The Invictus

Prologue: The Latin Gate-2

Atop the wooden parapet, one guard strapped the leather band that held John’s wrists to the end of the rope that was tied to the wooden cantilever, which was positioned to swing his body out and over the boiling oil. Terrified, John pleaded and begged them not to carry out the commandment.

While one guard held the wooden cantilever structure, the other pulled with all his force, lifting John off the ground. As John dangled by the rope in the air, the other guard swung the wooden arm that held him precariously over the boiling pot.

“No! Please!” John screamed as he felt the overwhelming heat rising up over his thinly clad body.

Eyes wide in anticipation, Domitian yelled, “Now!”

The guard who was holding the rope released his grip, and John fell feet first into the roiling oil. As he landed in the pot, a cloud of hot steam shot into the air. Bellows of pain and the gurgling sound of John’s voice rose out of the vessel along with the sounds of sizzling oil. The nobles cringed at the desperate screams of a man being boiled alive. The Christians shrank as well; several of them made the sign of the cross, believing that John was descending into a hell on earth.

Then something strange happened. The stability of the huge pot of oil began to give way. It rolled back and forth, as if within the pot was no longer a dying man, but rather some caged animal attempting to escape.

Domitian looked puzzled and alarmed. “What is happening?” he yelled.

With a great thrust from inside, the pot tipped over, spilling its steaming contents from atop the parapet and onto the cobblestones lining the entranceway to the gate. John rolled out of the pot and landed with a thud as the oil splashed onto the stone. The guards nearest the wooden structure jumped back in alarm. The crowd gasped in disbelief. John was naked. The tunic, the leather that had bound his hands—even his hair—had been burned from his body. His flesh was melting, dripping off his body in smoldering clumps. John screamed and writhed in agony.

“What manner of sorcery is this?” Domitian demanded.

Then, as if his survival wasn’t extraordinary enough, the burning and melting of John’s skin abruptly stopped. And as moments passed, time itself seemed to have turned backward. John’s flesh appeared to be repairing itself, restoring his body to the state it had been in when he stood before the emperor, all but hair and clothing to cover his nudity.

“Amazing! It’s a miracle!” people exclaimed. “It is a sign from the gods that he is to be spared!” noblemen and senators shouted. Even the Christians, who had been brought there to be put to death, found themselves restored in faith and prayed and wept in happiness.

Domitian was astonished. He had sought to put to death John and the other Christians this evening before Roman citizens, both to rid himself of the nuisance they had brought to the empire and to convey his absolute power over his subjects. Instead, he was faced with a miracle. The prophet had survived, and the manner in which he had done so now stoked fervor among Christians and Romans alike.

It was in this moment of confusion that the countenance of the praetorian soldier standing beside Domitian changed. His expression shifted from the disbelief and alarm, which was mirrored in the faces of everyone who had witnessed this miracle, to the look of someone at ease, satisfied with what had transpired.

The Archangel Michael possessed the soldier, and he leaned down to Domitian and whispered, “He must be banished quickly. To Patmos. Have him sent to Patmos. We can stamp out the knowledge among those who’ve witnessed this tonight and ensure that he can never cause the empire further trouble.”

Domitian, still gape-mouthed in disbelief, agreed. “Yes, yes, of course. See to it.” Domitian then arose quickly and was escorted by several other guards to an awaiting chariot so he could be removed from the spectacle.

As Domitian’s chariot receded, John gradually emerged from the intense pain he had endured. His flesh continued its metamorphosis, restoring itself. The amazement that had gripped the crowd continued, and they shouted to one another, wondering how such a miracle was possible.

The mind and body of Domitian’s guard remained under Michael’s influence. The praetorian marched forward, shouting orders to the other guards, demanding that John be returned to the prison, clothed, and prepared for a journey by boat to the island of Patmos. He ordered the release of the Christians who were being held captive. Then he watched as John’s naked body was escorted back into the prison.

Several hours had passed since the event outside the gate. John sat silent and alone in a stone cell, a fresh tunic covering his body. All of the burns and injuries had completely vanished, and he felt as if the excruciating, terrifying event had never happened. Suddenly, a vision of Michael floating a few feet off the floor appeared. Translucent white, he looked strong and powerful, covered in a white robe, the hem of which trailed off in a slow-moving mist.

“Bless you, child. You were strong and have endured, as I said would happen.” John closed his eyes and nodded in agreement. “Your work is close to completion, but the Great Rabbi needs you to attend to two matters.”

“What would those be?” John asked.

“When you arrive on Patmos, your mind will become open to receiving revelations from the Father that must be documented. This is so that all believers henceforth will know how the end times will come to pass.”

John assured him, “I can keep my mind open, pure, and prepared for when the Father wishes to speak through me.”

Michael appeared most pleased. “You have come so far and done so much. Your work on Patmos to document what you learn is extremely important. Yet it is only one of the two tasks you must complete.

“Oh?” John questioned. “What is the other?”

“Remember what the rabbi gifted to you in your hands in the garden? That ability to draw out the truth and protect others? It is the same energy that has sustained you and protected you from the harm that the dark hearts of mankind have tried to levy against you throughout your life. Within your palm is a single point of light to resist the darkness. Do not let it end in its solitude. Pass it on as you were instructed to do.”

“I do understand the power His touch has bestowed upon me,” John responded.

“Then you must remember what He said to you in the garden. He asked that if you accepted this gift within the flesh of your hands, you would commit to passing it on to others who are worthy to wield the same power. Doing so will maintain a resistance against the four horsemen you witnessed spring forth from the Dark One in that garden so long ago. Do you not remember how important his instructions were on this point?”

“Of course, I remember.”

“You must endeavor to pass on the gift you received from our savior to several others—the divinity within you makes this possible. There cannot be just one line that extends from you because it will be too vulnerable, too easily snuffed out. But if there are several, then your power could potentially live in a number of others throughout the ages. A light to repel the agents of darkness who seek to thwart the good works of those who believe.”

Michael’s voice took on a more somber tone. “You will create the Invictus, a lineage of those who cannot be harmed by men, just as you could not this evening. Those descended from you will live to serve and protect others from the horsemen that the Dark One has unleashed upon this world.

“Remember: those to whom you choose to pass on this power must know that the aggression of ordinary men cannot harm those who accept it. The four Dark Descendants are the only beings who can do such harm. Pass on the gift! But choose wisely because you’ll only have enough strength to pass the gift on to a few. Then, in time, the gift can be passed on to another, or more, depending on how pure of heart they are.”

“I understand,” John replied. “My delay in doing so should not be interpreted as a failing in my heart, only the failing of an increasingly weary body.”

“All the more reason to choose others soon, either on your journey to Patmos or once on the island. You mustn’t delay. While the actions of ordinary men cannot prevail against you, the slow artillery of time and its impact on your body ultimately will.”

John nodded his head in respectful reverence. “Of course. Glory be to Christ and the Father.”

“Glory indeed,” Michael said. “Fare-thee-well, John.”

And with that, the shadowy white mist of the Archangel Michael form faded. John felt renewed in strength, understanding the purpose that lay ahead, and the peace for him that would follow.

Soon after, the cell door opened. A young Roman soldier strode in. His face held an expression that John had not seen among the other guards: a look of concern. This centurion seemed to lack aggression.

“Old man, are you well? Are you healed?” he asked.

“Aye,” John replied. He cast his gaze downward as he spoke.

“I want you to know that I believe,” the soldier said. “I understand the goodness you seek to bring into the hearts of others. I wish to be a part of it. I must do so in secret, but I can at least offer you comfortable passage to Patmos. I will protect you, ensure that no further harm may come to you. I ask only that you teach me, open my eyes to the glory and the goodness of what you’ve preached.” The soldier lowered his head, clearly humbled. “I feel called to it.”

He quickly regained his composure and looked into John’s eyes. “But we must move swiftly. When the other guards come, they will know that I am in charge. You should trust that I will keep you safe even when I pretend otherwise in front of them. Do you understand?”

“Of course, my son. Bless you,” John answered. “What is your name?”

“I’ve privately forsaken my given name, choosing instead to be known as . . . Daniel.”