Eurydice’s Song

By Ronald A. Williams

It has been ten years since American archaeologist, Andreas, reunited with his wife, Eurydice, and began happily living among the mysterious people of an unknown land hidden under the ice of Antarctica. Now everything is about to change as Eurydice, high priestess and effective ruler of the land of Tiamat, realizes that forces led by her brother, Natas, are challenging her position. Sadly, a clash seems inevitable.

 

Meanwhile, Natas is orchestrating conflict between the great powers in the world above the Land of Tiamat as China and the United States teeter on the brink of mutual annihilation. When Andreas is declared a criminal by Natas, Eurydice’s position and her life are threatened. As Eurydice and Andreas join together to confront Natas, they must fight to survive in a chaotic and treacherous environment while attempting to save not only their love, but also the worlds above and below the ice.

 

Eurydice’s Song intertwines adventure, love, and danger as a husband and wife team battle to hold onto their humanity and love in a world challenged by rising sea levels and war.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Jan 21, 2019
• ISBN: 9781480872165

Ronald A. Williams

Ronald A. Williams has published seven novels in two genres: historical fiction and science fiction. He has been writing since his retirement as a college president. His fourth novel, The Dark Land, won the Prime Minister’s Prize and was runner-up in the Frank Collymore Literary Competition. The Fall of Autumn Leaves, his most recent novel, finished first in the same competition in 2022.

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Copyright © 2019 Ronald A. Williams.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Archway Publishing

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

ISBN: 978-1-4808-7217-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-7218-9 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-7216-5 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018968464

Archway Publishing rev. date: 01/16/2019

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

Chapter Thirty-two

Chapter Thirty-three

Chapter Thirty-four

Chapter Thirty-five

Chapter Thirty-six

Chapter Thirty-seven

Chapter Thirty-eight

Chapter Thirty-nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-one

Chapter Forty-two

Chapter Forty-three

Chapter Forty-four

Chapter Forty-five

Chapter Forty-six

Chapter Forty-seven

Chapter Forty-eight

Chapter Forty-nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-one

Chapter Fifty-two

Chapter Fifty-three

Chapter Fifty-four

Chapter Fifty-five

Chapter Fifty-six

Chapter Fifty-seven

Chapter Fifty-eight

Chapter Fifty-nine

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty-one

Chapter Sixty-two

Chapter Sixty-three

Chapter Sixty-four

T

hanks to the people of American Samoa and various peoples of Africa for the use of their beautiful languages, and my apologies for their often inaccurate use.

Chapter One

Andreas climbed the last steps of the narrow passageway that led to the catwalk of the temple of Tiamat’s outer defensive wall. If anything indicated that this had not always been a land of peace, these defenses did. The outer wall towered 320 feet above the surrounding plain and was thirty feet thick. The people of Tiastan, the capital city, boasted that the goddess had brought peace since time beyond memory, but, as Andreas studied the height of the merlons, he knew that must only be because their memory was short.

Standing on the catwalk, he could see an arc of half a circle. It was worth the draining climb up those impossibly steep, circular stairways. He leaned against the rock and marble wall, catching his breath. All around him were fields that followed the dark, serpentine path of the River Wilongo, the lifeblood of this land. He could not see the sun, but high above the Antarctic ice cap basked in its short summer. The beauty was inspiring. Stretching before him until they reached the Angilangi Hills, the fields were green.

Andreas smiled. He had been living among these strange people for ten years. It felt longer, given the oddness of the Antarctic seasons. As an archaeologist, he was living the prime fantasy of his profession, that of inhabiting the lands he excavated and seeing live men, women, children and animals.

A movement caught his eye, and he turned to his left. A large boat with a flag he did not recognize was rounding the promontory. It was beautiful, sleek, with a hint of arrogance in the prow and the suggestion of lots of reserve power in the stern. Two smaller escorts followed.

Probably a district governor come for the festival and the Telling, he mused.

Deep in thought as he came around a corner, Andreas did not see a woman standing there. When she laughed, he jumped.

"Malo le soifua, Tama," she said.

Andreas responded in English, which Teme now understood, though she often spoke to him in Tiang, the language of the land.

Why are you always hiding and sneaking up on people, woman?

Teme, still giggling, said something that he did not quite catch.

"Le tupi il la fusi," he responded.

The woman laughed harder, correcting him.

"La tupi i le fusi."

It meant may you grow in a swamp and was a gentle condemnation. Andreas, noting how musical and lyrical the language sounded in her mouth, shifted back to English.

Well, what do you want, pest? he asked in mock irritation.

Teme was his meaalufa. This literally meant gift, but it was hard to translate because he was also her obligation, a word that also did not convey quite what the relationship really was. It was a complex idea in the Land of Tiamat, this business of a gift. He was still not sure in what way he was obligated to her, but so far, it was not onerous.

I thought you are here, Tama, she said in English.

He had been called Tama since he arrived. It meant man, though not the opposite of woman, but something apart from the First People. Teme now continued more seriously.

Boat arrived. You should come.

Andreas was surprised. All sorts of people had been coming to the city for days, and he had yet to greet anyone. He had no official status. Why was he needed now? Then, he remembered the large yacht with the two lethal-looking patrol boats moving like guard dogs at its sides. The dark flag flying high had caught his attention, and now he thought why he had felt that momentary uneasiness. Boats, by tradition, lowered their flags as they approached the temple of the goddess. This boat had ploughed around the head of the land, its large flag insolently high. Still, Teme did not seem concerned. He had been once uncomfortable with the deep night of her face, but now, he saw only beauty and friendship. Andreas wondered if she had changed or he had.

As they were about to descend, a figure emerged from a nearby building. It was the boy. As he and Teme leaned back out of sight, Andreas sighed, remembering when, on the deadly ice above, Branniff had told him of Eurydice’s pregnancy and the birth of his son. He shuddered as he thought of Branniff’s terrible words: Be careful not to claim him as your son when you meet. It could be your death.

The boy crossed a small courtyard. Andreas noted the well-defined musculature of the fifteen-year old body, and his heart ached. How good it would have been to talk to the child, to have held him when he was younger, to stop his crying with a sweet or a hug. All this had been denied him.

The boy surreptitiously looked around and then stripped off his outer robe. His brown body glistening in the light, he did two deep knee bends. From that squatting position, he exploded upwards, his body almost parallel to the earth, his legs churning in a series of powerful kicks. He landed briefly, and then the body was airborne again, the legs sometimes pumping straight out from the knee in explosive kicks, or split apart like a scissors as the boy delivered blows to imaginary opponents. Then, he landed.

Andreas had practiced this form of martial art for ten years. Hands and arms were never used except to block kicks, the killer blows all delivered with the feet and legs. Beside him Teme was concentrating furiously.

Nodding in satisfaction, she whispered, The truly great fighters are said to have made five full turns in the air before landing.

Andreas, fascinated, nodded as the boy looked around again. He breathed deeply and, extending his arms, performed a pirouette. He paused briefly, and then, his body twisted around its own axis like a staff held on a finger and spun. One, two, three turns, and the boy landed, bending slightly at the knees, then straightening. Andreas sensed his satisfaction. Three full turns and a perfect landing. Such control suggested reserves of power. The boy was bending at the knees again.

"He’s going to attempt the Pa Ansie. Five turns," Teme said with some excitement.

No sooner had she said this than the lithe body was airborne again. One. Two. Three. Four. But the boy was losing momentum, and before the fifth, his body fell to the ground. He rolled, curving his back and springing lightly to his feet. Andreas, sensing the boy’s disappointment, leaned even further back against the crenellated battlement. When he again cautiously looked over, the boy was gone.

He and Teme smiled at each other. He studied the art, and it was exhilarating, but after all this time, he could make only two turns before falling to the ground.

"Lona has just completed a Pa Metic. Four turns. And half of a fifth. Not bad," Teme said, pride in her voice.

Is that very good? Andreas asked.

In the stories, Ghalib, our legendary war chief, completed twelve turns in battle. This was when the people of the Ilegu Forest were defeated, but for ordinary mortals, five turns are brilliant.

They resumed walking along the catwalk, soon descending to another walkway some fifty feet below. The stairs were small and winding, designed to allow only one person up at a time. It was the last retreat of the inhabitants, allowing a small number of defenders to hold a much larger invading force at bay. Andreas turned away, continuing along the catwalk until the city came into view.

Tiastan is beautiful. Look there at how the buildings gleam, he said.

Yes. The black marble is mined in the northeast.

There are so many different hues.

They reflect the light of the goddess’ presence, Teme responded quietly.

The city stretched from the valley up into the Angilangi Hills. The Tiamatian artists were masters of the use of colored plaster, and terrace upon terrace of apparently thoughtless color flowed up the hills, so that Mount Angilangi was hidden, except at the very top where the stone showed. Tiamatians from other regions said that the mountain had gone bald worrying about the people of Tiastan, and it was common to refer to a worried man as Angilangi. In the valley below, broad roads came from three directions, ending at the three entrances to the temple.

Soon, every boulevard will be full of Tiamatians who have come for the festival and the Telling, he said.

Teme, however, was staring up at the top of Mount Angilangi, some thirty-five hundred feet above the valley floor. Andreas’s eyes rested on the apparently tiny figure at the top.

Beautiful, he said.

Teme smiled, replying, It stands over three hundred feet tall. It is of marble and the most lustrous paints.

Even this far away, Andreas sensed that the air around the beautiful statue was hushed, stayed in its mad rush across the mountaintop. It was the statue of the goddess Tiamat, started years ago, when, according to the people’s beliefs, the Time of Tiamat had come. He had watched its construction, closely supervised by Eurydice/Empheme, from the excavation for the pediment to the crowning achievement of the head.

For days now, worshipers from all over the land had been arriving in Tiastan, and thousands of gaily-colored tents were visible on the northeastern edge of the city. In a few days, Tiastan would be crowded, noisy with traders, wine sellers, craftsmen, tricksters of all sorts. Andreas had experienced a Telling when he first arrived but had understood nothing. He was looking forward to the festival. Though still struggling with some of the Tiamatians’ ideas, he had learned enough of the language to understand what would be taking place.

They descended the treacherous, narrow steps. She was more agile than he, and her girlish size fit better in the spaces. Most of the temple’s inhabitants were, like Teme, priestesses. The only men carried lethal-looking armaments and patrolled the outer wall. The women ruled inside.

As they reached the bottom, there was a buzz of activity. Priestesses were hurrying everywhere, and he sensed their excitement.

What’s going on? he asked Teme.

The Son of Ghalib come, she replied.

Andreas felt something tighten inside him. Natas Branniff, whom they called the Son of Ghalib, had never caused him anything but grief. He slowed. No point hurrying to what was bound to be an unpleasant meeting. Their antagonism had developed in another world thousands of miles away. Andreas was convinced that Natas was evil. What he wanted was not quite clear, for his trip to the bottom of the world had been for some inscrutable purpose. He thought about the peacefulness and beauty of the Land of Tiamat and knew that Natas’s presence would disturb all that.

Chapter Two

Xu Jinghui knelt on the mountainside, and before him glowed the seven sticks from whose ends the sacred smoke rose. He ended his prayer, in his mind still seeing the forms of the seven ancestors. Above all was Shang Di, astride a gray horse, right arm pulled back to his ear, ready to let fly the notched arrow. Immortal he was, the creator of youth and life.

Slowly, the pictures in Xu’s mind faded, and he looked to the north where the new city of tents and buildings stood. These apparently unruly, undisciplined hordes who sat now on the western edge of Xinjiang, an undefined threat to the soft underbelly of the West, were his soldiers. Xu’s face changed at the thought. There was nothing that he did not despise about what lay to the west of him, including the behemoth across the Atlantic. Now fifty-two, he had felt shame much of his life at the weakness of his mother, China. Over a billion people held in check by the old men in Beijing who had lost their boldness.

He came from Sichuan province, where it was believed that the Goddess Immortal had appeared, giving life and civilization to men. As a young army officer, he had been called to Beijing, placed on the fast track to leadership, becoming a general officer in his mid-thirties. When Taiwan had raised its flag, claiming independence, the Americans had made noises about restraint, but their missiles had been aimed at China. The old men in Beijing had blinked.

Now, he had an army, and the beauty of it was that the West knew nothing about it, though it marched in plain sight. Ten years earlier, as the waters had risen, pushing before them the people of the world, an idea had dawned, but Chairman Chen had resisted, dismissing the idea of a strike in Europe as madness. Xu had known that the die was cast, for he had indicated in not very subtle terms that the chairman was both cowardly and traitorous.

Xu was popular. It was his forces, after all, that had pounded the Taiwanese ships before the ceasefire. The West had done nothing, and he had gained a reputation for boldness. That night, he had, however, crossed some invisible line, issuing an insult that could not be borne. As the Chairman had risen in anger, hatred clear in his eyes, Xu had made a decision. He was the only armed man in the room, and he had pulled his sidearm and shot the rotund man in the face.

Three phone calls later, his generals had been in place. No word of the Chairman’s murder had ever leaked to the outside world. For all people knew, China had shut itself off again, leaking population westward as the waters, fueled by the melting ice of the poles, rose.

Mumbling a short prayer, he bent, placing the carapace of a crab on the three stones set in a triangle around a fire. The hungry flame licked at the carapace, and before long, Xu saw small cracks appear as the shell broke from the heat. He started to chant, a low, rhythmic sound with words that were old, lost in the mists of time, for the stocky man was performing a ritual traceable to the beginnings of recorded China. Before that, it shaded into myth and mist, for Xu was appealing to Di, the impersonal god who had given life to the Heroes of China. It was Di who had touched Fu Xi, giving him the will to change words into permanence, thus creating writing, and it was Di who had breathed wisdom into Shen Nong, helping him to understand the land that pulsed with life and so had invented agriculture.

Xu’s thoughts were a bridge to that past of glory and triumph, and in his supplication to the god, he felt the pride that came from invoking the past. China and man were one, and all were subject to the god, Di. As the cracks lengthened on the carapace, Xu reached forward, tossed sand on the fire and then very carefully picked up the carapace before placing it on the ground. He pulled a short searchlight from under his robe and trained the light on the cracked carapace. For a long time, he stared at the shell, his fingers occasionally tracing the lines, his face intent. The face itself was a marvel, almost uniformly round and quite oversized even for the powerful, compact body on which it sat. The eyes were narrow slits. As Xu searched the cracks for the voice of the god, his breathing slowed, and his body gave evidence of a preternatural alertness. He was like a string on an instrument, its last vibration gone, waiting to be plucked again.

Before his eyes, the cracks changed, revealing the face of Di, and Xu whispered in supplication. The carapace disappeared, and in its place was a searing thought: Look to the sky. The searchlight dropped from his suddenly numb hand, and Xu, exhausted, leaned forward, the tensile quality draining from his body.

Later, he looked to the sky. High above, the beautiful eyes of night stared down upon the Earth. How long, Xu wondered, had the light he was now seeing left the pearly orbs above? Were those planets at peace, or had they already died, shattered long before their last light had reached his eyes? It was all Di’s will, and as his ancestors had long known, Di favored no man.

Still, it was not the tiny, distant pearls in the sky upon which he concentrated. It was the brighter lights, closer and of more immediate concern. Xu could name each of the satellites that flew overhead. To the left was the cluster of three that belonged to the Anglo-American consortium. Directly to the west of those were two of the European Union, and in the north, where in a few hours the North Star would be visible, were two that were China’s eyes.

Low on the horizon, however, a much brighter star rose. Xu’s face hardened again, for although he still thought of the satellites as belonging to nations, he knew that the information flowed through the giant processors of Branniff Enterprises. Almost twenty years before, the corporation, so large that most considered it a stateless nation, had gained control of all the satellites. There had been no piracy involved. Branniff had, over centuries, built a shell of networked companies that seemed independent. These companies, however, were responsive to a single will, a mysterious figure that no one ever saw, a man known only as Branniff. Branniff had now come from the shadows, and the world had realized that the corporation produced almost everything that it ate, wore, built with, or in any way consumed. Most important for China, it realized that its weapons, and particularly its spy satellites, were manufactured and controlled by Branniff.

The single bright star, low in the western sky, had been a response. It was the first independent satellite launched in thirty years. It was America’s. That single act had reactivated the fears of other nations, and now, the European Union, China and Greater Russia were also trying to activate their satellite programs.

With the new satellite in the sky, how long will it be before the Americans figure out what this city is? he wondered.

Xu was not yet ready to shed the illusion of the tent city being a refugee camp that lived on Branniff’s largesse. China’s star was rising, but he needed time to consolidate.

Xu walked back toward his tent. Now that the Americans had launched their new satellite, he moved his place of residence frequently. He could no longer be sure they did not know of him and his intent.

He jogged down a small rise that hid the American satellite from view, thinking, Risk is necessary if success is to be found.

Xu looked to the sky, and thought it was all Di’s will.

Chapter Three

The limousine slid by the Capitoline Hill, with Michelangelo’s brooding statue staring down on Piazza Venezia, and turned on to Piazza d’Aracoeli. Even at this time of night – it was after one in the morning – the center of Rome was noisy, cars streaming by in that apparent chaos common to European cities. Hargrove wondered if the old ghosts under the Musei Capitolini could ever sleep in all that noise. The piazza hummed, the innocent Romans going about their nightly business with no awareness of the old man in the long, black car. Soon, he crossed over the Tiber River near Castel Sant’Angelo.

Italy was facing horrific financial problems, and as the heavy car moved easily along Via della Conciliazione, Hargrove thought, Italy is not alone. Most countries are in various states of devastation.

Ten years earlier, the unthinkable had occurred, and a significant chunk of Antarctica had broken off, worsening the problem by putting hundreds of millions of tons of frozen water into the oceans. As the waters rose, economies had collapsed, and countries had been overrun with the constantly moving mass of refugees who invaded, destroyed and moved on.

As the car braked for a stoplight, Hargrove thought of his own country, the United States. Under pressure from the rising waters, they had drawn up plans for reducing the population by one-third. Before any decision could be taken, someone had leaked the plan to the press, and President Kierland, pressured by the size and power of the then new political organization called the New Nationalists, had acquiesced and implemented the plan. It had been a disaster. The African Americans had started a well-coordinated rebellion all over the country. Under the plan, Branniff Enterprises was responsible for transporting the African Americans to Antarctica, and, all things considered, Natas Branniff had done a good job of that. Millions had been transported over the last decade, but most had fought their way north, occupying the borderlands between Canada and the United States as the whites moved south to escape the pressure of the rising waters of the Great Lakes.

How tragic, Hargrove thought, as the solid buildings slid by, their doorways casting ominous shadows.

Still, given the reason he was in Rome, all shadows were real. Ahead of him was the imposing structure of the Basilica. The two colonnades, of which he could see only the ends, embraced St. Peter’s Square like loving arms. He wondered at the beauty that man could imagine and his hands create. At the end of Via della Conciliazione, the car bore to the right into a small dark street. A woman, bent over, labored along, leaning dependently on the black prosthetic that extended from her left arm. In her right hand was a begging bowl. Hargrove looked away. She did not interest him, and he did not wonder why a beggar would be out there long after the tourists had left. Instead, he glanced left, taking in the magnificent façade of the Vatican looming in a garish light that fought the natural darkness trapped in the building’s cornices. Across the capital were the words: IN HONORE EU PRINCIPAS A POST….

As the façade disappeared behind the embrace of Bernini’s curved colonnades, Hargrove felt the car slow. Soon, it stopped. The driver helped him out. The lights were off, but in the shadows of Via di Porta Angelica, he saw an odd contraption that looked like a motorcycle. It was covered and hugged the ground.

Designed for old men, Hargrove thought with a silent chuckle, entering, with the driver’s help, the well-appointed machine.

Sensing the driver’s discomfort at leaving him alone with some stranger in the dark, he tapped the large man’s arm reassuringly. If anyone inside this city wanted to do anything to him, there was little that he or the driver could do about it now. The contraption moved quietly off, sliding into the bowels of the Vatican. Hargrove, looking at the ancient buildings, thought how shallow the European boast of antiquity was. Sixteen years earlier, Andreas Prescod had shattered that myth with his discovery of a mummy of such age that the powerful of the world had been frightened. The mummy had been made to disappear and the boy who had found it, discredited. Natas Branniff, the visible face of Branniff Enterprises, had taken possession of it, hiding it from human sight. How old was it? Thirty thousand years? One hundred thousand? A million? No one knew for sure. Branniff had paid a huge price for all the records to disappear. Still, one thing was certain: the ancient ruins of the Campidoglio that stood, with their still potent suggestion of order, a couple of miles away, were new compared to the mummy.

That had been the problem. The carefully constructed mythology of European descent from ancient and honorable forbears had been shattered, and ancient Egypt, carefully arranged in the historical and archeological timeline to show its interaction with ancient Greece, had, in the moment of the mummy’s discovery, become less relevant. Something older than either, and clearly Negroid African, had existed in a state sufficiently developed to have preserved that body. Unable to explain it, the scientific community, ostrich-like, had fought the idea with all of the formidable power at its command. It had not been alone, for many other pedestals of western civilization had been threatened, not the least, this very institution he was visiting.

The vehicle reached an alcove and stopped. The driver, solicitous, helped the old man out and opened a small door over which a single, weak light shone. Hargrove stepped into what he knew from memory was a spectacular garden. The fresh scents were everywhere. He smiled, wondering how long it would be before that sense deserted him too.

Just about everything else has quit, he thought, laughing quietly.

His mind remained sharp, however. It would need to be, for tonight’s decisions would once again affect the course of human history. Still, he felt sure that something was missing. The discovery of the mummy had given them the opportunity, but for sixteen years, they had fought about how to act. He slowly walked down the path, aware of the presences in the darkness. The guards. These were not the archaically dressed Swiss guards who ceremonially guarded the Vatican’s entrances. These were trained killers whose only task was the protection of the pontiff.

Ironic, Hargrove thought, since the man they guard is known as the very epitome of peace.

He was also a dying man, and a battle for the succession was going on within this most holy place. A door opened as he approached, and Hargrove smiled, knowing that his progress through the garden had been monitored.

Good evening, Eminence, Hargrove said with a broad smile.

He liked the man who stood before him but had not seen the cardinal in quite some time. Little had changed, however, except his hair, which was now snow white.

It’s good to see you, Etienne.

And you, signore. I trust your flight went well.

Hargrove dismissed this with a motion of his shoulders, continuing to hold the cardinal’s hand. He had to look up, for the man who stood before him was well over six feet tall. At sixty, Etienne Ochukwu looked fit. He was broad-shouldered, and even in the plain white collar and black surplice, he looked implacable. Yet, the face was gentle, shifting between a benign amusement and a beneficent peacefulness that many said suggested saintliness. He was also firmly in line for the papacy. The favorite of two long-serving popes, this man had entered the Vatican at the extraordinarily young age of twenty and had spent the last forty years there, except for one remarkable six-year period when he had returned to Nigeria, the land of his birth, and had done the impossible. He had stopped in its tracks the southward movement of Islam and had, through his energy and his works, solidified Africa south of the Sahara as a Catholic enclave. This had been remarkable in itself, but in the context of the powerful ethnographic conflicts of the first decades of the century, he had done something even more remarkable. He had become a political arbiter of Africa’s future, a voice so respected for its morality and diplomacy that it carried determinative force when it declared itself on any issue.

Hargrove remembered when this man, then forty, had declared, All matters of international import are fundamentally moral issues. At first, the idea had been laughed at and pounded by the amorality of that dark time, but Etienne had continued to act on his belief, leaving the arguments to the overheated minds of the scholars. Africa had been his proving ground, and as he acted according to his belief, and that chaotic continent had finally shown signs of order, the voices opposing his moralism had been silenced. After six years, Pope Gregory XVII had brought him back to the Vatican, keeping him close, but allowing him freedom in Africa. That continent, wealthy beyond imagination in spite of its images of poverty, was finally organizing itself, and it was organizing under Etienne’s Catholic banner. Some, those jealous of his success, said that Africa was more Etienne than it was Catholic. Still, the pope seemed not to mind that this man was called the African Pope. African revenues had increased substantially, and the large number of Africans in St. Peter’s Square indicated the growth in faith in the enigmatic continent.

Hargrove glanced at the small watering can Etienne carried. The cardinal smiled and walked to a solarium, in which were the oddest looking flowers. Even in the artificial light, they were striking, of a deep purple, with what seemed to be the merest suggestion of black spots. Hargrove had the strange feeling that they were alive and alert. Cardinal Ochukwu poured water on one, and a remarkable thing happened. The flower turned from purple to black, as the dots expanded to cover the whole surface. Hargrove made a surprised sound, and the cardinal laughed.

What are they? Hargrove asked, bending over and looking more closely.

They are almost extinct but used to grow in southwestern Africa millennia ago. I was able to persuade a friend in one of your American labs to help me give it life again.

But how did you find it?

Ah. Again your American genius is the answer. They found it in an archeological dig in Angola. You do remember, signore? It was the one that caused such a stir maybe fifteen years ago. Well, as much a stir as these kinds of things make. It established a geological link between Antarctica and southwestern Africa.

Hargrove knew of the work. In fact, he had arranged the financing for the project, but he had not heard of anyone finding the flower. Not of sufficient significance, he guessed. Yet, this man had found it, as he found everything about Africa, significant.

How old is it?

That is what is so exciting, signore. The carbon dating suggests almost one million years. Can you imagine?

He looked with almost filial affection on the flowers that were slowly changing color again, slipping back into that deep purple.

What do you call it? Hargrove inquired, wondering, not for the first time, what lay hidden behind that saintly visage.

Incogna Africana, was the studied reply.

Unknown African. Hargrove could not help thinking how true the words sounded, and though not sure why he had been shown the flowers, he felt that they were prophetic in some deeply troubling way. The change in color disturbed him greatly. He gently took the watering can from the cardinal’s hand and wet the purple plant, watching it make that frightening shift to blackness. Over his shoulder, he asked, Is everyone here?

Mr. Branniff is not yet here. I suspect he will not be.

Hargrove felt something tighten inside him at the mention of the name. He had not spoken to Natas Branniff since the time of madness when the waters had rapidly risen. Countries had collapsed, and resources had been rationalized.

Rationalized, he thought. Now there’s a word for you.

It disguised many evils, but the worst for him had been the change in the value of human life. For that short time – it had lasted no more than six years – humanity’s conception of itself had changed, and the veil of civilization had been stripped away. How many had been killed? How many more had been allowed to die? No one knew. Almost in shame, no census had been taken in the last decade. No one wanted to see what the numbers would tell about the depravity of the human soul. For Hargrove, the act that defined the period had become known as The Expulsion, the planned movement of almost thirty million black people to Antarctica. That the number actually transported was closer to seven million did not matter, for the immorality lay in the conception.

At the center of this atrocity was the labyrinthine mind of Natas Branniff, the visible representative of Branniff Enterprises. His father lived on a private island, protected by water, guards and the most powerful electronic fence Hargrove had ever tried to crack. The United States government was frightened by the man and the conglomerate, for together they controlled the world. Worse, it was now patently clear that the objectives of the conglomerate and its ostensible host nation had diverged.

How this had happened under the aegis of a preternaturally handsome, smiling playboy, whose picture more often graced the cover of society magazines than those of the business community, no one could quite explain. When Branniff Enterprises had told the world to stay out of Antarctica, no country had had the will to resist. Natas had conceived the idea of moving the African Americans to Antarctica. As the only company with the capability to build there and to transport the expulsees, Branniff had made its money back in six years. Hargrove’s last meeting with the man had been at Edwards Air Force Base. Beautiful and sardonic, Natas commanded the room, although his eyes kept going to the short, powerful figure who accompanied him everywhere. The figure never seemed to be fully in the light, and the horror of its face even now made Hargrove shiver. Looking at the cardinal, Hargrove felt the same instinctive revulsion.

They had been moving slowly down the length of the room, the cardinal adjusting his stride to that of the older man. Hargrove thought of how to introduce the subject about which they were meeting. Cardinal Ochukwu’s support would be very important. Hargrove glanced at the tall figure, measuring him. He was the senior banker for the Vatican, controlling the investment of billions worldwide. A genius with numbers, he had modernized the Vatican’s investment strategy and was credited with increasing the wealth and security of this ancient and, some would say, anachronistic institution. It was in his relationship to the ailing man hidden somewhere in the darkness of this miniature city that his true power lay, for the pope trusted him implicitly and almost without fail took his advice on issues of policy. Appointments to all posts within the Vatican came through him, and this exerted enormous influence worldwide, as the various archbishops sought influence in Rome. Cardinal Ochukwu was the center of that influence.

Etienne, will the pontiff help?

The cardinal smiled before replying, Signore, he does not yet know your offer. How can he know if he will help?

He has to agree, Hargrove said urgently. This is our best chance in fifteen hundred years. He must act now. If you and Natas Branniff agree, the others will have no choice.

Cardinal Ochukwu’s face was placid. He might not have heard the urgency in the old man’s voice.

Almost as a non sequitur, he asked, When was the last time you saw the ruins of the Capitoline Hill? Not the Renaissance buildings of the museum, but the ruins?

Unable to follow the point of the question, Hargrove irritably responded, What are you talking about?

Bear with me. The ruins are signposts of the past, no? Yes. The very center of Roman power stood there. If you look down from the Tarpeian Rock, from which the ancient Romans threw their traitors, and you close your eyes, you can almost see these men, in their white togas, strolling along, in those still graceful walks.

He paused, his eyes having a faraway look that suggested he could see those men who, from this place, had tamed the world. It was not his history, but still the glory of it was a wonder to him. He continued.

Such power. Such arrogance. Civis Romanus. ‘I am a Roman citizen.’ The passport to all the world. Holy Mother Church was young when they were strong, and it was on their unsuspecting wings that she flew. How mighty and inscrutable are the ways of Our Lord.

He made the sign of the cross, adding, The ruins, signore, speak of human failings. They, too, saw a single world, but a world constructed on power. Military might. The ruins attest to their failure, but Holy Mother Church is still here. And stronger than ever.

Hargrove thought that in this place, it would be uncharitable to point out that Holy Mother Church might never have been were it not for the little men who had poured out of this city to conquer the world. When Constantine had dreamed of a blazing cross in the sky, who knew what trick of astrology or diplomacy led him to endorse Christianity, at that time a despised, marginal religion? No one had ever satisfactorily explained the incredible growth, the profound hold that this religion had over minds as disparate as Germans, Chinese and the new world American tribes. Maybe it was divinely ordained, after all. In his long life, Hargrove had seen a lot, and, as an archaeologist, much that was inexplicable about humanity’s past. Few things were as inexplicable as Christianity’s extraordinary prosperity.

As if the cardinal had read his mind, he said, Who knows who places the ladybug on the back of the blackbird? Is it by accident that this tiny creature catches the speedy blackbird, or do you see the hand of God?

The question hung between them as the cardinal pushed the brass handle of the door they had reached, and they entered.

Chapter Four

It was a small room in which six men stood, glasses in their hands, chatting quietly. They turned as the cardinal and Hargrove entered. No introductions were necessary, but Hargrove shook hands all around, trying to judge from some hint, some aspect, where each man stood. The cardinal offered him a glass, and he sipped, savoring the taste, feeling his palate explore the texture, caress it, as the wine, alive, explored him. It was perfect.

A very good year, Etienne, he said, knowing that if the tall man had any small vice it was this.

The wine was the cardinal’s own, grown on his extensive estate south of Rome near the town of Formia. The estate was a commercial enterprise, but this wine came from the cardinal’s special vineyard, grown to his specifications, for his personal consumption. It was the best wine in Italy. Hargrove watched the cardinal’s face light up beatifically as he replied, Two thousand and one. It was a very good year.

Two thousand and one was not a good year, Hargrove thought.

He wondered if any of these men