On a small rise near where the three seditionists were crucified, a lone figure sat huddled in the mud, using his cloak to shield himself from the driving rain. He watched the Romans as they pulled the dead men down from their crosses, knowing that one of the bodies was that of a man who would have been a king had not events gone so horribly awry. The sight tortured him, as did the knowledge that at one time he had been one of the mans most trusted advisors. Once-perhaps a million years ago-he had even been his friend. Now, however, he was nobody. Just a name.

Judas Iscariot.

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