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  REVELATION

  A Forever Man Novel

  By

  Brian W. Matthews

  JournalStone

  San Francisco

  Copyright © 2015 by Brian W. Matthews

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  JournalStone books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:

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  The views expressed in this work are solely those of the authors and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

  ISBN: 978-1-940161-96-9(sc)

  ISBN: 978-1-940161-97-6(ebook)

  JournalStone rev. date: February 13, 2015

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2014960075

  Printed in the United States of America

  Cover Art & Design: Wayne M. Miller

  Edited by: Michael R. Collings

  To Dana.

  You are my favorite, you are my best.

  And you make me proud every day.

  ~Dad

  Part I

  Prisoners of their Past

  The midday sun beat down bright and hot on the massive dromon as it approached the harbor. Her sails had been lowered earlier that morning, and now rows of oarsmen worked with practiced ease at propelling the vessel through the rough waters of the Marmara Sea.

  Standing near the prow of the ship, Bartholomew gazed at the ancient city looming before him.

  Constantinople, he thought. Byzantium. The heart of the Empire. How I’ve missed seeing it.

  He heard footsteps. The captain approached. This close to port, he had discarded his plain brown robe for an embroidered silk chiton, as befitted his station. A sword hung from his hip.

  “I brought you here as agreed,” the captain told him.

  Bartholomew nodded, reached into the folds of his tunic, and withdrew a small pouch. He dropped it into the man’s outstretched hand.

  The captain hefted the bag. “Generous, but not generous enough.”

  “It’s what we agreed upon.”

  “Yes, yes, but the voyage was more difficult than expected.” The captain’s hand drifted to his sword. “I require more.”

  “You have all you will get from me.”

  “I have seen what you carry. What if I cut your throat and take it?”

  He turned to face the captain. “You can try.”

  “And how will you, a man with no weapon, stop me?”

  “By the time you found out, it would be too late.”

  Neither man moved. High above, gulls swooped and dove in lazy circles, their cries heralding an end to the ship’s long voyage.

  The seconds ticked by.

  Bartholomew cocked an eyebrow. “Well?”

  The captain held his glare a moment longer, then looked away. “We will be docking soon. I want you off my ship by sunset.”

  “As you wish,” Bartholomew said, and returned to his contemplation of the city.

  Built on a gently sloping peninsula, Constantinople was considered by many one of the most beautiful cities in the empire. The Great Palace loomed high on a plateau, with its thick granite walls, narrow windows, and formidable bronze gates. Next to it stood the Hippodrome, a vast open-air arena fashioned after Rome’s Coliseum. And to the east, the Sancta Sophia, or Shrine of the Holy Wisdom of God. In all his travels, Bartholomew had not seen a larger church, and he wasn’t sure he approved.

  His gaze shifted to the passage of the Golden Horn, which ran the length of the northeast quarter. While most of the city’s populace lived along that shore, the captain wouldn’t dock there; his passengers weren’t affluent enough. No, he would tack west and make for the harbor of Eleutherious and the Jewish Gate, where the military presence was less intrusive, and visitors who wanted to remain anonymous—like Bartholomew—found entry into the city simpler.

  A salt-tinged breeze snatched at his tunic, and Bartholomew smiled. After spending years behind a plow, tilling the earth on his family’s farm, he had come to love the sea.

  The captain’s voice rang out. The vessel shifted, the prow nudging westward, into the current. Water sprayed over the sides. The grunts of the oarsmen grew louder, more strained.

  Movement caught his eye. A burly crewman advanced on him, snarling, yellow teeth barely visible behind a wild growth of beard. He held a long-bladed knife in his fist.

  Bartholomew raised his hands. “You don’t want to do this.”

  In response, the crewman closed the distance in two lumbering strides and brought the knife down in an attack that was more brute force than skill or finesse.

  Snatching the crewman’s arm near the wrist, Bartholomew twisted. The movement forced the other man to bend at the waist. Then he swung his leg over the man’s arm and jerked up, putting pressure on his attacker’s elbow.

  “Drop the blade,” Bartholomew said.

  The crewman grunted, his face pressed close to the deck. He tried to stand but couldn’t break the hold on his arm. A thin cry escaped from somewhere deep in his beard.

  “Drop it!”

  The man shook his shaggy head.

  Before he could do anything else, the captain shouted an order. Bartholomew staggered as the port oarsmen reversed their rowing and the dromon lurched beneath his feet. The crewman dropped to the deck, rolled, and kicked.

  Pain exploded in Bartholomew’s groin, white hot, and he collapsed.

  The crewman scrambled from under him. Knife still in his hand, he lashed out. The blade cut into Bartholomew’s shoulder. Blood soaked his tunic.

  “Kill him!” the captain shouted.

  The crewman jerked the knife high and lunged.

  Bartholomew brought his hands up but not fast enough to block the attack.

  The blade sank into his chest.

  Locking a scream behind his teeth, he clamped his hands onto the crewman’s forearm, preventing him from withdrawing the blade and stabbing him again. The crewman bellowed in rage and twisted the knife. This time Bartholomew did cry out. He squeezed the crewman’s arm, his brown fingers pressing into the man’s flesh. The crewman stiffened. The blood drained from his face. He tried again to yank the blade free, but Bartholomew kept his grip tight until the crewman screamed and let go. Bartholomew released the man, and the crewman did what Bartholomew had hoped he would—shoved him hard in the chest. Bartholomew made a show of stumbling back on the deck, knife still lodged in his chest, and when he hit the guardrail, he tumbled backward, feet flying as he went over the side of the ship and fell into the sea.

  * * *

  Out of breath and weak from blood loss, Bartholomew struggled against the surf that threatened to pull him back into the sea. He dug his fingers into the sand, hauled his body forward. Waves crashed over him, filling his eyes with grit and the bitter sting of water.

  After falling overboard, he had removed the knife and dropped it, then swam as far as he could under water—he had to make sure he cleared the oars or they might have battered him into unconsciousness. When he came up for air, the dromon had traveled far enough to prevent anyone from spotting him.

  Another wave, larger this time, pounded into him and shoved his face into the wet earth. Spitting sand, he fought against the undertow, and when it passed, he staggered
forward, dizzy, bare feet splashing, arms swinging wide for balance. When he reached shore, his legs folded beneath him. There, under the warmth of the sun, he closed his eyes.

  And slept.

  * * *

  When Bartholomew woke, his eyelids had gummed shut, and he had to pry them apart with his fingers.

  He lay on the shore, his skin hot, his throat parched, sand wedged into every crevice of his body. He probed his wounds and found the skin had knitted together. Not that he expected anything different.

  He tried standing, but a wave of dizziness knocked him down. High above, gulls sailed the currents, swooping and dipping like children at play. The sun hung low in the west, the sky deepening from blue to magenta. He closed his eyes. Maybe if he rested a little longer….

  “Let me guess,” said a voice from behind him. “The docks were not to your liking?”

  Bartholomew’s eyes snapped open. He tilted his head back.

  A man stood on a patchy strip of grass along the uneven shoreline, his hands resting on his hips. He had a close-cropped white beard, high cheekbones, and the kind of deep-green eyes that women seemed to find attractive. His wore a tunic of the same cut and cloth as Bartholomew’s, though two years and a long sea voyage cleaner. He smiled broadly.

  “You found me,” Bartholomew said.

  “Very funny,” Philip replied. He walked over and held out a hand. A small, dark, crescent-moon-shaped mark discolored the web of skin between his thumb and forefinger. “How did you end up here?”

  Bartholomew let his friend help him up. “The captain and I argued about the price of the voyage. It increased once we arrived.”

  “And you refused to pay, so he threw you overboard.” Philip frowned at the stains on Bartholomew’s tunic. “Is that blood?”

  “The disagreement became extreme at the end.”

  “You must have healed by now. Have you eaten?”

  Bartholomew shook his head. “Not since early this morning.”

  “All right. Follow me.”

  They walked up the sloping ground toward the city, skirting thickets of fragrant laurel and yellow dogwood and broad-leafed medlar with its tiny white flowers like miniature stars. The brutal summer heat fled before the approaching dusk, but the cooler temperatures also meant a return of the region’s insects. Swarms of mites buzzed around their heads, while larger flies bit at their exposed arms and legs.

  Before long, the scrub gave way to the cobbled streets and squat stone buildings of Constantinople. Crowds hurried past, weary expressions on their tanned faces. A dark-haired woman carrying a sack squeezed her way past an elderly couple, only to collide with a short, thick man coming from the other direction. The woman fell, her sack slipping from her hand. The man stomped over her, his sandaled feet trampling the sack. The bitter tang of lemons filled the air.

  Bartholomew looked back the way they had come. “Why not build all the way to the shoreline? That would give them more room for homes.”

  “His most holy Emperor Justinian has forbidden it,” said Philip, picking up the sack and handing it to the woman. “He decreed that the land between here and the shore shall remain ‘unadulterated by the touch of man.’”

  “I take it you don’t approve.”

  “There are nearly half a million people living here, Bartholomew. The city is getting crowded.”

  The number shocked Bartholomew. “Where does he put them all?”

  “Do you remember the rocky slopes north of the city?”

  “You can’t build houses up there!”

  “Tents,” Philip said. “Most find it better than sleeping in the weather. Come, the vendors are this way.”

  They crossed through a gate in the Wall of Byzantium and entered the Venetian Quarter. Cramped stalls lined the street. The cries of vendors blended with the aromas of olives, lemons, oranges, cooked meats, and wine.

  “What would you like?” Philip asked.

  “Lamb and figs would be nice.”

  Philip led him down a narrow alley to another street and past several stalls. Vendors yelled and gestured to get their attention. Philip ignored them until he reached a man wearing a scarf tied over his head to protect him from the sun. He had a pock-marked face, bad teeth, and was missing an ear. His dour expression brightened when he saw Philip.

  “My friend!” the vendor cried. “It is good to see you! Where have you been?”

  “Hiding in the dark places of the world, Basir. The very dark places. But tell me, how are you? And how is that wonderful family of yours?”

  Basir gave an exaggerated roll of his eyes. “Do not speak of them. I work all day in the blistering heat, barely able to scrape together enough money to feed them, and at night I am expected to attend to their every need. I tell you, they will put me into an early grave.”

  “You would have it no other way.” Philip turned to Bartholomew. “Basir’s wife is most devoted. She brings inventory up from the docks, keeps an account of their sales, makes sure no one cheats them, and still manages to raise their thirteen children.” He returned his attention to Basir. “My friend here would like some food.”

  “Of course, of course.” Basir gathered hunks of roasted lamb from a small clay oven, placed them on a battered metal plate, and added figs and dates and a hunk of brown bread. Smiling, he handed the meal to Bartholomew. “For the friend of a friend.”

  Bartholomew withdrew a few coins from his pouch and held them out.

  “No need,” Basir said. “You owe nothing. I have yet to repay Philip fully for his great kindness.”

  “Oh?” Bartholomew said, looking quizzically at his friend.

  “His youngest son wandered from their home,” Philip explained. “Basir and his wife searched for hours, along with the neighbors. When I heard about the boy, I offered to help. We were fortunate. I found him in a water cistern near Fifth Hill. The child had fallen in.” He turned to Basir. “That was three summers ago. I believe you have shown your gratitude to its fullest.”

  Basir’s grin faded. “You are mistaken, my friend. There is no price too great for the life of my son. I will never be done repaying you.”

  An elderly woman hurried by with six children in tow. Philip waited for them to pass before he spoke.

  “Do you have water to spare?”

  Basir went to a wood barrel, filled a hollowed-out gourd, and handed it to Philip. “What else, my friend?”

  “Nothing. You have been most helpful.”

  “Thank you again for the food,” Bartholomew said. “Your generosity is most kind.”

  “We’ll rest for the night,” Philip said to Bartholomew. “Tomorrow you can visit the Hippodrome.”

  Bartholomew felt someone tug on his tunic. He turned. A young woman, dark-skinned and beautiful, with wide, fearful eyes and blood running down the side of her head, stood there.

  “Help me, please!” she cried, glancing back at a knot of soldiers marching toward them. “They’re going to kill me!”

  Prologue

  Someone knocked on the door. Reverend Destiny placed the notes on his desk.

  “Come in.”

  The door opened and his aide, Charles Korzenkowski, entered. He was dressed in a navy-blue button-down with a yellow tie that made it look as if he’d spilled mustard down the front his shirt. His crinkly ginger hair was combed straight back and held it in place with styling gel. His thick lips twitched into a smile.

  “Are you ready, Reverend?”

  “Ready as I’ll ever be. How about the hall? Is everything set?”

  “Yes, sir. Everyone’s seated and waiting for you.”

  “Are we at capacity?”

  “You even have believers lining the back wall. A few reporters, too.”

  “Excellent work, Charles. Excellent.”

  “Four minutes until we start,” Charles said. “Shall we pray, sir?”

  “Of course.” Destiny bowed his head. “Dear Lord, God and Father, please give this humble servant the strength to lead Y
our flock into salvation. Many have wandered from the path that You have set for them. They have become lost, mired amid the sinful influences of these times, evils which now surpass those most unholy of cities, Sodom and Gomorrah. I am the beacon and the light. Let them follow me into Your Heavenly grace. Amen.”

  “Amen,” whispered Charles.

  “This is our big night. Go double check on the preparations. Make sure everything’s perfect.”

  “I’m sure tonight will go well, sir. But…do you think now is the right time for this kind of sermon?”

  Reverend Destiny frowned. Charles always agreed with him. Even this mildest of reproaches was shocking.

  “Go on,” he said. “Tell me your concern.”

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.” Charles hurried to the door. “I’ll go make sure everything is ready.”

  “Charles, please stop.”

  “No, really. I need to—”

  “Charles!”

  His aide jerked to a halt. “Yes, sir?”

  “This is no time for secrets, my son. Tell me what’s bothering you.”

  “Truly, it’s not my place—”

  “I’m running out patience. You have twenty seconds to explain yourself.”

  “Please, sir. Don’t make me—”

  Destiny folded his arms across his chest. “Fifteen seconds. If I reach zero and you still haven’t told me what’s wrong, you’ll be looking for another job.”

  Charles whirled, the color draining from his face. “No, sir! You can’t mean that!”

  “Ten seconds.”

  “I—well, it’s just—what about the repercussions, sir?” Charles mopped his sweaty forehead with the sleeve of his shirt, leaving behind a tattoo of dark stains on the fabric. “With everything going on overseas, aren’t you worried what this sermon could do?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean, sir. Retribution. Riots. That part of the world is already close to the boiling point. What you’re doing is adding fuel to the fire.” Shoulders slumping, Charles whispered, “You have a large following. They listen to you. They will speak out. I’m worried about a loss of life.”