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

“I’ll
kindly ask that you not do that.”

He
opened his hand, its contents falling back into the jar, then slowly placed the
ancient piece of pottery on the floor beside him, raising his hands, Reading
already doing the same.

“You
have to let me save my wife.”

Another
man rushed up beside them, decked out in gear any Special Forces soldier would
feel at home in. “All clear, sir.”

The gun
was removed from the back of Acton’s head. “Secure these two.”

Acton
was hauled to his feet, his hands quickly zip-tied behind his back. He watched
as the same was done to Reading while another man began to examine Laura.

“We need
to get her to a hospital, now!” cried Acton. A gag was shoved in his mouth then
one end of a roll of duct tape slapped against his chest. Within moments he
found himself taped tightly to a pillar, Reading struggling nearby in the same
predicament.

“Status?”
asked the man apparently in charge, his accent distinctly German. Decked out
head to toe in black, his only discernable features a tanned, chiseled chin
with a thick moustache above his grimacing mouth.

“She’ll
die without immediate help.”

A whip
of the leader’s hand had his men jumping to action. “Take her with us.”

“No!”
screamed Acton against his gag as he wriggled his shoulders and waist in a futile
attempt to get loose. Laura cried out weakly as she was lifted by two of the
men and carried from the room.

“Status
on the relics?”

“All
have been retrieved,” said another man as he held up the jar.

“Then
we’re done here.”

The room
quickly emptied of their attackers as sirens sounded in the distance. Acton
slumped against his bindings as he gave up his struggle to free himself, all
hope lost.

His wife
was gone, taken from him with a stomach wound that looked fatal, and he was
powerless to help her, to stop these men who hadn’t yet hesitated to kill in
their mad quest.

He
sobbed into his gag as he realized he would probably never see her alive again,
never hold her in his arms, feel her breath on his face, caress her cheek as
they made love, or start the family they had been talking about having.

She
would die alone.

And he
swore he’d kill every last one of those responsible.

Jerusalem, Judea
April 7
^th
, 30 AD
The Third Hour

“What’s happening?”

Longinus
cocked an ear, trying to pick out from the amassed crowd any tidbit that might
reveal what the commotion he was hearing was all about. His eyes, failing him
for years now, revealed only dark shadows in front of him, details of his
surroundings long since lost to the ravages of what the garrison doctor had
called cataracts.

Incurable.

“You’ll
never see properly again, and in time, you won’t be able to see at all. At
least anything we would call seeing.”

“How
long?”

The
doctor had shrugged. “A year. Years. There’s no way of knowing, it’s different
for everyone. If you’re lucky you’ll finish your term of service and get your
pension before it gets too bad.”

Well, he
hadn’t. With only a few months left before he was due to return home, he was
now pretty much useless as a soldier. But his friends were helping him as best
they could, he well liked in his contubernium.

And his
best friend, Albus, was almost never far from his side.

Including
today.

“Looks
like another crucifixion.”

“Again?”
Longinus frowned, shaking his head. One of the few blessings of being blind was
not having to see another person nailed to a cross, left out in the sun to die
for all to see, their crime sometimes written on a piece of paper, sometimes
wood, tacked to the cross as a warning to anyone else who might dare to break
the law. “I wonder what this one has done.”

“Who
knows nowadays? The Prefect might just have been in a bad mood.” There was a
grunt of surprise from his friend. “There’s two others with this one.” Albus
gasped. “By the gods! You should see the first one, he’s in rough shape. His
back is so bloodied it’s soaked completely through his robe. And”—there was a
pause, Albus’ gentle hold on his arm slipping for a moment—“there’s something
on his head. It looks like thorns! A circle of thorns!”

“What?
Like a crown?” Longinus had never heard of anything like that being done
before, and he had seen countless crucifixions in his time, and now, with his
poor eyesight, it was one of his more common duties to join the guard at the
crucifixion site and wait for the death of the convicted.

“They
can’t run away from you up there!” his commander had cried, roaring with
laughter. Longinus had laughed with him, used to the constant jabs at his
expense, those low in the ranks, condemned to the menial tasks of a soldier,
always on the lookout for an opportunity to revel in the misery of their peers.

But he
was thankful. His commander could have dismissed him, but instead had found a
purpose for him.

Just
three more months!

Then
he’d be heading home to his family.

It had
been so long since he had heard from them, and even longer since he’d seen
them. The pessimist in him wondered if they were even alive, and on the bad
nights, when doubt and loneliness welled up with the self-pity he sometimes
gave into over his condition, he couldn’t seem to bring up an image of them, a
frustratingly crushing experience that would send him rushing into the darkness
that was his existence, to drown his sorrows in drink until he forgot why he
had been sad in the first place.

It’s
been so long!

He felt
tears flood his eyes as a pang of sorrow stabbed at his chest.

“Longinus!
Albus!”

Longinus
immediately recognized the voice of their commander. He was close. He felt Albus’
grip tighten slightly, gently guiding him so that he’d be facing the man, then
they both snapped to attention. Decanus Vitus knew full-well of his condition,
but those more senior didn’t. If it became too obvious to those around them
that one of Rome’s finest wasn’t up to par—such as by standing at attention
facing the wrong direction—Vitus would be forced to do his duty and dismiss
him.

Thus
violating his contract, thus forfeiting his pension.

If
only I had lost my sight in battle!

But no,
he was cursed to have lost it naturally, from old age and weak stock
apparently.

“I want
you two to accompany this procession to Golgatha, help with the crucifixions,
then stand guard until the last of them passes.”

“Yes,
sir!” they both replied.

Vitus
lowered his voice and Longinus could see his shadow lean in closer. “You should
hear this one’s story. Ridiculous! Clearly mad.” The hot morning sun quickly
returned to its assault on his face as Vitus stepped back. “I’ll see you back
at the barracks. Report to me as soon as they’re all dead.”

“Yes,
sir!”

Longinus
heard the commander walk away, Albus taking him by the arm and leading them
toward the ruckus. “Stand aside!” shouted Albus, the crowd of the subjugated
immediately parting to let them pass, and once they had done so, returning to
their shouts. Most were hurling insults or taunting the condemned men,
something he had heard every single time he had drawn this duty over the years.

In his
experience most of those lining the streets never knew the convicted, never
knew their crimes, instead merely thrilled in taking a break from their daily
struggles to enjoy seeing someone whose day was guaranteed to end worse than
their own.

The
distinctive sound of the wooden crosses, dragging on the hard packed dirt and
stone filled his ears, the jerking motions as they advanced with each halting
step bringing their bearers inexorably closer to their own doom, seemed
particularly slow today.

“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?”