The Testimonium

by Lewis Ben Smith

  ‘To the people of Rome, I bequeath half of my personal fortune in an amount not to exceed two million sesterces, to be distributed evenly across all the Tribes, as well as the improvements I have made to the Circus Maximus, the many parks and gardens that I have built, and the stadiums I have endowed. Long may they endure as centers of rest and recreation for the hard-working citizens of Rome!

  ‘Here ends the public will of Caesar Augustus.

  ‘Addendum: To the Senate of Rome—I have, over the years, discussed with many of you the possibilities of restoring the Roman Republic, and allowing elected consuls to once more serve as the leaders of the Senate and People of Rome. After much deliberation and reflection, I have realized that the old Republic was designed for the governance of a city, not for the leadership of the civilized world. It was the fragile structure of the Old Republic that led to a century of civil war, and it was the cupidity and stubbornness of its last leaders that forced my father, the divus Julius, to cross the Rubicon and root out the rot at Rome’s core. Rome is no longer a Republic, although it retains many of its Republican forms. Only one man can practically govern an Empire, until such time as the laws of the Republic can be so thoroughly rewritten that an elected body can effectively rule the world. Only the gods know when such an hour will come. I charge you solemnly to honor my wishes in this matter.

  ‘Second Addendum: To Tiberius Caesar—I have left you the greatest inheritance ever bequeathed. Guard it jealously, yet handle it with care. It can make you into a god, but it can also destroy you, my son. Govern with justice, but with caution, and when the need for ruthlessness should arrive, do not hesitate to be as ruthless as the occasion demands. May the gods give you wisdom!’”

  Josh paused. “There is a small, scribbled note at the bottom in the handwriting of Tiberius. It reads: ‘Putat senex dedit benedictionem et maledictionem sicut ego? Imperio mundi nolo nisi ipse regeret.’ In English: ‘The old man thinks he has granted me a blessing, but I will take it as a curse! I do not desire to rule the world, only to rule myself.’”

  The roomful of antiquarians applauded, and he gave a little bow.

  “This will have Roman scholars talking for years to come!” said Rossini.

  “Indeed,” said Guioccini. “But we are going to have some journalists talking very badly about us if we do not board that helicopter for Capri right away. Isabella, will you send pictures of the Augustan scroll and the video you just took of Josh translating it to my cell phone? I am sure the journalists would be quite interested in this development.”

  “Of course, sir,” said Isabella.

  “Actually,” the president of the Bureau said, “let us hold off on telling them about this until tomorrow. We need to double check and transcribe the translation before we release it.”

  Castolfo lingered after the others had left. He walked over to the table to peer closely at the original scroll rather than look at the oversized monitor. He started to reach out, just to touch one corner of the ancient papyrus, and then withdrew his hand. He looked at the archeologists with a wistful smile.

  “For many years I have stared at the statues of Caesar Augustus—both the flawless, deified Augustus of the later years and the more accurate, human Octavian of his youth. I have read Suetonius, Cassius Dio, and Plutarch’s stories of him, and the poems that Virgil wrote in his honor. But to behold this scroll, in his own writing—” The president of the Bureau of Antiquities’ governing board gave a small shiver. “This is something I have never dreamed of. Thank you.”

  Without another word, he walked out. Josh walked over and looked down at the ancient scroll, the elegant Latin letters as clear and bold now as they had been when they were written. He thought about the fact that, when that will had been written and left in the Temple of Vesta, not a single book of the New Testament had been written, and Jesus of Nazareth had still been in his teens.

  “It’s humbling, isn’t it?” said MacDonald, standing at his elbow. “To stand in the presence of such a magnificent piece of history?”

  “I remember the first time that I looked at the Declaration of Independence,” said Josh. “I was just so filled with awe, to be looking at the actual handwriting of Thomas Jefferson! But to think, when those men met at Philadelphia in 1776, this scroll had already been buried in that chamber for over seventeen centuries.”

  Isabella had joined them. “It is truly an amazing experience!” she said. “When Giuseppe called me eight days ago, I truly had no idea of what lay in store.”

  “What about the Pilate manuscript?” asked Josh, turning from the table and looking at the tank. The scroll had unrolled another inch or so, and he could plainly see the writing on it. “How long do you think?”

  MacDonald looked at it carefully. “I want to be incredibly careful with this one,” he said. “Its significance is so enormous, we can leave nothing to chance. But it is obvious the humidifying effect is kicking in already. This scroll appears to be twice as long as the other one, and it has already unrolled nearly to the side of the tank. Fortunately, these tanks were made to rehydrate ancient papyrus and parchment, with the expectation that they would unroll as part of the process, and so the side walls are modular and easily removed or extended.” He reached out and grasped a small, vertical plastic grip that extended from the edge of the tank the Pilate document lay in, and carefully lifted and pulled. The entire side of the tank pulled out, doubling its length and giving the scroll more room. The priest reached on the shelf above the tanks and pulled down a roll of clear plastic adhesive tape and covered the slot that the side panel had left in the front plexiglass surface, to maintain the seal and keep the humid air inside.

  “There!” he said. “Now the entire scroll should have room to unroll. I imagine that by tomorrow, or Wednesday at the latest, the Testimonium Pilatus will reveal its mysteries to us!”

  “I wish we could start reading it now,” Josh said, looking wistfully at the ancient script. The writing was almost impossible to read from the low angle he had.

  “I do too, laddie,” said MacDonald. “But at least, when we start it, we will be able to read it all at once!”

  “There is that at least,” said Josh. “What shall we do with the rest of the afternoon?”

  “It’s after three,” Isabella said. “Let’s review and edit our video and photographic records of the last days on-site, and then begin preparing our announcement to the press on the Augustan scroll.”

  “And then we can watch ourselves on the evening news!” MacDonald said.

  “Why don’t the two of you come on over to my place for supper?” said Isabella. “I’m no great cook, but we can order out and eat while we see how badly the press misquotes us.”

  And so it was that two hours later, the three of them sat together in Isabella’s comfortable den, watching as the evening newscasts from all over Europe and the U.S. led with the story of their press conference. They started off with the American broadcast network, BNN, where the handsome and vapid countenance of Tyler Patterson smiled at the camera from just outside the ancient chamber on the island of Capri.

  “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to BNN Around the Globe!” he said cheerfully. “I am standing on the island of Capri, just off the Italian coast near Naples. Behind me you can see the mysterious chamber of secrets left behind by the Roman Emperor Tiberius nearly two thousand years ago. Every year, thousands of tourists have tramped up and down the stone staircase above this tiny chamber, never suspecting its existence. Not until the earthquake that struck the island on Easter Sunday, eight days ago, did anyone suspect that this ruin held some of the most important discoveries in the history of archeology!”

  Isabella leaned over toward Josh. “He may not be bright,” she said, “but he does have a flair for the dramatic!”

  “Who needs intelligence when you can be entertaining?” Josh asked.

  Onscreen, Patterson continued. “In this chamber, before leaving Capri on his ill-fated return to
Rome in 47 AD, Tiberius sealed up his personal correspondence and some family heirlooms, which were revealed in a press conference at the National Archeological Museum in Naples today.”

  The scene cut to the press conference, which had already been carried live all over the world. The most popular clip seemed to be Josh, drawing the sword of Caesar from its scabbard. Isabella nudged him. “You look ready to do battle with the Fourth Estate single-handedly!” she laughed.

  Patterson’s voice-over continued. “As remarkable and exciting as these ancient relics are, the most important discoveries were not physically present at the press conference. Two ancient scrolls were still being dehydrated so they could be opened and read.” Father MacDonald choked at that gaffe. “One of these scrolls, according to the label written on the outside of it and visible in this video clip, is apparently the last will and testament of Julius Caesar Augustus, famous for creating the Roman Empire, and being Emperor at the time Jesus of Nazareth is thought to have been born.”

  Josh groaned at that one. “Can’t they at least acknowledge that maybe the Gospels got Jesus’ birth year right, within a forty-year window?” he asked.

  The broadcast continued. “Last of all, the archeologists revealed the existence of this scroll, which has yet to be opened and read. But its label proclaims it to be the ‘Testimony of Pontius Pilate, Governor of Judea.’ Pilate is known to Christians worldwide as the Roman governor who reluctantly signed Jesus’ death warrant in 33 AD. Speculation is rampant as to what this scroll might or might not contain. For our informed opinions, we have turned to our special religion correspondent, Pastor Joel Wombaker, leader of the Evangelical Lutheran Church in New York, and Dr. David Hubbard, leader of the American Atheism Foundation and well-known author of the book, Life Without God: What the Church Doesn’t Want You to Know. Gentlemen, what does this discovery mean for modern Christianity?”

  The screen split to show the two men seated in the network’s New York studio. Wombaker spoke first. A stocky, powerfully built man with a shaved head and an irrepressible smile, his nationally televised sermon hour, Blessed and Getting Better! had edged out many of the older, more stolid TV preachers in recent years. “This is a great day for the Church!” he said. “Christians have long preached and taught that our faith is rooted in real, historical events, and having Pilate’s report to Rome, if indeed that is what this document is, will show everyone that has jumped on the Bible-bashing bandwagon in recent years that we have been right all along.”

  “But what if Pilate’s testimony says that Jesus did not rise from the dead?” pressed Patterson. “What if he says the disciples hid the body, or that the Romans themselves took it for some reason?”

  “Well,” said the preacher, “you have to consider that there is really no evidence that Pilate ever became a believer. So naturally he would try to find some natural explanation for such a strange event, especially in a report to his Emperor. Even St. Matthew tells us the priests bribed the guards to say that the disciples came and stole Jesus’ body.”

  Dr. Hubbard had been impatiently rolling his eyes throughout the pastor’s remarks, so Patterson addressed him next. “What are your thoughts on this discovery, Dr. Hubbard?”

  “First of all, I find all this premature speculation distasteful and ridiculous. There is very little evidence that a person named Jesus of Nazareth even existed, much less that he was executed as described in the collection of fairy tales known as the Gospels! This may very well be a report to the Emperor about something else entirely.”

  “Isn’t that a bit of a stretch, to say that Jesus never lived?” asked the reporter.

  “Not at all!” snapped Hubbard. “There is not a single contemporary reference to him! Just a set of stories that were written down fifty to a hundred years later by a group of superstitious peasants. And if he ever did live, I imagine he was just a zealous rabbi who got into trouble for purely political reasons, not some primitive deity who decided for unfathomable reasons to incarnate himself into the body of a carpenter.”

  “You sure do seem to waste a lot of hate and anger on someone whom you claim never existed, Dr. Hubbard,” said Wombaker. “But your claim that Jesus never lived is ridiculous in the extreme, almost as inaccurate as the dates you ascribe to the Gospels.”

  “What do you mean by that, Pastor Wombaker?” asked Patterson.

  “The three synoptic Gospels, Matthew, Mark, and Luke, were written only thirty or forty years after the time Jesus lived, by eyewitnesses of his life in Matthew’s case, and that of John’s gospel, even though it was written a while later. Some of Paul’s letters date a decade earlier, and Galatians dates within fifteen years of the Crucifixion. Roman historians and the Jewish writer Josephus all treat Jesus as a real flesh-and-blood person. And as far as Dr. Hubbard’s editorial comments go, St. Paul said it best: ‘The preaching of the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing.’ Whatever is in this scroll, God’s church is not the least bit afraid to face it.”

  The atheist’s face darkened. “Probably because they planted it there in the first place!” he snapped.

  Patterson raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Get real,” said Hubbard. “They discover this supposedly undisturbed chamber on Easter Sunday, and the first thing they do is call in a representative from the Vatican and the son of an Evangelical preacher from the American South? The whole thing stinks so badly I can smell it here in New York!”

  Josh looked over at Isabella. “And so it begins,” he said.

  “Good thing we did our field work properly,” she replied.

  * * *

  On another television set, on the isle of Capri, Ali bin-Hassan watched the coverage of the press conference as broadcast on the Arabic network, Al-Jizyah. The anchor stated: “Archeologists claim to have found several artifacts dating to the time of the early Roman Empire, including a scroll that may to contain the report Pontius Pilate filed to the Emperor Tiberius about the so-called crucifixion of the Prophet Isa, peace be upon him. Christian infidels believe that Isa was crucified and then rose again on the third day to prove that he was the Son of the Most High. The Religion of Truth teaches that he was neither crucified nor killed, but divinely sheltered from harm by Allah and then caught up to the heavens, while the disciple who betrayed him was killed in his place. Islamic scholars hope that Pilate’s report will chronicle the true narrative, but many already fear that this is just another clever hoax to deceive the faithful.”

  Hassan snapped off the TV and stepped outside. All day long, nothing but reports and speculation about the mysterious scroll and its alleged contents—he must do something! He made his way down the trail behind his house that led to the beach. The half-moon was low in the sky, and he could see nothing but empty sand in every direction. The crash of the surf would foil any potential eavesdropping. He pulled a disposable cell phone from his pocket. The cell phone had been delivered earlier that year, and it was programmed with only one number. That number would ring in a vacant apartment in Cairo, where a remote router would relay it to a cell phone belonging to one of the most wanted men in the world—al Qaeda’s current director of operations, Ibrahim Abbasside. The Ethiopian terrorist had masterminded a number of successful plots, and others that had been foiled by the infidels, but he had never been captured. In fact, the cursed American Crusaders had not even been able to come up with a photograph of him yet! Hassan had debated all day on whether or not to call the number, but now his mind was made up. He turned on the phone and brought up the contact list, and pressed “Call” on the only number it displayed.

  The phone in Cairo rang twice, and he hung up. Two rings was the prearranged signal. Seconds later, his phone buzzed.

  “Allah is merciful!” he answered.

  “Indeed he is,” came the reply. “Hassan, it is good to speak to you again. I know you must have called for a reason. What is it?”

  “This so-called archeological discovery,” he said. “It could
pose a great victory for the infidel Christians.”

  “Fortunate that it was found in your own back yard, then,” said the terror mastermind. “It is a shame that you were not able to act more quickly.”

  “By the time I became aware of it, the artifacts were already being moved to Naples,” said Hassan. “But I am familiar with the area where they are being studied. A properly placed ‘special delivery’ would destroy the lab, the scrolls, and the infidels who found them.”

  “You know that ‘The Prophet’s Hammer’ has been delayed by the improved security at Target Alpha,” said Abbasside. That was the code name for a truck bomb intended to destroy St. Peter’s Basilica. “The device is ready, sitting in a warehouse just south of Rome. I could have drivers deliver it to Naples. But it would require someone familiar with the area to place the package where it needs to be delivered.”

  “You mean—” said Hassan.

  “Paradise will await you, my brother,” replied the Ethiopian.

  Hassan could barely contain his happiness. That he might finally earn Islam’s highest honor, death by jihad! The thought of the joys of paradise overwhelmed him. “Allahu Akbar!” he exclaimed.

  “He is great indeed,” said Abbasside. “A new phone will be delivered in two days. It will ring sometime Thursday evening, giving you specific instructions as to where the package will be waiting. Delivering the package will be your responsibility—it must be done at a time when the so-called Pilate report is there beyond all doubt, and you must get close enough to the walls of the lab to ensure their utter destruction. Is that clear?”