powerfully on the emotions than a hundred pages of detailed description. The mystics of the twentieth century picked up on this tradition without in the least understanding it. They provided inane, one-dimensional answers to questions that were never supposed to be answered in the first place."
“Each frank submissive chord
Had ushered in
Word after sprawling hyphenated word…” Vanlian murmured. Rosati seemed a little put out. She winked at him. "You're not the only one with a good memory for quotations."
“Not at all. I was just thinking what an apt comparison it was...” he said mildly, full of quiet admiration. “Larkin, isn’t it?”
“Yes. You’re an admirer?”
“He was a horrible, dirty old man.”
“You-”
“But he produced some sublime verse.” Vanlian glanced back at her notes.
“I believe that you visited Caphernaum in the morning, and then moved on to Bethsaida and Chorazin after lunch?” she asked.
“Yes, that’s right. We were a bit behind schedule. Rachel Hoffman was finding some of the walking heavy going.”
“You’d have thought that in her state…” Vanlian began tactfully. Rosati brushed the point aside.
“Oh, it wasn’t obvious or anything. That’s what made it all so surprising. In any case, we were a small group, what with it being the low season and everything, and no one was in much of a hurry except for Fanthorpe. That odious Drake woman clearly saw it as an opportunity for further harping on the iniquities of the Arabs. I just read my guidebooks. Larry Hoffman liked to try to make contributions as well, despite being entirely unsound when it came to proper history.” He broke off, apparently realising for the first time the implications of what he had been saying. “Although… Of course, that in no way justifies… I mean, nihil nisi bonum and all that…” He looked uncomfortable.
“Quite.”
“Anyway. We went to Bethsaida and Rosalie Drake talked a load of rubbish about sacrificial practices in the Hellenic and early Roman periods. It was freezing up there. Fanthorpe had left his jacket at the restaurant where we had lunch. I lent him my overcoat; I dare say I’ll never see that again.”
“Then what happened?”
“Kate and Fanthorpe were the only ones listening to the commentary. The Hoffmans had been having some sort of whispered argument over lunch, and they carried on all the way through Bethsaida. I don’t think they even saw the ceremonial gates. I’ve got no idea what they were talking about, but it was very distracting; I could barely concentrate on my book. By the time we’d finished there, it was getting late. Rosalie Drake suggested that we put Chorazin off until tomorrow. Fanthorpe wasn’t having any of it. He was supposed to be going back to his kibbutz the next day, and I imagine that he had no intention of getting this far and not reaching his objective. In the end we put it to a vote. Fanthorpe, Rachel Hoffman and I voted for going to Chorazin then and there, before the sun went down – I certainly wasn’t going to spend another morning in Mrs Drake’s egregious presence – and Laura and Mr Hoffman wanted to go tomorrow. So that was that. We all got back in the minivan and trundled off towards Chorazin.”
“Did you notice anyone acting strangely?”
“Well the Hoffmans were still sniping at each other. It was a little embarrassing, to tell the truth. Fanthorpe was sitting in the back re-reading Count Magnus.”
“What happened when you arrived in Chorazin?”
“We parked a little way up the road and walked down to the site. It’s in a better state than Bethsaida, but it’s still pretty grim. La Drake gave us the Pseudo-Methodius bit; she disapproved of him for some obscure evangelical reason. I remember Larry Hoffman saying ‘Well, mercy me! And Satan is supposed to rule in Caphernaum? I can’t see why he’d want it personally; I wouldn’t give you twenty bucks for the lot.’ I’m afraid I sniggered a bit, and Mrs Drake gave us both a look. I felt pressed to point out in my official capacity that the Antichrist and Satan probably aren’t the same person. In fact, Satan and Lucifer probably aren’t the same person either, if you want to be picky, though Christian tradition rather tends to conflate the…" He glanced up and caught the expression on Sub-Inspector Vanlian's face. "Well. In any case… Mrs Drake didn’t like me butting in, so I just shut my mouth and went back to reading my guidebook.”
“You seem to know a great deal about the whole subject, Professor Rosati,” Vanlian suggested carefully. Rosati pulled a slightly revolted face.
“No more than the average theologian, I assure you,” he said hurriedly, as though he suspected her of wishing to blame him for the whole débacle.
“So if Satan and the Antichrist and so on are all different people, what’s the relationship between them?” Sadeh asked suddenly. Vanlian glanced round, slightly surprised. Rosati explained, looking reluctantly at Vanlian every now and then.
“A lot of people would argue that Satan is, in fact, on the side of the Angels. It just happens that his job in the Heavenly court is that of – to coin a phrase – devil’s advocate. If you look at the story of Job, for instance, God and Satan appear to be colleagues rather than mortal enemies. Lucifer, on the other hand, was quite clearly the leader of the angels that rebelled against God and so on and so forth. You know the story, no doubt. It’s all there in Milton. He was the original Enlightenment thinker, standing for freedom of thought, come what may.”
“Evil be thou my good,” Vanlian quoted.
“Quite so. The Antichrist, however, is a far murkier figure. In fact, what we know about him mostly comes from fantasists like Pseudo-Methodius, whose ideas have gained credence more due to their longevity than for any sound theological reasons. The Antichrist may be the son of Satan or Lucifer (or both, if you accept the amalgamation), or the earthly incarnation of one or the other. Alternatively, he may just be a particularly unpleasant politician. Most of the people writing on the subject just made things up as they went along. As we’ve seen in the case of the Black Pilgrimage, once rubbish passes its hundredth birthday, the transformation into lore begins.”
“Hah.” Vanlian was doodling on the notepad in front of her. “So Pseudo-Methodius was the Aleister Crowley of his time?” Rosati looked a little surprised.
“Well… I might not stretch the comparison that far, but it’s certainly the same psychological tendancy, yes.”
“And what happened next?”
“I particularly wanted to look at the remains of the synagogue. Chorazin has a black basalt synagogue from the third century – all done in a classical style with pagan influences. It’s quite remarkable in itself, even if you discount the cock and bull stories that surround the place. Mrs Drake was blathering on about a subterranean ritual bath house and Rachel Hoffman was sitting on a fallen pillar complaining that she felt ill, so I wandered off to look at the synagogue by myself. I couldn’t see the rest of the group from where I was. I was just inspecting the stone lions when I heard the screaming. It scared the hell out of me, I can tell you.”
“It was coming from the bath house?”
“Yes. I rushed back then. You see, for a minute I... I thought it was Kate...” Rosati looked distinctly ill at ease. “Rachel Hoffman was lying on the ground. It looked like she was… I’m not sure… having a seizure or something. Larry was holding her head and telling her to relax – as if that was likely to do any good – and the others were all kneeling round her saying urgent things. I just stood there.”
“You didn’t try to help?”
“What did you expect? I’m a theologian, not an obstetrician. In any case, it wasn’t until she started screaming about a baby that we realized what was happening. I’d just assumed that she was running to fat.”
“Was it then that you phoned for help?” Vanlian asked.
“Hah. If only. The place must be out of range.”
“No.”
“I’m sorry?”
“The Chief Medical Officer called me from there half an hour ago. The signal was
perfectly clear,” Vanlian explained laconically.
“Well, I don’t know. Anyway we tried calling, but it was no use, and I think it was pretty plain to everyone that she wouldn’t make it to a hospital in time anyway. I remember it started raining then, and Fanthorpe muttered something like ‘Just what we fucking need’. In the end it was him and Laura who managed to get the baby out. Larry Hoffman was just kneeling there looking poleaxed, and Rosalie Drake was leaning against one of the pillars. Her eyes were rolled all the way back in her head and she was… praying...”
“Praying?”
“Or something. It was quite disturbing. Rachel was still bleeding; they couldn’t stop her. Kate and I said that we’d go back to the van and try to get a signal there. Rachel was hardly conscious; she looked done for, even then. We were just heading up the road when all hell broke loose.”
“In a manner of speaking?”
“Literally. Sub-Inspector Vanlian. Literally.” Rosati shuddered, he was gazing back down at the table now. “Drake started shrieking. It was awful. Like a pig being killed. It didn’t sound like anything at first, but then I began to make out the words.” He looked up, tired and broken. “You can believe me or not, but she was screaming in Aramaic.”
“You recognised it?”
“Not all of it. I think there was the bit from Daniel about the firey furnace, and something to do with the Whore of Bablyon. I don’t often