“What the….?”
He got to his feet and went back to Longinus who had stopped moaning and was also staring at his own hands.
“Are you all right?” Atronius called, “Longinus your eyes.”
Longinus looked up open mouthed.
“Atronius.”
“Yes.”
“I can see you.”
Atronius grabbed either side of Longinus’ face as Longinus stood up.
“Your eyes. You no longer have that milky film over them.”
Longinus, tears running down his face, turned to his comrades who were staring in disbelief. He called them each by name and they nodded open mouthed.
“I can see.”
“It’s a miracle.”
“Look at this,” Atronius said standing over the spear. They all gathered round. Tiny blue sparks danced and fizzed around the iron spearhead. Then one by one they grew smaller and disappeared inside the metal as it consumed them. It seemed to take on a different tinge, almost as if it was glowing from within.
Longinus picked his spear up. It felt exactly as it had before. As the day it had been issued to him. But he knew it had changed. As he had changed.
“My hands were burned by it,” Atronius said, “And before my very eyes they healed themselves. As has your sight.”
“It truly is the work of the Gods.”
The Roman soldiers turned slowly to look at the figure on the cross.
CHAPTER ONE
The flashing lights from the two police cars and ambulance bounced back off the buildings as the three vehicle convoy sped through the dark city’s streets. The convoy had set out just after sundown from the general hospital and was heading back towards Mornaguia prison 14km west of Tunis. The October air cool.
The hectic rush hour traffic had calmed now and the convoy very rarely had to stop. Each time they approached red traffic lights the lead police car would pull onto the junction and stop other traffic so the ambulance could continue unimpeded. The police car at the rear would then overtake the ambulance and the one that had stopped would fall in behind.
At the city outskirts the small convoy stopped at a military station and after a few words with the police vehicles they set off once again for the prison. Two jeeps with Tunisian national guardsmen now joined the procession. In the lead jeep a political prisoner was chained to the floor of the vehicle.
In the ambulance was another prisoner. A man who was handcuffed to his gurney. He was laying on his back, fully clothed, his upper body wearing a hoodie. The hood was up and covering his head and most of his face. Opposite him sat a policeman. A young recruit who tried to ignore the strange rattling sound that came every time his prisoner drew a breath. The few occasions that he had caught a glimpse of the man’s chin he had seen a patchwork of scar tissue and it had made him feel sick. His prisoner had eighty per cent burns to his face, neck and hands and had just received treatment from the country’s top plastic surgeon.
The prisoner turned his head slightly towards his guard who fought the urge not to vomit. It was hot in the back of the ambulance and the policeman felt a little claustrophobic. He tore his eyes away from the man on the gurney and tried to focus on the conversation the driver and co-driver were having. He forced his mind to drown out the sickly rattle and concentrated. The two in front were discussing a football match that had been televised the evening before. It had been a world cup qualifier between Nigeria and Tunisia and unbelievably, against the odds, Tunisia had forced a 1–1 draw and were currently second in the group with one match to play.
“I’m telling you,” the co-driver said, “If that Nigerian defender hadn’t been on the goal line that header would have beaten the goalkeeper and gone in.”
“Maybe,” the driver replied.
“Maybe? It would.”
“It was difficult to tell. The camera angle wasn’t very good.”
“No. My brother has a very good television. It would have gone in and then we would be on top of our group and not second.”
Tunisia’s next game would be against Morocco.
“The next match will also be difficult for our team,” the driver said.
“I will say a thousand prayers that they are victorious. My prayers will be heard.”
“I hope so my brother, I hope so.”
The policeman was listening with only half an ear. The football didn’t interest him. He was very much a family man. The only thing that mattered to him was his job, his wife and two young daughters.
“Do you have the time please?” the man on the gurney asked in his strange, rattling voice.
The policeman started for a moment. This was the first time the prisoner had spoken to anyone. Tearing his eyes away from the very scarred face once again he flicked his wrist over and looked at his watch.
“It is just after eight thirty.”
“Do you think you could ask them to turn the lights down.”
“No.”
Now for the first time the man wearing the hooded top raised his head and his guard saw the whole face for the first time. The scars crisscrossed every spare bit of skin and flesh. In places the skin was so paper thin the policeman could see the red sinews below. The eyes were different too. One was dark and the other had a whitish tinge to the iris. There was no facial hair, no whiskers, no eyelashes, no eyebrows. The skin around the lips, which were dry, around the nose and eyes was pulled tight. So tight that when the man spoke his lips hardly moved. What the guard could see of the forehead appeared to be equally scarred. Now he saw one ear which was shrivelled, the lobe burned off. The skin around the neck and throat was red and scarred and stopped where the hooded top began. The man’s hands were also scarred.
The policeman tried to outstare his prisoner but found he couldn’t and he looked down at his hands which were folded in his lap.
“I have just received laser treatment for my injuries and the bright lights are hurting my face. So if I may ask again could they please turn the lights down.”
The eyes held their stare. The guard glanced at them, in particular the white one again. Then he looked down at the handcuffs and moved his right leg slightly and felt the reassurance of his holstered handgun. Instinctively his fingers touched the butt of his handgun and the prisoner’s eyes followed the movement. The prisoner smiled, the skin on his lips near splitting, the red flesh underneath dancing.
“I appreciate your concerns,” the prisoner said. He lifted his wrists up until the handcuffs stopped them moving any further. The one closest to the guard broke the skin on the wrist and pinkish fluid oozed from the tear, “But where could I possibly run to?”
The guard was watching the sticky substance from the broken skin. Then he looked up into the eyes and nervously nodded.
“Thank you.”
The policeman turned and spoke to the co-driver who looked back at him, glanced at the patient, then shrugged and flicked the interior lights switch, turning them down to a minimum.
“That’s much better. Thank you,” the scarred man said laying back and resting his head on the pillow. His breathing became the wheezing rattle once again. The policeman closed his eyes to try to block the sound out.
“How long have you been a policeman?”
His eyes flashed open again. He ignored the man and closed them again.