17
////// Templo de Los Papas
Nuevo Granada, Capital of the Holy Dominion
Don Hernan DeDevino Dicha, “Blood Cardinal” to His Supreme Holiness, the Messiah of Mexico, and, by the Grace of God, Emperor of the World, stepped through the ornate entrance to the Holy Sanctum at the base of the great temple. He was well-known by the many guards, and none even dared meet his eyes as he passed, much less challenge him. Striding softly down the long, dark corridor designed to resemble the living rock of the sacred caves, he paused automatically at its end and smiled benevolently at the pair of gold-painted but otherwise naked girls standing as attendants before the rich drapes at the entrance to the sanctum itself. He didn’t speak to them; there was no point. Both had been deafened with heated wires and had their tongues removed as soon as they were old enough to understand their duties. Instead Don Hernan sat on a padded lounge, and one of the girls removed his slippers. Then both assisted him to his feet and took his robes, leaving him in only a sheer breechcloth; otherwise he was as naked as they except for the heavy, twisted gold cross around his neck. No one, not even he, could enter the Holy Sanctum wearing anything that might conceal a weapon. In this condition, he stepped through the drapes and beheld the scene within.
All was red and gold, flickering in the light of braziers lining the garishly columned walls. Like elsewhere throughout the Dominion, there were many crosses, and the columns themselves were formed to resemble the barbed, grotesque version Don Hernan wore. Masked statues of each great pope stood in relief between the columns, surrounded by paintings of scenes reminiscent of their rule. They represented the true servants of God in the Holy Dominion. He who was symbolized by the cross had been the holiest of men, God’s own son, but even His understanding of the one True God had been imperfect. The lessons in his Bible had been greedily incorporated, and explained much about the nature of God previously unknown in this land. But like the first son, those who brought it had misunderstood the most significant lessons of all: God was all powerful, terrible, and jealous. His limitless power was founded on fear and reward, not love, and he required his servants to rule through fear, reward, and sacrifice, so much so that he’d required the sacrifice of his favorite son, who’d strayed from those fundamental principles. The cross was a constant reminder of the brutal sacrifice required of all mortals to find the path to salvation.
The popes—a relatively new title meant to placate the few obstinate and dangerously well-armed Spaniards of a few centuries past—were the true Messiahs, the living sons of God. They were chosen for elevation to the near divine, to replace the bizarre, inhuman monsters so many of the barbarians of this land still clung to against all reason. The twisted cross represented the power of God and inspired fear, as well as a fatalistic acceptance of the final trial of life. It was a symbol of unification that drew the masses from their pathetic, equally harsh but heretical traditions. In that sense, despite the suffering it represented, it was also an object of stability and comfort.
He continued gazing at the statues—the closest he would likely ever come to seeing any pope with his own eyes. Each held the painted and bejeweled skull of its inspiration in the left hand. One day, the present Messiah would be so honored, but even then his near-perfect likeness would remain behind a mask; the artist—and only person besides his successor to view him since his selection—would be slain in a joyful celebration. But for now, the Messiah was very much alive, and Don Hernan’s gaze shifted to the silky red curtain he remained behind, and he knelt.
Fires flickered beyond the drape and Don Hernan could see silhouettes. From them he knew the Emperor of the World wore a large, elaborate headdress, but despite the effect of the shadows, he was clearly a small, spare man, with considerable nervous energy. His projected image was always moving, actually pacing, and was followed by more naked attendants like those at the entrance, except these had been blinded as well. They kept pace with him by clinging to his flowing robe. Their sacrifice was rewarded by his presence, and it was their privilege to anticipate his every desire and ensure he never touched anything but the ornate throne he sat upon, the goblets they brought to his lips, the food they placed in his mouth, or human flesh. They were his reward for service.
Don Hernan understood the principle; only constant contact with the living could keep their Messiah rooted in this life, and the sensuous nature of that contact represented a bribe of sorts. Without it, his spirit might quickly flee to the even greater pleasures awaiting him in the afterlife. Deep down, Don Hernan couldn’t help it; he so wanted to be pope someday! Sadly, despite his obvious worth and almost unique relationship with the Messiah compared to other Blood Cardinals, his chance for that may have fled with the escape of Fred Reynolds and his pet . . . creature. He sighed, and spread his skinny arms wide in a pose of supplication.
“My dear Don Hernan!” the Messiah slurred. He was kept in a state of continuous inebriation with wine and drugs, but unlike some of his predecessors, he managed to maintain his energy and intellect in spite of that. Don Hernan had served four popes—the lure of the afterlife was great—but he admired and feared this one most for his ability to keep his mind in this world. “What news of your misguided protégé and his familiar?”
Instinctively, Don Hernan glanced at the entrance to ensure no guards had appeared there waiting for the command to take him away. “I was misled,” he confessed humbly. “In my hubris, I did not imagine it possible for anyone to endure the High Cleansing and retain such impure, treacherous thoughts. I was wrong. Clearly, some are infused with such evil that even the High Cleansing is not sufficient to wash it away. I must reevaluate my procedures. Few are even allowed such an opportunity as I extended to my protégé—as I admit I hoped he was—but now I will be even more selective.”
“You were deceived by the purest evil,” agreed the slow voice, “but though I know you are crushed, not all was in vain. You learned much about our enemy.”
“Indeed,” Don Hernan agreed, brightening slightly. “Some information must now be suspect, of course, but not all. The ‘American’ enemy that joined the New Britain heretics against us are little different from them in some ways, and I spent enough time in the isles as our”—he smiled—“ambassador to know considerably more about them than they do about us. Their notions regarding the value of lesser lives still gives me pause.” He shook his head. “It is so bizarre as to border on the insane. And their attachment to their animal allies . . .” He rolled his eyes. “Incomprehensible! Still, the fact remains that, deluded as they are, their beliefs are sincere and intractable. They do dislike heavy casualties, and they do apparently consider the lives of their animal helpers nearly as dear as their own. We can use that, I think.”
“But we have lost the Galápagos to them, and your conquest of their continental colonies was thwarted,” the pope said dreamily, swirling to continue pacing. It was not an accusation, just a statement of fact.
“True. They may even attack our own Holy Lands, but that may work to our advantage in the end, as long as none who witness such a desecration are allowed to tell of it. Our supply lines will be short, theirs impossibly long, and our troops and the Holy Land itself will swallow their armies like small morsels.” He hesitated. “I would wish we could match their newer weapons, particularly their flying machines. The small dragons perform well to a point, but are difficult to train, and the enemy has devised defenses.”
“You were confident before that your evil protégé would provide us with flying machines of our own. Did he not?”
“He did—to a point. I do not believe he was as good at building them as flying them. The examples he provided are different in subtle ways from the one he used, and I do not trust them. Even if the design is sound, he never finished training our warriors in their use. We have a start—he could not prevent that—but perfecting the machines and their use will take time. The project will continue, but we must redouble our efforts to train the small dragons, in the meantime.”
His Supreme Holiness stopped moving and continued gravely. “Only two matters remain. First, there is this other enemy that plagues our foes—these Grik. What do you make of them?”
“Other animals, Holiness,” Don Hernan replied. “More savage and numerous than our foes, but little more intelligent than dragons.” He thought back. “Now I consider on it, the traitor revealed their existence during his initial cleansing, perhaps in a stupor. He likely didn’t deny them later only because I already knew of them. In retrospect, he cannot have wanted me to know of them.”
“But what do you think of them? Can we use them as we do the small dragons?”
“Perhaps,” Don Hernan hedged. “According to the traitor, they are so far west that we can likely more easily find them, and perhaps catch some to evaluate, by sailing east across to Africa. Apparently, that is their home. But even Reynolds did not know if they extend as far as its western coast.”
“Our expeditions there over the ages have not reported them,” brooded the Pope.
“True, but such trips are costly and wasteful. Only a providential aspect of their nature protects us from the greatfish in our Pacific sea. They are not as . . . temperate in the seas to the east. It is difficult enough to maintain contact with our island possessions and keep a war fleet in the Atlantic, and we have not sent a mission to that dark land for nearly a hundred years.”
The Emperor of the World was silent, considering. His thoughts often took time to form, but when they did they were usually astute. Astute or not, they carried the weight of a commandment from God, and that was another reason Don Hernan admired this pope.
“We must meet these creatures,” the Pope said at last. “Use them if we can.”
“I will commission an expedition at once, Holiness.” Don Hernan paused. “It will be risky, as I said, and our colonies may be vulnerable for a time, particularly if we redeploy the greater part of our eastern fleet the enemy cannot even suspect exists. That fleet should overwhelm him, regardless of his tricks, but an expedition will strip our reserves.”
“It cannot be helped, and should not be too risky. The eastern fleet protects only against Los Diablos del Norte, and they should never even know it is gone. Besides, they would never dare provoke us again. They know they exist only at our sufferance.”
“As you command, Your Holiness.”
“One thing more.”
“Yes, Your Holiness?”
The Messiah’s tone changed to one of outrage. “You must destroy the traitor, wherever he has gone. You brought him here, to this place, to meet me!” he sighed. “I understood your intention and blessed your plan for him, but even I could not divine his secret evil! How could anyone not be lured to the True Faith by my sublime presence? Such evil has never been known. In any event, he knows where I am and has learned of certain of the tools we use to control the people. He must be silenced.”
“That is already being done,” Don Hernan fervently assured. “I know who helped him; there can be no doubt it was a faction of the Jaguar Idolaters, and I know where they take him. He must cross El Paso del Fuego, and I have dispatched an entire regiment of Blood Drinker Cavalry to stop him. He will not escape.”
“Very good, Don Hernan. You might yet succeed me one day, when I am called to my reward. Perhaps you may even be chosen as the one to perform my elevation when the time comes.”
“I am not worthy,” Don Hernan protested, lowering his face to the stone floor.
“Of course not,” agreed the Emperor of the World, “not yet. But your test is at hand.”