The 34th Degree

5

Inside the marble crypt beneath the monastery, Philip joined the Archimandrite and the rest of the monks of the Taborian Light huddled together in the dark. It was musty from the bones of the saints buried in the alcoves around them, the temptation to cough and betray their presence all too real.

Philip could hear the scrape of jackboots on the floor above as the storm troopers stripped priceless mosaics from the walls. He was sure the incense and smoke from snuffed-out candles had already informed Baron von Berg that the monastery had not been abandoned. But even if the Nazis should torch their monastery and burn it to the ground, yes, even then they would rise from the ashes like the phoenix and rebuild it all, just as they had done after the Italians, the Turks, and every invader before them.

“Outstanding, really,” the voice of Baron von Berg boomed above. “These Greek Orthodox monks have transformed their faith into an art form. Unfortunately, I suspect their art will outlast their faith. Yes, several icons here would make excellent additions to the Fuhrer’s collection. The best ones I keep for myself, of course. Along with the Maranatha text.”

Suddenly, something like thunder rumbled overhead, followed by a flash of light as the marble slab to the crypt was lifted away. Fear seized them all as they looked up to see the face of evil staring down like an austere icon painted inside the dome of a church. The face of SS general Ludwig von Berg smiled at them, but his voice addressed somebody else.

“Unfortunately, Standartenfuhrer Ulrich, you will have to join the martyrs in making a rather abrupt departure from this world. You and Himmler didn’t really think you could run off with the text and keep it a secret from me?”

From somewhere out of view came the cry, “I know who you are, von Berg! Himmler told me. You can’t get away with this. We know who you are!”

“To whom are you appealing, Ulrich? Reason? Justice? God? According to the SS rules that you have chosen to live and die by, you stand outside the jurisdiction of German state courts and even those courts of the Nazi Party. I am your judge now, and I know no justice except my own.”

Philip and the monks could see Ulrich’s back pressed against the low wall of the crypt. Something about him seemed oddly familiar to Philip.

“You are mad, von Berg, insane.”

“The Reichsfuhrer chases fantasies, and you call me mad? Hardly, Ulrich. Oh, I’ll keep this so-called Maranatha text, but not to indulge the Fuhrer’s mysticism. There’s a war going on, and the last thing we need is this apocalyptic nonsense further clouding the Fuhrer’s judgment. Now, if you will please hand over your SS dagger, Standartenfuhrer. Quickly, we haven’t all day.”

Philip heard the shuffle of boots and then saw Ulrich’s own men take hold of him. Then a black sleeve reached forward and removed the dagger from its sheath.

“See the words engraved on its hilt? Yes, say them out loud.”

Ulrich’s hoarse voice replied, “Blood and honor.”

“That’s right, Ulrich. Your blood, my honor.”

There was a flash as the blade caught the light. Ulrich screamed.

“You see, there is an art to dying,” von Berg’s voice mused above Ulrich’s cries. “In one stroke, a traitor is killed and decrepit monks become martyrs. Of course, it may help you to consider yourself a martyr. Every faith needs them, even our own. I can only wonder when you wake up whether it will be in the same place as those you are about to join.”

The monks saw Ulrich fall backward into the crypt, pushed by the stiff hand that still lingered in the air overhead. They shrank back in fear to avoid the falling body and felt the ground shake when Ulrich hit the floor.

Philip bent over the crumpled, robe-clad body and turned the head to see the German’s face.

Brother Yiorgios!

In that instant Philip realized that Yiorgios was a Nazi spy, Commander Lloyd of the British Secret Service was dead, and the Baron of the Black Order now possessed the Maranatha text.

Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me, a sinner!

Then he felt something like raindrops and smelled petrol in the air. When he looked up, the Baron held a lit cigarette over the open crypt.

“See you in Valhalla, Ulrich. You, too, Hadji Azrael.”

Finding himself at his enemy’s mercy, Philip rose to his full if short height and looked up. “It is true that I answered the call of the muezzin to prayer as a child; that I have made the holy pilgrimage to Mecca; that I once lived by the sword of Allah. But now I serve the Lord Jesus Christ in the order of the Taborian Light.”

“The last of a dying order, I might add,” von Berg said. “And you’ll fare no better than your brothers. Where is your precious Jesus to save you now?”

Philip stared at the burning cigarette above. Realizing that he was about to die, he resolved to depart this earth in a manner worthy of his calling. He must not allow a moment of personal weakness to blemish the cause of Christ. Nor must his hatred of this evil man keep him from extending the Lord’s forgiveness. “Oh, He is coming soon, Baron von Berg. You need not worry about that. His reward is with Him, and He will give to everyone according to what he has done. He will repay you for your wickedness. But if you repent now, He will forgive you.”

“Is that so?” Von Berg smiled as his fingers dangled the cigarette. “You should have kept the vengeful faith of your former life, Hadji Azrael. If you had, the Maranatha text might be yours. Now it is ours.”

Philip watched in horror as the Baron dropped the cigarette into the crypt. The flicker of light grew larger and larger until it bounced off the wall and scattered its tiny, glowing ashes across the floor. For a moment they seemed to melt into the darkness with no effect. Then a sudden flicker of light exploded into a burst of fire, illuminating the horrified faces of the Archimandrite and the brethren. A second later, the inferno engulfed them all like the flames of hell.