THE SPEAR

OF DESTINY

JULIAN NOYCE

©Julian Noyce 2011

FOR ROD SIVYOUR

1945 - 2010

Friend

Somewhere over the rainbow

IT HAS SERVED US WELL, THIS MYTH OF CHRIST

- POPE LEO X -

PROLOGUE

CALVARY, JUDAEA, APRIL 3RD 33AD

The man sat alone, lost in his thoughts. The world in front of him hazy and

pink. The sun warm on his face. He sensed the weather would change soon,

he could taste it in the air. The wind buffeted his cloak around his legs. He

tasted the breeze on his lips but it told him nothing. Somewhere nearby some

women were sobbing, earlier they had been wailing. There were four of

them, four mourners. Even though they had been wailing as one he had

picked out each individual voice. Now though, their sobbing affected him

even more. He could feel their individual grief.

Then their sobs were drowned out by the raucous shouts of men to his right.

One man shouting louder than the others. Then the sound of click - clack as

dice were thrown across the playing table. The dice were gathered up and

the lone man could hear them rattling inside the leather shaker before they

were ejected onto the playing surface again. More racous applause followed

as the twelve dice players shouted with excitement.

“I just need another five,” the loudest man shouted. He was a Centurion,

Atronius.

He shook the one remaining dice in the cup longer than was necessary.

Then when his colleagues could wait no longer he launched the dice once

again. It hit the far wall of the small table, bounced back across, hit the near

wall and stopped in the middle, spinning very fast. The twelve players

leaned in close. The dice slowed, then stopped as the twelve watched. They

could all see it was a five.

Atronius jumped up.

“YES!” he roared.

Two of his friends slumped back on their small wooden stools. Most stood

and shouted. The last man punched the table making the dice jump.

“That’s it! Hand it over,” Atronius ordered.

He held up the robe handed to him.

“That’s it. Come to me,” he said examining it, “This should fetch a good

price. Hey! Longinus! I won his robe,” Atronius cocked his thumb at the

man on the cross.

Longinus, sitting away from the others, didn’t play dice. There wouldn’t be

much point. Though he could trust his friends not to cheat he wouldn’t be

able to see the dice. No. Longinus was blind.

He hadn’t always been blind. Longinus was a fine soldier. A Roman

legionary whose eyes had begun to cloud over many months before. Intense

bright light was also a problem for him sometimes, causing intense pain and

headaches. There was a milky film across both his eyes that gave him a

demonic appearance to anyone who gazed at him. His friends sometimes

used his affliction to scare children to their great amusement.

Atronius lifted up and held the robe.

“There we are. The robe of a King.”

“Father forgive them for they know not what they do.”

“Eh? What?” Atronius said openmouthed.

The twelve Romans turned to look at the crucified man. They chuckled.

“Your father’s not here your majesty,” Atronius said, mocking the man on

the cross with the crown of thorns on his head to the delight of the Romans

present, “But your mother is.”

Atronius slapped his thigh at his own humour.

The others were no longer laughing. They were staring over Atronius’

shoulder. All except Longinus.

“What’s the matter with you lot?”

“Behind you sir.”

Atronius turned.

Strange, black clouds were forming where before there was only blue sky,

building fast and billowing up and out, blocking out the sun. Longinus felt

the shade fall across his face. The figure on the cross raised his head weakly

to the heavens and then his head dropped to his chest. Blood dripped from

his nose and chin from where the thorns had gouged his forehead. Longinus

heard and felt the man’s last breath as it escaped his lips. The Romans were

still staring at the sky as the brooding black clouds built.

“What is happening?” one of them asked, “Sir you’ve served in the

province longer than anyone else. Have you ever seen anything like it?”

“No I haven’t, “ Atronius answered.

They continued staring.

“It must be something to do with him,” Longinus said nodding towards the

crucified man.

“You don’t believe all that rubbish do you Longinus? About him being the

son of God,” legionary Lucius asked.

Longinus didn’t have time to answer.

“Look lively!” Atronius said, “The Tribune’s approaching.

Tribune Plinius strode up as the men saluted.

“As you were,” Plinius said, stopping when he saw the dice table.

“Oh. Uh! Me and the lads, sir, were just having a friendly game sir.”

Plinius nodded, pleased to note there didn’t appear to be wine cups present.

“Well as long as you’re not drinking on duty. I don’t mind a bit of friendly

gambling,” He looked around at the many groups of local people who had

witnessed the executions. He took in the four sobbing women.

“Has there been any trouble?”

“No sir. No trouble.”

“Good. Perhaps these people are starting to learn a little discipline,” he

studied the dark clouds above.

“There seems to be a storm brewing. I personally don’t fancy a soaking

today,” he looked at the three crucified men for the first time. One of which

was muttering to himself.

“Let’s get this over with.”

“Right you heard the Tribune. Break their legs.”

The first two men howled hideously as their thighs were smashed. With

broken legs they would be unable to support their upper bodies and would

suffocate quickly.

“I see you’ve left the king until last,” Atronius mocked, “privileges of

royalty your majesty,” he said to the amusement of his men.

Longinus was standing directly under the man called Christ.

“Well? What are you waiting for?” Atronius asked.

The other Romans grinned in anticipation. Longinus blindly swinging at the

condemned man’s legs should be hilarious.

“There’s no need to break this one’s legs sir. He’s already dead.”

Atronius stepped towards Longinus, disappointment on his face.

“Dead! He was talking to his father only moments ago.”

“I heard him gasp his last breath sir.”

“Heard him? Oh you and that sense of yours. You see with your hearing. I

forgot. You should be careful Longinus. They’re crucifying men for being

miracle workers. Eh! Eh!” he laughed at his own humour.

The first few splashes of rain began to fall. Tribune Plinius came rushing

up to them.

“Come on! What’s taking so long?”

“Longinus says this man is already dead Tribune.”

“Well is he?”

“He does look it sir.”

“Well why don’t you find out.”

Atronius grabbed Longinus’ spear while Longinus was still holding it and

rammed it upwards into Christ’s side. There was no reaction from the still

form on the cross and Longinus was looking up as Atronius wrenched the

spear free. It came out smoothly and a torrent of blood and fluid splashed

down into Longinus’ face. He instantly sank to his knees, his hands letting

go of the spear, still held by Atronius, and clutched at his eyes.

“Longinus!” Atronius said cursing at the blood that had splattered his arms

and uniform.

Longinus by now had his head between his knees and he was moaning.

“It’s only a bit of blood Longinus. Get up man.”

A bolt of lightning flashed down from the black clouds and struck the spear.

There was a large shower of sparks from the iron tip of the spear. Atronius

cried out as he was thrown fifteen feet through the air and landed heavily on

his back. Staring up at the sky he brought his hands up to his face. His palms

were burned badly and it was agony but as he watched the pain disappeared

and so did the burns. His hands had completely healed right in front of his

very eyes. He rubbed his palms together but there was no pain.

“What the….?”

He got to his feet and went back to Longinus who had stopped moaning and

was also staring at his own hands.

“Are you all right?” Atronius called, “Longinus your eyes.”

Longinus looked up open mouthed.

“Atronius.”

“Yes.”

“I can see you.”

Atronius grabbed either side of Longinus’ face as Longinus stood up.

“Your eyes. You no longer have that milky film over them.”

Longinus, tears running down his face, turned to his comrades who were

staring in disbelief. He called them each by name and they nodded open

mouthed.

“I can see.”

“It’s a miracle.”

“Look at this,” Atronius said standing over the spear. They all gathered

round. Tiny blue sparks danced and fizzed around the iron spearhead. Then

one by one they grew smaller and disappeared inside the metal as it

consumed them. It seemed to take on a different tinge, almost as if it was

glowing from within.

Longinus picked his spear up. It felt exactly as it had before. As the day it

had been issued to him. But he knew it had changed. As he had changed.

“My hands were burned by it,” Atronius said, “And before my very eyes

they healed themselves. As has your sight.”

“It truly is the work of the Gods.”

The Roman soldiers turned slowly to look at the figure on the cross.

CHAPTER ONE

TUNIS, TUNISIA, PRESENT DAY

The flashing lights from the two police cars and ambulance bounced back

off the buildings as the three vehicle convoy sped through the dark city’s

streets. The convoy had set out just after sundown from the general hospital

and was heading back towards Mornaguia prison 14km west of Tunis. The

October air cool.

The hectic rush hour traffic had calmed now and the convoy very rarely

had to stop. Each time they approached red traffic lights the lead police car

would pull onto the junction and stop other traffic so the ambulance could

continue unimpeded. The police car at the rear would then overtake the

ambulance and the one that had stopped would fall in behind.

At the city outskirts the small convoy stopped at a military station and after

a few words with the police vehicles they set off once again for the prison.

Two jeeps with Tunisian national guardsmen now joined the procession. In

the lead jeep a political prisoner was chained to the floor of the vehicle.

In the ambulance was another prisoner. A man who was handcuffed to his

gurney. He was laying on his back, fully clothed, his upper body wearing a

hoodie. The hood was up and covering his head and most of his face.

Opposite him sat a policeman. A young recruit who tried to ignore the

strange rattling sound that came every time his prisoner drew a breath. The

few occasions that he had caught a glimpse of the man’s chin he had seen a

patchwork of scar tissue and it had made him feel sick. His prisoner had

eighty per cent burns to his face, neck and hands and had just received

treatment from the country’s top plastic surgeon.

The prisoner turned his head slightly towards his guard who fought the urge

not to vomit. It was hot in the back of the ambulance and the policeman felt

a little claustrophobic. He tore his eyes away from the man on the gurney

and tried to focus on the conversation the driver and co-driver were having.

He forced his mind to drown out the sickly rattle and concentrated. The two

in front were discussing a football match that had been televised the evening

before. It had been a world cup qualifier between Italy and Tunisia and

unbelievably, against the odds, Tunisia had forced a 1-1 draw and were

currently second in the group with one match to play.

“I’m telling you,” the co-driver said, “If that Italian defender hadn’t been

on the goal line that header would have beaten the goalkeeper and gone in.”

“Maybe,” the driver replied.

“Maybe? It would.”

“It was difficult to tell. The camera angle wasn’t very good.”

“No. My brother has a very good television. It would have gone in and then

we would be on top of our group and not second.”

Tunisia’s next game would be against Belgium.

“The next match will also be difficult for our team,” the driver said.

“I will say a thousand prayers that they are victorious. My prayers will be

heard.”

“I hope so my brother, I hope so.”

The policeman was listening with only half an ear. The football didn’t

interest him much. He was very much a family man. The only thing that

mattered to him was his job, his wife and two young daughters.

“Do you have the time please?” the man on the gurney asked in his strange,

rattling voice.

The policeman started for a moment. This was the first time the prisoner

had spoken to anyone. Tearing his eyes away from the very scarred face

once again he flicked his wrist over and looked at his watch.

“It is just after eight thirty.”

“Do you think you could ask them to turn the lights down.”

“No.”

Now for the first time the man wearing the hooded top raised his head and

his guard saw the whole face for the first time. The scars crisscrossed every

spare bit of skin and flesh. In places the skin was so paper thin the

policeman could see the red sinews below. The eyes were different too. One

was dark and the other had a whitish tinge to the iris. There was no facial

hair, no whiskers, no eyelashes, no eyebrows. The skin around the lips,

which were dry, around the nose and eyes was pulled tight. So tight that

when the man spoke his lips hardly moved. What the guard could see of the

forehead appeared to be equally scarred. Now he saw one ear which was

shrivelled, the lobe burned off. The skin around the neck and throat was red

and scarred and stopped where the hooded top began. The man’s hands were

also scarred.

The policeman tried to outstare his prisoner but found he couldn’t and he

looked down at his hands which were folded in his lap.

“I have just received laser treatment for my injuries and the bright lights are

hurting my face. So if I may ask again could they please turn the lights

down.”

The eyes held their stare. The guard glanced at them, in particular the white

one again. Then he looked down at the handcuffs and moved his right leg

slightly and felt the reassurance of his holstered handgun. Instinctively his

fingers touched the butt of his handgun and the prisoner’s eyes followed the

movement. The prisoner smiled, the skin on his lips near splitting, the red

flesh underneath dancing.

“I appreciate your concerns,” the prisoner said. He lifted his wrists up until

the handcuffs stopped them moving any further. The one closest to the guard

broke the skin on the wrist and pinkish fluid oozed from the tear, “But where

could I possibly run to?”

The guard was watching the sticky substance from the broken skin. Then

he looked up into the eyes and nervously nodded.

“Thank you.”

The policeman turned and spoke to the co-driver who looked back at him,

glanced at the patient, then shrugged and flicked the interior lights switch,

turning them down to a minimum.

“That’s much better. Thank you,” the scarred man said laying back and

resting his head on the pillow. His breathing became the wheezing rattle

once again. The policeman closed his eyes to try to block the sound out.

“How long have you been a policeman?”

His eyes flashed open again. He ignored the man and closed them again.

“Do you have a family?”

This time he kept them closed.

“I’m not allowed to talk to you.”

“I’m sorry. I just thought a bit of polite conversation might make the

journey go quicker.”

“Be qiuet. The journey will be over soon enough.”

The scarred man remained quiet. Unseen by his guard his lips took on a

strange smile.

The policeman regretted what he’d said.

’Was I too harsh on him,’ he asked himself. He had had strict instructions

prior to leaving to not to speak to the prisoner. The man was apparently

highly intelligent and dangerous, though he didn’t look it. The policeman

felt a certain pity for him.

“I’ve been a policeman for two years. I’m twenty seven and yes I have a

beautiful wife and two adorable daughters.”

“Then you’re a very lucky man,” came the reply.

The prisoner remained silent and when it was obvious that he wasn’t going

to say anything else the policeman closed his eyes again, not to sleep but to

offer a silent prayer that the infinite would always watch over his family.

The convoy moved on through the desert. Occasionally they would pass a

dwelling and see lights from within. The colours of their flashing lights

reflecting off walls and buildings. Once they passed a line of camels heading

in the opposite direction. Their headlights picking out the large, lumbering

beasts being led by their masters. The sky was clear and stars twinkled, the

full moon giving the sand a ghostly glow.

The man on the gurney lay in silence. The pain in his face starting to ease.

He looked out of the side window of the ambulance at the moon. It’s light

soothing to him. Natural light was agonising to him. The scars on his face,

neck, head and hands from burns he had sustained six months before.

Before his injuries he had been a tall, proud man. A German count and

collector of rare artifacts and antiquities. His most recent expedition had

been to recover the sarcophagus of Alexander the great, once held by the

German’s in World War II it had been lost at sea when the British had

torpedoed the German’s freighter carrying it. Found seventy years laterby a

multinational team of archaeologists he had attempted to buy it from them.

His money rejected he had taken it by force only to find out that it was in

fact not Alexander’s sarcophagus. In a brutal battle on his ship he had been

blown overboard in an explosion and pronounced dead. On the mortuary

slab his very faint pulse had been detected. He had been treated until he was

well enough to be detained in prison awaiting trial and possible extradition

to the United States. The laser treatment for his injuries he was paying for

himself.

He listened for a moment to his guards breathing which was getting deeper.

The man was falling asleep. The scarred man moved his wrist with the

broken skin to ease it and the cuff dragged the arm of the gurney and woke

the policeman again. The policeman leaned closer to his prisoner to check

the bonds and saw they were still locked. He looked ahead out of the

windscreen. In the light from the headlights he could see the road they were

travelling was long and straight will hills ahead. In the far distance a glow on

the horizon. Lights from the prison. Not much longer. Maybe five more

kilometres.

He detected a strange sound which wasn’t part of the ambulance. As he

listened it got closer and closer, then was suddenly very loud. He saw the

ambulance crew leaning forward and looking into and up in a door mirror

each. The policeman was about to rush into the cab when he realised what

the sound was as a Russian Kamov Ka-50 ’Black shark’ attack helicopter

flew low over the convoy. It kept pace with the ambulance for a few

moments and then accelerated ahead over the lead police car, gained five

hundred feet and flew over the approaching hills.

In the lead jeep the officer in charge was telephoning through to the

barracks they’d not long left. There had been no mention of air support on

his itinery. It would be typical of General Ben Rashid Al-Din to do this

without telling anyone and for a moment he dreaded questioning the

General.

The girl on the end of the telephone said.

“Hold please while I put you through to the General.”

The officer swallowed hard and then replied.

“No. Forget it. I don’t want the General disturbed.”

He rang off.

‘It must be above board‘ he said to himself but also out loud.

“That helicopter must also be heading for the prison sir,” his driver said.

“Yes,” the officer replied, “It might not necessarily be for us but it must be

for the prison. There’s not much else out here. Just nomads and ruins.”

He glanced back at his chained prisoner who just stared at the floor.

The convoy entered the hills. The road winding and twisting as it climbed.

The lead police car pulling away from the much heavier ambulance. The

road became a double bend as the hills closed in on both sides. As the lead

police car moved further ahead while maintaining its original speed a

searchlight suddenly beamed on dazzling the driver as it picked up the police

car. The Kamov helicopter was hovering twenty feet above the road in the

narrow pass. The noise from its engine deafening. The driver of the police

car put his arm up in front of his eyes, blinded by the intense light as the

twin 23MM cannons on the Kamov spluttered into life. The bullets tore up

the road as they raced towards their target. The cars headlights disappeared

first in a shower of glass as both front tyres burst and bullets slammed into

the two policemen inside the car killing them both instantly. Flames were

pouring out from the bonnet and front wheel arches of the car as it exploded.

The explosion throwing it twenty feet into the air. The helicopter some

distance away jinked as the police car crashed down onto the road

completely ablaze.

The ambulance rounded the bend and the whole convoy screeched to a

stop. The helicopter flew over the vehicles and turned side on to the tail

police car and destroyed it with a single anti-tank missile. Now the narrow

pass was completely blocked.

The soldiers in the jeeps jumped out and took cover behind the ambulance

the one vehicle they guessed would not be attacked. Inside the lead jeep the

political prisoner was frantically pulling on his chains anchored to the floor.

Not sure if this attack was to free him.

Another anti-tank missile hit the last jeep and it exploded into the air and

came down on its roof.

The soldiers opened fire at the helicopter and it lifted and moved out of

range.

“Cease fire,” the officer shouted, “They’re not going to attack the

ambulance.”

There was a burst of gunfire from the surrounding hillside and the man next

to him dropped dead. The officer swung around. He saw dark shapes

descending on them.

“They’re on the hillside!”

His men opened fire on the hillsides as the men descending took cover

behind scrub and rocks.

“Cease fire! Cease fire!”

The guns fell silent.

“You have attacked Tunisian national forces. This is a deliberate act of

terrorism. Throw down your weapons and give yourselves up.”

The hillside waited in total silence. The whirring of the rotor blades near.

Then a voice from the hill.

“It is you who is surrounded. Throw down your weapons. No one else will

be harmed.”

One of the Tunisians opened fire on the voice. A single shot from a

Dragunov sniper rifle took him in the throat, blasting his blood against the

side of the ambulance. He dropped to the road dead.

“Hold your fire!” the Tunisian officer shouted.

“This is your last chance to throw down your weapons.”

Another shot from the Dragunov and another soldier dead.

“You will not get away with this!”

“You are being covered from an elevated position. You are compromised.

There is no escape!”

The Tunisian officer opened fire. The hillside lit up with return fire and

only stopped when the last soldier fell down dead. The only sounds other

than the Kamov helicopter were the men on the hillside reloading their

weapons. Slowly they came down to the road.

Inside the ambulance the policeman guarding the prisoner had his face

pressed against the small square window. He could see the burning police

cars. The ambulance crew were cowering in their seats. A wicked sound of

machine gun fire came through to them as a Tunisian national guardsman

was put out of his misery.

The policeman inside the ambulance backed away from the double doors at

the rear of the vehicle as he heard footsteps stop outside.

“Stay as you are and you won’t get hurt,” the scarred man ordered.

Suddenly the doors were yanked open and he went for his gun. A single shot

took him in the head and his brains splattered the interior.

The scarred man looked into the dead eyes.

“Stupid fool.”

The front doors were now ripped open and machine guns covered the

ambulance crew as they raised their hands.

Former KGB agent Anatoly Petrov holstered his Glock 19 handgun.

“He has the handcuff keys,” the scarred man gestured towards the

policeman Petrov had just killed. Petrov searched the body, found the keys

and unlocked the restraints. The scarred man rubbed his wrists, the broken

skin sticky with fluid. Petrov stepped down into the road and made way for

the scarred man.

Count Otto Brest von Werner stepped carefully down onto the road. His

private army of men saluted him.

“Welcome back sir,” the Russian spoke.

“Thank you Petrov. Any casualties?”

“No sir. My team is all accounted for. Your ship is ten miles off the coast.”

Two black hawk helicopters flew in low over the hills and landed in the

road. Petrov gestured to Von Werner.

“If you’re ready sir.”

“Yes Mr Petrov. Take care of the vehicles.”

“Yes Sir. And them?” Petrov asked, nodding towards the ambulance crew.

Von Werner looked at them both. They were on their knees in the road, their

hands on top of their heads, guns still trained on them. They were clearly

petrified. Von Werner considered killing them.

“They were only doing their job. Let them go.”

“Yes sir,” Petrov made a motion with his hand and the guns were

withdrawn. The two ambulance men got to their feet, mumbled their thanks

and fled into the night.

Von Werner watched as his men set explosives on the remaining jeep and

the ambulance.

“There’s another prisoner here sir. Shall I let him go?”

“Why hasn’t he escaped already?” Petrov asked.

“He’s chained to the floor.”

Petrov looked at Von Werner who shrugged and headed for the first Black

hawk. The prisoner began screaming and frantically pulling at his chains as

the last of the men got into the helicopters and they lifted off and headed

North for the Meditterranean. Von Werner looked back at the huge fireball

that lit up the night sky when the vehicles exploded.

Major Al-assad surveyed the carnage on the mountain road. His special

forces team were scouring the debris for clues. Of the police cars and

ambulance there was nothing left. They were completely burned out. Just

skeletons and ash remained. The jeeps, one on its roof, were twisted hunks

of metal. In the lead one were the charred remains of a human still chained

to the floor. A forensics expert examining the remains. The teeth on the

corpse were completely bared.

“As quickly as you can with those results,” Al-assad said to the forensics

team working on the corpse. They were scanning their samples into a laptop.

“Yes sir. Do you want DNA scans on all casualties?”

“No. Not necessary. Our man was heavily scarred on the face and hands.

None of the other dead match those injuries.”

A lieutenant approached Al-assad.

“Sir we’ve got another body. This one was in the back of the ambulance.“

“The condition of the body?”

“Beyond recognition sir. He’s also been shot in the head. We did find a

standard issue police handgun.”

“And the ambulance crew?”

“Unnaccounted for.”

“Is it possible they were completely incinerated?”

“Possible but unlikely. My guess is they escaped or were taken hostage.”

“Why take the ambulance crew hostage and not the policeman. He would

be worth more as a ransom.”

“Because he was armed. Maybe he pulled his gun on them. That was

probably the reason for killing him.”

“Maybe. Well whatever happened here we need to find the ambulance crew

and where the ambulance came from. I want names, addresses. Find them.”

“Yes sir.”

A forensics expert got Al-assad’s attention. Al-assad looked at the laptop

screen.

“None of the DNA samples match Von Werner.”

Al-assad looked at the neatly lined up dead. A team nearby examining bullet

casings.

“How sure are you?”

“One hundred per cent.”

Al-assad’s lieutenant came running up holding a field telephone. Al-assad

frowned.

“It’s the General sir.”

Al-assad reluctantly took the handheld.

“General Al-din. It’s bad news sir. We’ve lost him. You might want to tell

the Americans.”