Centurion: Mark's Gospel as a Thriller (27 page)

My brain has long expected chaos to follow the firing of the gun. When it doesn't come, my brain is sent into some sort of failed-expectation fog. I can't process what's happening.

The gun is still pressed beneath the king's chin. I trip the trigger again, and again it fires. But this time King Charles's hands wrap tightly around the barrel. He lifts his head slowly and lets out the most riotous laugh I've ever heard. He says,
"Oh...no."

He laughs uncontrollably.

"What the...?"

"Try it again," he says through a sob of laughter. "Maybe it's just jammed." He releases the gun, stands, and backs quickly away from me, still smiling and laughing. Another centurion appears instantly at his side.

I furtively glance at those standing around me. Horror and confusion blankets their faces. I look at Henrik, who says, "I think Jude warned you that gun wasn't meant to be fired." He flips the safety off his rifle and adds, "Blanks."

Before Henrik can raise his weapon, I drop the gun, pull the switchblade from my bandage, and lunge it into his thick neck.

And then chaos comes. Another screaming woman is what I hear first, before the gurgles of Henrik choking on his own blood. Then that's all I can hear, muffled choking.

I'm on the ground while a chorus of boots stomps on me. Cold steel is pressed against multiple points on my body: my head, my chest, and my groin.

Henrik twitches spastically beside me. Blood gushes from his throat like a roaring fountain; some of it lands on my lips, and I taste it. The screaming woman is eventually consumed into a larger and more cacophonic din. Madness surrounds me, but I can see nothing but the bodies and guns of the men who hold me down and pummel me.

I think I lose consciousness, but it's hard to be sure about anything right now. After an indeterminable amount of time, I'm hoisted to my feet.

King Charles greets me, looking me dead in the eye, his smile gone.

"You killed one of my men." He points to Henrik's body. A pool of dark-red blood encircles it. "Look. You did that."

I glance at Henrik. Then I notice the Southerners being honored at the Gratitude Ceremony all have been forced to their knees. A centurion stands behind each and every one.

An explosion sounds in the distance.

The army. They should be here by now!

I lift my eyes to scan the horizon, and a centurion strikes me hard across the face.

"Don't worry about what's happening on the hill," King Charles says. "For the moment I'd like your full attention." He dangles my gun before me. "This belonged to your father."

I spit a mouthful of blood onto his shiny black boots. "It's mine now."

"Yes, but it
was
his." He takes a beat to examine my blood on his boots. "This is the worst day of your life, Deacon. Welcome to it."

"I very much doubt that."

Another explosion shakes the ground. The thousands gathered stampede away from the palace. The earth hums from the explosion and the mass exodus.

"I heard you got off a shot the night you met your rebel army. I was worried you'd discover the blanks. But Henrik—may he rest in peace—assured me you were far too obsessed with revenge to notice something so subtle. I guess he was right."

Another explosion—this one is louder and much more violent than the first two.

It feels like we're standing on a boat; the ground rolls beneath us.

Finally it all comes together.

I say, "I was set up?"

"From the very beginning," King Charles replies.

"What's happening on the hill? Let me see my men."

King Charles raises a finger. "One moment please. I need to speak with you first. Your father was the best organizer of men the South has seen in quite some time. He did, in a few short years, what no one was capable of doing for decades. From our perspective, something had to be done about it."

"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.