The sun rose orange and pregnant over the Mount of Olives, giving birth to purple shadows. His lungs heaved. He kicked in desperation, and his body twisted on the rope, providing him a glimpse of the city walls along the opposing ridge.

Those walls, they were were infested with Roman swine. He'd longed—oh, how he had longed—to join an uprising that would restore this city to the Jews. He had even aligned himself with a band of dagger-men, the Sacarii, but when their zealotry floundered amid internal rivalries, he'd hedged his bets instead on the aspirations of a Nazarene.

All for naught.

If he felt any remorse, it was that he’d squandered three full years on empty promises. He’d given himself, heart, mind, and soul, to the cause of the rebel king. He had collected donations for the Nazarene, even dispersed them to the needy, then watched a woman dump costly perfume over the man’s feet. An utter waste--and the Nazarene had allowed it.

In the end, the supposed king was nothing but a shortsighted simpleton. Innocent, yes. But a fool.

Last night, the Man from Kerioth had made his decision. For thirty shekels, the price of a common slave, he'd kissed that life farewell and refused to play the puppet any longer.

Yet here he swung. From the end of a rope.

Well, what was he supposed to do? Beg forgiveness? Grovel on his knees? He’d rather rot like the garbage brought out through the nearby Dung Gate, rather burn here in the Valley of Hinnom. Gehenna—wasn’t that the Greeks’ name for this valley? Children had once been sacrificed here to Moloch, and even now death licked at the air.

A way back . . .

Never.

Coarse threads drew blood from the abrasions on his neck, and his eyes bulged. As his throat convulsed against this restriction, something sulfuric seemed to crawl from his esophagus.

Bile? His departing spirit? Or perhaps the fierce presence whose malice he’d welcomed in these last few hours.

Sudden panic overtook the Man from Kerioth. As spreading sunlight tore his resolve into strips, he clawed at his robe. Searched for his sacae. He would grab hold of the dagger, lift it to the noose, and cut himself free.

If he could only. . .

His fingers found the hilt.

If he could . . .

The dagger betrayed him for the second time in one day, slipping from his grasp and clattering onto the ground below. He knew then he was finished.

Coated with a salty paste, his tongue ballooned in his mouth and his lips expelled a red-black mist. He kicked, spun back around. Heard a splintering sound. Felt his body lurch. Even as his mind grasped what was happening, the branch holding him surrendered to his weight in a prolonged crack that reverberated over parched ground.

For one moment, one blessed second of weightlessness, he tasted air—sweet, golden wine—sliding over his tongue.

Then his own bulk worked against him.

And he plummeted.

His knees buckled against the earth and pitched his torso forward, where it tore over a jagged stone. Like a street vendor’s ripe fruit, his belly split and gushed open. Landing across his back, the broken limb shoved him further down upon the rock.

Agony exploded from his center, coursing through his extremities. He let out a raspy cry as his sour juices trickled into the field. So this was how it would end? With only dust and blood to mark his time on earth?

Alongside his head, he saw a beetle scramble through clods of dirt--attracted, in all likelihood, to the stench of entrails. Soon the flies would be arriving as well. Minions of Beelzebub. Of decay.

A way back, even still . . .

Too late for that now.

Curse the Nazarene. Curse him and his loyal fools.

The Man from Kerioth began to curl and convulse in the wash of daylight. As his energy ebbed, the field’s throat opened beneath him and drank of his blood in long, thirsty swallows.