Blood Relics (A James Acton Thriller, #12) Page 2

  “The first one, he’s weak,” explained Albus, answering his unspoken query. “There’s so much blood, they must have really beaten him.”

  “Please, my Lord, let me help you!”

  “Stand back,” shouted Albus at the woman who had spoken. “Do not interfere with the procession!”

  “But let me at least wipe his brow, he’s so exhausted!”

  There was a pause then acquiescence from his friend. “Very well.”

  The dragging of the cross stopped for a brief moment and he could hear the woman whispering words of comfort to the man, words he couldn’t hear above the shouts of the crowd, a crowd he noticed seemed to have a larger number of people than usual unhappy with what was happening. Women were wailing in sorrow, men were shouting in anger not at the men bearing their crosses, but at the soldiers enforcing Prefect Pilate’s orders.

  The splintering of wood dragging on the unforgiving ground resumed, a hint of renewed energy then a gasp from the crowd. A loud crash and a man’s weakened grunt of shock suggested to him that the man had fallen, his heavy load tumbling to the ground.

  “You there, come here!”

  Longinus turned toward Albus’ voice as a shadow approached.

  “What is your name?”

  “Simon.”

  “You look like a traveler.”

  “I’ve just arrived from Cyrene.”

  “You look strong. Take his cross or we’ll be here all day.”

  “But I have business to attend to!”

  Longinus heard a hand-width of sword drawn from its scabbard. “Your business can wait.”

  “Very well,” replied the man, no fear in his voice.

  Longinus listened as the man lifted the cross from the ground, the scrape strong, swift, but instead of it continuing up the road, it stopped.

  “What’s happening?” he whispered to Albus, not wanting anyone to know he couldn’t see.

  “He’s helping the man to his feet. A few women are cleaning him up. I think they’re friends, perhaps family.”

  Longinus nodded as the scraping continued, still a staccato rhythm as the cross dragged with each of the man’s steps.

  A woman wailed, joined by several others.

  Suddenly the procession stopped again.

  “Daughters of Jerusalem, do not weep for me, weep for yourselves and for your children…”

  “Who’s speaking?” asked Longinus.

  “The condemned man,” hissed Albus in his ear. The crowd immediately fell silent, as if this man’s words meant something more than the usual pleas of innocence so often cried by the condemned.

  His voice was weak but confident, as if the man had not yet lost his will to live, his mind and soul still resilient, merely his body failing him.

  “…for the time will come when you will say, blessed are the childless women, the wombs that never bore and the breasts that never nursed! Then they will say to the mountains, ‘Fall on us!’ and to the hills, ‘Cover us!’ for if people do these things when the tree is green, what will happen when it is dry?”

  “Move along!” shouted Albus, ending the man’s speech, the sound of Simon carrying the cross resuming, the crowds swarming along with the condemned men surging forward, faster than before as the strong, fresh traveler seemed intent on making quick work of his task so he could return to his original plans.

  The sun was hot and unforgiving already though it was still morning. The uphill climb out of the city, to the hillside known as Golgatha, was grueling even for Simon, a man whose voice had suggested he was large. Albus’ gentle grip on Longinus’ arm never wavered, and neither did the wails of the women following the procession, the bulk of the crowds abandoning their pursuit once the city gates were cleared, though a strong contingent of those delighting in the misery of these three men followed, their hatred seemingly focused solely on this poor soul who had been severely beaten.

  “We’re here,” whispered Albus. “You stand guard here,” he said in a louder voice, pushing on Longinus’ arm, spinning him to face the crowds. Longinus could see the mix of dark and light in front of him. He jabbed the base of his spear into the dirt, taking a wide stance and extending his right arm with the spear to his side, his other arm held out to block the crowd.

  “No one passes,” he said in a commanding voice, immediately halting the advance of the shadows cast before him. The crowd stopped and he put his hand on his hip, listening, even the coldest of those gathered shunned into silence at the gruesome task now being carried out.

  The distinct sound of the three crosses tossed off the shoulders of their bearers, the wood clattering on the solid rock, was followed by pleas from two voices he didn’t recognize, clearly the men that had accompanied the other weakened man, the man whose words still confused Longinus.

  “If people do these things when the tree is green, what will happen when it is dry?”

  What did it mean? What tree?

  “Drink!”

  “What is it?” asked the weakened voice.

  “Wine with gall. It will help with the pain,” replied Albus, his voice beseeching the man to take the liquid offered to all the condemned.

  “No.”

  Longinus’ eyebrows rose slightly. He couldn’t recall the last time, if ever, one of the condemned had refused the acidic wine mixed with wormwood, the combination dulling the senses for what was to come.

  Who is this man?

  A hammer hit an iron spike, someone cried out in agony, the gasp of the crowd suggesting the man who had shown so much courage and strength up to this point.

  But he can’t escape the pain.

  He tried to tune out the taps of the hammer, instead returning to his thoughts on the man’s words. Perhaps the tree was a metaphor? That made sense, but Longinus wasn’t much for metaphors, in fact he wasn’t much for any of the flowery language those who would call themselves philosophers and scholars espoused whenever he heard them. Speak plain, speak straight, then there’s no misunderstandings.

  Perhaps the green tree means when times are good?

  That made sense. Perhaps he meant if things like this were done in good times, then what horrors might be seen when times were bad?

  Another spike, another cry. He forced himself to not wince with each tap of the hammer, each one eliciting a shriek from one of the gathered women. He wondered who they were, what connection they had to this man, for it was sympathy that he was hearing for this one man, not the other two. In fact, all the support, and all the hatred, seemed exclusive to this one soul, and he again wondered what he must have done to elicit such diametrically opposed reactions from those gathered.

  The tapping of the hammer echoed across the rocky hilltop, different this time, and he recognized the sound made when something was tacked onto the cross.

  Probably his sentence.

  The sound of the first cross being lifted, its base slipping into the hole dug long ago, the thud followed by a cry from the poor soul condemned to die in such a horrendous fashion, signaling at least the beginning of the end of these doomed men’s time on Earth.

  The other two men were next, the impact of their crosses slamming into their holes reverberating through the stone Longinus stood on.

  It was a feeling he had never noticed before, he never before particularly caring about any of those who had been condemned.

  But something was different here today.

  Something felt different.

  As if some great injustice were being committed, something that they would later come to regret if they continued.

  He shivered.

  Feet scraping on the rock behind him had him turning slightly.

  “How are you, my friend?”

  It was Albus. He nodded. “Fine. Who is he? The one they’re all crying over?”

  “I’ve never heard of him, but according to the sign Pilate wanted nailed to his cross, he certainly thought a lot of himself. No wonder they sentenced him to death, and no wonder so many of these
people are pissed off.”

  “Why, what does it say?”

  “It says ‘This is Jesus, the King of the Jews’.”

  Cathedral of San Salvador, Oviedo, Spain

  Present Day, Two days before the Paris assault

  Father Rodriquez leaned over and poked the fire, getting a little more life out of it before stoking it one final time, his eyes heavy. It had been a long day, the world inside the walls surrounding him not immune to the struggles of these times his beloved country found itself in. An economy nearly bankrupted by the Great Recession and a foolish dalliance in expensive green energy had resulted in a youth unemployment rate of nearly fifty percent.

  Which meant a restless youth.

  His days were filled with endless parades of mothers leading young sons—literally by the ear sometimes—to see him, to give them a talking to in a too often futile effort to keep these bored and frustrated young men on the straight and narrow.

  And too often his nights were filled chasing away those same men looking to blow off steam with a little vandalism.

  He hooked the poker on its stand then picked up the book he had been reading from his lap, one of his perennial favorites, Robinson Crusoe. Reaching over to the small side table without looking, his hand instinctively found the glass of red wine he had been nursing. He began to read one of his favorite parts of the book then closed his eyes, taking a sip of the wine as he savored the effect the tannins had on his tongue. His mind wandered, picturing himself on some deserted island in the middle of nowhere, building a home to not only protect himself from the elements, but from cannibals as well, disguising his new home from outside eyes.

  He opened his own, looking about the sparse rectory. The life of a priest was a lonely one. Gone were the days where parishes were so well attended that several priests were sometimes required. There was no more camaraderie among those of the cloth. It was a lonely existence, but it was the one he had chosen so long ago.

  Fifty years next month.

  He looked at the crucifix his proud mother had given him the day he had graduated from the seminary.

  Oh Mama, I look forward to seeing you and Papa again.

  They had both died in the past few years, his mother’s a difficult death, Alzheimer’s taking her mind long before her body. But they were at peace now, together he knew in the Kingdom of God.

  He winced, a stabbing pain in his knee reminding him of just how many years he had put onto his own bones. He would be retiring soon, something he felt would probably kill him long before any disease might. He couldn’t imagine the boredom. Though he complained silently of the stream of people entering the church day after day looking for him to solve their problems rather than they themselves doing the obvious, he would miss them.

  The people of this community were his friends.

  His family.

  Though it wouldn’t hurt some of them to invite me to dinner from time to time.

  Too often he spent his evenings alone, heating a can of soup on his small stove, his old radio providing his only company.

  No one wants to dine with an old man who reminds them of their sins.

  He laughed, shaking his head and taking another sip of wine, its numbing qualities slowly taking hold, the pain in his knee subsiding if only slightly.

  Looking back at the page, he began to read about the elaborate fence Crusoe was building when he heard a loud bang from outside.

  Those cursed teenagers!

  He placed his glass of wine and book on the table, struggling to his feet. Slipping into his slippers and tightening the belt on his robe, he grabbed a flashlight and opened the door, walking down the short hallway to the church itself. This was the second time this week, fifth time this month, that someone had attempted to get in. He knew it was teenagers tormenting him, their laughter and snickers from the alleyways echoing across the cobblestone streets when he’d poke his head out the door.

  But he had to investigate. He couldn’t ignore the possibility that there might be an actual thief.

  For he had been entrusted with one of Christianity’s most precious relics.

  A Blood Relic.

  The very cloth used to wrap the head of Jesus Christ when he was lowered from the cross.

  The Shroud of Oviedo.

  It was priceless, irreplaceable.

  Stored in the original part of the church since the ninth century, it now stood behind the mighty stone walls of the now much larger cathedral, and iron bars that were rarely opened to the public.

  But walls could be breached, locks picked, and display cases opened.

  “Who goes there?” he cried into the dark, his flashlight playing across the darkened pews, the only light from prayer candles still flickering nearby and the occasional shaft of moonlight from overhead.

  There was no reply of course, but he heard the creaking of the gate as it swung open, sending his heart racing as he rushed forward, faith and duty rather than intelligent forethought sending him hobbling toward the danger, his only weapons God and a flashlight.

  “This is a house of God!” he cried into the darkness as he rounded the corner that led to the original structure, the Chapel of St. Michael.

  The beam of a flashlight suddenly blinded him. He raised his hand to shield his eyes as he heard glass smashing inside the now unlocked chamber.

  “No! Please! You can’t do this! These relics are precious, priceless!” He raised his flashlight, shining it not at the man now trying to blind him, but inside the chamber.

  And to his dismay he saw someone lifting the Shroud from its protective case.

  “That contains the blood of Christ himself! You cannot take it, you mustn’t take it!”

  “Don’t worry, Father. We’ll take good care of it.”

  The man spoke passable Spanish but with a slight accent that made him think he might be German.

  These weren’t teenagers out to have some fun at his expense.

  “Who are you?”

  “Nobody you need concern yourself with.”

  Fear and rage gripped him and he charged toward the man, a foolish act he knew, but the only one he could think to do.

  A muzzle flashed in front of him and he felt a searing pain in his chest as he dropped to his knees, his advance stopped. Tipping over to his side, his flashlight rolled away from his outstretched hand, its beam revealing two men gently placing the shroud in some sort of case, a curious fog or haze roiling from the top of it. One of the men closed it, the case snapping shut with a hiss, giving him some small comfort that their intentions appeared not to be vandalism, but theft.

  And as he felt the life blood flow from him, he began to pray to his Lord and Savior for forgiveness in failing to protect the holy relic that contained His healing blood.

  Footsteps approached him, somebody kneeling at his side, shining a flashlight in his face then down at his chest where he had been shot. He could see the man’s silhouette as he rose, a cellphone to his ear.

  “Yes, we’ve retrieved the relic. Unfortunately the priest interfered.” There was a pause, the sound of someone yelling on the other end. “I’m sorry, but he charged me…no, I don’t think he can be saved…very well, father.”

  The phone snapped shut and the man placed a hand on Father Rodriguez’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Father. You were never meant to be harmed.”

  “Wh-why?”

  “Why are we taking the Shroud? Because some men are not so prepared to die as you are, Father.”

  He felt a pat on his shoulder then the fading sounds of boots on the stone floor, a floor that felt colder by the second as he grew weaker and weaker.

  Then a smile spread across his face as he closed his eyes.

  I’ll see you soon, Mama and Papa.

  Golgatha, Judea

  April 7th, 30 AD

  The sixth hour

  “Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing.”

  Longinus’ jaw almost dropped as he realized who this man
was, this man whose voice resonated with a timbre that at once suggested wisdom and love with inner strength and courage despite the surety he was soon to die.

  Father.

  This was the man he had heard about, the rabbi who claimed to be the son of the Jewish God. He himself didn’t believe in their god, the entire notion of only a single deity ridiculous. Any reasonably educated person knew there were gods for every aspect of human life, from war to love, that could be called upon in time of need, each focused on their one duty to the exclusion of all others.

  How could a single God have the time to deal with all of man’s problems?

  But this man here, this man who made the ridiculous claim he was the son of a god, was clearly mad. To not only claim he was the son of a god, and therefore by extension a god himself, was insane. But to do so here of all places, on this day of all days had to be the very definition of lunacy. Today was Passover, from his limited understanding of Judaism the biggest religious holiday of the year. To come to Jerusalem during the Passover with apparently hundreds if not thousands of followers was insane, especially allowing himself to be greeted like a king upon arrival with people throwing their garments on the ground for him to walk on.

  It was suicide!

  And he had arrived on a donkey.

  The very idea of a king riding a donkey!

  He chuckled as behind him he heard the guards arguing over the garments the prisoners had worn, all divvied up in short order, the final item, the “king’s” undergarment, drawing particular interest.

  “Let’s not tear it,” he heard one say.

  “Let’s decide by lot who will get it.” It was Albus who suggested this, the sounds of the impartial method of decision making soon heard, Albus crying out with joy, apparently the winner.

  A shadow approached and he held out his arm. It stopped, but what sounded like an elderly man began yelling. “You who are going to destroy the temple and build it in three days, save yourself! Come down from the cross, if you are the Son of God!”

  There was laughter among the crowd, another joining in on the taunting. “He saved others, but he can’t save himself! He’s the king of Israel! Let him come down now from the cross, and we will believe in him.”