need to go to the club tonight— just for a little while, for crying out loud —came over him like a junkie’s need for a fix.
Not that Art thought of it that way. To him, it was a perfectly natural desire for a man to have.
Part Two: Departure
Constantinople, 1204 A.D.
Everard of Dampierre had only a few minutes in the cavernous room to consider the proper direction to move. Already the remaining crusaders, all of whom were well-acquainted with this “secret” basilica under the Church of the Apostles, were regrouping above. Everard could divert them only temporarily, giving their troop leaders directions with his sacred Voice. Scattered among the city and other corners of the cathedral, they would not immediately stumble upon the passage which would lead them here. The knights of the Crusade, dedicated and loyal to their leaders for the past two years, could maintain ranks only so long. For most, the promise of riches beyond their feeble imaginations was the primary incentive for leaving their families in the first place. So close to such wealth and treasures, they would soon be uncontrollable in their lust. Nothing was sacred. Everything profane.
It was a wonderful day.
The six men under his command were carefully chosen over the past year as their troops, from ships off the Byzantine coast, angrily watched this city’s bloody politics unfold. Their financier, the newly reinstated emperor Alexius IV, and his son—who had successfully rerouted Pope Innocent’s troops to Constantinople in the first place—managed to get themselves decapitated only a few short months after regaining power. For Everard, the turn of events proved advantageous. Father and son had outlived their usefulness. Rumors of wealth below both this church and Hagia Sophia drew him into the city and surrounding islands. His ability to control others allowed earlier visits to this fabled, cross-shaped room to be possible.
His men now stared in wonder about the basilica. The riches in this place were beyond counting. Everard spoke to each man individually, telling them all of this belonged to them provided they did what he asked of them right now . In truth, mobs of their fellow knights would be here soon, but they did not need to know that.
They followed the knight to a spot beyond the Column of Flagellation. Thankfully, none of the others knew its significance. Enough distractions were about to make the task of controlling them difficult, as it was.
“Sire,” called a squire named Marcus, no older than sixteen. He held up a broken sandal. “I found this on the floor. Over there.” He pointed to a section of wall just beyond the Column. To the others, the discovery meant nothing. To Everard, it meant someone had beaten them down here!
“Quickly!” He felt along the wall, as he had done the last time he’d visited this room. Now, however, he knew what he was looking for. Had, in fact, entered the next chamber only one week earlier. Everard had stood before the very Ark of the Covenant and wept with joy, an uncharacteristic display of emotion but one which he allowed himself just that one time. But he had dared go no further. Haste killed. Everard had returned to his ship to begin the too-easy task of influencing the Crusaders to at last take matters into their own hands. Alexius V, the anti-Rome replacement to the headless former emperor, was refusing any trade negotiations with Rome. Things then moved along of their own accord. The men were eager for battle, among other more immoral pleasures available in such a vast city. The invasion of Constantinople by the forces of the Fourth Crusade was the culmination of Everard of Dampierre’s master plan. And of the great god Molech, known by many names over the centuries: Bringer of Chaos and Death, Loki, Lucifer.
Now, finally, the prize his master had sought since the days of Solomon’s fall would be his. No flea-ridden priest or knight or whoever was inside would stop him. Everard
Not that Art thought of it that way. To him, it was a perfectly natural desire for a man to have.
Part Two: Departure
Constantinople, 1204 A.D.
Everard of Dampierre had only a few minutes in the cavernous room to consider the proper direction to move. Already the remaining crusaders, all of whom were well-acquainted with this “secret” basilica under the Church of the Apostles, were regrouping above. Everard could divert them only temporarily, giving their troop leaders directions with his sacred Voice. Scattered among the city and other corners of the cathedral, they would not immediately stumble upon the passage which would lead them here. The knights of the Crusade, dedicated and loyal to their leaders for the past two years, could maintain ranks only so long. For most, the promise of riches beyond their feeble imaginations was the primary incentive for leaving their families in the first place. So close to such wealth and treasures, they would soon be uncontrollable in their lust. Nothing was sacred. Everything profane.
It was a wonderful day.
The six men under his command were carefully chosen over the past year as their troops, from ships off the Byzantine coast, angrily watched this city’s bloody politics unfold. Their financier, the newly reinstated emperor Alexius IV, and his son—who had successfully rerouted Pope Innocent’s troops to Constantinople in the first place—managed to get themselves decapitated only a few short months after regaining power. For Everard, the turn of events proved advantageous. Father and son had outlived their usefulness. Rumors of wealth below both this church and Hagia Sophia drew him into the city and surrounding islands. His ability to control others allowed earlier visits to this fabled, cross-shaped room to be possible.
His men now stared in wonder about the basilica. The riches in this place were beyond counting. Everard spoke to each man individually, telling them all of this belonged to them provided they did what he asked of them right now . In truth, mobs of their fellow knights would be here soon, but they did not need to know that.
They followed the knight to a spot beyond the Column of Flagellation. Thankfully, none of the others knew its significance. Enough distractions were about to make the task of controlling them difficult, as it was.
“Sire,” called a squire named Marcus, no older than sixteen. He held up a broken sandal. “I found this on the floor. Over there.” He pointed to a section of wall just beyond the Column. To the others, the discovery meant nothing. To Everard, it meant someone had beaten them down here!
“Quickly!” He felt along the wall, as he had done the last time he’d visited this room. Now, however, he knew what he was looking for. Had, in fact, entered the next chamber only one week earlier. Everard had stood before the very Ark of the Covenant and wept with joy, an uncharacteristic display of emotion but one which he allowed himself just that one time. But he had dared go no further. Haste killed. Everard had returned to his ship to begin the too-easy task of influencing the Crusaders to at last take matters into their own hands. Alexius V, the anti-Rome replacement to the headless former emperor, was refusing any trade negotiations with Rome. Things then moved along of their own accord. The men were eager for battle, among other more immoral pleasures available in such a vast city. The invasion of Constantinople by the forces of the Fourth Crusade was the culmination of Everard of Dampierre’s master plan. And of the great god Molech, known by many names over the centuries: Bringer of Chaos and Death, Loki, Lucifer.
Now, finally, the prize his master had sought since the days of Solomon’s fall would be his. No flea-ridden priest or knight or whoever was inside would stop him. Everard
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