‘What did you mean when you said “Josephus was right”?’ Angela asked him, staring wide-eyed at the corpse. She seemed to have recovered her composure somewhat, and was leaning forward, right over the base of the open coffin.
‘There are no extant first-hand contemporary accounts of what Jesus looked like,’ Killian said. ‘But in a very early Slavonic copy of the Capture of Jerusalem, Josephus — you do know who he was, I hope? — describes Jesus as being small in stature with a “long face, long nose and meeting eyebrows”. He also said He had dark skin, scanty hair parted in the middle like a Nazarite and with an undeveloped beard. And I think that’s a pretty good description of this man, wouldn’t you agree?’
There was another long silence. ‘Could this really be the founder of Christianity?’ Donovan said at last. ‘Just look at him. Short — he’s almost a dwarf — and ugly with it.’
‘It’s not what He looked like that’s important,’ Killian said, his voice rising in anger. ‘It’s what He did, what He said and the lessons He gave us. Those are the building blocks, the very foundations, of the greatest religion the world has ever known.’
‘Look at the hands,’ Donovan said suddenly, and everybody’s focus shifted. ‘Do you see any nail marks? Stigmata?’
But the corpse’s hands and wrists were unmarked.
‘That proves nothing,’ Killian said. ‘Nails were expensive. The Romans often tied their victims to the cross with ropes. It just meant they lasted a bit longer, made them suffer even more.’
‘What about the feet?’ Bronson asked. He couldn’t quite see into the base of the coffin. ‘Or did the Romans lash their legs to the cross as well?’
Masters bent down to have a closer look. When he straightened up, his face was pale in the gloom of the cave, and he crossed himself again before he spoke.
‘Two old wounds,’ he said. ‘Looks like something was driven through both heels. He’d have found walking real painful.’
Everyone looked at Killian who nodded. ‘Common practice,’ he said. ‘They usually turned the victim sideways, jammed his feet into a wooden box attached to the cross and drove one nail straight through both ankles.’
His matter-of-fact explanation of the mechanics of perhaps the cruellest method of execution yet devised echoed around the cave.
‘Dear God,’ Angela whispered.
‘But you said they were old wounds,’ Bronson said, looking at Masters, and the mercenary nodded. ‘So this man must have lived after he was crucified. How?’
‘Crucifixion wasn’t always terminal,’ Killian said. ‘There were a few recorded cases of victims being granted a reprieve after they were put on the cross, and being taken down again. Whether they survived depended on how long they’d been hanging there, and the way they had been secured to the cross. If three nails had been used, they’d eventually die from shock and blood loss or infection, but if their arms had been roped to the patibulum — that was the cross-piece — then they would have had a chance of living. And this man obviously did.’
‘But if this man really was Jesus Christ,’ Angela said, ‘this proves He didn’t die, or rise again — which would cut away the foundations of the entire Christian religion.’
‘Exactly,’ replied Killian. ‘That’s why I’m here.’
Silence fell again in the chamber, then they all heard a faint crackling sound, almost like a repeated electric discharge. It appeared directionless, but seemed to emanate from somewhere within the cave.
Masters jumped backwards, away from the lead coffin, his face ashen.
The eyelids of the corpse had flickered open, and the eyes, eyes of a pure and brilliant and unsullied cerulean blue, were staring straight up at the roof of the cave.
68
‘You should have waited,’ Angela said calmly.
‘What?’ Donovan asked, still staring at the body.
‘You should have waited. You should have opened the coffin in a controlled environment, not way out here. There’s no way of stopping this now.’
‘Stopping what?’
‘You heard that noise, just like the rest of us. And now it’s too late. Far too late.’
‘Look!’ Masters said. ‘Look at the body.’
Before their eyes, the corpse had started to change, the flesh shrinking and changing colour, and a sudden odour of decay, sharp and unpleasant, the smell of rotting and long-dead meat, permeated the cave.
‘Sealing the coffin would have arrested the decay process,’ Angela said, her voice strained. ‘That crackling sound was some of the bones starting to crumble, and the eyes snapping open must have been caused by the muscles of the eyelids contracting as they decayed. Now the body’s making up for lost time. That’s why you should have waited.’
‘Nooo!’ Donovan howled, the sound loud in the confined space, and he leapt forward.
He plunged his hands into the coffin, grabbing for the corpse itself. Seizing the right hand, he ripped off one of the fingers, holding it up in triumph.
‘This is all I’ll need!’ he shouted. ‘This will be enough.’
The others recoiled in horror, but only one of them moved.
‘Sacrilege!’ Killian screamed, and launched himself across the end of the open stone coffin straight at Donovan.
The two men tumbled to the ground in a tangle of arms and legs, rolling over and over. They crashed into the crumbling skeleton that lay beside the coffin, a cloud of dust erupting from the ancient body as they crushed it against the ground.
Masters took a couple of steps towards them, to try to separate the two battling figures, then stopped, his head cocked on one side.
‘You hear that?’ he asked.
‘What?’ Then Bronson heard it too. A dull rumbling that seemed to emanate from the very walls all around them. And one glance told him what was causing it.
‘Get out!’ he yelled. ‘Get out now.’
Bronson grabbed Angela and shoved her towards the entrance to the outer cave. An entrance that was closing fast as the noise grew in intensity, a deafening rumbling that now echoed around the stone chamber.
They were caught in a trap that had been waiting for them for two millennia.
69
Cross darted through the opening, Masters barely a yard behind him. Bronson pushed Angela into the fast-closing gap.
It was now so narrow that she had to turn sideways to slide through. The moment she stepped into the outer cave she reached back for Bronson. But before she could grab his arm, a powerful hand seized her from behind and pulled her away from the entrance.
Masters reached into the gap and jammed the crowbar lengthwise at chest-height between the cave wall and the moving stone door, and the rumbling sound suddenly diminished.
‘Now!’ he yelled. ‘Get out now! This won’t hold it for long.’
Bronson didn’t hesitate, just ducked down and forced himself head-first into the gap. As he eased his body through, he could feel the stone door vibrating as some ancient unseen mechanism tried to force it closed against the flimsy steel barrier of the crowbar.
‘Chris!’ Angela was growing frantic in the outer cave.
Bronson thrust his torso through the gap at the base of the stone door, kicking out strongly with his legs to force his body through.
In the cave’s inner chamber, Donovan kicked Killian’s unconscious body to one side and dived across the stone floor. Somebody was in front of him, trying to wriggle through the remaining gap. Donovan reached out, grabbed the man’s leg and pulled as hard as he could.
Bronson felt the tug on his leg and looked back. He could see Donovan right behind him, doing his best to drag him back into the inner chamber, and kicked out. The sole of his foot connected with Donovan’s face, and he lurched backwards, blood streaming from his broken nose, his grip on Bronson’s leg instantly loosening.
Bronson made a final effort and pulled himself through the gap, rolling across the floor of the cave to clear the opening as quickly as possible.