The Judas Strain - James Rollins [98]
But then it came to pass that three figures emerged from the dark forest. They appeared as such: their skin cast a sheen to match pond and moat, and the dread cannibals parted before their feet insomuch as the wind sweeps through a field of grain. The three crossed through the city with little haste but with clear direction. Once at the foot of the tower, these strange apparitions were seen to be of the same people as those that feasted on flesh. Yet their skin glowed with some Blessed light.
In great terror, the kaan’s men dropped all weapons and hid their faces against the stone. The three entered our shelter and came upon us with no molestation. Their faces were gaunt and fever-worn; but they seemed sound of flesh, unlike their brothers below. But it was no flesh like unto man. The light of their skins seemed to penetrate their deeper bodies; and thus revealed the churn of bowel and shadowy beat of their hearts. It came also to pass that one of the three brushed against one of the kaan’s men. He screamed and fell away; and where he was touched his skin did blister and blacken.
Friar Agreer lifted his cross against them; but the first of the three came forward with little fear and touched the Dominican’s cross. He spoke in words that no one understood; but with much gesturing, their desire was communicated: to have us drink from the halved shell of an Indie nut.
One of the kaan’s men must have understood enough of the strange tongue to communicate. A great healing virtue was offered us; and with its consumption, we would be protected from the pestilence that struck here. But Heaven forgive us all for what it would cost, what it would make of us in the end.
The story stopped there.
Vigor sat back in frustration. “There must be more.”
“Hidden with the third and final key,” Gray suggested.
Vigor nodded and tapped the stretch of silk diary. “But even from this much of the story, it is plain why this tale was never told.”
“Why?” Gray asked.
“The descriptions of the strange apparitions,” Vigor stressed. “Glowing with a ‘Blessed light.’ Offering salvation.”
“Sounds like angels,” Balthazar said.
“But pagan angels,” Vigor stressed. “Such a concept would not have gone down well with the Vatican during the Middle Ages. And remember, whoever split up Marco’s story did so during the sixteen-hundreds, during another Italian plague outbreak. Despite the disturbing content, the Vatican dared not destroy the message. Some mystics within the Church must have divided the text to both preserve and hide it. But the bigger question remains: What is still left untold?”
“If we’re going to discover that,” Gray said, “we’ll need to find that third key. But where do we begin to look? There’s no angelic script anywhere.”
“Maybe no angelic script that we could see with the naked eye,” Vigor added pointedly.
Gray nodded his understanding. He twisted around to his pack and began fishing through it. “I brought a UV light. In case we ran into any more glowing obelisks.”
Balthazar dimmed the lights. Gray ran the UV over every artifact. Even the shard of broken clay brick.
“Nothing,” he finally admitted.
Dead end.
12:43 P.M.
GRAY’S FRUSTRATION HAD stretched to the tautness of a piano wire. He gave up any hope on his original plan, though it had been a long shot.
“We can’t wait any longer,” he finally admitted, checking his watch. “We have to get into hiding. Let’s gather this all together. Find a place to hole up.”
They had spent the last five minutes racking their brains, searching for some clue as to where to seek the third key. Vigor attempted to decipher a hidden meaning in the text, going over it again. Balthazar had studied all surfaces of the golden paitzu. Everyone agreed that the crude line circling the single angelic letter had to be significant, but no one could guess what it might be.
Vigor sighed and