magnitude signifies a royal house of immense power.’ He moved his head closer to Lucifer’s. ‘One so powerful that his kingdom could destroy our own...’ An uncharacteristic dread fell across Charsoc’s face, and he lowered his tone. ‘...and hasten the judgement...’
A terrible silence descended on the throne room.
‘Where is the infant king to be born?’
Lucifer’s words hung in the chamber. He swung around to Marduk.
‘What of the Black Murmurers?’ Lucifer hissed.
Marduk raised his head, his voice tremulous. ‘Sire, they have been traversing the borders of the land designated Israel in the land of Men. The legions of your royal brothers, Chief Princes Michael and Gabriel, surround the area; we cannot infiltrate.’
‘Michael!’ Lucifer snarled. ‘This infant king will be born in that parched tract of dust. I sense it.’
He was silent a long moment, then turned to Charsoc, his eyes narrowed. ‘The Warlock Kings of the West ... they foretell this infant has a connection with Christos?’
Charsoc stared at him, trembling. Silent.
Lucifer pointed his sceptre at Marduk. ‘You will seek it out, Marduk.’
He rose, resplendent in his robes. ‘Yehovah continually vexes me through that spawning ground of prophets, patriachs ... and now rival kings ... And now I shall vex Him . Relay my royal edict.’
Lucifer raised his sceptre high. ‘Dagon – dispatch the Black Horde. Divert my brother Michael to the West. Release the reconnaissance legion of the vulture shamans from their hell cages. To fly east.’
Lucifer strode back through the great jewelled doors of the eastern portico. He continued his staring out at the flaming pillar of fire that blazed in the black heavens, the nova that heralded his adversary – the infant king.
Chapter Two
Aretas of Petra
The small party of magi journeyed on horseback for weeks across the treacherous, rocky terrain of the main Persian trade routes, following the Euphrates River, led by the strange flaming pillar of fire that hung high in the heavens. At the fringes of the Syrian desert, they met with an ancient caste of monks, who exchanged the magi’s horses for ten camels.
The aged magus Balthazar led the caravan, his posture erect and regal, seated astride the leading camel. Behind him rode Gaspar, the youngest magus of the Chaldean order, next to the older, more sedate Melchior. Balista, Balthazar’s manservant and six magi rode behind, their camels weighed down with massive bags of fine spices, provisions, and astronomical instruments.
Their destination, Petra.
The city had housed the ancient relics of the Hebrew king, Solomon, for generations; the relics to be presented to the newborn king.
Days on end had melted into nights, and twilights into dusks as the magi pushed themselves to the limits of their endurance, beaten mercilessly by the scorching desert sun as they traversed the ferocious Syrian wilderness. Stopping for neither rest nor sleep, exhausted from the gruelling heat, magnetised forward by the furiously flaming nova, across the harsh and desolate wilderness, past Damascus, until the terrain transformed into a paradise of lush green valleys and babbling streams. Gaunt and weary, Balthazar lifted his hand.
‘Ride ahead, Balista. Let the king’s royal guard know that we are but a day’s journey away. The relics of Solomon await us!’ he cried, his voice hoarse from exhaustion, his eyes burning bright with exhilaration.
The caravan rounded the final mountain that dawn. There she lay, nestled in the remote, all but inaccessible valley in the mountains south of the Dead Sea: the mysterious ancient Nabatean city of Petra.
The city was surrounded by the towering rugged rose-coloured sandstone hills that rose from the desert plateau to protect the noble Arabian inhabitants from invaders. The party stared, enthralled, at the great chasm before them.
‘The Shiq,’ murmured Melchior in awe, ‘the great cleft in the earth.’
One by one,
A terrible silence descended on the throne room.
‘Where is the infant king to be born?’
Lucifer’s words hung in the chamber. He swung around to Marduk.
‘What of the Black Murmurers?’ Lucifer hissed.
Marduk raised his head, his voice tremulous. ‘Sire, they have been traversing the borders of the land designated Israel in the land of Men. The legions of your royal brothers, Chief Princes Michael and Gabriel, surround the area; we cannot infiltrate.’
‘Michael!’ Lucifer snarled. ‘This infant king will be born in that parched tract of dust. I sense it.’
He was silent a long moment, then turned to Charsoc, his eyes narrowed. ‘The Warlock Kings of the West ... they foretell this infant has a connection with Christos?’
Charsoc stared at him, trembling. Silent.
Lucifer pointed his sceptre at Marduk. ‘You will seek it out, Marduk.’
He rose, resplendent in his robes. ‘Yehovah continually vexes me through that spawning ground of prophets, patriachs ... and now rival kings ... And now I shall vex Him . Relay my royal edict.’
Lucifer raised his sceptre high. ‘Dagon – dispatch the Black Horde. Divert my brother Michael to the West. Release the reconnaissance legion of the vulture shamans from their hell cages. To fly east.’
Lucifer strode back through the great jewelled doors of the eastern portico. He continued his staring out at the flaming pillar of fire that blazed in the black heavens, the nova that heralded his adversary – the infant king.
Chapter Two
Aretas of Petra
The small party of magi journeyed on horseback for weeks across the treacherous, rocky terrain of the main Persian trade routes, following the Euphrates River, led by the strange flaming pillar of fire that hung high in the heavens. At the fringes of the Syrian desert, they met with an ancient caste of monks, who exchanged the magi’s horses for ten camels.
The aged magus Balthazar led the caravan, his posture erect and regal, seated astride the leading camel. Behind him rode Gaspar, the youngest magus of the Chaldean order, next to the older, more sedate Melchior. Balista, Balthazar’s manservant and six magi rode behind, their camels weighed down with massive bags of fine spices, provisions, and astronomical instruments.
Their destination, Petra.
The city had housed the ancient relics of the Hebrew king, Solomon, for generations; the relics to be presented to the newborn king.
Days on end had melted into nights, and twilights into dusks as the magi pushed themselves to the limits of their endurance, beaten mercilessly by the scorching desert sun as they traversed the ferocious Syrian wilderness. Stopping for neither rest nor sleep, exhausted from the gruelling heat, magnetised forward by the furiously flaming nova, across the harsh and desolate wilderness, past Damascus, until the terrain transformed into a paradise of lush green valleys and babbling streams. Gaunt and weary, Balthazar lifted his hand.
‘Ride ahead, Balista. Let the king’s royal guard know that we are but a day’s journey away. The relics of Solomon await us!’ he cried, his voice hoarse from exhaustion, his eyes burning bright with exhilaration.
The caravan rounded the final mountain that dawn. There she lay, nestled in the remote, all but inaccessible valley in the mountains south of the Dead Sea: the mysterious ancient Nabatean city of Petra.
The city was surrounded by the towering rugged rose-coloured sandstone hills that rose from the desert plateau to protect the noble Arabian inhabitants from invaders. The party stared, enthralled, at the great chasm before them.
‘The Shiq,’ murmured Melchior in awe, ‘the great cleft in the earth.’
One by one,