Free Scorn of Angels by John Patrick Kennedy Page A

style of the Romans. It is on papyrus, as the Romans would have used, and it is dated as the second year of the reign of Caligula Caesar.” She gently touched the cracked papyrus. “It is the order for the building of a new temple to the Goddess Nyx in Ptolemais, now called Arca, in what was once Galilee. What its value is depends on the reader.”
    “Does it have anything to do with our Lord?”
    “No,” said Arcana. At least not as you know him.
    Arcana stared at the scroll, confused. It did have to do with the one they worshipped as Jesus, just not by that name. The words were well written, the language perfectly clear, and it did not make any sense at all:
    Let there be, on the south wall of the temple, inscribed in the brick and inlaid with precious stones, the story of Nyx and her consort, known as Tribunal.”
    “Tribunal.”
    “What?” said the merchant.
    Arcana realized she had said his name out loud. She shook off her reverie. “Apologies, merchant. The scroll is about pagan gods, Nyx and Tribunal, not Jesus.” What in the name of GOD himself was she playing at?
    “Then it is valueless!” declared the merchant. “Worth nothing to me. No one will want it, and no one will buy it!” He glared at the Muslim man who was holding the scroll. “You’ve wasted my time! You drag me here to this hovel, and this is what you show me? You thief! You flea-ridden cheat!”
    “I have not!” protested the man. “You said you were looking for ancient relics!”
    “Of Jesus, you idiot!” The merchant rose and waved at the man. “Kill him.”
    “I beg your pardon?” said Arcana, rising to her feet.
    “The infidel dog tried to cheat me. Kill him!”
    “No,” said Arcana. “He has done you no harm.”
    “I have hired you, and you’ll do as you are told. Kill him!”
    “No, I won’t,” said Arcana. She reached under her surcoat, pulled out the pouch he had given to her, and tossed it to him. “Consider me no longer in your employ.”
    “What?” The merchant stared, turning an interesting shade of magenta. “You can’t do this!”
    “Go away.” Arcana pointed. “Straight out the door, turn left, run. You’ll be at the edge of the market in less than the time it takes you to say the Lord’s Prayer. Which I suggest you do. Maybe he’ll keep you from being murdered before you reach the Christian Quarter.”
    “But… But…”
    “Go,” said Arcana, and this time the power of her voice made the merchant quail. He grabbed his bags and dashed out the door. Arcana listened to his rapid footsteps retreating down the alley. Then she looked again at the scroll in front of her.
    “Do… do you want it?” asked the Muslim man.
    “No,” said Arcana in flawless Aramaic. She handed the man a silver coin. “This is for the trouble of showing it to me. Do you have any like it?”
    The man shook his head. “No. Only this one.”
    Arcana nodded, thanked the man again, and stepped out of the small shop. Minutes later she was far above the city, winging north for Arca, which had once been Ptolemais.
     
    Arcana circled the city from above, studying the layout and trying to guess where the temple had been. The description in the scroll had been fairly exact, so if it still stood, it would be obvious. Of course, the chances of it being unchanged after a thousand years were slim. But it had been one of the grander buildings in the city, and that meant it might still be in use in some form or another.
    I still don’t understand why she would want a temple. Nyx had never wanted to be worshipped. Arcana had been her friend for eons before the Fall. Being a goddess had never interested Nyx. Even when Nyx was leading the Angels in the rebellion against God, she had no desire to replace him. She thought of humans as nearly mindless, short-lived grubs without the dignity of animals. “Why make them look like us,” Nyx had said, “but so imperfect and weak?” Arcana remembered an argument one day when Nyx declared