The Spear of Destiny

by Julian Noyce

  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 3 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 racous 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 light
ning 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 Nigeria 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 Nigerian 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 Morocco.

  “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. 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 though
t 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 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 three months before.

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