Blood Relics (A James Acton Thriller, #12) (3 page)

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 7
^th
, 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.