After The Cross

Lynch & Barr/After the Cross 1
AFTER THE CROSS
by
Brandon Barr
Mike Lynch
Chapter 1
May 22nd, present day, Constantinople Library excavation site, Istanbul,

Turkey
A solitary figure emerged from the shadows, darkness draping him like a
smooth leather glove. Dressed in black beret and fatigues, Emel Dwayat‟s
profile was indistinguishable from the mouth of the ancient portico. He
pulled the AK-47 closer and slipped towards the flicker of movement
under the eastern roof of the Constantinople Library. Despite his muscular
frame, he maneuvered nimbly down the remnants of the 1600-year old
corridor, keeping to shadows as he crept towards the point of motion,
cursing the day he‟d agreed to work for a woman—and an English woman
at that.
Dwayat scanned the eastern roof, lying half-exposed, rising from the
ground like the bones of a giant derelict. The size of the structure and
multi-leveled trenches recently carved out by the dig team made a direct
line of sight all but impossible. Securing the place was a joke. The
grounds were littered with runs and hiding holes so intricate, he would
have needed an army to defend it. Complicating the defense further was
the English archeologist‟s notion that 500-watt spotlights mounted in the
middle of the excavation would deter looters.
Nothing could have been more ridiculous. Dwayat had warned Dr. Lewis
countless times those infernal lights would do more harm than good; that
his eyes worked better in darkness where he held the element of surprise,
but his advice had not been taken.
Ironic, he thought. She hadn‟t hired him because of his ruthless

reputation; rather, he‟d impressed her with his knowledge of ancient Latin
and Greek. Maybe he should have simply shot that large brimmed hat off
her head instead of schmoozing her with a recitation from Virgil‟s
Catalepton.
“Errare humanum est,” he growled under his breath.
Silence was still his friend, if darkness wasn‟t. He squatted behind a patch
of the library‟s scorched roof. Among the music of distant crickets came
the quick patter of rubber-soled shoes running on sand—the insects went
quiet.
Coming to his feet, he pressed his AK-47 against his shoulder and
searched for movement. The dark green foliage skirting the excavation‟s
ridges rustled softly as a series of freshly dug archways glowed painfully
under the glaring spotlights. Otherwise, silence. Nothing.
The crickets‟ music bleated again.
Dwayat reached for the two-way radio piece in his ear. “Hassam,” he
whispered in heightened Turkish, “the Devil is out tonight.”
Static crackled in reply. “You‟re not hearing things again?” asked a voice
in his earpiece.
Dwayat frowned at Hassam‟s playful tone. His counterpart was an

indolent, inexperienced young man, the job nothing more than an easy
paycheck. Dwayat had little tolerance for such fools. In this line of work,
it was either kill or be killed; it was not uncommon to find a guard‟s throat
slit in the morning, and artifacts long gone. He himself bore the scars of
three knife fights and a bullet wound in the leg.
“If I catch you asleep tonight, Hassam, I will carve my name in your chest.
Do you hear me?”
His radio fell silent. The message had been received.
***
Malik al-Hassam rose from the slab of marble where he‟d been resting,
brushing off the ever-present dust that filled the halls of the half buried
Constantinople Library. He readjusted the beret just above his eyebrows.
A quick thumb against his lighter and a cigarette glowed to life in his
mouth. Hassam bent down and picked up his rifle, figuring he‟d do his
required rounds, and then find another place to sit where he could hear the
old fox coming.
Metallic clanking sounds shuddered down the corridor. Crouching low, he

tossed the cigarette from his mouth and slipped his finger around the
trigger.
Hassam offered a quick prayer to Allah for protection, and then navigated
the lightless passageways towards the source of the noise. He neared a
junction leading north to the records hall. Dozens of charred but
recognizable manuscripts had been discovered there, though most had
been reduced to cinders when the Ottoman Turks set fire to the library in
1453.
The opposite hall led to the heavily seared corridor with adjoining alcoves
for private reading, and at the corridor‟s end, the newly unearthed
chamber of the priests was littered with charred remains, save two
surviving bookshelves that had miraculously survived the flames. A soft
light flickered against its walls.
Hassam fingered his earpiece. “Dwayat, there is someone down here.

Where are you?”
Dwayat hissed with excitement. “Cut them off. I‟ll come down from the
western entrance. Whichever way they go, we‟ll be waiting for them.”
A wrenching nausea assaulted Hassam‟s stomach as he turned the corner.

Dwayat panted from his earpiece, “And Hassam, don‟t forget to switch
your safety off.”
Hassam cursed silently as he brought up his weapon and flipped the switch
near the trigger. He looked forward again and crept along the hallway of
alcoves, carefully placing each step. Ahead, the frantic motion of a small
flashlight dashed about the corridor. Hugging the wall close, he slid
forward, his automatic pointed at the mottled gray entrance. For a
moment, the flashlights moved out of view, then suddenly they went dark.
Hassam froze, his heart pounding. A man‟s panicky voice said something
in an unfamiliar dialect. The voice cut short, and an unchecked pounding
of feet echoed off the stone floor. Two shadows flew from the priest‟s
chambers straight for him.
The deafening roar from Hassam‟s AK-47 pierced the hallway. His gun
arched back and forth in quick stuttered waves. The weapon‟s discharge
flamed a pulsating orange light against the stunned faces of two black-
cloaked men. Searing pain bit Hassam in the arm, driving him backwards,
and he sprang into an alcove.
He tried to control his breathing and remain quiet as warm blood flowed
from his right bicep.
With stunning brightness, a light glared to life outside his hiding place.
Dwayat‟s harsh tone came from the corridor. “Hassam, you jackrabbit.
Come out of your hole.”
When Hassam stepped into the muted light, his partner was standing near
one of two bodies. Dwayat‟s flashlight swept through the area until it
hesitated on a shiny metal box partially obscured by one of the dead men‟s
hands. Hassam knelt beside him without speaking, his body trembling,
gunfire still ringing in his ear.
“Sir,” he finally sputtered, “I‟ve been shot.”
The old fox glanced at his bloodied arm and laughed. “These men have
no guns. You shot yourself you idiot. One of the rounds must have
ricocheted off the wall.”
Hassam ran his fingers along the injury. “I‟ve had worse.”
His attention returned to the two dead men. Dwayat slipped the metallic
box from under the man‟s lifeless fingers, then blew away a thin layer of
dust revealing a seal imbedded into the silvery surface. Even a superficial
look at it told him this was artifact was important.
Hassam cast a glance at the man and then back at the box. Important
enough to die for?
“They came for this,” Dwayat concluded as he stared at the inscription.

“Curious. It‟s as if they knew where to look.”
Hassam fixed his gaze on the two men. “But that doesn‟t make any sense.
This place has been buried for hundreds of years. How could they know
what was here?”
“I cannot say.” Dwayat studied the inscription a second time. “The

writing here is Latin. Very old.”
His partner squinted at the symbols. “How can you tell?”
“Years of observation and study, Hassam. Unlike you, I do not spend my

time idly. I watch. I listen.” Dwayat pointed at one of the dead men‟s
chests. “If you were smart, you would have at least learned to shoot by
now. Look at the pockmarks you made all over the walls. It‟s a miracle
you hit these men at all.”
Hassam pressed closer. “What does the inscription say?”
“It‟s some kind of royal crest. Whom it belongs to, I‟m not certain. There
aren‟t any names. But do you see that word below the crest? VERITAS.
Truth.”
Curiosity settled into Hassam‟s gaze. “Let‟s look inside.”
With a nod, Dwayat unlatched a gold clasp and flipped the top open.
Inside, a partially folded parchment lay in the shadows. With a delicate
touch, he lifted it from the box.
Even in the dim light, a single name jumped off the page.
“Imad ad-din al-Isfahani,” Dwayat whispered, as though he feared to say

the name aloud.
Hassam stared in disbelief. “Al-Isfahani was the advisor of Saladin the

Great.” He pointed at the document with an accusatory finger. “Why
would this be in a library of the infidels?”
“Shut up!” commanded Dwayat, scanning the parchment.
As the minutes passed, Hassam watched fear edge into the hallows of his
partner‟s face until, finally, his patience broke. “Can you read it?”
Dwayat put a finger to his lips, his eyes never wavering from the
mysterious words.
Hassam felt a growing dread and glanced at the two men, their cloaks half-
covering their lifeless bodies.
The old fox‟s breathing grew shallow and his eyes drifted up from the
letter. “The Devil has indeed come to Istanbul tonight.”
Hassam glanced at the parchment, then back at the two bodies. “Why do
you announce the Devil‟s presence? These men are dead; if the Devil was
here, he is gone.”
“No!” Dwayat took in his surroundings. “The Devil remains.”
He refolded the parchment and placed it back inside the silver box, and
then a look of horror studded his face.
“What is it!” demanded Hassam.
The room throbbed with silence. Dwayat‟s eyes were far away, held by
something terrifying.
Hassam sensed another presence in the room, ghost-like and evil. An urge
passed through him to claw at Dwayat‟s face—to viciously club him with
his gun.
“Speak!” he hissed.
“A map,” said his partner softly, staring into the night. “The letter is a
map.”
“To what?”
Dwayat slowly withdrew from the spell he‟d been caught in. His eyes
locked with Hassam‟s. “A map to the Cross.”
“What are you talking about? What cross?”
Dwayat licked his lips. “The letter refers to the cross of Yeshua, and al-
Isfahani‟s involvement in its survival.”
“A map…a map to the Cross? From the first century?”
“Yes.”
Hassam‟s eyes drifted down, the pitch-black ground grabbing his sight
like a magnet. “The Cross,” he muttered, “of the prophet Yeshua. Allah
save us all.”
Friday, Month of Nisan, 30 A.D., Jerusalem, Israel
The cross dug into Yeshua‟s bloodied shoulder as he dragged the heavy
beam through the streets. At a bend in the road, he caught a stone and fell.
The blood loss from the scourging had been so severe; the weight of the
cross finally overcame him.
A Roman soldier ran to where he lay face down on the cobblestones.

Throwing back his whip, he struck his shredded back. “Get up you dog!”
he spat, striking again.
The angry throngs pressed in, drawn by a cruelty not aimed at them, their
shouts and taunts growing louder after each blow.
When it became clear to the soldier Yeshua could no longer carry the one
hundred and twenty minas of weight, the Roman spun around and
searched the crowds. “You!” he barked. “What‟s your name?”
A man who stood a few cubits from the cross pointed to himself. “Me?”
“Yes, you. Your name!”
“Simon of Cyrene,” he replied in a guarded tone.
The Roman marched over to the side of the sun-baked road. “Pick up his
cross. We haven‟t got all day.” He turned to the men under his command.
“Untie this criminal and lash it to this Jew here.”
The procession reached the top of Golgotha, a parade from all walks of
life. The crowds followed closely, all except a small group of men dressed
in priestly robes who held a wary distance.
One of them stepped in front of the others, never taking his gaze off
Yeshua. He stood tall, proud. “We‟ll wait here until the deceiver has
been crucified.”
“But, Caiaphas,” said one of the priests, “why go up there at all? The
Romans will see to this themselves. We should have no part in Yeshua‟s
execution.”
The high priest shook his head. “You know what I said about him; how I
prophesied that he should die. How would it appear if I stayed away when
that prophecy came true?”
A simple nod from the younger priest said what words could not.
When the small cadre reached the top of Golgotha, Yeshua, along with
two other condemned criminals, had already been nailed to their crosses.
A stiff wind had blown in dark clouds, and a tall man yelled, “You who
are going to destroy the temple and rebuild it in three days, save yourself!”
Some of the people nearest him began to laugh, and an old man with a
stale stench of wine on his breath said, “If you are the Son of God, come
down from the cross.”
Caiaphas studied the reactions of the people around him. Most were
jeering and mocking Yeshua. A few, however, grieved, especially a
handful of women weeping at the base of his cross.
Stepping forward, the high priest shouted, “He saved others, but he can‟t
save himself. If he is the king of Israel, let him come down from the
cross, and then we shall believe him.”
Laughter erupted from several pockets of people dotting the craggy hilltop
As the hours passed, silence settled on the curious throngs. Caiaphas

noticed Yeshua struggling to speak. It relieved him to see this self-
proclaimed “son of God” dying like any other man. Weak. Fighting for
his every breath.
An anguished cry finally broke from Yeshua‟s lips. “It is finished!”
At that very moment, a fierce wind swooped down on the hillside,

crushing everyone like a weight. Dust and sand tormented the spectators
as they tried to cover their faces. Suddenly, the ground trembled, and even
the men screamed in terror.
“The wrath of God is upon us!” someone shouted.
Caiaphas and his fellow priests threw themselves against a large boulder
for support just as the massive rock split in half with a deafening crack.
Speechless, he motioned frantically for them to flee with the crowd. He
hurried down the steep path, and then went straight to the temple.
As he stepped into the shadows of the inner court, he found Nicodemus

waiting for him.
“The Holy of Holies,” said Nicodemus, worry tinting his words. “The veil
has been torn in two, from top to bottom.”
“What?” Caiaphas growled. “Who could have performed this sacrilege?”

He clenched his hands into a fist. “The dead man‟s followers. Of course
they‟re behind this.”
“What‟s to be done?”
“The Romans can help us. Pilate. I should speak with him.”
Nicodemus grabbed his shoulder. “But it is still Passover. It is not lawful

for you to meet with a Gentile.”
Anger flashed behind Caiaphas‟s eyes, yet he knew his old friend was
right. He could never have it said that he violated God‟s law. “Then I will
go to the governor at first light tomorrow and speak with him. I am
certain the two of us will come to an understanding.”
***
When Caiaphas and his entourage arrived, Pilate was standing on his
balcony staring down at the city. The Roman governor was dressed in
purple robes and a matching sash. Gold embroidery kissed the edges.
“Caiaphas, why am I not surprised?” Pilate went over to a table and

poured some wine into a goblet. Golden aetos, emblems of his legions,
lined one side of the room; a larger number of gladius‟ and other kinds of
swords lined the wall opposite them. “Would you like a drink?”
Caiaphas did not respond.
“No, I suppose it wouldn‟t be proper.”

Pilate placed his arm around a wooden mannequin bearing his battle
armor. He held up his cup and swallowed the wine slowly.
When he was done, Caiaphas finally spoke, “There has been talk in the
street—dangerous talk.”
“That‟s nothing new in this godforsaken place.” Pilate downed the

remaining wine. “I condemned that king of yours, and I released Barabbas
the murderer—what else do you want from me?”
“Most excellent, Pilate. Barabbas was nothing. The deceiver is the one we
have to worry about.”
Pilate‟s expression paled. “Why should I worry about a dead man?”
This was the opening the high priest needed. He chose his words with
great care. “We remember that when the deceiver was still alive he said,
„After three days I am to rise again.‟”
Staring at Jerusalem, Pilate said, “Yes, I heard about his claim—nothing

more than the ramblings of a brilliant madman.”
Caiaphas pressed closer. “It‟s not what you and I think that‟s important;
it‟s what the people think, including his disciples. The third day is
tomorrow.”
“The body has been placed in the tomb, and the grave stone rolled into
place—or would you have me hide the body in my bedchamber?”
“Please hear me out, most excellent Pilate. It wouldn‟t take a great

number of men to roll the stone back and steal his body. Then the
deceiver‟s followers could claim that he did indeed rise from the dead.”
The words chilled Caiaphas as he spoke them. “This deception would be
worse than the first.”
A look of sour wine crossed Pilate‟s face. “Ah,” he finally said.

“Rebellion ever looms in the air of this wretched place.” Pilate made as if
to sniff the air before him. “Very well,” he replied. “You‟ll have a squad
of guards. Go and make the tomb as secure as you know how.”
“Thank you, Governor, but there is one more matter that bears
discussion.”
“Which would be?” he asked doggedly.
“The deceiver‟s cross. If we have any chance of stopping his following,

we must do away with every piece of evidence that points to his
existence.”
“That cross is nothing more than two pieces of wood nailed together, one
of a thousand dotting the land. Find his followers. They pose the greater
threat than anything else.”
Caiaphas‟ muscles tensed. “It will take time. This so-called messiah has
friends in many places. Like rats, they hide in the dark corners of the city.
But they‟ll turn up sooner or later.”
A wary smile softened the governor‟s features. “Perhaps.” He paused for

a moment and wiped the sweat from his forehead. “It‟s the heat, I think.
That‟s what makes the people around here believe in these insanities.
Nevertheless, you may be right, and I shouldn‟t take any chances. Dispose
of Yeshua‟s cross as you see fit.”
Standing erect, Caiaphas answered, “Thank you, most excellent Pilate. I

believe these actions will help bring a decisive end to his so-called
following.”
The Roman governor waved his hand dismissively and turned to watch the
city below.
Caiaphas found his fellow priests waiting in the hallway just outside of the
governor‟s quarters. He handed one of them a small scroll. “Go down to
the barracks and give the centurion these orders. He and a squad of
soldiers are to secure Yeshua‟s tomb. Tell him I don‟t want anyone to get
within a hundred cubits of it.”
“You aren‟t coming with us?” one of the younger priests asked.
The high priest shook his head. “No, I must attend to another matter.”
As they nodded and left in turn, Caiaphas called aside the youngest
member of his entourage, someone he had known his entire life. “Pedaiah
ben Joseph, I have need of you.” Caiaphas put his hand on the priest‟s
shoulder. “I‟ve been given permission to dispose of the cross. I need you
to take it down, and then bury it.”
A palpable silence filled the corridor. “Bury it?” he finally replied.

“Wouldn‟t it be better to burn it instead? If we have any chance of
crushing this heresy, we must erase all traces of Yeshua.”
“The cross is only the start, Pedaiah. Hiding it in a spot known only to us
produces the same effect as burning it, with one exception—it can be
retrieved again.”
The lines on the young priest‟s forehead deepened. “Why should we want
to retrieve it?”
“Circumstances change. Priorities change. If we need additional proof of

his death, it would be a simple matter of digging up the cross and display
it for all the world to see. Either way, I would feel better if we had the
option available to us.”
Pedaiah nodded. “An excellent point.”
Caiaphas had chosen this young man for two reasons: he was the most
radically loyal to the priesthood and zealous for the law. Pedaiah would
take this secret with him to the grave, of this Caiaphas had little doubt.
Still, the hearts of men can change with the proper motivation, loosening
even the most stalwart tongues. Certainty had to override personal
feelings; there was only one way to insure his silence.
“I ask you to take a holy vow. No one must know where you bury
Yeshua‟s cross.”
“I will do whatever you ask.”
Caiaphas exhaled slowly, his trust confirmed. He extended his right hand
and placed it on Pedaiah‟s head. “Standing before God, do you swear to
execute the charge I have given you without hesitation, to tell none but the
high priest for the rest of your life?”
With his head bowed, he replied, “As God and His holy angels are my
witness, I pledge myself to his task.”
Caiaphas lifted his hand. “You are so charged.”
The young priest looked squarely at Caiaphas, devotion stinging his eyes.
“Pray that we crush the remaining heretics, and that the deceiver‟s body
and his cross never see the light of day again.”
Pedaiah nodded, then with a swish of his robe, spun and strode down the
hallway.
When the corridor fell silent, a comforting thought leapt into Caiaphas‟
mind. Perhaps I have just saved Jerusalem.
Chapter 2
May 23rd, present day, Merrill F. West Lecture Hall, USC campus
Two large fans suspended from the ceiling did little to alleviate the
unusually warm weather that had descended on the Los Angeles basin.
The scientists, linguists and Biblical researchers who filled the poorly
ventilated lecture hall only added to the humidity. Built during the Great
Depression, little thought had gone into an adequate ventilation system
that could maintain a desired temperature in the great hall, warm or cold.
Rather, the designers and architects channeled their energies towards the
structure‟s aesthetics, expanding upon the architectural motifs of the
waning art deco period.
Twenty-foot marbled columns lined white stucco walls. Set between the
great pillars were thick plates of glass bordered with copper brackets aged
into a deep hue of green. Over one hundred hand-carved oak chairs
slanted upwards towards the back of the auditorium, and on the floor, 1‟ x
1‟ alternating black and white ceramic tiles formed a perfect checkerboard
pattern.
Elevated five feet above the front row, a stage of sorts stretched across the
width of the hall. Constructed out of dark walnut and a veneer that had
dimmed over time, it echoed every step of Dr. Colton Foster as he wrote
furiously on a pair of chalkboards on either side of his lectern. He was a
man of muscular build and warm features.
“While I concede that most scholars in the Biblical community ascribe a

date of 165 B.C. to the book of Daniel, which as we all know is the time of
the Maccabean revolt,” he said in a raised voice. “However, I believe there
is enough evidence to establish a date closer to 539 B.C., at the height of
the Medo-Persian Empire.”
“Come now, Dr. Foster,” a voice objected from the rear of the auditorium.
“We have been over this before.” A man in his early sixties, heavy, and
with a receding hairline rose to his feet. He pointedly took off his glasses
before continuing. Only then did Colton recognize him. “What you are
asking us to accept is the predictive prophecy at the basis of this book.
The statue Daniel describes in his so-called vision, one made out of gold,
silver, bronze, et cetera, is something he couldn‟t possibly have known.”
Colton spun around and wrote in large white letters on the chalkboard
nearest him, the sounds of the chalk banging against the hard surface like a
crude form of Morse code: ISAIAH 53. “Dr. Asaro, I think you are well
acquainted with this chapter, the one describing the suffering servant.” He
waited with delight to see how his esteemed colleague would rebut this
seemingly foolproof argument.
A poignant smile preceded the Biblical researcher‟s answer. “Yes…we all

know the claim, how Isaiah purports to describe the kind of ministry Jesus
Christ would have 800 years before his birth.”
Purport, Colton thought. Is it possible he rejects all predictive prophecy,

no matter how strong the evidence?
“Surely you do not deny that this passage bears more than a superficial
description of the events of Jesus' life and ministry recorded in the
gospels.” He returned to the lectern and picked up one of several Bibles
next to his notes, reading from the Hebrew. “Verse three says he was
despised and forsaken of men. A man of sorrows and acquainted with
grief.” He flipped the next page so quickly he tore the upper corner.
“Verse five says he was pierced through for our transgressions. Verse
seven: „he was oppressed and he was afflicted, yet he did not open his
mouth.‟ And finally in verse twelve, „he was numbered with the
transgressors, yet he himself bore the sin of many and interceded for the
transgressors.‟” He set his Bible back down. “I think this is a perfect
example of how one book accurately predicted certain historical events
hundreds of years before they took place. One can then argue if it
happened here, it can happen elsewhere, namely, the visions described by
Daniel.”
The sounds of quiet laughter filled the auditorium.
“Why is this so hard to believe?” Colton asked. He answered the question

before anyone else had a chance. “I‟ll tell you why. It is because matters
of faith cannot be photographed and catalogued. If we believe that
miracles are a part of human existence, then something or someone is
creating those miracles—dare we even say God?”
Dr. Asaro put his glasses back on and took a slow step forward. “I think
things are getting a little heated in here.” He looked around and smiled.
“No pun intended. Perhaps it might be best if we took a short break before
continuing with your presentation.”
“No,” Colton replied softly. “That will not be necessary.” He wiped the
sweat from his forehead and smiled. “I think you are right, it is getting a
little hot in here.”
The sounds of restrained laughter filled the auditorium a second time.
Colton scanned through his notes. “Where was I?”
“The timeline of Daniel,” someone said from the front row.
“Yes. The timeline of Daniel.” He cleared his throat before continuing.

“I believe the argument proposed by J.H.H. Thomason in his book,
Daniel: A Commentary in Prophecy, comes to a hasty conclusion when
he argues that the theological ideas of Daniel are too advanced for the
sixth century and that the apocalyptic literature of this nature did not arise
well into the Hellenistic period. I contend that these are straw man
arguments. I have already noted from Isaiah that more than a few Old
Testament writers delved into matters hundreds of years after their
lifetimes.” He placed his hand on top of his Bible and let it linger. “Men
such as Ezekiel. Whichever date you choose for Daniel, early or late,
Ezekiel precedes them both. And if you go to chapters 38 and 39, they
clearly possess an apocalyptic flavor about them.”
“Excuse me, Dr. Foster, but I have a question.”
The sounds in the auditorium fell silent as all eyes turned towards the last
chair in the back row. A small figure rose to his feet. He was a slight
man, with a frail build. “So far,” he said, “you have based your arguments
from other books in the Bible.”
“Yes,” Colton agreed in a guarded tone. He looked the man over.

Something about him denoted an air of arrogance, one that conveyed a
strong sense of position. A name drifted up from his memory… Dr.
Samuel Jenkins, a faculty member who had recently transferred from
somewhere back east to the linguistics department at UCLA.
“That is a fine place to start, but if you are to convince me that Daniel was
written during the Babylonian exile, then what I require is evidence from
that time period, something that would corroborate your argument.”
The sound of low murmurs rose up from the chairs in a single chorus, as
though everyone in attendance had been given the cue to speak.
“I was getting to that point, but since you have beaten me to the punch, I
guess it‟s time I unveil my little surprise.” His heart beat faster in his
chest as he went to the other chalkboard and flipped it over to the
backside. Written in big, bold letters from right to left, four stanzas of
Hebrew verse filled just about every square inch of the dusty black
surface. “I have spent the last couple of months examining a recently
discovered document found in a small village just south of the ancient city
of Babylon.”
“You mean the Manheim Scroll?” the man sneered. “You cannot expect
this body to accept that the foundation of your argument is based on a
document that most of the scientific and archeological communities have
rejected because of its highly questionable origins. Even Manheim
himself has admitted that local tomb robbers allegedly found the scroll in
one of their…how you might say…acquisition raids and sold it to him on
the black market. Since they are unwilling to tell us where they found the
document, there is really no way to verify its authenticity.”
“Please,” Colton said as he raised his hands in an effort to quiet the room.
“Just because the acquisition of the Manheim Scroll has been tainted, it
doesn‟t mean it affects the veracity of the document.”
Colton fixed his attention at the man in the back row, his feelings getting
the better of him. If he had stuck to his outline the way he had intended,
then this debacle might have been avoided. Instead, someone who had
seemingly planned to embarrass him in front of his colleagues had goaded
him into tipping his hand prematurely. “If it‟s real, it is real.”
“Dr. Foster, I‟d also like to know if this is the basis of your position?” a
woman in the second row asked.
“Yes, Dr. Foster, if you could clarify this.”
He tried to think of a way to undo the damage that had been done, but
before an answer formed in his mind, the man in the back row continued
his attack. “If you are indeed using the Manheim Scroll to validate your
position for Daniel, then that forces me to wonder if this is not a repeat of
the incident that took place ten years ago.” A crooked smile pushed up on
the corners of his lips. “I am of course talking about the Pedrone-Temple
exchange.”
Colton slammed his fist down onto the lectern in a burst of anger. “Who
are you to dredge up the past to smear me? I admitted my guilt and paid
for it.” He fixed his gaze on his opponent and held it there. “Since then, I
have done everything I could to make up for my mistakes.”
“Have you?” the man asked.
The question cut Colton to the quick. “Yes…I have.”
“I wonder about that. And I think this whole Manheim nonsense is history
playing itself out again.”
The room erupted into dozens of noisy side discussions. Colton feared
whatever he said next would either be challenged or ridiculed. Rather
than trying to recoup even the smallest measure of dignity, he picked up
his notes and Bibles, stuffed them into his leather briefcase, and hurried
out of the auditorium. Clearly, this man meant more to simply embarrass
him. He had wanted to destroy him.
Colton hardly made it a hundred feet from the lecture hall, when a voice
cut through the half-deserted campus square. “Colton, Stop!”
He spun in bottled fury, and then exhaled in relief. “Nicole?”
Her slender form bounded over the grass towards him, a cappuccino in
one hand and a briefcase in the other. She glided to a stop and took off her
sunglasses. Nicole wasn‟t your typical bookish professor. She had dark,
curly hair, a petite mouth and sharp, probing blue eyes that Colton had
grown to know well.
A frown spread across her lips. “I was trying to make it to the last half of
your presentation.” With a flip of her hair, she glanced at her watch.
“What happened—it‟s only noon?”
Strangely, she was the last person he wanted to talk to about it. He didn‟t
let his mind delve too deep into why. He met her expectant eyes. “It
didn‟t go so well.”
“Don‟t be so esoteric, Colton.” A cautious tone slipped into her voice.

“Tell me what happened.”
“I don‟t want to talk about it here. How „bout over lunch? I‟ll pay,” he
added, trying to lighten the mood.
Her blue eyes flashed with something deeper than concern. “No. I want
the story now.”
He stared at her for a moment, his mind a torrent of questions. “There‟s

something bothering you. What is it?”
She rolled her eyes. “I heard the beginning of your lecture on the campus
radio station as I drove here. You went ahead and used that ridiculous
Manheim Scroll evidence, and then Dr. Jenkins rehashed the Pedrone-
Temple exchange, which left you floundering for a defense. Now, answer
my question, and then I‟ll answer yours—why aren‟t you inside that
lecture hall putting up a defense?”
Nicole‟s cold expression froze him for a moment. “When my fellow

professors choose to throw low-blows at me, then all discussion dissolves.
That Jenkins character only wanted to argue with me after he stripped me
of respect and credibility. That‟s not a fair fight. You know that, Nicole.
How was I supposed to go on in that kind of atmosphere?”
She nodded, but her eyes held their hardness. “You‟re right, that‟s not an
even fight but sometimes the truth isn‟t fair.”
The verbal blow caught him in the chest. Suddenly her face took on a
flaxen mask of sympathy, and, for a moment, her lips tightened with
emotion. “You asked me what‟s been bothering me, so I‟ll give you the
honest truth.” She regarded him uneasily. “I love you Colton…with all
my heart. But there‟s a lot more to me than that. My mind hasn‟t been so
easily swayed. Like you, I‟m still young. I have ambitions. I want to rise
in my field of expertise, both professionally and financially…and that‟s
where the problem lies.
If I marry you, Colton, the specter of your past will haunt us as long as
we‟re together. Don‟t you see? It would be like a leech on my ambitions.
I‟d be miserable. And that would wear on you after time.”
Colton listened to her words but couldn‟t accept them. Surely, her anger
found its source in Jenkins for treating him so badly.
“I don‟t want to burden you, Colton.”
It was that last remark that galled him—that she would try to retain a form
of sainthood in all of this. He stood there without speaking, the simple act
pierced through her concerned façade.
Her eyes bowed to the ground. She tucked her briefcase under her arm and
lifted her ring finger. A quick twist, and the studded diamond engagement
ring they had picked out only a month before was in her hand.
She held it out as far from her as possible as if it were a roiling insect.
“Take it, please.”
Colton opened his hand; she dropped it promptly into his palm.
“I don‟t want to draw this out, Colton. We‟ve both sensed for some time
this wasn‟t going to work. What just happened at your lecture confirmed
this for me. You tell everyone who knows about us that the wedding‟s off.
I‟ll do the same on my end.”
He nodded slowly.
Stiffly, Nicole took his hand in hers. “You have every reason not to
believe me now, but I know you‟ll find someone else, someone who
shares what‟s important to you.” She smiled weakly. “Goodbye, Colton.”
A second later, she was heading away from him across the lawn. She
didn‟t look back.
May 23rd, Constantinople Library excavation site, Istanbul, Turkey
Dr. Amelia Lewis struggled to tear her mind from her greatest fear—the
possible damage to many of the priceless artifacts they had yet to
excavate. Who knows what those two thieves did as they lumbered about
the dig site to find that box? Worse yet, what other important relics would
they have spirited away if the guards hadn‟t caught them?
“Tell me once again,” Officer Sadak asked. “Have there been any unusual
visitors at the dig site in recent weeks?”
Lewis‟ grey-streaked hair tossed in the wind. “For the third time—no,”
she replied, shaking her head. Then her expression changed at a thought.
“Actually, that‟s not entirely true.”
A look of annoyance settled into Sadak‟s features. “Well, which is it?”
She squinted at the police officer. “There are people coming and going all
the time—government officials, student researchers, academicians. So
many, in fact, that one forgets they‟re around after a while.”
“So these intruders could have come and gone in relative ease whenever
they chose, getting a good idea of where something of value might be
found?”
“I suppose.” The acknowledgement made her sick to her stomach.
The police officer sighed as he wrote down her statement on a small note
pad. At the scratch of his pen, his hard brown eyes met hers. Though
there wasn‟t any reason for it, she found his stare unnerving.
“If you‟ll follow me to where the two men were shot, you might be able to
shed some further light as to why they were here.”
A self defense mechanism kicked in, and Amelia almost laughed. “I think
it‟s bloody apparent why they were here.”
She marched across the compound and popped open the flap of the nearest
tent and pointed to the charred remains of a scroll on an examination table.
“That‟s what they were after. This site is filled with artifacts any number
of unscrupulous and wealthy collectors would pay a king‟s ransom for.”
Officer Sadak pressed his lips together. “Like I said, Dr. Lewis, if you
would come with me you might be surprised what one can ascertain from
a crime scene. Your archeological background would be most helpful.”
Her stomach, already bound in knots over what she feared had been lost,
tightened even more. Examining skeletons from the past was one thing.
They had long been dead. No one from their families would object to the
countless numbers of tests they would perform on them—radio carbon
dating, mitochondrial DNA analysis, and the like, but examining the
recently departed, with the look of death still fresh in their eyes, that was
another matter altogether. But if it meant getting the whole thing over
with, then she was willing to accompany the officer.
The roar of a car‟s engine shattered the short-lived silence. She looked up
just in time to see a white Mercedes SL500 fly into the compound. It
slammed to a hard stop a dozen feet from the barbed-wire fence that
ringed the camp, a hail of rocks and gravel pattering across the ground.
A man in his early thirties, dressed in an expensive dark blue suit and
matching tie, jumped out. He jerked off his sunglasses and said in nearly
perfect English, “This is a disaster.”
“Dimitrius,” Amelia declared. “I‟m so pleased you‟re here.”
Sadak raised an eyebrow. “And who is this?”

She pushed her glasses up her nose and smiled. “Dimitrius Malotetnev.
He‟s in charge of the dig. He plays liaison between the staff here at the
site and Vladimir Zarco.”
Several lines formed on the officer‟s forehead. “Zarco? Why does that
name sound familiar?”
“Because you‟ve probably heard it before,” said Malotetnev, stopping

beside Amelia. His eyes swept over the officer. “Mr. Zarco is a man who
is committed to using his financial and political resources for the
betterment of Eastern Europe. He funds just about every archeological
enterprise in this part of the world.”
He glanced at one of the cloth-draped entrances that led down into the old
library. “Which is what brings me here. Perhaps now would be a good
time to investigate the area where the intruders were found. If any damage
has been done, Mr. Zarco wants to be informed immediately.”
“We were just on our way to do just that.”
“Then my timing is impeccable.”
Traversing the dig site was like walking a maze, but she felt at home with
the past. Even after being buried for five hundred years, the smell of
charred wood filled the air. Stretching from one side of the excavation site
to the other, a dozen canopies protected workers from the burning sun,
though temperatures in the middle of the day still climbed above 100
degrees.
When they arrived at the hallway alcoves, Amelia kept her attention fixed
on the rows of archways lining the great library corridor, anything to keep
from looking at the two bodies still lying on the ground and their faces as
they held the blank stare of death. As officer Sadak had explained, the
two had been unarmed, and she couldn‟t help but wonder if the security
guards might have handled the situation differently. Had they been too
quick to use their weapons? It was too late to say anything about it now.
They were dead, and nothing could change that.
She averted her mind from the grisly scene at their feet. Even though she
and her crew of excavators had been at the site for almost two months, she
still marveled at the thought of how well the old library had been
preserved. The Ottomans should have burned it to the ground when the
months‟ long siege finally came to an end. If it weren‟t for those faithful
monks who gave their lives to save as much as they could, these few
remaining treasures would have been lost for all time.
Officer Sadak bent down on one knee and pointed towards one of the men
who had been shot. Both were clad in black cloaks, but underneath they
wore tight-fitting jeans and charcoal gray shirts, as if they‟d planned to
discard their outer garments once they had gotten away and blend into the
city.
“There is nothing unusual about their attire, ordinary in most respects. It

will be a challenge to find out where they might have gotten them. If our
medical labs aren‟t booked up with more pressing cases, I will try and
have the clothes tested for pollen samples: hair, dirt, anything that may
give us a picture as to their whereabouts. There is one thing, however,

that might shed some light on their identities.” He adjusted his hat to
better block out the sun streaming down from the crumbling roof. “Take a
look at this man‟s forearm, between the elbow and wrist. Have you ever
seen a tattoo like that before?”
Amelia forced herself to look down. Her first view was not of the tattoo,
but of the dried blood covering the man‟s shirt. A pungent smell wafted
up from the body. She intuitively knew the poor soul must have bled a
great deal for the stain to show up as prominently as it did on such dark
cloth.
“It is a cross,” Malotetnev observed in an unimpressed tone. “Definitely

Latin in design. Medieval maybe.”
She bent over slightly and examined the tattoo for herself. “Yes, I agree.
Mid-fifteenth century. See how the four ends flair out to form rounded
points?” Her eye caught something else unusual. “What is that above the
cross?”
“I was hoping you might know,” Officer Sadak replied. “I have never
seen anything like it before.”
“I might be wrong here, but it looks like a loaf of bread.” The cross and
bread together? she asked herself, and then told Sadak, “That is not a
motif I have ever seen before. Curious.”
“I‟ll have one of my men search through our database to see if anyone else
has this kind of tattoo.”
“And what is that?” Malotetnev asked, pointing at a silvery box lying

beside one of the dead man‟s shoulders.
Amelia stepped over the body, careful not to touch it with her shoe. “You
didn‟t mention anything about a silver box.”
Officer Sadak pursed his darkened lips together, his attention fixed on the
ground. “Any reason why you think these two would be after this
particular artifact? From the looks of things, it appears they went to a lot
of trouble to get it.”
Malotetnev squatted down and took a hard look at the object in question,
careful his Armani suit didn‟t brush up against the dirt.
When Amelia peered closer, something caught her eye. She brushed away
the last bit of dust clinging to the top of the box. “That‟s a royal coat of
arms. Note the two-headed Byzantine eagle, and its talons clutching a
sword and bowl.” She looked up at the officer. “This is just a guess at
this point, but I would say this dates back to the mid 1200‟s, if not before.”
Officer Sadak took a pair of rubber gloves out of his pocket and slipped
them on. “I have found the best way to determine the truth about anything
is through a direct examination.”
Before either of them could stop him, he placed his hands on both sides of
the silver box and lifted it up.
“Careful!” Amelia and Malotetnev said at the same time.
“Not to worry. It feels solid enough. And heavy. I would estimate this
weighs at least five kilograms.”
She studied the overall exterior first before zeroing on the top. “Yes, that
definitely is a royal crest, of Latin origin. There‟s the word „veritas‟
below the crest. Perhaps thirteenth century. Maybe even as far back as
Andronikos I Komnenos, around 1183 A.D.”
“Andronikos,” Malotetnev purred. “A nice find indeed.”
“Do you think there is anything inside?”
“A parchment of some kind,” Officer Sadak said assuredly.
The revelation caught her off guard. “How do you know?”
“When I questioned your two guards, Hassam and Dwayat, they said they
opened the box and found a folded document inside.” He paused and
looked up, as if trying to remember something specific. “Though they
didn‟t say it in so many words, I got the distinct impression what they read
upset them in some way.”
Amelia‟s eyes narrowed. “Dwayat? Perhaps we should examine it

ourselves.”
With a nod of the head, Officer Sadak opened the lid.
As the sun cast its burning rays Malotetnev inched nearer, his attention
transfixed by the words dotting the page. “What does it say?”
She fingered it delicately and peered at the first few lines of the text by the
fold. It was definitely parchment, probably made out of sheepskin. The
deep ochre color suggested a significant age, but without radio carbon
dating, there was no way to know for sure. She turned her attention to the
letters used in the first few words.
“Black ink,” she said. “Nothing unusual there, though the writer was
familiar with the verbiage of his day. There is a confidence after each
stroke of the quill. I would say this person was well-educated, probably a
monk.”
“Can you make out what it says?”
“Definitely Latin. As the seal on the box suggests, eleventh or twelfth

century. Look at the way he writes his o‟s and p‟s. That looping effect is
generally unique to that time period.”
“But what does it say?” Malotetnev asked a second time, his impatience
getting the better of him.
She held the document a little higher and silently mouthed the words.
“My Medieval Latin is a bit rusty, but I think it says, I, Imad ad-din al-
Isfahani, a…humble…advisor of Saladin, send greetings to the…king,
no…Emperor…Isaac II Angelos. It is my…something…desire this letter
finds you…in good health. When the armies of Saladin, uh…struggled
against the king of Jerusalem…the forces of King Guy of Lusignan
were…I think it says…defeated. During the…course of the battle,
Yeshua‟s cross was…taken…by our victorious...”
“Wait!” Malotetnev interrupted. “Did I hear you right? It references the

Cross—of Jesus?”
She offered him a brief nod, and then pointed at the text. “Yes, it says it
right here. „During the course of the battle…the cross, which you
Christians believe was the instrument of death for the prophet
Yeshua…was captured by our forces.‟”
Officer Sadak let out a pained sigh. “Now I can see what upset the two
guards.”
“There‟s more,” Amelia said. “I‟ll skip the superfluous part and get right
to the point. If I‟m reading this right, and I may not be, it seems to
indicate that the Cross was not destroyed by Saladin but hidden in a cave
or something.” A palpable silence descended on the group. “Al-Isfahani
says he made a vow to one day repay some kind of debt he had incurred
and hid the Cross in an unnamed town.
As she spoke, the weight of her own words settled on her. It was almost
too unbelievable to be true.
“It‟s not possible.”
“Do you know what this means?”
“The Cross of Jesus,” Amelia whispered, afraid to say such a thing too
loud. “That‟s why these two men were after this particular box.” She
stopped and thought through the ramifications of what she had just said.
“But how did they know this document existed…and where they would
find it?”
Malotetnev‟s face grew visibly pale. “This is almost too fantastic to

believe.” He shook his head. “Perhaps…perhaps the box is a plant.”
Amelia recoiled. “A plant? But why?”
“Any number of reasons,” he scoffed. “A bad practical joke. Religious

zealots. Rival archeologists. These things have happened before. As you
know, forging archeological relics makes them much more valuable on the
open market.”
“I don‟t know,” she said. “While I admit my examination is a rudimentary

one, everything about the box and the parchment seems authentic. We‟ll
have to confirm my findings of course, but I see nothing here that suggests
these are forgeries.”
“It all feels so overwhelming,” Malotetnev said. “I need to go outside for

a few minutes, get some fresh air and think things through. If what you‟re
saying is true, it will send shock waves around the world.”
He spun around and headed back towards his car. Once outside, he pulled
out a cell phone from his jacket pocket and pressed the speed dial button.
After a single ring, a man with a baritone voice answered.
“Yes.”
“Mr. Zarco, I think we have a problem.”

After The Cross

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After The Cross

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Lynch & Barr/After the Cross 1

Lynch & Barr/After the Cross 2

AFTER THE CROSS

May 22nd, present day, Constantinople Library excavation site, Istanbul,

Ironic, he thought. She hadn‟t hired him because of his ruthless

“Errare humanum est,” he growled under his breath.

The crickets‟ music bleated again.

Dwayat frowned at Hassam‟s playful tone. His counterpart was an

His radio fell silent. The message had been received.

Metallic clanking sounds shuddered down the corridor. Crouching low, he

Hassam fingered his earpiece. “Dwayat, there is someone down here.

A wrenching nausea assaulted Hassam‟s stomach as he turned the corner.

“Sir,” he finally sputtered, “I‟ve been shot.”

“They came for this,” Dwayat concluded as he stared at the inscription.

“I cannot say.” Dwayat studied the inscription a second time. “The

His partner squinted at the symbols. “How can you tell?”

“Years of observation and study, Hassam. Unlike you, I do not spend my

Hassam pressed closer. “What does the inscription say?”

Curiosity settled into Hassam‟s gaze. “Let‟s look inside.”

“Imad ad-din al-Isfahani,” Dwayat whispered, as though he feared to say

Hassam stared in disbelief. “Al-Isfahani was the advisor of Saladin the

“Shut up!” commanded Dwayat, scanning the parchment.

“No!” Dwayat took in his surroundings. “The Devil remains.”

“What is it!” demanded Hassam.

“What are you talking about? What cross?”

“A map…a map to the Cross? From the first century?”

Friday, Month of Nisan, 30 A.D., Jerusalem, Israel

A Roman soldier ran to where he lay face down on the cobblestones.

“Yes, you. Your name!”

“Simon of Cyrene,” he replied in a guarded tone.

As the hours passed, silence settled on the curious throngs. Caiaphas

An anguished cry finally broke from Yeshua‟s lips. “It is finished!”

At that very moment, a fierce wind swooped down on the hillside,

“The wrath of God is upon us!” someone shouted.

As he stepped into the shadows of the inner court, he found Nicodemus

“What?” Caiaphas growled. “Who could have performed this sacrilege?”

Nicodemus grabbed his shoulder. “But it is still Passover. It is not lawful

“Caiaphas, why am I not surprised?” Pilate went over to a table and

Caiaphas did not respond.

“No, I suppose it wouldn‟t be proper.”

“That‟s nothing new in this godforsaken place.” Pilate downed the

Pilate‟s expression paled. “Why should I worry about a dead man?”

Staring at Jerusalem, Pilate said, “Yes, I heard about his claim—nothing

“Please hear me out, most excellent Pilate. It wouldn‟t take a great

A look of sour wine crossed Pilate‟s face. “Ah,” he finally said.

“Which would be?” he asked doggedly.

“The deceiver‟s cross. If we have any chance of stopping his following,

A wary smile softened the governor‟s features. “Perhaps.” He paused for

Standing erect, Caiaphas answered, “Thank you, most excellent Pilate. I

A palpable silence filled the corridor. “Bury it?” he finally replied.

“Circumstances change. Priorities change. If we need additional proof of

Pedaiah nodded. “An excellent point.”

“I will do whatever you ask.”

Caiaphas lifted his hand. “You are so charged.”

“While I concede that most scholars in the Biblical community ascribe a

A poignant smile preceded the Biblical researcher‟s answer. “Yes…we all

Purport, Colton thought. Is it possible he rejects all predictive prophecy,

The sounds of quiet laughter filled the auditorium.

“Why is this so hard to believe?” Colton asked. He answered the question

The sounds of restrained laughter filled the auditorium a second time.

Colton scanned through his notes. “Where was I?”

“The timeline of Daniel,” someone said from the front row.

“Yes. The timeline of Daniel.” He cleared his throat before continuing.