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Rick Jones

Pandora's Ark

PROLOGUE

Jerusalem, 956 B.C.

At the precise moment of dawn when Jerusalem became capped with a blood-red sky, the old priest stood along the edge of the parapet that surrounded the city and measured the vast numbers of Shishak’s army that stretched endlessly across the desert landscape.

Days earlier, runners brought forth news that Shishak’s ranks had taken the city of Judah in the north, and planned to march on Jerusalem for treasures of gold and coin to proffer to their false gods.

To the Hebrews he was known as Shishak. To the Egyptians, Sheshong I, the warrior king of Egypt’s 22nd Dynasty, who knew no boundaries when it came to war. With a league of 1200 chariots and 60,000 horsemen made up of Libyans, Sukkites and Cushites packed so close together, not a foot of land could be seen between them.

As the old man stood there in examination a warm breeze began to stir, causing his triangular-shaped beard to flag over his shoulder as an undeniable sadness filled him with a horrible reality. Even with the heat of the desert sun as an ally and towering walls to stop an approach, they were not enough to counter the pharaoh’s army.

Jerusalem was about to fall.

High within the sentry towers horns blared in warning, a harsh and caustic sound that galvanized the masses to frenzy. The wealthy instinctively grabbed as many coins as they could, while those in lower castes took arms to help bolster troops along the walls. Those who saw the futility of challenging Shishak’s ranks, however, took flight through the southern gates where they were met by the Sukkites, who cut them down with the savageness of intoxicated hunters.

With the priest’s face bearing the weight and looseness of a rubber mask, as his eyes watched the bone-cutting slaughter by the wielding swords of Shishak’s army, he began to regard the treasures within the Holy Temple. Physically challenged by age and infirmity within the joints of his limbs, Abraham took to the ladder with the slowness of a bad dream and began to descend the rungs, asking the Lord in silent prayer to give him enough time to save the greatest of His gifts from Shishak’s authority.

Getting a foothold on Jerusalem’s soil with tiny plumes of dust taking flight from the impact of his sandals touching down, the priest fought his way through panicking masses in order to get to the Holy Temple.

The ornate columns, grand doorways and golden dome of the temple appeared like something unattainable sitting at the very edge of an endless road, the temple always too distant no matter how hard the old man tried to close the gap between them, his glacial strides caused by his constant struggle of wading through hordes of people who ran the streets with abandon.

When he finally reached the gateway he allowed his eyes to gaze upon the horizon where he noted the colorful preface of a new day, the moment of dawn when the warmth of the rose-colored light began to alight upon his face. And for as long as he could the priest relished the moment, knowing that this was going to be the last sunrise he would ever see again.

* * *

With detailed examination Shishak studied the city of Jerusalem from a distant rise with eyes so dark they seemed without pupils. Yet as cruel as they appeared, they also possessed great intelligence and the weight of supreme confidence.

To the Jews he was known as Shishak. To the Egyptians, Sheshong I, the warrior king of Egypt’s 22nd Dynasty who knew no boundaries when it came to the atrocities of war.

Mounted on a white steed that possessed a mane as blond as corn silk, Shishak sat as still as a Grecian statue overlooking his troops. He was tall and lean, with skin the color of tanned leather. His head was shaved, his physique strong, with a strong and firm jaw line that was framed by rawboned features. In totality, with every cord and sinew of muscle showcased beneath an ornamental collar of jeweled gold, Shishak looked his part as the ‘Warrior King.’

Beside him was Darius, his most celebrated lieutenant, whose skin was so dark that it resembled the color and sheen of eggplant. The wide breadth of his shoulders, the large expanse of chest and thickness of arms, had all been borne from years of wielding a weighted sword and shield.

For the moment the lieutenant was having a problem maintaining control of his horse, the mare whinnying, then rearing, its front legs pawing the open air before settling under Darius’s control with a pull of his reins.

“My king,” he said, gaining control, “the sky. The color of blood is never a good omen. Even my steed senses ill forebodings.”

“Your steed,” he told Darius, before giving him a sidelong glance, “does not bear the foresight of an oracle. The dark omen you see is an omen issued from your own heart.” He turned back to view Jerusalem with passive repose. “Whereas you see menace,” he said evenly, “I see a sign from Ra that the blood of our enemies will cover the ground and become one with the sky.” He nodded, as if to confirm his thoughts. “Like those in Judah,” he added, “their blood will serve as a testament of our victory rather than the dark prophecy you see it to be. Today the color red is a good color. And before the day is through, Darius, the hooves of my stallion will leave imprints in the sand that will be thick with the blood of our enemies.”

Shishak prodded his horse forward and surveyed his army. The sheer number alone was incomprehensible. The terrain was laden with soldiers as far as his eyes could see.

Pleased, he returned to Darius’s side. “Alert the battalions,” he told him. “And prepare them for victory.”

“Aye, my King.” Darius then signaled to his field commands to prepare for battle by raising his sword high, its blade silhouetted against the blood-red sky, then rode along the front line shouting rants to fuel the blood lust of 60,000 men.

When Darius returned to his position beside the pharaoh he sheathed his sword. Around them Shishak’s warriors thrust their pikes and swords in the air, chanting victory in the name of Ra.

“They’re at your command, my Lord.”

Shishak slid his sword from his jeweled scabbard and raised it high, the cries of his army escalating, the anticipation of battle now at fever pitch. He then turned to Darius with his eyes burning with the eagerness to fight and thrust and kill. He would not sit back as a spectator perched from afar, but engage in a bloodletting until the air smelled ripe with copper. “I want all the riches within the Holy Temple,” he told him. “Everything is to be proffered to the Temple of Ra, as homage to our victories.”

“Aye, my King.”

“But we have to get there before the priests do,” he added.

“The Sukkites are cutting a path through the city from the north as we speak, my King.”

Shishak raised the point of his sword to its highest point. “Then advance the others,” he ordered. “I want the one thing they covet most.”

“Our sources say that the most holy of treasures sits in the Chamber’s center surrounded by mounds of gold.”

“Then let us claim what rightfully belongs to Ra,” he said. And with that he pointed his sword in the direction of Jerusalem, which incited cries from his forces, and watched his army charge the city walls with the intent to leave no one left alive.

* * *

In Jerusalem he is called Abraham, a high-ranking priest who is coveted by the masses and wise beyond his years. Yet in his seventy-plus years of living he had grown so aged and weary that his flesh looked like the tallow of melted wax, giving off the impression that he was as ancient as the sands that surrounded the city. Though driven by conviction despite the burning sensation in his lungs and growing heaviness in his legs, Abraham hurried along darkened corridors toward the Sacred Vault with markedly forced strides.