the house. He replaced the receiver, his connection with his granddaughter lost. The power was out.
Scudding, black clouds extinguished the remaining daylight, and Alan got up from his chair, intending to light the candles he kept handy on the mantle. He tried to ignore the throbbing pain in his joints as he made his way to the marble fireplace. “Guess I should be thankful I can move at all at my age,” he muttered to himself. Wish I’d taken Evangeline up on her offer to stay over. A wave of loneliness washed over him.
After lighting the candles, he picked up the framed black-and-white photo of his wife, Kate, from the mantle, the one he had taken of her at the lake the summer before he enlisted, in 1942. He’d captured her sitting on a sandy beach, her slim legs tucked off to one side. Long waves of raven-black hair cascaded around her bare shoulders while the lake shimmered behind her. He thought, as he always did when he studied it, that she looked like a mysterious mermaid washed up to shore by the ocean. It was this snapshot of her he had carried with him into battle every day in Germany during World War II. The picture, creased and folded now, remained his favorite. He ran his finger across her image and placed it back on the mantle, next to the other two.
One of the remaining photos was of him and his old army buddy Joe, taken on V-Day. What an odd-looking pair we made back then. The thought brought forth a wry smile. In the picture, a very young Alan, tall, fair-haired and neat-looking, stood in stark contrast next to short and stocky Joe, with his thick shock of unruly black hair and a feisty look about him. Their arms are slung around each other.
The last photo was of his daughter, Erin, standing tall and statuesque, her wild, fair hair streaming out behind her, all smiles and holding baby Catherine in her arms.
Catherine. Fear for the girl washed over him.
He shivered, remembering it all again, and returned to his chair by the window to look out at the bruised and angry sky.
A deep sense of foreboding fell over him like a shadow. Something about the storm felt ominous. It reminded him of that other storm, the one that had presaged the blackest day of his life. The passage of almost thirty years had done nothing to erase the pain. The memory of what had happened in 1980 still felt like an open wound. Before that October day, he’d been happy, his family still intact.
Consumed by the recollection, he saw not the storm but the images from that day while tears coursed down his face. As he sat, unmoving, the clock ticked off the minutes and the lengthening shadows stretched to darkness.
Chapter 3
Rome, Italy – Present Day
Sammael headed north along the Via de San Gregorio towards the Coliseum, his new good looks and immaculate attire, compliments of the banker, attracting admiring glances from many of the pedestrians. Others, however, hastened their step and averted their gaze as they passed close to him, instinctively having picked up his malevolent scent.
Rome. How he adored the timeless place, a place where dark and savage passions lurked just below the surface of refinement, a city marked with a history of lust and violence. A history almost as turbulent as his own.
At the Coliseum, crowds had gathered for the Good Friday torch lit procession up the Monte Palatino to re-enact the Way of the Cross. Moving through the throng to get a closer look at the pageant, Sammael was disappointed to see the man chosen to wear the crown of thorns did not even vaguely resemble the original cross-bearer. Once again, Christ was being portrayed as a meek-looking savior, a weakling. In reality, the Creator’s son had been strong and muscular, square-jawed and with dark eyes that blazed with passionate fire when he addressed his followers.
On the anniversary of Christ’s death, as the procession commenced, Sammael evoked the memory of the original Way of the Cross to Golgotha over two thousand years ago, when he had attended the crucifixion of Jesus. He remembered…
…a parching sun bearing down on the crowd gathered at the fortress. The gates open and the soldiers appear, followed by the condemned prisoners. When Jesus stumbles out carrying his cross, weak and barely able to stand, the mob lets out a mighty roar. Sammael, triumphant, joins in. Turning the rabble against Jesus was nearly effortless, the time ripe.
He pushes his way through the laughing faces at the roadside to get a better look. Jesus meets his gaze, but looks straight through him, giving no sign of recognition, vexing him. He wants the Son of God to know who is responsible for his suffering.
Passing outside of the city gates, Jesus travels along the muddy road, carrying his heavy cross, rivulets of blood and sweat coursing down his face. Then, exhausted and trembling under the weight of his burden, he falls face-down into the mud, opening the wounds on his back. The soldiers pull him up roughly and send him on his way again. Jesus stops before a woman in the crowd, but is not given a chance to speak before he is pushed forward once more.
Sammael recognizes the woman—Jesus’s mother. He passes close beside her, savoring the image of her sorrowful countenance. Then, Jesus falls a second time, and a third.
A large crowd has already gathered, waiting, at the desolate hilltop known as the Place of Skulls. Jesus walks the final few steps and the soldiers remove his clothes. Sammael hears the pounding of hammers, banging on nails. He watches as the sharp metal enters the flesh of Jesus’s wrists. At last, the sound he has been waiting for—the piercing scream that echoes through the air.
The cross is hoisted up. Soldiers hurry to nail Jesus’s legs. His mother moves forward to stand at the foot of the cross, and Sammael moves alongside her, again hoping to make his presence known to the Son of God. When Jesus thirsts, it is Sammael who offers up the vinegar-soaked sponge on the tip of an olive branch. And then Jesus does see him, his eyes widening in surprise.
Having gained his attention, Sammael locks eyes with the dying Son of the Creator. “Tell your father it was Sammael who turned the mob.”
Immediately after he utters the words, the Son of God takes his last, ragged breath and expires. The oldest of the Roman soldiers, carrying a spear, pushes Sammael aside. Seeing Jesus is already dead, he does not break his legs as he has done with the other two. Instead, the soldier thrusts his spear into the side of Jesus. As it exits the wound, the blood on the spearhead glows like fire.
Moments pass. The sky rumbles and darkness falls. The earth trembles violently. The
throng flees, Sammael along with them. Only Jesus’s mother remains behind. The Son of God is dead.
A bitter aftertaste tainted Sammael’s recollection. Bringing about the demise of the Son of God had been his finest achievement. Yet, in the end, he’d been cheated. Trickery had been employed to create the illusion of Jesus rising from the dead, and his subsequent ascension into heaven, a great hoax in which his dear brother, Michael, had no doubt played a part. Sammael himself had often employed the technique of animating a lifeless body, and recognized the trick. But the appearance of Jesus’s animated corpse to a select few following his death had been viewed as a miracle, one that served to propel Christianity throughout the world. Ultimately, Sammael’s plan had backfired. Mortals are a gullible bunch of miscreants. His brother, however, was another story. Michael would pay dearly for his involvement in having ruined Sammael’s success.
Timing is everything. And the timing of this latest undertaking was proving to be perfect. The Lucifer rebellion had finally been adjudicated. The Prince of Darkness had been sentenced to exile in a world light-years away, in another galaxy, where he would remain imprisoned under the watchful eyes of ranking celestials. With Lucifer gone, the playing field on Earth had been left wide open for Sammael.
