The Immortal

by Thomas Nelson

  I sat back, momentarily confused by the mismatch between what I had read of the Wandering Jew and what Asher was saying. “If you really believe this, why don’t you just sit back and let the prophecies unfold? After all, won’t your curse be broken when Christ returns?”

  The corners of Asher’s mouth went tight with distress as he looked away. “Only a truly selfish man would seek to end his suffering when he could bring God’s mercy to others.” A tremor passed over his face. “This is the price I must pay for my sin it is my penance. I will wander the earth, and I will seek the one who will be Satan’s pawn. And if I can turn him toward the Savior, my suffering will extend God’s patient mercy to another generation.”

  The room swelled with silence as I tried to make sense of what he was saying. “Do you have any proof that your theory is true?” I finally asked, reaching out to touch his shoulder. “You’re so fond of quoting Scripture—is there a verse that mentions your role? Your purpose?”

  He shook his head. “But I know the man who walks by faith is blessed. So I try to live a righteous life, and I keep my eyes and ears tuned to world events, always looking for the one man who best fits the description found in Scripture.” He turned to look at me again. “The man for this generation is Santos Justus, and that’s why I need you to get me an appointment. I must share the gospel with him before it is too late, but I am only a translator. He would never see me without your recommendation.”

  I leaned back and propped my arm on the settee, confused and more worried than ever. None of this made any practical sense, but I was no theology expert. One thing, though, was clear: Asher was prepared to give his life for others, and he would do almost anything, including humiliating me, to meet with Justus. My career and reputation probably counted for very little in Asher’s view of past, present, and future.

  If Asher was suffering from a delusional disorder, perhaps a few practical questions would point out the incongruities in his story.

  “Asher,” I began, my voice calm, my gaze steady. “I want to help you, but I’m not sure I can believe your story yet—there are too many unanswered questions. For instance, how could you live in a town and have no one notice that you never aged?”

  “I traveled a great deal.” He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, and for a fleeting moment I caught the impression that he intended to walk out the door and start yet another journey. “And people did not live so long in generations past. A man who lived fifty years was counted as an elder. I kept moving, I used different names in different places, and no one was the wiser.”

  “What about your family?” Several times I had wanted to ask this question but had never felt comfortable enough to approach the topic from within his fantasy. “Did you never remarry?”

  His face twisted into an expression of utter wretchedness. “I could not. I learned my lesson with Claudia. We should have grown old together, but when she aged and I did not—” He clasped his hands together and stared at them. “I am willing to do penance for my sin. I am not willing to put a woman through that kind of exquisite torture.”

  “It just doesn’t seem fair,” I insisted. “And if God is anything, he should be fair.”

  “God is not fair.” His voice took on a bitter edge. “He is just. There is a difference.”

  “I don’t see a difference.”

  “You won’t . . . as long as you look with earthly eyes.”

  I bit down hard on my lower lip, resisting the urge to smack his shoulder. Why did he always have to speak in riddles? “Tell me,” I said, leaning forward to look into his eyes, “did you say you met Michelangelo?”

  His gaze shifted and thawed slightly. I followed his eyes and saw that he looked at a lower shelf laden with dusty journals. “Twice. I met him in Rome and watched him paint the Sistine Chapel. And in Florence, while he was sculpting his David.”

  “Did he—” The words caught in my throat, but I pushed them out. “Did he ever sculpt a bust of you?”

  The heavy lashes that shadowed his cheeks flew up. “Not that I know of. Why would he?”

  Was it possible he didn’t know? Could Michelangelo have sculpted a bust of Asher at the same time he worked on David? I closed my eyes, visualizing two young men enjoying dinner in a piazza, then the artist going off to sculpt a bust of his fascinating friend, while the scholar returned to his books and journals. Clearly, Asher had no idea how deep an impression he made upon the people he met . . . including me.

  I leaned back, blinking hard to stop the sudden rush of tears that flooded my eyes.

  “You believe me.” He smiled, and I knew his comment was not a question.

  “I’m not sure.”

  “You do. Something has convinced you my story is true.” He waved his hand and lifted his gaze to the ceiling. “Whatever it was, I thank God for it.”

  I sighed, resigned to the fact that my research only reinforced Asher’s story. “Asher, you said it yourself. My belief doesn’t change anything. But as things stand, I either have to believe you or have you committed.”

  Surprise siphoned the blood from his face. “You would never do that . . . would you?”

  I laughed. “Believe me, I’ve thought about it. You’re just crazy enough to get me into real trouble.”

  His dark brown eyes softened, then he reached out to push a stray strand of hair away from my forehead. His warm palm cupped my cheek for a moment as something that looked like affection glowed strong in his eyes, then his hand fell to my elbow and urged me upward. “Come,” he said, leading me toward his bedroom. “I have something to show you.”

  Something—modesty or fear or simple nervousness—caused me to hang back, but Asher caught my hand and pulled me along. My apprehensions faded when he stopped before a wooden chest by the side of his bed. The dark wooden box gleamed in the light, as if a loving hand polished it every day.

  Almost reverently, Asher knelt before the chest, pulling me down with him. He released my hand after I sank to the tiled floor, then he leaned forward and lifted the lid. As I breathed in the scents of age and dust and wood, Asher lowered his arms into the depths of the box and pulled out an object I had never imagined I would see.

  A crown of thorns.

  I held my breath as Asher gingerly lifted it between his fingertips, then turned and lowered it to the quilt covering his bed. When it rested there, he leaned back and dropped his hands to his knees, his gaze intent upon the relic.

  “I have never shown it to anyone else,” he said, his voice a low rumble at once powerful and gentle. “No one else seemed to require visual proof. But you . . . look at it, Claudia, and tell me what you see.”

  What did I see? I saw a vine, covered in spiky thorns and the white dust of age, curled into a circular shape the size of a man’s head. Several of the thorns were dark, and parts of the thin vine seemed hollow, as though decay and corruption had begun to destroy the woody stem from within.

  “I have kept it safe,” Asher said. “Shielded it from light and humidity and prying eyes. If I had surrendered it to the church, it would have been venerated as a holy relic or destroyed by those who would tear it apart in a quest for authenticity.”

  “If it hasn’t been examined or dated,” I said, my mind congesting with doubts, “how do I know it is genuine?”

  “You don’t know.” Asher looked at me with an invitation in the smoldering depths of his eyes. “I can tell you that this is the crown Jesus was wearing when I struck him in Pilate’s hall. My blow knocked the thing from his head, and when the guards pushed him forward, the crown was left behind. I picked it up, and I have kept it all these years.” His words came out hoarse, as if forced through a tight throat. “Believe me or not, the choice is yours.”

  He rose to his feet then and walked away, leaving me alone with the fragile crown of thorns and a decision I could not make. I sat silently on the floor, weighing what I had heard in the last hour with what I had believed my entire adult life, comparing faith in Asher wi
th faith in the man who had supposedly worn this wicked circlet of pain.

  Never had my senses and abilities seemed so inadequate to the task. Everything I knew of Asher and every physical sign I read in his tone and posture and expression assured me he spoke the truth, so why couldn’t I believe? Why was it easier to believe in a two-thousand-year-old Roman than to believe Jesus Christ truly lived and died for all mankind . . . and for me?

  I bowed my head. Tears ran down my cheeks, as warm and soothing as summer rain, but I was not really crying, they sprang from a simple overflow of feeling. Asher had shown me this treasure because he wanted me to believe . . . not in him, but in Christ. How long had it been since someone cared so much for me? None of my close friends gave a flying fig about where I stood with God, probably because they didn’t think about spiritual things at all. Kurt had proved unfaithful. Elaine Dawson plotted against me. Even Kirsten was distracted by her family and the coming baby. Rory had occasionally talked about God, but the boundaries between employer and employee restrained any really personal questions.

  Asher, my only true friend in Italy, was probably as nutty as a peanut bar, but he cared enough to want me to believe in his Jesus. I read his concern in his eyes and in his actions. He had supported me when I learned of Kurt’s defection; he had been my steady right hand when we traveled to Brussels. And during all the weeks I had known him, he had asked only one thing of me—trust. He had shared his incredible story, trusting me to believe and help him accomplish his goal.

  Well. I swallowed hard and thumbed the wetness from my face. I would help him, if I could. But first I wanted to be sure I was doing the right thing.

  I rose and walked slowly into the front room. Asher sat at his desk, an open journal spread before him, an ink pen in his hand. He looked up as I came in, a question in his eyes.

  “I’m going now, Asher,” I said, reaching for my purse on the settee. “I want to make a couple of inquiries. And then, perhaps tomorrow, I’ll let you know what I think about your meeting with Justus.”

  “Thank you.” He eased into a slow smile. “I will pray that God will guide your footsteps.”

  “You do that.” I tried to smile in return, but the corners of my mouth only wobbled precariously. Averting my eyes, I hurried to the door and left him alone.

  TWENTY-SIX

  AS I PASSED UNDER THE HOTEL AWNING, A FEW LINGERING RAINDROPS fell in soft spatters that dampened my hair and caught in my lashes, blurring my vision like tears. The clear sky beyond the Vatican was awash with crimson and gold, but I thrust my hands into the pockets of my jacket and walked with my gaze lowered to the wet stone pavement. I had become inured to the dangers of Roman pedestrian traffic, so when several bicycles and a motor scooter whizzed by, missing me by inches, my heart didn’t skip a beat.

  As much as I hated to admit it, Asher’s tale made a rudimentary sort of sense. A man strikes God and is doomed to walk the earth until God pulls the plug on the planet. As penance for his impudent deed, the thoroughly contrite fellow decides to spend his time seeking the one man necessary for the final battle between good and evil—the devil’s pawn, the Antichrist. The heroic wanderer studies and works and travels, gleaning all the information he can, so he will be prepared to persuade evil’s representative to switch sides before the battle can begin, thus leaving the devil without an agent. He figures that God, in his sense of fair play, will stall the game until the opposing team can bring in another player.

  I stopped on a street corner, rubbing my temple as I watched three cars ignore the red light and press forward in the traffic. If I kept thinking about this, in an hour I’d have a migraine. Even now a fuzzy glow surrounded the streetlights in my field of vision, and the wet stones beneath my feet had gone indistinct and blurry.

  The pedestrian walk light blinked at me from across the street. I left the curb and had taken four steps, maybe five, when from out of nowhere a Vespa buzzed up from my right and passed directly in front of me. Some part of man or motor scooter hit my shoulder, spinning me with such force that I fell and tumbled over the asphalt, finally coming to rest beside a heap of garbage bags near the curb. Sprawled with my legs spread and my arms akimbo, I felt more irritable than hurt. I was about to open my mouth and loose a stream of invectives when a small man stepped out of the pedestrian crowd and hurried toward me.

  “Togliti dai piedi!” he yelled, his face lit by the beams of an approaching car. “Muoviti!”

  Brushing grit from my wet palms, I tried to follow his words. He was telling me to get out of the way and to hurry . . .

  I felt a sudden chill as realization struck. I was sprawled in the right lane of a busy street, at dusk, with nothing but this little old man between me and the oncoming traffic.

  I struggled to stand, but for some reason my arms and legs wouldn’t respond to my panicked commands. Then the little man’s arms slid under mine, and he lifted upward, dragging me out of the path of an oncoming BMW sedan.

  A moment later, I was seated on a bench, wet, embarrassed, and angry. I leaned forward, taking inventory of my scraped knees and torn hose, while my elderly savior removed his hat, then pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and sopped beads of perspiration from his forehead. When he had finished these ministrations, he replaced his hat and pinned me in a long, admonishing scrutiny. I opened my mouth, but he lifted a silencing finger and proceeded to chastise me in firm and expressive Italian.

  I pressed my palm to my forehead, certain that I had somehow wandered into the second act of a bizarre nightmare. I must have fallen asleep in Asher’s apartment. Tomorrow I would awaken on his settee and realize that my fertile subconscious had conjured up this scolding man, the car, and the blasted motor scooter.

  The old man ended his tirade with a grand flourish of his arms, but in the ensuing silence I could still feel the burning pressure of his eyes. “Mi dispiace, signor,” I mumbled, hoping that I had remembered the correct phrase for I’m sorry. “Non parlo italiano.”

  “Ah.” He sank onto the bench next to me, and his brows lifted. “Americana?”

  “Si.” I rubbed my aching wrist; I must have fallen on it. “I’m sorry for causing you trouble, but I didn’t see the motor scooter.”

  “It’s a miracle you were not killed.” The English words surprised me, as did the strong suggestion of reproach still in his voice. “One must be careful at night, signorina. The streets are dangerous to the unwary.”

  “I know. I’m usually careful . . . but I was preoccupied.”

  My bantamweight rescuer rose and planted himself on the sidewalk before me like a guardian grandfather. “Stand, then, and let me see if you are all right.”

  “I’m fine,” I protested, but I stood anyway. Apart from torn nylons, a tender wrist, a wet skirt, and a black smudge upon my left palm, I seemed none the worse for wear. My elderly hero must have thought so too, for after scanning me from head to toe, he nodded abruptly, then pointed toward the building behind our bench.

  “You will come in for a cup of espresso.” His tone left no room for argument. “After you have refreshed yourself, we will see how you feel. And then I will call a cab to take you to your hotel.”

  I opened my mouth, about to correct his impression that I was a mere tourist, then clamped it shut again. Let him think what he wanted. I was too tired for explanations.

  Nodding in mute agreement, I stood and followed the man. As we entered the building he had indicated, I glanced at a sign on the wall. My white-haired knight in sensible wool armor had not come from a castle, but from the Rome Baptist Church.

  I did feel better after a cup of espresso. My champion, who introduced himself as Vittorio Pace, was a silver-haired man of about sixty. He must have been about five feet two, for he came up to my shoulder, and though his frame was slender, he carried a round little tummy above his belt. When he removed his hat, thinning silver hair spilled onto his forehead above wide eyes that watched me from beneath tufts of graying eyebrows.

  The
interior of the church was plain by Italian standards. There were no paintings, no shrines, statues, or relics. Four wooden pews sat on each side of the rectangular building, and a carpeted platform stood before the pews, occupied by a single wooden lectern. A piano sat off to the side of the platform, and beside the piano a lonely looking microphone perched upon a silver stand. I couldn’t imagine why anyone would need a microphone in a room this small.

  Signor Pace had seated me in a chair beside a table near the doorway, and it seemed to me that I recalled a similar table in the small church I attended as a child. The church of my childhood had offered free leaflets and small Bibles on their table; the Italian Baptists offered espresso. Which, I thought, lifting the fragrant cup to my lips, could not have been more welcome on a night like this.

  Like a guardian angel, Pace watched me drink and smiled in satisfaction only when I could lower my cup back to the table without trembling. He asked if I wanted more, and I nodded. I didn’t really need the drink—I certainly didn’t need the caffeine—but I wasn’t ready to go back into the night. This little church, as sparse as it was, seemed warm and comforting.

  “So,” he said, handing me the second cup, “you are an American.”

  I accepted the cup and took a perfunctory sip. “I’m in Rome on business. I’ve been here nearly two months.”

  He lifted a brow but said nothing.

  I glanced pointedly around the room. “Is this your church?”

  He grimaced in good humor. “Mine? I am only the—how do you say it?—the caretaker. I tend the church and feed the cats.”

  “The church has cats?”

  He leaned upon the back of the last pew and crossed his legs at the ankle. “Surely you have noticed the cats of Rome?”

  I tilted my head and considered the question. “Now that you mention it, I have seen quite a few cats around the city. I always assumed Romans were fond of them.”

  “Romans hate rats far more than they like cats. That’s why there are so many cats lounging on cars in the sun—they help keep the rat population from going kaboom.”