Blood Relics (A James Acton Thriller, #12) Page 7

  “Well, I think our course of action is clear,” said Acton as they pulled through the gates of The Vatican.

  “What’s that?” asked Giasson.

  Laura smiled. “We go to the one place irresistible to any Blood Relic hunter.”

  Reading’s eyebrows slowly climbed his forehead. “Where’s that?”

  Acton and Laura answered in unison.

  “Paris.”

  Roman Barracks, Jerusalem, Judea

  April 10th, 30 AD

  “Longinus!”

  Longinus turned to see his commander, Vitus, enter the barracks. He looked concerned, almost scared. “What is it?”

  Vitus stepped inside, looking around to see who might be listening. Albus rose from his bunk, as did the others who had been witness to the resurrection, they having spent most of their off-duty hours together, talking of the miracles they had witnessed.

  “They’ve ordered your death!” hissed Vitus.

  “Who?” asked Albus, standing beside Longinus, placing a protective hand on his friend’s shoulder.

  “The rabbis! I don’t know what you did, but you have to get out of here, now!”

  Longinus’ eyes opened wide in surprise. “Desert?”

  Albus gasped. “Desertion means the death penalty if he’s ever caught!”

  “He’s dead if he stays here,” replied Vitus. He looked over his shoulder, leaning into the tight group of soldiers. “If anyone asks, I sent you on a forced march outside the city walls. Punishment for insubordination. No one will miss you until tomorrow.”

  “I’m going with you,” said Albus.

  “And I!” echoed the others.

  Vitus frowned, but nodded. “I understand. But you must go now.” He held out his hand and Longinus grabbed his forearm, squeezing tightly. “Good luck, and may I never see any of you again.”

  “Thank you, my friend.”

  Vitus gave a final squeeze then let go, turning on his heel and leaving the barracks. Albus looked at his friend. “Where will we go?”

  “I have an idea on that,” replied Longinus as he began to put on his armor. “We know where his family is staying. I say we find them and seek their help. They did ask us to join them.”

  “That’s right,” said Severus. “And he had thousands of followers. Maybe some of them can help us.”

  “It’s our only hope.” Longinus helped Albus with his armor. “We’ll join the followers of this teacher and learn his ways.”

  He grabbed his spear, eyeing the still bloodstained tip.

  “Let’s go before they come for us and it’s too late.”

  They stepped out into the fading sunlight, quickly forming ranks and marching toward the gates. Taunts from the guards greeted them, Vitus obviously having informed them of their “punishment”.

  “Enjoy your march, ladies!”

  “Don’t stay out too late, boys!”

  They ignored them, keeping character, just four men scared to do anything else that might piss off their commander, intent on completing their punishment and moving on with their tours of duty.

  They cleared the garrison gates and turned left, toward the gates of the city itself, their double-time march harsh in the unforgiving armor, the sunbaked ground under their feet still giving up the heat gained during the day, relief not yet making itself felt. As they exited the city they turned toward Golgatha, knowing that behind its mound prying eyes would be few, hopefully none.

  They also knew it was where some of the followers of Jesus had gathered to mourn his death.

  Imagine their joy in hearing the news of his resurrection!

  He looked at the tip of his spear, jutting out in front of him then at his side with each stride, the bloodstain still visible. It had clearly been this man’s blood that had cured his blindness, and he couldn’t help but wonder how powerful this wondrous gift might be. Could it heal all wounds? Could it prevent death, or reverse it completely?

  Would a wound created by the tip of this spear simply heal itself?

  It was an interesting question, one he pondered as their grueling march continued, the sun slowly setting in the west as a chill began to settle on the harsh desert landscape. The very idea of a weapon that couldn’t kill was a fascinating concept, and almost maddening, the images of stabbing enemy after enemy, to have them only rise from the dead and continue attacking, disturbing.

  He shivered.

  And vowed from that moment on he would never harm another living soul.

  Kruger Residence, Outside Paris, France

  Present Day, One day before the Paris assault

  “Father!”

  Dietrich Kruger rushed to his father’s bedside, his mouth agape with shock. His father hadn’t looked well in years, so long in fact that Dietrich had to rely on old photographs to imagine what his father should look like, but today he looked as if he had aged another ten years since he had seen him last.

  A thin, boney hand reached out for him. “Son.”

  Dietrich sat on his father’s bedside, holding his hand. “How are you feeling?”

  “Like shit, how do you think I feel?” A thin smile inched across the man’s face.

  “At least you haven’t lost your sense of humor.”

  A coughed laugh erupted and Dietrich out of habit reached for the glass of water sitting on the bedside table. He waited for his father to take a drink through the articulated straw.

  “Our latest mission was successful,” said Dietrich, returning the glass to the table. “We retrieved the lance from Vienna.”

  “And you’ve given it to the lab?”

  Dietrich nodded, using his finger to push a tuft of thinning gray hair out of his father’s eyes. “Dr. Heinrich said he’ll begin testing immediately, but I’m not confident with this one.”

  “Neither am I. And the shroud from Spain?”

  “It tested negative. No blood at all.”

  “And the Vatican?”

  “The results aren’t back yet, but they never claimed it was genuine.”

  “I fear we have little choice.”

  Dietrich nodded, frowning at his father’s words. “I think you’re right.” The mother lode, if it could be called that, was at the Notre-Dame Cathedral. It contained what was purported to be the actual Crown of Thorns worn by Jesus, a piece of the original crucifix, and one of the nails used on the cross itself. It was also rumored to have a jar containing a sponge used to quench Christ’s thirst.

  A knot formed in his stomach.

  “You must be careful,” said his father. “It will be well guarded.”

  “Casualties may be necessary.”

  His father shook his head. “No one should die for me. No one.” Dietrich felt his hand squeezed. “Have you prayed for forgiveness?”

  Dietrich nodded, his eyes clouding slightly as his chest tightened. “Every moment since. I never meant to kill the old man. If only he hadn’t tried to jump me…”

  His father patted his hand. “I know you didn’t mean to, but we must be careful. If something goes wrong, just get out of there. We’ll find another way.”

  “But you can’t die, Father. If there’s a way to save you, then I have to do whatever it takes.”

  “I’ve known I would die from this disease my entire life. If I die, then perhaps it will be your generation, or that of your son, that will be the one to put an end to this curse.”

  “But father!”

  “But nothing. My life is worth no more than any other, and I won’t see people dying to save me.” A wry grin broke out on his face, a little bit of strength having returned to his voice, a hint of color in his cheeks. “But a little grand theft is perfectly okay.”

  He winked and Dietrich laughed as his mother entered the room.

  “So you’re back,” she said as she perched on the other side of the bed, giving her husband a kiss on the forehead. “I understand it was successful.”

  Dietrich nodded. “A little excitement, but nobody was hurt and we retriev
ed the relic.”

  “Good work.” She patted her husband’s shoulder. “We’ll get you well soon enough.”

  His father reached over and clasped his hand over hers, the love in his eyes obvious. “Ever the optimist, this one.”

  Dietrich smiled at the two of them, his love for both of them almost overwhelming. For her to have stuck by his side through everything, for her to have even agreed to marry him when she had been told of the disease that would eventually cripple then kill him, was remarkable. In an age when people left each other over the ever popular irreconcilable differences, when infidelity was a matter of pride in some communities, to see two people, together for over thirty years still deeply in love was inspirational.

  He only hoped he and his wife Andrea would be so in love when his own body was so ravaged. A shot of pain in his leg caused him to wince, then a wave of self-pity suddenly overwhelmed him, his stomach tying itself into knots as he turned away so his parents couldn’t see his face.

  “It’s begun, hasn’t it?”

  He nodded, unable to face his father.

  “I was your age when I felt the first hints of what was to come.”

  His mother’s arms wrapped around him. “I’m so sorry, dear.”

  It only made it worse.

  “I’m going to go see Andrea and Hans.” He rose, his mother’s arms falling away. “I’ll see you before I leave for Paris.”

  “Has it come to that?” asked his mother.

  “It’s our best hope.” He wiped his eyes then turned to his mother. “Perhaps our only hope.”

  His father shook his head. “No, there’s one other. But I fear it may be lost to history.”

  North of Jerusalem, Judea

  April 13th, 30 AD

  The sounds of joy seemed distant to Longinus as he felt the cool water rush around him, the pressure of the deep breath he was holding forgotten in the ecstasy of the moment. His entire body was submerged now, his racing heart pounding in his ears as he felt the strong hands of the disciple named Peter supporting him.

  Suddenly he was lifted from the water, the rush of sounds around him almost overwhelming as water and tears streamed down his face, those gathered around him clapping and cheering the shared excitement of the moment. Peter’s words were lost on him as he blinked the water out of his eyes, suddenly bear-hugged by Albus, his feet lifted from the water as his friend leaned back. He had been last to be baptized, insisting his friends who had joined him go first so that they may rejoice in the overwhelming happiness he himself was already feeling. In his mind he was already baptized by the blood and water of Jesus himself, but when Peter and the others gathered had suggested it, all four of them had jumped at the opportunity, their desire to be closer to God and his Son irresistible.

  He stepped to the shore, helped by the others, his robes heavy and dripping from the water, but he didn’t care. This was a joyous occasion in which the troubles of the past few weeks were forgotten. They had hidden with some of the followers of Jesus, shedding their armor and donning the clothes of peasants, hiding in the homes and camps of followers while the family and disciples of Jesus left to visit with the resurrected rabbi.

  He had longed to see the man, to thank him, but knew this privilege of reunification should be reserved for those closest to him.

  The man had done enough.

  He had saved him.

  And now he was determined to spread his word.

  Should he survive.

  The rabbis of Jerusalem had issued an unofficial warrant for him, for they had no power over a Roman soldier. The whispered word was that they wanted his head delivered to them, on a platter.

  He was sure they’d settle for his guaranteed silence on what he had testified to that day in the synagogue.

  Word was spreading about the crucifixion of this innocent man and the miracle of his resurrection, but so too was the lie that his body had merely been stolen. Those who had witnessed the miracles were unwavering in their belief, and their steadfastness was inspiring others to the cause, today there a long line of people awaiting their own chance at baptism by one of the closest friends of the Messiah.

  He took a seat on a large rock, lying back and letting the midday sun beat down on him, drying his skin and clothes as the celebrations continued around him. As he lay there, the wide smile slowly began to wane as the reality of his situation made its presence known once again.

  He was in danger.

  But that was of no concern to him. If he died today, he would die content, without fear for he now knew what awaited him. He had led a basically good life and any of his transgressions had been forgiven when Jesus had given up his spirit and performed this one last miracle, restoring the sight to an aging man.

  “Something vexes you.”

  Longinus opened his eyes and shaded them from the sun with a hand. John—the new son of the Messiah’s mother, Mary—stood in front of him. He frowned. “I’m a danger to you all.”

  “We’re all a danger to each other, that is the very nature of our existence. The word of our Lord is perceived as dangerous to those who would rule over us, whether they be the rabbis who ignore the proof that he is the prophesized one, or the Romans who would merely oppress us to feed their evil empire. The life of a follower of the word of our teacher isn’t an easy one, nor should it be chosen lightly.” He paused. “I thought you of all people would know that. Do you regret what you have done here today?”

  Longinus felt a flutter in his stomach at John’s words. He pushed himself up to a seated position, shaking his head vehemently. “No! Not at all! I wouldn’t change a single thing I’ve done since that day, but it is I that is specifically hunted by name.” He stood, looking at the gathered throng, still rejoicing in the events unfolding. “Should they come for me and find you with me, you all may be arrested…or worse.” He sighed, placing a hand on John’s shoulder. “I fear I must leave you all.”

  Albus walked up to them, concern on his face. “What’s wrong?”

  It was John that replied. “He’s leaving us.”

  Though Longinus hadn’t quite said the words, it was clear John agreed with the sentiment and knew his mind was already made up. It was time to leave these good people so they might be safe. Their lives would be hard enough without him adding to their troubles.

  “But why! You’re one of us, we’re now one of them! Why would you turn your back on them?”

  Longinus placed his free hand on Albus’ shoulder, smiling. “It is because I am one of them that I must leave. I believe so much in what they are trying to do, that I have to leave so they aren’t stopped by those searching for me.” He let go of both men and picked up his spear lying beside the stone that had been his resting place.

  “You are mistaken in what you say,” replied Albus, his hand covering Longinus’ grip on the spear. “We must leave. The four of us are deserters and the entire Roman Army is looking for us.” Albus waved for the other two to join them. “We will leave together and die together should it be necessary.”

  Longinus nodded, joy filling his heart that his friends would be with him on the long journey ahead.

  For he could think of only one place to go.

  Home.

  Notre-Dame Cathedral, Paris, France

  Present Day, Day of the Paris assault

  “They don’t seem to be taking the threat seriously.”

  Reading nodded as they strode down the center of the massive Notre-Dame Cathedral in Paris. Its first stone laid in 1163, it was built over centuries, handcrafted in stages resulting in a breathtaking combination of architecture and artistry that Acton found himself never tiring of. He had been here several times before, making it a point to try to see it every time he was in Paris, but Laura had seen it on many occasions, Paris just a few hours by train from London.

  He had been fortunate enough to be shown the Treasury on his last visit and was eager to see it again, the relics contained within breathtaking in their beauty and opulence,
not to mention their historical significance.

  Which was why he was surprised to have only seen a single police officer outside and none inside.

  “You’d think with all the terrorist activity here lately they’d take a threat like this more seriously,” observed Laura.

  Reading grunted. “If this were terrorism, I have no doubt they would. But this isn’t and they’ve got their hands full.”

  Just as 9/11 had changed American views overnight, so had the terrorist attacks in Paris affected the psyche of the people of France. Heightened security had been very evident on the streets of Paris as they made their way here, but Parisians seemed to be trying to move on with their lives, thumbing their noses at those who would have them cower in fear.

  Acton knew Reading was right, the theft of Blood Relics wasn’t terrorism, but to him any threat against archeological sites or artifacts was an act of terrorism, an attack on history, on culture, on humanity’s past. The fact an officer was outside at least suggested that the French weren’t completely ignoring the threat, and the young man had indicated his boss was inside, meaning at least two officers were assigned.

  His mind drifted to the solidarity rally he and Laura had attended in Trafalgar Square while packing up some of her personal effects from her apartment in London. They had watched on the BBC the events of that horrible day unfold live for the world to see, the heart wrenching terror in the eyes of Parisians as they heard the news, terrified with the knowledge that the terrorists were still on the loose, their massacre of twelve at the Charlie Hebdo offices only the beginning of their plan.

  All over cartoons.

  It was disgusting. Ridiculous. Almost comical if it weren’t for the death toll. And an illustration of how Islam was fundamentally incompatible with Western democracies. He had listened to and read Imam after Imam condemn the attacks in one sentence, then proclaim that though they believed in free speech, they felt it should be illegal to satirize a religion.

  And what was truly disturbing was a recent BBC poll showing almost 30% of British Muslims felt the Charlie Hebdo attacks were justified.