David Morrell - The Covenant Of The Flame

'And you haven't even seen the best part,' Gerrard said.

'There are other paintings?' Craig raised his eyebrows in amazement.

'Yes, one more chamber,' Fulano said, his dark eyes gleaming. 'The best for last. Come. Appreciate. Worship.'

'Believe me, I already have.'

'Worshipped? Not completely. Not yet. It's just around this bend,' Fulano said. 'Prepare yourselves. The next-to-ultimate revelation will stun your… Well, why should I tell you what to expect? See for yourselves.'

He led. They followed, and as Tess rounded the bend, she gasped, not only in awe but fear. So did Craig.

The chamber, like the previous one, was filled with paintings, images, life-like portrayals of animals. But here the animals were exclusively bulls. Everywhere. And unlike the paintings in the previous chamber, the bulls weren't outlined in charcoal or red. These were multi-colored, not merely silhouetted but completely detailed. Totally realistic. Their hoofs were black, their haunches brown, their humped backs red. Their tails curved as if in a photograph. Their slanted pointed horns, too, were black. And their eyes were so vivid that they seemed about to blink in rigid anger, furious that they'd been captured eternally on the walls and the ceiling, their legs thrusting, their muscles straining, their bodies arching, an example of – a celebration of – the strength of nature, the strikingly beautiful surge and power of the universe, which twenty thousand years later was on the verge of being destroyed.

'The colors come from powdered carbon, ochre, and iron oxide, mixed with animal fat and blood. The technique is known as polychrome,' Gerrard said, 'and there are only two other sites, Lascaux and Altamira, where it was used to such a degree. Immensely sophisticated. Superbly executed. The greatest artwork that human beings have ever created. Because the message is the greatest – the enormous vitality of nature. But as the green mold on the paintings at Lascaux makes clear, our interference with nature has caused its vitality to be weakened to the point of extinction. We have a sacred responsibility. At any cost, the sickness of the planet must be reversed.'

Tess felt increasingly overpowered by what she was seeing.

And increasingly fearful.

Bulls. Like flames and crosses, so much of this nightmare had to do with bulls, and while her gaze pivoted along a wall, across the brilliant multi- colored bulls, she suddenly froze at the sight of one bull that was larger than all the others. Instead of having been portrayed in red, black, and brown, it was monochrome, the white of chalk, like the bull in the statue, and its head was raised in agony, a spearlike barbed line projecting through its neck.

Tess followed the direction of the white bull's anguished expression and whimpered when she saw another locked iron door.

What had Gerrard just said? We have a sacred responsibility. At any cost, the sickness of the planet must be reversed. And earlier, Fulano had said that this chamber was the next-to-ultimate revelation. What was behind the door?

'This is the only example of a violent image in the cave.' Fulano interrupted her urgent, panicked thoughts. 'But my ancestor wasn't puzzled. He understood the necessity for the violence in the painting, and he also understood that the color of the bull, its whiteness, was a sign. He knew precisely what he had to do.'

Tess gripped Craig's hand, watching Fulano unlock the door, then shove it open, the shriek of its hinges making her spine quiver.

'Somehow I don't think we're going to see more paintings,' Craig said.

'You assume correctly,' Fulano said. 'What you're going to see is the truth.'

Tess gripped Craig's hand much harder. In dismay, she hesitated. But Hugh Kelly and the guards urged her onward. With dread, her stomach cramping, she had to step through the door.

The cavern was dim, illuminated sparsely not by lightbulbs but by torches. The cavern became darker when Fulano shut and locked the door, blocking the light from the bulbs in the chamber of the bulls.

'The floor is damp but level. You shouldn't have trouble maintaining your balance,' Gerrard said, reassuringly. Their footsteps echoed. As Tess approached the first of the torches, she saw that it was made of stone and anchored into the cavern's floor. At the top, a basin was filled with flaming oil. The tongues of fire wavered as if her approach had caused a subtle breeze.

She stepped toward a second torch, and beyond in the darkness, she heard Gerrard and Fulano walking. Something scraped. A match flickered. She saw Gerrard lower it toward another torch, from which flames soon rose. Fulano did the same, lighting a farther torch. The two men moved around the chamber, continuing to light more torches until the darkness was almost completely dispelled. Even so, when they passed the torches, their shadows wavered eerily.

Fulano had described the cave paintings as the Sistine Chapel of paleolithic art. But now, in shock, Tess found herself staring at a true chapel. She tried to retain her presence of mind, to analyze what she was seeing. The chapel's design, its columns and vaulted ceiling, looked Roman, but given what Fulano had said about the cave having been discovered in the eighteen hundreds, Tess suspected that no matter the chapel's design, it wasn't ancient but instead had been built within the past hundred years.

It was chiseled from limestone and divided into three sections. To the right, three steps led up to an arched entrance and then an aisle with a bench carved out of the wall. On the left, three other steps led up to an identical aisle and bench. In the middle, a more lofty arched entrance provided access to a long open area, lower than the aisles and visible from the benches. The design was intended to focus attention toward a prominent object on a large square altar at the rear of the central area, and that object – Tess's heart faltered – was a bas-relief statue of Mithras straddling a white bull, slicing its throat. She wanted to scream. Her mind swirled. She feared that she'd go insane.

The statue was twice as large as the one she'd seen in Joseph's bedroom. Its white marble was weathered, cracked, and chipped, and she knew in her soul that this wasn't a copy, as Joseph's had been. No, this was the original. This was the statue that the small determined group of heretics had managed to take with them when they used ropes to escape down the mountain the night before the massacre at Montsegur.

'As I promised,' Fulano said. The truth.'

'Come. Look closer,' Gerrard said. He shifted between Tess and Craig, spread out his arms, and conducted them toward the chapel's central area. Before he entered, he stopped at a basin mounted on a pedestal and dipped his right hand within it. Water glistened on his fingers as he touched them to his forehead, his chest, then his left and right shoulder, making the Sign of the Cross.

But not the cross of Christianity, Tess knew. This cross was that of the sun god.

'A holy-water basin?' Her fear gave way to bewilderment.

'No doubt, it reminds you of Catholicism,' Gerrard said. 'But the ritual predates Catholicism. Like so many of our rituals, this one was borrowed – stolen - from us after Constantine converted from Mithraism to Christianity during the fourth century. After they persecuted us, the hypocrites then pretended that they'd also invented communion, the consecration of bread and wine, the sharing of the sacred meal. But unlike their false religion's bread and wine, which supposedly represents the body and blood of Christ, our bread and wine represents the fertility of, the bounty of, the earth. Similarly this water – which doesn't need to be blessed because simply by being water it's already holy – represents the glory of the rains and rivers that satisfy nature's thirst.'