Read Online Victory of Coins (The Judas Chronicles, #7) by Aiden James - Free Book Online

the armor I was wearing....
    I’m dressed as a Roman officer? Shit, you’ve got to be kidding me!
    But it was true. I lifted my hand that still clung to the glowing coin—which was another thing I rarely encountered. Most often, I simply visited this wretched place, forced to watch the terrible event from inside my old self. And, as the mortal Judas disguised as a woman, I still possessed nearly the entire bag of cursed coins. This time, however, my arm was presently adorned with a segmented protector—a manica—and my blood-red cloak, the sagum, covered much of my shoulder and bicep. I noticed also the weight of my helmet and the septum protector as it rubbed uncomfortably against my nose.
    Greatly alarmed by this development, I increased the tightness of my grip on the coin to where it dug into my left palm. I worried it would fall out of my grasp somehow, and then I’d be stuck in the past forever as a Hebrew persecutor.
    “Brutus, I have seen enough,” the centurion said, as he turned to regard me. “I hope you and Pilate are happy now... but this had better work in keeping the Hebrews quiet. Otherwise, this man’s blood is on your hands, and his.”
    He pointed up to where Pontius Pilate stood, addressing the mob to wild cheering at whatever he was telling them. Odd that I could scarcely understand Pilate, who was speaking in Hebrew, or so I assumed, and yet I understood the centurion’s Latin tongue perfectly.
    I could only make out the bottom edge of the Prefect’s ceremonial gown in the gallery above, and briefly felt a familiar revulsion toward the corrupt Roman serving Tiberius as governor of Judea. Yes, I understood the depth of the man’s sleaziness... but I also felt confused. A war waged within me as a result of my spirit taking over the body of an apparently equally corrupt Roman military officer. The centurion huffed at me when I didn’t respond, and I understood then that he and I must’ve shared similar rank for him to be so cavalier with comments that could’ve landed his ass on a cross, too.
    “Nothing to say, Brutus?” he asked, when I continued to say nothing in response. “May the god of the Hebrews show you better mercy than you’ve shown this man—this Jesus—who has done nothing worse than all the others who claim to be saviors to this miserable people and their land.... I do believe I shall take the reassignment offer to Syria... so should you.”
    I nodded while making sure my facial expression matched his in its solemnity. He motioned for one of the bodyguards to turn and follow him as he exited the throng, patting my shoulder as he left. It was a safe bet that the guy I was supposed to be and this officer were on friendly terms despite our present disagreement about Jesus of Nazareth. I dreaded being called to speak—much less having to address this cohort by name.
    Even worse was the fact that the bodyguard left behind was apparently mine. My heart froze as he turned toward me, and I was terrified I would soon be engaged to speak to him. But like the other soldier from earlier, he merely nodded and smiled, before turning his attention to the agonizing screams of Jesus having His back torn open by the cat-of-nine-tails. Some people in the world are blissfully ignorant of the fact that Jesus was beaten and whipped to the point of debilitating agony before He tried to unsuccessfully pick up the cross on His own. And, yes, the punishment would continue all the way to Golgotha.
    I hated this experience worse than any other—including being inside my mortal self and forced to relive Jesus’ eyes meeting mine in the crowd, my usual penance in a coin re-visitation. Jesus suddenly looked over at me, and I was struck by the odd timing of my loathing this event and His head deliberately turning specifically toward me, as if He could feel my detestation of having to go through this for the thirtieth time—if one counted my presence when alive as a mortal at the inaugural Passion