Chris Kuzneski - Sign of the Cross

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.’