Blood Symbols

by Izak Botha

  Upon their arrival, Simon had said he hoped she would like one of his favorite dishes, Alinazik. As he explained before he had begun cooking, the dish consisted of spiced lamb and eggplant served with vegetables over rice.

  ‘So it’s a stir-fry,’ she had joked dryly. ‘You know we have that in the States, right?’

  As she had seated herself at the table he had descended a spiral staircase to a cellar beneath the kitchen, returning with a bottle of burgundy. He had tasted the wine and then filled Jennifer’s glass. Then, he had taken a knife from the wooden stand and sliced two onions.

  Two hours later, and Simon was stacking more wood on the fire, the flames crackling and spitting sparks. Turning from the fireplace, his silhouette revealed his powerful frame. His calculated gaze rested on her for some time before he sat down on the far end of the sofa, propping her feet on his lap as if enjoying her presence. Though relaxed, his demeanor reminded her of their escape from the libraries when he had pulled her into the alley. He had held her then, only allowing her to move when it suited him. With one hand around her midriff and the other restraining her, his fingers had curled around her mouth. Her lips had parted slightly. She had wanted to bite him, but had not. He had smelled of adrenaline and testosterone. Presently, she became aware of the same scent, and it excited her.

  She watched him over the book she was reading, and after a few moments, set the book on the floor. ‘The professor used me as a scapegoat, didn’t he.’ she said.

  Simon touched the cut behind his ear where Verretti pistol-whipped him two days ago. ‘It worked, didn’t it?’

  Sitting up, she leaned towards him and began massaging the muscles in his neck. ‘Does that hurt?’

  He lifted his shirt, revealing his muscular torso. ‘It’s this one over here that bothers me,’ he said, pointing to a bruise on the side of his ribcage. ‘I think the inspector cracked my rib. I also have a bad one over here. Why don’t you rub this instead?’

  She punched him on the bruise. ‘Oh come on, Simon. I’m not your personal masseuse.’

  ‘You’re not?’ he asked, pulling his shirt back down.

  She pressed the swollen area on his temple, this time just a bit harder. ‘What about this one; does it still hurt?’

  ‘Nope. Surprisingly, it’s fine.’

  Jennifer leaned back on the cushions, and his focus shifted to her silk top. Abruptly, he got up to get more wine.

  ‘Professor Rabin’s knowledge of Christianity is profound,’ she said to his back.

  ‘He has an amazing philosophy,’ Simon said, pouring. ‘The day he stops learning is the day he dies.’

  Jennifer’s eyes began to wander elsewhere. … ‘I love that. I wish I were more that way.’

  ‘Aren’t you?’

  Returning with the wine, he topped up her glass.

  ‘Oh, I suppose.’

  He placed the bottle on the floor next to the sofa and sat beside her. ‘To life and discovery,’ he said, lifting his glass.

  ‘And to heroes who save damsels in distress two dozen times in three days.’

  ‘And to the prettiest girl I’ve ever had the honour of dragging from a crime scene.’

  Jennifer tittered. ‘Ah, so if I’d been a dog you would have left me to my fate?’

  Simon laughed. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘You know there are easier ways to pick up women.’

  ‘Who said I was planning on picking up more than one?’

  Now she laughed. ‘I suppose you’re right. Besides, you can really only topple the foundations of Western Civilization every so often.’

  ‘Too true. But I could always go after the Dalai Lama next if I get bored.’

  One of his hands lay along the back of the sofa, and she smacked it.

  ‘Okay, okay. I guess what the Buddhists don’t know won’t hurt them.’

  ‘Oh? You’re not going soft on me, are you?’

  ‘Well, I suppose if you insist. I mean, we are in a Muslim country. I could always build you and my second adventure girlfriend a harem in the backyard.’

  Jennifer reached across him and pinched the tender spot on his ribcage.

  ‘Ouch!’ he exclaimed, pulling away. ‘Hey! That hurts, damn it!’

  ‘Take it back.’

  ‘Okay, okay, there will never be a second adventure girlfriend. … Only multiple adventure wives.’

  She tackled him in mock rage, and they tumbled to the floor, wrestling. Simon, of course, was not trying to win, and Jennifer soon found herself on his back, one elbow crooked around his neck. He reared up suddenly and she toppled to the floor like a rodeo rider tossed from a horse. He then leapt at her and pinned her arms.

  ‘I give up,’ he said.

  ‘You? I’m the one pinned.’

  ‘I still give up. I guess I will settle for one adventure wife if I must.’

  Jennifer play struggled a moment more before what he had said sank in, and she became still. ‘Wait. Are you asking me in a weird way that only you could ask what I think you’re asking?’

  ‘I don’t know. Are you agreeing to it in a weird way only you could agree to something?’

  ‘I’m not entirely sure, but perhaps I am.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Would I have to become a giyoret first …’

  Before she could finish the sentence, he kissed her gently and long. She parted her lips, and he moved closer. He released her wrists, and cupped the back of her head with one hand. He slid his other hand under her top, touching her stomach. As his fingers grazed the sensitive nerve ends in her skin, she held her breath. Pulling her closer, his hand moved past her navel. Her low-cut jeans were just low enough. She gasped.

  ‘You shouldn’t do that,’ she said, softly.

  ‘I love the way you smell.’

  Soft light from the candles in the candelabrum overhead cast a gentle glow on her face. She was smiling. His fingers loosened her belt.

  She caught his hand. ‘No,’ she whispered.

  ‘I want you,’ he said.

  The pulse of eons engulfed her with its eternal pattern of want, desire, defiance, surrender and joy. Time lost all meaning, but Jennifer did, for some reason, think of the date: Thursday, 22 March 2012. It was exactly nine months before the Mayan calendar predicted the end of the world. That zany prophesy. Why was everyone still talking about it? Why was she thinking about it? Why was she thinking anything at all?

  Chapter 52

  Professor Rabin’s historic meeting with Pope Gregory had set a precedent for future cooperation, and the pontiff suggested sending a team of priests to the Antiochene site. If the Apostle Peter’s remains at the Cave Church were authentic, it would point the way forward for Roman Catholicism. Rabin was open to the idea, but had warned that the final approval lay with the Turkish government. There was a lot to do before anything more than photographs could be made available.

  Following his return to the site the next day, Rabin decided to revisit the Cave Church. Something about that find—momentous though it was—bothered him. Eager to return to work, he climbed down into the chasm and made his way to the sepulcher where they had found Peter’s relics. Lighting the burial chamber with his flashlight, he pushed his fingertips through the sand. In their haste to get Jennifer to safety they could easily have missed something. Finding the sword and keys was an amazing bit of fortune. Peter was the disciple who had severed the ear of a servant of the high priest in the garden of Gethsemane, which accounted for the sword. But the keys still puzzled him, for they suggested the cave represented more than a grave. Was Peter’s tomb the origin of something else? Could the cave have served as an entrance, an antechamber perhaps, which lead to something bigger? He pondered this. Rather than the gates of Heaven, it would make sense if Peter was in some way the gatekeeper to the catacombs. Anyone wanting to enter the area would have to get past him first.

  No, Rabin decided, he was thinking like Jennifer now.

  Simon descending the ladder could not have happene
d any sooner.

  ‘Where’s Jennifer?’ Rabin asked.

  ‘She’ll be here in a minute.’

  ‘Is she all right?’

  Simon joined the professor. ‘Don’t worry, she’s fine.’

  Rabin wanted to inquire further but held his tongue. He was pleased to have his colleague with him again. ‘The keys bother me,’ he said, lighting the sepulcher. ‘The sword I can understand, but the keys should be symbolic, not actual.’

  ‘All we need is to find where they fit then,’ a voice said from the shrine above.

  Rabin looked up. Dressed in a cotton tunic, baggy pants and canvas shoes, Jennifer was staring down at them. ‘How do you feel this morning?’ he asked.

  ‘Wonderful, thanks.’

  ‘Did you sleep well?’

  ‘I’ve never appreciated sleeping in a bed more in my life.’

  To be sure, Jennifer appreciated the professor’s concern, but she was naturally reticent about how she and Simon had spent their time on the farm. A lot of innuendos and puns came to mind, but suffice to say, there was not much farming going on.

  ‘If the keys weren’t meant to open the gates of Heaven,’ she said, ‘there should be a door with real locks somewhere around here.’

  Rabin smiled. ‘And where, dear Jennifer, do you suppose we might find said locks?’

  ‘At a wild guess, I’d say follow the crosses.’ The professor frowned, and she pointed to his feet, adding, ‘I’m serious, you’re standing on them.’

  Rabin shone the flashlight on the ground. Sweeping the rubble and sand with his feet, he exposed a buried floor. In his preoccupation with the sword and keys, he had missed something significant: traces of an ancient mosaic. The pattern consisted of scarlet and yellow crosses typical of the Roman-occupation period. Amazingly, the design resembled Maltese crosses linked together. Samples exactly like those could be viewed at the Antakya museum. And yet, the pattern predated the Maltese cross on the outside façade by at least a thousand years.

  Shifting sand away as he went, the professor followed it across the floor of the crevasse. The mosaic continued past the sepulcher to a far corner and disappeared beneath a pile of rubble.

  After clearing the floor, Simon began wiping dirt from a rusty surface. He stopped suddenly. Before him at chest height was an opening the size of a keyhole.

  Rabin became tense, and had to fight the urge to shove Simon aside. ‘Don’t let the sand get in the lock.’

  ‘It’s already inside. I’m trying to get it out.’

  ‘We can’t afford mistakes now.’

  Simon did not appreciate the patronizing warning. He had been working the site for as long as the professor. Putting aside his irritation, he blew lightly around the keyhole, until the tiny vortices of air had cleared the chamber. Repeating the process, he cleaned a matching keyhole lower down.

  Jennifer skittered down the ladder and joined the two scientists. ‘Well, there’s Heaven’s gate. Now all we need are the keys.’

  She had assumed Rabin had left them at the site, but the professor drew them from his pocket like a magician summoning a rabbit.

  ‘I had a feeling we’d need them,’ he said, smiling. He inserted the top key, wiggling it until it turned. The key rotated halfway and stopped. He swapped keys but got the same result. Standing back, he let Simon try, but he also failed.

  Rabin asked Jennifer to try. After all, strange things had happened since she had arrived on the site.

  Holding her breath, Jennifer turned the keys. Again, they stopped halfway. Disappointed but not defeated, she smacked the palm of her hand against the door and tried again. This time there was a click, and the door jolted open.

  ‘Why am I not surprised,’ Rabin said softly. ‘Maybe God does exist and He’s especially sweet on you, Jennifer.’

  Simon slipped his fingers between the door and its frame. He pulled but only managed to open the door a few inches. Rabin then pulled on the top while he tried the bottom. After a final tug the hinges creaked and the door opened about a third of the way.

  A musty stench wafted from the darkness and Jennifer nearly vomited. She was not sure if she could go in.

  Rabin clicked on his hand torch and shone the light through the opening. He could not see much, but judging by the echo of their voices, or lack thereof, the space was small. By stretching his back and releasing the air from his lungs, he managed to squeeze through the gap.

  Simon followed, his lean body sliding easily through.

  Jennifer remained where she was for a moment and cursed silently. Even if she ended up dry-heaving by the end of it, she was going inside. Pulling her blouse over her nose and mouth, she slipped through.

  Shining first left then right, Rabin quickly realized they were inside a catacomb. He decided, as the oldest and most experienced amongst them, he would scout ahead of his young friends. Considering the recent earthquake and the fact that many have occurred in the past, the tunnel’s structural integrity might be compromised. Holding up his torch, he set off down a passage to the left.

  The catacomb was circular, constructed around a central axis. Cut into a spinal area were four sepulchers, each with its own ossuary, but unlike Peter’s ossuary outside, these were all intact. Completing the circle, Rabin returned to Simon and Jennifer.

  ‘You are not going to believe what’s in here,’ he said.

  Shining the light left to right he explained how the tunnel encircles a central pillar of rock, which has been carved in a Maltese-cross design like the rose window outside. Four niches were dug exactly at the four focal points of the cross in the shape of the primitive fleur-de-lis, and in each was an ossuary.

  Approaching the tunnel clockwise, Rabin shone the flashlight onto the first ossuary.

  Jennifer shivered. She was not sure she wanted to know what the boxes said. The last thing she needed now was being disappointed.

  The professor stroked his finger lightly over the inscription. ‘“Johanan Bar-Shi’mon.”’

  Jennifer did not hesitate: ‘That’s Aramaic for “John, son of Simon,”’ she said hastily. ‘Shi’mon is Simon-Peter, surely.’ She felt silly for jumping to premature conclusions again, but this time she had good reason. ‘Oh, come on guys. We already have Apostle Peter’s remains. Do the sums. But who’s John?’

  ‘The answer to that, is around the corner.’ Leading the way, Rabin stopped before the next sepulcher. Holding the light at an angle he read aloud: ‘“Levi Bar-Shi’mon.”’

  Jennifer was about to mention ‘son of Alphaeus’, but this time kept her thoughts to herself. If her memory served her right, the Gospel of Mark cited Levi as being the son of Alphaeus. But, the reference pertained to an original Apostle of Jesus. Being a son of Shi’mon, this could not be the same Levi.

  Jennifer had an idea, which, despite potential scorn from the professor, she felt compelled to share: ‘First Peter says a young man who went by both “John” and “Mark” accompanied the Apostle on his missionary work, and importantly, Peter refers to the young man as his “son”. Acts and Colossians relate how Mark abandoned his cousin Barnabas and Paul, or Saul, at Perga, and returned to Jerusalem. Correct me if I’m wrong, but Perga isn’t far from here, in modern-day Antalya, right. For two thousand years, no one knew why Mark ran. But considering what we know now about both Paul and Peter, it’s pretty evident what happened.’

  Jennifer’s mind raced ahead. Aliases were not a new thing. Many of the Apostles who were under threat of persecution had two names. It was obvious why. ‘Levi also went by the name, Matthew,’ she said, casting her gaze up to Rabin. ‘So, if Levi is Matthew and John is Mark, then the next one must be Luke, right?’

  Rabin nodded and she laughed.

  ‘Luke, son of …?’ She expected another nod, but this time the professor’s silence stunned her. ‘The three Synoptic Gospel authors—and Peter’s offspring.’

  Jennifer had always wanted to explain why the Gospels post-dated the original Apostles. Now that she had fo
und the answer, it was hard to believe. None of the Gospel writers were contemporaries of the original Apostles. Every pre-seminary student knew this. Their Gospels dated to at least a generation later. This was exactly what her fight with Cardinal Cardoni was about. If the remains were the offspring of Simon-Peter, there was the reason why the Gospels had been written later.

  ‘Then the next must be, John.’

  ‘We’ve already found a John,’ Simon said.

  ‘Not if he turns out to be Mark,’ she shot back. She refocused on Rabin. ‘Please don’t tell me there’s another, John.’

  ‘Nope.’

  She did not understand. Yes, John’s work was different from the Synoptic Gospels and one could hardly consider him kin, yet it had to be, after all, his was the fourth Gospel.

  Jennifer and Simon were following closely behind Rabin. On reaching the final grave, the professor lit up the fourth ossuary.

  ‘“Nathaniel Bar-Tlm,”’ he read aloud.

  Jennifer felt faint. Matthew, Mark and Luke buried together made sense, but Nathaniel. Where did he fit? No one had ever offered a satisfactory explanation why some used his given name and others his surname, but tradition had identified “Nathaniel” and “Bartholomew” as the same man. In the synoptic texts, he was called “Bartholomew,” or “son of Tlm,” and in John he is called “Nathaniel.” What was more, the Apostle Bartholomew’s mission was not far from there either, in Armenia.

  ‘Mark is the earliest canonical gospel,’ Jennifer said, her mind ticking feverishly. ‘That every serious biblical scholar agrees on, and because of its language and references to the Jewish revolt, most date it to the reign of Nero, between 66 and 70 CE. Now, if Mark is Peter’s son, that does make him a generation younger, and if he was a boy at the time of the crucifixion, he would have been in his forties at the writing of the Gospel that bears his name. Traditionally, he is believed to have died during Nero’s persecutions in 68 CE, so it’s not farfetched to think he could have written the Gospel or dictated it, before his martyrdom.’

  She paused briefly to consider her next hypothesis.