The Keeper's Cup: A Controversial Archaeological Thriller

by Ken Fry

  She playfully slapped his arm. “The sunshine will make you grow.” As always, she gave him stick over his height, but he never took it seriously.

  “What chambers do you want to look at today?” he asked.

  “I’m going for nine and three again, and possibly four. Some ancient tools and bones were found around the waters there a month ago and if my hunch is right, there might just be a few more.”

  “I heard that too. I heard another story as well.”

  “What?”

  “You know I’m National Coordinator for The Society of Ancient Discoveries, don’t you?”

  She laughed. “Don’t I just! A bunch of screwballs who keep claiming to find hidden and lost, so called biblical secrets.”

  “That’s not fair. Didn’t we find those gold rings and silver goblets buried within yards of the tomb of Lazarus near Jerusalem last year? They were carbon dated to over two thousand years old. We do useful work.”

  “Well okay, I’ll grant you that. So, what is it you want to tell me before I swim away from you?” She couldn’t help smiling. She secretly loved his schoolboy enthusiasm and his amazing drive and tenacity whenever they’re working on a project.

  “Sit down for a minute or two. This might take a while.” Taking a deep breath, he began. “Two nights ago, I had a visit from a Roman Catholic Bishop. Bishop Vincent Fisher. He told me an intriguing story, one I’d never heard before, but he had heard whispers of it for many years.” He paused.

  “Well, go on then. We don’t have all day.” Miriam gave an exaggerated sigh.

  “The bishop told me that in what was known as Judea, now modern-day Israel, there has been another unreported discovery of a small number of scrolls. They were located not far from where the Dead Sea Scrolls were originally found at Qumran.

  “An obscure group known as the Society of Truth in Archaeology achieved the unearthing. They’re a breakaway group from the Vatican’s Pontifical Academy of Archaeology whom they accuse of cover-ups and suppression when the facts don’t suit or threaten their dogma. Some of the scrolls were in a fairly battered condition and will take many months for the Israelis and the dig team to piece together, even using the latest technology. Two or three scrolls, however, remained in remarkable condition. Although, what you archaeologists call good, most people would bin!”

  Miriam’s interest was piqued. The dive seemed of less importance now. “Go on. This is getting fascinating.”

  “It gets better. The bishop said, what was found appeared to be fragments related to the writings of both Philip and Thomas, whose gospels were rejected by the early church. Around seventy AD, the time the temple of Jerusalem was sacked by the Romans, an unknown person or persons wrote down their words. They may be copies of earlier renderings.” He paused again and appeared to be deep in thought. “It’s not difficult to understand why the church rejected their original works. The new scrolls implied that Jesus did not die on the cross but survived the ordeal. Joseph of Arimathea did not collect the blood and water from the wound caused by Longinus’s spear thrust – rather, it was collected by Mary Magdalene who carried it with her at all times after Joseph dismantled the nails from the cross and from Christ’s body. Still breathing, he was taken away, and when he was capable of mobility, Jesus, the Magdalene, and Mary eventually fled to Egypt. There, they had a child named Judah. Then, to escape further capture and punishment, the family made a long and perilous journey to France. This time, both Philip and Thomas accompanied them.”

  “Whoa there, Fergy, this is getting hard to believe. The entire Christian world has been brought up on the four gospels and the crucifixion. This is never going to be accepted.”

  “I know that, and the bishop was clearly a worried man. He told me more. What was further written was that later, they settled in France in the city we now know as Marseille, before moving on to Nantes and then northwards to a town called Burdigala. We know this today as Bordeaux. They did this to escape both the Jewish and Roman authorities who they learnt had heard of his survival and were looking for him. From there, leaving the two disciples behind, they procured a fishing vessel and headed for the land that was being referred to as Britannia, our very own country. It was written that the Magdalene was pregnant again.”

  Miriam, with a look of disbelief, creased up her face. “I can’t see that this story will ever be accepted. If Jesus landed here, where did he go and of how can that ever be proven? As an archaeologist, I know that there has never been a shred of evidence, ever, that such an event occurred.”

  “That may be so,” Fergy nodded. “You’ve heard numerous tales of the Holy Grail, but this one is not about that. What both Philip and Thomas wrote in those scrolls was that Jesus lived and that his blood was collected by the Magdalene in her wooden cruet or goblet, and not by Joseph of Arimathea. The cup, both Philip and Thomas state, were seen to be used in the healing of many sick people. Whether it is John Hardyng’s so called Sang Real or as we know it, the Holy Grail, can never be known. The records conflict.” He stood up and started pacing. “The astonishing part of the tale was that no matter how many times she used it to heal, it never emptied. Both these disciples travelled throughout France with the Magdalene and Jesus and wrote down what they saw. Get that, eh! Now, the bishop is not short of friends in important circles. He had checked out all references to such an object. He himself referred to Frazer’s renowned work, ‘The Golden Bough.’ Using information gathered from his contacts and what he picked up from Frazer’s work, it led him to Druidic practices whereupon he found references to various names from the ancient Celtic past. The Druids barely left any evidence of their history. The Romans destroyed what they found and what was left of their tradition was predominately oral – passed on from one adherent to another across the ages. He discovered something that got him excited. It was passed down in the Middle Ages and then seemed to vanish and has not been seen since.”

  “What was that?” Miriam’s interest had risen by many notches.

  “There was a written record that accounted for some remarkable healing performed by a woman from one of the Brythonic Celtic tribes. The legend concerned a woman called Magda, and her man known as Jah. It was said they came from a tribe around these parts, possibly the Dumnonii or Durotriges two thousand years back. I don’t have to tell you the significance of those short names do I!”

  “Fergal, hold it right there, will you? You’re treading in my territory. I’m the archaeologist around here. Of course I know about the tribes and their domains. I also know that the names Jah and Magda are not Celtic. They must come from elsewhere. Yes, I agree, the names are uncannily biblical.”

  “Yep, I thought that’d get your interest. Before you say anything else... listen. The bishop went further, almost into a complex fantasy. Frankly, even I find it hard to believe. He said that in some of the burial mounds around these parts, ancient artefacts, and inscribed stone tablets, presumably Druidic, gave reference to Jah and Magda and a wondrous healing cup that cured all manner of illness. She was known as ‘The Cup Keeper,’ or ‘Keeper of the Cup.’ What became of the pair is not known apart from the reference of two children they had, a boy and a girl. The bishop said it had direct connection to the story of Jesus coming to this land. If true, it dispels stories of him being here in his younger, earlier years. So in one sense, if this story were true, Britain could be a holy land. What he was telling me was that much of this information had found its way into the newly discovered scrolls. How it got there remains a mystery.”

  Miriam smacked her forehead. “Stop! Stop!” Her voice was accelerating. “This is doing my brain in. Are you suggesting that somewhere around these parts are artefacts and God knows what else that may have belonged to Christ and the Magdalene, not forgetting his mother, Mary?”

  The professor leant forward with a serious ‘trust me I’m a professor’ expression. “If the story is true then it is more than possible. It is known that the southern part of our country became Christian
well before many others. Two gold crosses found not long ago lay on the eyelids of an ancient Celtic king or prince in a burial chamber discovered in the town of Southend in Essex. They were estimated to be sixteen hundred to two thousand years old. Well before Augustine and others. How did they get there, eh?”

  “Why are you telling me all this?” Miriam’s expression was now puzzled.

  “Our names, activities, and interests somehow found their way to the bishop. He said our knowledge of the caves and mounds in this part of the country, our archaeology and diving skills, were exactly what he was looking for. To get to the point, he wants us to start a clandestine expedition and create a team if needed. The objective is to undertake and find out what we can. He said that anything buried around here would sooner or later be dug up and found.”

  “Should we accept? How on earth can he fund such a proposition?”

  “That was my question to him. Are you ready to hear this?”

  “Oh, do go on. I’m all ears.”

  “His funds are virtually unlimited. They come from the secret purse of the pontiff himself, Pope Adrian.” Fergal paused to enjoy her look of astonishment.

  “What!” Miriam gasped. “That can’t be true.” Her eyes had opened wide and matched the drop of her jaw.

  “But it is. I was as astonished as you. It seems the bishop is highly influential and a secret supporter of the breakaway group, Society of Truth in Archaeology. The pope funds their activities and those funds were instrumental in discovering the latest batch of scrolls. What’s more, the pope it seems is no Catholic die-hard. He has a liberal agenda, which if revealed and implemented, could rip the Catholic Church and all its dogmas apart.”

  Miriam blew out a large lungful of air. “Let’s say we forget the dive today and get into my wheels and talk about this some more. It’s hard to believe and raises many questions.”

  “I agree. Let’s go.”

  5

  The Present Day

  The Vatican

  Pope Adrian VIII, a Dutchman like the first Pope Adrian, arose from off his podgy knees as he finished praying in the confines of his sparse bedroom. Devoid of paintings, art, and decoration of any form, the only recognisable symbol of his grace was the large crucifix bearing the body of the crucified Christ. It was as tall as he and affixed to the wall overlooking his bed. There was no need for anything more. The grace of Christ was all that would ever be needed. In his early sixties, he was not atypical in age. Most popes had been in their seventieth year or more. The youngest, however, was Pope John XII, who was astonishingly a mere twenty years of age in 955 AD or thereabouts. The election of the current Pope Adrian had not been without dissent. His liberal views were well known and had caused a minor upheaval in the ranks of cardinals.

  His prayers had not dispelled his anxieties. He was aware that many people hotly opposed his radical agenda for the Catholic Church. He remembered the death of Pope John Paul 1 which was surrounded in conspiracy theories. This gave him cause to wonder what his own future might be. He didn’t doubt that amongst the Cardinal College, there were dangerous elements.

  In the most secret compartments of his heart, he never doubted the necessity of the church to guide the spiritual welfare of his worldwide flock. Yet times, values, and perceptions had changed. In many ways, the planet was in grave danger of over population. Those changes only went further in reinforcing his most secret doubts. It had been almost impossible to keep these to himself. He believed the church needed a drastic examination of its core dogmas and be willing to accept changes.

  Amazingly, he had never truly believed in the virgin birth story. He had been reading the well-researched works of James D Taylor, and the likes of Simcha Jacobovici, and they only seemed to reinforce his doubts. There were too many accounts of Jesus surviving the crucifixion ordeal, or of it even happening, and his marriage to Mary the Magdalene and their subsequent children. He was in a quandary. He hoped that he was wrong as he regarded the story of Christ as the most inspirational of his sixty odd years of life. In that respect, it mattered little who Jesus’s parents were.

  Such sacred relics as The Shroud of Turin, Veronica’s Veil, and The Holy Prepuce, the circumcised foreskin of Christ, had never been substantially proven. Faith alone was all that was needed to believe such items. That type of faith, he knew, was monumentally important to the welfare of mankind. But he himself never believed in the authenticity of holy relics. There were too many fakes and enough wood from the true cross to build a football field full of immense barns.

  He couldn’t avoid dilemmas like the overpopulated world and its threat to Earth’s ecology. But the causes of birth had to be controlled somehow. Control was not a sin.

  These were views not acceptable to many of the conclave. He believed that a return to a simpler way of life had to begin. Headed by Christ in a realistic manner with full awareness of all possible problems. God, he thought, would not want his creation to suffer so.

  His faith in God remained unshakeable.

  One way or the other, he desperately needed evidence about the whole episodes around the life of Jesus. What was being discovered lately was rendering the biblical accounts as more than a little shaky.

  In what he thought of as being in the utmost secrecy, he began funding a clandestine circle which comprised of a handful of like-minded seekers. They were known as the Society of Truth in Archaeology – or SOTA for short

  What he hadn’t understood, was that even the most closely guarded of secrets have a way of being uncovered. SOTA was no exception.

  Cutting through these thoughts came disturbing reports concerning the mysterious death of his trusted conduit, Bishop Vincent Fisher. He had never attended the private meeting they were supposed to have last week. Now, it was being said that his mutilated remains were the work of a small pack of wolves terrorising the outskirts of Rome.

  He didn’t believe it.

  In his mind, he was unable to dismiss the idea that in some way, the bishop’s role in the group had been compromised, and therefore, if so, the entire edifice could be in peril.

  What he was thankful for was the large and top-secret portfolio he had received earlier from the bishop. That portfolio was to have been the subject of their meeting. It contained every location – from Israel, France, and Great Britain – where the Christ was alleged to have been. It also contained details concerning everybody the bishop had had contact with. It was substantial. Accompanying it was a transcript of what had been found and translated so far.

  * * *

  Later that evening, seated in a large, winged back chair, Pope Adrian was alone and had left instructions that he was not to be disturbed no matter who it was.

  Apart from God.

  On his table lay the fruits of Bishop Fisher’s endeavours. They were extensive and startling, even to a doubter like he sometimes considered himself. He noted that the bishop had copied in only one other person – a Professor Fergal Lars Christi in the UK who could be heading up the operation. It came with photographs of him and his second, Dr. Miriam Sinclair. The professor would have to be informed of developments and the death of Bishop Fisher. It was now vital to set up a trusted link between the professor and the Vatican.

  Who?

  What the transcripts contained was explosive, likely to cause controversy and outrage. It seemed that the centre of the perceived controversy was England. If proof could be found, it would overturn every other dissident theory and cause either an upsurge in belief or a mass exodus. That revelation was a decision he alone could make and in the utmost secrecy. The Israeli authorities had agreed to keep the entire project under wraps and buried behind closed doors. They too were fearful of a backlash in their own beliefs and religious structures.

  If the hub of activity was to be centred around sites and areas of England’s mystic past, then the person who will lead the way and liaise with him should know and understood the country and its people.

  There were several perturbing a
nomalies. A form of Christianity was known to have appeared in Midwest and Eastern Britain long before St. Alban and Augustine and others had arrived. How was that to be explained? There was one glaring possibility, but Pope Adrian dared not dwell on that until he knew more.

  He didn’t know who to trust. If he opened up to somebody else, that was another brick in the wall of secrecy removed.

  But it had to be done.

  There’s only one real contender. The English Cardinal, Nicholas, who knows the country and its customs well. Yet, he has the weight of his duties as director of our investigative arm, the Congregation for the Causes of Saints. As such, he is already responsible for verifying stories that might be of interest to the Church and newly discovered relics.

  Most he had discounted as forgeries. But there were a few, very few, that seemed authentic. This could be one.

  He would need an assistant… another hole in the wall.

  Pope Adrian decided he would have to devise a smokescreen to disguise the real reason for the clandestine operation. The cardinal would not be given all the facts.

  It was time to summon him personally.

  6

  Harry’s Café Bar

  Piccadilly, London

  Wearing a midnight blue, tailored mohair suit of some elegance, together with a gleaming white open necked shirt, a tall man walking with an obvious limp strode in. His walking cane beat a rhythmic tattoo on the stylish flooring. It seemed that the very walls and tiling, in all their sophisticated splendour, opened up to welcome Cardinal Nicholas. The bar glasses gleamed, shining like jewels in a black box.

  Alongside, expectant, and subservient, stood rows of enticingly labelled bottles waiting to be poured. The cardinal had left his cassock and zucchetto back in his hotel room. His meeting needed slick, modern handling. Priestly robes would not do. He found himself enjoying the glossy image he was projecting. He couldn’t see his contact yet.