Centurion: Mark's Gospel as a Thriller

by Waller, Ryan Casey

  "The cross."

  "That's right." I take her teary face in the palms of my hands. "They'd hang him on a Kingdom cross. Is that what you want? For your beloved Teacher to die from the cruelest form of death ever devised?"

  "Of course not. But what makes you think they won't hurt him tonight?"

  "It's the eve of the Great Festival. To try him tonight would violate our religious laws. There can be no trial until sunrise. But that will never happen. They're going to lock him up until the Great Festival is over. Can you imagine the scandal of a midnight trial of the Teacher? The people would stone the religious authorities for such an atrocity. Nothing will happen tonight, I swear it."

  "And then what?"

  "It doesn't matter."

  "Why not?"

  "Because tomorrow night, when all this is over, you and I will find the Teacher and walk straight out of the Holy City—together—with an army behind us."

  "No. They're never going to let him go. When the festival is over, they'll torture him."

  "No they won't," I tell her.

  "How can you be so sure?"

  "Because," I say, my chest welling with pride, "they won't be able to."

  "Why not?"

  "They'll be dead."

  aria hates the plan.

  She says I'm risking my very soul by waging war during the Great Festival—not to mention the fact that I plan on killing holy men. No matter how noble the cause, the ends—she argues—don't justify the means.

  She's wrong. But I understand she can't see that tonight. It's far too late, and there's still far too much for me to do. But when the dust settles, and this city's streets are flooded with the blood of our enemies, she'll see the light.

  I drop her off at the safe house Henrik has prepared for us. It's a cramped apartment on the top floor of a formidable high-rise. Built twenty years ago, the building is half filled with occupants. The apartment has running water, canned food, and a twin bed I'm told is comfortable for sleeping. The high-rise is situated miles from where the battle will take place. It's as safe a hideout as can be within Holy City limits. Henrik has assured us that most of the occupants are Kingdom citizens, meaning the building will be fortified should things run sideways. But I've already planned for that. My men are aware that Maria will be here and will keep this in mind when the fighting heats up. Under no circumstances will this building be attacked.

  I feel good about leaving her here.

  I make Maria promise she won't leave the building until I come for her. It takes a full hour of coaxing before she agrees. There are many tears and countless declarations that I'm misguided, that I'm damned. She continues to teeter on the edge. In one moment I'm convinced she'd follow me to hell. In the next I think it wise to barricade the door.

  But in the end she chooses to stay.

  "I love you, Deacon," she says.

  "I love you too, Maria."

  She breaks down again. I hold her close until the storm passes.

  "Why didn't the Teacher fight back?" she asks. "Why did he let them take him? He's so powerful. We've witnessed him do such mighty things, haven't we? Why not resist those crooked men? It would have been so simple. He could have done it without harming a hair on their heads. I don't understand."

  I speak softly. "Because...he isn't the One. Once we've liberated our people, the Teacher will be of great use to our nation. But for now, for tonight, he must remain with the religious authorities. I hope you'll understand that I had to use him. He was our bargaining chip. It was the only way Henrik would have agreed. I've lined his pockets, and so have the religious authorities. They've paid a monumental price to have the Teacher silenced for the Great Festival. Don't you see? This way everyone wins. The religious authorities calm down. The Kingdom stays happy. Henrik gets rich. And I get a free shot at King Charles. And then... revolution"

  Maria, who still looks unconvinced, says, "I pray to the one true God you're right."

  I draw her closer and whisper in her ear, "I am, sweet girl. I am. You have to trust me now."

  I stay with her for another hour, and then I leave to prepare for the most important day of my life.

  As I creep back into the heart of the city to meet up with Henrik and Jude, I experience a calm I haven't known in many months. It's the overwhelming peace that comes from knowing you've done the right thing.

  The morning comes before I'm ready. The Gratitude Ceremony is scheduled for 7:00 a.m., one hour from now.

  I've spent the entire night with Henrik. But Jude is nowhere to be found.

  He, like all the others, vanished during the Teacher's arrest. I saw the guards shove him aside, but after that, nothing. Henrik assured me that Jude fled the city to meet up with our army beyond the city walls, which was the plan. But first he was supposed to have met me here.

  This bothers me. But there's nothing I can do about it.

  I have no way to communicate with him, other than to send a message through Henrik, but Henrik and I are now attached at the hip. The Nordic centurion didn't leave my side all night, nor will he until I've killed King Charles and assumed command of the army. He's my only way in and my only way out—my solitary lifeline. For this plan to work, I need my enemy's help.

  I attempted to sleep for a few hours in a discreet safe house, roughly the size of a broom closet, but it was of no use. Henrik, however, slept soundly. He probably dreamt about what he'll do with my money once he has safely fled North America and the grasp of the Kingdom he's betrayed.

  A hundred times I've envisioned slitting his throat. It would be so easy. Just pull out Petra's switchblade and cut his jugular. He'd be dead within a minute. To watch him die would give me pure satisfaction. But I wouldn't do it that fast. First I'd wake him with the sharp point of the knife and ask him what he did with my parents. When he refused to answer, I'd promise to spare his life. Though he's a giant, I've already seen fear once before in his eyes. He'd tell me the truth. Once I discovered their fate, I'd ask him what it feels like to breathe but know death is moments away. Then, when his brain had processed that I was his executioner, I'd wait, perhaps for as long as ten minutes—however long it took for him to lose total control. I'd wait until he wet himself. Then, and only then, when his entire body and spirit were in the most intense anguish, I'd run the blade expertly across his neck and watch him bleed to death.

  Henrik opens his eyes.

  I stare at him like a lion on a lamb.

  "Stop looking at me that way," he says.

  "When did you decide to become a mercenary?"

  "What's it to you?"

  "I'm curious."

  Henrik yawns and stretches his arms and legs, which run for miles. "I was orphaned as a boy. Both parents died of fever. It was just my older brother and me. It was winter, and we were starving. No vegetation grows in the Arctic that time of year. We were too dumb to hunt with any efficiency. We tried, but it was never enough. One day we were out trapping, and we saw another hunter, a lone man, in the distance. He had enough meat on his oxen to feed us for a month. We hid in the snow until he was close, and we took him."

  Henrik stops talking and looks at me as though he's finished telling the story.

  "It was survival," I say. "Many men would do the same in your situation and not become a hired killer."

  He shakes his head. "My brother bawled for days, cried until he vomited. Even as we beat the man to death, my brother squealed, the terrible shriek of a child. Cried like a girl. The whole thing unnerved him to the core."

  "But not you."

  He smiles broadly. "I loved every second of it. I'd always been big and clumsy, but when the time came to kill this man, I moved like a dancer, sharp and precise. It was like a fish hatching from the egg and swimming into the sea. As the bones in his neck cracked under my hands, I thought, So this is what the gods made me for?" Henrik laughs. "I packed the meat the next morning and set out to find other men who might employ my newfound talent."

  "And your brother?"<
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  "I considered letting him live, chewed it over all night. But...starvation is an unkind death."

  "You killed him?"

  "I set him free."

  "You could have learned to hunt. You killed a grown man. Animals are much easier."

  Henrik stands. "I wasn't interested in hunting animals." He fastens his helmet on his head but doesn't pull down the visor. "You and I aren't that different, you know?"

  "I'm nothing like you."

  "You're a killer," he says. "I saw it in your eyes the night of the amphitheater fight. You were thirsty for it. A lot of men can inflict pain on a person—takes a special one to enjoy it."

  I stand up. "Stop talking."

  Henrik laughs softly. "You're about to kill the most powerful man on the continent, and you don't want to think of yourself as a killer? That's intriguing."

  I move for the door. "Time to go."

  "If you're not a killer, what are you?" he asks.

  I stop, my hand on the door, and think about his question.

  I think for a long while.

  Then I open the door and leave, all the while begging my brain to stop sizzling.

  enrik's word is true. With him at my side, I proceed unchecked through the barricade. Not one member of the Centurion Guard gives me a second look after they realize we're together. They don't know me, but whoever I am, I am to be trusted.

  The deception is thrilling. As we pass them, I wonder how many of these very men I'll have the privilege of slaughtering.

  We climb the steps of the palace. I arrive on the landing and take my place among the other families who've been invited to the ceremony. If this were any other moment, I'd walk down the line and shake each one of their hands and express my sympathy for their losses. These are my people who have suffered a similar fate. But this isn't any other moment—it is the moment—and I can't afford to become emotional. I pray they survive the impending battle.

  On the landing, Henrik breaks apart from me, and I slip quietly into the middle of the line, per the plan. Standing in the middle is crucial. Even with Henrik's protection and the army charging down the hill, there's still a good chance I'll be shot. I need to conceal myself among as many humans as possible to make it difficult for a sniper to get off a clean lick.

  We face the palace from where King Charles will emerge, with the breathtaking view at our backs. Behind us sits a glorious city filled with God's people. I turn around for a moment and take in the scene. They're all here. The sea of people around me runs for what looks like miles. They are here for God but have come out this morning because they have no choice; King Charles must be honored. This is just one of the many ways the Kingdom desecrates our holiest holiday.

  But I'm so glad they've come. They have no idea, but these Southerners are about to witness the most pivotal moment since the Kingdom overtook our land. History is about to be made. I smile warmly at my countrymen then turn back to face the Kingdom.

  Trumpets announce the young king's arrival. The golden doors swing open, and King Charles appears. He's a handsome man. He has bright-green eyes that shine with intelligence and a nose that appears perfectly crafted from generations of good genes. His short-cropped hair is highlighted by natural streaks of blond from the many hours he spends outdoors. He's known as a great sportsman and a polo champion. His facial features are sharp and powerful, and he walks like a man who owns the ground beneath his feet. He wears a red military uniform that's decorated heavily with gold medals. The heaviest cluster hangs on his right breast.

  He wears no gun on his hip.

  Every other man on the landing is armed to the teeth, including Henrik, who carries a black assault rifle.

  King Charles is handed a microphone and he addresses the crowd. "It is with the most profound reverence that I welcome you this morning to this—your Holy City. And it is with supreme gratitude that I thank you for taking time from your holy festival to come meet with me, your king. On behalf of the entire Kingdom, I thank you. Your family members died in the most honorable of manner—service. While not all of them chose their destiny, they met it with dignity and grace, and for that you may be proud."

  I want to ask King Charles if he was there when someone's mother died of heat exhaustion in a labor camp. I want to know whether he had the courage to look into the vacant eyes of a brother on the brink of starvation. I want to know if he personally murdered any of the people he now eulogizes. But most of all, I want to know if he's so delusional that he actually believes we care about what he's saying.

  He continues, "So it is in that same spirit of pride that I honor you this morning by expressing my gratitude in an act of my own humility. You honor the deceased by your presence. I honor you with mine. May the gods of our Kingdom and your one true God bless you and your progeny forevermore."

  Starting at the end of the line, King Charles bows before each person, kisses his or her hand, and rises to thank the individual face-to-face. Henrik follows closely behind, never more than a yard from the king. Henrik is the only bodyguard who moves with him. King Charles takes his time, pausing long enough to make a genuine connection with each person. The expression on his face appears sincere.

  My pulse quickens. I scan the horizon. In the distance I see the outline of our army. If anyone from the Kingdom were to look, it would be obvious that men have gathered on the hill. It is a calculated risk. But if Jude were to keep the men tucked away in the surrounding woods, it would take too long to storm the city. For these last few moments, they must be exposed if we're to have any hope of succeeding.

  I'm next. As the king bends down to kiss the hand of the woman next to me, I smell his musky cologne. It's an opulent odor, a tonic so fresh and clean that I wish it were on my body. I haven't had a proper bath in weeks.

  The image of Maria anointing the Teacher's head with oil flashes hard and bright through my mind.

  And then I meet the king.

  King Charles doesn't look me in the eye before kneeling before me. He lowers his head, and I offer him my left hand. He takes it and kisses it. I pull the gun from my waistband with my other hand. I sling it around and jam the barrel beneath his chin.

  No hesitation.

  I pull the trigger.

  The woman next to me screams.

  he pistol bucks in my hand. The crack rings out and the king's head jerks violently backward. But his body doesn't fall limp. Time moves very slowly, but I know it's taking too long for it to happen—for him to die.

  My brain has long expected chaos to follow the firing of the gun. When it doesn't come, my brain is sent into some sort of failed-expectation fog. I can't process what's happening.

  The gun is still pressed beneath the king's chin. I trip the trigger again, and again it fires. But this time King Charles's hands wrap tightly around the barrel. He lifts his head slowly and lets out the most riotous laugh I've ever heard. He says, "Oh...no."

  He laughs uncontrollably.

  "What the...?"

  "Try it again," he says through a sob of laughter. "Maybe it's just jammed." He releases the gun, stands, and backs quickly away from me, still smiling and laughing. Another centurion appears instantly at his side.

  I furtively glance at those standing around me. Horror and confusion blankets their faces. I look at Henrik, who says, "I think Jude warned you that gun wasn't meant to be fired." He flips the safety off his rifle and adds, "Blanks."

  Before Henrik can raise his weapon, I drop the gun, pull the switchblade from my bandage, and lunge it into his thick neck.

  And then chaos comes. Another screaming woman is what I hear first, before the gurgles of Henrik choking on his own blood. Then that's all I can hear, muffled choking.

  I'm on the ground while a chorus of boots stomps on me. Cold steel is pressed against multiple points on my body: my head, my chest, and my groin.

  Henrik twitches spastically beside me. Blood gushes from his throat like a roaring fountain; some of it lands on my lips, and I taste it.
The screaming woman is eventually consumed into a larger and more cacophonic din. Madness surrounds me, but I can see nothing but the bodies and guns of the men who hold me down and pummel me.

  I think I lose consciousness, but it's hard to be sure about anything right now. After an indeterminable amount of time, I'm hoisted to my feet.

  King Charles greets me, looking me dead in the eye, his smile gone.

  "You killed one of my men." He points to Henrik's body. A pool of dark-red blood encircles it. "Look. You did that."

  I glance at Henrik. Then I notice the Southerners being honored at the Gratitude Ceremony all have been forced to their knees. A centurion stands behind each and every one.

  An explosion sounds in the distance.

  The army. They should be here by now!

  I lift my eyes to scan the horizon, and a centurion strikes me hard across the face.

  "Don't worry about what's happening on the hill," King Charles says. "For the moment I'd like your full attention." He dangles my gun before me. "This belonged to your father."

  I spit a mouthful of blood onto his shiny black boots. "It's mine now."

  "Yes, but it was his." He takes a beat to examine my blood on his boots. "This is the worst day of your life, Deacon. Welcome to it."

  "I very much doubt that."

  Another explosion shakes the ground. The thousands gathered stampede away from the palace. The earth hums from the explosion and the mass exodus.

  "I heard you got off a shot the night you met your rebel army. I was worried you'd discover the blanks. But Henrik—may he rest in peace—assured me you were far too obsessed with revenge to notice something so subtle. I guess he was right."

  Another explosion—this one is louder and much more violent than the first two.

  It feels like we're standing on a boat; the ground rolls beneath us.

  Finally it all comes together.

  I say, "I was set up?"

  "From the very beginning," King Charles replies.

  "What's happening on the hill? Let me see my men."

  King Charles raises a finger. "One moment please. I need to speak with you first. Your father was the best organizer of men the South has seen in quite some time. He did, in a few short years, what no one was capable of doing for decades. From our perspective, something had to be done about it."