Blood Relics (A James Acton Thriller, #12) (13 page)

But
Longinus had one last thing to offer them, though it wasn’t his alone to offer.
He looked at Albus first, who nodded slightly, then Severus, who closed his good
eye for a moment then opened it, agreeing to the unspoken question.

“Perhaps
you will keep your heads after all.”

Gaius’
eyebrows furled. “What do you mean?”

Longinus
smiled gently. “I am Longinus, the man you seek. This is Albus, and this Severus.
The fourth man you seek, Tiberius, died several weeks ago in a rock slide.”

The jaws
of the men seated at their table dropped, and as if to further revive his faith
in the basic goodness of these men, they looked horrified. Gaius broke the
silence.

“You
cannot be serious! Please tell us you jest, that this is just a bad joke at our
expense!”

Longinus
motioned toward his blessed weapon in the corner and Albus rose to retrieve it.
Longinus took the spear and laid it on the table. “This is the spear I lanced
the Messiah’s side with, the spear that brought forth the blood and water from
within that cured my blindness.” He ran his hand against its rough surface, his
eyes filled with tears. “It is the spear I wish to be buried with.” He looked
up at Gaius. “I am ready to die, so that you may live.”

Albus
returned to his seat, placing a hand on Longinus’ shoulder. “As am I.”

“And I,”
said Severus.

Longinus
smiled at his friends. “We have all been preparing for this day and now that it
is here, it does sadden our hearts, of that I can assure you. However there is
no fear to be found in our impending deaths, for we know we have been blessed
and will spend eternity in paradise with our Lord, our God.” He reached out and
squeezed the top of Gaius’ hand. “And fear not, for there is no sin in what you
do. You are following the orders of a soldier, and we give our lives willingly
to you.”

Gaius
stared at the hand resting on his, his head slowly shaking back and forth. He
looked at his men, then at the three condemned men seated across from them. “I
can’t,” he finally managed to say. “I can’t do it. You are such good people,
righteous people. You took us into your home and gave us food and drink,
entertained us and provided us shelter. To repay your kindness with your deaths
is unthinkable!” He shook his head, firmly this time. “I may not believe in your
god, but I do believe in mine, and my gods would frown upon me should I ever
commit such an atrocity.”

Longinus
took in a deep breath, patting the man’s hand then leaning back. “I will tell
your gods this: we die willingly, and though these men may wield the blade that
removes our heads, they are merely instruments of the evil of this act,
extensions of the blade itself. Think of them as the hilt the blade flows from,
with no more guilt to be associated with them than the blacksmith himself who
forged the blade so long ago. They are merely the arrow, loosed from Jerusalem
by those who would have us dead, finding its mark here, on this day. We
willingly give our lives to these men, so that their own lives may be saved.”
He looked at Gaius, leaning forward slightly. “All we ask is that our bodies be
treated with respect, left here for those who know us to bury, and should it
become possible, to return our severed heads so that we may enjoy our final
resting place as whole men.”

“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.