“I can’t believe it,” Lucan breathed, withdrawing the chunk of metal.
Lilliana backed up another step, keeping a wary distance from the long antique spearhead he now turned over in his hand. An age-old design: rolled iron, pounded to a leaf-shaped blade. The bottom portion curled the metal into an opening to accommodate a wooden shaft. This fluted to the center of the blade, lending the weapon both lightness and strength. Though still sharp at the edges, the spearhead was ragged and pitted with dark red rust, which also gave the impression of dried blood. Its tip was missing.
“I don’t think Emperor Henry would be very happy to know we are holding his property.” Lucan shook his head, continuing to turn the thing over as he examined it. “The Spear of Destiny.”
“If all goes well, it will be returned soon enough that it won’t even be missed—or maybe we’ll just keep it.” Her voice was playful.
Lucan scoffed and set the item into its bed of crushed velvet and snapped the lid shut. “First, it has to work.”
“Teo believes with this relic, this spear that pierced the side of Jesus, you will be able to do just that. It is the cause for the blood that spilled into the cup now resting in yonder church. Teo believes by bringing them back together, especially in your hands, wondrous things will happen. He was right about the girl, wasn’t he?”
Lucan grumbled his concession.
“Obtain the cup, and take it to the northeast wall. It is the least-guarded position. You can let yourself down with a rope and find your way to Teodorico’s tent from there.”
“A rope?” Lucan said, frowning. “You can’t meet me and, you know...”
He flapped his arms.
“I have no intention of coming anywhere near this place again,” she responded, lips twitching, “and I definitely have no wish to be anywhere near that cup.”
Lucan looked away, saying bitterly, “Right, I’m your tool.”
Anger rose in her face. “A tool of your own choosing, and with a common goal. You’re not losing your conviction, are you?”
“I admit I have my doubts.” He stared long at the box next to a flagon of wine, not sure which one he wanted to pick up more. “Lilly, have you ever wondered if what we’re doing is right? I had thought this was a simple mission of taking the cup and putting it in an ambitious man’s hands. Why do so many innocents have to die? When did it become so complicated? I am tired.”
The anger faded from her face and she came close to stroke his cheek.
“Do not lose faith now,” she said, gentleness softening her voice. “We are so close, and it has always been a rule of the universe that for great things to happen, there must be a great price.”
Lucan took her hand, pressed it to his face, and closed his eyes. “We could just run away. Things have moved along enough on their own now they don’t need us anymore. We could watch from a distance. Together. Like in the old days.”
Her smile was bittersweet. “The sun has set on you and me, all that is left is the mission. Focus on you, not on ‘us.’ This is the only way to take matters into your own hands. Furthermore, who is to say it wasn’t always you who was meant to usher in the end times? Perhaps that is why God cursed you with your existence; to act as His agent, His hand, His tool.”
She withdrew her hand and stood at a distance.
He drew a deep breath and nodded.
Smiling with satisfaction she moved toward the window, but before she departed she turned to him and said with narrowed eyes, “Just out of curiosity, Emperor Henry sent you to Antioch when the crusaders captured the city. You were to fetch the missing spear tip. Your exploits to save the crusaders from siege using the tip has become legend, but what indeed happened to it?”
Lucan’s eyes narrowed at her in return. “It is as I originally reported: after the battle, the tip was assumed into heaven by angels.”
“Indeed?” Lilliana said, eyes narrowing even more. She turned back to the window. Wind whipped through the room and she was gone.
Lucan retrieved the spear from its box, reached over the collar of his tunic, and pulled out the shard which hung from a leather thong around his neck. He held up the bit of metal to the spear.
The jagged piece fit perfectly.
#
Patrick gingerly made his way up the church’s flying buttress and landed solidly on the roof. He went to the edge and surveyed the trebuchet, which neared completion across the field. Though now scorched and blackened, it was sound. From here it did not look so imposing until you realized the little ant-sized figures moving about it were people.
Presently, an ant-sized figure walked inside each of the water wheels, turning them, and simultaneously the cabin-sized counterweight full of rocks at its front slowly rose until it came to rest. The wheels locked in place and the ants exited, followed by a shout. A figure standing to the side of the engine pulled a lever and the wheels quickly spun in reverse, dropping the counter weight in a free fall. In response, the launch arm shot skywards and a thunderous rattle filled the air: the swinging arm dragged a chain along the bottom of the device until the chain whipped over the top of the engine with a ker-whoosh! A group of people standing too close to the backside of the engine ducked, missing the chain by a hair.
The chain flailed about for some time before coming to rest at the end of the bobbing launch arm. The construction crew cheered at their successful test.
Patrick shook his head. The enemy needed only to attach the launch basket.
Greensprings had considered long and hard what kind of attack could disable the thing, excluding a costly full-frontal assault. Nothing came to mind. Even Patrick, here in his “thinking place,” had no answers. The only good news from their strategic council was the agreement that because the girl and the cup remained inside the keep, Teodorico would not allow Greensprings leveled until after their removal. He and Philip would likely concentrate the trebuchet attacks on the keep walls, creating breaches where Lost boys could enter with portable bridges spanning the moat. The enemy would spill into Greensprings like death poured into a bottle. That process would take longer, though, offering a glimmer of hope for a rescuing army to arrive.
As Patrick pondered this, he noticed people leaving the church in large numbers. His brow furrowed as he leaned over the edge to see another group leave.
Curious, he walked over to the stained-glass dome. Lucan stood near the altar, staring uncomfortably at the worshippers until they stood and left. Eventually, he remained alone with the cup, and Patrick did not like how he looked at it.
#
Patrick quietly made his way from one pillar to the next, keeping out of Lucan’s line of sight.
Lucan still pondered the cup, arms halfway crossed while he chewed a thumbnail. Eventually, he leaned towards the cup and passed his hand through it.
The room filled with the fragrance of roses. Patrick made one last quiet jump to the pillar nearest Lucan.
The knight produced what looked like an old, broken spearhead and again he leaned towards the cup, hovering the old weapon near the vessel. After a pause, he touched the two metals.
An audible ting filled the emptiness of the church.
Patrick’s eyes widened, and they widened further when Lucan tipped the entire cup with the spearhead.
When Lucan reached with his free hand to grasp the cup, Patrick stepped out from the shadows.
“Stop,” he said. “What are you doing?”
Lucan stiffened and looked over his shoulder.
“Stay out of this, Patrick,” he warned, and moved to grasp the cup.
Patrick drew his sword and took a step forward. “I said stop!”
Lucan spun and struck Patrick’s sword with the spearhead.
As if made of pottery, Patrick’s blade easily snapped off at mid-length and clattered noisily across the stone floor of the church. Patrick looked at the jagged remnant in his hand with disbelief.
“I said stay out of this,” Lucan said sternly, and the spear
head glowed faintly in his hand.
He turned and reached for the cup a third time, but Patrick tackled him from behind, pinning his arms to his sides in a bear hug.
Lucan squatted, preventing Patrick from lifting or throwing him, and violently threw his head back. The blow caught Patrick on the cheek, and an explosion of stars stunned him. In that brief moment of pain and disorientation, Lucan pivoted and punched Patrick square in the stomach. Regardless of his chain mail, the blow knocked the wind out of him. He doubled over with a grunt. Lucan caught him by the throat and lifted him into the air just high enough to slam him back down to earth onto his back.
Lucan blew a wisp of hair out of his face.
“Stay,” he said simply and turned yet again.
Coughing, Patrick sat up and lunged at Lucan’s leg and latched on to it. Lucan dragged him for a step before turning.
“Damn you, Irishman,” he growled, “you’re a persistent fellow, I’ll give you that, but you must let go.”
With that he viciously kicked Patrick in the ribs and sent him rolling. Patrick used the momentum to roll to his feet and pull out his dagger.
“Too much has happened,” Patrick wheezed, wavering on his feet, “and too many people have died already for you just to walk off with it.”
Lucan raised the strange piece of metal and replied sadly, “I’m sorry, Sir Patrick, but if this is how it has to be, then so be it.”
He lunged forward and swiped. Patrick bobbed and dodged and they circled each other, coming together in brief but fierce clashes alternating between slashes, jabs, and fist blows. Each of them made little progress in penetrating the other’s defenses, expertly blocking with forearms at just the right moments.
Patrick’s vision swam from his previous injuries, his breath labored, and he had no doubt that the special nature of Lucan’s blade held the advantage and would cut through his armor as if it were butter. He had to be clever.
He feigned a stumble and remained down just long enough for Lucan to do just what he hoped he would: strike down with an overhand blow. Patrick caught Lucan’s forearm on his own, then drove his dagger up into his sternum.
Lucan’s eyes went wide and he staggered back, dropping his weapon. He reached for the blade protruding from his chest, pawing at it.
Pained and exhausted, Patrick leaned on his knees. After regaining his breath he looked up to watch Lucan’s final moments, but shock filled him when he saw something else.
Wide-eyed, Patrick watched the man painfully extract the blade from his heart with only the smallest amount of blood to show for it. When finished, he regarded the blade oddly and dropped it with a clatter to the floor.
“That,” he said, regarding Patrick angrily, “hurt.”
“What are you?” Patrick said, not sure whether to run or try for his dagger. Lucan made no immediate move.
“I’m cursed,” Lucan responded with a half-hearted smile, “but I hope you don’t hold that against me.”
Patrick snorted. “No, I hold the fact you just tried to kill me against you.”
“I gave you every chance to leave,” Lucan replied, scowling, and then gestured to his chest. “And, excuse me?” The anger suddenly left Lucan and he paced back and forth, running his hands through his hair, mumbling, “What am I doing?”
“What are you doing?” Patrick asked, his muscles still taut.
Lucan put his back against a pillar and slid to a sitting position.
“Trying to bring an end to the world,” he admitted.
Lucan’s changed demeanor eased Patrick’s coiled nerves, and no longer sensing a threat, Patrick took a knee near him.
“How? What does the cup have to do with it?”
“I think you can imagine what will happen if Teodorico obtains the relic,” Lucan explained, “but let me spell it out just the same; with a relic like that, Teodorico can become the sole recognized pope, consolidate his power in Western Christendom, and perhaps even combine all fragmented Christians—from the Catholics to the Orthodox to the Coptics—but his vision of Christianity would be a dark and twisted thing, with an emphasis on power and control, snuffing out the light of God. If Teodorico did not do this himself, certainly his successors would. Within a hundred years, all the reasons for God to unleash the Four Horsemen would arise, and the end times would commence.”
Patrick frowned deeply, his mind reeling. “Why would you be a part of this?”
“Because I want the end to come,” Lucan confessed. “I cannot die, cannot rest in peace, until Jesus returns. There is only one time that will happen, and that is when the events of the Book of Revelation play out, and that won’t happen until the world is in such a hopeless state God unleashes the Four Horsemen.”
“You are immortal?” Patrick breathed.
Lucan scoffed. “I cannot die, or age, if that is what you mean. Existing is not the same as living. There is little joy in my continued presence.”
“But how?”
“How is it I can’t die? I think you know your Bible better than most, and the legends surrounding it,” Lucan continued. “You know the scene where the centurion is commanded to thrust his lance into the side of Christ? That was I.”
“Longinus,” Patrick said, appraising the man anew.
Lucan laughed. “That is not my name. ‘Longinus’ means ‘Lancer,’ or ‘Lanceman.’ That was attributed to me much later. My name is Lucien Gaius Aurelius. I was a centurion of the First Syrian Legion of Rome, and I had a life. All that changed and was taken from me the day I was commanded to ensure the Nazarene troublemaker was dead by stabbing him with a spear. The mixture of blood and water pouring over me that day transformed me. A baptism of sorts, but I have no special blessings—just a continued existence that goes on and on with no explanation.”
“God has never told you why you cannot die?” Patrick asked.
“No,” Lucan replied with bitterness. “All the mystics and saints I have consulted say I am cursed for daring to harm the flesh of God, and the curse will not lift until Jesus returns.”
This revelation was enthralling, and Patrick temporarily forgot the impending battle outside. “But you were only doing your duty.”
“So was the Israelite in scripture who put out his hand to steady the Ark of the Covenant when it started to tumble from its cart,” Lucan reasoned, shrugging. Moisture glinted in his eyes. “Look what that got him: death. He was lucky, if you ask me.”
“Still, that gives you no right to jeopardize our safety.”
The sadness in Lucan’s face shifted to anger. “If you had lived my life you would understand!”
“You don’t think I’ve experienced loss? Suffered? Questioned God’s plan for me?” Patrick scoffed. “You don’t see me trying to end the world!”
Lucan’s eyes narrowed at Patrick. “Why is that? You of all people should understand! You lost a child! You should be angry! You should be helping me! Why do you defend the cup?”
Patrick rose angrily. “Because I believe! I believe in hope. I believe in goodness. Even when I struggle to find it in me, I can’t stop believing there has to be good in the world! I can’t believe God lets the cup stay here purely for my punishment. There has to be a greater reason, even if I don’t see it!”
In a rush, his feelings finally came clear to him.
“I am angry! But I have to recognize God made a natural order of things, which I broke. God created the sun, but should I blame Him for what happens to my eyes if I stare too long at it? The blame is mine!” His voice echoed. He chuckled to himself as a dozen images crossed his mind; from Aimeé to Yvette to his mother and beyond. “Wise people have tried to explain to me that the trick is not to wallow in the blame. But I must admit, I haven’t quite sorted out how to accomplish that.”
He rubbed his temple, attempting to massage more memories of Yvette to the surface so he could confront them. Few came.
Lucan stared at him nonplussed, fascinated. Patrick returned his stare, clenching and unclenchin
g his fists as he considered this lost soul who had put Aimeé and others at risk.
“I’m sorry for your situation,” Patrick continued, voice escalating from a growl, “I can’t imagine what it must be like, but I do know everything has a purpose. Your life is a long and extraordinary one. It only stands to reason your purpose will be just as extraordinary and just as long in revealing itself. So, sit tall in the saddle and help, or get out of the way!”
Lucan gazed at him thoughtfully. “You are one of those people, aren’t you?”
“What kind is that?”
Lucan grunted. “One of those who infect people with hope.”
Patrick blinked and tensed, not sure what Lucan meant to do next. “Are you through? Or do you still wish to put the cup in Teodorico’s hands?”
“I’m done,” Lucan replied, “and I will help.”
Patrick thrust out his hand. “Do I have your word on that?”
Lucan smiled tiredly, but genuinely.
“You have my word as a former centurion, a knight, and gentlemen. Fight strong,” he said, beating his breast and then clasping Patrick’s hand.
“Live stronger,” Patrick said, and added, “We could use the skills of a Roman officer.”
“Former officer,” Lucan corrected as he bent over to pick up the spearhead. “That too was taken from me the day I failed to keep the body of the Nazarene in its tomb.”
“You were one of the guards at the tomb of Christ?”
“Yes, until a brilliant light blinded me, and the earth shook, knocking me to the ground,” he said, examining the spearhead. “But do you think Pilate believed any of that? Do you think he cared? No, he only cared the body went missing. I took the money the Jews gave me to keep my mouth shut and ran before Pilate could take my head.”
“And that?” Patrick asked, pointing to the spearhead.
“This,” he replied, holding it up, “is the Spear of Destiny as they call it these days. It was the one I took from the hundred in the Praetorian armory that fateful morning. It became more than a piece of metal the moment it pierced the side of Christ.”
Ripples in the Chalice: A Tale of Avalon (Tales of Avalon Book 2) Page 44