“Yes, imam!” exclaimed Abbas. The line went dead immediately thereafter. The entire conversation had taken less than three minutes. As he walked up the trail to his home near the mosque, he could hardly contain his joy. No more mouthing platitudes that went against every fiber of his being! No more being the infidels’ pet imam! Muhammad al Medina, the kindly, benevolent imam of the Capri mosque, had always been a fiction. In less than a week, the whole world would realize how great a work of fiction he had been.
That Saturday, Caesar, was one of the quietest days during my entire tenure here in Judea. The Jewish leaders, having gotten their way, were quiescent the whole time, absorbed in their Passover rituals. The Galilean’s followers were in hiding, no doubt in shock and grief at his death. After that incredibly long and difficult Friday, I began to feel I could breathe again.
But Sunday morning, shortly before the noontide meal, Longinus came to see me. He saluted crisply, but his countenance was grim. Not just grim, either. It was as white as my toga. He was afraid.
“He’s gone,” he said.
“Who is gone?” I asked.
“That bloody Galilean! Jesus of Nazareth! His tomb is empty, his shroud an empty shell, and his body is missing!”
Rage filled me. “How could this happen?” I demanded.
“My three legionaries were camped some distance away,” he said. “But there were twenty of those Jewish Temple guards watching the tomb, and the stone across the entrance would have taken a dozen men to move! They had even sealed it with a big wax seal, proclaiming death to any who violated the tomb.”
“Then what happened?” I demanded.
“Just before dawn, they heard the ground shake, and the Jewish temple guards shrieking. My two boys started towards the tomb, and saw the Jews lying on the grass as if dead. The huge stone was moved several yards away from the entrance. Decius Carmella approached the opening, and then a blinding flash of light knocked both of them out cold. When they woke up, the Jews had fled, and there was a group of women at the tomb wondering what had happened. That is when they came and reported to me!”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Josh rose early the next morning, swam ten laps in the pool, then showered and got dressed. He was just finishing his continental breakfast when Isabella walked into the hotel’s restaurant looking for him. He waved her over with a bit of trepidation. They had not really been alone together since he had declined her invitation Sunday night, and he was not sure how she felt about him at this point. But she was all smiles as she slid into the booth across from him.
“You are an early riser,” she said. “That’s commendable; it leaves much more time to get things done.”
Josh smiled. “I never could stand to waste daylight,” he said, “even as a teenager. So many of my friends would sleep till noon on Saturday, while I would be up as soon as it got light, fishing or catching snakes or hunting arrowheads! Of course, while they were partying till three in the morning, I was generally in bed by ten every night.”
Isabella looked at him sadly. “You were something of a Boy Scout, weren’t you?”
“Oh, I don’t know that I would go that far,” said Josh. “I loved a good prank as much as anyone, and did my share of juvenile adolescent stupidity . . . but I avoided things that I thought of as ‘the big sins.’ I didn’t smoke, didn’t drink, never was interested in drugs, and was frankly scared to death of girls.”
“Somehow I don’t find that hard to believe,” she said with a look so frank it scared him.
“Listen, Isabella, about the other night—” he said.
“I was too forward,” she said curtly. “I have been so alone for so long I just couldn’t stand it anymore.”
“If I could have my way, you would never be alone again!” he said.
“So what is keeping you from it?” she asked. “Having your way, I mean?”
“There are some obstacles,” he said, blushing. “But none of them are insurmountable. Obviously, we come from different countries, have separate careers, and speak different native languages.”
“Joshua!” she said. “You are ducking the subject. I like you a great deal. Despite my better instincts, I think I may be actually falling in love with you. The least you can do is be honest with me. What is it about the thought of sleeping with me that terrifies you so much?”
“I guess ‘fear of the unknown’ is too simple an answer, huh?” he asked ruefully. “I’ll try to explain as best I can. I believe, with all my heart, that the Bible lays out a divine plan for human relationships as well as with our relationship with God. I don’t want to live like so many of my friends, hopping from partner to partner, looking for satisfaction and never finding it, promising to love and cherish, and then five years later, cheating, lying, and running out. I want to have ONE sexual relationship—but I want it to last the rest of my life. To me, that means I pick the right person, and then WAIT until my ring is on her finger and my last name takes the place of hers before I take her home with me forever. I have been looking my whole life for that person—and for the first time ever, I really think that I may have found her. My heart tries to leap out of my chest every time I look at you! And it’s not just physical attraction—although there is plenty of that, trust me. But there is more. I want to make you laugh. I want to hold you when you cry. I want to see you every moment of every day. And I want to keep you from being hurt ever again.”
There was so much sincerity, so much longing, in his voice that Isabella was moved despite herself. She had resolved, after his refusal of her proposition, to back off and begin disentangling herself from this handsome but confusing man. That resolve had come with difficulty, after a lot of soul searching and a half a gallon of chocolate ice cream. She had even called her closest female cousin to commiserate with her for an hour that night. But now his deep brown eyes, his tanned handsome face, and above all, the simple love that radiated from him melted that resolve. She opened her mouth and spoke.
“Then why not?” she said. “There is something else—or I think you would have asked me already.”
He gave a deep sigh. “As much as I love you, Isabella, I love my God more. And I am afraid to share my life with a person who does not share that love. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life with a person that I cannot count on spending eternity with. I want you to love Jesus as much as I do, and then I can love you without reservation or fear. But if you are an unbeliever—a skeptic—I am afraid to give my heart to you. Because if you never come to share my faith, that would mean saying goodbye to you forever when I die. And I don’t think I could stand that. And so I hold back—because I don’t know what you believe. It is the one thing we have never had a chance to talk about, and I have been waiting—and dreading—the chance to do so!”
“What do I believe?” Isabella asked. She had not really thought about God in years. She had gone to mass often as a young girl, and had entertained a simple belief in a benevolent Creator through her teen years. She was not sure what she thought about Jesus of Nazareth. She knew he had been a real person, but the Son of God? For her, the twisted marble figure hanging on a cross above the altar was an abstraction, a symbol of a powerful philosophy. A historical figure that had been amplified into something far more than he ever meant to be. Now she was the chief investigator in an excavation which could, potentially, establish which version of Jesus was real—the radical rabbi who challenged the authority of Rome and the priests, the misunderstood mystic, or the dynamic Son of God portrayed in the Gospels? Her scientific training, her skeptical nature, and her deep-seated anger at God over the loss of her husband years before, all argued against the kind of Jesus that Josh seemed to accept without hesitation. And yet, deep down, there was a part of her that had never left the cathedral where she had knelt as a child. That part longed for something greater than herself, a God that could love her and be loved in return, a God she could cast her cares on without reservation. Yet she doubted the existence of such a being.
/>
“I won’t lie to you,” she said. “I don’t know what I believe. I want your God to be real—he certainly seems to give meaning to your life—but I haven’t decided if he is or not.”
Josh took her hand in his and pressed it to his lips. “When you decide,” he said, looking straight at her, “I’ll be waiting.”
She averted her gaze so he wouldn’t see the tears that started to form in her eyes. After a moment, she said, “You are a ridiculously good person! But while you are waiting for me, the lab is waiting for us. Let’s get out of here.”
They slid out of the booth and walked toward the front entrance of the hotel lobby, with Josh holding her hand as they stepped out into the street. It was a rainy morning, and the flashbulbs that exploded were extra bright against the dim sky. Half a dozen journalists had been huddled under the hotel’s elaborate façade, waiting for them to emerge. Since releasing Josh’s hand at this point would be too late anyway, Isabella tightened her grip and smiled for the cameras. He followed suit, and the flashbulbs popped again, and then the questions began.
“Dr. Sforza!” An earnest young American stepped forward. “Andrew Eastwood, Chicago Tribune. Any new developments since yesterday’s press conference? Has either of the scrolls been opened and read?”
Isabella had spent a good part of the afternoon preparing remarks about the Caesar scroll, and figured this would be a good time to tease the media a bit. “Well, we will be making an announcement to reporters a bit later this morning,” she said. “One of the scrolls had rehydrated and opened enough to be read by yesterday afternoon, and we will be sharing the translation with you in a couple of hours.”
“Can you tell us which one it was?” the young American asked.
She sighed. “The Pilate scroll is the longer of the two and will take a bit more time to rehydrate and unroll,” she said. “But the Caesar’s will opened up beautifully for us. However, if you want to know what it said, you will have to attend our press conference at ten AM. Now, Dr. Parker and I have a great deal of work to do this morning, so if you will excuse us—”
Another reporter spoke up. “Dr. Sforza,” he said. “There has been a lot of speculation in the press as to the nature of your relationship with Dr. Parker. Would you care to clarify that for us?”
Isabella’s dark eyes flashed with anger. “NO!” she snapped, and she and Josh pushed through the small crowd that had gathered and headed toward the museum. A few shouted questions followed, but she and Josh ignored them.
“You should have known that was coming eventually!” he said as they neared the museum’s entrance.
She turned to face him, first glancing back to make sure that none of the reporters or paparazzi had followed them. “I will have to know what that relationship is before I can clarify it for anyone!” she said. “And right now, I think you will agree that we are at something of an impasse, wouldn’t you?”
Josh nodded. “Unwillingly, but yes—for the moment. But I do believe we will surmount it!”
She smiled at his optimism, his sweetness, and most of all, at him. His simple goodness was impossible to remain angry with. “If believing in Jesus will make me more like you,” she said, “I might have to consider it at some point.” Then she kissed him quickly on the cheek and began striding briskly toward the museum entrance.
When they came in, MacDonald was waiting for them, beaming from ear to ear. “It’s about time you two lovebirds showed up!” he said in his best Scottish accent. “Oh, this is absolutely marvelous!”
Josh raised an eyebrow. “What is?” he asked.
“The scroll! The Testimonium!” the priest exclaimed, nearly dancing with excitement. “It opened almost completely. Giuseppe is already prepping the table, and as soon as you can get some gloves on, we can remove it from the tank and begin translation!”
Josh swallowed hard. This was it. For all his brave talk, he was a little afraid to see what was written on the scroll. What if Pilate revealed that the entire resurrection story—the story that Josh, his father, and virtually every person Josh cared about had based their entire lives around—was really a two-thousand-year-old hoax? Or a dreadful case of mistaken identity? Every alternative theory he had ever heard regarding the Resurrection story crowded into his head at once. But then a simple prayer from the Gospel of Mark came to his mind, and he repeated it to himself. “I believe,” he prayed. “Help my unbelief!”
Then he looked up and smiled at the Vatican archeologist. “What are we waiting for?” he said. “Let’s go!”
The three of them almost sprinted through the museum toward the back entrance, where Dr. Guioccini was waiting for them. “I was about to send out a search party, Dr. Sforza!” he said with a smile.
“We were waylaid by the advance guard of the Fourth Estate,” she explained.
“After a breakfast that probably did drag on a bit too long,” Josh admitted. The priest and the Italian archeologist gave him a curious look, and he realized how it sounded. “In the hotel restaurant, where Dr. Sforza had to come looking for me,” he added quickly, and the priest gave him a wink. Curse that man’s mischievous nature! Josh thought. Isabella herself was a bit red in the face, but he was sure it was from their quick walk through the museum. Nothing seemed to faze her.
They stepped through the back doors and stepped across the blacktop to the new lab. Rossini waited for them at the door, and Dr. Apriceno was right behind him. “I must admit,” she said, “this is a bit more exciting than my microscope at the moment!”
When they stepped into the lab, Josh walked straight over to the tank, where the Pilate scroll had unrolled almost to its full length. One end of it was resting against the side of the tank, despite the extension they had made to the tank’s width the day before. It looked to be nearly six and a half feet long.
“How are we going to move it to the viewing table?” Josh asked.
“I’ve been working on that for an hour,” the priest said. “Look at this.” He had taken four of the trays that they used to transport smaller artifacts from tank to table, and used some sort of powerful glue to attach long aluminum bars across their bottom sides, making one long tray. He picked up the trays and shook them solidly to make sure the epoxy had taken hold, then flipped them right side up and began covering them with acid-free paper. The tabletop was already covered, and the securing clamps were positioned to hold the scroll in place while it was being photographed and studied. MacDonald worked quickly, folding the paper down over the outside edges of the trays and taping it in place beneath. Josh was already putting his gloves on.
Moments later, they lifted out the plexiglass sides of the two tanks. Isabella had also donned her gloves, and three pairs of hands slid underneath the ancient papyrus to gently lift it out of the tank and place it on the combined trays. Josh and MacDonald got on either end, with Isabella in the middle, and carefully lifted the ancient document on the trays and carried it to the table. Then they slid it off the trays and then Father MacDonald carefully teased each end as flat as he dared, positioning the clamps so as to keep them from rolling back up, but not to put any actual pressure on the papyrus until he could stabilize the material. Josh gave a quick glance at the flowing Latin script that covered the page. At a glance, he could see that the last two columns were written in a different hand than the rest. One name leaped off the page at him—“IESUS NAZARENUS.” Jesus of Nazareth.
The air went out of his lungs, and MacDonald looked up from his work. Unable to speak, Josh pointed.
“Holy Mother of God!” the priest said. “It means one thing to speculate, and think about it. But to see it before our eyes! Help me, lad, I canna stand it. Let’s get this thing stabilized so we can begin the translation!”
The rest of the team, and Doctors Guioccini and Castolfo, who had slipped in as they worked, all watched with rapt attention as the Scottish antiquarian produced two spray bottles of his special solution and handed one to Josh. Working silently together, the two of them slo
wly and carefully sprayed the document from one end to the other, coating it with the stabilizer two times. The ancient papyrus darkened slightly as the fluid hit it and soaked in. Soon the entire mass of papyrus was an even, rich brown in color, and the two men stepped back.
Fully unrolled, the scroll was about sixteen inches in height, and almost seventy-six inches in length. There was a faint, ancient water stain at one end, but the writing was clear and legible throughout. Dr. MacDonald turned on the state-of-the-art digital camera, which was positioned directly over the table on a retractable arm, with its powerful light ready to shine down on the scroll as every character was recorded on film. Isabella was the first to step forward, and then Rossini came up behind her and laid a fatherly hand on her shoulder. Moments later, Apriceno, Castolfo, and Guioccini joined them. Seven pairs of eyes stared at the ancient scroll.
Finally Rossini spoke. “There are hardly words to express this moment,” he said. “What we do in this lab today will echo around the world. The realms of faith, politics, science, and history may all be shaken. None of us, at this moment, know exactly what is about to happen. But I have the feeling that our lives will never be the same. So I want to say—here and now—that I have been honored to work with each of you. I could not have asked for a more diverse, interesting, and professional team of scientists. You humble me.”
Josh clasped the elderly Italian by the hand, his eyes shining. “The feeling could not be more mutual, Giuseppe,” he said. “You are a good man. Father MacDonald, I came halfway around the world looking for a mystery, and found a friend. Simone, you are an amazing woman. I wish you and my mother could meet. You remind me of her a great deal. And Isabella—” He found himself unable to go on.
“Enough of this silly mush!” said Father MacDonald. “That scroll is not going to translate itself!” He busied himself with the camera, and the team watched as he carefully photographed each column of ancient script and saved the images to the laboratory computer. In a few moments, he was done. Josh plugged his laptop into one of the USB ports and downloaded the images, while the Father pulled up the photos on one of the lab’s computer workstations.
The Testimonium Page 24