by Craig Smith
MYRMIDON
The Painted Messiah
Craig Smith
For Shirley Underwood and Martha Ineichen. I am blessed to have you both in my life.
PALESTINE, FIRST CENTURY
CENTRAL SWITZERLAND, PRESENT DAY
PROLOGUE
Jerusalem
Passover AD 30
'Will those who have seen him in life know him by this portrait, Theophanes?'
'Most assuredly, sir,' the slave answered. Theophanes had no basis for believing this. Those who had known the Jewish messiah were themselves Jews. As everyone knew, Jews refused to gaze upon any human image.
'It doesn't look much like him now, though,' Pilate offered doubtfully. Theophanes studied the subject of his portrait critically. The man wore rags and a crown of thorns. His head was a bloody mass of contusions.
Theophanes had painted the Jew as he appeared, omitting only the humiliating effects of violence. With the eyes he had created the universal serenity of nobility sitting for a portrait. Theophanes was especially skilled at capturing this effect. In all other matters the slave was faithful to nature. The man was pleasingly robust - having plenty of muscle and a good layer of fat against the cold. His features were regular, the nose large and broad. The eyes were unclouded.
'Perhaps you have noticed, sir, all criminals have the same look at this point in their careers. This . . .'
Theophanes gestured toward his painting, '. . . is the face of the man you saw ride into Jerusalem.'
The prefect's chin kicked up slightly in response. His expression grew more comfortable. That man! The reference excited his confidence. That man had entered the city as the king of the Jews. 'The hair is wrong,' Pilate declared finally, for he would not rest until he had faulted the work of his slave. 'The beard is too short, Theophanes!'
This was not true but, as Theophanes had learned years ago under the lash of a whip, his master was incapable of understanding what he looked at. His sole concern with art - any art - was its power to impress fellow Romans and overwhelm the rest of humanity. He could not comprehend that what he saw he coloured with his own impressions. The hair and beard were correct. The slave had simply depicted what his subject would have looked like emerging from a Roman bath on a late afternoon, had he ever entered such a building. Rather than argue the point, Theophanes answered with the first lie that came to him. 'I have styled the hair and beard as your Jewish friend Nicodemus wears it, sir. I hope that was not indiscreet.'
Pilate liked this very much. Nicodemus, in his view, was the Jew all Jews should emulate. He cooperated with the Roman authority and paid handsomely for his favours. 'I see that now,' he answered thoughtfully. 'Very well, then. See that you attach it to one of the imago standards in place of Tiberius . . . and don't forget to hang the letters on the standard. That is the point, after all!'
'I-N-R-I. Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews.'
The prefect had already instructed his slave in this matter, but Theophanes was accustomed to hearing his orders twice. The Romans, as a race, imagined all other nations less attentive to detail.
'I want the standard with this man's image on the wall in my banquet hall in Caesarea when I return.'
'I am to leave Jerusalem ahead of you then?'
Theophanes felt a tremor of fear. Jerusalem was about to erupt in open revolt when they crucified this man. Inside the palace behind the shield of the prefect's guard one could expect a degree of security. In the streets of Jerusalem he would be exposing himself to the violence of roving crowds. They would be looking for easy targets once they had drunk enough courage to forget the fate of revolutionaries.
'Leave at sundown. It will be the start of the Jewish Sabbath, and no one will bother you if you are quick about it.' Pilate considered the matter briefly before he added with a slight, curdling smile, 'So long as they don't see what you carry.' Having given his orders, the prefect called to Cornelius, his most senior centurion, to lead the prisoner to his fate. Pilate then turned away from Theophanes.
One might as well say history itself turned away, for there were no records kept of the lives of slaves. As a rule, they counted themselves blessed above their own kind if their masters even knew their names. Other than chariot drivers the life of a slave inspired no comment, and even the greatest champions of the Circus Maximus in Rome left the arena for the last time without so much as a whisper following them to their graves.
CHAPTER ONE
Lake Lucerne, Switzerland
August 5, 2006.
Kate dropped into the lake without a sound. Still under the surface, she kicked away from the boat's stern, disappearing into a long dark alley that twisted between the other boats. Ethan followed nearly a minute later, returning to the surface in the shadows as quietly as he went in. He checked to see if the people beside their boat had noticed, but everyone on deck was looking at the long feathery streaks of a golden fire fading from the evening sky. Not a soul on any of the hundreds of boats surrounding them cared about what happened in the black waters below.
The lake beyond the boats was choppy. A cold summer breeze blew in from the Alps. The light of the pale, smoky moon was too faint to let him find Kate. He saw her only when the sky lit up in a blaze of white light, a silhouette against the shimmering surface of the water.
Kate had already stripped down to her wetsuit and was applying night camouflage to her face when he joined her. Scissor-kicking lazily to keep her head above water, she seemed like a beautiful lady before her mirror. Ethan studied her features while he stripped his own clothes away. Her face was striking, a pleasant mix of feminine delicacy and aristocratic boldness. Eyebrows, nose, and jaw were prominent and refined. It was a face cameras loved. The curve of her eyelids and sweet, round fullness of her lips missed cute by an eyelash. Her laughter had mischief and music. Her sweetness came with passion, her fury with anger. Descended from bastard English royalty on both sides, married and widowed to an English lord, she was tall and blonde, brilliant and connected: ambitious for risk and all things new. She could plot with the patience of an older woman scorned and then take what she wanted with the speed of an urchin.
They had met some years ago by pure chance, or so it had seemed to him at the time. He learned later that Kate was a woman who got exactly what she wanted and left nothing to chance. He had been with two other climbers in the Alps. They had hauled their equipment toward a fairly difficult rock, planning to spend the day ascending it. Kate was by herself with only a litre of water and a sweatshirt at her waist. She approached them while they were still preparing their lines and laying out the pitons. Without saying a word, though indulging herself with a look of casual interest in Ethan's lean muscular physique, she had started climbing. Ethan watched her for a moment before starting after her. It was his first climb without ropes, but he hardly recognized the danger. In fact, all he thought about was the woman ascending the rocks above him with the agility of a lioness. Even though he had considered himself in peak condition, he could not catch her.
'You climb without ropes much?' she had asked, when he had finally joined her at the summit.
He ran his hand through his short dark hair and smiled sheepishly. 'First time.'
He had a pronounced Tennessee accent in those days. Instead of putting her off, as it did with a lot of the Europeans, she seemed actually to enjoy it. 'Is it going to be your last?' She asked this with curiosity and a bit of a dare in her expression. Ethan could still remember grinning and shaking his head. It had been the most exhilarating climb of his life. 'I hope not.'
'Kate Kenyon,' she said and shook his hand.
The following morning they had headed toward the Tyrolean Alps, hitchhiking when they could, catching buses or trains otherw
ise. One afternoon as they clung to a tiny ridge of stone probably a thousand feet above a field of boulders, Kate had said to him, 'Think we could make a living doing this?' Ethan thought she meant as professional climbers, and laughed at her. She could make a living, but he was a long way from her level. In another few days he would be heading back to the States to start law school at George Washington, all this and Kate Kenyon nothing more than a pleasant memory. But she wasn't talking about rocks. A joke, she told him that night as they lay together in bed. But it was a joke that did not go away. Why did he have to go back? She could go with him, he said. And do what? Anything, anything at all. 'We could do that here,' she had answered. Two evenings before his flight, following what had promised to be their last climb, they were walking under a wall in Como, when she laughed and said to him, 'Come on!'
A moment later she disappeared into a darkened estate. Ethan knew what she meant to do. He knew, too, the smart thing was to walk away, but walking away wasn't really an option. He followed her over and had the thrill of his life stealing a lady's necklace and making love on a stranger's silk sheets. He had been following Kate over walls ever since. Nothing at all intimidated her. She came alive at the point where even the most courageous would hesitate. She loved risk as others loved adoration or money or notoriety. If it was possible, she would try it. If it wasn't, she would try to figure out a way to make it so. Physically, her conditioning and strength could still astonish him.
A golden palm tree etched itself against the black sky, the firework holding its form until the last glowing embers blinked away. As soon as it did, a staccato of heavy explosions boomed across the lake. From the boats huddled together at the centre of the lake a collective sigh drifted toward them. 'Ready, Boy?'
Finishing his face and his memories of those first weeks with Kate, Ethan dropped the tin and pulled on his skullcap. 'Ready, Girl.'
Like it was just another job.
They swam with only the top of their heads breaking the surface, moving quickly toward the dark peninsula closest to them. From time to time, Kate would roll quietly and look behind them, never breaking her forward momentum. The only time Ethan looked back he saw the light of a police patrol boat moving along one of the distant shorelines. Once past the peninsula they waded through a shallow marsh. Deep in the mud and weeds they found their inflatable, a Sea Eagle 9.2. It was exactly as they had left it the night before, well camouflaged and loaded with their equipment. They had stolen it six weeks before because it was light, easily handled and quick enough to get them to the other end of the lake and back.
While Kate cleared the brush away, Ethan inflated the keel and checked the pressure in the other chambers. Taking the grab lines, they lugged it toward the water, jumping in just as the craft cleared the marsh. Ethan dropped the ten horsepower motor into position and pressed the ignition. The Honda purred quietly to life, and he steered the craft away from the shoreline. Over the next three minutes they worked their way past three large estates. The great houses were darkened, apparently empty, easy targets but of no interest tonight. They pushed on and finally came to a small densely wooded hill. One lone mansion occupied the crest of it. To either side of the property, for nearly a quarter of a mile in either direction, there were no other houses, no lights, no roads. Just as the land began to rise up sharply, they glided into shore.
Kate jumped out first and pulled the raft over a stretch of gravel while Ethan heaved out their equipment. Wading back into the lake with their gear in a watertight bag, they swam another fifty yards or so, coming to a piece of grey rock that rose up almost vertically over the lake. Kate took the equipment and swam ashore. Ethan veered off toward the estate's private dock. This was secured by a high stone wall and closed off with a set of steel gates. It offered one large boathouse, built as a replica of the main house. In one of the two berths beneath it sat a luxurious Fountain 48 Express Cruiser. In the second was a Pantera 28, the fastest boat on the lake. Two Jet Skis were tied next to the Pantera. There were no lights on in the boathouse or around the dock. The perimeter was protected electronically. The slightest movement would trip both an alarm and security lights. Taking the bicycle chain lock latched around his waist, Ethan keyed it open and slipped under the surface. Close to the dock's entrance, he reached out blindly until he touched the moss-covered steel bars. Snapping the lock closed, he dropped the key and swept back from the gate.
He returned to the surface and swam back to Kate. She had already set out their gear in neat his and hers piles. Before he did anything else, he took a towel and began drying himself. Still in his wet suit, he slipped on a Cobra vest. Next he put on a pair of black pants and a matching jacket. Finally, he slipped on a pair of black sports socks and his climbing shoes. Both the pants and jacket had been specially modified by a seamstress in Milan Kate used for all her jobs. Every object and tool they would need had a reinforced slot to hold it tightly against the body. He inventoried each as he slipped it into place, reviewing the various points within Kate's plan: a silent whistle, a pair of thin leather gloves, handcuffs, a couple of lengths of rope, a small, flat steel crowbar, a Navy Colt .45 semiautomatic pistol with silencer attached, the first round already in the chamber, a combat knife, a small flashlight, a climbing pick, and a concussion hand grenade - in case things went to hell.
When these were in place, Ethan reached for a small backpack with a dart rifle attached. The pack fastened to his body snugly and offered a small ripcord neatly tucked away. One tug and a canopy would snap open. He could access the dart rifle simply by reaching behind his head. He finished with a full hood, night vision goggles, and a headset.
Kate began working over the tarp and rope with one of the towels. Together they dragged the tarp to the water, throwing the towels after it. As these sank into darkness, Kate whispered into her headset, 'Ready, Two?'
Ethan heard the second team's response, two voices answering in sequence, 'Ready, One.'
Kate turned to Ethan, 'Ready, Boy?'
Ethan gave a slight nod of his head, 'Ready, Girl.'
Kate walked up close to the rock and tipped her head back, planning her ascent one last time. Ethan did the same even though he had studied the rock a number of times from the lake. The stratification was typical of the area. It offered finger and toeholds all the way to the top. At about forty-five feet, a good third of the climb finished, the rock tilted, allowing for a rest, if he needed it. He was plotting his next move when he saw Kate start up the rock. She took the first ten feet in half as many seconds.
Ethan had made more than a dozen practice climbs under these conditions on a far more difficult rock. When Kate ran a job, she was nothing if not thorough, but they had used pitons and rope for night training. This was his first free climb in the dark, and it left him a bit uneasy as he began. Hazarding a glance in Kate's direction after he had started up the rock, he saw her passing the midway point. He listened a moment and caught the steady rhythms of her breath. His own methodical plodding embarrassed him suddenly, and Ethan pushed himself to emulate his partner. Never a smart thing to do. When he looked down, the distance was perfect for getting himself killed, too close for him to get to his ripcord in time, too far even to think about a lucky fall. He could see exactly the rock that was going to kill him, too. Angrily, Ethan stepped up his pace. He reminded himself just how easy this rock was. He moved quickly now for several steps, pushing off one fingerhold and reaching for the next without pausing to consider or to test or even to think. Exactly as Kate climbed.
Stopping at last if only to understand his progress, Ethan felt his nerves betray him. He began to reach for his next hold but then hesitated. Kate was waiting just under the top of the cliff and watching him now. Could she see he was getting into trouble? Hear it in his breathing? He made a long reach, and found himself unable to catch a decent toehold. He pulled back and probed more carefully. Nothing. He looked down at his rock and felt his hands beginning to sweat. All he could think about was a climb in the Ber
gell Valley some years earlier. The rock had frightened him before he began. About halfway up, fighting it every inch of the way, his fingers had suddenly released their hold as if they had a mind of their own. It happened sometimes when a climber was tense or frustrated or scared. If you were wearing a harness, you could kick away and hang quietly until you got your focus back. In a free climb you were dead.
For a moment, he could not bring himself to let go with his left hand. It was the same thing that had happened on that day. First the muscles locked up. Then the fingers opened. Still clutching the rock, Ethan brushed his toe over the stone until he found a small crevice. It was not sufficient to hold him, only to take some of the weight out of his fingers. He looked now for another ledge, and realized his left hand had begun to cramp.
Taking his weight into his toes he finally broke free with his hand and tried to shake the blood back into it. As he did this, he stretched his left leg out, going for a fresh toehold, and almost fell when a cramp struck his hip. This was the point when you kicked out and laughed, trusting to your ground person and the rope. You lost, the rock won. Maybe you tried again tomorrow. Maybe you took up hiking.
He heard Kate now. 'Get left. You've got a decent shelf not more than ten feet away. Ethan tried looking for it. 'Trust me. It's there. Get to it now. Take your time, but do it, don't think about it.' It was not what she said, but the fact that she was there, that she understood he was in trouble.
Ethan focused on her voice with that faint, soft feminine British accent. He forgot his feet, his cramp, his fingers. Forgot death itself. 'Your left foot is on it, Boy. A little higher. Good.' He pulled himself higher, stepping into a thin shelf, and found another fingerhold, nothing more than a pocket within the stone. His hands felt soft, the cramp in his hip faded. He shook his hands but it was only habit. The blood was flowing, his strength returning. And then he found himself directly opposite Kate, both of them just under the edge of the cliff.