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The Reincarnationist
M. J. Rose
A bomb in Rome, a flash of bluish-white light, and photojournalist Josh Ryder's world exploded. From that instant nothing would ever be the same.As Josh recovers, his mind is increasingly invaded with thoughts that have the emotion, the intensity, the intimacy of memories. But they are not his memories. They are ancient– and violent. A battery of medical and psychological tests can't explain Josh's baffling symptoms.And the memories have an urgency he can't ignore– pulling him to save a woman named Sabina– and the treasures she is protecting. But who is Sabina? Desperate for answers, Josh turns to the world-renowned Phoenix Foundation– a research facility that scientifically documents cases of past life experiences.His findings there lead him to an archaeological dig and to Professor Gabriella Chase, who has discovered an ancient tomb– a tomb with a powerful secret that threatens to merge the past with the present. Here, the dead call out to the living, and murders of the past become murders of the present.
THE
Reincarnationist
“M.J. Rose delivers a tale that goes beyond chills and thrills.
It’s a delight of intrigue with a clever twist. Not a disappointing page.”
—Steve Berry, The Templar Legacy
“THE REINCARNATIONIST is a riveting thriller – smart, original, and so well written. Rose hooks you on the first pages of the book, where current-day murders pull the reader into ancient secrets and shocking revelations, and keeps you turning till the stunning denouement.”
—Linda Fairstein, Bad Blood
“A breakneck chase across the centuries.
Fascinating and fabulous.”
—David Morrell, Creepers
“Both unnerving and mesmerising, THE
REINCARNATIONIST by M.J. Rose will excite anyone who’s ever had the slightest curiosity about past lives.
The story is packed with unforgettable characters, breath-taking drama, and fascinating research, cementing M.J. Rose’s reputation as a master storyteller.”
—Gayle Lynds, The Last Assassin
“A triumph! A breathtaking, smart and inventive novel that dazzles while it thrills. THE REINCARNATIONIST
is one of the year’s best reads.”
—David J. Montgomery, Chicago Sun-Times & Philadelphia Inquirer
“I simply believe that some part of the human self or soul is not subject to the laws of space or time.”
—Carl Jung
AUTHOR’S NOTE
While The Reincarnationist is a work of fiction, whenever possible I relied on the facts of history and preexisting theories about the subject of reincarnation to construct the backbone of this tale.
Life in ancient Rome, paganism, early Christianity and ancient beliefs in reincarnation, as well as the Vestal Virgins, are as history recorded them. So are the descriptions of Vestals’ duties, domicile and temple, as well as the rules they lived by. Their vows of chastity were sacrosanct, and they were buried alive for breaking them.
I have taken liberties when discussing their involvement with the Memory Stones—which are wholly my own invention, as are the Memory Tools.
Many of the locations in this novel exist. The Riftstone Arch is in Central Park; the Church of the Capuchins is where I describe it in Rome. Several tombs of Vestals have been discovered in various locations around Rome, but Sabina’s was not found, as there is no record of a Vestal by that name.
The Phoenix Foundation does not, unfortunately, exist. And while Malachai and Dr. Talmage are entirely fictitious, I was inspired by the amazing Dr. Ian Stevenson, who has done past life regressions with over 2,500 children.
Josh, Natalie and Rachel experience past life regressions in ways that are similar to those of people I’ve met and read about, but their stories are entirely my invention.
My own reading and research into reincarnation theory has been an ongoing process, and what I described in these pages was culled from the tenets and writings of those who have studied and believed over thousands of years. Included at the end of this novel is a list of books for those of my readers who wish to delve further into this fascinating concept.
Please visit Reincarnationist.org for more information.
Also available byM.J. Rose
THE HALO EFFECT
THE DELILAH COMPLEX
THE VENUS FIX
The
Reincarnationist
M. J. Rose
www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)
This book is dedicated to my remarkable editor,
Margaret O’Neil Marbury, who convinced me
I could climb this mountain.
&
To Lisa Tucker and Douglas Clegg, wonderful writers
and friends, who threw me a lifeline every
step of the way.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This is my ninth published novel and the one I have been writing the longest, since before I even knew I wanted to be a writer, when my mother first introduced me to the idea of reincarnation. I missed her a little less while I was working on this book and I’m certain she would love it best of all.
There are so many people I’d like to thank, starting with Loretta Barrett, Nick Mullendore and Gabriel Davis of Loretta Barrett Books for all their hard work and excellent advice. Thanks to the whole team at MIRA Books—especially Donna Hayes, Dianne Moggy, Alex Osusek, Laura Morris, Craig Swinwood, Heather Foy, Loriana Sacilotto, Katherine Orr, Marleah Stout, Stacy Widdrington, Pete McMahon, Gordy Goihl, Ken Foy, Fritz Servatius and Cheryl Stewart, Rebecca Soukis and Sarah Rundle. I am indeed blessed to have all of these amazing people in my corner and behind this book. It’s been a wonderful experience—thank you.
Thanks to Mayapryia Long, who gave me the right information at the right moment. For support, advice, information or just great conversation, thanks to Mara Nathan, Jenn Risko, Carol Fitzgerald, Judith Curr, Mark Dressler, Barry Eisler, Diane Vogt, Amanda’s father, Suzanne Beecher, David Hewson, Shelly King, Emily Kischell, Stan Pottinger, Elizabeth’s fiancé, Simon Lipskar, Katherine Neville, the Rome-Arch Listserv, Meryl Moss and all the International Thriller Writers.
My gratitude to each bookseller, librarian and every reader.
As always to my loving family: Gigi, Jay, Jordan, my father and Ellie.
And to Doug Scofield, for the calm in the storm, the eternal optimism and the music.
Chapter 1
They will come back, come back again,
As long as the red earth rolls.
He never wasted a leaf or a tree.
Do you think he would squander souls?
—Rudyard Kipling
Rome, Italy—sixteen months ago
Josh Ryder looked through the camera’s viewfinder, focusing on the security guard arguing with a young mother whose hair was dyed so red it looked like she was on fire. The search of the woman’s baby carriage was quickly becoming anything but routine, and Josh moved in closer for his next shot.
He’d just been keeping himself busy while awaiting the arrival of a delegation of peacekeepers from several superpowers who would be meeting with the pope that morning, but like several other members of the press and tourists who’d been ignoring the altercation or losing patience with it, he was becoming concerned. Although searches went on every hour, every day, around the world, the potential for danger hung over everyone’s lives, lingering like the smell of fire.
In the distance the sonorous sound of a bell ringing called the religious to prayer, its echo out of sync with the woman’s shrill voice as she continued to protest. Then, with a huge shove, she pushed the carriage against the guard’s legs, and just as Josh brought the image into that clarity he called “perfect vision,” the kind of image that the newspaper would want, the kind of conflict they loved captured on film, he heard the blast.
Then a flash of bluish white light.
The next moment, the world exploded.
In the protective shadows of the altar, Julius and his brother whispered, reviewing their plans for the last part of the rescue and recovery. Each of them kept a hand on his dagger, prepared in case one of the emperor’s soldiers sprang out of the darkness. In Rome, in the Year of their Lord 391, temples were no longer sanctuaries for pagan priests. Converting to Christianity was not a choice, but an official mandate. Resisting was a crime punishable by death. Blood spilled in the name of the Church was not a sin, it was the price of victory.
The two brothers strategized—Drago would stay in the temple for an hour longer and then rendezvous with Julius at the tomb by the city gates. As a diversion, that morning’s elaborate funeral had been a success, but they were still worried. Everything depended on this last part of their strategy going smoothly.
Julius drew his cape closed, touched his brother’s shoulder, bidding him goodbye and good luck, and skulked out of the basilica, keeping to the building’s edge in case anyone was watching. He heard approaching horses and the clatter of wheels. Flattening himself against the stone wall, Julius held his breath and didn’t move. The chariot passed without stopping.
He’d finally reached the edge of the porch when, behind him, like a sudden avalanche of rocks, he heard an angry shout split open the silence: “Show me where the treasury is!”
This was the disaster Julius and his brother had feared and discussed, but Drago had been clear—even if the temple was attacked, Julius was to continue on. Not turn back. Not try to help him. The treasure Julius needed to save was more important than any one life or any five lives or any fifty lives.
But then a razor-sharp cry of pain rang out, and ignoring the plan, he ran back through the shadows, into the temple and up to the altar.
His brother was not where he’d left him.
“Drago?”
No answer.
“Drago?”
Where was he?
Julius worked his way down one of the dark side aisles of the temple and up the next. When he found Drago, it wasn’t by sound or by sight—but by tripping over his brother’s supine body.
He pulled him closer to the flickering torches. Drago’s skin was already deathly pale, and his torn robe revealed a six-inch horizontal slash on his stomach crossing a vertical gash that cut him all the way down to his groin.
Julius gagged. He’d seen eviscerated carcasses of both man and beast before and had barely given them a passing glance. Sacrifices, felled soldiers or punished criminals were one thing. But this was Drago. This blood was his blood.
“You weren’t … supposed to come back,” Drago said, dragging every syllable out as if it was stuck in his throat. “I sent him … to look in the loculi … for the treasures. I thought … Stabbed me, anyway. But there’s time … for us to get out … now … now!” Drago struggled to raise himself up to a sitting position, spilling his insides as he moved.
Julius pushed him down.
“Now … we need … to go now.” Drago’s voice was weakening.
Trying to staunch the blood flow, Julius put pressure on the laceration, willing the intestines and nerves and veins and skin to rejoin and fuse back together, but all he accomplished was staining his hands in the hot, sticky mess.
“Where are the virgins?” The voice erupted like Vesuvius without warning and echoed through the interior nave. Raucous laughter followed.
How many soldiers were there?
“Let’s find the booty we came here for,” another voice chimed in.
“Not yet, first I want one of the virgins. Where are the virgin whores?”
“The treasury first, you lecherous bastard.”
More laughter.
So it wasn’t one man; a regiment had stormed the temple. Shouting, demanding, blood-lust coating their words. Let them pillage this place, let them waste their energy, they’d come too late: there were no pagans to convert, no treasure left to find and no women left to rape, they’d all already been killed or sent into hiding.
“We have to go …” Drago whispered as once again he fought to rise.
He’d stayed behind to make sure everyone else got out safely. Why him, why Drago?
“You can’t move, you’ve been hurt—”Julius broke off, not knowing how to tell his brother that half of his internal organs were no longer inside his body.
“Then leave me. You need to get to her … Save her and the treasures … . No one … no one but you …”
It wasn’t about the sacred objects anymore. It was about two people who both needed him desperately: the woman he loved and his brother, and the fates were demanding Julius sacrifice one of them for the other.
I can’t let her die and I can’t leave you to die.
No matter which one he chose, how would he live with the decision?
“Look what I found,” one of the soldiers shouted.
Screams of vengeance reverberated through the majestic hall. A shriek rang out above all the other noise. A woman’s cry.
Julius crawled out, hid behind a column and peered into the nave. He couldn’t see the woman’s upper body, but her pale legs were thrashing under the brute as the soldier pumped away so roughly that blood pooled under her. Who was the poor woman? Had she wandered in thinking she’d find a safe haven in the old temple, only to find she’d descended into hell? Could Julius help her? Take the men by surprise? No, there were too many of them. At least eight he could see. By now the rape had attracted more attention, drawing other men who forgot about their search to crowd around and cheer on their compatriot.
And what would happen to Drago if he left his side?
