The Messiah

by Vincent L. Scarsella

  They ate in silence for a time before Amato looked up and said, “Do you think that the Eyewitness News thing yesterday helped any?”

  “Like you said, any coverage helps,” Constantine replied. “The only bad news is no news. And the Master spoke well.”

  “You’re calling him that now?”

  Constantine chewed on his bagel and looked up at Amato, smiling. He swallowed and said, “As you said, it fits.”

  After a shrug, Amato went on, “Renata feels he came off as a joke.”

  “I think he came off fine,” Constantine said. “And I think Renata worries too much.”

  “Yeah,” Amato said, “about a lot of things. Like spies, for instance.”

  “Spies?” Constantine gave him a worried look, wondering why Amato was telling him this. Did he suspect him as a spy? “Who’d spy on us?”

  “Well, let’s just say,” Amato said, “the powers-that-be.”

  That was exactly it. Constantine felt that Amato was being coy about what he must have known by then, that Renata had herself been a spy for the Network, sent on behalf of the Supremacy—the “powers-that-be”—to monitor Pantera. And, that the “powers-that-be” must have sent someone, another spy, to take her place—or worse, kill her as payback for her betrayal.

  Amato shrugged, then added, “She wants me to be on the lookout for that. Someone among the followers monitoring the Master.”

  “You suspect anyone?”

  He sighed, shook his head, took a bite of his bagel. “No,” he said as he chewed. “I don’t even know what to look for.”

  In the next moment, someone was knocking at the side door. Grumbling, Amato pushed himself out of the booth and answered it. Ken Baker had come over from the other RV. He whispered something to Amato, who stepped outside. Constantine got up and went outside as well.

  A few moments later, Pantera, Renata, and Richard Avery were also out there, along with some other followers who were all looking at the same thing: a black stretch limousine with thick, tinted windows that had pulled up alongside one of the buses and parked, idling there.

  “Who the hell’s that,” Amato whispered to no one in particular.

  With that, the back door of the limo opened and out stepped a tall, robust black man in his late fifties with fudge-colored skin and a shaved head that glistened in the morning sun. He looked around for a moment with an intense scowl at the buses and RVs, and the people milling about gawking at him. Each breath formed a small wispy cloud in front of his mouth as he looked about. Finally, he strode forward toward Pantera and his inner circle, still standing at the side of Pantera’s RV. As Constantine watched the man approach, he was reminded of someone and then it hit him—this was none other than Spartacus Rex. Voices among the inner circle and the followers soon murmured the same thing: “Spartacus Rex.”

  Moments later, Rex was standing directly before Pantera.

  “You’re the preacher fella, right?” he said. His voice was deep, sonorous; it rolled out of him with a bass resolve that demanded attention. “The one on the TV yesterday and in that clip that’s making the rounds on the Internet, on YouTube, and all that shit.”

  “Yes,” Pantera said. “That’s me.”

  Rex grinned and before anyone could react, he reached forward with both thick arms and gave Pantera a bear hug. After a moment, he let go.

  “Well, I’m Spartacus Rex and I want to promote what you selling, Preacher man,” he said. “You got the gift, you know that? The gift for oratory.”

  He stepped forward again and pulled Pantera under his right arm. Scowling, Amato stepped in and grabbed Rex’s arm, and Rex shot him a nasty glance.

  “It’s all right, Nick,” Pantera said.

  Rex nodded and said, “Sure is.” Then, he smiled at Pantera and said, “I’m here to help make you something big, my friend. A star.” He grinned, stepped aside, held out his arms and looked to the heavens. “A god-damned superstar.” He let out a big laugh, then turned back to Pantera, still chuckling to himself, low to the gut.

  “You can sure talk, Preacher man,” Rex went on. “Best sermon I heard in a long, long time. Best ever, you ask me. Sure better than that gnarly-ass reverend in the old Baptist Church south of Eight Mile Road in Detroit city that I used to hear. Reverend Marcus Clay.” He laughed to himself. “The way you lay it out is like golden honey spiked with pure vinegar. You know what I mean…all sweet and bitter at the same time. You know, gracious but strong. Not just what you say, you know—all that giving up who you are to become who you really are bullshit—but the way you bring it on. Make it understandable, cool. I could see it in your eyes, the tone of your voice, the movement of your arms, and that hip white robe.” He laughed again. “That robe! What a feature, man. You think that up?”

  Pantera smiled at him and shrugged. In fact, his mother had.

  “And you got the look, man,” Spartacus Rex went on, stepping back and sticking out both arms toward Pantera in admiration. “You sure got the look. The flow of your hair, your deep blue eyes, like Jesus hisself. You be cool, Preacher man. You got rock-star quality.” He laughed again. “Capture any audience wholesale. White, black, Chinese.” Another laugh rang out. “And that damned parable you told, about the sheep inviting the foxes inside the pen with them.”

  He shook his head and laughed a bit longer.

  “I couldn’t stop watching you, man, is what I mean,” Rex went on. “And watching you, it grabbed me. What I needed to do.”

  “And what’s that, Mister Rex?” Pantera asked.

  “Why, like I said, promote you—make you and your message world famous,” Rex said matter-of-factly. “That’s what I do. That’s what I’m here to do.”

  Pantera cocked his head, seeming impressed with the bluster of the man. “You want to promote me,” he said.

  Rex shifted around on his feet and looked back at this limo.

  “Yeah, man, like I said,” he told Pantera. “Promote. What you think I been telling you?” He frowned at Pantera. “You heard of me, right? Spartacus Rex.”

  “Yes,” Pantera said. “I’ve heard of you.”

  “Well then, you know what I do,” Rex said. “I help people get themselves known. Make them celebrities with a capital C. I broadcast their talent. And your talent is spreading a message. An important message, far as I can tell. And, I got to thinking after I saw you, and my Melinda and me agreed I can help this man spread his word and change the world. Spread it far and wide.” Rex smiled. “And in the process, make us some money. Some real cash money.”

  “That’s not what this is about, Mister Rex,” Amato said. “Making money.”

  Rex turned to Amato and laughed dismissively. “That’s what everything’s about in my world,” he replied. Then, he turned and glared at the RVs and buses, and the rag-tag group of converts milling about listening to his spiel. “I can get y’all way beyond this shit,” he stated.

  With a frown, Pantera looked around at his inner circle and followers, who had edged forward, trying to hear what Spartacus Rex was pitching. Finally, he turned back to Rex.

  “Perhaps, Mister Rex,” Pantera said, “perhaps we should discuss this further, inside.” He waved his arm toward the RV. “Just you and me.” He looked around, spotted Renata Singh and nodded, then turned back to Rex. “And her.”

  Rex smiled, nodded at Pantera and said, “Would be my pleasure, Preacher man.”

  Half an hour later, Rex came out wearing a beaming smile. A deal had apparently been struck. Whistling some tune, he strode back to his limo and drove off. Moments later, Renata exited the RV and assembled the inner circle for a meeting.

  “We’ve reached a deal with Mister Rex,” Pantera told them after they had assembled inside the RV. “He’s going to promote the movement.”

  “Promote it?” Amato asked. “Promote it how?”

  “Well, for starters,” Pantera answered, “tomorrow, I’m to appear on The Opal Show.” All of them drew in a breath, even Constantine, and Pantera
smiled. “Mister Rex, it seems, has many friends in the entertainment world, including her.”

  “And there’s more,” he went on. “As you know, there are some who believe that I am descended from Jesus. Mister Rex believes he may be able to confirm this through his contacts. I’m to arrange for a specimen of saliva and blood to be delivered to his associates this morning. He’ll see what he can do.”

  Constantine swallowed. The regional chief wasn’t going to like this. Still, he wondered what contacts Rex could possibly have that could link DNA from Pantera’s saliva and blood to the bones from the so-called Jesus ossuary and the grave of Abdes Pantera.

  Pantera let all this sink in as he looked around the RV at the faces of his closest disciples. After a time, he smiled and told them, “Tomorrow, it appears that our mission to save mankind truly begins!”

  Part Three

  Mission

  Now Jesus Himself began His ministry at about thirty years of age.

  - Luke 3:23

  And Jesus went about all Galilee, teaching in their synagogues, preaching the gospel of the kingdom, and healing all kinds of sickness and all kinds of disease among the people.

  - Matthew 4:23

  Whoever has ears to hear, let him hear.

  - Matthew 11:15

  From May to October that glorious year,

  He awakened the multitudes to the Word of God.

  - The Book of Jude 14:21, Testament of the Church of Cristos

  Chapter Nineteen

  The Opal Show!

  At nine the following morning, another black stretch limousine arrived at the Bar Harbor campground to take Pantera to New York City for his appearance on The Opal Show! that afternoon. Pantera selected Renata, Amato, and oddly enough, considering how new he was to the inner circle, Constantine, to accompany him.

  Constantine could feel the resentment oozing from some of the other inner circle disciples as he walked with Pantera, Renata and Amato to the limo. Goldstein was more overtly displeased and muttered, “This’s bullshit,” as Constantine climbed into the rear compartment.

  Pantera wore jeans with holes in the knees and a tie-dyed T-shirt he’d picked up at a beach shop in Daytona. A paper bag on his lap contained his signature white robe that he’d wear on the show. The others had likewise dressed casually.

  “We’re not going there to impress anyone,” Pantera had remarked as they waited for the limo that morning, “just spread the Word of God.”

  “You know pretty know much what you’re gonna say?” Amato asked him after a time.

  “What I’ve been saying.”

  “He’ll do fine,” Renata said. “Better than fine. Everyone will be talking about it tomorrow. It’s going to kick start everything. Bring on a new age.”

  “Well, we’ll see,” Pantera said.

  Pantera napped most of the way to New York City while Renata and Amato fiddled with their smartphones, checking the Internet and the ministry’s KingdomofGod.com website. Constantine tried to nap as well, but kept thinking how much of a disaster this was going to be if Pantera gave a strong performance on The Opal Show! that afternoon.

  Last night, he’d informed Chief Bradley about it during his “meditation” walk at the perimeter of the camp.

  “The Opal Show? How the hell did he pull that off?”

  Constantine filled him in on the surprise visit from Spartacus Rex, an unexpected variable in the Pantera threat equations.

  “Rex knows her,” Constantine added. “Our files should show the relationship. They’re apparently close.”

  “Apparently,” Chief Bradley said, and thought a moment. “I’ll send a text right off to the director.”

  They arrived at Opal’s studio on Broadway in Manhattan at about one that afternoon. The limo pulled into an alley that led to a small back lot. They scrambled out of the car and were greeted by a tall, slim young black woman with a radical Afro-cut. She was an assistant for the show and hustled them through a metal door down a narrow, brightly lit corridor until they reached a door designated “Green Room 2.” As she opened it for them, she said, “Our producer, Saul Hemick, will be with you shortly. Until then, enjoy the amenities.”

  The amenities included a table loaded with several varieties of hors d’oeuvres, including assorted fruits and vegetables, cold cuts, and breads and rolls. There were cylinders of caffeinated and decaffeinated coffee, another with hot water for an assortment of teas, and water bottles and cans of soda in a plastic ice container.

  They would soon learn that Green Room 1, down the hall, was occupied by the beautiful African pop music star Amara and her considerable entourage. Her songs had become all the rage that winter and spring with their stirring and hypnotic and often-times peculiar melodies and poetic lyrics. Each new release quickly rose to the top of the charts. She was in the middle of a successful US tour and was playing Madison Square Garden that night. Thus, Amara was in great demand, and her interview with Opal could easily overshadow anyone else appearing on the show, including Pantera.

  Fifteen minutes after they’d settled into Green Room 2 and filled their plates with hors d’oeuvres, a minor TV star, the blue-eyed, boyish Buddy Foster, and his agent, a short, squat middle-aged woman with a perpetual squint, entered the room. Seeing them, Foster and the agent scowled and huffed momentarily before stalking over and sitting down on the couch across the room.

  A few minutes later, executive producer Saul Hemick burst into the room and, seeing Foster and his grimacing agent, waltzed over to them. He shot a glance and frowned at Pantera with his long, glistening dark hair, worn jeans, and tie-dyed T-shirt sitting among his equally hippie-looking colleagues. Obviously, it had not been his idea to book Pantera for the show.

  He welcomed Foster and his agent with a wide smile and bent down with a hug for each of them. “Sally Morris will be down any moment to prep you,” he promised. “Just keep mentioning that new movie, Buddy, and you’ll be fine.”

  After cracking a disingenuous smile, Saul winked, then turned and headed toward Pantera and the others.

  “So who’s the Jesus fella?” he asked as he scanned their faces and frowned. “The guy who claims to be the messiah?”

  “Me,” Pantera said as he leaned back with an amused look.

  “Well, when you go on, whatever you do, don’t get preachy,” Hemick told him. “Mid-afternoon preachy is killer TV, but not in a good way.” He reached up with his hands and wiggled them toward Heaven. “Be more a comic preacher. Tell some funny parables. Or better yet, perform a miracle or two. You know, turn your glass of water in wine, whatever. Now that would sell!” He winked and added, “Just do the best you can. Sally’ll be in to prep you in a few minutes.”

  And with that, he left the room.

  “Ass,” Amato whispered.

  “He’s just doing his job,” Pantera said.

  As usual, thought Constantine, the preacher was taking it in stride.

  A minute or so later, a woman in her late twenties wearing a crisp, dark gray business suit with light gray stripes and carrying a clip board entered Green Room 2. She looked a bit frazzled as she hurried over to Foster and his agent, pulled two typewritten sheets from her clipboard, and handed one to the agent and the other to him.

  “I’m Sally Morris, the assistant producer. Here’s your outline,” she said.

  “He’s done this before,” snapped the agent.

  “He can go over to makeup,” the woman said. “He’ll be on first.”

  “Before Amara?” the agent asked. “The audience’ll want him to be done before he gets started.”

  “That’s Opal’s call,” Sally told her, “not mine. Not even Saul’s.”

  The agent made a face, then shrugged. That it was Opal’s call apparently said it all. There was no arguing with it.

  Foster and the agent got up and left the room as Sally came over and stood before Pantera and the others. “Mister Pantera?” she asked, and like Hemick, scanned their faces.

  Pantera
raised his right hand.

  “The preacher, right?”

  He nodded. “Yes,” he said.

  She looked at the others around him—Renata, Amato, and Constantine.

  “Your entourage?”

  “Disciples,” he said.

  She frowned, then sighed as she pulled a typewritten page from her clipboard, stepped forward, and handed to him.

  “Review this in makeup,” she said. “It’s some questions Opal wants to ask. Easy stuff. Where you’ve been. What you’re preaching. Why. How many followers you have. But keep it short and sweet, because we’ll be squeezed for time by the time you get on.”

  “How much time?” Amato asked.

  Sally shook her head and said, “Hopefully enough.” In the next moment, she looked at Pantera and asked, “That’s how you’re going on? Dressed like that? In the YouTube video I saw, you were preaching in a white robe.”

  Wearing a white robe had been his mother’s idea. In fact, she had gone down to a dressmaker and had two made up for him out of Osnaburg cotton, a mid-weight fabric with a linen look. “Every messiah needs a trademark,” she had told him.

  Pantera reached over and grabbed the paper bag on the empty chair to his right. “It’s in here,” he said.

  “Great,” Sally said. “You can change in makeup.” Then, she smiled and added, “Know something? You kinda do look like Jesus. Especially in that robe.” She gave him another appraising look. “I’ll do what I can to get you on. But if Amara goes too long, that might not happen. We’ll see. I’ll get in Mister Hemick’s ear. And if he doesn’t listen, Opal’s.” She nodded and smiled. “I really think you could make good television. Now, get to makeup and change into that robe.”

  Chapter Twenty

  National Appearance

  There were only five minutes left of the show when a skittish producer’s assistant, a kid in his early twenties with greased-back hair and squinty eyes, came to fetch Pantera.