The Fallen Tabernacle of David (2)
Seoyeon strode down the long corridor that led underground.
As she walked, she opened her backpack and drew out a change of clothes. It was a pitch-black garment that, at a glance, might have passed for a martial arts uniform—the very symbol of Saint Bartholomew, shroud and holy vestment in one. She had worn it more times than she could count, and even now, mid-stride, Han Seoyeon put it on with perfect ease, slipping her arms through the sleeves and binding the fascia fast about her waist. At last she let down the hair she had tied up, covered it with the cappello romano that marked a Gravekeeper, and the change of clothes was done.
"By the way, do you absolutely have to change into that?"
Hitomi, following along at her side, asked as if the question had only just occurred to her.
"It's a holy relic inherited with the apostolic office. One is required to bring it to an Apostolic Council."
It was, Seoyeon explained, much the same as a royal house presenting itself at a formal occasion without its crown.
By the time she finished, the two of them stood before a spiral staircase. Hitomi glanced about as if to ask whether this was really the place, and Seoyeon nodded and took the lead up the steps. Not that her initiative mattered much—there hadn't been a single fork in the path so far, so this way was the only way it could have been. Their footsteps clicked as they climbed. Once the spiral had coiled around for the third time, a warm orange light spilled over them.
Hitomi looked up. At the ends of ornate golden fixtures, bulbs hung clustered like fruit. She expected the stairs to give out before long, and she was right. The two of them halted where the steps ended and looked straight ahead.
A massive metal door stood there, and beside its paired leaves waited knights in gleaming silver plate. The moment they caught sight of Han Seoyeon and Hitomi, they spun about—not to ignore the women, but to push open the doors at their backs. With a heavy, grating groan the metal leaves swung wide, and what lay within slowly came into view.
Inside was one large chamber, doors set into every wall. Walls and ceiling alike were gray-brown stone. What occupied the center was stone as well—more precisely, a pitch-black round table. To judge by its shape, it had not been joined or assembled at all, but hewn from a single solid boulder. The craftsman's skill was enough to draw a sigh of admiration.
Around the table stood twelve chairs carved from the same stone, an apostle's name engraved in Latin at the top of each backrest. There were more chairs besides—four, once she counted them properly—and set against the stone seats that bore the apostles' names, these looked far softer and more comfortable. Placed at an angle beside the apostolic places, they were probably meant for invited outsiders, like Hitomi. Two of those guest seats were already taken, and five of the apostolic seats as well.
Three of the apostles were faces Hitomi already knew.
Apostle Thomas: a Western man of gentle aspect, a necklace of what appeared to be human finger bones strung on a cord. The Crusher. Holy Communion—Giacomo Marchisio Bonaventura.
Apostle Matthias: a brown-skinned beauty, near enough to the stereotype of a South American beauty, with a hand axe at her hip. The Visitor. Weeping Flesh—Alejandra Monica Lopez Sanchez Muerte.
Apostle Matthew: a woman who looked to be in her twenties, her skin white enough to seem Northern European, gauntlets on her hands. The Pioneer. Crown of Thorns—Kiira Korhonen Barbara.
And two apostles Hitomi did not know.
Apostle Philip: a man with a cleft lip and a severe hunchback, the bulge of his muscle making him look all the more grotesque, two spears leaned up behind his chair. The Deceiver. Pillowcase—Cesare Bianchi Valentinus.
Apostle Simon: a bald Black man, gaunt enough that one worried for his health, a saw ornamented with jewels laid upon the table. The Critical Patient. Flashbang—Andile Tekiye Yohannes Nepomuk.
And among those who were not apostles, there was one face she knew.
"……."
Han Jihan. The Vampire Slayer, and Han Seoyeon's master—or, for all practical purposes, her adoptive father. From where he sat, he had most likely come as companion to Apostle Thomas, Giacomo.
Seoyeon gave them a slight nod and, with an easy composure, found her own place and sat. Hitomi scurried after her, bowing again and again to the attendees of the council.
"It's been a while, Miss Ninomae."
"Ah—yes. It's been a while……."
Once Hitomi had taken the chair beside Han Seoyeon, Alejandra, who had been beaming, addressed her in Japanese. Hitomi managed a reply, awkward as it was.
"Good timing on your part too, Seoyeon. That obnoxious macho hunchback was so loud, I was having a terrible time."
What followed was a greeting for Han Seoyeon. This time, though, it was Italian, which everyone but Hitomi could understand—almost as if she wanted a certain someone to hear.
"What did you just say?"
And that someone, the instant her words reached him, glared, his face sour with displeasure. Between his warped, twisted lips, crooked teeth showed.
"I said you were disgustingly loud, and that it was quite the ordeal?"
"……."
Alejandra tacked this on with perfect brazenness, and at her words Apostle Philip—Cesare—scowled harder still. His expression was such that it would have been no surprise if he had kicked back his chair and started roaring that very moment. And yet a moment later his eyes slid sidelong toward Seoyeon. He clicked his tongue and let out a long breath, as though straining to force the feeling down.
"The inhibitor's performance is as reliable as ever, I see."
"Deliberately goading others is not becoming conduct, Alejandra."
"Ah, I'm sooorry~"
Alejandra snickered as she watched. Giacomo had chided her for the remark, yes, but only after the moment was already over, which made it nothing more than form. He even seemed, privately, to approve of what she had done. Perhaps that was why he offered no reply to her perfunctory little repentance. Had the man called Cesare really been that much of a nuisance? So Hitomi guessed.
Then her eyes met Cesare's, who still wore that unpleasant look. She had done nothing wrong, and yet somehow Hitomi flinched and looked away.
"It is not that I am weaker than Bartholomew. I simply have no wish to pick a needless fight with someone whose actions cannot be predicted."
He said it as if to warn Hitomi not to misunderstand. He had certainly not backed down because he was weaker than Han Seoyeon.
No one present denied the fact itself. Cesare's character was foul—more than a little—but put the other way, it meant he was skilled enough to become an apostle even with disqualifying traits of that sort. That he was a master of the twin spear, granted the Spear of Longinus on top of the holy relic inherited with his apostolic seat, was itself proof of his ability.
Even so, the reason he watched his words and his conduct before Han Seoyeon was a matter of the past.
Not long after Seoyeon became an apostle, a Flute-class response was issued, and several apostles were deployed together on a single mission. It was then, too, that Han Seoyeon and Cesare Bianchi had their first collision—and their last.
Cesare had always been the sort who could not keep his temper in hand, so it did not take long for a light argument to flare into open dispute. In the end the two of them went so far as to set a date for a duel. Cesare was waiting on that day for the chance to take "that goddamn Asian bitch" down a peg.
And then Apostle James the Less, Guénaël Duvert, came looking for him.
"Preparations for the duel coming along?"
As was his habit, he had at some point already strode into Cesare's quarters and was simply standing there.
"What the hell did you barge in here to spew, you old nigger?"
Cesare had, of course, never granted him entry, and he made no effort to hide his disgust as he glared.
Guénaël only went on stroking his beard, unruffled as ever.
"I've just come from hearing about Bartholomew's plan. I asked how she meant to prepare for the duel, and she told me outright. Thought I ought to pass it along to you."
"Save it. I don't need to hear that crap beforehand just to stomp a bitch like her."
"No. This is something you will need."
Insisting that he absolutely had to hear it, Guénaël relayed what he had heard from Han Seoyeon, word for word.
"First, confirm whether air superiority can be secured. Also request fire support from the artillery and review the details—so she said."
Which is why I told you not to say it! That was what Cesare had been about to shout.
If he happened to win after taking in information like this, he could not have borne being told he had won by dirty work behind the scenes. What kept the words from leaving his mouth was that the thing which had come out of the other man belonged to a category he had not imagined in the slightest.
"…Air superiority?"
"Air superiority."
"And fire support, on top of that?"
"From the artillery unit nearby, yes."
"……."
And that very day, Apostle Philip apologized to Han Seoyeon and declared unconditional surrender.
It was not that he thought he would lose to her. He was simply afraid of the way she thought.
Bringing every underhanded trick to bear in a duel between individuals, seizing the advantage through things outside the duel itself—such things could happen readily enough. Dig through history and there would be no shortage of real examples. But he had no desire to make an enemy of a human being who could, without a flicker of hesitation, talk about calling in the artillery and the air force besides.
If you win, that's all that matters might look cowardly at a glance, and yet it was a widely held outlook. Even that, though, had to have a limit.
He was a little put out, all the same, that from that day on the other apostles so often made use of Han Seoyeon as his inhibitor. Worse, whenever someone who knew nothing got it into their head that a fight between him and Han Seoyeon would end with him utterly overwhelmed, the displeasure became nearly more than he could stand.
And so that was what Cesare had conveyed to Hitomi. She was not, under any circumstances, to misunderstand.
A flawless declaration of intent.
"……Ahaha."
Flawless, that is, if one set aside the minor detail that Hitomi did not speak Italian. She could only smile, awkwardly.
"……."
A moment too late, Cesare Bianchi realized she had not understood a word of it… but he did not bother saying it twice, and shut his mouth. English would probably have gotten through. Repeating the whole thing in English, though, struck him as lacking in style.
If he cared how he looked, shouldn't he have been minding that from the start? The thought crossed Alejandra's mind as she watched, and then the creak that reached her ears wiped it clean away.
The sound of a heavy iron door opening—the leaf opposite the one Han Seoyeon and Hitomi had come through. As it swung wide, two men walked in through the gap.
One was an old man whose hair and beard had gone white. He wore his chin-beard quite long, and a small pair of magnifying spectacles, and his dress called a priest to mind. The splendid necklace at his throat suggested he was no ordinary person—not that anyone fit to attend this gathering was ordinary, but this old man was exceptional even so. His hat and vestments, moreover, differed slightly from the Catholicism Hitomi knew. Most likely he was Apostle Andrew: Jeremias V, the current Ecumenical Patriarch of Constantinople.
In that case, the identity of the figure beside him was obvious as well. Among those who belonged to the Catholic Church, the people who could walk abreast of the head of the Orthodox Church could be counted on one hand. A man who looked somewhere between middle age and old age—though, considering that his office laid a tremendous burden on both body and mind, he might simply appear older than he was. What showed beneath was vestment of purest white, but for now he had thrown a pitch-black poncho over it, as if to say the color was not to be minded. He must have wanted to emphasize that, for the present, he stood equal with the other apostles. That he had to emphasize this "equality" meant, conversely, that his actual standing was not equal in the least.
One whom even the apostles, the very apex of the holy knights, were bound to respect. The supreme dignity of the Catholic Church, which no one could deny—or, as the title ran, the servant of the servants of God. It was a face that even Hitomi, who paid little attention to current affairs, had seen on the news. Pope Dionysius II, wearing a gentle smile, was walking into the council chamber together with the Ecumenical Patriarch of Constantinople.
The instant they set foot in the room, Han Seoyeon shot to her feet. She clicked her heels together with a sharp tap and came to attention. At the sight of her rendering respect so quickly, Hitomi scrambled up as well. Then she looked around, and froze where she was, half-risen.
Aren't there... far too few people standing up?
The only ones on their feet were Han Seoyeon and Cesare Bianchi. Everyone else merely sat where they were and offered a greeting with their eyes, perfectly at ease. A pack of eccentrics, most of whom would not even show respect to the Pope. Hitomi quietly revised what she thought she knew about the apostles.
"Please, sit, Miss Seoyeon. You as well, Cesare."
But from the way he smiled that good-natured, troubled smile and waved them down, it seemed that among this company it was Han Seoyeon who was treated as the odd one out. Hitomi waited, watching, and only sat once she had confirmed that the two apostles were seated.
The two august figures found their places and sat… and before long, the door opened again.
"Whew! I'm not late, am I?"
"I'd say that arriving later than His Holiness the Pope is already problem enough."
A man came hurrying in before the door had even finished opening. He looked to be in his thirties, though the thick beard might have made him seem a little older than he was. Neither his manner nor his dress—a chain wound about one arm—showed much in the way of manners. Judging by the other apostles' reactions, however, they were all well used to the attitude. He hastily found his seat and dropped into it. Hitomi stole a glance. The name of Jude Thaddaeus was carved there.
Apostle Jude Thaddaeus. The Strategist. Horseshoe—Moritz Hoffmann Christophoro.
Hitomi turned over in her mind the roster she had seen before.
A little more time passed, and the last figure entered.
"……?"
Hitomi could not help but doubt her own eyes.
A Black man in a cardinal's red came wheeling a chair into the council chamber. The problem was the woman seated in it. She wore a straitjacket, and her eyes, her ears, and her mouth were all sealed shut. The cardinal rolled the creaking wheelchair up to the seat marked "John," then brought over a rectangular metal case and set it on the table. The case opened, and a laptop was taken out. Only after placing it on the table before the seat of "James the Greater" did the cardinal sit in the last chair prepared for observers.
Apostle John. The Preacher. Matchbox—Elif Yazıcı Nino.
Apostle James the Greater. The Prophet. The Gentile—the artificial intelligence Abraham-Delta.
At the appearance of the two most alien persons(?), Hitomi had no choice but to remain lost in confusion for a while.
Everyone's so bizarre... these aren't actually talents specialized for VTubers, are they?
She even told herself a joke like that, if only as a way to get her heart back in order.