"That's why my parents were arrested? You knew about their involvement in the resistance?"
"Of course we knew. I thought your father's arrest would be the end of it. Kill morale and all that. Get him to the North, torture your mother in front of him, and then he'd talk—tell us everything we didn't already know."
"You tortured my mother?"
"Yes, personally in fact."
I lunge at him, but my body feels like it's in a body cast; so many hands are on me. I struggle with every ounce of strength until another fist strikes my jaw.
"But your father didn't talk," King Charles continues, "not even as we violated your mother. He was an impenetrable vault. You should be proud of that. You also should know he and your mother suffered more than anyone in the history of my reign, and that's saying something."
I fall limp. The thought of my parents dying a cruel death is too much for me to handle. I fervently had prayed they'd met a quick fate. Discovering that they suffered greatly is the worst moment of my life.
"I'm not sure you have any pertinent information for me, but we'll see. For the moment it's enough that you brought your money and your army to us."
"What's happening with my men?"
"Aren't you worried about the money?"
"Show me the hill," I say.
King Charles gives the nod of approval, and his guards usher me across the landing until I have a clear view of the hill. A large plume of smoke rises high in the air.
I know the truth before he tells me.
They're all dead.
The king proudly gazes at the ridge. "My soldiers didn't attack until your men could see that I rose from the dead, that your gunshot couldn't kill me," he says. "A few men were allowed to retreat alive so they may return home and spread word of this defeat, your death, and the desecration of their army. The rest were butchered."
I have no words. The men...they're all...I can't believe it. I fall to my knees, and the centurions let me.
"As with your father, you should be proud, Deacon. This is the first time in ages I've actually been concerned about an uprising. Those men were committed to your father; they believed in you." He smiles and slaps me on the back. "Thank the gods you came home."
The centurions lift me to my feet.
King Charles continues, "Someone here needs to pay for Henrik's bloodshed. Since you're having such a bad day, Deacon, I'll give you the honor of choosing the sacrifice. Which one of these people..." He gestures to the families on the landing. "...should have the honor of dying for your sins?"
"You want me to...choose?"
"Yes, and quickly, if it's not too much trouble."
"I...no. None of them should die."
"Very well then. All shall. Centurion Guard! Raise your rifles!"
Each centurion positioned behind the families trains his weapon on the back of a Southern head.
"No!" I shout. "Kill me! I deserve to die. Shoot me instead!"
King Charles looks disappointed. He shakes his head like a teacher fed up with a derelict student. "No, Deacon, you can't die yet. Now choose. I won't ask again."
The people on their knees quake with fear. They look to me in utter despair, their eyes wide.
I plead with the king. "I can't. "Please...you've already massacred my army. Spill no more blood. It's the Great Festival!"
"Says the man who just put a gun beneath my chin and pulled the trigger!"
"Please!" I beg him.
King Charles gives the signal, and the shots are fired.
'm taken beneath the palace and thrown into a dingy holding cell. My arms and legs are shackled. I've never been in such agony. My head aches and my ribs feel shattered. Every breath is like a dagger in my side.
The physical pain, however, is nothing compared to my emotional trauma. I'm a total failure. My men are dead. All those families are dead. The resistance has been thwarted.
And Maria is alone.
I'm sobbing uncontrollably on the cold stone floor when his voice rolls forth from a dark corner of my cell. "Why do you weep, my friend?"
It's the Teacher.
He hobbles forward on his knees and collapses next to me. He's bleeding and in terrible pain. He moans with every breath.
"What have they done to you?" I say.
"The religious authorities handed me over to King Charles."
"I...I'm sorry," I tell him.
Our cell door opens, and King Charles himself glides in. A cadre of centurions accompanies him. I brace myself for more pain, but they're not here for me. The men grab hold of the Teacher and lift him to his feet. They leave me where I lie.
King Charles examines the Teacher, looking him up and down as if purchasing a slave. "Your own religious authorities say you've broken many laws."
The Teacher doesn't answer. Instead he looks down at me with his kind eyes. He must know I was complicit in his betrayal, but still he looks to me as a friend, as a brother.
King Charles says, "Are you this so-called king of the South, as your followers say? The messiah come to set them free...or whatever?"
"If you say so," the Teacher replies.
"They've charged you with serious crimes. Have you no answer?"
The Teacher says nothing more. From what I've heard, King Charles has never, in his life, had a man refuse to answer his questions. I can see this astounds him. This almighty man, who has just executed innocent families, is shaken—as we all are—by the presence of the Teacher.
"Very well," the king tells the centurions. "Bring them both up to the landing. The people are clamoring for the customary release of a prisoner. I never should have instituted this tradition, but I feel this year it may actually be put to good use. We'll let them choose which one of you two they want back—the miracle worker or the bumbling rebel with the blood of his own people on his hands." King Charles kicks me in the ribs and I roar in pain. "Who do you think they'll choose, Deacon?"
I don't say a word as the Teacher and I are led outside, where there aren't nearly as many people as before. But several thousand are still crowded in front of the palace landing. The Teacher and I, in chains, are both presented to the people.
Chaos ensues in the Holy City. The ridge where my men lie dead is still smoking, and the blood from those killed on the landing hasn't yet been mopped up. In the crowd small riots are erupting, no doubt in response to the mass execution.
Everywhere I turn I see centurions beating people. I watch as a woman is ripped from her clothing and dragged out of sight. Her child screams in horror; no one comes to rescue him.
King Charles addresses the people. "Every year at the Great Festival, I give back to you one of your own. Given the terrible but necessary bloodshed of today, I feel this ritual holds special significance. We must work together in partnership if we're ever to hope for everlasting peace. Now shall I release to you the Teacher, the so-called king of the South? This man who preaches a message of peace, hope, and love? Is this who you'd like freed from his chains?"
The people shout a reply, but it's impossible to decipher any sort of consensus. King Charles, who clearly has no intention of letting me go, asks the question again. "Whom shall I return to you? This man who has committed no crime? Or this murderer, rebel, and attempted assassin? The man who tried to steal my very life?"
I spot Fat Belly and Gray Beard perched at the front of the crowd. They orchestrate the chant. It rises fast from the people and slams into our ears with gale force. "Deacon! Deacon! Deacon! Deacon! Deacon!"
King Charles's face goes white; his chin trembles with shock and anger. He confers privately with his men, who are undoubtedly advising him to listen to the crowd. The people already have been pushed to their limits. One more insult, and they're likely to revolt—all of them.
But why do they chant my name? I've failed them. I'm not their messiah, and the Teacher has done nothing wrong. Fat Belly and Gray Beard catch my eye; they're manipulating the crowd for their own purposes. They despise the Teacher
because he challenges their authority, their power, their way of life. They'll stop at nothing to see him discredited, to see him condemned.
The mob cries out for my release.
King Charles turns back to the crowd. "But why? What evil has the Teacher done? What crime has he committed?"
They only cry louder, "Deacon! Deacon! Deacon! Deacon! Deacon!"
King Charles looks like he is ready to explode, but he reigns in his emotion. "Then what do you wish me to do with the man you call the 'king of the South'?"
Fat Belly says it first. It doesn't take long for the others to concur. Gray Beard raises his fists. Fat Belly cups his hands over his mouth and hollers. Soon the verdict is unanimous.
They shout, "Crucify him!"
King Charles reluctantly nods and the centurions throw me off the landing and into the crowd.
People trample me as they storm away to the palace courtyard where the Teacher will be flogged before his execution. I try to get up, but the herd of people knocks me back to the ground.
I decide to die and am amazed by how quickly I accept it.
I've caused irrevocable damage. I've been played for a fool. I've caused my people—those I was supposed to liberate—more death and sorrow. I'm not just a failure; I'm a murderer. King Charles is right; their blood is on my hands.
Someone stomps my chest, but I no longer feel any pain because my mind is floating back in time. Back to Jude.
Why didn't I see it? How could I have been so naive?
He played me from the start. It must have always been a double cross. He worked both sides. Who knows how far back it goes, but at some point the Kingdom got to him. They knew he was close with my father, and they turned him. Jude betrayed the South to get rich. All they needed was to get me home.
Take away my parents. Show me the money. Give me the gun. Lead me to the men. Shut down the resistance; snuff out the rebellion.
It was so simple—so tragically simple—yet I danced to their music like a drunken fool.
Jude gave the Kingdom my army, and he got me to help deliver the Teacher to the religious authorities. It was a win-win for everyone eager to see life continue as is.
Especially for Jude, who stole all my money.
Dr. Stone and Henrik never betrayed their Kingdom.
I bite my tongue, as if chewing through a tough piece of meat, and try to sever it. I beg my heart to stop pumping. I hold my breath.
The pain rises inside me like lava to the brim of a volcano. The pressure in my head nears detonation.
I'm alive.
Still alive.
Still alive.
Then I fade. I can't breathe. The pain is unreal. I'm past the tipping point. I slide away. Here it comes...death.
Take me, please!
Wet lips snatch my spirit as it rises slowly from my body. Small hands push it back down into my chest. A tender voice relaxes my jaw and opens my eyes.
Maria.
It is always Maria. She says, "Come, before it's too late."
I breathe in and choke on the air. I begin to speak, but she presses a finger to my lips and helps me to my feet.
The pain is intolerable. I drape my arm around her and hobble as she leads me through the rough sea of people. We follow the others until we're led to where the Teacher has been taken.
The flogging already has begun. The Kingdom has stripped the Teacher naked and chained him to a post. He's on his knees. A centurion cracks a whip against his back, and he writhes in pain. Maria shouts for them to stop; others plead for mercy.
But others—many others—cheer their approval.
In shock, I say nothing. I think of how it should be me, and not him, taking this beating.
A centurion flogs the Teacher until there is no longer skin on his back; it's a muddy river of blood and exposed muscles and tendons. I can see the white of bone. He bleeds so profusely that I think he'll die at any moment. No man can survive such punishment, such unfettered violence.
When the flogging is finished, the Teacher is lifted to his feet and clothed in a purple cloak. One of the centurions shoves a crown of thorns onto his head. Blood drips off his eyebrows. They salute him, saying, "Hail the Teacher, the king of the South!" Each centurion takes a turn bowing in sarcastic respect before him. Rising up, they spit in his face and strike his head repeatedly, until his eyes, which never have done anything but emit kindness, fill with blood.
When they're satisfied, they strip him once again and put his pants back on him. Then they lead him out of the courtyard to crucify him.
The Teacher is in no condition to carry his own cross.
The centurions compel a man who is passing by to carry it for him. They point a gun in his face and order him to do it. He complies.
Our dark procession leads us out of the city and up a hill known locally as "the Skull." Atop the hill the centurions lay his cross on the ground and prepare to nail the Teacher to it.
Maria helps me along until we get as close to the Teacher as possible, which is about the dumbest thing she and I could do. If I were smart, I'd take Maria away from this place, and I'd do it now, at this very moment.
Everything is lost, destroyed. I was completely wrong, and Maria knew it all along. Yet here we are, both alive and together. We can still escape and find our life together. We can still go to Mexico. I want that so terribly.
I search the small crowd that has come to the Skull to witness this death on a cross.
There is no Miles. No Petra. No Jude. I don't see a single person from our group; not one of the Teacher's students is here. Maria is the one who has stuck by his side, the only one unafraid to be associated with him.
"Why did you leave the safe house?" I ask her. "You could have been killed."
"Petra came to me," she says. "He found Jude last night, moments before he—"
"What? Petra saw Jude? Where is he?"
"Dead," she says. "He hanged himself. He confessed his sins to Petra. Then he told him where I was."
"I can't believe he's dead. He has my money. He can't be dead."
"The Teacher's prophecy about Petra was true—about the denial. Before the cock crowed, Petra denied knowing the Teacher three separate times. Can you believe that? He was distraught, rambling like a madman. I tried to calm him, but it was of no use. I don't have a clue where he is now."
Picturing Jude hanging and Petra as a madman spins my head. "How did you know I was in trouble?"
"I didn't leave the safe house for you," she says," her eyes fixed on the Teacher, who's being offered a final cup of wine mixed with myrrh. "I came for him. I came for my beloved messiah."
"I understand," I say softly. Tears stream down my face as I watch centurions lift nails and hammers.
The Teacher is affixed to the cross. It is nine in the morning and brutally hot. The centurions drive nails through his hands and feet. He screams wildly. Above his head an inscription reads, THE KING OF THE SOUTH.
Two other men are crucified with him. Both are bandits, we're told, one on his right and one on his left.
We watch the Teacher die. It takes a very long time.
During his torture many people pass by and mock him, saying, "Aha! You who would destroy the temple and build it in three days, save yourself, come down from the cross."
I pray to the one true God that he will. Even now—now that I understand his path is the truer path to freedom—I don't understand why he doesn't save himself from this death. Why not pull the nails from his body and heal his own wounds?
Fat Belly and Gray Beard appear along with a cohort of religious leaders and other holy men. Gray Beard says, "He saved others, yet he can't save himself."
Fat Belly adds, "Let the messiah, the king of the South, come down from the cross now, so that we may see and believe."
Even the dying men to the Teacher's right and left taunt him.
At noon the clouds roll in. For the next three hours, the sky is as dark as night. Thunder booms overhead, but no rain
comes. The earth is angry.
At three in the afternoon, the Teacher lifts his weary head to the heavens. "My God, my God," he says, "why have you forsaken me?"
Maria and I hold each other close.
I say, "Death has drawn near to him."
"He's quoting the Scripture," Maria says. Then from memory, she recites, "'My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? And are so far from my cry and from the words of my distress?"'
"I remember pieces of it," I say. "'Many young bulls encircle me; strong bulls of Bashan surround me. They open wide their jaws at me, like a ravening lion. I am poured out like water; all my bones are out of joint; my heart within my breast is melting wax.' That's all I can remember."
Maria nuzzles her head into my chest and whispers, "'For kingship belongs to the Lord; he rules over the nations. To him alone all who sleep in the earth bow down in worship; all who go down to the dust fall before him.'"
"Yes," I say. I remember it now. '"My soul shall live for him; my descendants shall serve him; they shall be known as the Lord's forever.'"
We speak the final line together. '"They shall come and make known to a people yet unborn the saving deeds that he has done.'"
One of the centurions, a short man with dark skin, fills a sponge with sour wine, puts it on a stick, and raises it to the Teacher's mouth. Another centurion says, "Wait, let's see whether his prophets will come to take him down."
Yes, I think. Save him! I pray to the one true God and plead on the Teacher's behalf. If he is your messiah, bring him down from the cross and lift him up. Give him the power to overthrow this wicked Kingdom.
But nothing happens. The heavens do not open. The God of our ancestors does not intervene. There will be no last-second clemency for the Teacher.
Instead he gives a loud cry and breathes his last.
The earth shakes violently beneath us. The quake is so fierce that many onlookers are knocked off their feet. A look of uncertainty creeps across the callous-faced centurions. Maria sobs into my chest. "Is he really dead?" she says. "Can it be true?"
Centurion: Mark's Gospel as a Thriller Page 18
