Acts of the Assassins by Richard Beard

missing Jewish mystic who was anyway probably dead. Valeriahad assigned the case to a washed-up ex-Speculator. Cassius Gallio knew that, but this was also his second chance. He knew that too.
    Find Jesus and take him alive. Parade him in a cage before a glut of academicians who will explain his escape from the tomb. Either that or prove once and for all that Jesus is dead. The most ridiculous illusion in history will unravel, for the entertainment of the rational classes.
    Cassius Gallio watched the tapes, remembered his vocation, and a possible solution began to emerge.
    ‘There’s more to life than Jesus.’
    Baruch is a restless passenger. The road climbs through the glitter of sunlit olive trees and he fiddles with his phone, with the buttons of his suit, with the radio. He can’t find a decent station, too much news not enough music. ‘I have plenty to be doing in Damascus.’
    ‘Like what?’
    ‘Hunches. Seeing a man about a dog.’
    Cassius Gallio sets the satnav for Damascus, but there’s only one road over the mountains, a ribbon of tarmac through the summit passes. Before long they leave the horse-drawn traffic behind, and near the highest point on the road Gallio pulls into a lay-by, comfort break. Though not straight away. Before getting out of the car they wait, as a precaution. No other vehicles but the Toyota Corolla out on the ancient highway.
    ‘Safe,’ Baruch says, and they both climb out of the car.
    Up in the mountains a wind blows through, and a rush of clouds hustles across the peaks, blocking and unblocking the sun. The hills and the road go dark then light, and in the dry bush tothe side of the Damascus road, on rusting poles, triangular signs warn of landmines.
    Baruch ignores them, steps through some flowering thorns toward a solitary scrub oak. He survives, pisses, shakes, zips. He strolls back and survives again. Either he’s lucky or he has access to privileged information.
    At the car Cassius Gallio leans with his hands on the bonnet, straight-armed, stretching his calf muscles. Baruch sits on the front wing and lights a cigarette, inhales.
    ‘I tell her I don’t smoke.’ He sighs out the smoke, a long relief, at last. ‘Figure she’s heard worse lies in her time.’
    Gallio swigs from a water bottle, watches a pair of eagles glide high in the blue above the summits. Like a bird of prey, Gallio can rise above Baruch’s goading. He can be patient. Baruch points up at the eagles with his cigarette hand. ‘Vultures. A rich and varied life.’ He takes another drag. ‘The misfortunes of others will provide.’
    ‘Eagles.’
    ‘Whatever. She’s a lovely woman. No side to her.’
    ‘Shut up, Baruch.’ Gallio points the water bottle at him, and Baruch points back. Bottle versus cigarette, water against fire, but in this form neither much good as a weapon. ‘Shut up or we’ll have to fight.’
    ‘She is, though. You must be interested.’
    ‘OK, tell me about Judith. How is she?’
    Gallio drinks the water, Baruch smokes the cigarette.
    ‘To be honest, she bores me. She doesn’t bother me. That’s why I like her.’
    Gallio raises his face to the sunshine, breathes. Baruch flicks his cigarette into the bush, then stands and sweeps his arm over the rocky hills. ‘Here, or somewhere near here, Jesus intercepted Paul.’
    ‘Allegedly.’
    ‘That was after the ascension.’ Baruch puts his hands on his hips, looking, thinking. ‘Of all the appearances, Paul was the last person to see Jesus alive.’
    The wind dies, leaving in its place a complicated silence. Gallio stretches and makes the moves to show he’s starting the car, very soon now, as soon as his brain can find a story that’s more reasonable than a dead Jesus appearing to Paul on the road to Damascus.
    ‘I’d take my chances with Jesus if I met him.’ Baruch cracks his knuckles, and Gallio checks but Baruch isn’t joking. His face is set. ‘Don’t believe in hell. And if I decide to go easy on him don’t