The Celtic Conspiracy Read Free

another legionnaire hurled a spear at a fleeing youth, piercing him through. The carnage continued until everyone in the once peaceful town was dead. Before the pack disappeared, Shane saw a legionnaire with the sign of the fish on his shield ride past him, a scornful smile on his face.
    “Victoria, it was like I was really there,” Shane said, drained from the experience of sharing his vision. “It was much more than just a nightmare.”
    “Adam, I see parallels and a message to your own life, here. This eternal frustration with the world that always makes you turn away from any beautiful moment. But the fact that you’re sharing this is a first step to overcome your dark world,” Victoria said tenderly, and Shane knew that she was genuine. This was as sympathetic as she had sounded since their separation. “I’m here for you if you need me. If you want, Jarod could come stay with youin three weeks’ time. I have to go to New York, and he misses you so much. I’ll call you on Friday.”
    “I’d like that. Thanks for listening.”
    They hung up less than a minute later, but the conversation had done what Shane had hoped it would. It had restored some of his strength. He could think about the vision a little more dispassionately now.
    He remembered that in the dream he had visited the village before the attack, feeling very much at home. The village was made up of about forty houses surrounded by a rampart of wood and sand piles. Beyond the heavy wooden gate that formed the entrance was a fountain in a square about a hundred yards away. Arranged in a circle on the square were the house of a blacksmith, a market hall of some sort, and two other houses, one belonging to a chieftain and another to a Druid. Shane had seen many people going about their business on a beautiful, sunny day. The style of the houses and the differences in dress showed there were differences in social class, but no one seemed to be unhappy or suffering. On the contrary, this community, perhaps because of its size, seemed to function well. He would have gladly stayed there.
    Until the destruction began.

DUBLIN – MARCH 13, PRESENT DAY
    Padre Luca Morati’s forehead wrinkled like an accordion. His hands, trembling as they reached for the telephone, were covered with age spots, and every vein was visible through his pale, thin skin. At ninety-four, the old man was well connected in the Vatican and belonged, along with the oldest and most influential clergy, to the Curia.
    “Oh, good Lord, I have failed,” he sighed sadly as he leaned back in his old leather chair in slow motion, trying to fix his weak eyes on something in the room. Every inch of every wall was filled with books of incalculable age and value. At the window, where he could look out on the entrance to Trinity College, there was a table from the colonial period covered with papers and books, lit by a common library lamp that lent the antique mahogany piece an incomparably warm and typically Irish character.
    The line he was calling finally connected. “Si?”
    “This is Padre Morati. Put me through—it’s urgent.”
    A moment of silence—during which a fly setting down would have seemed like an earthquake—was followed bythe abrupt voice of the person he’d been calling. “How may I help you?”
    “Salvoni, I’m afraid the thing we’ve feared is coming closer. The son is following in his father’s footsteps.” Morati felt a sudden uneasiness in his stomach, a mixture of uncertainty and a bad conscience. He’d been living with these feelings for decades without ever questioning their source.
    “What happened?”
    “I think Ronald MacClary has found a clue. He’s giving a lecture this weekend at Trinity. Its blasphemous subject matter must have been fueled by new knowledge.”
    “But Padre, we’ve known for a long time that he, like so many others, is trying to discredit us with his agnostic lectures and his scientific delusions. Just because he’s giving