The Shroud Codex - Jerome R. Corsi [82]
“How far along are we with the Mass?” Castle asked.
“We are not yet at the Communion blessing,” Morelli said, “but it’s coming up right after the sign of peace is given.”
Through a wireless microphone, Father Bartholomew’s voice could be heard clearly throughout the church. “Lord Jesus Christ, you said to your apostles: I leave you peace, my peace I give you. Look not on our sins, but on the faith of your Church, and grant us the peace and unity of your kingdom where you live for ever and ever.”
The hundred or so worshippers responded in unison, “Amen.”
“The peace of the Lord be with you always,” Father Bartholomew continued.
“And also with you,” the worshippers answered.
“Let us offer each other a sign of peace,” Father Bartholomew said, signaling for the worshippers to turn and give a kiss or handshake of peace to those with and around them.
Right then it happened. As Father Bartholomew reached to greet the altar boys, he grabbed his head and let out a scream. The pain took him to his knees. Castle reacted immediately, running up the central aisle to the altar.
AS BEFORE, BARTHOLOMEW’S mind tripped. Instantly he was back in the courtyard where his body had just been scourged unmercifully.
The centurions who had just beaten him were resting, breathing heavily, their naked upper bodies glistening with sweat. Methodically, they worked to free him from the pillar, making sure his hands still remained tied together at the wrists. Once free from the pillar, his body slumped hard to the pavement.
Two centurions picked him up roughly by the armpits and dragged his limp, nude body across the ground, his body leaving a trail of blood in his wake. When they got him to a corner of the courtyard, the centurions rudely twisted his body so it faced forward into the room, then lifted him onto a square stone that formed a hard, cold seat where two walls met. A centurion wearing a helmet with the red plume of command pushed Bartholomew’s head hard back against the wall and grabbed his beard to yank open his mouth. Down his throat the centurion poured what tasted like a pungent mixture of old wine mixed with some sort of foul-tasting drug. He choked violently, struggling to get a breath.
The helmeted centurion laughed as he slapped Bartholomew hard across the cheek. “What’s the matter?” he derided Bartholomew. “Doesn’t the wine agree with you, Your Highness?”
The helmeted centurion backed away to allow two of his more brutish compatriots to grab Bartholomew by the shoulders, shoving him just far enough forward that they could throw a mantle of purple—the color of royalty—around his shoulders. “All hail, the King of the Jews!” they said as they tied the robe at his shoulders. Open in front, the robe did nothing to hide the embarrassment of his nudity.
Moving quickly, two more of the soldiers in the courtyard jammed onto his skull a cap they had formed from a thornbush growing in the courtyard. Taking rods, they beat the crown of thorns into his head, making sure it fit down on him like a hat.
Bartholomew screamed as the sharp thorns tore into his scalp, leaving gaping, bleeding wounds around his entire head. The centurions made sure their blows forced the long thorns deep into his scalp.
When they were finished pounding the skullcap of thorns onto his head, the centurions placed into his bound hands the wooden switch canes they had used to hammer the thorns. Bowing before him, the centurions honored Bartholomew as if he were sitting on a throne, holding a royal scepter as a symbol of his sovereign authority.
Finished with their rough work, the centurions resumed taking turns mocking him.
REACHING THE ALTAR, Castle lowered to scoop Father Bartholomew off the floor into his arms. Moving Bartholomew’s ample hair aside with his fingers, Castle recognized immediately that the priest’s scalp wounds extended from his forehead in a circle around his head, with punctures