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.’