Sanctus by Simon Toyne Read Free Book Online

mountain.
    She heard her father gasp. ‘My God,’ he whispered. ‘A Sanctus.’
    ‘So far,’ the newsreader continued, ‘there has been no word from inside the Citadel either confirming or denying that this man is anything to do with them, but joining us now to shed some light on this latest mystery is Ruinologist and author of many books on the Citadel, Dr Miriam Anata.’
    The newscaster twisted in his chair to face a large, formidable-looking woman in her early fifties wearing a navy blue pinstripe suit over a plain white T-shirt, her silver-grey hair cut short and precise, in an asymmetrical bob.
    ‘Dr Anata, what do you make of this morning’s events?’
    ‘I think we’re seeing something extraordinary here,’ she said, tilting her head forward and peering over half-moon glasses at him with her cold blue eyes. ‘This man is nothing like the monks one occasionally glimpses repairing the battlements or re-leading the windows. His cassock is green, not brown, which is very significant; only one order wears this colour, and they disappeared about nine hundred years ago.’
    ‘And who are they?’
    ‘Because they lived in the Citadel, very little is known about them, but as they were only ever spotted high up on the mountain we assume they were an exalted order, possibly charged with protection of the Sacrament.’
    The news anchor held a hand to his earpiece. ‘I think we can go live now to the Citadel.’
    The picture cut to a new, clearer image of the monk, his cassock ruffling slightly in the morning breeze, his arms still stretched out, unwavering.
    ‘Yes,’ said the newsreader. ‘There he is, on top of the Citadel, making the sign of the cross with his body.’
    ‘Not a cross,’ Oscar whispered down the phoneline as the picture zoomed slowly out revealing the terrifying height of the mountain. ‘The sign he’s making is the Tau .’
    In the gentle glow of firelight in his study in the western hills of Rio de Janeiro, Oscar de la Cruz sat with his eyes fixed to the TV image. His hair was pure white in contrast to his dark skin, which had been burnished to its current leathery state by more than a hundred summers. But despite his great age, his dark eyes were still bright and alert and his compact body still radiated restless energy and purpose, like a battlefield general shackled to a peacetime desk.
    ‘What do you think?’ his daughter’s voice whispered in his ear.
    He considered her question. He had been waiting for most of his life for something like this to happen, had spent a large part of it trying to make it so, and now he didn’t quite know what to do.
    He rose stiffly from his chair and padded across the floor towards French doors leading on to a tiled terrace that dimly reflected the moonlight.
    ‘It could mean nothing,’ he said finally.
    He heard his daughter sigh heavily. ‘Do you really believe that?’ she asked with a directness that made him smile. He’d brought her up to question everything.
    ‘No,’ he admitted. ‘No, not really.’
    ‘So?’
    He paused, almost frightened to form the thoughts in his head and the feelings in his heart into words. He looked across the basin toward the peak of Corcovado Mountain, where O Cristo Redentor , the statue of Christ the Redeemer, held out its arms and looked down benignly upon the still-sleeping citizens of Rio. He’d helped to build it, in the hope that it would herald the new era. It had indeed become as famous as he had hoped, but that was all. He thought now of the monk, standing on top of the Citadel, the gesture of one man carried around the world in less than a second by the world’s media, striking an almost identical pose to the one it had taken him nine years to construct from steel and concrete and sandstone. His hand reached up and ran round the high collar of the turtleneck sweater he always wore.
    ‘I think maybe the prophecy is coming true,’ he whispered. ‘I think we need to prepare.’

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