by Scott Baker
The first man spoke again, with a broad grin. ‘I said, “Cold night?”’
‘Very cold,’ I replied, shocked at my own voice. The three, uproarious now, clutched their bellies, laughing until tears streamed down their weather-worn faces. It was then that I realised that they were referring to my nakedness, and more specifically the effects of the cold upon it. I smiled. For some reason, I smiled, relieved.
‘Water?’ I asked then. The rasp in my throat betrayed the fact that there was next to no moisture in my body. The laughter stopped and the one who had spoken looked more closely, appraising me.
‘What happened to you?’ he asked, his eyes wavering between suspicion and concern.
‘I …’ I did not know what to say. I had nothing to say. Indeed, I had not asked myself this question since I woke up. With my head the way it was, all I could do was speak the truth.
‘I don’t know,’ I said simply. The man who had spoken watched me from beneath bushy black brows, and pursed his lips under a thick black beard. Then, having made a decision, he said something very quickly to his companions and stood up, looking me in the eye.
‘Friend, come and sit with us by the fire and warm yourself. Yosef will fetch you some clothes,’ the man put a hand on my elbow and guided me into the circle. The warmth was incredible. A moment later one of the others, a taller man with lighter hair and a dimpled face, brought a grey robe to me. I put it on silently and sat. A moment after that, the other man, shorter and balding, handed me a wineskin. I drank deeply and quickly. I drank and drank and soon toppled over sideways.
When I woke I was warmer. I was inside a tent. The sun was shining through the fabric prickling my eyes and my head pounded. There were no voices outside but I could hear the pops and crackle of a dying fire. I rose and opened the tent flap, blinking in the strong light.
Alone in front of the cooling embers sat the taller brown-haired man. He was perched on a large stone and played with the ashes of the fire with a long stick. He stood when he saw me.
‘How are you feeling?’ he asked.
‘My head hurts,’ I replied.
‘You drank a lot of wine,’ he replied, laughing, and I realised that he was not much more than a boy, although his skin was weathered.
‘Where are your friends?’ I asked.
‘My father and uncle are with the flock. They said I should stay and help you if you woke up. They will be back soon.’ The boy’s speech was plain. Even in this strange language I somehow understood, I could tell he was a simple man.
‘They said I should give you some food if you want it.’ He turned and reached into a basket at his feet, pulling up what looked like a loaf of bread. I took it gladly. Despite the pain in my head, I was beginning to think more clearly.
‘Can I ask your name?’ I looked at the boy, who was still staring at me.
‘My name is Yosef. My father is Jonah and my uncle is James.’
‘Yosef? Yosef what?’ I pressed.
‘Yosef what? What do you mean?’ The boy looked confused and tilted his head to the side a little.
‘What’s your last name?’
‘The last name my father gave me was Yosef. I don’t think I had one after that.’
I let it go.
‘What is your name?’ he countered. I was now lucid enough to realise that I had no idea where I was, why I was here or – and this thought struck home with Yosef’s question – who I was. What I said next came out as if by its own free will.
‘Saul. My name is Saul.’
At that moment, the bleating of sheep made me look out to my left. I saw the other two men, Jonah and James, coming over a nearby rise followed by a group of docile animals, their white curls dust-coloured, their heads stooped low with exertion.
I smiled and waved as the men approached, offering them my thanks for their kindness.
‘You seemed fairly confused last night, but a few wineskins and good rest appear to have done you good.’
‘I feel much better, thank you,’ I said. ‘I think I was robbed, but I don’t remember anything. I woke up with nothing.’
‘Yes, we saw that. These parts are a little dangerous to be travelling alone. We come from a village two days’ walk to the west. We’ve had to move the flock every couple of days. Haven’t had any rain for more than a month now.’ Jonah removed the scarf he had wrapped around his head and placed it on a stick, which was standing upright in the ground.
‘I am going to guess and say that you are not a shepherd. And also by your look, that you are not a Jew.’
It was the first time that I had thought about what I looked like. Despite my confusion I had a strong sense of my physical appearance. I felt confident that I could make decisions even without remembering anything before the previous day. I knew basic things such as my moral code and my likes and dislikes.
I knew with certainty that I did not look like these men. I was taller, and although my features were dark my skin was fair. I looked down at my body. It was that of a physically well-trained man. I knew also that it worked. It worked well. I knew that I could run, that I could fight and that if I had to, I could walk across a wire one hundred feet above the ground without falling. I felt sure of myself and my abilities, but I did not know my name.
‘I am from the east,’ I lied. ‘I think I was hit on the head very hard last night. I am looking for family in the west.’ I hoped that this explanation would give me some semblance of credibility.
‘Which town are you looking for, brother?’
I paused, and looked blankly back at them.
‘Well, if you’re heading west, you’ll come to our village of Chorazin, then a half-day beyond that is Capernaum. You might like to start there. It’s a big town near the water and you can find my brother Simon there. He works as a fisherman and will help you. Of course you are welcome to stay with us for as long as you need, but we are moving this flock today and heading further east.’ He untied a pouch he was carrying around his waist and offered it to me. ‘Here is some bread. Please take it.’
I reached out to take the pouch and as I did Jonah grabbed my wrist and held it firmly.
‘There is something about you, friend,’ he said as his eyes held my gaze like his hand held my wrist. ‘There is something very strange about you. These are unusual times and you have some part to play.’
He released me, both from his grip and from his impromptu evaluation. ‘Go with God.’
I was a little taken aback, but sensed no malice from this shepherd, and so I smiled.
‘Thank you for your kindness, and for the food. I will remember you.’
With this I turned and walked west.
A groan.
Shaun and Lauren turned together towards the bed. There had definitely been a groan. Shaun moved to lean over the figure. ‘It’s okay, buddy. Take it easy, you’re safe now. The ambulance is coming.’
It was of no consequence. The groan had come, but the man had not regained consciousness. His eyes remained closed.
‘He’s still out. Keep going.’
They were both hooked. Despite the strangeness of the evening and of this book, their eyes returned to the page.
CHAPTER 6
For hours I walked west in the beaming sunshine and saw no one. The ground turned crimson under my feet as the sun sank over the horizon.
I heard the village before I saw it. A distant scream split the silence – not the scream of a child, nor that of a woman, but the deep, guttural, animalistic scream of a man. Terrified. Then abruptly, the sound ceased.
I heard hooves. I heard terror. I heard the screams of more men. I started to run, and as I moved, the shouts became louder. I smelled smoke. I ran faster.
I rounded a bend in the road and skidded to a stop. The decapitated body of a man lay unceremoniously on the road, strewn like an animal carcass. Ten feet away his head rested, a hairy, bloody mass staring into the sky, mouth agape. I gagged, looking quickly away. The man was dressed in robes n
ot dissimilar to my own, but his body was perforated with wounds. The stretch of road around him was littered with hoof prints and clumps of wet, bloody dirt.
As the sounds grew louder I ran on, mindful now of the danger that was all too apparent. I felt unknowing purpose and it drove me forward. When I reached the village it was burning, the buildings flecked with flames.
I moved on, coming to the houses and the confusion on the streets. Terrified people ran everywhere. I walked through the centre of town, unnoticed amid the carnage. Then I saw a woman slumped on the ground in front of a crudely constructed house. She was wailing over the body of a man, cradling his limp torso in her arms and stroking his face. Compassion took me. I knelt down in front of her and she quieted, looking up into my face apprehensively through wet-lashed eyes. The man was alive, but bleeding badly from a wound in the leg. I pulled off my shirt and tore it into strips. I wrapped the strips around his leg and fastened them tightly, using the remaining fabric to bind a wound in his side. The pain would have been intense, but I knew these wounds were not fatal.
The woman watched me, her eyes searching my face, and darting again to the man as he groaned. He opened his eyes to look at me.
‘You are not one of them.’
‘No,’ I replied, figuring if I did not know of whom he spoke, it was a safe assumption.
‘This hurts, but you will not die from these wounds,’ I said.
The man shook his head. ‘They have Mishca, they have my son!’ He coughed with the exertion of speaking. His face was that of a man who had fought with all he had, and lost.
‘Who has your son?’
‘They took him, they took him away,’ the man repeated, overwhelmed by grief. ‘He’s only twelve years old.’
I turned to the woman. ‘Where did they take him?’
She stared at me wide-eyed, and raised her arm, pointing. I ran bare-chested, following her gesture.
The scene around me was a montage of fights, fires and agony. I saw men from the town join together, holding short swords of iron, battling against two or three of the enemy, but it was this enemy that caught my attention.
Dressed in red cloth and gold-sculpted armour strapped with leather, they moved like warriors. They were merciless, and looked to be winning whatever battle had taken place here. I ran down the street looking for the boy, avoiding the armoured men taking wild swings as I passed. I only slowed when I saw a small boy struggling in the grip of a large guard, who I now know to be a Roman soldier.
A group of Romans languished in the final throws of their pitched battles, and then fell into line behind the man who was now dragging the boy through the dust with a firm grip around his torso. The boy kicked his captor’s legs but was no match for the centurion, a thickset man with broad shoulders and a tall plume on his helmet. He paused long enough to backhand the thin boy not once, not twice, but three times across the face to knock him into submission. The boy went immediately limp – and my blood boiled.
‘Let him go!’ I shouted, furious. Even above the clangs of metal and the screams of the butchery, the man heard me. He stopped, turned and looked at me as I stood alone, unarmed with a torn robe. Then a strange thing happened. The man spoke to me. He spoke to me but not in the language I had heard from the shepherds. He spoke to me in a deep baritone voice in an offhand way as he turned his back on me. And yet, once more, I understood.
‘Run along, dog,’ he said. ‘I do not want to waste any more time on this wretched outpost.’
What happened next was even stranger. In this new tongue, I spoke back: ‘Then leave quickly, and leave the boy where you stand.’ The words came out like I had been speaking the language all my life. The soldiers all turned. The man holding the boy scowled, unsure of what to make of me.
‘If you are a Roman, you are a long way from your post,’ he said.
‘Leave the boy,’ I replied firmly. I did not know if I was a Roman or not, but I knew that this boy had to be free. The heavyset centurion studied me for another moment, then turned and waved a motion to the guards behind him. He walked on towards a cage of iron a few hundred feet down the street.
On his command, two of the guards approached me with their swords drawn. The centurion felt the boy start to struggle again and raised his hand to solve the problem when I called out to him once more.
‘I said, leave the boy. You do not touch him again.’
The big man turned, shocked to see me standing unharmed above his two guards unconscious at my feet. He waved his hand again and the remaining four guards approached me. This time the centurion did not turn away. He watched long enough to see the first guard thrust his short sword straight out towards me. He watched long enough to see me twist my body in time with the blow and lock the man’s arm under mine, bringing my other palm around on his elbow. His arm broke cleanly and offered no resistance as I twisted it back the other way to bury the blade up to its hilt in his stomach.
The second and third attackers came at almost the same time, one stepping in with his sword raised high above his head, the other with his blade tip lower directly behind the first man. The centurion watched as I continued the turning motion I had started with the first attacker and shot a back kick straight out at the armour-covered mid section of the second attacker. My heel made solid contact with his breastplate and sent the guard flying, directly on to the tip of his colleague’s sword. The blade severed his spinal cord and his body sank to the ground, the third soldier’s sword still buried in it.
Still watching with disbelief clouding his face, the centurion saw that I was already moving, running up the body of the falling man and with the weight of the third guard’s sword dragging his hands lower, I snapped the ball of my foot into the man’s exposed face, immediately knocking him out. The fourth guard hesitated as he approached, then stopped.
The sound of thundering hooves filled the street and the battle cries of at least twenty men shattered the strange spell that had befallen our corner of the village. The centurion turned and ducked out of the way of a slashing sword levelled just above his shoulders by one of the riders who now thundered past. As he ducked, the big man pushed the boy into the path of the riders. I saw the first rider evade the boy, but I knew that the others would not be able to see him. I raced into the path of the charging animals and their slashing riders and crashed into the falling boy, tackling him through the closed window of a house lining the street.
CHAPTER 7
Shards from the window exploded as the body sailed through it and landed hard on the tarmac outside the reception area. The sound of shattering glass snapped Shaun and Lauren back into the present.
‘What was that?’ Lauren gasped. She followed Shaun to the window of their hotel room and took in the scene: the hotel receptionist lay prone on the ground; three black cars were parked out the front of the hotel; and next to the cars stood four men clothed head-to-toe in black.
The men stood still and silent. With their feet shoulder-width apart, and their gloved hands clasped in front, they stood watching the same thing Shaun and Lauren watched. They watched the beaten motel clerk groan, roll over and slowly raise himself on all fours. They watched as another man in black strode from the front of the reception door to where the clerk knelt, rocking back on his haunches at the man’s approach. Shaun could not hear him, but the body language was clear: the clerk was begging – shaking his head, his hands raised, palms outwards. The man in black stood directly in front of him and raised one arm out towards his head, and it was then that Shaun saw it. It looked like the man was pointing a long-gloved finger at the clerk, but it was no finger. The muzzle flashed twice and the clerk dropped. Dead.
‘Holy shit!’ Shaun exclaimed. Lauren stayed silent.
The other men strode into action. Two of them moved up to the body and checked it over, removing small items from the clothing. Another two marched to the first motel-room door and kicked it in. Shaun and Lauren could not see the muzzle flash this time, but they heard th
e screams of a woman and the yells of a man. Both were silenced by the BLAM! BLAM! of pistols.
Lauren made to scream but Shaun put a hand to her mouth and looked around the room for another exit. There was none. As the next door was kicked in, the scream of sirens came around the corner and the red lights of an ambulance flooded the area. The large white van screeched to a halt in the centre of the car park out the front of the line of rooms at the motel. Shaun and Lauren watched as one of the paramedics climbed out of the passenger side of the van and approached the man standing over the dead motel clerk. The paramedic looked as if he was speaking.
He was silenced as the man in black raised his arm and shot the paramedic through the chest, twice. Without missing a beat he fired at the ambulance driver before he had a chance to react. A second later the driver slouched on the wheel and the whole ambulance leaped forwards, heading straight for them.
Shaun pulled his wife away from the window. His hand still covering Lauren’s mouth, he looked into her eyes and hissed, ‘We’ve gotta get out of here!’
She whimpered and then nodded, trying to control her breathing.
Shaun let her go and searched the room for something, anything. They could hear the gunmen outside, systematically kicking in the doors, executing the people inside.
‘They’re just … they’re just shooting everyone! Oh, Jesus!’ Lauren panted, beginning to panic. ‘Oh, Jesus!’
At that moment they heard a massive crash outside their window. Shaun dared a look and saw that the ambulance had smashed into the dumpster right outside their room.
‘They’re coming,’ he said matter-of-factly, watching the men disappear into another room, then reappear moments later, then move on to the next.
SMASH! They kicked in the door. Screams, scuffle, BLAM!
Room four.
‘Okay, we have to try and get to the car,’ Shaun said finally.
