A ghost of a smile played on Armande's lips as he observed the man lounging on the Throne of St. Peter, somewhat bored. Calculated, he was sure, to provoke a reaction. Normally, this kind of arrogance would trigger in him a desire to teach humility.
But in this case, it was merely humorous. Or so he told himself anyway. His clenched fists, hidden in the sleeves of his cassock relaxed slightly after a moment.
He had made the decision knowing the cost, knowing what sort of man Patricus was. What kind of Pope he would be. The Vatican could not crumble to the Dominion. The man would have to be strong, prideful enough even, to be able to stand up to the pressure Brandon would bring to bear.
And yet he would have to be an ally to Armande. A partner- as far as anyone could be his partner, anyway. His arrogance would be a useful tool to exploit. Indeed, that was what he was about to do. The final gift had needed to have been procured before this meeting could occur. The man would know how privileged he was.
The ceremony, the transfer of power from Pope to Regus and Regus to Pope, what his predecessor had called "the dance", had gone on for over 1600 years. Back to the days of Constantine the Great and Pope Sylvester I. The Atharim, though not scattered, were not powerful. While he did believe they would have survived a pogrom if the Church had sought to eradicate them, they would have been decimated and hunted and weak.
How would they carry out their mission of millenia if that were the case. And so the Regus, Barnabas of Alexandria, had made the decision. A more fragmented Atharim, but allied within the Holy Church. Over the centuries, the Atharim infiltrated, a worm, a seed, growing into a vine that permeated the structure.
It had been the right decision. The Atharim, still truly a remnant, had been placed at the center of power. And from Mother Church, they had spread their influence to government. Pope Leo might have crowned Charlemagne as Emperor of the Holy Roman empire. But Charlemagne would never have come to power without Atharim machinations working to see it so. A united empire, one to bring order to Europe after the fall of Rome, was necessary.
Only in order could aberration be seen clearly- the signs of drainaka or wefuke or d'jinn.
But it was Armande who had begun to draw the Atharin together, slowly and in the dark. To undo the fractioning of their ancient pact.
More importantly, the ceremony was done with. No longer would there be wasteful and unnecessary executions to seal the brotherhood.
No. He had different ideas for that. Blood was required to seal a covenant, after all. That was a universal truth.
He went to one knee and kissed the ringed hand of Patricus.
"Your Holiness." He swept back so that they were some distance apart. His voice was sonorous, though not loud. "I am Armande Nicodemus, Head of the Historical and Ecclesiastical Archives of the Holy See of St.Peter."
He looked at the Cardinal Secretary behind him and nodded. The man, scarlet robes and pointed cap nodded and turned to leave, passing the Swiss Guards in their bright orange and blue striped uniforms. They would stay. He did not want to cause alarm, though he knew they would leave also at his command. They were Atharim, after all.
He paused, sure that his actions quite likely seemed...inappropriate to Patricus. Pride. He needed to feed his pride. "Your predecessor, Pope Pious XIII, and I were brothers. As were their predecessors before them. And theirs before them. All the way back to Sylvester I and Barnabus of Alexandria. Pious initiated me into this holy pact eight years ago."
He wondered how Patricus would have handled seeing him strangle the witnesses to their covenant if he kept to the old way.
"And now, as has been the custom for 1600 years, it is my duty to initiate you into it."
He paused, searching for signs of the man's thoughts. Here Patricus had believed he had pierced to the center of power, the heart of all the secrets. Had ascended to the pinnacle. To find out there was more to go...
"You are the Bishop of Rome, Successor of the Prince of the Apostles, Supreme Pontiff of the Universal Church, Primate of Italy, Archbishop and Metropolitan of the Roman province, Sovereign of the State of the Vatican City, and Servant of the Servants of God. You are the Vicar of Christ."
And now..."I am Regus of the Atharim
Guardian of The Remnant, The Oroboros. I am the Vicar of Iscariot."
He let the words hang. Just words, true. It was quite possible the man would laugh. Anyone could claim titles. But the pride. The arrogance. He was counting on that. The hint to deeper stores of knowledge and power. Not a kidnapping as had happened to him. A revelation.
But in this case, it was merely humorous. Or so he told himself anyway. His clenched fists, hidden in the sleeves of his cassock relaxed slightly after a moment.
He had made the decision knowing the cost, knowing what sort of man Patricus was. What kind of Pope he would be. The Vatican could not crumble to the Dominion. The man would have to be strong, prideful enough even, to be able to stand up to the pressure Brandon would bring to bear.
And yet he would have to be an ally to Armande. A partner- as far as anyone could be his partner, anyway. His arrogance would be a useful tool to exploit. Indeed, that was what he was about to do. The final gift had needed to have been procured before this meeting could occur. The man would know how privileged he was.
The ceremony, the transfer of power from Pope to Regus and Regus to Pope, what his predecessor had called "the dance", had gone on for over 1600 years. Back to the days of Constantine the Great and Pope Sylvester I. The Atharim, though not scattered, were not powerful. While he did believe they would have survived a pogrom if the Church had sought to eradicate them, they would have been decimated and hunted and weak.
How would they carry out their mission of millenia if that were the case. And so the Regus, Barnabas of Alexandria, had made the decision. A more fragmented Atharim, but allied within the Holy Church. Over the centuries, the Atharim infiltrated, a worm, a seed, growing into a vine that permeated the structure.
It had been the right decision. The Atharim, still truly a remnant, had been placed at the center of power. And from Mother Church, they had spread their influence to government. Pope Leo might have crowned Charlemagne as Emperor of the Holy Roman empire. But Charlemagne would never have come to power without Atharim machinations working to see it so. A united empire, one to bring order to Europe after the fall of Rome, was necessary.
Only in order could aberration be seen clearly- the signs of drainaka or wefuke or d'jinn.
But it was Armande who had begun to draw the Atharin together, slowly and in the dark. To undo the fractioning of their ancient pact.
More importantly, the ceremony was done with. No longer would there be wasteful and unnecessary executions to seal the brotherhood.
No. He had different ideas for that. Blood was required to seal a covenant, after all. That was a universal truth.
He went to one knee and kissed the ringed hand of Patricus.
"Your Holiness." He swept back so that they were some distance apart. His voice was sonorous, though not loud. "I am Armande Nicodemus, Head of the Historical and Ecclesiastical Archives of the Holy See of St.Peter."
He looked at the Cardinal Secretary behind him and nodded. The man, scarlet robes and pointed cap nodded and turned to leave, passing the Swiss Guards in their bright orange and blue striped uniforms. They would stay. He did not want to cause alarm, though he knew they would leave also at his command. They were Atharim, after all.
He paused, sure that his actions quite likely seemed...inappropriate to Patricus. Pride. He needed to feed his pride. "Your predecessor, Pope Pious XIII, and I were brothers. As were their predecessors before them. And theirs before them. All the way back to Sylvester I and Barnabus of Alexandria. Pious initiated me into this holy pact eight years ago."
He wondered how Patricus would have handled seeing him strangle the witnesses to their covenant if he kept to the old way.
"And now, as has been the custom for 1600 years, it is my duty to initiate you into it."
He paused, searching for signs of the man's thoughts. Here Patricus had believed he had pierced to the center of power, the heart of all the secrets. Had ascended to the pinnacle. To find out there was more to go...
"You are the Bishop of Rome, Successor of the Prince of the Apostles, Supreme Pontiff of the Universal Church, Primate of Italy, Archbishop and Metropolitan of the Roman province, Sovereign of the State of the Vatican City, and Servant of the Servants of God. You are the Vicar of Christ."
And now..."I am Regus of the Atharim
Guardian of The Remnant, The Oroboros. I am the Vicar of Iscariot."
He let the words hang. Just words, true. It was quite possible the man would laugh. Anyone could claim titles. But the pride. The arrogance. He was counting on that. The hint to deeper stores of knowledge and power. Not a kidnapping as had happened to him. A revelation.