throughout the eastern plains, O Herod of Idumea, Herod the Great, feared by all.’ Aretas bowed again.

  A smile of pleasure spread across Herod’s slack-jowled face. ‘You come to Jerusalem not only to seek peace, Aretas. You seek a king other than myself. Of this I am convinced.’

  Aretas stared deeply into the old king’s eyes. He was debauched and evil, but he was no fool – even near death, a formidable enemy. This Aretas knew. ‘I seek to pay my respects to Herod the Great, but yes, you are correct in your assumptions. There is another that I seek, O Herod.’