More laughter.
“He trusts in God. Let God rescue him now if he wants him, for he said, ‘I am the Son of God.’”
The taunts continued, the hatred in the voices unsettling. Longinus had heard taunts before, usually from the victims, usually from a murder victim’s family, taunting the condemned, taking pleasure in reminding them of the exquisite hell that awaited them.
But this man had harmed no one.
Though according to what he had overheard, he might have caused great harm. Apparently Prefect Pilate was prepared to shutdown Passover for fears of an uprising, a Jewish rebellion. Hundreds if not thousands could have died had it been allowed to happen. Pilate had told the Jewish leaders to handle it themselves.
Apparently this was how they had chosen to do that.
Kill a single man, an insane, blasphemous man, to save thousands of others.
He had to admit it had a perverse logic to it.
“He saved others; let him save himself if he is God’s Messiah, the Chosen One!”
He had heard enough.
“Silence!”
A hush descended upon the crowd, only to be replaced by his own fellow soldiers behind him. “If you are the king of the Jews, save yourself.”
This seemed to embolden one of the others crucified along with the so-called king. “Aren’t you the Messiah? Save yourself and us!”
His counterpart replied with equal vigor. “Don’t you fear God since you are under the same sentence?”
Longinus turned slightly, listening to the second prisoner with curiosity. It wouldn’t be the first time that a criminal had begged forgiveness once facing imminent death, but they rarely defended each other.
“We are punished justly, for we are getting what our deeds deserve. But this man has done nothing wrong.” There was a pause, the voice changing slightly as the man seemed to turn his head. “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.”
The raspy, weak voice replied, and Longinus’ felt a shiver travel his entire body. “Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in paradise.”
The surety with which the man said these words was inspiring, as if he actually believed the madness he was preaching. Cries from several women in the crowd was proof that many here believed his words too.
And he could understand that.
In the few hours he had been exposed to the man he hadn’t said a negative word, hadn’t begged for his life, instead having begged for forgiveness for those who were doing him ill, and delivering words of comfort to others.
He was truly an inspiring man.
I can see why people would follow him, despite his madness.
“I’m his mother, may we pass?”
Longinus nearly jumped, not having seen even the shadow of the woman who now stood before him. The pain in her voice was clear, the anguish palpable, and he felt his own chest tighten as he imagined how his mother would feel should it be he nailed to a cross, waiting to die.
He nodded.
Several sets of footsteps trudged on the arid ground, those who passed whimpering or sobbing, clearly believers in this man’s message. He looked up at the sky and could spot the bright orb of the sun overhead, and judging by the growl in his stomach, he suspected it was around noon.
He won’t last much longer, not if he was beaten as badly as Albus said.
“Woman, here is your son,” said the voice, weaker still. “Here is your mother.”
It was times like these he wished he could see for he had no idea what the words meant. Who was he talking to? Was it his mother? Was it his brother? It couldn’t be, for surely a mother would know her own son.
This man speaks in riddles!
He sighed.
Maybe he’s going mad with the heat?
The sun was beating down on them now, Golgatha outside the city on a hilltop, there no chance of shade here, the stone and dried dirt they stood upon getting so hot it almost baked the sandal clad feet of those who felt compelled to accompany the condemned.
Which meant the crowds had thinned even more, and he suspected by the time the end arrived, it would be thinner still.
The insults were few now, those whose hearts were filled with hatred seemingly not willing to endure the heat in the name of their convictions.
Footsteps approached from behind, a hand gently gripping his shoulder. “There’s no need to stand guard anymore, come sit with us.” Longinus nodded, turning and walking forward, his steps slow, deliberate, as he followed the shadow of Albus, nervous he might trip on the uneven ground. The shadow stopped and Albus grabbed his hand. “Let me help you, old man!” he said with a laugh, a good cover as Longinus sat where he stood, Albus guiding him to the ground before sitting beside him.
Something was placed in his hand.
“Drink.”
Longinus took a long drag of the harsh liquid, the wine having long turned to vinegar, losing any of its pleasurable qualities once intended by the vintner.
A gust of wind swept over them providing a welcome respite from the heat if but for a moment.
“Look!” cried someone to his left. A shadow crossed his path, a large shadow, and it took him a moment to realize it wasn’t a shadow at all. He looked up and felt his heart slam in his chest.
The sun was gone.
Corpo della Gendarmeria Office
Palazzo del Governatorato, Vatican City
Present Day, Two days before the Paris assault
Vatican Inspector General Mario Giasson hung up the phone, shaking his head. Someone had stolen a priceless Blood Relic in Spain, murdering a priest in the process. He had always wanted more security put in place for these relics, in fact, he had always been a proponent of bringing all these relics, so important to Christian belief, behind the massive walls surrounding them.
But his concerns had always been dismissed, and he understood the reasoning. These relics were sometimes critical draws to the churches that held them, precious to their parishioners, usually safely held for centuries. Over the decades security measures had been put in place from locks, gates and protective cases, sometimes even alarm systems, but rarely were guards present.
It was simply too expensive.
We rely too heavily on the goodness of man.
It was an evil world, something that seemed reinforced with his daily reading of the news, and this phone call had merely cemented his view a little more. An aged priest, near retirement, killed protecting a relic he had no business protecting, a relic only precious to those who believed, and should they truly be believers, a relic they wouldn’t dream of stealing.
He knew that thinking was naïve. All believers aren’t good people, of that there was no doubt. The classic example were the deeply religious Mafioso that so populated the country surrounding this tiny city state. How men could commit murder with one hand and hold rosary beads with the other, was beyond him.
I hope there’s a special corner of hell reserved for them.
An alarm sounded and he jumped to his feet, rushing out into the security office, those manning the computers and security monitors shouting out questions and answers, the main feeds on the wall of monitors beginning to switch to the area in question.
“Report!”
The nightshift supervisor, Alfredo Ianuzzi, turned in his desk. “Silent alarm from Saint Peter’s Basilica, Saint Longinus display, sir.”
“Saint Longinus? What’s kept there?”
“There they are!” shouted one of his men, Francesco Greco, pointing at the screen. Giasson watched as three men, all in black, submachine guns in hand, raced through the deserted nave of St. Peter’s Basilica, it having been closed for the night hours ago.
“Notify the Swiss Guard. I want this place locked down!”
More alarms sounded, a coded alert sent out over the PA system. On the screens guards raced toward the Basilica and St. Peter’s Square. Giasson grabbed a radio from the charging station and rushed out the door. Sprinting toward the square, he
held the radio up to his mouth, pressing the Talk button. “Report!”
“They’ve just cleared the Portico,” replied Ianuzzi. “Our guards are moving to intercept.”
“Do we know what they stole?”
“Not yet.”
Giasson burst through a set of doors, startling several priests deep in conversation. He tried to remember what relics might be worth stealing in the Saint Longinus display, but was drawing a blank.
Then a thought hit him, almost bringing him to a halt.
He forced himself forward, despite his lungs burning from his unusually long sprint. He raised the radio again, gasping out his question. “Are there any Blood Relics stored there?”
He surged through the outer doors and into St. Peter’s Square, dozens of the Swiss Guard racing toward the obelisk that towered over the center of the massive gathering place.
“Sir, the Holy Lance is kept there!”
My God!
Two Blood Relics stolen within hours of each other was too much of a coincidence. Which meant these people were either the thieves and murderers from Spain, or were connected with them somehow.
But they wouldn’t be getting away today.
Gunfire sprayed the ground in front of him and he skid to a halt, ducking.
“Look!”
He heard someone shouting closer to the main gates, their voice carrying over the cobblestone. Looking, he gasped. A set of intensely bright lights were rapidly approaching the gates, a thumping sound getting louder and louder as what could only be a helicopter raced toward the tiny nation, it surrounded on all sides by a densely packed Rome.
The helicopter cleared the gates with what looked like only feet to spare, the guards all turning their attention to the new arrival as its nose pulled up, killing its forward momentum. As it slowly turned the lights blinding him changed direction and he was able to see the side doors were open, people inside throwing down ropes.
“Stop them!” he shouted as he resumed his charge. But it was too late. The three men hooked onto the ropes and the chopper rose, banking back toward the main gates as the thieves were pulled from the ground, slowly reeled in as his men were left staring at the rapidly receding helicopter, unable to open fire lest their bullets find innocent flesh on their descent.
Giasson shook his head in awe as he watched the helicopter bank around the corner, still barely above street height, the three men swinging wide, almost hitting the buildings as they continued to be pulled inside.
He raised his radio. “Get me the Roma Polizia.” He paused for a moment, then nodded, a decision made.
“And put in a call to Agent Hugh Reading of Interpol.”
Golgatha, Judea
April 7th, 30 AD
The Ninth Hour
It was dark now, almost as dark as night, at least it might as well have been for Longinus. Everything was a dark, gray mass to his failing eyes. Nighttime had once been his enemy, he making it a point to try and be inside by nightfall, in his bed laughing with his comrades, or sleeping. But as he adapted, he realized that nighttime provided him the cover he needed at times for his ailment. Walking with a hand held out tentatively, running along the wall as a guide was the norm, everyone doing it, nobody judging you or asking you questions, and he had found when it was dark, when the noise of the day had given way to slumber, his other senses were heightened.
It was as if he could sense where things were.
And with the wind whipping around them, almost unabated for the past three hours since the darkness had fallen upon the land, Albus describing thick, black, billowing clouds overhead, he had found himself simply closing his eyes, listening to the sounds around him. Albus was at his right, the other soldiers, four in number, farther still to his right.
All were scared.
Mourners were gathered at the foot of the cross occupied by the man named Jesus, their whimpering and sobbing still heard, as if carried by the wind directly to his ears. The pleas and whining of the two criminals had given way to silence, though they were still alive.
And Jesus had said almost nothing since the sky had darkened.
“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?
Longinus turned to the voice, surprisingly strong, the heartbreak and anguish so genuine, he knew this man’s time had come, the body’s last gasp at life often providing a final surge of energy to the condemned.
One of the mourners sobbed. “He’s calling God!”
He’s not long for this earth.
“I thirst.”
The voice was weak again. Longinus held out his spear in the direction of the others. “Soak a sponge in wine.” He could hear the sounds of wine sloshing nearby then something pushing on his spear as it was stuck to the end. He wasn’t sure why he had felt compelled to offer up this gesture, but there was something about this man that he felt connected to. What it was he had no idea, but the sense he had, as inexplicable as it was, was that this man, despite his madness, was a good man.
And why he should suffer from thirst, on top of all the other cruelties he had endured, was beyond him. He could see no harm in whether a man’s thirst was temporarily quenched as it did little to extend his suffering on the cross, it would simply make it more comfortable, albeit slightly. And with this man having refused the wine and gall, he must be in sheer agony.
He felt Albus’ hand on his shoulder, nothing being said, but Longinus knew his friend was silently thinking, “Are you insane?” But with a swiftness that surprised him, he stepped forward, swinging the spear high above his head and coming to rest in a spot he simply felt was the right spot.
He heard the man sucking on the sponge, stopping after a few seconds.
He lowered the spear, a sensation of wellbeing almost overwhelming him in the knowledge he had done something good for a good man.
Albus squeezed his shoulder, removing the sponge from the end of the spear.
One of the soldiers nearby spat. “Now leave him alone. Let’s see if God comes to save him.”
Longinus waited, standing, listening to the last gasps of a dying man as his friends and family wept at his feet. He found himself praying to this God, to this single deity he had never believed in, and still didn’t, but if he were a god, like his own, perhaps he might listen to the prayers of this non-believer as he silently begged for a final end to this man’s suffering.
A cry suddenly erupted from overhead, the final words moaned out to the heavens above. “Father, into your hands I commit my spirit.”
A crack of thunder tore apart the sky above them and the earth shook. Those around him screamed in fear as Longinus dropped to a knee, extending a hand to steady himself, vibrations travelling up his arm and into his very soul. Flashes of lightning cut through the darkness that was his world, the thunder so immediate he feared they might all be struck by this god’s wrath, for that was what it had to be.
A wrath of some titan enraged by the death of one of his believers.
And as the sound of rocks splitting around them, of thunder overhead, and an earth that refused to be still at their feet continued, a sense of foreboding gripped him as somebody shouted out nearby.
“Surely, this man was the Son of God!”
Hugh Reading Residence, London, England
Present Day, Two days before the Paris assault
Interpol Agent Hugh Reading snorted then froze, wondering what had woken him. His phone vibrated on his bedside table. He grabbed it, looking at the time.
Bloody hell!
It was one in the morning, an ungodly hour for anyone to call, especially something showing as a blocked number.
He swept his thumb over the touchscreen and held the phone up to his head.
“Hello?”
He cursed as he heard his Darth Vader voice, forgetting he was hooked up to his damned CPAP machine. Reaching over he pressed the button to turn it off then tore the mask off his head, tossing it beside him as he sat up, shoving his tongue around his mouth, unsticking his lip
s from his gums.
Forgot to add water to the bloody thing.
He was still learning how to use the machine, but he had to admit it was changing his life. He’d been dragging his ass for months, and until he had been prescribed it after a sleep apnea diagnosis, he hadn’t realized how much so. In fact, he felt twenty years younger, and judging by the fact he’d apparently been a snorer for years—even his ex-wife confirming it to their son when he had shown him the contraption on a recent visit—he might have been less than his best for years.
What had really concerned him was the fact sleep apnea could cause heart damage, something he had never known. He had of course heard of sleep apnea and knew it meant that you stopped breathing during the night and that in turn would cause you to wake up slightly, but he had always assumed that just meant you were tired.
But heart damage?
He was lucky, it apparently caught in time, and though he had had serious reservations about ever being able to sleep with a mask over his face, he had found it remarkably easy, the greatest incentive being the fact he had more energy now than in years, and with his body not trying to protect itself from the lack of oxygenated blood, he was actually sleeping through most of the night rather than up several times for a squirt.
It was a life changer.
He held the phone up to his ear.
“If this is a crank call, I’ll make it my life’s mission to seek you out and destroy you.”
“Agent Reading?”
He sat up straight.
“Yes?”
“This is Mario Giasson, I’m sorry to wake you, mon ami.”
Reading smiled. “Mario! I know you do things a little different at the Vatican but you do sleep, don’t you?”
Giasson laughed. “Trust me, my friend, I am well aware of the time and I wouldn’t have called if I didn’t need your help.”
Reading frowned, leaning over and flicking on his bedside lamp then picking up his pad and pen he kept handy for just such an occasion. “What’s happened?”
Blood Relics (A James Acton Thriller, #12) Page 3