“Of course,” whispered Gaius, his voice cracking.
“And one final thing.”
“Anything.”
“Live your lives well, free of guilt for what you have done here this day.”
Gaius nodded, his eyes lowered, the shame he was clearly feeling too great to meet Longinus’ kind gaze.
Longinus rose, picking up his spear from the table and taking one final look at its bloodstained tip.
“Let us be swift about this, so you may be far from here before the sun begins to set on this day.”
He stepped outside, his friends following him, the soldiers, solemn, standing behind them. He looked up at the sky, clear, blue, the sun a little cooler here than in the harsh desert of Jerusalem. It was a beautiful city, a friendly city, a city where life was easier than the harsh one carved out of the desert so long ago.
It was a good place to die.
Outside Paris, France
Present Day
The helicopter bounced to the ground, the woman they had taken moaning in protest as the doors were pulled open. Dietrich jumped to the ground, ducking as the blades powered down, two black SUVs pulling up moments later. Dietrich pointed at the woman. “Load her in my vehicle and take her to the estate immediately. Phone ahead so the doctor is ready.”
“Yes, sir.”
Two of his men, including their medic, carried her to one of the SUVs, gently placing her in the back, it immediately racing from the farmer’s field they were in and to a nearby country road. He strode toward the remaining vehicle as the pilot and his other two men cleared the helicopter of anything incriminating then doused it in gasoline. He climbed in the passenger seat, checking his watch. It had been almost thirty minutes since he had received the phone call from his mother.
He resisted the urge to turn on his cellphone, not wanting the cell tower ping to be traced. He just hoped his mother had used the secure phone to call him otherwise the police might eventually track them down should they decide to investigate every phone call made or received in the area during the time of the incident.
God, Mother, I hope you didn’t screw up!
The pilot and his remaining two men jumped in the back of the SUV and the driver peeled away, skidding onto the road as they headed toward home.
A rumble reached his ears and he leaned forward, looking in the side view mirror at their helicopter as it erupted into flames, the aviation fuel igniting in a black and orange ball of fire.
He glanced over at the speedometer.
“Watch your speed, we don’t want to draw any attention.”
“Yes, sir.”
The vehicle immediately slowed as Dietrich began to pick at his cuticles, a nervous habit he had never been able to break.
Especially in moments of stress.
Such as the possibility his father would soon be dead.
He looked back at the bags containing the relics, praying that these artifacts, the most famous Blood Relics in the world, might actually be genuine, but his pessimism was almost overwhelming, his faith shaken with the thought his father might be taken from him even sooner than previously thought.
A single tear rolled down his cheek.
He wiped it away with a finger, counting down the mile markers on the side of the road as they approached his family’s estate purchased twenty years ago when his father moved the family business to France in exchange for generous government grants and a massive property tax break. He hadn’t been happy to leave Germany and his friends behind, but he had adapted, never one to wallow in self-pity with the knowledge of how short a productive life he had left to live.
He frowned, the stray thought resonating.
Self-pity.
Was he upset because his father was losing his life, or that he was losing his father? His father had raised him for this moment, though it was coming sooner than expected, and he prayed his mother was wrong, simply overreacting to what might be nothing more than the common cold.
But if his father were to die, he would become the head of the family, responsible for carrying on the legacy, for running the business that would keep their search for a cure funded, so that one day, perhaps long in the future, the curse the men in his family had endured might end. It was the thought that drove them for generations, that someone, some distant descendent, might one day die of old age, his family at his side as he peacefully left this temporary existence to meet his maker, not a man broken in body and spirit, but a contented man who had lived a full life free from the ravages of a disease that had shown his family no quarter for over a century, mercilessly never skipping a generation, a sickening lottery won every time the next son was born.
A pain raced up his leg causing him to gasp.
No one said anything, all aware of his fate.
A fate he prayed might be avoided with the artifacts they had just spilled so much blood to retrieve.
Jerusalem, Judea
45 AD, Three Weeks Later
Gaius looked over his shoulder, making certain no one had followed him, still finding the alleyway empty. A foot scraped nearby and his head swiveled toward it, his hand reaching for his blade.
“Are you here?” hissed a woman’s voice from the shadows.
“Did you find it?”
“Yes, it was on the dung heap, as you said.”
Gaius stepped toward the woman, removing a pouch of silver from his pocket. He felt sorry for the wretched old creature as she handed him a canvas sack, the poor woman having recently lost her son. He had found her begging at the gates to the temple, mumbling about having had a vision in which his son appeared to her with what she called an angel who had promised to take care of him in paradise.
She was in need, as was he.
An offer was made.
Retrieve the head of Longinus, thrown on the dung heap by the rabbi earlier that day, in exchange for money to return home and give her son a proper burial.
Their return to Jerusalem had been triumphant yet solemn. They couldn’t let on how they truly felt, instead forcing smiles on their faces as they were hailed as heroes for finding and executing the traitors. When the heads had been brought to Prefect Pilate, he had looked in the sacks then sat back in his chair, a chair Gaius could only describe as a throne.
“And the other?”
“Dead in a landslide several weeks earlier.”
“Are you certain?”
Gaius nodded, though he couldn’t say for sure. He really didn’t care. “The locals confirmed it.”
“Very well.” Pilate motioned toward the three sacks. “Which one is Longinus?”
Gaius raised the sack he was carrying. “This one.”
“Take it to the rabbi. Dispose of the others.”
Gaius had bowed and left with his men, they agreeing to meet later once the head of Longinus had been retrieved, none having any intention of disposing of the other two as ordered. He had taken the head personally to the rabbi and watched in horror as the man insulted Longinus’ memory then tossed the head onto a dung heap in the street.
He had dared not retrieve it himself, this mourning mother providing him his salvation.
He looked in the sack and frowned, his heart heavy at the sight of this good, brave man who had sacrificed himself to save men he had never met before. The acts of this man and his friends had been enough to convince him on the long journey back to Jerusalem that this god they worshipped must truly be worthy, and if the story of Longinus’ sight being restored were true, which he had no doubt it was, then this god must truly be great.
He couldn’t remember the last time his gods had performed a miracle, had answered a prayer.
He handed the woman the pouch of coins.
“Thank you,” she said, patting him excitedly on the arm. “Now my boy will rest in peace.”
She hurried off as Gaius strode with purpose toward the rendezvous point. He had already volunteered his men for a mission outside the city walls that would take them north for several
weeks, and with their triumphant return his request hadn’t been denied, instead eliciting praise for not resting before heading out once again.
As he marched through the evening streets, the city quickly settling in for the night, this honorable man’s head making his arm grow weary, he came to a decision.
I’m converting as soon as my promise is fulfilled.
Notre-Dame Cathedral, Paris, France
Present Day
Reading hung up the phone, clipping it back on his belt, returning to the police car Acton was half sitting in, his feet still on the pavement. He looked at his friend, clearly in pain, having said very little since their rescue. Laura was gone, taken by their attackers for reasons unknown, and he knew it was tearing the man apart. He had seen the stomach wound and it hadn’t looked good. He knew from too many years as a police officer and a soldier that she didn’t have much time to reach an Emergency Room before bleeding out.
He wasn’t optimistic.
Acton looked up at him. “Any word on Laura?”
Reading shook his head. “No. They’ve checked all the hospitals and clinics and there’s no reports of a woman matching her description having been admitted.”
“So they probably dumped her body somewhere.”
Reading didn’t want to admit to his friend that he was probably right, but it was the most likely possibility. If she had died, there was no reason for them to keep the body. If they were found with it, it would be irrefutable evidence they were involved.
But they’d probably also dump her where she couldn’t be easily found.
Which meant his friend might never get closure.
Reading knew Acton well enough to know the man would go through the rest of his life blaming himself for her death. He understood the twisted logic the blame-game could take. He’d probably go all the way back to their original meeting, his sorrow suggesting if he had never met her she’d still be alive today.
But then she would have missed out on the happiest years of her life.
Reading and Laura had seen a fair amount of each other while she still lived in London doing the long distance relationship thing, so they had become good friends. And he knew she loved Acton more than life and wouldn’t have traded those years together for anything.
Yet he knew any words now would be wasted on his friend. Instead, he needed to keep his friend’s mind busy until he crashed, the man clearly exhausted.
“They found the helicopter outside of the city. They burned it so the police aren’t optimistic about finding any evidence. The tail number indicates it had been stolen about an hour before the robbery. They just found the owner tied up in his charter office. Just vague descriptions and no security footage apparently.”
“So no help.”
“It at least gives us a geographical area to concentrate on.”
Acton looked at him with a “give-me-a-break” look. “You and I both know they could be in a different country by now. Europe isn’t the US. It doesn’t take days to drive across.”
Reading frowned. “You’re right of course. But the police are at least trying. They’re going all out on this with four of their own dead.”
“None of them made it?”
Reading sighed. “Other than the one who surrendered, the rest were all dead before they made it to the hospital.”
Acton pulled out his phone. “I need to make some calls.”
Reading nodded. “Okay, I’m going to talk to the scene commander.”
Acton grunted, already dialing. Reading looked for the officer he’d been dealing with, spotting him nearby, and as he began to walk away he breathed a sigh of relief when he heard Acton reach his best friend. Reading just wished Milton was here to comfort the grieving husband, but he knew no amount of consoling would help.
Not so soon after such a tragic loss.
He cursed.
Even I’ve lost all hope.
Mantua, Italia
47 AD, Two years later
Tiberius placed the spear gently beside the carefully wrapped body of his friend, tucked between the torso and the right arm, and by his left hand a jar containing the dried remains of a sponge Longinus had used to help clean the body of their Messiah after it had been taken down from the cross. He stepped back and nodded, all gathered bowing their heads in reverence to this great man who had helped convert so many to the teachings of Jesus during his time in hiding.
He had inspired many to great deeds, including Gaius and his men, who stood with him now, having fulfilled their promise to return the heads so his friends could rest in peace. Albus and Severus had been buried outside Gabala, their bodies made whole with the return of their severed heads, but it had been decided that Longinus should be moved lest his body be desecrated by those who would have him dead, the local authorities having already taken an interest in his burial.
They had snuck out of the city at night with the help of converts, heading for the only place Tiberius knew they might be safe.
His own hometown.
He hadn’t seen Mantua in years, not since he had joined the Roman Army and been sent to the arid deserts of Judea and Syria. But there was little joy in his homecoming. Along the way they had forged documents for all of them so they might travel in peace without fear of arrest, and false discharge papers for himself, since he was known in his hometown.
His return, five years early, would cause questions.
He hated lying to his family, and though he had been elated to see them, the reason for his return, and the lies, had him secretly on edge the entire time.
Something his mother had noticed.
He had dismissed her concerns. “I’m still sad about the death of my friend.”
“How did he die?”
“A martyr. He sacrificed himself to save the rest of us.”
“Why? Were you in danger?”
The concern on his mother’s face had warmed and worried him, just knowing she still cared as much as the day he had left twenty years before, barely a man, comforted him in a way he hadn’t realized he’d been missing. “I have to tell you about something.” He smiled, his heart filling with the warmth only true belief could bring. “Something wonderful.”
His mother had listened patiently, asking many questions, and by the end of his accounts of that hot, horrible day in Golgatha, he knew he hadn’t convinced her.
But he had intrigued her.
And that was the way it was with most conversions. Rarely, unless a miracle was seen as had been that day, did someone abandon a lifetime’s worth of beliefs. People were convinced to convert over time as they realized that this new way of thinking, of a loving God as opposed to a vengeful one—or in his mother’s case, vengeful gods—of a god who allowed His own son to walk among His creation and be destroyed by that very same creation, to die for their sins, was a message of hope that many in these times found they could cling to, no one in their memories having ever witnessed a true miracle from their old gods.
It also helped that the Apostles had spread throughout the region, preaching the new religion and performing miracles of their own to reinforce the message.
But here, in this small city in Italia, he and his new friends would have a difficult time of things, the Empire and its gods strong here. They would have to work in secret to protect themselves, determining who they could trust and who might be receptive to their teachings. He knew in time, not his lifetime, but perhaps that of his future children or grandchildren, they might be able to walk the streets in peace, without fear of persecution for their beliefs, surrounded by the converted.
It was a dream for now, the current reality one in which they had to be careful.
Which was why Longinus was being buried in secret, on his family’s land, the grave to go unmarked, his desire to build a church on this very spot something already discussed with Gaius and the others.
All in good time.
He picked up a shovel and stabbed the mound of dark soil, tossing the first
pile onto the sarcophagus fashioned by Gaius himself, a remarkable stonemason, his skills wasted in the army. The others picked up shovels of their own, making quick, solemn work of the pile, the grass, cut out carefully earlier, tamped back into place, there little evidence anything had happened here this day.
He hoped in time his friend could be publicly recognized for the remarkable man he was, but for now they had no choice.
Longinus, the first convert after the death of the Son of God to a new religion that would be persecuted for generations to come, would have to remain hidden from those who would denounce him.
Until such day as the beliefs he died for were no longer feared.
A day Tiberius feared would be so long from now, Longinus may very well be forgotten to the history he helped shape.
Kruger Residence, Outside Paris, France
Present Day
Dietrich rushed up the outside steps, two at a time, it having been over half an hour since they had left the cathedral. On the entire ride to the estate he had been consumed with thoughts of his father, his mind concocting vicious fantasies of finding the man dead in his chambers, his sobbing mother draped over the body, clinging to her husband as the nursing staff tried to pull her away.
It had driven him almost mad.
And he had renewed his vow that he would do whatever it took to save his father’s life, he not ready to see him go, to take on the responsibility of leading the family.
Blood Relics (A James Acton Thriller, #12) Page 9