Acts of the Assassins Read Online Free PDF Page B

which is flimsy: he was born in Cana, a Galilean like all of them except Judas. His father is a peasant farmer, but Bartholomew was training as a doctor when Philip recruited him to the cause. Bartholomew gave up his studies, seduced by the glamour of saving the world.
    ‘Tell me about the Jesus appearances. In your professional opinion, as a medical student, would you say they’re scientifically feasible?’
    Bartholomew shrugs his thin shoulders. ‘He appears to us. I wouldn’t believe it except I’ve seen him with my own eyes.’
    ‘Did you see inside the tomb?’
    ‘Peter and John told us it was empty.’
    ‘But you didn’t see it? How can you believe it was empty if you didn’t actually see it?’
    ‘Jesus is alive. If that’s what you’re asking.’
    Gallio smacks his hand into the headrest. Beside him Bartholomew flinches.
    ‘Fine.’ Gallio stares hard at the leather headrest as it pushes back the indent. Then at Bartholomew, at his alarmed brown eyes. ‘You know this is not a story to be invented lightly?’
    ‘None of us chose to be involved.’
    ‘You want me to believe that Jesus can reverse the laws of nature? I want you,’ and here Cassius Gallio pokes the top of Bartholomew’s arm with his finger, to be sure he knows that ‘you’ means him, ‘I want you to think of the consequences, for you, for everyone. I want you, properly, to engage with the responsibility for making up the resurrection of Jesus.’
    In Barthomew’s version of the world there is a god, but Gallio reminds him that evil has not ceased to exist, not in the last month in Jerusalem. This god of theirs watches over us, and can intervene in human affairs, but Bartholomew and others can be bundled at random into the back of official cars. Soon followed by the fortress and the sweatbox and the rest, with god reliably failing to intervene. Every atrocity, every tragedy, every accident is intended. Imagine the cruelty of this invented god, if that were so.
    ‘Jesus is alive.’
    ‘Sorry, can’t be.’
    Bartholomew rubs the side of his head. Gallio wants to tug on his beard, shake some sense into him, but in the rear-view mirror Bartholomew is making eye contact with the driver.
    ‘Don’t look at him. Look at me.’ Gallio pinches Bartholomew’s cheeks between his fingers and turns his head, squeezes a little until he can see the inside pink of Bartholomew’s mouth. ‘Look at me, Bartholomew, look.’ Gallio could encourage him to be reasonable with the usual temptations, with girls or boys, with money. The disciples say they’re not interested but they are. They must be, like everyone else, like Judas. ‘Remember me, Bartholomew. One day I may be able to help you.’
    Cassius Gallio watches for a reaction, studies this face so similar to the face of Jesus. Nothing. He pushes the face away. The side of Bartholomew’s head cracks against the window. Gallio leans across and opens the door.
    ‘How will I get back?’
    ‘Walk. Like everyone else.’
    The next day they murder Judas, and Gallio stops wanting to be the Speculator in charge. Not him, not any more. He doesn’t want to have to explain to Pilate, to the CCU, to anyone.
    Someone phones in, voice disguised, could have been a man or woman, any age. Cassius Gallio keeps the news to himself and reaches the field within the hour. The rope is lashed low to the trunk of an isolated tree, run up and over a high branch, with a single knot in the loop of the noose. At first glance Judas looks like a suicide.
    Gallio is weary but he investigates. The details need attention, and he can’t find a note, a decisive indicator if this is genuine. Judas didn’t write a suicide note. At the tribunal, no one will be interested in the non-existent note.
    He remembers cursing out loud. Fuck fuck you fuck you fuck. Cunt. Cassius Gallio had promised to protect Judas, had such brave plans for him. He slaps at the naked body, then remembers his training. Calm, breathe. Steady the body,