Centurion: Mark's Gospel as a Thriller (14 page)

e cross the bridge.

Thinking of Jude's mother and father reminds me of why I came home in the first place. I'm far from the only person who's suffered. The South is a country that baptizes its babies in pain; its people wear disillusionment like jewels around their necks. Most of the children here have experienced more heartache before their tenth birthday than the average adult in the West does in a lifetime.

Parents are hauled away by train to the northern camps. Children are forced into adulthood at tender ages, just as Jude was. Violence has become the currency of the market. I saw my first crucifixion on my eighth birthday. Watching nails driven through a body takes something from you that you don't get back.

We've never known freedom, and there's no one left from the generation that did. When I was a child, the last of the old folks were still living, and their stories permeated our land with a faint but very real hope. They spoke of the implicit joy of travel, of being able to pack up your family and explore the world. I heard tales of what it was like to live without the fear of the Kingdom's iron fist. People were free to do with their lives as they saw fit.

The only reason I was allowed to leave for school was my test scores. The Kingdom, through standardized testing, decides very early in people's lives who gets to continue with education and who must stop and enter the work force. My scores were very high, which meant I got to keep going. When I completed my primary schooling, my vocational testing indicated medicine would be my profession. But this was no accident. My parents had meticulously prepared me for this path since my childhood, beginning with their decision to read
Grey's Anatomy
to me when most children heard fairy tales about courageous princes
and evil warlocks. The day I left on that train was the culmination of many years of planning.

I never minded. I've loved the human body for as long I can remember and want to bring healing to pain.

I lied to Dr. Stone. I haven't always been interested in medicine; I became interested the instant my parent asked me to study it. Even then I understood they were trying to save me from this place.

From the time I was old enough to walk, my parents warned me about the leper colony. Under no circumstances was I to cross the bridge I just have. When I asked my father what was on the other side, he simply told me, "Death."

Which was a good enough answer for me.

I follow Jude down an old cobblestone road that runs alongside the battered fortress that now functions as a prison for the several hundred lepers who live on this island. I lift my shirt above my face, but it does little to mask the odor of rotting, petrified flesh that permeates the air.

We ride for another few minutes before arriving at the back of a concrete amphitheater. We kill the bikes and walk silently to the outer edge of the theater, which I discover is filled with men. At least two thousand of them are standing on the concrete rows, which are lit up by torches. Their attention is fixed firmly on the stage, where two men are trying to murder each other with their fists.

One of the boxers is short and fast. The other is unreasonably tall, with a reach that's categorically unfair. Both men wear red padded helmets and matching gloves. The tall man throws a punishing jab that sends his opponent to the floor. The bloodthirsty crowd erupts with pleasure. This is what they've hoped to see.

The smaller man scrambles to his feet and bulrushes the giant, wrapping his arms around his waist. He lifts the crown of his head into the tall man's chin, and it splits wide open.

The smaller man unleashes lightning-fast punches into the giant's abdomen. The punches strike in rapid fire, one after another, but they're totally useless—as innocuous as an underwater punch. The giant then raises his left hand high and brings it down in an illegal strike against the top of the shorter man's
head. The giant follows this with a devastating hook that knocks his opponent out cold. The crowd goes wild as he lifts his massive arms in victory.

I'm just about to ask Jude who this giant is when the man removes his helmet and shakes loose his blond hair. And there I see it. ..the face of the centurion I've dreamt about for three years. It's the giant who took my mother from the train platform.

I draw my gun and point it at Jude when he tries to stop me. Then I go after my man.

I bound down the steps like a mountain lion after its prey—graceful, fast, and deadly.

The men notice, and their cheering gives way to murmurs of questions, gasps, and accusations. I think I hear someone say, "That's him!"

When I reach the stage, the Nordic and I make eye contact, and I know instantly that he recognizes me. His bravado can't hide what I see behind his icy blue eyes: fear.

"You!"
I say, raising the gun before me and taking dead aim at the center of his wide chest.
"You!"

"Deacon!" Jude cries out. "Stop! Deacon!"

I rush the centurion and jab the barrel into his muscular chest. "What did you do with my mother? Tell me! Did you put them on the train yourself? Tell me before you die! Tell me before I blow your head off!"

"Deacon!" Jude pleads from behind me. "Get a hold of yourself!"

I keep the gun dug firmly into the Nordic's powerful chest. "I saw this man grab my mother. He's responsible for their deaths."

The giant centurion says, "If you know what's good for you, you'll lower that gun, boy." His voice is so deep that even though I'm the one with a gun, I'm suddenly terrified to be standing so close to him. His voice is just not human.

"Deacon," Jude says, grabbing my shoulder, "Henrik defected from the Centurion Guard. He's on our side now."

"So it was you!" I say. "Why were my parents taken north? Who gave the order? Tell me!"

Henrik nods toward Jude. "Didn't he tell you?"

"Yes," Jude says, a mixture of exasperation and anxiety in his voice. "I did. Henrik—if it even was Henrik—was just following orders, Deacon. Your parents were selected because of your father's leadership of these men." Jude waves his arms in reference to the now silent men of the amphitheater.

I ignore Jude. "I want to know what you did with my mother and father, Henrik. I'm not going to ask again." I pull the hammer back on the pistol, having already decided to kill him, no matter his answer.

A faint smile appears across Henrik's face. "I wonder," he says, "if you understand the consequences of aiming that gun at me." I move the gun from his chest and raise the barrel until it rests neatly between his blue eyes. I silently curse my shaking hand. Henrik lets out a quick, breathless laugh. "I don't think you do."

"Let me guess. Don't draw a gun unless you plan on using it. That sound right?"

Henrik nods, a smirk at the corner of his mouth. "It does."

"Deacon," Jude says, "I'm begging you."

I give Jude the tiniest moment of attention, but it's enough for Henrik, who moves much too fast for a man of his size. In one motion he grabs the barrel and turns the gun over and out of my hand, bending my wrist at a horribly unnatural angle. The pain is searing.

I jump and kick the gun out of his hand, sending it to the ground. A single errant round fires off. I don't know where the bullet lands.

I dive for the gun, sliding roughly across the concrete stage. As soon as my fingers reach it, Henrik jerks hard on my ankles, pulling me toward him like a ragdoll. I flip my body over and swing my fist hard across his jaw.

The pain is tremendous. My hands feel as if they're on fire, but I have no choice but to punch him again. It's useless, though, like punching steel. His weight atop me is crushing.

Henrik smiles wide, his mouth flooded with blood, and cries, "Again! Again!"

I scream furiously and lurch my body upward, smashing his nose with my head. Henrik recoils to cup his bloody nose. He may be large, but he isn't invincible. He's just a man, and all men fear pain.

I jump to my feet and rush the fool. I lift my boot high and bring it down sharply on the crown of his head. My hands may be useless, but my legs are more than game for this fight. I plant one foot and use the other to kick his jaw like a soccer ball. Blood spews from his mouth like a volcano spitting hot lava. I let out a fiery cry of passion and kick Henrik again. His head bounces grossly and unconsciously against the ground. I kick him again and again.

The amphitheater roars with delight.

Time slows as I raise my head and take in the bizarre, dreamlike scene. Every man in the amphitheater has risen to his feet. They're a pack of rabid dogs worked into a feeding frenzy. They holler. They pump their fists high in the air. Some embrace each other, smiling as if they've conquered the Kingdom. Many pull off their shirts and swing them insanely above their heads. Others howl like wolves at the moon.

Then the chanting starts. It takes my brain too long to understand what they're saying, but when I do, I shudder.

"Messiah," they chant. "Messiah."

Then they lift me to their shoulders.

ude and I make it back to the park just after sunrise.

Once the men hoisted me in the air, time began to move very fast, and before I knew it, morning had nearly arrived. It was extremely difficult to leave the men, especially after their plan was explained to me, but I insisted we return.

Even now, knowing what I must do, I can't bear the thought of letting Maria down—of abandoning her. I desperately need to see her this morning so I can explain my intentions. I'll need her to agree with the plan, and then Jude says I can unveil the life she and I will live together once this is all over. Because it's not true, after all, that my fate is sealed. I don't have to die to see my people freed. Some of us will die—that much is certain—but others of us are destined for roles so great that our deaths must be postponed.

I'm one such person. I see that now. It's what my father wanted.

The plan is ingenious, but it'll take a great deal of work—work I'm ready and able to do. I'm still unsure whether I'm "the One" our people have waited for, but the men are certain of it. Still it's a strange thing to think about oneself—that I'm the hope of an entire people, the One that God sent to make things right. The One prophesied about in the Scripture. Yet I can't deny the puzzle pieces are fitting together.