Project J (18 page)

“It was hard to breathe,” he continued.
 
“I hurt.
 
I could just see one of the others also condemned to one side.
 
Another was behind me.
 
The one I could see was begging to be taken down.
 
As I hung there, I remembered the stories I had heard about men who had been crucified living for one or two days before dying.
 
You asked if I was afraid.
 
At that thought, I was.
 
Would it take so long for me to die?

“Then I saw Joseph standing nearby and I remembered.
 
I still believed that God would save me ultimately, but I admit I was greatly afraid.
 
It had been too easy to think about this while in the garden or eating with my friends.
 
But to be there, like that...”

He shook his head slowly.
 
Tamara felt strong empathy.

“Did you say much?” she asked.
 
Here was a chance to clear up the discrepancies of the Gospels about his last words.

“I think I said some things.
 
It was hard to talk.”

Tamara remembered reading that crucifixion causes asphyxia, making inhaling air difficult and painful, and talking difficult.

“I think I said that I forgave those who were doing this to me.
 
They were only playing their part in the prophecies.
 
After a long time, I remember asking aloud if God had forsaken me.
 
I wanted his assurance that this was worth it.

“Finally, I could take it no longer.
 
The sun was low in the sky, and the Sabbath was coming.
 
I called out that I thirsted. That was the signal.”

Suddenly Tamara became more alert.
 
She could sense Myers also tensing.
 
“The signal?” she asked.

For a while, Jesus did not answer her question.
 
Finally, he said softly, “That was so long ago.
 
It matters not today, so I will tell you of it.

“Days before, when I was with Joseph and we were talking of what had to come, he told me that he would arrange that I should not suffer too greatly.
 
He told me when I said aloud that I was thirsty, he would have someone give me a drink.
 
In it would be a potion that would make me unconscious.

“I agreed, although at the time I did not think that I would have need of it.
 
And it would be as with the prophecy.”

“Psalms 69:21,” Myers added.
 
“...And in my thirst they gave me vinegar to drink.”

“Later, only a week before Passover, Nicodemus said to me that the plan was all in place.
 
Nicodemus believed in the coming Kingdom as I did, but he did not think that I had to die to fulfill the prophecies.
 
I asked what plan, and he explained that he and Joseph had arranged that when I had been given the potion and appeared to be dead, they would get me off the cross and into a tomb nearby where they would revive me.

“I think he assumed that Joseph had given me all the details of their plot.

“I told him that it was God who would attend to me.
 
It was not necessary that they do anything.
 
If God wanted me to return to life, He would do it.
 
And that I did believe He would.
 
Was I not the Son of Man, the chosen one?
 
The one who would sit in judgment as the Kingdom of God came to earth?
 
How could God not help me fulfill the prophecies for Him?

“He said he understood and left me.
 
Then I remembered that Nicodemus ben Gurion was said to have performed miracles himself.
 
Perhaps he knew of a potion that would make me appear to be dead.
 
But I was firm.
 
God would do what had to be done.
 
I heard no more of it.”

“Did you say anything else on the cross?” Tamara asked.
 
There were still some quotes attributed to him in the Gospels.

“I remembered a saying I always liked.
 
‘Into thine hand I commit my spirit’
.”

“Psalms 31:5,” Myers added.

“I think I said that aloud,” Jesus said.
 
“Then I said I thirsted.
 
I felt weak and tired, and in great pain, and could take no more suffering,” he added.

Myers and Tamara looked to each other.
 
The narrative was now to the crucial point.
 
That was the point when their Machine had fetched the man from near death.
 
Jesus would be unable to tell them more from that point.
 
He would only remember waking up in their hospital room.

Tamara reached out, took his hand and held it in both of hers.

“We will talk of this again,” she told him.
 
“I want you to see that your death has inspired many people to do good deeds, that you have done good for the world.”

If Jesus believed her, it was hard to say.
 
He merely looked at her with tired, tired eyes.

Before the interview broke up with promises to return soon, Jesus looked to both of them with his sad eyes and said, “How can they use the cross I have so much reason to hate as a sign of me?”

Chapter 32:
 
What more?

In the silent apartment, a man sat and stared at the faint morning sunlight coming between the drapes.
 
He had the lights off.
 
Heavy were the thoughts running through his mind.
 
In his hands he held a well-worn Bible, his since his early days.

He had done as he had been instructed and delivered the tablet with that recording.
 
Upon returning home, he could not sleep and sat up in the dark, his mind a turmoil of confusing thoughts.
 
Had he done the right thing?
 
What was the right thing?
 
Was that all he need do?
 
He longed to talk to the bishop again, to hear his soothing words telling him that this was right and proper and approved by his Holiness.

In his troubled thoughts, he understood what that recording was meant to do.
 
It was meant to disrupt this image of Christ that he had helped create, to upset the delicate balance of his mind and render him unusable as a tool against the Church.
 
If the project could not present a sane, rational man, he would not be believed as Jesus, and no one would believe that he was the Christ come again.

He remembered the incident only that prior morning.
 
The truck ramming its way into the compound, the noises of gunshots, and then the blood.
 
There was blood on the ground, blood on the walls; it seemed to be everywhere.
 
He shivered at the memory of that blood.
 
That attack had failed, but he had heard that the target had been Jesus.
 
Only they failed to get to him.
 
Perhaps it would have been best had the terrorists succeeded.
 
Then he would not be so confused and unsure.

Off in his bedroom, an alarm clock emitted annoying beeps.
 
The night had passed and still he could not sleep.
 
He rose slowly and made his way through the semidarkness to quiet the clock.
 
Then he would shower and dress and go to the project, as he had on so many mornings.
 
He would see what his midnight sneaking had accomplished.
 
Then he would hope to understand what he had to do next.

Chapter 33:
 
Let it Play Out

The late evening shadows stretched across Saint Peter’s Square as three people met in an ornate office in the Papal Apartments on the top floor of the Apostolic Palace.
 
In a pure white cassock with white cape and wide silk sleeves, the current successor of St. Peter sat, while two cardinals stood before his desk.
 
An old man, having achieved the highest position in the Catholic Church at the age of seventy-three, and now approaching his eightieth year, he was squinting at the two before him, Cardinals Carlo Lucarelli and Gaetano Milanesi.

“I cannot believe what you are telling me,” he said, nodding his head as if agreeing despite his words.
 
“Jesus?
 
You say that Jesus has come again?”

“No, your Holiness,” Lucarelli was quick to respond.
 
“It is not Him, but a copy.
 
The Americans reached back into time and made a copy of Jesus.
 
It is a man who looks as Jesus and has his memories, but it is not Jesus Christ.”

The Pope’s gaze wandered from one to the other of the men.
 
His hand, resting on the desk near a fancy silver cross, was shaking slightly.
 
“Jesus...” he said slowly.
 
Now his head was shaking from side to side.
 
“How can this be?”

“Science,” Lucarelli said, and offered no further explanation.

“Think of it like a video, looking like Jesus and talking like him,” Milanesi cut in.

“We are afraid that the American scientists will announce this copy to the world,” Lucarelli took up.
 
“That would not be good for the Church.
 
I fear we must do something about this.”

For a minute, the two thought that the Pope would not answer them; his gaze was at a spot between them, perhaps on the distant wall.
 
But then he regained Lucarelli’s eyes.
 
“Yes, we must do something.
 
You say this is not Jesus, but he has Jesus’ memories?
 
And he is alive?”
 
A tiny spark of the man’s old inner fire shone in his eyes.
 
“Can he talk to us?”

“Yes, he can talk,” Lucarelli admitted.
 
“But that is what we fear.
 
Who knows what this false Christ will say?
 
If people believe it is really him...”
 
He sighed and held his hands out to his sides.

The Pope stared hard at him.
 
“Perhaps you should not fear this man.
 
When I was young, we had a man come into our village.
 
He claimed that he was Jesus returned to earth.
 
He even had scars on his palms.
 
Of course, he was not Christ, as we found out quickly, but just a poor cobbler named Marco, a maker of shoes.
 
But he was a kindly man and meant well.
 
If this man is not Jesus Christ, then we will find out soon enough.
 
And if he is...
 
Well, maybe this is God’s doing.”

The two cardinals were speechless.
 
What does one say to the Pope when you think he’s diving off the deep end?
 
How could they show him the error of his logic?

“Your Holiness, I really must...” Lucarelli began.

His Holiness continued as if the cardinal had not even spoken.
 
“We should let this play out as it will.
 
Let them bring forth their man, their copy as you call him, and let us see what he has to say.
 
Yes, that would be best.
 
It would be most interesting to talk to this man, would it not?
 
Let me know when I can speak with him.
 
Meantime, trust in God.”

He waved his hand in dismissal.

The two bowed in silence and backed away.
 
Outside the room, Milanesi slammed his palm against a wall.
 
“His is senile!
 
He does not understand at all!”

“But his is the Pope,” protested Lucarelli mildly.

Milanesi glared at him.
 
“Do you have any idea what the press will do with this story?
 
Especially the Italian press?”

Lucarelli nodded.
 
“It would be a circus.”

“And with the Church in the center ring,” added Milanesi.
 
“We cannot let this happen.”

Lucarelli looked as if he were about to protest, but then snapped shut his mouth.
 
With a deep sigh, he said, “You are correct.
 
Even if we win out and this copy is proven false, it can do no good for the Church.
 
It would be best if this did not become public.”

“You said nothing about the tablet we had our man give Jesus.”

“I thought it would serve no purpose to bring that up.
 
His Holiness need not know.”

“Especially since it apparently, from the last word I have received, has not had the desired effect.”
 
They began walking down the corridor.
 
“It is good that we have someone within their group, someone who will obey.”

Suddenly Lucarelli stopped.
 
With no small amount of sadness in his eyes, he told his friend, “Then see to it that this false messiah does not become public.”
 
Much more than just those words passed between them in their looks.
 
Milanesi nodded and walked briskly away.
 
Behind him, still standing there, Lucarelli sighed and crossed himself.