The Spear of Tyranny Read online

  THE SPEAR OF TYRANNY

  THE SPEAR OF TYRANNY

  GRANT R. JEFFREY AND ANGELA HUNT

  Copyright © 2000 by Grant R. Jeffrey and Angela E. Hunt

  Published by Word Publishing, Nashville, Tennessee. All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any other means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  Scripture quotations in this book are taken from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Wheaton, IL 60189. All rights reserved.

  Old Testament quotes referred to by Jewish characters are from The Holy Scriptures, Hebrew and English, The Society for Distributing Hebrew Scriptures, Middlesex, England.

  Other Scripture references are from the Holy Bible, New International Version (NIV). Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan Bible Publishers.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Jeffrey, Grant R.

  The spear of tyranny / Grant Jeffrey and Angela Hunt.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 0-8499-4238-1 (tp)

  1. Second Advent—Fiction. I. Hunt, Angela Elwell,

  1957– II. Title.

  PS3560.E436 S74 2000

  813'54—dc21

  00-043432

  CIP

  Printed in the United States of America

  0 1 2 3 4 5 6 BVG 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  CONTENTS

  AUTHORS’ NOTE

  PROLOGUE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  AUTHORS’ NOTE

  LIKE ITS PREDECESSOR, By Dawn’s Early Light, THIS is a work of fiction based upon certain historical, present, and future facts. Isaac and Sarah Ben-David, Baram Cohen, Thomas Parker, and Adrian Romulus have been created from imagination. Their function is to represent people who will live through situations and circumstances similar to those detailed in these pages.

  This novel depicts future events, predicted in biblical prophecy, as they could unfold. The archeology described, as well as the information about the Copper Scroll, is historical. The Spear of Longinus exists and currently resides in Vienna’s Hofburg Imperial Palace.

  Because novels should be fixed in a time and place, this story mentions certain plausible dates. We would not, however, want a reader to assume that we are predicting the timing of any prophetic events. Scripture makes it clear that no man knows the hour of the Lord’s return for his church and other future events will unfold after that momentous occasion.

  It is our prayer that you will take this story to heart and walk in hope as the day of Christ’s coming approaches. Each day that passes is one less to wait.

  Maranatha! The Lord returns!

  The Spear of Longinus

  Located at The Hofburg Treasure House,

  Vienna, Austria

  Adolph Hitler Examining the Spear of Longinus with the Imperial treasures on the night Germany conquered Austria, March 11, 1938.

  The scene of the German Fuhrer standing there before the ancient weapon must be regarded as the most critical moment of the twentieth century until the Americans claimed the Spear in Nuremburg in 1945.

  HISTORIAN TREVOR RAVENSCROFT,

  The Spear of Destiny, New York: G.P. Putnam’s Sons, 1973

  PROLOGUE

  The Treasure House, Imperial Palace, Vienna

  THE MUSEUM CURATOR PAUSED BEFORE THE DISPLAY. His hand trembled slightly as he gestured toward the velvet-lined case. “And here, of course, we have the famous Spear of Longinus, also known as the Maurice Lance. There is a legend associated with the spear; perhaps you are familiar—”

  Adrian Romulus interrupted with an uplifted hand. “I know it well.”

  The curator fell silent and backed away as Romulus planted himself directly before the ancient artifact that had held Adolf Hitler spellbound. That German dictator referred to the spear as his “talisman of power.” Owning it became an obsession for him, driving him nearly to the point of madness.

  The crude weapon was certainly not much to look at. Safe within its protective glass case, the iron spearhead rested on a red velvet pillow. A wide base with metal flanges supported the long, tapered point. A hammer-headed nail lay within a central depression in the flat blade, secured by thin metal wire. Some pious soul had embossed a pair of golden crosses on the lowest portion of the base.

  According to legend, the nail came from the cross of Christ. And some believed that this spearhead, black with age and infamy, was the blade that pierced the side of Jesus of Nazareth, drawing forth blood and water in a gruesome flow. Rumor held that whoever claimed this spear would rule the world.

  Romulus reached out and pressed his hand to the cold glass. Like lines from a forgotten poem, Hitler’s notation about the spear rose upon a tide of memory:

  I knew with immediacy that this was an important moment in my life and yet I could not divine why an outwardly Christian symbol should make such an impression upon me. . . . I felt as though I myself had held it in my hands in some earlier century of history—that I myself had once claimed it as my talisman of power and held the destiny of the world in my hands. Yet how could this be possible? What sort of madness was this that was invading my mind and creating such turmoil in my breast?

  What, indeed, had aroused Hitler as he stood in this spot? The weapon was just one of thousands of historical objets d’art in this museum and one of hundreds of spearheads allegedly used at the Crucifixion.

  Romulus stared at the black spearhead as if he could glimpse a picture of the future forming on its dark surface. Could the legend be true? Hitler had believed it, and so had Napoleon. Even Gen. George Patton had gazed at this object in wonder when he pulled it from the secret vault in Nuremberg where Hitler had stashed his treasures . . .

  Romulus shivered as an icy draft swirled from the domed ceiling above him. Strange, how the glass beneath his palm no longer felt cold, as if it had been warmed by his touch. The room, however, was chilly, kept cool and dry by an air-conditioning system meant to guard valuable imperial treasures of the ancient Hapsburg dynasty.

  Stepping closer, he pressed his other hand to the glass, then lifted his head as the truth jolted him. The glass had warmed as he stood here, as if the spear had basked in his regard.

  He stood silently, barely daring to breathe, as an odd warmth settled over him, a moist and darkly textured sensation like a breath from the supernatural realm. The sounds and scents of the museum faded into obscurity, while upon its bed of faded velvet the iron spearhead began to glow.

  Romulus felt the breath of a supernatural being brush his cheek, stirring the air and lifting the hair upon his forehead.

  Hitler was not mad.

  A mocking voice, deep and resonant, whispered in Romulus’s ear.

  He knew the secret to world domination; he re
cognized the truth when he saw it. This is the talisman of power, the key to total victory. All who possess it shall control others, but woe to him from whom it is taken.

  An incorporeal veil lifted from Romulus’s eyes, exposing the swarm of transparent beings that flitted around the glass case. Bright and liquid, they flowed in a dimension Romulus accepted without understanding. Some of them, he knew instinctively, stood guard; others swirled around the display case in a frenzy of adoration and reverence.

  The master had chosen this object. He had imbued it with power, and these immortal guardians had been placed here to safeguard it . . . until a man was found worthy to claim the spear and all it promised.

  He would be the man. Romulus knew and accepted the call even as the deep voice of his spirit counselor confirmed it.

  Romulus closed his eyes as the bright vision dimmed. When he lifted his lids again, the veil had dropped back into place. He was not surprised to see the curator regarding him with a curious expression. How long had he been staring at the spear? One minute, or ten? It didn’t matter. When the time was right, he would claim the spear, by force if necessary. And with it firmly in his grasp, he would control the world’s destiny and accomplish the task Hitler had failed to complete.

  It was only a matter of time.

  ONE

  CAREFULLY MANEUVERING BETWEEN HIS EAGER DOG, her leash, and the front door, Isaac Ben-David stepped out onto his porch and shivered in the heavy morning air. The sky over Jerusalem wore a yellowish-purple tint, almost bruised-looking, and the birds that customarily warbled throughout the morning were silent. Even Lily, who usually pulled at the leash in mindless exuberance, stood in an uncertain stance at the porch’s edge, her nostrils quivering as she parsed the atmosphere.

  A sense of unease crept into Isaac’s mood like a shadow. Obeying instincts forged through years of military training, he commanded the retriever to sit, then stepped forward and glanced quickly left and right, evaluating the activity on the street. Unlike some districts, the German Colony of Jerusalem was not known for boisterous crowds, religious fervor, or teenage hijinks. Elderly couples occupied the houses on both sides of the Ben-Davids, and a young family with two school-age children had recently rented the house across the tree-lined street.

  The blinds in the young couple’s house were still closed against the morning light, and that was how it should be. The children would not head off to school for another hour. The older folks to Isaac’s left and right were probably up and active, but he had never known them to be noisy.

  He caught his breath and listened. The muffled chatter of the television news bled through the window; a car with bad brakes squealed at the stop sign half a block away. No other sound reached his ears. A Sabbath stillness reigned in this most secular of neighborhoods, with nothing but mechanical inventions to disturb it. Isaac could find no reason for the dog’s hesitation or his own sense of foreboding.

  Shoving his wariness aside, Isaac lifted the collar of his coat and stepped out onto the narrow walkway, assuring the golden retriever that nothing was amiss. The dog fell into step beside him, her whiskers quivering with the ghost of a growl.

  From the house next door, Mrs. Arnan hobbled out onto her front porch, rocking slowly from side to side in the manner of the very old. She saw Isaac and lifted a gloved hand, to which he responded with a wave of his own. Why did she wear gloves? The idle question pricked his brain. October in Jerusalem was cool, not cold, but the chill probably affected the elderly more than the young.

  Mrs. Arnan had walked no farther than the edge of her porch when Isaac and Lily reached her gate. He paused and lowered his hand, offering to open the gate for her, but she waved him away with a grimace. “Go along there, young man,” she called. “Don’t wait on an old woman. You’ve a wife and baby to tend to.”

  Isaac’s polite smile froze as a flash of wild grief ripped through him. Yes, he had a wife. And a neighbor whose memory had seriously begun to slip.

  Looking away, he thrust his hands into his coat pockets and lowered his head, focusing on the dog and her curiosity about every fence post and tuft of grass. He chided himself for the resentment that had risen in him after the old woman’s remark, though she had unwittingly unearthed a sorrow he could not lay to rest . . .

  Traffic had picked up by the time Isaac reached the corner newsstand. Ehud, the vendor, offered a smile along with Isaac’s customary cup of coffee and newspaper. “A good morning to you, Isaac Ben-David,” he said, snapping a plastic cover on the foam coffee cup. “And may you find more good news in your day than you’ll find in today’s Jerusalem Post.”

  “That shouldn’t be too difficult.” Isaac pulled money from his pocket and placed it on the counter, then took the paper without looking at the headlines. As he tucked the folded paper beneath his arm, Lily leaped upward, planting both paws on the edge of Ehud’s booth.

  “Ah, my beautiful Lily, I have not forgotten you.” Ehud ducked down for a moment, disappearing beneath the newspaper-laden counter, then reappeared with a large dog biscuit. “My golden girl has such beautiful manners.”

  As Lily gently took the treat from the vendor’s hand, Isaac felt the corner of his mouth lift in a wry smile. Though war and devastation had wracked the city beyond his street, this one ritual had remained nearly constant for four years. Lily and Ehud had been exchanging morning compliments for as long as Isaac and Sarah had been married.

  “Lily says thank you very much,” Isaac murmured as the retriever dropped to devour her snack. “She also says you are the kindest vendor in Israel.”

  Ehud smiled, his gold front tooth gleaming in the misty air. “I would never doubt the word of a beautiful lady.” He tilted his head and looked pointedly at something beyond Isaac. “Here comes your neighbor. Every morning, the same thing: two bagels with lox and one Jerusalem Post.” He leaned closer. “When her husband is not along, she also buys one copy of the Prattler. Mrs. Arnan likes her gossip.”

  Isaac grunted agreeably as he sipped his coffee. He didn’t need to look to know that Mrs. Arnan was rocking her way up the sidewalk, her stout form enveloped in a dark woolen coat, her hands gloved, a white scarf wrapped around her head. She might smile and greet him, having forgotten that they had just spoken, but if she mentioned his family again . . .

  He was about to thank the newspaper vendor and retreat when he saw Ehud’s eyes widen in alarm. “By all that’s holy—”

  Isaac turned. Mrs. Arnan still stood on the sidewalk, but she was no longer moving toward them. From out of the bruised sky a crow had descended to attack the elderly woman. Mrs. Arnan lifted her hands and was striking blindly at the approaching assailant, but the huge bird would not be dissuaded. As the crow’s black wings pounded the air, Mrs. Arnan’s high, thin squeal shattered the dense stillness of the morning.

  For an instant, Isaac’s mind went blank with shock, then he rushed forward, oblivious to everything but the bizarre bird and the panicked woman. The crow’s sharp beak pecked at Mrs. Arnan’s exposed forehead, peppering her pale skin with red wounds. A trickle of blood began to flow from the woman’s brow, and her mechanical movements ineffectively batted against an enemy she could not see through her tightly closed eyelids.

  Isaac ran toward her, bellowing as he waved his arms. He hoped the commotion would frighten the animal, but the crow did not abandon his target. Upon reaching his neighbor, Isaac lifted his hands and caught hold of the bird’s glossy body. He felt the rush of wind, a featherweight structure of skeleton and feathers, then a substantial amount of pain as the crow jabbed at the tender flap between his thumb and index finger.

  In an instinct far more primitive than his survival training, Isaac slammed the bird toward the sidewalk. He had forgotten about the leash and the dog still attached to his wrist, but Lily, born and bred to the hunt, saw the malignant crow as prey. As Lily leaped forward and sank her teeth into the bird’s neck, Isaac heard the snap and crackle of cartilage.

  With the bird hanging li
feless in her jaws, the retriever looked up, expecting congratulations. A few feet away, Mrs. Arnan collapsed on the sidewalk.

  Isaac took a moment to catch his breath, then knelt to tend the trembling woman. As he sank to her side, he saw that her wounds were superficial—cuts on the forehead and scalp and probably beneath the knitted wool of her scarf and gloves—and the creature had not harmed her eyes.

  Isaac helped Mrs. Arnan sit up, then slipped an arm around her and urged her to stand. “Come, you must sit in our friend Ehud’s booth while we call your husband.” He cast the stunned vendor a pointed look as he led the woman toward the newspaper stall. “You will be fine, Mrs. Arnan. A strange accident, to be sure, but you are not much hurt.”

  “What happened here?”

  A new voice reached his ears. Isaac looked toward the sound and saw that a small crowd had materialized on the corner; one car had even stopped in the middle of the intersection. A red-faced man in a suit stood next to the car, his face contorted into a human question mark. “I looked up and saw the creature fighting with you and that woman—”

  “It was only a crow.” Isaac glanced down at Lily, who had lowered the bird to Ehud’s feet as if she were presenting her favorite newspaper vendor with a trophy. “Just an ordinary crow.”

  “Pretty freaky, if you ask me.” A teenage girl dressed completely in black stood outside the newspaper stall and puffed on a cigarette. “Like that Hitchcock movie. What if all the birds start to attack us?”

  “This bird was probably sick.” Ehud scuffed the feathered creature with the toe of his shoe, then bent down and grasped a leathery foot. “We’d better wrap it in newspaper and save it for the authorities. They might want to make sure it didn’t have a disease that could infect the others.”

  The crowd slowly dispersed, returning to their homes and businesses. As Isaac settled Mrs. Arnan in the folding chair inside Ehud’s small booth, he wondered if the man’s hypothesis was true. Rabies could cause dogs and cats and raccoons to act strangely—but could birds contract rabies? And if they could contract an infectious disease like rabies, had Lily been exposed?