‘No, but…’
‘But what? Women aren’t possessions, you know. You can’t just run around claiming them.’
‘I realize that, but…’
‘Maybe you’d have a little more luck with the ladies if you treated them with the respect that they deserved. Besides, before you run off and plant your flag in Maria or
‘Business?’ He looked at Payne, confused, until he realized what Payne was talking about. ‘Oh, that’s right! Our business. I almost forgot about our
Ulster and Franz stared at Payne and Jones like they were crazy. Which, of course, they were. They didn’t call them MANIACs for nothing.
Payne said to Ulster, ‘When D.J. and I were in Italy, we came across an item that we thought would look great in the Archives. It’s one of those things that we think everybody should get a chance to study, not just a few old priests at the Vatican.’
Jones added, ‘If you don’t want it, we’ll completely understand. I mean, it is kind of cumbersome. But since you’re building a new wing and all, we figured you’d have the room.’
‘What is it?’ Ulster asked.
‘We can show you if you’d like. We brought it with us.’
‘You did?’
Payne nodded as he opened the back of the chopper. Ulster and Franz peered inside and saw the stone sarcophagus, hermetically sealed in high-grade plastic. ‘We didn’t want to expose it to the elements, so Dr Boyd showed us how to protect it. Hopefully you can figure out a more permanent solution for its upkeep.’
Struggling to see through the plastic, Ulster frowned. ‘I’m sure I could if I knew what I was looking at… Please tell me there isn’t a body in there.’
Jones laughed. ‘I was worried about the same thing when we opened it. But as luck should have it, it was filled with something more, um, shocking.’
‘Shocking?’ Ulster asked.
Instead of answering, Payne pulled several pictures from his shirt pocket and handed them to Ulster. They were taken from a variety of angles and showed the sarcophagus both opened and closed. The final few photos focused on the object that was inside, an artifact that had survived the last two thousand years intact. Evidence that had been saved by Pilate to tell his side of the story. At least part of it. The other part would be explained on a separate document.
Ulster gasped when he saw the item. ‘Are those beams from a cross?’
They nodded. The stipes had been sawed in half, but the patibulum was still intact. And best of all, they had scientists in Pittsburgh test a sliver of wood, and it was first-century African oak.
Just like it should’ve been.
‘You mean,’ Ulster stuttered, ‘this is
Payne shrugged. ‘That’s what we’re hoping you can prove. That is, if you have the time.’
‘Yes,’ he gasped. ‘I have the time.’
‘But that’s not all.’ Payne reached into the chopper and pulled out a small storage case. ‘There was one more item inside the sarcophagus, something we haven’t opened yet. We figured it would be best if we left that to you, Boyd, and Maria.’
With shaking hands, Ulster opened the case and saw a bronze cylinder, similar to the one that had been found in the Catacombs. Yet instead of Tiberius’s seal, the cylinder was stamped with Pontius Pilate’s official symbol, an emblem that hadn’t been used since the days of Christ.
‘I have no idea what’s inside. But if we’re lucky, it might just tell us what happened.’
And as luck would have it, it actually did.
*
As far as Payne could tell, only six of them (Dante, Maria, Boyd, Ulster, Jones, and himself) knew everything. And by
No, as far as Payne could tell, only six of them knew the secret that Cardinal Rose thought he’d silenced forever when he killed Benito Pelati. Thankfully, Rose was a poor detective, otherwise Payne knew he would’ve heard from Rose’s bosses by now — in one way or another.
Speaking of which, Payne wasn’t really sure what the Vatican knew (and didn’t know) about their adventure. And he had no intention of asking them. Ever.
Why? There’s an old adage that says there’s no such thing as a stupid question. Well, that might be true, but Payne knew there
Especially if the wrong person wanted to know the answer.
Or wanted to keep it a secret.
Epilogue
The scroll was in remarkable shape considering it was penned by Pontius Pilate on his deathbed. Buried in the hills of Vindobona, the parchment stayed undisturbed for nearly 2,000 years, protected by a bronze cylinder, a stone sarcophagus, and a family with a secret past.
Generation upon generation of Pelati men went to the grave thinking that their forefather, Pontius Pilate, was a hero. That he was the true founder of the Christian faith. That Tiberius had called upon his noble servant and asked him to fake the death of Christ for the betterment of all things Roman. That Tiberius was so impressed with his heroics that he honored his achievements in stone, immortalizing Pilate’s image and amazing deeds in the Catacombs of Orvieto. Yet none of the Pelatis — not Benito, Roberto, Dante, or any of their ancestors except Pontius himself — knew the full story of the crucifixion until Maria broke the seal on the cylinder.
As she translated Pilate’s final words, she gasped at what she learned, because she held a document that proved what she had always believed: God works in mysterious ways.
Pontius Pilate to my sons and heirs.
I sit on the threshold of death, ready to be judged for the things I have done and those I had hoped to do, yet that does not mean I have not already seen the glory of God, for I have witnessed it firsthand, and its magnificence has changed me into the man I am today.
I knew of the Nazarene long before I looked upon him, word of his flock and his miracles spread across the desert like a plague, one that threatened the peace and prosperity of the land placed in my charge. In time I knew word would reach across the sea, as it always does, and I would be asked to place my boot upon the Nazarene before his followers had grown into a mob that Rome would struggle to crush. Yet the opposite occurred, for when I heard from my liege, he spoke to me in hushed tones, asking me to stoke the flames of the fire until we could use the heat for our betterment. I knew not of what he meant but allowed the fire to burn until it heated the walls of Jerusalem, at which time I received the guidance I had been lacking and the steps I had to follow, for they had been sent by Tiberius himself. I was to place the Nazarene on a pedestal, high above the false Messiahs that had preceded him, and give the Jews the proof they needed that this was their true God, that this was indeed him.
It was decided that this could be done only through death, or the appearance of such, for this is a miracle that cannot be faked and one that would assuage even those who did not believe. In time the Nazarene was brought before his peers and for a mere pittance I was able to ensure the outcome, completing the ruse by washing my hands of the events as though I had no part in the verdict. This angered my Claudia, for she felt that I should exert the power of my rule to protect the holy man whom she had seen in her dreams, yet this could not be done, for fear of angering the Roman throne, the one who whispered to me and encouraged my deceit.
To guarantee the illusion of rebirth, the Nazarene was forced to endure brutality on a public stage, for at the end of the day there could be no doubt that this man had been through hell yet survived solely by his station in heaven. I kept apprised from afar since my place was not near the cross, for a man of my status would care not of a common criminal, one of many that was silenced every day under my rule. Instead, members of my elite guard were
