The Mayan Codex

10

So. It was time. The Countess laid aside the document whose ancient codification had caused so much trouble to the inquisitive police Captain – what had been his name? Clique? Claque? – the one who had so dogged her footsteps in the run-up to the death of her eldest son earlier that summer. She knew its entire contents by heart.

‘Who are we?’

‘We are the Corpus.’ Her children responded as one.

‘Which Corpus?’

‘The Corpus Maleficus.’

‘And what do we do?’

‘We protect the realm.’

‘And who is our enemy?’

‘The Devil.’

‘And how shall we defeat him?’

‘We shall never defeat him.’

‘And how shall we unseat him?’

‘We shall never unseat him.’

‘So what is our purpose?’

‘Delay.’

‘And how do we procure it?’

‘By serving Christ’s dark shadow.’

‘And who is that?’

‘The antimimon pneuma. The counterfeit spirit.’

‘And what is his name?’

‘The Antichrist.’

‘And how do we serve him?’

‘By destroying the Parousia.’

‘And what is the Parousia?’

‘He is the Second Coming of Christ. He is the brother of Satan.’

‘And how shall we know Him?’

‘A sign will be given.’

‘And how shall we kill Him?’

‘He will be sacrificed.’

‘And what shall be our reward?’

‘Death.’

‘And what is our law?’

‘Death.’

‘And how shall we achieve it?’

‘Anarchy.’

‘And who are our brothers and sisters?’

‘We shall know them.’

‘And who are our enemies?’

‘We shall know them.’

‘And who is the Third Antichrist?’

‘We shall know him and guard him.’

‘And who is the Second Coming?’

‘We shall know Him and kill Him.’

The Countess made the reverse sign of the cross, followed by the reverse sign of the pentacle, just as her son, Achor Bale, had done just a few short hours before his death.

‘And Holy is the Number of the Beast.’

The children intoned the answers to the Countess’s questions with their eyes turned up into their eyelids – as they spoke, their hands also made reverse crosses, reaching from their crotch back over to the nape of their necks. This was followed by the sign of the six-sided pentacle, also from the direction of the lower to the upper body.

When the invocations were over, the Countess walked the length of the room to stand behind Achor Bale’s empty chair. She kissed her fingers and laid them tenderly on the hilt of his sword. ‘You all realize, of course, that Rocha’s death occurred as a direct result of investigations he was undertaking on behalf of the Society?’

There was a generalized intake of breath.

‘It was at my instigation that he followed the man Sabir. It was at my instigation that he intervened following Sabir’s discovery of the lost verses of Nostradamus. He died fulfilling his duties to the Corpus.’

Abiger glanced across at his brother. He was scarcely able to keep the grin off his face. He knew what was coming.

‘A spy in the apostate Nostradamus’s household – a spy in the pay of one of the noblest of your ancestors, Forcas de Bale – alerted his master to the verses’ potential contents. The Count was already on his way down to Agen when news reached him of Michel de Nostredame’s death. When he arrived, the verses had already been dispersed and the seer buried. It took nearly 450 years for the verses to reappear. We in the Corpus have long memories. An oath is an oath for us. Once bound, always bound.’

‘Once bound, always bound.’ The children whispered in echo of her words.

‘Abiger…’ The Countess turned towards her eldest son. ‘The time has come for you and your brother to travel to America. You will identify the man Sabir. First, you will extract the secrets of the prophecies from him in whatever manner you may deem appropriate. Then you will take revenge for the murder of your brother. Is that clear?’

‘Perfectly, Madame.’

The Countess turned towards her eldest daughter. ‘Lamia, you did not make the reverse cross. Kindly make it now.’

Lamia’s hand crept towards her throat. The rufous complexion marring one side of her face turned, if anything, a deeper red.

‘I am waiting.’

‘I cannot do it, Madame.’ Lamia shook her head.

Her brothers and sisters stared at her like dingoes alerted to a kill.

‘Abiger. Escort your elder sister to her room. She will remain there until she is able to offer a suitable explanation for her behaviour. Apprise Milouins of the situation. The rest of you may take the blood oath. You will be told when you are needed.’

Oni de Bale glanced down at his mother from his great height. ‘Do we others continue with our work, Madame?’

The Countess turned away, motioning to Madame Mastigou, who was cleaning a small ivory receptacle. Then she turned towards her dwarfish daughter, Athame, a sufferer from Ellis-van Creveld Syndrome. A polydactyl, Athame was unconscionably dexterous with all of her twelve fingers. ‘Athame. Live up to your name. You may do the necessary cuts for the blood oath.’

‘Yes, Madame.’

‘Mother?’

‘I heard you, Oni.’ The Countess turned and laid a light hand on her youngest son’s forearm. She glanced up into his eyes, her neck forced back against the collar of her elegantly tailored 1950s Dior suit the better to take in his span. ‘Always continue with your work. That is the way to please me. Stir, stir, stir. Keep the broth moving. Never let the commoners rest at ease. The Devil is a hungry angel – he will come calling if we don’t forestall him. That is your primary job.’

‘Yes, Madame.’

‘And, Oni.’

‘Yes, Madame?’

‘Soon, I may have a more specific use for you. You must hold yourself in readiness for that.’

Oni hunched down and kissed his mother’s hand.

The Countess noticed Lamia hesitate on her way to the door. ‘Have you anything to say to me, my child?’

It looked for a moment as if Lamia would speak. Then she shook her head and followed her brother quietly out into the library.