Blood Symbols Read online

  BLOOD SYMBOLS

  IZAK BOTHA

  About Blood Symbols

  Halfway through her Ph.D., Jennifer Jaine’s faith has been shaken. She has become convinced that the Catholic church’s authority is based on a lie. Desperate to prove herself wrong, she goes to the Vatican, only to be caught up in an international hunt for the truth about the church, the Pope, and how Jesus intended his followers to live their faith.

  A stolen artifact, a mysterious murder, and an escaping intruder lead Jennifer from the Vatican to the streets of Rome to the Cave Church of St. Peter in Turkey, where she discovers a secret that could delegitimize the Pope. Chased by scheming cardinals and the trigger-happy head of Vatican security, assisted only by an elderly professor, the son of an Italian Mafioso, and a mysterious—but handsome—Turk, Jennifer must decide whether to become complicit in the church’s duplicity or shake the foundations of the planet’s most dominant religion.

  Semi Finalist—BookLife Prize 2017

  Blood Symbols

  A novel by Izak Botha

  Copyright Izak Botha 2016

  Published by Izak Botha at Amazon

  The moral rights of the author have been asserted.

  All rights are reserved. No parts of the script may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted, resold, hired out, copied or in any way published without the prior consent of Izak Botha.

  Amazon Edition License Notes:

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to Amazon.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Except in the case of historical fact, scripture, artwork, architecture and establishments, all references are used fictionally and the product of the authors imagination.

  Cover Design by Fiona Jayde Media

  Also by Izak Botha: Angelicals Reviewed

  ISBN: 978-0-620-73850-7

  Table of Contents

  BLOOD SYMBOLS

  About Blood Symbols

  Blood Symbols

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Acknowledgments

  About Izak Botha

  Other titles by Izak Botha

  Sample chapters from Angelicals Reviewed

  Connect to Izak Botha

  Prologue

  John Yilmaz stood rigid, arms dangling, hands tense. His mother had become his enemy. The nourishment of her umbilical cord had turned vile. If he did not break free she would poison him. He would die, and her womb would become his grave. He had to escape this godforsaken place.

  ‘Euphoria is a symptom of shock,’ Yilmaz thought. But he was far from happy. He had seen wickedness at its most appalling—had even collaborated. Now the responsibility for exposing it was his. People had a right to know. He could not waste time.

  Light filtered through the doorway at the top of the stairs, casting shadows on the altar before him. Further out, columns rose ghostly in the gloom. On their shoulders, gargoyles leered at the trespassers in their abode. And along the disappearing edge, darkness coalesced with granite walls.

  With his eyes fixed on the figure of Christ, he knelt. ‘Forgive me Lord, for I have sinned. …’

  He rested his forehead against the altar frontal. Why did he do that? Praying no longer made sense. Bitterly, he crossed himself. ‘In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti, amen.’

  As his tongue pressed the prayer’s final syllable against his teeth, a figure stopped behind him blocking the light.

  Yilmaz stood up instinctively. Turning to leave, he said, ‘I think we should go now.’

  ‘What are you doing?’ came from the darkness.

  Yilmaz froze as an adumbral hand gripped his throat. A dagger sank into his ribs, and he stumbled back against the altar. Clutching his attacker’s wrist, he fought to dislodge the blade from his chest, but his arms weakened as shock set in, and the attacker’s strength overwhelmed him. He reached for a candleholder, but the agony of steel twisting in his lung drew him back.

  ‘We trusted you,’ the attacker yelled.

  Yilmaz reached for the altar. ‘You lied to me,’ he moaned.

  One hand tore the knife from Yilmaz’s ribs, while the other struck him on the chest. Then, in a quick, sweeping motion, the blade bit into the young man’s neck.

  With each heartbeat, blood spurted from the wound, soaking Yilmaz’s white collar. His legs buckled, and he clawed at the edge of the mensa, but the frontal slid free like a veil, sending him and the candleholders and crucifix crashing to the marble floor.

  The attacker scanned the blood-soaked predella. What he was looking for was not there. ‘What did you do with it?’ he screamed. ‘What you have done?’

  Yilmaz’s chin sank to his chest. ‘May God forgive them, for they know not what they do,’ he wheezed.

  As his heart beat for the last time, the pressure in his arteries ebbed. The last vestige of life drained from him, and his face, now relaxed with that peculiar expression of peace only the hallowed dead knew, turned a chalky grey. His spirit departed and, with it, the fear of his demise.

  The killer clenched Yilmaz’s hair. Jerking the young man’s head back so far that the knife wound seemed to sneer, he yelled, ‘You are a priest for God’s sake!’

  But the light in Yilmaz’s eyes had already fled.

  Chapter 1

  Shaded by four three-story buildings that rose forty meters or more, Jennifer Jaine was the essence of decorum. Her outfit, an absorbent-black, viscose jacket with matching knee-length skirt, hugged her shapely frame like a second skin and terminated in an overlapping slit halfway above her knees. Beneath, a white blouse, lucent like her alabaster complexion, peeked out from between the buttons of her tightly fastened lapel, and her patent-leather ankle boots, smart but low-heeled for comfort, etched soft lines in her calves as she walked. To be sure, the entire ensemble was as detestable to Jennifer as it was requisite for the meeting ahead.

  Glancing up, Jennifer took in the Belvedere Courtyard. Designed by Donato Bramante
in the early sixteenth century, it had originated as a rectangular space flanked by a palace and a villa on its short axis and two museums on its long axis. The libraries, later additions, had cut the space in half. Having spent years investigating every detail of Vatican culture, not to mention countless hours scrutinizing its one hundred and ten acres on Google Earth, Jennifer knew almost everything there was to know about the world’s smallest city-state, including this particular parcel of land.

  She unclenched her fingers and, taking a tissue from her breast pocket, lifted one foot then the other to wipe the dust from her shoes. Finally, she smoothed her hand over her skirt to straighten out the folds. If it were not for the Vatican’s draconian dress code, she would have happily worn a t-shirt, jeans and flip-flops; dressing smartly might give the right impression, but she still felt like a student.

  Behind Jennifer, the eleven-ton Campanone di San Pietro thundered like the cannon fire of Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture. The previous day when she had visited the celebrated Saint Peter’s Basilica, she had for the first time heard its peal. She had been standing below the south tower when the first report had struck.

  When two middle-aged priests pushed open the bronze doors, she checked her watch. ‘At a minute past eight they’re quite punctual,’ she thought. One priest, elderly and hunched over, then made his way to a notice board to change the date. ‘Martedì, 20 Marzo, 2012’, he wrote, tracing the letters with the precision and care of a craftsman.

  Jennifer smiled. This was the year the Mayan calendar predicted the present era would end. Surely, the aging clergyman was reminded of the fact every day when he looked at the date. For goodness sake, he should be. He represented God after all.

  On her flight from New York, Jennifer had been riveted by Michael Bryner’s, The Mayan Oracle, which explained how the ancient Mayans painted 2012 as a time of turmoil. From their calculations, the ancients had predicted the world would end on the twenty-first of December. That was only nine months away. Jennifer was skeptical about most things, but it was hard not to be fascinated by the idea that something might happen outside the sphere of humdrum experience.

  Jennifer’s footsteps echoed lonesomely as she approached the Leone XIII. Marching eagerly through the doorway, the sumptuousness of the Renaissance architecture stopped her in mid-stride. Stretching seventy meters and rising ten or more, the Leonine library drew her into the sixteenth century. Crowned by barrel-vaulted ceilings adorned with colorful frescoes and bisected by a series of mezzanine-wrapped columns filled with scores of bookshelves, the library comprised a cabinet-filled index room which served as a gateway for researchers, and an adjacent manuscript reading room.

  Sliding her fingers gently over the spines of several books, Jennifer slipped beneath the mezzanine. The cells of her nose tingled as the musty smell of papyrus and parchment made its way to her lungs. ‘If only I could inhale their knowledge,’ she thought. Crossing to the manuscript room her eyes strayed, slowly scanning the wall where vast arched windows were interspersed with portrait-decorated pillars of library prefects from ages past, sighing as they held up texts as inscrutable as the scope of the library’s contents itself. In the center of it all, a seemingly endless row of desks passively awaited researchers to rest their elbows on their magnificently crafted tops.

  ‘This way, miss. You need to be at Pio XI.’ A priest perched on a ladder pointed to a doorway. ‘The library is up ahead in building next-door.’

  Exhaling through pursed lips, she continued towards the end of the hall. Nowhere did the Vatican allow her to stand idly or enjoy its grandeur. The gendarmes prodded her along, ensuring she did not stray from her designated path. The same had happened in the Sistine Chapel the day before. Longing to absorb Michelangelo’s genius, she had sat on a step, but had hardly raised her eyes to the celebrated fresco, when a gendarme had ordered her to move along. Heaven forbid she should take a photograph. He would have arrested her on the spot.

  At the reception desk, a priest stood with his eyes locked on a computer screen. His slender fingers tiptoed across the keyboard like tarantulas locked in a mating dance. At two or three inches under six feet, she could look him in the eye. His upright posture, bent head and intense concentration reminded her of a friend who owned a restaurant on Staten Island and always managed to appear busy, even when no customers were around.

  ‘Good morning, Father. I have an appointment to see His Eminence Cardinal Cardoni,’ Jennifer said, her dimples deepening as she spoke.

  The priest looked up, slightly cocking his left eyebrow as the light from the Cortile del Biblioteca accentuated Jennifer’s innate beauty, almost glamour, making her chocolate hair glint like wet silk. The poise of her elongated neck and slim form would have made her the envy of many a Renaissance contessa—her pristine skin, full lips and amber-green eyes, the idol of Italy’s finest painters.

  ‘Good morning, Miss Jaine,’ the priest greeted her. ‘I am Father Marco Romano. Will you please sign the register for me? And don’t forget to include your time of arrival.’

  Romano’s sable hair was in absolute contrast to his pallid complexion. It was obvious the man needed a break—and a vacation somewhere sunny, Ibiza perhaps. Imagine. …

  Dismissing the idea, however, she drew her pen from her briefcase. With nimble, deft strokes, she formed the simple lines and elegant curves that comprised her signature.

  Romano continued typing. ‘I see you’ve changed your hair.’

  She nodded, spreading her dark tresses evenly across her shoulders. ‘It used to be much longer.’

  The priest studied Jennifer’s curriculum vitae and background report for several minutes more before letting her pass. Ostensibly, he was now party to the trivial details of her life, as was every other gatekeeper she had encountered in Rome.

  He looked up. ‘You have a doctorate in religious studies?’

  The priest had hit a nerve. ‘Not yet, Father. I’m almost there.’ Behind her back, she furtively crossed her index and middle fingers.

  ‘And you work for?’

  She hated lying, but more than anything she needed this interview. ‘Geographic America, but only part-time.’

  ‘Your section editor, she’s still there?’

  ‘Yes, Father.’ Quietly she prayed for forgivingness.

  ‘So she arranged for the interview?’

  He was testing her, she knew. But instead of lying again, she kept quiet. When he raised his eyes to glower at her, she conceded: ‘He did, Father.’

  Satisfied that his interrogation had elicited the appropriate responses, he continued typing. ‘You are here to discuss the Codex Vaticanus?’

  ‘And see it, Father.’

  Calling him ‘Father’, this man who was no older than she was, made her want to titter under her breath. Luckily, she checked herself before the laugh became audible, and she decided she had better restrain her reactions to this archaic formality. It was, after all, just a title.

  He held out his hand. ‘I’ll keep your mobile and briefcase in a safe place.’

  ‘May I keep my notes?’

  ‘Yes, that is fine.’

  Those spidery fingers again, she thought. ‘And my purse? It has my ID and passport.’

  ‘Of course ...’

  She waited as Romano placed her briefcase in a locker behind the reception desk. ‘How far back do the origins of the library go, Father?’

  ‘There is evidence that the first structure was built in the fourth century after our beloved Lord,’ he said, closing the locker.

  He replied like clockwork, but she was equally quick: ‘Your website says the oldest documents date from the end of the eighth century?’

  He straightened and passed her the RFID-enabled card he had programmed for her. ‘We have poetry dating as far back as the fourth and fifth centuries, but our earliest letters, by Saint Aquinas, date from the eighth century, yes.’

  She clipped the card to her jacket pocket. ‘I assume they’re all originals?’ (S
he simply had to ask.)

  ‘Some are copies, some originals,’ someone said behind her.

  Jennifer turned to see a priest in a black cassock extending his hand towards her. His violet zucchetto and waistband and gold pectoral cross were explicit indications of his rank within the Church. Bishop Eugene Albani—she recognized him from the photos online. She had read a lot about him, too. Born in Mexico in 1951 and ordained at an early age, the Vatican had appointed him Prefect of the Secret Archives six months earlier. Prior to this latest office, he had supervised much of the library’s decade-long restoration. Standing six feet tall, he had a slender, muscular frame that showed little evidence of his age. Indeed, were it not for his greying hair, she would have thought him years younger.

  She held out her hand. ‘It’s an honour to meet you, Your Excellency.’

  ‘The honour is mine,’ he replied, and after shaking her hand repeatedly, he shifted his gaze to Romano. ‘Father, can you see if His Eminence Cardinal Cardoni is on his way yet?’ Then, turning back to Jennifer: ‘He won’t be much longer. He is normally very punctual. Is this your first time in Rome?’

  Apart from a brief stint in South Africa and her two-year stay in New York, Jennifer had only visited a handful of states outside of her home state, Florida. She was not about to tell him that though. With this caliber of man, she would need to pass herself off as a woman of the world.

  ‘It is,’ she responded, her voice infused with excitement.

  ‘Quite a culture shock, isn’t it? The States have impressive cities, but Europe’s history spans millennia. Have you been sightseeing?’

  She had only arrived two days before and had spent much of the time since studying her notes. She had, however, managed to visit a few places. ‘I’ve seen Saint Peter’s Basilica, the Sistine Chapel and your “Lux in Arcana” exhibition.’

  ‘Our glorious heritage!’ He lifted his eyes and palms towards the ceiling in a gesture of wonder and piety as he spoke. Then, refocusing on her: ‘Which part of the exhibition did you enjoy most?’

  As with Father Romano, she was not sure whether the bishop was making small talk or testing her. ‘It’s a dead heat between Galileo’s retraction and the excommunication of Martin Luther. Both had immense impacts on the world.’