But their horniness disappeared when four hooded men burst through the door and charged with military proficiency toward the hot tub. One of the men pointed a gun at Narayan’s head, ordering him to stay still, while the others corralled the naked models and forced them into the bathroom. The task was harder than it seemed because most of the women were either coated with oil or bathwater, a mix that made the tiled floor as slick as a frozen pond. The models were screaming and crying and carrying on, all the while slipping and sliding in every direction. Eventually they got to the bathroom by crawling, a conga line of naked asses creeping toward the back of the room.
The scene would’ve been comic if not for the coldhearted stares of the four men and the gun pointed at Narayan. The men didn’t laugh or smile or even stare at the procession of naked women that eased past them. Instead, they held their positions like they were trained to do.
The scourging wouldn’t happen there. It was far too public, and Narayan’s bodyguards were way too close. Instead the men took him to a remote bungalow outside the tourist traffic of Ratchadapisek Road yet close enough to get the job done quickly.
They started by binding Narayan face-first to the bed frame, his mouth sealed shut and his arms and legs spread wide, completely at their mercy.
The man with the gun tucked it into his belt and pulled out a flagellum, a short whip consisting of three leather thongs with balls of lead affixed to the ends of each. This was the type of weapon that had been used on Christ for his scourging, the one that ripped through his back like a chain saw, the one that sapped him of his strength long before he was attached to the beams of the cross. It would do the same thing to Narayan.
The first blow hit flesh with a sickening crack, followed by the horror of Narayan’s muted screams, yet no one would come running. The duct tape muffled most of the sound, and the bungalow was far too isolated to be threatened by interlopers.
For the next several minutes, the man flogged Narayan repeatedly, bruising his legs, shoulders, and back until his skin could take no more and ripped apart like wrapping paper. Blood oozed from the veins and capillaries in his epidermis, then spurted when the subsequent blows sliced through the arteries in his underlying muscle.
Just like two thousand years ago. Just like the death of Christ.
In time, Narayan passed out from the pain but not before the skin hung from his back like the remnants of a tattered flag, each strand soaked in crimson dye.
Yet this was only the beginning. Things would get worse. Much worse.
And it wouldn’t stop until their message was revealed to the world.
20
Wednesday, July 12
Orvieto, Italy
Payne and Jones caught an early flight out of London and landed in Rome a few hours later. While they were in the air, Payne called an executive at Ferrari headquarters who was always trying to convince him to buy one of their newest cars and asked him for a loaner. Payne figured, when in Rome… well, you know the rest.
Anyway, after getting their luggage, they saw a slick-looking pisan in an even slicker suit holding a sign with Payne’s name on it. The guy hugged them like they were kin, grabbed their bags, and then bolted down the corridor. Two minutes later he unlocked a side door and led them to a VIP parking lot filled with limos and luxury automobiles. When Payne had talked to this guy’s boss on the phone, he told him that he wanted something fast but nothing too conspicuous. Maybe an older model with some miles on it. Needless to say, something got lost in the translation, because Mario pulled up in the sleekest car that Payne had ever seen in his life. A brand-new, bright red, limited-edition Enzo Ferrari, right off the showroom floor. Jones let out a gasp, which might’ve been followed by seminal fluid, but Payne didn’t have the desire to look.
‘Jon,’ he managed to say, ‘I know what I want for Christmas.’
Mario popped open the winglike door and held out the keys. ‘Who wanna drive?’
Payne glanced at the Enzo and fantasized about its V-12, 650-horsepower engine. But he realized there was no way he was going to fit his six four frame behind the steering wheel. So he turned to Jones and said, ‘Merry Christmas.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Don’t get too excited. I didn’t buy it for you. I’m just letting you drive.’
Jones rushed forward to admire the interior while Mario handed Payne the paperwork for the fastest rent-a-car in history.
Payne had been to every continent in the world including an ass-freezing excursion to Antarctica, the result of him losing a bet to a three-star general on the Army/Navy football game. That being said, he couldn’t remember ever visiting a place like the Italian countryside. The pastoral beauty of the rolling hills coupled with the ancient architecture took his breath away. Orvieto is sixty-two miles northwest of Rome, meaning they could’ve made the trip in about ten minutes if Jones had floored it. But they were enjoying the drive so much that they stretched it out over an hour.
In the distance the light gray rock of a 900-foot plateau rose out of the ground like a massive stage, framing Orvieto against the periwinkle sky and suspending it above the olive trees below. Jones noted its strong defensive position on top of the plateau and the single hue that dominated the entire town. ‘I bet this place used to be a citadel. See how the buildings blend in with the rock face? They’re made from the same stone as the tufa, meaning the city would’ve been camouflaged from a distance. Just like the Greek city of Mycenae.’
They parked the Ferrari on the west edge of Orvieto, figuring their car was bound to draw attention. After that they didn’t have a plan of attack, so they strolled down the first road they saw, soaking in the architecture as they passed through a series of archways. Though slightly weathered, the structures still held their form after centuries of use, contributing to the town’s allure and giving a glimpse of a different era. The only splashes of color came from the window boxes outside every window – boxes filled with pink, purple, red, and yellow flowers – and the thick patches of ivy that clung to the side of several buildings.
‘Where is everybody?’ Jones asked. ‘I haven’t seen anyone since we started walking.’
No cars, no merchants, no children playing in the afternoon sun. Their stride was the only sound they could hear. ‘Do Europeans take siestas?’
‘Some Italians might, but not an entire town. Something must be going on.’
Five minutes later they found out what it was.
After walking through a long, curved arch, they spotted hundreds of people jamming the piazza in front of them. Everyone was standing with their heads bowed while facing a massive cathedral that seemed completely out of place in the monotone town. Instead of blending in with the light-gray theme of Orvieto, the Gothic church opted for the exact opposite: its triple-gabled facade was filled with a rainbow of multicolored frescoes that depicted scenes from the New Testament. They were surrounded by a series of hand-carved bas-reliefs and four fluted columns.
Moving into the crowd, Payne had a hard time deciding what to examine first: the church or the people. He had never seen a building with a more striking exterior, yet he realized they were there for Dr Boyd and should be scanning the crowd to find him. Their search went on for several seconds until the sound of a handheld bell on the church’s steps ended the ceremony. Strangely, with little fanfare, the citizens of Orvieto went back to their daily lives.
‘What the hell was that? Everyone looks like zombies.’
‘Not everyone.’ Jones pointed toward an obese man who stood twenty feet away, taking pictures. ‘That guy looks like a tourist. Maybe he can tell us what we missed.’
They approached him cautiously, hoping to determine his country of origin before they attempted a conversation. His body odor screamed European, but his University of Nebraska T-shirt, tattered John Deere hat, and cargo shorts said he was American. So did his stomach, which hung over his belt like a giant beanbag chair.
Jones said, ‘Excuse me. Do you speak
English?’
The man’s face lit up. ‘Hell yeah! My name’s Donald Barnes.’ He possessed the flat tone of a Midwesterner and the handshake of a blacksmith, something he developed by squeezing ketchup on everything he ate. ‘I’m glad someone else does, too. I’ve been yearning for some normal conversation.’
Payne joked, ‘That’s the problem with foreign countries. Everyone speaks a foreign language.’
‘That’s just one of the problems. I’ve had the shits since I arrived.’
Talk about too much info. ‘So, what did we miss? It looks like the whole town was here.’
Barnes nodded. ‘They were honoring the local cop who died in Monday’s accident.’
Jones asked, ‘What accident? We just got into town.’
‘Then you missed all the fireworks. I’m telling you, it was the damnedest thing. This big ol’ helicopter crashed into a parked truck near the base of the cliff.’
Payne whistled softly. ‘No shit? Did you see it?’
‘Nah, but I felt the sucker. The explosion was big enough to shake the whole damn town. I thought Mount Vesuvius was eruptin’ or somethin’.’
Jones considered the information. ‘I know that this is going to sound weird, but who did the truck belong to? I mean, did someone claim it?’
Barnes looked at Payne, then back at Jones. ‘How did you know about the missing driver? The cops have been looking for him, asking everyone in town if we seen him.’
‘And have you?’ Jones wondered.
He shrugged, causing rolls of fat to gather at his neck. ‘They don’t know what he looks like and neither do I, so how the hell am I supposed to know if I seen him?’
Barnes had a valid point, even though his grammar – and his diet – could use some work.
Then he lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘Some people think the truck belonged to a grave robber, someone who didn’t want to be seen. How cool is that?’
‘Pretty cool,’ Jones whispered, egging him on.
‘You know, I was photographing the whole scene until the cops showed up and made me put my camera away. I was gonna complain and all, but we ain’t in America, and I figured they might have different rules over here. But I’m telling you, it was the damnedest thing.’
And pretty suspicious, Payne thought. What were the odds that a helicopter blew up in the same small town that Dr Boyd was visiting, a town with rumors about a grave robber? He had to be talking about Boyd. So he asked, ‘Are the cops still controlling the site?’
Barnes shrugged. ‘I ain’t been back since. I’ve been too busy with artwork and shit.’
Jones nodded. ‘We’ll be hitting the artwork and shit, too. But, man, we’d love to see the crash site. Can you tell us where it is?’
He pointed to the southeast, describing a few landmarks they’d pass on the way. ‘If you don’t find it, you can track me down on the east side of town. I hear there’s a two-hundred-foot well over there that shouldn’t be missed.’
Payne and Jones thanked Barnes for his information, then followed his directions to the crash site, unaware that he’d be murdered less than an hour later.
21
Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II,
Milan, Italy
Boyd sat in a café near the center of the Galleria, a glass-domed shopping mall that housed four neo-Renaissance streets. Tourists strolled past, taking pictures of the zodiac signs that were illustrated on the tiled floor of the atrium. The symbol that got the most attention was Taurus, for local legend said it was good luck to stand on the bull’s testicles. Just not for the bull.
‘Professore?’ called a voice from behind.
Boyd froze in terror. His heart pounded in his throat until he saw it was Maria. She had gone inside the café to use the bathroom and had somehow vanished from his mind.
‘Professore, are you all right? You look pale.’
‘I’m fine.’ He looked around the small café to make sure no one was listening. ‘I’ve been giving the violence a lot of thought, yet I’ve gotten nowhere. I simply don’t understand it.’
‘Me, either,’ she admitted.
Boyd paused, taking a bite of his apricot bis-cotti. His stomach growled in appreciation. ‘What about your father? Would he be willing to help?’
‘Probably. But he’d hold it against me for the rest of my life.’ She took a deep breath, trying to control her emotions. ‘You see, he’s always viewed women as the weaker sex. So I was a big disappointment from the very beginning. He already had two sons from his previous marriage, yet I guess he wanted another. That’s one of the reasons that I moved away from Italy. To prove that I could survive on my own.’
‘Which means we won’t be calling him for help.’
She nodded. ‘Not if I have a say in the matter.’
Boyd sensed that Maria wasn’t telling him everything about her father. After all, this was a life-and-death matter, not a simple favor. But Boyd had some secrets of his own, so he wasn’t about to push her on the matter. At least not yet.
‘And you do,’ he assured her. ‘Although there aren’t many other alternatives. At least none that I can think of without any sleep.’
‘Tell me about it. The last time I was this tired I’d spent the entire night in the library.’
Maria yawned, thinking back to her days as an undergraduate when she used to pull all-nighters twice a week. She’d fill a thermos with coffee, gather all the books she needed, then dive into her research until the sun came up.
Research. The word echoed through her mind.
Research. That’s what they should be doing. Not sitting on their butts, yawning and bitching. They should be in a library, doing what they were trained to do.
‘Professore,’ she said, excited. ‘Let’s figure out what the scroll says.’
‘Shhh!’ Boyd glanced around the café, praying no one heard her. ‘Keep your voice down.’
‘Sorry,’ she whispered. ‘But we have nothing better to do. Why not decipher the scroll?’
‘But how? This isn’t the type of thing I could translate from memory.’
She slid her chair closer. ‘What would you need?’
‘Privacy, for one. We’d need to find a room where I could work for several hours in peace. Second, I’d need a translation guide. A number of books have been written on early Latin. I’d need one to help me through the obscure passages.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Yes, the three Ps. Pencils, paper, and patience. No translation is possible without them.’
Maria smiled as she reached for the check. ‘If that’s all you need, then we’re in luck. There are two schools nearby with world-class libraries.’
They caught a bus to the Università Cattolica, hoping that it had everything Boyd needed.
Even though they lacked a college ID, Maria turned on her charms and sweet-talked the male security guard into letting them inside. Her charisma was so effective she even convinced him to unlock a private study room so they could conduct their translation in private.
Once they got settled, the two headed in different directions, searching for materials. Boyd grabbed a map and looked for the location of the library’s Latin collection while Maria sat at a computer terminal and entered EARLY LATIN. Within seconds she was staring at the name of the best books in the building. Unfortunately, when she got to the section, he was already emerging from the stacks with several books in his hands.
‘Computers,’ he laughed, ‘are a waste of time and money!’
They returned to the study room, where Boyd unveiled the bronze cylinder. He’d peeked at the scroll during their journey to Milan and realized that it was written in the same language as its brother, the language of the Roman Empire. Now he just needed time to translate it.
‘What can I do to help?’ she asked.
‘Why don’t you use your fancy-pants computer skills and research the artwork of ancient Rome? Try to locate the laughing man from Orvieto. He has to be mentioned somewhere.’
Maria went to the same terminal as before and typed ANCIENT ROMAN ART. The computer scanned the library’s resources and spat out a long list. Photographs, sketches, maps, and descriptions were available by the hundreds, all of them detailing the colorful history of the Roman Empire. Maria grabbed the first five books she found, then settled into a nearby booth.
As she opened the first book, she realized that she didn’t have a plan of attack. Sure, she could flip through page after page, hoping to stumble across a picture of the laughing man, but she knew there had to be a more efficient way to conduct her research.
Giving it some thought, she decided to look in the table of contents, hoping that her theory from the Catacombs – that the laughing man was actually a Roman leader – was accurate. To her surprise, the book classified its artwork by emperor, meaning she could flip through the book’s pictures until she reached the last leader of the Empire.
Starting with Augustus, she studied statue after statue and carving after carving, but none of them shared any similarities to the face of the laughing man.
After Augustus was Tiberius, a man who ruled the Empire from 14 to 37 ad, a period that covered the adult life of Jesus Christ. In her mind she felt that Rome’s second emperor could be the man she was looking for. Since the laughing man was prominently displayed on the crucifixion archway and Tiberius was the leader of Rome at that time, she thought they might be one in the same. That made sense, didn’t it? But as soon as she saw Tiberius’s face in a series of statues, she knew it wasn’t him. The two men looked nothing alike.
‘Damn!’ she cursed. ‘Who the hell are you?’
Maria searched for the laughing man for two more hours before she finally took a break. Her lack of sleep coupled with her lack of success proved to be a powerful narcotic. So she stumbled down two flights of stairs to the basement lounge and bought the largest espresso they sold. While waiting for her order, she collapsed into a nearby booth and rested her head on the table. Unfortunately, the sound of footsteps cut her nap short.
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