David Leadbeater
The Relic Hunters
CHAPTER ONE
“Look at the mad monk.”
He heard it often as he walked by. These unenlightened scum, wandering pointlessly with their unwashed children. These ignorant cattle, followers of the herd, bleating through life without the slightest inkling that every day, their every step, their every breath, was being judged, controlled and manipulated.
He would snuff them out at the merest hint of an order.
But not today. One surprising event had already occurred this morning, and he was about to be the author of at least one more. The earlier event, a true shock indeed, was hearing the unease and disarray in his master’s voice. A first, and probably last, for this life.
He scanned the road quickly, assimilating every scrap of information offered by his surroundings. The path that followed a slight incline up toward the front of the Athens Archaeological Museum was clogged with tourists and gawkers. He slowed, absorbing the environment. It was loud, colorful and upbeat. That would soon change. He kept the grave smile to himself as a man and woman barged past his right shoulder.
The words of the one true master running incessantly through his brain: “My son, focus fully on the work at hand. You can bask and bathe in the light, but only with the full illumination of focus. If you want to swim, focus on swimming. If you want to run, focus on running. If the moment is dark, confusing or unclear, focus on your objective. And you will always have an objective, Baltasar. Always.”
The couple he would prefer to tear limb from limb continued along their way, laughing loudly, oblivious to at least one muted monster in their midst. Baltasar took his time to thread through the crowd, focused. Ahead, the tall, round pillars that fronted the museum’s edifice marched toward the entrance and two sets of wide steps. The moment was approaching, then. He would have to be quick.
Baltasar was a complex man; seeing the appeal of archaeological mystery but happy to destroy it on even the most whimsical order from his masters. Obedience was everything. Loyalty and trust kept him alive. The Athens Archaeological Museum housed the relics of yesteryear to entertain the world of today and tomorrow, but Baltasar recognized only his master’s words on the subject of the past.
“Only four things matter from your or anyone’s past. The words you spoke. The barbs and bullets you loosed. The life you led, and the opportunities you squandered. Remember, it is too late to complain when the chance has already passed you by.”
Everything else was flotsam, designed by the true masters to make the herd lose focus.
Baltasar headed directly for the entrance, feeling a steady flow of adrenalin. Frequently, the jobs he carried out required him to remain incognito; today though, there was no such need. Today, the requirement was for speed.
Baltasar had spent a lifetime honing and enhancing the man — the weapon — that he had become. Still evolving, still advancing. The black bristle at the side of his head and the thick topknot along the middle were as much an identity as his given name. The yellow elastic band he used to keep it in place, the same. The wounds that decorated his body — the scars that had been handed out mostly by trainers, not enemies — gave him peace. Often, he would trace them in the dark, remembering their provenance and a lesson learned. They were the blueprint of his education, the roadmap to where he was right now. He was an intimidating man — tall, broad, grim of face, but the visage was offset by the humble black robes he wore, diminishing any threat he posed in the eyes of all but those that really knew.
Ahead, beyond the entrance, he was faced with three different doors. Straight in front stood the door to the Prehistoric Collection, but Baltasar knew he should use the door to the left. Initially, this led to the Sculptural Collection, followed a circular route and presented dated Greek sculptures and others heavily influenced by Ancient Egypt. Interestingly, at least for Baltasar and because of what he knew about the mission at hand, a bronze statue of Zeus could also be viewed along his route. At the rear of the museum sat rooms where private and temporary exhibitions were held. It was toward this area that Baltasar set his feet. Feet that had trodden a thousand different paths.
Found and purchased at a far-east flesh market at the age of six, the world had ever been his enemy. Thrown from one evil master to the next he had tried running, again and again until they decided to break his spirit. Before this could be accomplished a new man entered his life.
“These weak men need you to worship them. They need to dominate you to rise above their own nauseating fears; to prove to themselves that they are strong. But come with me… come with me and I will show you that divinity is earned a different way. That all sin can be repented. That no self-flagellation, no seven Hail Mary’s, no amount of bowing and kneeling can make you truly great, truly at one with God in this world. It is no longer in his image.”
Baltasar had warmed to this man, seeing a desire to aid and teach, a quality that promised restraint before violence, something new.
“I am yours.”
“I do not ask that. I will never ask that of you. First, understand that there is no god beyond the one we create. There is no salvation greater than that which we make. There is no afterlife, no eternal salvation beyond the legacy we leave. I am not an easy man. Not a fool. The things I ask of you will be dire indeed. But you will have one thing, I promise… one thing above all else.”
Baltasar had leaned forward. “Yes?”
“Family. I will give you a family. If family is truly a feeling of fitting in.”
The seed had been sown, the dye set. Baltasar had found true purpose and enlightenment. The next thirty years of his life were full, content. And as the master said — some of the tasks they asked of him were beyond appalling, but family came first.
Baltasar was dimly aware that he could never leave his master, but that too was a comfort, a safety barrier that urged him on. He was also dimly aware that he’d been raised to be different to most other people: few morals, no taboos, and utter obedience to the point of banishment. He would never question an order.
A circuitous route brought him to the private exhibition rooms, behind which he knew stood the various laboratories where new artifacts were stored and examined. The entry doors were behind an airport-style metal detector and a basic keypad. No guards were evident, though the area was watched over constantly by a cluster of security cameras. Baltasar wasn’t worried. In truth, words like worry, burden and insecurity held only dim meanings for him. The path provided. The master provided. All was well. His love was not blind, as some said, it was all seeing.
Baltasar visited the toilets, lost the robes, and came out wearing jeans, a black T-shirt and a baseball cap. A total transformation. The robes he still carried inside the small rucksack secured to his back. Dressed in the strange outfit, he felt a moment of inappropriateness bordering on betrayal, but the robes would never be far away.
He passed through the detector, needing no weapons, cellphones or money. He jabbed at the keypad in the correct manner, a servant of masters that could attain the code to any keypad on the planet in a matter of minutes. Expecting the doors to open, he breezed easily through when they did so.
Beyond the first set lay a rectangular open-plan room of cubicles, each with its own desk, computer and set of drawers. At the far end were the “clean” rooms, where older, more important relics found their way. Baltasar had been informed that the object he sought would be there, almost certainly inside the middle room of the three. Of course, he had never expected the workplace to be empty and he wasn’t disappointed. Three sat at their desks, heads down, lost in their jobs. Another stood by the water cooler, contemplating his plastic cup and the grimy window in front of his face.