A thrust through the chest with a Roman sword sends a thief on his last journey, but will it be to heaven or to hell? It all depends on his encounter with a strange old man he meets outside the city walls as he is dying. Is the old man crazy or are his words true? The thief must decide before he hears The Call of the Awakening.
 

    The breadth of the clouds stirred in him a sense of the majestic as he knelt, bleeding to death, in the tall grass just outside the gates of Rome. The sun never looked more beautiful as it prepared to dip beneath the far away horizon, blazing the sky with deep oranges and reds. The wind swayed the sparse scrub brushes that dotted the hillside in the spaces between the grass and the rocks. A snatch of breeze carried the scent of cooked lamb to his nose.
    Proximo breathed it in, savoring the delicious aroma and imagining a thick plate of meat, and bread, and wine. That would be nice. But it was unlikely that he would live long enough to enjoy another such meal. Already, the blood from his wound was too great for his hands to hold in and he could feel it running down his stomach and legs.
    The Roman had been kind, a swift blow to his chest rather than the slow death of the cross. The sword went straight through without so much as a hitch, a testament to the soldier's professionalism, skill, and care for his equipment. The others carried him from the city and threw him to the dust, laughing as they went back to their wine. A thief could do worse. So much worse. He looked up the hill, spying the pikes with impaled bodies that jiggled every so often. It was too far to hear the groans, for which he was thankful; his own pain was enough for his ears. Ah but that sunset, it was almost worth it.
    He thought it might even be worth it if the plate of lamb were thrown into the pot. An ache made itself known, spreading out from his lungs, a sure sign that time was passing with his blood. He wondered what it would be like. There was fear, to be sure, after all he wasn't a good man, he was a thief. But he was a good thief, until today that was. He watched the blood drip onto the long blades of dusty brown grass. No, he wasn't good enough today.
    An eagle cried out as it circled to the east, its wide wings curving with the wind. It was hunting, looking for a rodent or hare, but its flight was so perfect. He wondered at the splendid design of its body. He had a good eye for symmetry and worth, qualities precious to one in his trade. So intent was he on the bird's wondrous flight that he failed to notice the man standing behind him. The eagle swooped low with lightening speed and came up with a small rodent clutched tightly in its talons. The bird of prey carried its victim in a tight arc straight up, catching warm air currents that allowed it to continue its path with barely a flutter of its massive wings.
    The thief followed the drama of life and death until the angle became too steep for his neck, sending a spasm of pain through his chest. He cringed silently, his eyes squeezed shut. When the pain relaxed, he opened his eyes and noticed the shadow of the man that was now at his side. He was beyond being startled and so merely looked up, blocking the sun with his free hand.