The Spear of Destiny

by Julian Noyce

  Natalie and Dennis were the first to join him at the top of the steps.

  “What behaviour?” Natalie asked.

  “Excuse me?”

  “What behaviour was unbefitting of a monk?” Dennis asked.

  “There were reports of a nun who was pole dancing to entertain the monks.”

  “No!” Natalie was shocked.

  “What was her name?” Dennis asked.

  “I’m not going to say. I’m sorry,” Alberto answered. He turned his attention to the others ascending the steps. Clearly not wanting to talk about it.

  “Oh go on. What was her name?”

  “Mr Dennis I am a deeply religious man. This is of immense embarrassment to the church, to the Roman catholic church. I do not wish to discuss it. If you are that interested and I suppose you journalists always like to get your story google the monastery and her name will be there along with the scandal.”

  Dennis was going to reach into his jeans pocket for his phone but decided to leave it until later.

  “No. It’s um! It’s not that important. I hope I have not offended you.”

  “Not at all.”

  The others got to the top of the steps.

  “I would ask you to all put your cell phones on silent or turn them off. It will be quiet inside. Despite the importance of the church it gets very few visitors.”

  “Has it always received few visitors?”

  “No doubt Mr Hutchinson that in history its visitor numbers were many more. Helena had this holy place built for pilgrims who were unable to travel to Jerusalem. It is important to remember that the church did not take the name ’Holy cross’ until the middle ages. Now if we are all ready.”

  He turned and stepped inside.

  The church was brightly lit and they all stood and marvelled at the nave in front of the altar at the far end of the church.

  “The style of building over the altar is eighteenth century baroque. The eight granite coloumns supporting the roof are the original ones from the fourth century. The flooring and frescoes are twelfth century. Underneath the altar is an urn which contains the relics of the saints Anastasius and Caesarius.”

  Alberto gave them a minute to absorb the sights and sounds. Priests were going about their business in silence. One was lighting candles. Another was tidying a table containing leaflets and postcards. A few people were seated and praying. There were a few foreign tourists, English speaking, who were talking and giggling. One girl of the group was receiving text messages on her phone while two other girls crowded around her. Alberto frowned at them and was tempted to say something but it was Hutchinson who went over to them and said.

  “Show a little respect.”

  The girl quickly put her phone away and the three looked at each other and giggled again. Hutchinson rejoined his group.

  “Bloody kids.”

  “If we make our way downstairs to the right of the high altar,” Alberto said leading the way. At the bottom of the steps he stopped once again to let them catch up.

  “This is the chapel to St Helena. This and the two rooms off to the side are part of the original palace owned and used by Saint Helena herself. We are two metres below the current building. This Roman statue is of Saint Helena holding the true cross of Christ. This glass covering on the floor is protecting the soil brought from Jerusalem. The papers and envelopes that you can see underneath the glass are prayers from pilgrims. The mosaics on the ceiling were originally done in the fifth century during the reign of the Roman emperor Valentinian II. They were re-done in the fifteenth century. In the second room of the chapel there is a fourth century statue with the inscription to St Helena on it. The room opposite this one is the Gregorian chapel which was built between 1495 and 1520. It is an exact copy, a mirror image of the St Helena chapel.”

  Alberto led them through to it.

  “In the silver frame there are over two hundred relics.”

  Knowing that they would want time to examine the artefacts Alberto continued.

  “I will wait for you upstairs.”

  It wasn’t long before they rejoined him.

  “I must say,” Hutchinson was very impressed, “You give one hell of a tour.”

  “We have saved the best for last,” Alberto replied, “In a moment I’d like you to all follow me upstairs but before we do this shrine at the bottom of the stairs is for a young girl aged seven called Antonietta Meo, also known as Nennolina.”

  “What happened to her?” Natalie asked.

  “She had bone cancer at the age of six which resulted in her having to be….I don’t know the English,” Alberto mimed a cut across the top of his thigh.

  “Amputated,” Hutchinson said.

  “Yes. She wrote letters to Jesus Christ telling him of her suffering. Since her death there has been one miracle which was attributed to her. She was buried in the graveyard and her remains were moved inside in 1999. She is currently on the Vatican’s shortlist to become a saint.”

  “Why this church?” Dennis asked.

  “She was baptised here as a baby. This was her church.”

  “That is such a sad story,” Natalie said. She reached out and touched the shrine. Her lips moving in silent prayer for the child.

  “I will now show you the chapel of the holy relics.”

  Alberto led the way upstairs and into a small room. The others filed in silently and spread themselves out. There were two other tourists in this room and they were hastily trying to hide a small Nikon camera, caught in the act of taking photographs. Alberto frowned at them and they quickly left.

  “I thought that was kept in Turin,” Hutchinson said.

  “Oh it is Mr Hutchinson. This is an exact copy.”

  “What is it?” Dennis asked, looking at the large piece of stained cloth through the protective glass.

  “It is an exact replica of the shroud of Turin.”

  “The what?”

  “The shroud of Turin,” Hutchinson said, “It is said to be the very linen that Christ’s body was wrapped in. Scholars have argued for centuries about its authenticity.”

  “It looks medieval,” Dennis said.

  “It is a work of art,” Hutchinson defended the piece.

  “Art? I think it’s disgusting,” Dennis said, “and probably a fake. Just my opinion,” he said when he saw Alberto’s expression.

  “But of course,” the guide replied.

  Alberto led them into the final room. This room was brightly lit, the floor and walls white marble. At the far end were four black marble, square coloumns supporting a large roof, atop of which was a simple gold cross. Behind this, at the far end of the room was a glass case surrounded by brown marble.

  “It’s beautiful,” Natalie said.

  “This is the chapel of the holy relics,” Alberto said, leading them up to the glass.

  “If you look to the left you can see a fragment of the good thiefs cross, the largest in the world. Now to the glass case.”

  The shelves were filled with a variety of gold and silver ornaments, intricately decorated with adorning crosses.

  “On the top shelf is the bone of an index finger said to belong to St Thomas. This reliquary with the cross on top of it contains very small pieces of Christ’s crib and pieces of his sepulchre, his tomb and also pieces of the scourging pillar where he was whipped by the Romans.”

  At these words Hutchinson felt goose pimples rise on his forearms. He rubbed at them.

  “My God,” was all he said.

  “Also on this shelf you can see two thorns from the crown that was placed on Christ’s head. On the next shelf down you can see, once again the reliquary with the cross on top, this contains the three pieces of the true cross once found by St Helena. On the bottom shelf is a nail used in the crucifixion. However and I must warn you now, that only three nails were used in a crucifixion and around the world there are far more than three nails claimed to be original. It doesn’t help of course that some Popes throughout history made c
opies of these nails and distributed them around Christendom. Finally on the bottom shelf you can see what is known as the Titulus Crucis or title of the cross. This was discovered here in the church in 1492. The same year as Colombus. This is a piece of wood written in Hebrew, Greek and Latin. Legend has it that this piece was personally written by Pontius Pilate the Roman governor of Judaea at the time of Christ’s crucifixion. For many years it has been thought to be a forgery from the medieval period. However new evidence suggests that the inscriptions were written from right to left and not left to right as would be the case with a medieval translator. In the 19 century this relic was further proved by the discovery of a travel journal belonging to the Spanish pilgrim Egeria, a lady who had visited the holy land in the 4 century and recorded that she’d seen this relic in Jerusalem.”

  “Wow! That is amazing,” Hutchinson said, “So much history,” he could feel his goosebumps returning.

  “Yes history is my passion,” Alberto said, “I am in love with history. I am extremely fortunate to have been born in such a city where I tread in the footsteps of some of the most famous people who have ever lived.”

  “That you are,” the American replied.

  “And now lady and gentlemen that concludes our tour of the Santa Croce en Gerusalemme in Rome. I will wait for you all outside to give you free time here in the church. On your way down the stairs look for the brick in the wall with the inscription ‘Titulus Crucis’ which I noticed none of you saw on the way up.”

  They weren’t very long in meeting Alberto outside.

  “That was a wonderful tour,” Natalie said.

  Hutchinson came forward and shook Alberto’s hand.

  “Truly fantastic,” the American said, “If it’s not too personal a question may I ask how you are paid.”

  “I do a lot of work for Citalia holidays. This particular tour was, I believe, paid for by the Vatican.”

  “Oh I see. Are you allowed to accept tips?”

  Alberto gave his best smile. Jim pressed a twenty euro note into the Italian’s hand.

  “And did the Vatican tell you why we needed a guided tour?” Bauer asked. It was the first thing he’d said since arriving at the church.

  “No. Just that i was to give a private tour.”

  “Do you also give personal tours?” Hutchinson asked.

  “Yes of course. Though my fees are expensive.”

  “Would you be able to give us a tour tomorrow. Myself, Miss Feltham, Mr Dennis….” Jim waited for their re-action.

  “Yeah I wouldn’t mind Jim,” Dennis answered. Natalie nodded. “Sounds good.”

  “Inspector Bauer?”

  “No thank you. I have reports to make tomorrow.”

  “Just the three of us then. That’s if you can manage tomorrow?”

  “What do you want to see?”

  “Oh uh! I don’t know. Ancient Rome, the Vatican.”

  “My fees are three hundred euros per day.”

  “That’s only a hundred each,” Dennis said quietly and sarcastically.

  “Ignore him.”

  “That is my fee.”

  “That sounds most satisfactory. I could pay you up front.”

  Alberto’s beaming smile returned.

  “Pay me tomorrow. I would be delighted to show you around my beautiful city.”

  “Thank you so much. Would you like us to come to you?”

  Alberto reached into his jacket pocket, took out a map of Rome and placed a cross on it with his pen.

  “This is the arch of Titus in ancient Rome. I will be there at 9 o’clock tomorrow morning. I’ll look forward to seeing you all then.”

  Alberto shook hands with them all again and then went to a Fiat 500 and drove away.

  “What a thoroughly interesting man,” Hutchinson said.

  De Luca signalled to his men by the mini-bus. They jumped into action and soon brought the mini-bus over.

  “Now lady and gentlemen if you are ready it’s time to show you to your hotel.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Carlo Bonomi was good at his job. No not good but excellent. He had been a property agent for four years. He felt that he, at only age twenty eight, was probably the best in Rome. He certainly worked for the best agency in Rome. The ‘Centauro’ letting agency.

  “That’s me,” Bonomi said to himself, “Half man half horse.”

  He had shoulder length black hair which he always gelled back so that it was tight to his scalp. He also liked to dress well, always in Italian designer suits and shirts and he always wore a pair of mirrored sunglasses. He believed himself to resemble Tom Cruise in the movie ’Top Gun’

  He glanced at himself in the rear view mirror of his metallic red sporty Alfa Romeo Giuletta. He liked what he saw. He had a swarthy complexion, his skin olive and easily tanned. He also had a string of girlfriends, loved partying, champagne and fine food. He was also, when the need arose to impress a young lady, a lover of horses, the arts, fine art, in fact anything that would help him achieve his gains.

  He also loved God and wore a large gold crucifix on a chain under his shirt. Carlo, once upon a time, had intended to become a priest and had started training at the age of eighteen. He had soon found however that he loved girls more than his deity and after numerous jobs and narrowly missing Italian national military service which was abolished in 2004 he had settled on his current occupation, real estate.

  This morning he was en-route to a potential buyer for an old abandoned airfield forty five miles north of Rome. The folder containing the details of the purchase was on the passenger seat next to him. Whoever it was they had left no name. Bonomi just had a date and time to be at the airfield. He was hoping it would be a cash sale. With cash there was always scope for a little, personal, profit.

  He turned up the music on the CD player and put his foot down as he left the outskirts of Rome and his little Alfa began climbing inland.

  The roads were not busy. The rush hour traffic long since abated. It was a warm Wednesday moning but as the Alfa got up to the national speed limit he found himself pushing the buttons for the electric windows to go up against the chill of the wind. Carlo drove everywhere he could, weather permitting, with the top on his car down.

  He glanced across at the display panel as the CD he was playing stopped and the panel lit up as the Bluetooth indicated an incoming call. The display showed the caller’s name. It was Claudia. A regular girlfriend. He smiled as he heard her voice and he down shifted a gear to take a tight turn.

  Forty minutes later and Bonomi was still smiling as he said goodbye to her and pulled up at the small layby at the gates to the abandoned airfield. First inspection told him that he was alone. There was no sign of another vehicle. He glanced at his Gucci watch. He was fifteen minutes early. His favourite track on the CD he had been playing came on and he turned the engine off and the volume up, put his head back against the head rest, closed his eyes and began drumming his fingers on the steering wheel to the beat. The track ended and he opened his eyes and reached for the off button. He looked around. Still no-one. Still ten minutes. He yawned, stretched, then slowly got out of the car.

  ‘May as well open the gate ready’ he said to himself.

  There was a large heavy chain looped through the tall chain-link gates held together by a large rusty padlock but to his surprise it clicked open easily as soon as the key entered. He closed the padlock and let it dangle from the chain and without clicking it shut he let the chain drop and pushed the gate inward as far as it would go. He did the same with the other gate and then returned to his car, started it and drove inside.

  The runway was all grass and surprisingly short considering it hadn’t been cut in a generation. There was a small strip of tarmac which led up to the few buildings and he turned and drove towards them. The largest building which was two storeys had at one time been painted white. Now it was a mix of shades including algae green in places and peeling in others. There were some windows from which he could
see only one was broken. At the corner of an outbuilding he could see that a large tree had grown. Infusing itself with the building it had caused large cracks and disruptance in the masonry.

  Bonomi stopped his car and got out. He reached for the folder on the passenger seat and opened it.

  “No water. No electricity supply,” he read out loud.

  He closed the folder and had a quick walk around the outside of all the buildings. Some of the doors were rusted off their hinges. In many cases the wood was rotten. He found a small outside toilet of the old type with the cast iron cistern high on the wall. He pulled the chain but he already knew there would be no water to flush. The toilet bowl itself was layered in decades of dirt and dust. In a small storage room next door the branches of the tree had grown through the window and were pressing against the ceiling. To the main building there were steps that led up and Bonomi ascended them slowly. They led to a room with a large double window that looked out over the entire site.

  Bonomi looked towards the gates he had opened. He could see that the chain-link fence ran around the entire complex. It was intact apart from one concrete post which had at some point in history snapped and was hanging while pulling the fence either side of it down.

  There was no sign of the prospective client yet. He looked at his watch. Five more minutes to go.

  Bonomi turned away from the window and surveyed the room. Black, dirty cobwebs littered the ceiling and walls. Their hosts long since dead. On the floor were small pellets scattered about. He was sure they were rat droppings.

  There was an old wooden desk by the large window and a very old wooden chair. Both were covered in layers of dust. On the table was a very old radio transmitter with an old style microphone on a stand placed on top of it. Both were extremely dusty. There were some dusty papers strewn across the desk. Bonomi picked a sheet up and blew dust from it. It was about a change of proceedures and was signed and dated July 1981.

  “Thirty years ago,” Bonomi said out loud.

  The airfield had been in use during World War II.

  Bonomi put the paper down. Then noticing the radio transmitter was still plugged in to a wall socket he began flicking switches at random. The transmitter was dead. He went over to the light switch and flicked it on. Nothing.