The Immortal

by Thomas Nelson

  I tapped my nails on my kneecap, staring at the roach. Asher’s belief certainly seemed bizarre, but perhaps bizarre was relative. I mean, if a man could live two thousand years, I supposed his stories about meeting Agrippa and Jesus could be true.

  “Would a person with a delusional disorder be able to work in an office?”

  “Definitely. People who suffer from a delusional disorder would not experience a marked impairment in their daily lives. Their outward behavior is not noticeably out of the ordinary.”

  “That sounds like Asher . . . but his delusion seems out of the ordinary.”

  “What is it?”

  I hesitated. “He thinks he’s been alive for two thousand years.”

  Kurt couldn’t keep the laughter from his voice. “That’s a new one, at least. Very creative.”

  “But how can I prove he’s suffering from a delusion?

  “Doesn’t Rome have government offices? Ask for the man’s birth certificate. Set the paper chasers to work on his case and assemble a case file. And get on it quickly, before he embarrasses you in front of your boss.”

  I felt a curious, tingling shock. “You mean he might—”

  “Delusionals are capable, but they’re not always discreet. If you value your reputation, Claudia, you’d better get this guy cured or replaced. I don’t think Santos Justus would be pleased if his interpreter casually mentioned that he’d just celebrated his two-thousandth birthday.”

  I had to agree Kurt was right. If I wanted to leave Global Union with my reputation intact, I’d have to do something about Asher Genzano.

  Asher and I could not take the jet to Brussels, Synn explained, because the appearance of Justus’s jet would excite media attention. We could travel by train, however, and no one would notice our arrival or departure.

  I stared wordlessly as he placed false national identification cards into our hands, gave us our train tickets, and told us to take a cab to the station. “There must be no records of any Unione Globale employee present in Brussels,” he explained, folding his arms on his desk as he looked at us. “You will go to the Eurovillage Brussels Hotel and take a room under the name of Signor and Signora Pax. You will wait there for further instructions.” He glanced at the suitcase by my feet. “Thank you, signorina, for remembering to play the part. You must be careful not to speak to anyone to whom you must show the ID card.”

  I ignored the insult to my Italian language skills and studied the identification card. The picture was a copy of my own passport photo, but the name printed underneath was Maria Pax. I noted without amusement that pax was Latin for peace.

  “Why husband and wife?” I asked.

  Synn smiled, a roguish twinkle in his blue eyes. “What better cover for a couple traveling together?” He stood and gestured toward the door. “You’d better leave now. The train departs in less than an hour.”

  I glanced at Asher, half-afraid to meet his eye after our talk last night, but he smiled at me with calm confidence and politely opened the door.

  “So tell me more about your life.” I transferred my gaze from the wide train window to Asher, who sat silently across from me in the private compartment. We had not spoken much more than polite “excuse me’s” and “after you’s” since boarding the train, but ten minutes of strained silence were all my tattered nerves could handle. If I was traveling with a man who couldn’t discern fantasy from reality, I wanted to know the depth of his delusion before we got into real trouble.

  “I’d like to hear more of your stories,” I said. I leaned my elbow on the armrest, then parked my chin in my hand, affecting the posture of casual interest. “If you have lived as long as you say, you must have some interesting tales to share.”

  Asher hauled his gaze from the sky beyond the window and looked at me. I don’t know what I expected to read in his eyes—craziness, maybe, or confusion—but when he smiled I saw nothing but weariness tinged with patient amusement.

  “People of the twentieth century are not quick to believe.” He lowered his thick black lashes, momentarily hiding his eyes from me. “They see fantastic things in film and on the television, so they tend to believe miracles happen only in the imagination. But they are wrong, Claudia. Miracles happen every day to those who have eyes to see.”

  Riddles again. Was this a sign of Korsakov’s? Kurt had said Asher wouldn’t be able to remember his stories of the previous night, and he certainly seemed to be heading off on another tangent . . .

  I lifted a brow and smiled, silently urging him to continue. I would not give him any clues about what he told me last night; I could not allow myself to feed any particular fancy.

  “I was once married.” He gave me a brief, distracted glance and tried to smile. “Her name was Claudia too—in fact, in many ways you remind me of her. She worked in the governor’s palace, as a handmaid for the Lady Procula, Pilate’s wife. We considered ourselves fortunate to have such good positions with an important family. We might have had a very pleasant life, if not for the Nazarene.”

  So he did remember. I froze, my mouth going dry as he shifted his gaze to the window.

  “The afternoon of the trial, Jesus the Nazarene stood before Pilate, condemned of treason. The leaders of the Sanhedrin wanted him dead, of course, but Pilate could not find any evidence to prove the man had violated Roman law. The chief priest screamed that Jesus had broken their Jewish laws, but Pilate cared nothing for any religion but Rome’s. And then, almost as an afterthought, Caiaphas reminded Pilate that the Nazarene had claimed to be a king. And that was enough to prevent Pilate from releasing the man outright. Judea was not an easy place to govern, you see, and Tiberius Caesar Augustus not an easy man to please.”

  I lowered my eyelids, slowly submerging myself into the memory of stories learned in my childhood Sunday school classes. The rhythmic sound and sway of the train provided a soothing background to Asher’s voice, blocking out everything but the picture he painted with words.

  “My master Pilate faced the most difficult confrontation of his career. Rome had recently chastised him for upsetting the Jewish religious leaders, so he could not summarily dismiss their complaints. And yet his honor forbade him to send an innocent man to death. Finally, in a brilliant attempt to sway public opinion, Pilate ordered that the prisoner be flogged in the outer court. He was certain the flogging would break Jesus’ stubborn spirit and move the strident crowd to pity—or at least satisfy their blood lust.”

  Asher’s eyes sought mine. “A Roman flogging, as you must know, was no routine matter. This Jesus, who remained silent throughout the ordeal, was stripped of his robes and forced to stand beneath a boiling sun in front of a hostile crowd. The captain of the Roman guard beat him with the fustigatio. From an alcove, I watched as the skin of his back bruised and ripped beneath the blows. When the beating was done, someone found a purple mantle and draped it over his bleeding shoulders. The captain fashioned a crown from a thorny vine growing near the stables, then made great sport of pretending to crown the prisoner like a king. Someone else thrust a reed into his hand, a sorry substitute for a scepter, and one by one the company of guards fell on their knees and saluted him, the king who was no king, the rabbi rejected by his own people. Finally, in a single line, the guards filed by him. Some spat in his face, others slapped his cheek and jaw. But the worst—at least for me—was yet to come.”

  I watched Asher in silence, knowing he believed every word he spoke. His strong face and darkly powerful eyes, which could intimidate most people even from across a room, filled with a beaten sadness while his voice grew rough. Though I had heard the story of Jesus’ crucifixion many times, I did not believe Asher told it often. From the look in his eyes and the tension in his clenched fists, I received the distinct impression his soul couldn’t bear the black memories— whether real or imagined—that had scorched it once.

  “You must understand,” he said, looking at me as if he believed I actually could, “I was a mere servant, and I looked up to the
Roman soldiers. Pilate’s Praetorian Guard was renown for its bravery; every merchant in Jerusalem offered the men in his command free food and drinks. These men were superhuman, blessed by the gods and honored by Rome. I wanted nothing more than to earn their respect . . . and so, as the spectacle with the Nazarene continued, I lingered in the shadows, watching and applauding their efforts.

  “When the prisoner looked as though he could no longer stand, the soldiers tied him to a post. One man blindfolded the Nazarene while a small group of men moved around the post, still calling out jests and insults. As they passed before the prisoner, one would hit him with all his might, then the circle would move and another would call out, ‘Who hit you? Tell us, if you can!’ I watched for several minutes, laughing and jesting, until I was called away to a duty in the house.”

  Asher lowered his gaze to the floor as fresh misery darkened his face. “I did not see the man again until much later. By then Pilate had washed his hands of the judgment, the people had chosen to release Barabbas in honor of the Passover festival, and the Sanhedrin had demanded crucifixion for the Nazarene.

  “I saw Jesus again in the courtyard of Pilate’s palace. He had been stripped of the purple robe, but still he wore the crown of thorns. He carried the patibulum, the wooden beam that would later be fastened to one of the stakes already mounted at the place of the skull. A contingent of Pilate’s guards walked before, beside, and behind him, leading him to the place of execution outside the city. My heart thrilled when I realized they would walk right by the place where I stood.

  “I don’t know if you can understand how I felt in that moment. My heart brimmed with pride—the pride of Rome, of leadership, of position. I also coveted the admiration of the soldiers with whom I worked. And so, full of pride, covetousness, and bravado, I curled my hand into a fist and waited for the Nazarene to approach.

  “I wanted to throw one blow that might knock him off his feet and set the soldiers to cheering. With one punch I could earn myself a round of drinks in the garrison, and my name would be on every soldier’s lips. Even Pilate, who usually did not condone violence, might see a brash aspect of my personality that duty forced me to repress.

  “A thrill of fear shot through me at the thought of my own audacity, but I waited, my hand and my will forged to one purpose. And when the Nazarene was as close to me as I am to you, I stepped forward, cursed his name, and swung with all my might. My hand hit his jaw and moved forward over his damp flesh, slamming against his temple and knocking the crown of thorns to the ground. My ring scraped his skin—sometimes I can close my eyes and still see the red welt it raised from his cheek to his hairline. He staggered beneath the blow, but he did not fall.”

  Out in the hallway, a gaggle of giggling girls passed our compartment. Asher waited for silence to fall before speaking again.

  “I expected to hear cheering, shouts of approval, applause, and congratulations. But the guards around me seemed stupefied—as if they couldn’t believe a mere servant had acted so impetuously. As I rubbed my injured hand—a thorn had torn a long scratch upon my knuckle—Jesus the Nazarene looked directly into my eyes and said, ‘You see me now, but you will live until the day you see me clearly.’

  “For a moment I thought time had stopped. The Nazarene and I stood frozen in place, like statues, while he looked at me with an expression in his eyes that brought the blood rushing to my face and made me feel as though the world whirled madly around us. A thick silence settled upon the courtyard, a choking absence of sound, yet all the while his words echoed in the stillness—you will live until the day you see me clearly.

  “The pain in my hand disappeared. The bleeding stopped. And then, through the dark arch made by his sweat-soaked hair I saw a tear run upon that bruised cheek. He was weeping, yet there was no self-pity in his expression. He wept . . . for me.”

  The conductor of the rushing train blew the whistle, a blunt, blaring sound, but I scarcely heard it, so intent was I upon Asher. He seemed to huddle in his seat and stared out the window with somber eyes, a mournful face, and sagging shoulders—the body language of sorrow.

  Finally, he drew a deep breath and continued. “I was confused, and pride concealed my inner turmoil. Why would he weep for me? I was Pilate’s personal servant, and he nothing but a condemned and conquered Jew. I lifted my hand, wondering if I should strike him again for his impertinence, and the silence broke. The soldiers jeered and pushed him forward, and one of them clapped me on the shoulder. But I scarcely felt it, for the condemned man’s puzzling words remained uppermost in my mind. He had made strange statements before Pilate too, neither confirming nor denying his accusers, and claiming to have a kingship ‘not of this world.’

  “They led him away, and I returned to my duties, still thinking about the Nazarene. The weather did little to lift my pensive mood. The sky grew dark and the birds fell silent, and at one point the earth itself trembled until the stones of Pilate’s palace shuddered and broke the bonds of mortar that held them together. Claudia came running to find me, and I held her in my arms as she whimpered.

  “Both of us breathed a sigh of relief when the trembling earth finally stood still. My wife was convinced the strange portents had something to do with the Nazarene, for her mistress, the Lady Procula, had suffered greatly in a dream about the man, going so far as to warn her husband not to have anything to do with judging him.

  “But by the time the execution detail completed their work, I had convinced myself that the Nazarene was more philosopher than prophet. Rome was filled with wits who loved to turn a phrase and confound the casual listener. I decided that this Jesus was like them, neither more nor less.

  “By sunset, the Jews had cleared the streets to observe their Sabbath and Passover feast. No one in Pilate’s palace dared to speak of the Nazarene. The master himself seemed relieved that he had narrowly avoided a riot, but a shadow lay behind his smile, and I knew Jesus’ death troubled him. Lady Procula made no attempt to hide her distress. She took to her bed with a headache and would not come to dinner.

  “When all the servants had gone to bed, Claudia and I lay in each other’s arms and whispered about the day’s events. I told her what Jesus said to me. The meaning of his riddle disturbed her so much she climbed out of bed and insisted upon making an offering to the household gods whose altar stood in a niche inside the wall. While I lay on my back and tried to erase the afternoon from my memory, Claudia scattered grain and salt upon the altar of our little chamber, then murmured prayers for our continued well-being.

  “I think Claudia expected me to be struck dead by the Jew’s God, but nothing out of the ordinary happened. The next day passed in subdued silence, as if the city were holding its breath. We went about our duties as usual. The Jews continued with their festival; the Romans thanked their gods for the lull. A bit of trouble reared its head the third day when the Jewish leaders appeared at Pilate’s door and complained that the Nazarene’s body had been stolen in the night.

  “Pilate only chastised them for their own incompetence. Rome had no interest in safeguarding a criminal’s corpse, and the leaders of the Sanhedrin had insisted upon using temple guards to seal the tomb. Another earthquake had scattered the frightened guards and apparently broken the tomb’s seal. Any fool could see, Pilate said, that the Nazarene’s disciples had crept in and stolen their teacher’s body.

  “The rumors flew through Jerusalem. Some repeated the story about the stolen body; others said the rabbi had risen from the dead as he prophesied. His followers proclaimed the resurrection tale with great zeal, though many still clung to shadows for fear of the Romans. But Pilate cared nothing about dead Jews. He and Procula had grown weary of Jerusalem and wanted more than anything to earn permission to return home.

  “Three years later Pilate was recalled to Rome. Claudia and I went with him, of course, as did several of the household staff. After ten years in the dusty, dry lands of Judea, the cool winds of Rome felt like heaven. We encountered a substanti
al tumult as we arrived, for Tiberius had just died and Caligula was named emperor. My master Pilate wanted nothing more than to retreat into anonymity, and Claudia and I wished to retreat with him.

  “I was thirty-six years old, a mature man in those days. Silver strands had already begun to color my lovely wife’s hair, and her step was not as quick as it once was. As we went about the business of day-to-day life, I began to notice that my wife was growing older.”

  Asher’s hand lifted and traced the air between us, outlining a woman’s cheek, neck, and shoulder. When he spoke again, his low and passionate voice commanded the compartment. “I loved my wife as man loves only one woman in a lifetime. I gave her my heart, emptying all my adoration and devotion and worship at her feet, wanting nothing more than to live at her side and die in her arms.” His mouth spread into a thin-lipped smile. “As years passed, however, I began to understand part of the meaning behind the Nazarene’s riddle. Time was passing for my beloved Claudia, but for me, it stood still.”

  His gaze shifted and he stared out the window, his expression darkening with unreadable emotions. “Ten years passed, then twenty. Claudia grew stooped and tired more easily. Pilate died, followed by Lady Procula. My wife, the love of my life who used to tease me about my youthful appearance, stopped joking. Her laughter evolved into bitter cries, her songs into storms of weeping. In an effort to escape the people who knew us, we moved to Antioch. The citizens of that city thought we were mother and son, not husband and wife.”

  His voice faded to a hushed stillness. “One day in summer, my beloved Claudia died in my arms. Her lovely face was lined with hate, her hands curled into knots that for years had resisted my touch. She could not believe that I did not see decay and ugliness when I looked at her, and her disbelief destroyed our happiness in the remaining years of her lifetime.”

  Asher turned and gave me a wintry smile. “I buried her in Antioch.”

  He fell silent. I said nothing but reflected on his story even as I watched him for signs of deception. He had created this thoughtful and detailed story some time ago, I was certain, and had probably recited it before. The telling included details any mediocre history student would recognize—the crucifixion of Christ in A.D. 33, the names of Pilate and his wife—yet the emotion behind the story seemed genuine.