by Brett King
In the face of overwhelming numbers, his diminished strength betrayed him. They swarmed Josephus, one after another, rolling him on his back, the breath rattling inside his chest.
Eight pagans held Josephus to the ground. One stood over him. Was it Crudel in his terrible forest disguise? The man raised a long saber over his head. Josephus sensed this was the last thing he would see in this world—or perhaps any other—so he looked at his dead son, caught between tree and weapon, the serenity of his face serving to cast a final vision.
Without warning, the pagan standing over Josephus began choking. His knees buckled and he dropped his weapon as it cut into the earth. He choked again, then collapsed across Josephus’s leg.
What happened?
Josephus saw an arrow lodged in the man’s back, pointing toward the heavens. All around him, the pagans began to drop, one after another, each falling with the swift action of a bow.
Not a pagan was standing now.
Josephus crawled out from beneath the fallen pagan warrior. He staggered to his feet, still blinking at the collapsed bodies around him. Looking up, Josephus saw Roman centurions marching across the forest. All were dressed in cavalry gear, each adorned with gleaming helmets. The soldiers wore terrible bronze masks that looked human but held such cold expression that they gave the look of an assembly of phantoms.
The leader raised his mask. Josephus knew the man.
Quintus Messorius Gallienus.
Almost twenty years before, the pagan warlord Crudel had slain Quintus. He was the man that Josephus had brought back from the dead, so that Joseph of Arimathea would be spared a prison sentence.
Quintus. The dead soldier risen from the dead. The man with the Black Chrism living inside him.
Josephus had walked all afternoon. He had marched under the protection of the Roman army until they reached the edge of Glastonbury, late in the day. At Quintus’s command, the centurions halted, then parted and allowed Josephus to pass. He staggered down the path, carrying his dead son in his arms.
His beloved wife was the first to catch sight of him. Ellice was washing clothes in the stream when her head arched up and she saw the Roman army. She then saw Josephus carrying their missing boy. She watched in disbelief as water swirled around her knees. Ellice let out no cry at first. She hurried from the stream and ran toward them, silent tears racing down her cheeks. She had prayed for the return of Nathan, but not like this.
Not like this.
Ellice’s screams stirred the notice of the village.
She stood before her husband now, staring into his eyes for answers. Finding none, she looked at her only child, caressing his cheek as her tears consecrated his face. Josephus began walking again. He was almost home. He wanted to take Nathan to his bed, long cold since his disappearance.
He saw his mother, Elyab, hurry over, wiping her hands on her apron. Seeing that she could do nothing, she choked back tears, then reached for Ellice, hoping to comfort her.
Joseph of Arimathea held out his gnarled hands. Anguish seemed to swallow the whole of his face. Josephus had never seen his father look so weak or so small as at this moment. While the soldiers remained at their post, Quintus joined Josephus and his family, placing his hand on the fragile shoulder of Joseph of Arimathea.
They made their way to the center of the village. All came out to drop their heads in respect, some mumbling prayers as they passed. Their looks of grief and consolation did not move Josephus. Nothing could move him except his trembling legs.
Walking into his house and to his son’s bed, Josephus folded to his knees and lowered the child to his cot.
Josephus’s shirt was stained with the blood of his enemies and his son. His chest felt sticky and cold. Ellice ran her hand across his shoulder as they stared down at Nathan. He lingered with his wife and mother before realizing that his father was not among them.
Josephus pulled away from his grieving wife and moved outside.
At the edge of the village, he saw Quintus talking to Joseph of Arimathea. The soldier looked hardhearted as he made a gesture, slamming his fist into his open palm. As Josephus approached, they took notice and walked to meet him.
“You must do something for us,” Joseph of Arimathea said.
Josephus was bewildered as he walked back to the village with them. His son had died. His first thought centered on his loss and not on any duty to his father.
“My son is dead. His blood drips from the hands of Crudel. The pagan king is responsible. He must die a death far greater than my son’s.”
Joseph of Arimathea frowned. “That is not our way.”
“Perhaps it should be our way. Perhaps our way brings only failure.”
“Listen to your father,” Quintus urged. “This is not the moment to seek revenge on your enemy.”
“You are a Roman warrior,” Josephus answered, his voice rising. “Seeking revenge is all your empire does.”
“I am not my empire.” A faraway look came to his eyes. “I am more than my empire.”
They stopped outside Josephus’s home.
“Do something for us,” his father repeated. “Go inside and bring out your boy. Gather Nathan in your arms and take him to Glastonbury Tor. Make certain no one follows. Not even your wife.”
“Father, I must prepare his body for burial. I cannot take him to the Tor.”
“You can,” Quintus ordered, “and you will.”
Josephus suspected that his wife would never forgive him.
Holding his dead son, he staggered through the village of Glastonbury. His wife trailed him, begging to know where he was taking Nathan. He didn’t answer. At the moment, he couldn’t.
“We need to wash and anoint his body with oils and spices,” she pleaded. “We need to wrap him in linen and take him to the tomb. Josephus, listen to me.”
“Go back, Ellice. Leave me with my son.”
“Where are you taking him? Tell me.”
“I cannot tell you,” he shouted. “Go back and stay with my mother until my return.”
Her mouth trembled. The people of the village turned away as if they had not heard. His words had shamed her before their clan. She turned without argument, and he trudged down the muddied street, following the command of his father and Quintus.
The centurions remained camped outside the village. They watched in silence as he carried his boy to the great hill rising above the meadow. The Tor was serene in the twilight. After a long climb to the summit, he lowered Nathan onto a bed of tangled grass. He stared at the boy, whose body was lying flat on the natural altar. He thought of Abraham climbing Mount Moriah to sacrifice his son.
With the blessing of God Almighty, Abraham never had to sacrifice Isaac. Where, Josephus wondered, was God’s blessing for him?
In his grief, he had not noticed Joseph of Arimathea and Quintus as they climbed the Tor to join him. He marveled at his father’s vitality in making the journey. Josephus stood to face them.
His father embraced him. That had never been the old man’s custom and his sudden compassion gave Josephus a shudder. Joseph of Arimathea handed his son a scroll. Josephus began to untie the lacing to unroll it, but his father stopped him.
“Read it after you return to the village.” He ran his withered hand along Josephus’s face. “Go now, good son.”
“I must take Nathan back home.”
“Leave him,” Quintus demanded.
“I tell you, I cannot. I brought him up here as you asked, but I will not leave him.”
The Roman soldier looked at the dark and endless plains beyond the Tor, then considered Joseph of Arimathea. “Do you want your son to remain here with us?”
“Do as the Roman said,” Joseph of Arimathea answered. “Go, Josephus.”
“Only to make amends with my wife, then I shall return for my son.”
; “As you wish it,” Quintus said in a softer voice.
Josephus knelt once more to kiss his son’s cold forehead. As he staggered down the knoll, tears burned his eyes. Almost without thinking, he found himself removing the seal around the scroll that his father had handed to him.
Far from reason, his gaze drifted over the words. Scrawled in his father’s hand, the message explained that Joseph of Arimathea had met in secret with Bron. He had given his brother the twin cups that had been used to collect the blood and sweat of Jesus Christ at his Crucifixion. Bron was now the Keeper of the Grail.
He had entrusted Josephus with a much greater treasure.
Joseph of Arimathea gave instruction about where to find a hidden box that contained the Radix along with the method to create the chrisms. Josephus was now the Keeper of the Radix. He realized his father’s message was a farewell.
A farewell?
Halfway down the Tor, Josephus clenched the scroll. He couldn’t return to the village. He had to see his father.
Brisk evening air drew inside his nostrils as he turned and ran with all remaining strength back up Glastonbury Tor. Over the last days, his body had been pushed beyond all known limits, but somehow he found strength in his urgency to return to his father. Bewilderment scattered Josephus’s thinking. His mind was blank about the old man’s intentions.
Arriving near the summit, he saw Quintus standing above Nathan. In the misty torchlight, he looked like a priest presiding over an altar. Beside him, Joseph of Arimathea kneeled with hands raised in prayer.
Quintus reached down, then ripped open the robe that sheathed Nathan’s chest. He placed his hand on the wound where a pagan spear had brought an end to the boy’s life. The Roman soldier flattened the fingers of his left hand over black-crusted blood on the boy’s skin.
What is he doing?
Quintus closed his eyes as Joseph of Arimathea concluded his prayer. The soldier reached down and wrapped his big hand around the older man’s frail wrist. Joseph of Arimathea’s eyes shot open. The old man glanced over, staring right at Josephus.
Joseph of Arimathea convulsed, gritting his teeth, but Quintus did not relinquish his iron grip. Joseph was shaking in such brutal fashion that his head rolled. Sweaty white hair blanketed his face. Running up the Tor, Josephus screamed, demanding that the soldier release his father. With one last violent jerk, his father’s eyes closed. His body fell limp.
Quintus opened his fist.
Free from the soldier’s grip, Joseph of Arimathea collapsed, rolling down the side of the grassy altar.
Coming up the hill, Josephus caught his father’s body with his hands, stopping him. He placed his ear against the old man’s chest. There was no sign of life. His son had died. And now, so had his father.
He chastised himself for trusting the Roman. Enraged, Josephus came at the soldier with the same fury that had inspired him to kill the pagans earlier in the day. The Roman made no defensive gesture. Instead, he seemed drained of energy, unwilling to fight, even if he could. It made no matter. Josephus would slaughter him. After that, the other Roman soldiers could do to him as they wished in retaliation for the death of their leader.
Raising his fist to strike, Josephus saw Quintus cast his gaze down at the boy. Josephus did the same. He looked at his son.
The boy’s eyes opened. His nostrils flared. His cheeks flushed with vigor.
Nathan of Glastonbury was alive.
Chapter 30
Vienna
10:24 a.m.
The Black Chrism. Edgar Wurm now understood its dangerous secret.
Eighteen years after Josephus had used the Black Chrism to bring a Roman soldier back from death, pagans had murdered Nathan of Glastonbury. Because he had been given the Black Chrism, Quintus had gained a terrible gift, the ability to heal as long as he also killed. Joseph of Arimathea knew his secrets. Back in the first century, the old man had willingly sacrificed his life, so that his grandson would live again.
More than ever, Wurm wanted to find the formula for creating the Black Chrism.
He had the neck guard as well as the left skull piece from Barcelona. Brynstone had seen the neckpiece back in late February when they had met in Central Park. Since that time, Wurm had learned something new. Thirty-three years after taking the life of Joseph of Arimathea, Quintus had returned to see Josephus and his son, Nathan. The soldier had chosen his helmet to document the story in code.
For thirty years, Quintus had spent a considerable fortune tracking the “Lost Ones,” the men and women revived with the White Chrism or the Black Chrism. All had been brought back from death. None had ever been the same.
On the neck guard, Quintus had mentioned three who were brought back with the White Chrism. He had spoken to them all. One woman had been twelve when she was raised from the dead. Her name was Amarissa, daughter of Jairus. She had lived in Galilee at the time. Seth of Nain was another. He had been eighteen and the son of a widow when he was brought back. The third, Lazarus of Bethany, had been a friend to Joseph of Arimathea. Without question, the once-dead Lazarus had been the most famous of the Lost Ones.
Wurm had no idea if the people brought back with the White Chrism had a gift, but he suspected that they did. He had told Brynstone that much, and it had inspired him to learn more, so that he could better understand his daughter’s gift.
Quintus had also tracked down the Lost Ones who had been returned with the Black Chrism. People, like himself, who had the power to heal a wound or raise the dead, at the price of inflicting a wound or killing another. A woman named Tabitha had been brought back with the Black Chrism. So had Eutychus, who as a boy had fallen out of a three-story window and died. A man named Zarad had been stoned to death. Wurm thought that Rafal had the most terrible death of all. As a criminal, he had been bound with rope and sunk up to his neck in a pit of animal excrement. His mouth had been forced open while molten lead was poured down his throat.
Wurm had no idea why a criminal had been brought back from the dead.
The last member of the list was Quintus himself, slain at the age of twenty by a pagan warlord named Crudel and brought back by Josephus, also twenty years old at the time.
Wurm knew that the story of the Lost Ones contained mysteries. Eight men and women brought back for a second chance at life during the first century. Years after the chrism had granted the Lost Ones a second chance at life, seven of the eight had become victims of serial homicide.
Chapter 31
Crete, Greece
11:25 a.m.
Were they still following her?
Looking back, Cori Cassidy searched for the men who had trailed her outside the hospital—or whatever that place had been. There was no sign of them. It was true that she was a fast runner, and she was banking on the flimsy hope that she had lost them. Following the advice of Dr. Spanos, she slipped into a small park that bordered the street. In a panic, she stopped to catch her breath beneath the shade of a billowing plane tree.
Holding hands, a young dark-haired couple passed her. The woman spoke to Cori in Greek.
“I’m American,” she told them. “I can’t understand you.”
Speaking English now, the man asked, “Are you lost?”
Before she could answer, a fighter aircraft blasted across the cloudless sky. Cori glanced up, seeing the muted tan and green belly as it passed over the city—it was heading in a direction she thought might be west. Her uncle had been in the air force and she recognized the twin-engine American military jet.
“That’s an F-4 Phantom II jet,” the man said. “It’s flying with a combat group for the Hellenic Air Force. They buzz our city at all times, it seems.”
“Where am I?” Cori asked in a dazed voice.
The couple shared a puzzled laugh. “You don’t know where you are?”
“Athens? Where? Please tell me.”
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br /> “Crete,” the woman answered.
“A city called Heraklion.” Looking at her scrubs, the man asked, “You are a doctor?”
“Yes, I am,” she lied, her words coming out in a flurry. “I need some help. Where can I find the American embassy? Or local police? I need to talk to someone. It’s really urgent.”
The man pointed across the park.
“Thanks,” she answered in a hushed voice.
The couple watched in wary curiosity as she hurried to the edge of the park. Running was a little painful now without her sports bra. She had awakened in the hospital without it. Looking back, it seemed really creepy to think about them taking off her clothes, but there was no time to dwell on that idea.
Spanos had said he’d try to meet her, but she was getting nervous staying here. Apparently, for good reason. Looking back, she saw the two men who had followed her on the street. She thought she had lost them, but they were here now in the park.
Cori made it to the street and ducked behind a car.
Waiting a beat, she peeked through the vehicle’s windows. The two men in black were searching the park, though she didn’t see any weapons on them. She glanced back to the street. There was no sign of a police station, only small tourist shops brimming with souvenirs and cards. It was only a matter of time until they found her.
She wanted to run, but where? Cori felt terror bubble up inside her. She was trapped, unsure about her next move.
New York City
4:29 a.m.
Angelilli ran an electric razor across his chin. Looking up from the small mirror balanced on his desk, he saw Joshua Klein rush through the door. That got his attention. Graying at the temples, Klein was a man of Zen-like composure whom Angelilli rarely saw excited.
