Getting the catalyst for this particular operation was no easy feat, not with all the potential fakes floating around.
The Iron Crown of Lombardy didn't really have a nail inside the inner band- it was silver, in all likelihood- and while Napoleon or some of the more talented Holy Roman Emperors might have made a good servant, that wasn't what they were looking for.
Even as a catalyst was picked out, there was always the worry that someone famous might have handled it. The very nature of the items gave a sort of fame to anyone involved- Longinus for example- so they couldn't guarantee much of anything.
But to summon Him… That was a risk worth taking.
A shard of wood, worn with age and probably more lacquer and preservative than the original. Still, it was the real thing. It had rested on a sweat-soaked shoulder, it had weighed heavy on a man who bore terrible weight.
The summoning was done with perfect care, with a deliberate target in mind…. There was a brilliant flash and gout of smoke that sent the summoner tumbling to the floor. When they looked up, someone was holding out a hand to help them up.
He was dressed in robes that covered the sun-baked skin. Tanned face, lean muscle, mournful eyes.
"Are you…?"
"I am Simon of Cyrene. As I helped Him, so shall I aid you."
("And what is your wish?")
("I wish that I could have followed Him further. As my sons did.")
A ceramic dish, recovered from a dig. Plain and remarkable in every aspect, used for a thousand regular meals, and one most extraordinary.
A flash of light. A man, plainly dressed, a purse heavy on his waist and a guilt in his heart.
Quiet and attentive, good with numbers. An expert in fine detail. The sort of man who saved his money, the sort of man who gladly accepted rice instead of bread. For frugality's sake, not because he could barely bring himself to eat the latter.
The sort of man who had failed a master before.
The sort of man whose only wish was that he had lived through these three days.
The sort of man who desperately wished to apologize to the face he had kissed in Gethsemane.
A nail of iron, one picked out from a collection of fakes. Despite artistic depictions, it did not pierce the palm- that wouldn't hold up the body. Through the wrist was 'better', as means of execution went.
The plain iron and rust of the nail were contrasted by the woman summoned: her clothes were brilliant, red and yellow silk that shone in the light. The woman wearing them did not quite look the part of a warrior, but she certainly looked the part of a mother.
She turned to her summoner and smiled gently, as she had once smiled at Constantine back when he was a boy and not an emperor.
"As I found the blessed cross, so shall I help you find this Holy Grail."
(What did she wish for? The weak, vain part of her wished for her son's empire in its glory. Of red and gold and triumph.)
(The better part of her thought of a kingdom fairer and gentler, of a peace that surpassed all understanding, one to shame the Pax Romana.)
A fragment of stone from a pillar that once stood in Jerusalem. On this stone, a thousand agonies had been extracted- when the victims were lucky, they only got away with thirty-nine. When the city fell, so did that pillar, amid violence and bedlam, and the pieces scattered, a thousand little keepsakes of a country destroyed.
It was easy to tell that this particular summoning was a failure: the moment you saw a Roman soldier, you didn't get the right guy. Worse still, it wasn't even the most famous Roman soldier of that particular day, nor the centurion who had won fame and renown for his faith.
A soldier, plain and simple. He had not held the lance, but he had seen the blood and water, felt the earth tremble, and saw the sky turn black.
He had drawn lots for the clothes, he had held the whip and meted out the lashes. There was blood on his hands.
Was there goodness in what came from it? Of course. It was a wonder, a miracle that turned the world over.
Yet wasn't it only reasonable to wish he had no part in it? Sure, his name had not gone down in the history books alongside Judas and Pilate, but every time the passion was read, he was there. A tormentor of a spotless victim.
A scrap of cloth, from a larger piece which was itself the subject of fierce debate. There were scholars who would have killed to examine it with their own tools, and here it was, used for a summoning.
When the light dimmed, there was a man, dressed well. Certainly better than the common masses during the time, even if he did not exactly have the splendor of an emperor. (He thought himself richer than any emperor or king by a thousandfold, rich with a treasure that did not rot. He had seen Him.)
Now, he was actually quite famous. If one bothered to leave the Clock Tower and familiarize themselves with the folk traditions of England, he would have been there. It was said that he took the Grail- the real article, the carpenter's cup, not the magical construct- to England and before that, he had traveled to England with Him.
Did Joseph of Arimathea really bring Him along on a trip to buy tin in England? No one was quite sure what happened in that long stretch of years between the visit to the Temple and the beginning of His teachings. Perhaps the face of God shone on the green hills of England, and perhaps Joseph was right there alongside.
Even if not, he had been there. He had learned from Him… he had arranged to bury Him.
Joseph's wish was simple. That the whole world might know as he did. Might know Him as a teacher and more- as a savior. As redeemer. As victor over death.
A crucifix, simple and plain, along with faith. Not much, compared to those dazzling relics and their storied histories, but summoning materials were running a little low.
The circle, the chant, the usual working of magic.
And suddenly, the summoner was not in the quiet little room he had prepared for summoning. He was in a broad stretch of desert, vast and endless, dark clouds blocking out the stars. It was night.
The smell of blood lingered in the air, and he turned to see the cause. A cow, a goat, and a ram were each split down the middle, their halves set some distance apart. Why were those there?
(Because those were the orders.)
And then there was a pot and a torch. The latter blazed with fire and the former belched smoke. They floated in the air as if carried by invisible hands, between the animal carcasses, the light of the torch reflecting in the blood.
(As it was done to the animals, so should it be done to him who broke the covenant.)
Nearly four millennia previously, a man had seen something similar to this. He was promised descendants to number as the stars in heaven.
The wind blew mightily, the clouds fled, and the stars shone down in their countless thousands.
All of these servants are summoned in one Grail War. They stop fighting and do a prayer group.