Arimathea and the True Cross

Introduction

Arimathea and the True Cross

Circa Regna Tonate – Around the throne the thunder roars

“Kings removing their diadems take up the cross, the symbol of their Saviours death, on the purple, The Cross, in their prayers, The Cross, on their armour, The Cross, on the Holy table, The Cross, throughout the universe, The Cross. The Cross shines brighter than the sun.”

St John Chrysostom 390AD

PROLOGUE

London – September 1666

For the past two hours it had been a bleak, dull, autumn dark end of another warm, dry day. The black canvass of night was penetrated by a bold half moon and a smattering of pin prick stars that cast a greyish light over parts of the vast city. Further illumination was provided by tiny oil lamps that silhouetted the undesirable of London’s massed, cramped alleys and narrow back streets that was home to around 500,000 unfortunate souls.

The sounds of drunken, rowdy shouting emanating from various hovels and ale houses was disturbed only by the bark of feral dogs fighting over some scraps of carcass discarded by the numerous bakeries and butcher houses. The rats in the overflowing disgusting sewer system made an orchestra of a million claws creating waves of sound as they searched for more filth in which to make their homes.

With the sounds and smells of London flowing through him, Menton waited. It had been another warm day at the end of an excruciatingly hot summer and the sweat generated by the frantic chase a few hours before had dried and crusted white on his shirt, overcoat and dark breaches leaving marks on the exquisite black Italian cloth. He would certainly be visiting a tailor in the morning, although the quality available in this part of the world was certainly lacking, needs must he thought to himself. He could perhaps try one of the shops on the row near the Saville of which great things were said. Menton was yet to be convinced. Tailors struggled with Menton anyway due to his long, gangly frame, far taller than most but always unable to put on weight, the other children from his village used to tease him that God had made him out of sticks, very long sticks.

The sharp scream of a child in the metropolitan darkness disturbed Menton from his daydream and he stared deeply into the corner of the bakery where the vast Kiln dominated all other features. Damn him for letting his mind wander, anybody could have snuck in while his mind was elsewhere.

Nothing moved, nothing made a sound that was not part of the natural menace of night time London. Menton remained silent and stationary until his muscles began to cramp. Slowly, ever so slowly he began to stretch out and allowed himself a deep sigh, it would be light in a couple of hours and the baker, Thomas Fraynor according to sign above the door, with his family will be coming down the stairs soon to begin their daily routine.

The match striking the wooden surface of the baker’s preparation counter was followed by a sharp illumination that died away almost instantly, Menton started for the door but in a heartbeat he was thrown to the floor by a vicious trip of steel coated boots that left his shin soaked in blood. Menton stared into the face of his assailant which was pale and seething in the meagre light now emanating from the small work lamp. Transfixed by eyes of loathing Menton managed to display some semblance of defiance as he gathered his wits and stood up with his back against the mighty bakers Kiln, almost slipping on the dry straw that smattered the floor.

This man standing before him was called ‘The Seeker’ by both those that employed him and those he hunted, a man of singular vision that existed for only one thing, the hunt.

“It has been a grand pursuit has it not brother Menton” the word “brother” was emphasised with both pity and disgust as John Hannah sneered the words.

“I thought for a moment that you might have evaded me today, you probably could have with those ‘ant’ legs that carry you but your smell you see, that’s what guided me through the night, I swear that not one of the slum inhabitants in this shit hole would smell like an Italian whore so it must have been you, and so it is”

Cursing himself for his vanity Menton looked into the face of the Seeker,

“and what of your intentions Hannah, why has the syndicate let you off your leash, I am nothing but a messenger from the brotherhood, seeking shelter in London before my pilgrimage to the holy land”

“An insignificant messenger is what you are Menton, however, it is the message that is significant, if you please”.

John Hannah held out his left hand toward Menton, he was standing no more that three feet away in the cramped bakery, the glint of the knife in his right hand reflected the lamp light. He was not a tall man, especially compared to Menton but his upbringing in the north of England had made him as hard as iron, adoption by the Syndicate of Merchants had made him even harder and there was no hope of matching his strength. Menton was close to panic, the letter that he was carrying was of vast importance to the brotherhood and if it fell into the wrong hands it could spell disaster.

Mastering his fear Menton removed the small, wax sealed envelope and began to move slowly towards the Seeker who had begun to smile in triumph, it was not a welcoming smile.

Menton reached out with the letter in his left hand and at the very last second before the transfer was complete he launched himself at his would be murderer, using all of his body length he reached passed John Hannah towards the small oil lamp burning above his right shoulder. Menton doubled over as the force of the Seekers’ right hook smashed into his stomach forcing all of the air out of his lungs, the second blow came on the side of his head and had such force that Menton was flattened on the floor, dazed by the blow and finding it difficult to breath Menton heard the curses of his attacker as the room became brighter.

The dry envelop and letter had been smothered in oil as Menton had intended and there was no hope that the Seeker could douse the flames fast enough. The letter had been forced into the lamp through Menton’s momentum, the lamp had fallen off its bracket into the bakers account book which flared up immediately.

Desperately trying to regain his composure Menton forced himself into the corner of the room and into a sitting position with his back against the front door. The whole event had taken but a few seconds and it was only a matter of time until the blaze took hold of the entire bakery with its innocent, sleeping family still silent up the small staircase.

Menton could not spare them a prayer as the Seeker moved slowly towards him, knife glowing with the reflection of the fire,

“you have only delayed the inevitable you pathetic bastard, where is he now, will he hear you scream?”

With that last word the Seeker slowly pushed the knife into Menton’s stomach, slicing through coat, shirt and flesh with consummate ease. The pain flared instantly, matching the growing conflagration that was beginning to engulf the small bakery. Menton let out a gasp as the knife was removed, his cry of pain was now echoed by panicked voices from above, “You’re going to burn in these flames you bastard”.

With that the Seeker smashed through the door behind Menton and into the night, the influx of fresh oxygen causing the fire inside to blast outward, Menton had barely started his prayer when he was engulfed.

----------

He had been tracking John Hannah since the Syndicates blood hound had arrived in London, always missing his opportunity either by the presence of others or the crafty single mindedness of his quarry. Why had he been dispatched from Paris at a time of such upheaval, whatever it was, it could not be for the good of the world, such was the balance. Earlier in the night there had been a chase with the Seeker fixed on a strange looking tall fellow dressed all in black, he certainly looked familiar and reeked of the Brotherhood, those meddling monks would be his death. It was imperative that he interrogated the Seeker, so he waited outside the bakery of Thomas Fraynor where the Brotherhood messenger had taken refuge, if he knew the Seeker, he would not be far behind.

He had been waiting almost 2 hours, intently focussed on the stinking alley where the butchers trailed their wagons to the great Thames River. A dim light began to glow through the heavily misted, cheap glass of the bakers front window, it was surely too early for the baker and his family to have risen, would the messenger have been a big enough fool to light a lamp.

The fierce barking of a dog no more then 5 feet away warned him of an approaching man, staring closely into the gloom, muscles tense, he waited. A drunken man staggered into full view, stopping short of the baker’s front door he vomited on himself, wiped his face with the back of his hand and began to piss on the road. Even the drunk man stepped back when the faint glow in the baker’s window grew into something brighter, a fire had started.

He couldn’t have missed the seeker entering the building, unless he had greatly underestimated the mans cunning. He moved quickly to the front door, covering the short distance with lighting speed, his muscles honed over the years, too many years to count.

Expecting to kick the door in with his next pace he was thrown back by the force of the entrance breaking outwards, a heavy pane of wood slapped across his face momentarily blinding him. The heat of the backdraft ran over his entire body and the roar of the fire was pierced by the screams of a waking street. Regaining his vision he saw the Seeker dart to the end of the alley towards the waiting docks and into the darkness.

Finding his balance he backed away from the heat of the blazing inferno that was beginning to spread to the surrounding houses and bakeries, people began flooding into the streets clutching their most precious belongings and screaming children. There was nothing he could do as the people of Pudding Lane watched their lives burn.

“The wind mighty high and driving it into the City; and every thing, after so long a drought, proving combustible, even the very stones of churches.”

THE DIARY OF SAMUAL PEPYS – 6TH September 1666

*****

CHAPTER 1

Alexandria – 28th June 1798

The full heat the Egyptian summer at midday poured over Johan Fischer as he stepped out onto the flat, baked mud rooftop of the merchant’s palace towards the North of the famous city of Alexandria. He was not looking forward to his meeting, the foul mood his friend had been in for the past month had certainly not been lightened by the news of the success Napoleon had achieved since landing in Malta.

His friend was not dressed in the relaxed garb that was common in this part of the world but was wearing dark trousers tucked into lose riding boots, a white cotton shirt, heavy with sweat clung to a highly muscled torso, “God” Johan thought to himself as he approached “it looks like he has been holding that pose for hours”. His face was shaded but Johan could make out the sharply defined features partially shrouded by shoulder length, extremely dark hair that hung loose.

“You couldn’t sneak up on a deaf, blind man my friend”

Joseph spoke with only a slight hint of humour, it felt forced but Johan was grateful for the effort, he also realised that he had been holding his breath which he let our with a strong, possibly over pronounced sigh.

“not even if he was under water and the angels were singing to him” Joseph continued after hearing the sigh.

The tension was still there in his body but Johan believed that he was pleased to have company and he took Josephs hand when it was offered.

“I’m not as young as I used to be my ‘young’ friend. Has there been any word?”

The brief smile that crossed his friends face at Johan’s crude joke was gone as soon as the question was asked and a part of him wished he had never asked it, moments of levity had been few and far between of late.

Joseph of Arimathea turned back to his view over the city, great in it’s day but now ragged through age and weariness, he hoped he could not see the cities reflection in his friend, who still looked no older than 30 but with almost 2000 years of weariness weighing down on him.

Slightly above average in height and a good looking man, Joseph would often be mistaken for a soldier due to his posture and physique, his demeanour also had the whiff of military about it, being precise and always to the point, direct to the point confrontation with others that did not know him as well as Johan. His eyes betrayed the years though and it seemed to Johan that he was soul tired, worn down by the endless battles, both physical and spiritual. If he was to pass as a soldier then it would certainly be that of the British Indian Wars, Joseph’s dark skin colour and hair marked him as from the region though the truth was that he was born far away, in Arimathea on the banks of the Jordan.

He was not scarred as you would expect a veteran of the belligerent British conquest with the exception of a cut under his right eye that never seemed to have healed, there was also the fact he was missing his little finger on his left hand.

“None good, the order of the Knights of St John gave up Malta without a shot fired or a sword bloodied, damned cowards. Ferdinand knew of the importance of that rock and what the citadel has held for the past 200 years but it had obviously fallen on deaf ears. Bastards care for nothing but cheap wine and expenses mistresses. Oaths? The goat herds have more honour!”

He didn’t shout, he didn’t have to, Johan could hear the scream of frustration in the matter of fact way Joseph spoke. In all his life he had never heard an accent similar, at times sounding as English as Master Hook from his boarding school in Devon and at other times a strange mix with European or Middle Eastern twangs.

“That short little shit will have his hands on the text by now, probably bought and paid for with Corsican blood gold, I hope Von Hompesch chokes so hard he loses a lung. If I ever see him again I will shoot him. We should have brought it with us, or burned it, you should have burned it Johan”

Johan couldn’t help it, he burst out laughing, the situation was grave, Napoleon had the text and would be on his way to Egypt, Alexandria first no doubt, he and Joseph were floundering around trying to keep the Order together to face an enemy that was better funded and organised than ever before. It was funny!

For his mirth he received a punch in the ribs from his friend, there was no malice in it and he was delighted to see a beguiling smile crack the stone face of Joseph of Arimathea

“you too if you keep laughing, stop it, Johan…”

but it was too much for the man who had lived over 2000 years, there was nothing left to do but laugh and with tears rolling down their cheeks they left the white mud rooftop to supper, the fate of the world had waited long enough, it could wait some more.

The merchant’s palace was of course a lavish place, opulence on display for all to see, rich fabrics and tapestries hung from white painted walls. Servants scurried this way and that getting about chores that would never be completed, heads bobbing up and down with mock respect, though it was more likely fear of Tobias Higgins’ wicked Master of the House that kept them dutiful, Johan thought the world must be in danger every time servants eyes looked above 45 degrees such was the severity of the beatings.

Both men hated this place and were fervent in the belief that all men were equal, in this environment they bit their tongues, they needed the Merchants Guilds and the network of spies they provided, if they didn’t he was sure Joseph would burn the place down to its foundations as he often threatened when Higgins was around.

They had been in the city for 3 days, searching the Alexandria archive for the Book of Aquinas. Napoleon was looking for it also, determined to decipher the text. His intent was clear to those who knew of his obsession with mythology. World domination was his secondary goal and their contacts in the French court had described the fervour with which he had set about his latest task, convincing the Directorate to sanction an army of over 40,000 to ‘expand the borders of the Empire for the glory of the third republic and to dent the imperialistic ambition of the British’.

Whatever he was looking for, the Book of Aquinas would be his guide and now, with the fall of Malta he knew where to look. The “little general” was willing to sacrifice French lives to possess it and that was enough to convince Joseph and Johan to seek it out first.

After a short stay in Malta they learned the book was in Alexandria so they left for the first city of Egypt, news of the gathering French fleet hot in their ears. The Merchants Guild spies had been useful in that they knew the French Advance Party in Alexandria had not located the book, though that was not a surprise as they did not have the guide from Malta, but that had now changed and it was only a matter of time. They also learned that the book contained the words of Aquinas, the Roman soldier who had delivered the fatal blow to Jesus on the Cross but they did not know what purpose the words had to Napoleon, no matter how much money was spent.

Days had been wasted searching for a book amongst thousands. Johan was tired, they had not found what they were looking for but he had learned how painful a paper cut could be, especially when they happen frequently in the same place.

The Weasel Tobias Higgins himself was sitting at the head of the table which was roughly 2 feet from the ground and surrounded by plump cushion, placed directly in the centre of an elaborate and gaudy banquet hall. Higgins himself was massively fat to the point where buttons struggled to contain the blubber hidden by his overly elaborate clothes of silk and rich Egyptian cotton.

“My friends, my friends, you must not spend any more time outside than is required, it’s far too hot and men of our position should relax in these surroundings” he said the last word while spreading his arms wide, inviting all to appreciate the money that was clearly on display.

His gaze lingered too long on a pretty servant in a bright pink garment and then it rested on Joseph, his smile turned to a frown at the clear disapproval in his guests face. He cleared his throat to break the silence, “what vexes you my lord?”

Joseph moved over to the table and filled a glass with cool wine.

“The French are coming, we have to make arrangements”

The Guild Keepers fat face remained steady, surprising Joseph as he took a long drink of wine, it was a good vintage and a shame to leave it for the incoming French army.

The next 6 hours were spent deliberating over strategy for the evacuation of precious items from Alexandria. The large banquet hall, elaborately decorated with various tapestries depicting great battles throughout the centuries filled with musty hashish smoke. The food was a constant throughout although not many had the appetite for it. Tobias Higgins believed he should be the first to be evacuated from the city along with the most precious items and a few of his most prized servants.

Another guild member, Federico Menechetti, believed negotiation with the oncoming French host was the best course of action as there was no chance the great archives could be removed in the 3 days it would take the French Army to advance on the city.

The watch keeper, who should have been a vision of calm organisation and steadfast fortitude was arguing total surrender,

“I say open the gate and let them in, It worked for Malta”

Johan remained quiet for a while, watching his friend who was casually speaking to one of the servant girls, the dark haired beauty dressed in pink that had caught the eye of Higgins a few hours previously.

Joseph seemed not to have a care in the world and that annoyed Johan more than he could have imagined. They were smiling and chatting in a very comfortable manner. Joseph even laughed at one point. How could he be so focussed one minute and act like nothing perturbed him the next, he supposed there was a great deal of practice over the years.

After some time had passed and the tempers in the room were as hot as the daytime sunshine, Joseph motioned to Johan that it was time to leave with a slight jerk of his head in the direction of the side door. As Johan stood to leave he stretched out his stiff legs, an old injury in his left leg flared and he let out a slight groan, it sounded like old age.

“Are you leaving us Master Johan, please, please sit again and enjoy more food, look, the servants have just brought more fruit and this wine is certainly worth a taste”

he carried on as Johan continued to move towards the door, this time directing his plea to Joseph, or “David” as he knew him by,

“Master David, please stay a while longer, we have much to discuss and much planning to complete. If you are tired we can arrange a bed for you”

He clapped his hands twice and the servants began to scurry as if stung by the crack of a whip.

“Do you not want to partake in my hospitality, my servants can be very convincing” at that 2 young women moved towards Johan and Joseph, smiling with obvious intent.

Tobias had stood by that point and seemed strangely agitated when the female advances were declined, when his guests were almost at the door he let out a shout, “STOP THEM”.

Two armed guards blocked the exit, dark and strongly muscled they wielded long, wicked looking spears, the look in their eyes suggested they knew how to use the weapons. In the blink of an eye Joseph was on top of them, a quick gut punch to the guard on the left doubled him over, he ducked under the sweep of a spear butt from the second guard and slammed his fist into that guards groin, sending him reeling backwards in pain, the first guard had regained some of his composure and, drawing a sword, made another attack. Catching the swinging sword arm in his left hand Joseph closed the distance in an instant and smashed his forehead into the guards face, breaking his nose and turning his face into bloody violence.

A third guard tried to spear Joseph from behind but his lithe body contorted around the blade, pulling the guard towards him he brought his elbow down on the big mans forehead sending him spinning away in a dizzy haze. “Enough” cried Tobias, with no more guards coming towards him Joseph afforded a look around, blood was still spurting from the second guard who was staring murder in his direction, standing just over 5 feet away was a fourth guard, holding a long knife to Johan’s throat. Joseph threw down the spear he had taken and spread his hands showing submission, as if he were no longer dangerous.

“Joseph, Joseph, Joseph, what a performance, and look at the mess you’ve made of my hall. Blood stains awfully and I will have to buy some more guards. You had to make things difficult didn’t you, you stupid bastard. The look on your face really is priceless. Do you still want to burn my house down?”

He had begun to move towards Joseph, despite the size of his gut he moved well enough and had a disgusting swagger. A nod of his head brought 2 more guards behind Joseph who took one look at his friend and then dutifully held his hands behind his back, awaiting the dark shackles that were brutally placed on his wrists.

Johan began to protest but was immediately silenced by an increase of pressure on the knife at his throat. Joseph spoke first.

“Don’t worry my friend, this fat, ugly, impotent bastard has no idea”

The last insult was said with a wink in the direction of Tobias which earned thinly hidden smirks from the servant girls and a punch in the face from Tobias. With that much weight behind the punch Joseph’s head snapped back, he rolled it back to face the Guild Master, spitting blood onto his chest, a big target.

Taking a kerchief from his pocket he began to wipe away the blood, the smile on his face had not changed. “Take this one” he said pointing to Joseph “to the ‘guest rooms’ below, and this one” he said with a sneer as he turned his head to Johan “is of no use. Take him outside and kill him”.

A spear butt to the stomach immediately silenced Joseph’s protest and he was allowed to fall to the floor in pain as the guards released their hold on him. Johan said nothing but stared at his friend, lying in pain on the floor.

“Don’t worry about me my friend, I have many comrades waiting on me where I am going”

As the man holding Johan began to turn him towards the exit the pink clad servant moved over to the Master and spoke softly into his ear. Three chins moved in unison as he began to nod his head.

“Wait, the other one could have a purpose yet. Take them both downstairs after I have a final word”

With that he moved over to Joseph, who was still on the floor and with a speed that belied his weight he kicked full force into the side of his head. With the world spinning and his vision blurring Joseph could just make out a man talking to Tobias, he was speaking in French.

Blackness then engulfed everything.

Shit. That was the smell that assaulted him as he woke up. Shit and darkness. Slowly he pushed himself up so that he was sitting with his back against a wall, slick with mould. As his eyes adjusted he took in his new surroundings, the cell was roughly 10 feet by 10 feet and had room enough for Joseph to stand, just, although he remained seated.

He was pushed up against the far wall opposite a solid dark oak door, there was no furniture in the room and the only light came through a small, barred hatch just above waist height in the door. His head was pounding to the extent that even the sound of his own breathing hurt. Reaching back he felt his head, wincing in pain as his fingers felt the large lump, surrounded by crusted blood that had flowed from the large gash at the centre. It would heal quickly he thought to himself, they always did.

He was still wearing his breeches and shirt, which was now blood stained, but his fine boots had been removed. His hands were shackled in front of him but his feet were free. He pushed himself up with his back to the wall and once he found his feet and cleared the dizziness he moved towards the door.

It was solid for the most part, slightly rotted at the bottom two corners but still far too sturdy to force, even with his great strength. He removed the pin from the buckle on his belt and deftly dealt with the lock on his shackles, they fell to the floor without a sound as he softened the fall with his right foot. Peering out of the cell Joseph looked onto a larger chamber which contained 3 wall mounted oil lamps, a crude table and 2 up-turned barrels for chairs. Slumped on one of the barrels, clutching a wine cup and snoring loudly was the cell keeper, Joseph almost found the cliché funny.

Straining as best he could to see what else was there he managed to make out 2 more cell doors, both opposite and he assumed there would be one next to him in symmetry. He had no idea what the time was, or whether it was day or night. How long had been unconscious? After some time in thought, piecing together the events in the banquet hall, Josephs meditation was broken by a sneeze coming from the cell next to his.

“Allergies Johan, I swear one day they will be the death of you”, he meant it as a joke but it really did not seem appropriate, it was rightly met with a tirade of abuse,

“…and you, how did you miss the fourth guard, you’re losing your edge Joseph, and how did that fat headed ‘merchant’ know your real name, do you think he knows it all?”

Joseph took a deep breath and answered “No, I don’t think he knows it all. Plenty of people know my name and not all of them are my friend.” The use of singular “friend” was not new and Johan always took pride in the fact he was the only friend of a man that had lived so long.

“And most of them have no idea who I really am, if he has imprisoned me then he knows I have some value. What I don’t know is why I have value to the French, but I do mean to find out, and for that we must wait here a little while.”

Like we have a choice, Johan thought to himself, though at the tone in his friend’s voice it was like he was staying in a hotel on London’s Boulevard, free to check out any time. So they waited, the silence broken by the guard taking a piss in one corner, he scratched his arse, drained a second cup of wine and fell back into a blissful sleep, occasionally moaning about a servant girl called Shelba.

“You never told me Joseph, and I never asked” Johan finally broke the silence, speaking quietly. “I could have been killed tonight, I would have died willingly to serve the cause, you know that. I have no regrets at how I have lived my life and from the moment you pulled me from the ocean as a small boy I have been sworn to you, without question”. Johan’s voice was controlled yet strangely remorseful.

“And now?” replied Joseph.

“You’ve told me so much Joseph, about your long life, where you came from and what you have done, what you have given up and lost, but…you have never once told me about…Him”

Finally he had worked up the courage to ask, their friendship for so long had been grown on the back of trust, Johan had trusted his friend to tell him what he felt comfortable with, and in return Joseph had trusted his friend not to push. “I am ready to die for you Joseph, but I want to know, I’m ready to know”.

The silence was painful, it actually hurt Johan and he wanted desperately to take the words back. The guard began to snore again, a rhythmic gurgle that mocked the words previously spoken.

“Wood…………He liked wood”

Joseph let out a sigh as he spoke, as if he was releasing years of tired. Johan moved to the door, sitting with his back to it and his right ear pressed against the cold bars as Joseph continued.

“He had talent, that was clear for all to see and by the time he was six he was making the most elaborate devices and tools. His father was so proud. He was always the strongest, fastest and brightest amongst the children, a natural leader who inspired fellowship. By the time he was 10 years old he already had a following. As he grew up it gets more difficult, for over 1000 years I have been told who He was, what He did and why, and if you are told something over and over again, you start to create memories that were never really there. I don’t know where the Book stops and the truth starts”

Johan had been holding his breath again and this time he was almost afraid to breathe for fear it would break the moment. It wouldn’t have made a difference.

“As a child his laugh was innocent and infectious, as an adult he would light up a room with it. He liked working with his hands and even before he began preaching you could tell he was special. He was a good looking man, he caught the eye of the ladies, although there was never a ‘special’ one. He certainly wasn’t a priest” a slight laugh broke the monologue but Joseph continued.

“I didn’t see much of him in his later life, my business meant travel. I did begin to hear things, crazy things about a man doing ‘miracles’ that were not possible. Saying things that were dangerous in a world dominated by Roman law. By the time I reached Jerusalem I was too late, He had already been imprisoned. My sister told me the story from there, Mary was so calm and I could not understand how that could be so when her son was facing execution for inciting a mob. His friends and Joseph too had accepted his fate, I am sure you are aware of the ‘Last Supper’ story, surprisingly accurate in a book filled mostly with fiction, though I was not there.

The rest I am sure you know. Whether it actually happened that way or not really doesn’t matter, suffice to say the outcome remains the same. A man executed for having a belief. An exceptional man with a vision. He truly was the son of God. I am the living proof of that truism, that power.”

The final words were spoken with bitterness. Johan was always acutely aware of the internal battle Joseph fought within him, the struggle to ascertain the reason behind his prolonged life.

Startled, that was how he felt as he began to digest the words. Startled, grateful and so overwhelmingly humbled. The story was not the revelation, he had read the Book, more than once and Joseph had already told him the meaning and message was sound even if most of the actual events were not.

‘Laughter’, he thought to himself. He had never considered it before, Jesus Christ ‘laughed’, and ‘enjoyed’ when he was growing up. All of a sudden he was a man, not just The ‘Saviour’ of mankind. The revelation, which should have been so simple hit him like a sledgehammer and he realised he now had so many more questions but before he could ask them Joseph continued.

“I pleaded with Pilate for his life, little did I realise there was a ‘Grand Design’ and my efforts were not only futile but also against His plan. Nobody had told me, I was never part of the secret bloody meetings and I had never wanted to be a part. I was happy, wealthy, respected. I used the Roman supply routes to get rich, I don’t know why but I was never ‘religious’. Of all those men and women beguiled by Jesus and his teachings I was not one of them, neither was I a good Jew as my father had taught and the Graco-Roman Gods seemed far fetched and childish, belonging to a far away place. My request for clemency was met with indifference by Pilate, he really did not care whether Jesus lived or died but on offer of money he agreed to ask the people”

Johan could not tell for certain but it did sound as though Joseph was sobbing softly as he spoke.

“Death by Crucifixion. Shit that must have hurt, you would not have known it looking at Him though. Even then I still didn’t understand, I still pleaded with his executioners to release him, offering everything that I had. One of the soldiers, a man named Longinus, who had milky, half blind eyes, said that I should give him my tomb, as that was all I could do for Him. Then the soldier plunged the spear into his left, not right, side. It was a clumsy blow and not executed with the precision of a seasoned veteran of the legions, like I said though, milky eyes. Jesus let out a sigh and I believe to this day it was of relief, he may have been the son of God but he must have been in such pain, such terrible pain. Perhaps the pain of humanities sins, of that I do not know.

As Jesus died on the Cross I went again to Pilate and pleaded this time to release the body into my care. Once a Centurion confirmed that Jesus was indeed dead he saw no reason not to do so, along with his family, Nicodemus and Mary, we went to Golgotha and took his body down. We rapped it in the finest linens and applied myrrh and aloes, taking it up the hill it was placed in the tomb I had owned since I was in my teen years near my house in the hills, it was a simple tomb cut into the rock face and we secured the body inside with a boulder. And there it lay, the body of Jesus Christ.”

Johan was speechless. He had not known what to expect, he knew the story, he had heard it many times, as had most of the world, but this seemed more ‘real’, although his faith had never been in question he found it strange that actual events happened, pain and suffering ended at the end of spear. He began to pray, he thanked God for sending his son.

“For my part in the burial the Jewish elders threw me in jail” Joseph snorted and laughed to himself. “That’s where my part in this ‘story’ really began.”

After a short pause he continued, “I was placed in a cell not too unlike the one we now find ourselves in. There was a guard placed on the door, more awake than that one out there for most of the time.” The quiet seemed intolerable and Johan was fearful that Joseph would reveal no more. After what felt like an eternity he continued.

“It was on the first night that He appeared to me. At first I thought I was dreaming, and maybe I was, but He was there. In my shock I was lying on the floor but He lifted me up, washed me and spoke soft, soft words. It was then that he gave me one of the vials, I had seen it before, on the day of his death 2 vials were filled, one by his mother and one by Mary of Magdalene, one caught his sweat and tears and the other his blood, it was the red vial that he gave to me and instructed me to drink of his blood one last time. He then told me that I had been chosen to carry the battle for the soul of mankind.

I told him that I was not worthy, that he had followers, Disciples that could carry his teachings forward. To that he told me I had been chosen for my strength of spirit and the task of carrying his message would fall to others.’

Joseph’s laugh was bitter this time.

“He left me with these words, these words that have haunted me for almost 2000 years, these words that to this day mean NOTHING!” the ferocity in his voice seemed to shake the cell but astonishingly the guard didn’t wake up, he did not even twitch. Joseph then continued with the last words of Jesus Christ.

“My passing has done nothing for humanity but turn the hourglass, the sands continue to flow down Joseph and there are forces that work against my Lord. The Last Battle has begun now and He will not intervene, what happens for mankind will happen. It is with you that hope rests. He will not intervene”

“Though I had neither food nor water for weeks I remained strong. When my cell door was opened the guards had expected to find the filthy corpse of a starved man. I never knew their names but they met with a quick death. The first men I ever killed.

I made my way back to my house in the hills and packed a few items for my journey, though I had no idea where I was going. I hid away the vial of blood amongst my things, it was still full despite my drinking of it.

I have never returned to that house, I have spent the years since trying to piece together my purpose, no matter how often I have begged, no matter how close to death I have been, my purpose has never been clear. I have seen many things Johan, I have done things that go against the Word of God, yet I am still ‘blessed’ with this life. There are evil forces in the world, of that I have no doubt and I have worked to keep those powers at bay but now it seems the most powerful army in the world is intent on domination, Napoleon is looking for ‘something’ but we don’t know what, its in this city but his army is so close. A little help please”.

It was obvious who the final question was directed to, it was delivered with mirth, Joseph was now laughing and, with no other emotion left to show, Johan laughed as well.

“Do you think there is a plan for everything Johan? 1800 years ago do you think it was planned that you and I would be sat in the shithole cage of a fat Merchant, talking about long distant events. I really hope not, surprise is the only thing keeping me motivated, and even then it doesn’t happen often enough……. It’s about time”

So caught up had he been in sombre words and pure laughter that Johan had not noticed the initial knock on the door that had brought Josephs final words, the second knock brought him crashing back to the here and now.

The guard also heard the second knock and slowly gathered his senses, he coughed sleepily and wiped the back of his hand over his mouth, removing the drool. Standing up he grabbed the small table light and moved to the main dungeon door, opening a small hatch he peered out. After a short conversation, which was too muted to make out, the door was opened. Johan was ready for the executioner but was surprised to see the same female that had so obviously caught the eye of both the Guild Master and more surprisingly, Joseph.

She moved seductively into the small chamber, taking the guards hand in hers. The guard was visibly excited and he crudely pawed and her buttocks as he pulled her towards him. She gave him a coy kiss on the cheek and pushing him away in a playful manner she nodded towards the small table while beginning to unlace the top of her green corseted dress.

The guard smiled a wicked, toothless grin and nodded excitedly, fumbling at the cord keeping his trousers up. The well dressed servant sat on the table now and lifted her dress to her knees, shaking with excitement the guard moved towards her, standing between her legs he roughly bent forward to kiss her. It was the last thing he ever did. Her short blade cut straight through the soft tissue under his chin and the force of the blow carried the knife through the top of his mouth and into his brain, she twisted it and left it there as she kicked him away. The expression on her face had not changed throughout, killing, it would seem came as naturally as enchanting.

As she rearranged her skirts and turned towards the cells that contained the two men she did smile, and by God she was beautiful. Tall for a woman, she was dressed in an expensive but not gaudy green dress of satin that looked so out of place in these surroundings. Her dark hair was held behind her head in a long braid, exposing a face of acute angles. Raised cheekbones caught the dim light and from what Johan could make out she had dark eyes to match a dark, tanned Western European complexion.

“Now, what shall I do with you, do you know how long I have wanted you at my mercy, in a place of my choosing that you cannot just disappear from. Ah the power…” she trailed off with a giggle, a purely bewitching sound, she seemed genuinely delighted by the situation.

“Melina, this is no time for games”

Joseph replied in a stern voice but it was obvious he had enjoyed her playful tone, and what made it more frustrating for Johan was the realisation that he had been killing time until her arrival. The revelations he had just made, he had told him all of that, bared his soul, and all the while he knew that Johan was not in danger of death, why now, why had Joseph picked now to tell him what so few had been told?

“I mean it Melina, open this door now, we have a fat Merchant to speak to”

CHAPTER 2

Malta – 10th June 1798

The sound of velvet slippered feet against the cold stones of the temple floor disturbed Ferdinand von Hompesch zu Bolheim from his afternoon prayers in the large chapel based deep in the heart of the citadel.

The air here was a pleasing cool and offered a welcome change from the scorching heat of the ramparts. He rose slowly, taking his time to hear the news that he already knew. He straightened the robes of his position, he had been Grand Master of the Knights of St John for just under a year but had taken to the life well. He wore his tunic with pride but had exploited his position as best he could.

Born in the village of Bolheim, Hompesch came from a privileged background and joined the Knights at a young age, serving his apprenticeship as the page to Grand Master Manuel Pinto da Fonseca and it was from him that he learned the true meaning of the knights. This was not a life of monastic piety but an Order of ambition, a secret ambition born on the banks of the Tiber centuries before. Napoleon can have his moment, Hompesch thought to himself while playing the events that were to follow in his mind. This must go well, he thought.

Once outside the chapel, the code of silence lifted, the squire spoke to the Grand Master in a reverent but matter of fact way. “Sir, the French main fleet has landed, we must about the defenses. The council has gathered in the Great Hall awaiting your direction”

“Thank you Schmidt, stop frowning boy, the Lord God will look after us, trust in that” with those words they carried on in silence until, after roughly 10 minutes had passed they came into the Citadels Great Hall.

It was a truly magnificent room and the only place in the citadel that contained colour. Four thick stone walls and a high wooden beamed ceiling, on one side light poured in through intricate arrow slits and on all other walls there hung burning oil lamps and candles. Two long tables ran down the centre of the hall with a raised platform at one end which contained 3 chairs, in the centre was the Grand Masters chair with one seat on either side for his advisors. Behind the chairs hung a giant tapestry, now slightly tattered and light faded, it depicted the raising of the Order of St John over 9 centuries prior.

The room was full and the acoustics were being well utilised as men shouted at each other, the very semblance of disorder, Hompesch was a little embarrassed by the scene. As he strode across the Great Hall silence fell until the only sound was his boots in the stone and clink of his sword in its intricate metal scabbard.

“My Lord, forgive me but you were wrong to disregard the warning from Sir David of the Cult’de Arimathea, the French have landed with almost 30,000 soldiers.”

The accusation from Sir Thomas Blethshire was as a subtle as a hammer on glass and it annoyed Hompesch to see a few of the other young knight’s nod in agreement. He kept his council as the great hall erupted in argument and counter argument with the older Knights defending the Grand Master and his decision to reject the advice of Joseph when he was there 2 weeks prior. Of course they had no idea who he actually was, believing he was a representative of the Cult of Arimathea, a cunning deception on Joseph’s part but Hompesch knew the truth, he had known for some time, or at the very least he knew Joseph was far more important than the ‘David’ he was travelling as.

“In all honesty it does not matter what ‘was’ said and what ‘was’ planned, what matters now! What are we to do now that the French army has landed, I mean, we have the provision for a siege, we have 7,000 men of Godly stock, our stone is strong and our weapons sharp!”

Sir John St John completed his small speech by drawing his sword, gaining yells of approval and a great deal of back slapping from those around him.

“No.” Sir Pierre Von Henry contested. “We cannot withstand the French army forever. We must seek terms at the earliest opportunity and ascertain what they want of us. Perhaps it is as the French Captain requested 3 days ago before we rudely evicted him, they only want to get some water provision before the advance South on Egypt. As I am of French stock I would volunteer my services as envoy”

“I would wager my horse that you do, all in the name of the Order I am sure. Horse shit! You’ll line your pockets first” shouted Sir St John back, his sword still drawn. At the sign of obvious belligerence Sir Von Henry drew his sword and that was followed by the sound of metal on scabbard echoing across the Great Hall as the senior soldiers of the Order picked a side, it was at that moment the Grand Master Hompesch lifted his voice above the raucous.

“The Knights of St John do NOT bicker and argue like spoilt politicians or clucking women! I have listened to your ‘council’ for over an hour now and I have decided. Sir St John, put away your sword”.

Obligingly he did just that and the gesture was mirrored across the Hall. Realising that he had stood up when he spoke, Hompesch returned to his chair and sat down and continued in a more calm and controlled manner, as befitted his station. “I have decided that I will meet with the French Commander and seek terms for the surrender of the citadel.”

And that was it. The room exploded in anger. Men were shouting at each other and at Hompesch, it became so heated that some of the door guards moved closer to the Grand Master as if fearing attack, it was simply inexperience on their part as the knights would never come to blows in this Hall, or so Hompesch genuinely hoped. After roughly 20 minutes, when the most vitriolic anger had been expended and the room began again to quiet, Hompesch continued.

“Why should we lose men, good men to hold back the tide of History. You said it yourself Sir St John, 7,000 men. Napoleon has over 4 times that number, almost 30,000 men, with cannon and time.”

He let the last words linger a moment before speaking again with calm precision, he hoped his words did not seem rehearsed.

“Why should men die? The French will have the island of Malta, they will ravage it until it has nothing left to give, and all the while we starve behind our walls as they pound us to dust. For what? Eh, St John. We have a little wealth behind these walls and I plan to negotiate a good settlement. Let the French have what they came here for. We have no allegiance to the British and they will have their hands busy soon enough. The time has come for us to pick a side, for the Knights of St John to mean something again and if we have to pander to that little, greasy shit from Corsica to return us to a position of ‘real’ influence then so be it. I shall receive them at dawn.”

With that he stood up and strode down the centre of the Hall to the exit, the sounds of joyous triumph in his ears as loud shouts of agreement drowned out the fewer dissenters. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Sir John St John, seething.

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“He’s pissed off at something Pierre, I have no idea what.” XX stood on the deck of XX the French flagship. ‘He should be happy as a bishop in a whorehouse’ XX thought to himself. “I don’t understand why we are hanging around here, I want to feel the ground, ground not planks of wood under my feet. I’m a soldier Pierre and this isn’t right. We should have fired the first shot at the little piss ants in their ‘citadel’ by now, but we wait. The ambassador has been gone hours and I’m surprised his head hasn’t been returned to us in a basket”

The frustration built up over the past 2 weeks flowed from XX but there was little point to it. Pierre knew his friend well enough to know that he was just blustering. It was strange though, why was Napoleon waiting to hear terms from Grand Master Hompesch, why not just open the citadel like a walnut as they had the artillery to do it.

“Why don’t you ask him” was all the Pierre XX could muster while pointing at the closed door to the Generals cabin. For his remark he earned a grunt from XX.

Instead of speaking to Napoleon Bonaparte, XX turned again to look over the Citadel of the Knights of St John. Despite his bluster it would not be an easy nut to crack and there was sense in some form of negotiation. (Describe Malta – Study the citadel. How old, built by who and for what purpose. Who did it belong to previously, when did it last fall, was it a crusade stronghold, if so, by who. Did Richard 1st visit?)

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Napoleon Bonaparte surveyed Malta from the deck of the ship xx. What he saw was xx. Having had his fill of the Maltese sunshine for the morning he retired indoors to his state cabin. As grand a cabin as the navy could prepare at the short notice given by the Directorate.

Napoleon was alone with his thoughts but they troubled him. He had sailed for xx on the premise of disrupting the British supply routes, providing them with a Mediterranean headache as well as offering the Directorate a series of victories in battle, the greatest sort of government propaganda. But the Directorates goal was not Napoleon’s, he could play their game for the time being but things were dangerous, had they known his true goal, the true reason behind the campaign, he may well find his head in a basket next to the aristocracy.

A smart, soldier like rap at the door brought Napoleon from his meandering thoughts. “Come”. XX promptly entered, trailed by Pierre, both were able soldiers and he had worked with them long enough to know that they were true to the cause of the Republic, but would they be true to his cause. Now was not the time to find out.

“Has the ambassador returned from his audience with Hompeesch?”

Despite the fact he asked the question there seemed no interest in the answer, like he already knew that, firstly, Luke Deveraux had returned and, secondly, that Grand Master Von Hompesch had requested an audience. “I shall receive him at dawn, now leave me in peace, I have much planning to complete. I want you both to begin preparation for the siege of Malta. Is the cordon in place? Good. I don’t want anybody, male, female, knight, soldier, servant or child to leave that place without them being brought to me.”

With that he turned to his desk and began to shuffle through some inconsequential papers. Once he heard both the door behind him close and the footsteps outs ide grow quieter he took a small key from a cord around his neck and opened the lock on his ornate desk drawer. He looked down, reverently at the contents of the drawer, his fingers caressed the dark leather of the books bindings, now shiny through age and human touch. The inscription on the side of the book read, “Items of Great Value to the Holy Roman Empire – Constantine”. It was old, written by the first emperor of Rome in 414AD. It was a shopping list of sorts, listing religious artifacts that Emperor Constantine deemed important enough to devote an Empire’s resources into finding.

Napoleon had read the book many times but, despite being able to recite the words precisely, he sought reassurance in the printed words. Most of the book was filled with such whimsical fantasy that even the most ardent Papist would deem it fairytales and nonsense. ‘Most of the book’ he thought to himself as it naturally fell open at the point he always began reading its intricate and occasionally cryptic Latin.

The cross meant nothing to executioners. When the body of the Son of God was removed from it by Mary Mother of Jesus it was splintered asunder into six pieces by the weight of God. These pieces were collected by the Holy Disciples and taken with care to far flung corners of the world. It was believed that the power of God would accompany these pieces and so it transpired as the stories of miracles followed in their wake. Over time these stories dwindled until now, they are but a whisper. I empower my most trusted man in Rome, Consul Gaius Platus with the collection of these ever so Holy of relics so that the power of The True Cross may be delivered unto us in his debt. For Ever.

Napoleon smiled inwardly. He had already collected 4 of the pieces of the true cross and was well on his way to collecting another.

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Chapter 1