Centurion: Mark's Gospel as a Thriller (26 page)

I've spent the entire night with Henrik. But Jude is nowhere to be found.

He, like all the others, vanished during the Teacher's arrest. I saw the guards shove him aside, but after that, nothing. Henrik assured me that Jude fled the city to meet up with our army beyond the city walls, which was the plan. But first he was supposed to have met me here.

This bothers me. But there's nothing I can do about it.

I have no way to communicate with him, other than to send a message through Henrik, but Henrik and I are now attached at the hip. The Nordic centurion didn't leave my side all night, nor will he until I've killed King Charles
and assumed command of the army. He's my only way in and my only way out—my solitary lifeline. For this plan to work, I need my enemy's help.

I attempted to sleep for a few hours in a discreet safe house, roughly the size of a broom closet, but it was of no use. Henrik, however, slept soundly. He probably dreamt about what he'll do with my money once he has safely fled North America and the grasp of the Kingdom he's betrayed.

A hundred times I've envisioned slitting his throat. It would be so easy. Just pull out Petra's switchblade and cut his jugular. He'd be dead within a minute. To watch him die would give me pure satisfaction. But I wouldn't do it that fast. First I'd wake him with the sharp point of the knife and ask him what he did with my parents. When he refused to answer, I'd promise to spare his life. Though he's a giant, I've already seen fear once before in his eyes. He'd tell me the truth. Once I discovered their fate, I'd ask him what it feels like to breathe but know death is moments away. Then, when his brain had processed that I was his executioner, I'd wait, perhaps for as long as ten minutes—however long it took for him to lose total control. I'd wait until he wet himself. Then, and only then, when his entire body and spirit were in the most intense anguish, I'd run the blade expertly across his neck and watch him bleed to death.

Henrik opens his eyes.

I stare at him like a lion on a lamb.

"Stop looking at me that way," he says.

"When did you decide to become a mercenary?"

"What's it to you?"

"I'm curious."

Henrik yawns and stretches his arms and legs, which run for miles. "I was orphaned as a boy. Both parents died of fever. It was just my older brother and me. It was winter, and we were starving. No vegetation grows in the Arctic that time of year. We were too dumb to hunt with any efficiency. We tried, but it was never enough. One day we were out trapping, and we saw another hunter, a lone man, in the distance. He had enough meat on his oxen to feed us for a month. We hid in the snow until he was close, and we took him."

Henrik stops talking and looks at me as though he's finished telling the story.

"It was survival," I say. "Many men would do the same in your situation and not become a hired killer."

He shakes his head. "My brother bawled for days, cried until he vomited. Even as we beat the man to death, my brother squealed, the terrible shriek of a child. Cried like a girl. The whole thing unnerved him to the core."

"But not you."

He smiles broadly. "I loved every second of it. I'd always been big and clumsy, but when the time came to kill this man, I moved like a dancer, sharp and precise. It was like a fish hatching from the egg and swimming into the sea. As the bones in his neck cracked under my hands, I thought,
So this is what the gods made me for?"
Henrik laughs. "I packed the meat the next morning and set out to find other men who might employ my newfound talent."

"And your brother?"

"I considered letting him live, chewed it over all night. But...starvation is an unkind death."

"You killed him?"

"I set him free."

"You could have learned to hunt. You killed a grown man. Animals are much easier."

Henrik stands. "I wasn't interested in hunting animals." He fastens his helmet on his head but doesn't pull down the visor. "You and I aren't that different, you know?"

"I'm nothing like you."

"You're a killer," he says. "I saw it in your eyes the night of the amphitheater fight. You were thirsty for it. A lot of men can inflict pain on a person—takes a special one to enjoy it."

I stand up. "Stop talking."

Henrik laughs softly. "You're about to kill the most powerful man on the continent, and you don't want to think of yourself as a killer? That's intriguing."

I move for the door. "Time to go."

"If you're not a killer, what are you?" he asks.

I stop, my hand on the door, and think about his question.

I think for a long while.

Then I open the door and leave, all the while begging my brain to stop sizzling.

enrik's word is true. With him at my side, I proceed unchecked through the barricade. Not one member of the Centurion Guard gives me a second look after they realize we're together. They don't know me, but whoever I am, I am to be trusted.

The deception is thrilling. As we pass them, I wonder how many of these very men I'll have the privilege of slaughtering.

We climb the steps of the palace. I arrive on the landing and take my place among the other families who've been invited to the ceremony. If this were any other moment, I'd walk down the line and shake each one of their hands and express my sympathy for their losses. These are my people who have suffered a similar fate. But this isn't any other moment—it is
the moment
—and I can't afford to become emotional. I pray they survive the impending battle.

On the landing, Henrik breaks apart from me, and I slip quietly into the middle of the line, per the plan. Standing in the middle is crucial. Even with Henrik's protection and the army charging down the hill, there's still a good chance I'll be shot. I need to conceal myself among as many humans as possible to make it difficult for a sniper to get off a clean lick.

We face the palace from where King Charles will emerge, with the breathtaking view at our backs. Behind us sits a glorious city filled with God's people. I turn around for a moment and take in the scene. They're all here. The sea of people around me runs for what looks like miles. They are here for God but have come out this morning because they have no choice; King Charles must be honored. This is just one of the many ways the Kingdom desecrates our holiest holiday.

But I'm so glad they've come. They have no idea, but these Southerners are about to witness the most pivotal moment since the Kingdom overtook our
land. History is about to be made. I smile warmly at my countrymen then turn back to face the Kingdom.

Trumpets announce the young king's arrival. The golden doors swing open, and King Charles appears. He's a handsome man. He has bright-green eyes that shine with intelligence and a nose that appears perfectly crafted from generations of good genes. His short-cropped hair is highlighted by natural streaks of blond from the many hours he spends outdoors. He's known as a great sportsman and a polo champion. His facial features are sharp and powerful, and he walks like a man who owns the ground beneath his feet. He wears a red military uniform that's decorated heavily with gold medals. The heaviest cluster hangs on his right breast.

He wears no gun on his hip.

Every other man on the landing is armed to the teeth, including Henrik, who carries a black assault rifle.

King Charles is handed a microphone and he addresses the crowd. "It is with the most profound reverence that I welcome you this morning to this—
your
Holy City. And it is with supreme gratitude that I thank you for taking time from your holy festival to come meet with me, your king. On behalf of the entire Kingdom, I thank you. Your family members died in the most honorable of manner—service. While not all of them chose their destiny, they met it with dignity and grace, and for that you may be proud."

I want to ask King Charles if he was there when someone's mother died of heat exhaustion in a labor camp. I want to know whether he had the courage to look into the vacant eyes of a brother on the brink of starvation. I want to know if he personally murdered any of the people he now eulogizes. But most of all, I want to know if he's so delusional that he actually believes we care about what he's saying.

He continues, "So it is in that same spirit of pride that I honor you this morning by expressing my gratitude in an act of my own humility. You honor the deceased by your presence. I honor you with mine. May the gods of our Kingdom and your one true God bless you and your progeny forevermore."

Starting at the end of the line, King Charles bows before each person, kisses his or her hand, and rises to thank the individual face-to-face. Henrik follows closely behind, never more than a yard from the king. Henrik is the
only bodyguard who moves with him. King Charles takes his time, pausing long enough to make a genuine connection with each person. The expression on his face appears sincere.

My pulse quickens. I scan the horizon. In the distance I see the outline of our army. If anyone from the Kingdom were to look, it would be obvious that men have gathered on the hill. It is a calculated risk. But if Jude were to keep the men tucked away in the surrounding woods, it would take too long to storm the city. For these last few moments, they must be exposed if we're to have any hope of succeeding.

I'm next. As the king bends down to kiss the hand of the woman next to me, I smell his musky cologne. It's an opulent odor, a tonic so fresh and clean that I wish it were on my body. I haven't had a proper bath in weeks.

The image of Maria anointing the Teacher's head with oil flashes hard and bright through my mind.

And then I meet the king.

King Charles doesn't look me in the eye before kneeling before me. He lowers his head, and I offer him my left hand. He takes it and kisses it. I pull the gun from my waistband with my other hand. I sling it around and jam the barrel beneath his chin.

No hesitation.

I pull the trigger.

The woman next to me screams.

he pistol bucks in my hand. The crack rings out and the king's head jerks violently backward. But his body doesn't fall limp. Time moves very slowly, but I know it's taking too long for it to happen—for him to die.