A Covenant of Thieves Read online

  A COVENANT OF THIEVES

  Christian J. Velguth

  A COVENANT OF THIEVES

  Copyright © 2020 Christian J. Velguth

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved alone, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of the book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products, bands, and/or restaurants referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Part I: The Ethiopian Job

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Communication 1

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Part II: Blood and Gold

  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

  Communication 2

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Part III: Celestial Fire

  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

  Part IV: New Covenant

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Communication 3

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  For

  -among many others-

  Dad, who opened the door;

  M & B, who read it first;

  and Liz, who kept the lights on.

  Prologue

  Jerusalem

  587 BCE

  On the seventh day of the fifth month, the city fell. Through shattered gates the enemy swarmed, surging up the streets like locusts of bronze and flame. The city, weakened by eighteen months of siege, offered little resistance. Babel was free to do as she pleased.

  Standing on the steps before the golden doors of the Temple between the great pillars Jachin and Boaz, Baruch ben Neriah could see out beyond the square of the Inner Court. Beyond the many walls and gates of the Temple, the moon had hidden her face behind a veil of cloud as if in grief, and a ruddy stain was spreading across the darkened sky. Jerusalem was burning: he could hear the thunder of what sounded like a thousand soldiers, the rattle of their armor, the screams of his people. Thick smoke choked the cool night air, overpowering the scent of olive trees in the valley.

  As if the Ba’als have returned, he thought numbly.

  The doors of the Temple opened behind him with a ponderous creak. Baruch turned to see the old man standing before him. His face was hidden in the shadow of the doorway, but his beard caught the light of the vestibule braziers and shone like silver. He beckoned to Baruch with a gnarled hand, the sapphire ring flashing. “Come. There is little time.” With that he turned and disappeared inside.

  Baruch cast one final look at his city before following the prophet into the hekhal, closing the doors behind him.

  In the full light of day, with the sun shining through the high portals, Baruch knew how glorious the Temple was; in his mind he could see quite clearly the tall cedar panels lining the walls, carved with cherubim and palm-trees and overlaid with gold. Now, on this terrible night, the dimensions of the vast room were lost in darkness, as was its glory, transforming the hekhal into a shapeless void. The great braziers stood cold on copper legs, skeletal in the faint light shining from the far end of the chamber. He could just make out the prophet, moving with a swiftness that seemed unnatural to his bent form. In the heavy silence of the Temple the whisper of his robe across the floor sent a shiver down Baruch’s spine.

  At the far end of the chamber the Altar of Incense was burning, fragrant smoke rising from the brazier and melting into the high shadows. Two men -- Levite acolytes, not full Kohanim priests -- stood barefoot beside it, cast in a flickering ruddy glow.

  The prophet addressed them as he approached the Altar. “Has all been prepared?” They nodded silently. Baruch could see fear in their eyes. In their arms they held boxes of cedar, long and slender. “Good.” He moved swiftly around the Altar, mounting the high stairs that rose behind it, and climbed to the heavy purple veil above. The acolytes hissed sharply as he laid a hand upon it, and Baruch started forward, heart skipping a beat.

  “Jeremiah! My friend, what are you – are you mad?”

  The prophet paused, then turned slowly. The light of the Altar illuminated him from below, deepening the lines of his long face and making him appear as if cast from bronze. His eyes were deep in shadow, but Baruch could feel the prophet’s pain radiating from them. “It does not matter now. We have already been abandoned.”

  Such words, coming from this man Baruch had studied under for years – they pierced him like knives. Long had Jeremiah suffered as a servant of the Lord, yet always he had held faith. Now…

  If he has lost faith, what hope do the rest of us have?

  One of the Levites spoke, reverence and fear warring in his voice. “It is as Jeremiah prophesied – Adonai has turned His back on us. Jerusalem will be taken.”

  The prophet seemed irritated by this reminder of his own foresight. Brusquely he said, “It is the pride and foolishness of the king that has brought our city to her knees. If Zedekiah had given Nebuchadnezzar tribute, we might have been allowed to live in peace. But it is too late now. Babel is raping Jerusalem as we speak.” Once more he brushed the curtain with a hand; Baruch flinched involuntarily. “But they will not take all.”

  Baruch came around the Altar and mounted the bottom steps. “There must be other ways. We can defend the Temple –”

  The prophet laughed, a hollow sound in the long hekhal chamber. “Tell me, my friend, did you leave your sword at home this morning? I do not see it on your belt. Perhaps you mean to put out their eyes with your stylus?”

  Baruch’s face reddened. He stammered, searching for a reply. Jeremiah’s sharp tongue often disarmed him. “I – no, we are scholars. But w-we could seal the gates –”

  “And which gate did you pass through to enter the Inner Court? The Water Gate? The Heart Gate? Or perhaps it was the Flame Gate, or the Lightning Gate?” Jeremiah shook his head. “The Temple cannot be defended. It fell with the city; only the stones are left to realize. I did not call you here for debate.”

  His tone made that clear enough. Before Baruch could muster some reply, Jeremiah parted the heavy curtain
and disappeared behind it. The Levites came forward and, after a muttered prayer, followed.

  Baruch stood frozen, shadows dancing around him in the glow of the Altar. They were mad, all of them – none but the High Priest could pass through the curtain to glimpse what rested beyond. Perhaps it was all well for his mentor – had Adonai not spoken through him? – but Baruch was no prophet, nor priest, nor even acolyte.

  I should not even stand so close, he realized. A helpless fear was filling his stomach like sour wine. It was all coming undone, the entire world – this really was the end.

  So what have I left to lose?

  His body moved before his mind could catch up. Baruch rushed up the remaining stairs and seized the curtain with both hands. It was thick and rough to his fingers – for some reason he had always assumed it would be fine as linen.

  And then he was behind it. Into the Holy of Holies.

  The darkness was stifling. The reality of what he had just done settled over him like crushing jaws, paralyzing him. Baruch realized he was not breathing and his mind whirled with terror – Forgive me!

  He drew a gasping breath when the prophet’s voice came out of the darkness, surprisingly close. “Come forward, my friend, and quickly.” There was a sharp, hard clack and the flash of sparks. Moving stiffly, he walked forward. A terrifying thought suddenly came to him: What if I walk right into it? He froze, unwilling to move while blind. Another clack, and a brazier came to life, the flames filling the square chamber with shifting shadows. The prophet stood by the brazier, the Levites beside him. Baruch hardly noticed any of them.

  This…this is wrong.

  “Now you know the truth,” Jeremiah said gravely.

  Slowly Baruch stepped forward, staring at the space where it should have been. The Holy of Holies was smaller than the hekhal, a perfect box twenty cubits on every side, built for only one purpose. There was no space for anything to be hidden, and yet Baruch searched every corner, as if it would suddenly appear out of nowhere.

  Empty.

  There had been rumors for years, ever since the mad King Manasseh had desecrated the Temple with his idols to Ba’al and his Asherah poles. Those of the priesthood who dared speak against such perversion had been put to the sword, until the streets of Jerusalem shone red with innocent blood. Jeremiah himself had nearly been killed. Those who escaped execution fled the city; taking with them, according to rumor, the Temple’s most holy treasures. Baruch had not wanted to believe, but now it was no longer a matter of faith.

  “The Ark,” he croaked. “It…it is gone, then?”

  The Levites were clutching their cedar chests, eyes squeezed shut, and Baruch realized they were weeping silently. Jeremiah nodded. “When Manasseh exiled Adonai from his house, those Levites who escaped his sword determined the Ark of His Covenant would never again fall under the heel of a heretic king. They removed it from Jerusalem some fifty years ago.”

  Fifty years?! Small wonder the Lord had abandoned them. Baruch felt the tiny chamber spin, and he stumbled, placing a hand upon the wall to steady himself. Only then did he realize the full extent of the loss. Gold had once lined the walls, ceiling, and floor, and two great cherubim once stood with wings outspread.

  “Gone.” He caressed the naked wall. “All gone.”

  “Embellishments,” Jeremiah barked dismissively. “Meaningless ostentation. All the temples of Babel are filled with such riches, and more. The true glory lies elsewhere.”

  “And it is gone too,” Baruch snapped, suddenly angry with his mentor. Fifty years Jeremiah had known the truth. How could he say nothing? Baruch had thought their relationship merited more than such secrecy.

  “Indeed it is. For which we should be very thankful. If the Ark fell into the hands of Babel, there would be no stopping them.”

  “Surely Adonai would not aid them!”

  Jeremiah said nothing, instead turning to the Levites. He laid a hand upon each of their shoulders, prompting them to open red-rimmed eyes and meet his gaze. It seemed to grant them strength. Jeremiah nodded and went to the center of the chamber. Kneeling in his robe, his hands skittered across the floor like spiders – and seemed to find something.

  “Baruch. Help me.”

  The tone of his mentor’s voice brooked no argument. Baruch joined him in the center of the chamber. “There is a seam,” Jeremiah told him, eyes fixed on the floor. One long finger traced the invisible edges of a wide square. “Here. Press down as I do, then slide your hands to the left.”

  Bewildered, Baruch placed both palms on the floor within the square that Jeremiah had delineated. He pressed down as the prophet did – and gasped as a section of the floor sank. There was a sharp click; eyes wide, Baruch slid his hands to the left. A panel, all but invisible, moved smoothly beneath the rest of the floor, exposing a square opening wider than the shoulders of a man. Cool air breathed out of the darkness.

  He stood, helping Jeremiah to his feet. The prophet went to the brazier, taking a glowing brand from it. “Follow close behind me.” Before Baruch could utter a word, Jeremiah went to the hole, knelt, and hopped down, disappearing through it.

  Baruch exchanged a glance with the Levites. Both looked equally mystified, yet they went next, dutifully carrying their cedar chests, and then Baruch was alone in the Holy of Holies.

  Holy no longer, he reminded himself. Now it was just a room.

  He went to the edge of the opening and peered down to see Jeremiah looking up at him, standing in a pool of light cast by his brand. “Come now, Baruch. It is a short fall, and we are running out of time.”

  Taking a breath, Baruch lowered himself into a seated position at the edge of the hole. He closed his eyes -- and fell. Cold air rushed past him for the span of single heartbeat – and then his feet hit solid ground. He stumbled forward, going to hands and knees. Beneath his fingers, he felt raw stone. Opening his eyes, he saw that they were in a wide, low chamber, with what must have been the whole of the Temple hanging overhead. Underfoot was a vast, unhewn boulder.

  The eben shetiyah, he realized. Baruch stood and craned his neck. The secret portal hovered above him, a square of warm light. “We are beneath the Temple.” Awe filled his voice. “Upon the Foundation Stone.”

  “Yes,” Jeremiah said. “But it is not our final destination.”

  Baruch glanced curiously at the prophet, then turned slowly on the spot. The chamber was larger than the Holy of Holies above. It had to be, to contain the entirety of the eben shetiyah – the vast boulder upon which Adonai had decreed His house should be built. The stone, it was said, which formed the very foundation of Heaven and Earth.

  Yet, save for a ladder resting against one wall, there was nothing else that he could see. “Not our final destination? But where…”

  Jeremiah was already moving, stepping deftly across the uneven surface of the Foundation Stone. The Levites followed, staying close to remain in the prophet’s bubble of light. Baruch caught up and quickly saw where Jeremiah was headed: a round hole bored into the Foundation Stone itself. The light revealed stairs hewn from the rock, descending into the Earth.

  “What lies below?”

  “It is called the Well of Souls,” Jeremiah told him, as if that explained everything.

  The steps were smooth, as if worn down by countless generations of feet. The walls were narrow, cold rock pressing in on either side and forcing them to descend in a single line: Jeremiah leading the way, Baruch following behind the Levites.

  Baruch could see his own breath misting before him. Abruptly the stairs ended and they came into a small cave. It looked natural, and he could not help but feel disappointed. There was nothing here but more stone and a small pool of water in one corner.

  “Jeremiah, what are we doing here? What is this Well of Souls?”

  Softly, the prophet chuckled. “Oh, this is not the Well, Baruch.”

  He stepped towards an unremarkable stretch of wall on the far side of the chamber and passed through it.

 
Baruch gaped. One of the Levites gave a cry. Jeremiah’s voice echoed back to them, quite calm and apparently unhindered by the rock. “Come along.”

  This time Baruch was the first to move. He hurried to where the prophet had disappeared. From where he had stood the wall had appeared to be normal rock, yet as he approached he saw it for what it was – a curtain of some gauzy material, draped over an archway carved into the stone. From the right angle it looked remarkably solid; now that he stood directly before it, Baruch could see the glow of Jeremiah’s brand shining through the fabric and the silhouette of the prophet himself.

  Secrets within secrets. This time the thought was not bitter. Baruch felt only wonder. He quickly followed, the curtain parting and passing lightly over him like cobwebs.

  Down another flight of hewn steps he followed Jeremiah, the Levites now trailing behind. At the bottom they paused. The chamber beyond was cloaked in darkness, yet Baruch could sense it was much larger than the one above. There was a vastness to the air, like standing at the edge of a cliff. Jeremiah had already moved into it, a lone figure in a nimbus of light. Something sparked, and lines of fire raced out from where the prophet stood. Braziers leapt to life deeper in the chamber – and then more, further on – and then more – and more.

  Baruch found his jaw hanging open. The Well of Souls – the true Well of Souls – was immense, a long cavern with a ceiling that seemed to curve effortlessly. Countless braziers illuminated the space, mounted on the walls and connected by troughs of flaming oil carved directly into the stone walls. Between them marched massive stone pillars, each one wider around than any four men could reach. Their curved sides were pitted with alcoves and cubbies filled to brimming with scrolls and tablets, boxes and chests, and artifacts of bronze and gold and other metals Baruch could not identify.

  Baruch’s voice was a trembling whisper, yet the dimensions of the chamber seemed to amplify it. “What is this place?”

  “A repository,” Jeremiah said, coming to stand beside him. There was a hint of a smile on his lips and a twinkle in his eye at the stunned look on his protégée’s face. “The Well of Souls contains all the knowledge of our fathers, all the wisdom of the ancients, and all the blessings of Elohim.”