“Your tribute to our friends was beautiful,” he said.
“Thanks,” she replied. “I had been turning over what to say in my head for a while. It’s funny how close you can grow to someone in such a short time. I barely knew Simone Apriceno for two weeks, yet I miss her cruelly already.”
“It is odd how quickly we grow attached to total strangers, isn’t it?” he answered, giving her arm a gentle squeeze.
She looked up into his eyes and smiled. “You are right! So much awfulness has happened since we met,” she said. “But meeting you at least makes it seem a little bit worthwhile. Josh—” She paused.
“What is it, Isabella?” he asked.
“I don’t think I could survive if I lost you, too,” she said.
“Isabella, nothing is going to happen to me,” he said. “But the beauty of faith is that our loved ones are never truly lost; just separated from us for a little while.”
She looked at him, and the sadness crept back into her eyes. “You make faith sound so appealing,” she said. “I just don’t know that I am ready to take that step yet. It is too soon.”
By this time they were at the side door of the enormous museum complex, where a large black limo was waiting for them. The windows were tinted, but as they passed the front of the museum Josh saw a few correspondents on the steps, cameras rolling as they pontificated on the story of the scroll and its implications. He was curious to see how it would all play out in the press, but too tired and sore to care much at the moment. A few moments later, the limo pulled up at the front of his hotel, and he saw Dr. Martens and Alicia standing at the door waiting for him. He gave Isabella a quick kiss and got out, walking as quickly as his injuries would allow him, to meet them. Several reporters who had been waiting nearby immediately converged on him.
“Dr. Parker!” shouted one American. “Would you like to make any comment about the events of the last two days?”
Martens spoke up loudly. “Gentlemen, this young man has been through a great deal in the last forty-eight hours. If you had seen him last night at the ER, you would realize what a heroic effort it was for him to even be at the museum today. Please let him through so he can get some rest.”
“It’s all right, Doc,” Josh said, as he reached the door and turned around, seeing a small forest of microphones and cameras aimed at him. He privately swore never to make fun of celebrities’ paparazzi problems again. “Let me make a very short statement,” he said, “and then just please do me the favor of leaving me alone for a day or two.”
The reporters grew silent. Josh thought for just a moment about everything that he had experienced since he got the phone call from Dr. Martens out on Lake Hugo just two weeks before. What could he possibly have to say that had not already been said? Finally he spoke.
“The discovery of the Testimonium is no doubt the single most important find in the history of Biblical archeology, but in one important aspect, it is not unlike the others that have been made in the last one hundred and fifty years: it confirms the historical truth of the Biblical narrative. Christianity is the only faith in the world whose central claim rests upon a single historical event: the Resurrection of Jesus of Nazareth. Most of you know that my father is a Protestant minister. For my entire life I have heard him thunder from the pulpit that if Jesus was not physically raised from the dead on the third day, then the entire foundation of our faith is a falsehood. My dad believes—and I share that faith—that if Jesus remained in His tomb on the third day, then most of what He said and taught becomes meaningless. As profound as the sayings of Christ are, they are all rooted in His claim, and His belief, that He was the Son of God.” Josh paused a moment, his head throbbing, but went on in a determined manner. “If that claim was false—whether Jesus of Nazareth knowingly claimed to be something He was not, or He mistakenly believed Himself to be the Son of God when in fact he was merely a deluded mortal—then two thousand years of Church history are based on a lie. I have been through an extensive education—eight years of college from my Bachelor’s to my PhD. I have been instructed by some men who were devout Christians, some who were curious agnostics, and a couple who were militant atheists. I kept my faith through all my years in college because none of them were able to answer this fundamental question: if Jesus was not the Christ, then who moved the stone from the tomb?”
He drew himself up and looked directly at the cameras. “The testimony of Pontius Pilate proves that the authors of the Gospel did not make up their story. Does Pilate’s account conclusively prove that Jesus was the Son of God? No! As I said earlier, those determined not to believe will find any number of reasons to reject, question, or explain away what Pilate recorded. But what the Testimonium does is prove what I have said my whole life: the Gospel writers did NOT make up the story of the Resurrection. Like everything else they wrote, it was based on historical fact. All those who have spent the last couple of decades trying to undermine the Gospel stories are going to have to carefully reexamine their scholarship—and their motives! That is all, gentlemen. I am exhausted, I am hurting in places I did not know I had, and my head is about to spontaneously combust if I don’t lie down. If I don’t wake up in three days, send a nurse up with a caffeine IV!”
The reporters gave a good-natured laugh, and Josh slowly turned and entered the hotel. Alicia held the door open for him, and Dr. Martens waited within, leaning on his crutches. They made their way to the elevator bank and climbed into a waiting car.
“Well said out there, Josh!” exclaimed Dr. Martens. “Atheists all over the world are gnashing their teeth right now! You are a fine scholar and a man of faith—I am proud to have been one of your teachers!”
Alicia leaned over and gave him a friendly kiss on the cheek. “You did us all proud today, cowboy!” she said with a laugh.
Josh smiled, and then winced. He had not been kidding about his head. It felt like someone was cutting a hole in the top of his skull with a jackhammer. “I kept thinking about the question that I was asked back at the museum,” he said. “I know that faith can never be completely vindicated or proven by any scientific discovery, but at the same time, I know that what can be proven is that our faith rests on a sure foundation of history. That was what I wanted to clarify. I wonder what my dad would think of my comments? I pulled up several lines from his standard Easter sermon.”
Martens nodded. He and Josh’s dad had been friends for a number of years. “I think Ben is probably a very proud papa right now,” he said.
They got out of the elevator on Josh’s floor and headed down the hallway to his room. “I think,” Josh said as he swiped his key card in the door, “that I will forego my usual swim this afternoon.”
Alicia laughed. “Now I know you are hurting,” she said. “We used to joke that an Oklahoma ice storm couldn’t keep you out of the pool!”
“Well, the college pool was heated, so no, they didn’t!” Josh said. “Speaking of hot water, I think I am going to go and take a very long, very hot bath, take my Percocet, and sleep for a day or two. Thanks to both of you for being such a support to me—not just these last few days, but ever since I have known you. I am lucky to have such awesome friends!”
“Good night, Josh!” the professor and his young wife said together, and Josh closed the door and headed into his suite.
* * *
Dr. Castolfo had walked Isabella up the steps to her apartment, refusing to speak to the group of reporters who had finally figured out where she lived and were staked out in front of her building. He promised them a short statement after he accompanied Isabella to her rooms, and the journalists made no attempt to follow them into the building—although the presence of the burly doorman and two uniformed policemen may have had more to do with their courtesy than his promise.
In the elevator, he finally spoke to her. “So, Isabella, without meaning to pry, do you think your affection for this young American is going to be taking you away from our facility?”
She shrugged
. “At this point I have no idea,” she said. “I’ve only had one romantic relationship in my entire life before this one, and it led to a happy marriage that was cut short far too soon. Josh makes me happier than I have been since Marc died, but whether that happiness will turn into something more permanent, what will happen then? Well, I suppose right now that is in God’s hands.”
Castolfo raised an eyebrow. “I did not know that you were a religious person,” he said.
“I wasn’t,” she replied. “But after the last two weeks—well, I guess I can honestly say I no longer have any idea exactly what I believe.”
The Board of Antiquities president gave her a fatherly smile. “I believe, dear girl, that you need some pain medication and a couple of days’ worth of uninterrupted rest!”
Isabella nodded. “You will get no argument from me,” she said.
Once inside her apartment, she pulled on a warm pair of sweat pants and a T-shirt that had been washed so many times it was softer than the finest wool. She took a Percocet and washed it down with a swallow of bottled water—the stuff that came out of her apartment’s pipes was invariably coppery tasting and awful—then went to her room and lay down.
She saw the phone by her bed and, on impulse, dialed Josh’s cell number. He picked up on the third ring.
“Is everything all right?” he asked her.
“Yes, I just wanted to hear your voice before I went to sleep,” she replied drowsily. “Are you OK? You were hurt more than I was.”
“I’m actually a bit better now,” he said. “I’m soaking in a tub so hot I half expect someone to start peeling carrots and potatoes into it at any moment! In a few moments I’m going to pour myself into some old gym clothes and sleep until I wake up—however many days that turns out to be.”
“I wish you were here,” she said. “Not so I could take advantage of you, just so I could look into your eyes until I fall asleep.”
Josh replied after a short pause. “Soon,” he said. “Very soon I hope that we will be able to spend not just one night, but every night together.”
“Joshua, are you proposing to me?” she asked.
“You know I want nothing more,” he said. “But first, I want you to fall as much in love with God as you have with me. Better yet, I want you to love Him even more! Then I’ll know we can truly be together forever.”
She sighed. “Your God makes things awfully complicated sometimes, my love! Good night!” She hung up before another long theological discussion could begin, but as she went to sleep, she found herself thinking. How on earth could a mortal person fall in love with an infinite God?
* * *
Ibrahim Abbasside watched the news conference, and then the comments by the young American archeologist, on a television set in Benghazi, Libya. The newsfeed provided a flowing Arabic translation below the video images, but he did not really need it—his English was quite passable, his Italian even better. He had picked up a flawless set of travel papers from a local cell leader, identifying him as Abdullah Ali, a wealthy Ethiopian antique dealer. It would be a good cover for him to find out some more information about the museum and its environs, and to spy out when the scroll was going to be transported to Rome for study.
His ambush would have to be during the transport process, he thought. The museum would be heavily guarded after the previous attack, and the security in Rome had proven itself impenetrable by his organization. But a traveling convoy—there were many choke points between Rome and Naples where an ambush could be carried off quickly and with a high probability of success. However, he would need help. This operation was beyond the capability of one man. Fortunately, the sleeper cells that had been waiting for the last five years to strike at the Pope were still available, although he was certain that most of the members would not survive. Of course, martyrdom was the highest goal of every jihadist; it was the only activity that carried with it a guaranteed admittance to Paradise. Although Abbasside was convinced he was more valuable to the struggle alive than dead for the moment, he knew that when the time came, he would not hesitate to sacrifice himself for the glory of Allah.
But how much damage had already been done by the release of the scroll? All other stories were forgotten in the rush of news from Italy; around the world infidel Christians rejoiced, while the skeptics and doubters who had done so much to undermine faith in Islam’s greatest rival were still trying to figure out how to assimilate this discovery. Abbasside’s own faith in Islam remained unshaken—the Injil of Barnabas clearly stated that Allah had caused the disciple who betrayed the Prophet Isa (peace be upon him) to be transformed into Isa’s very likeness so that the turncoat would die in the Prophet’s place. Apparently the transformation had been so complete that even the Roman governor had been fooled. But Pilate was not the only one. Already, one prominent skeptic and atheist had announced that this discovery had convinced him of the truth of Christianity, and a well-known former Christian pastor, who had become a virulent critic of the faith he had rejected, now stated that he was ready to be reconciled to the Church. What impact would this discovery have across the Muslim world?
Abbasside knew that years of exposure to decadent Western music and films had weakened the grip of Islam on the minds of many young Arabs. The invention of the Internet, while a great boon to planning and executing attacks on the West, had also given thousands of young Muslims who might never see a New Testament access to the infidel Scriptures. He had heard imams talk of young, faithful Muslims suddenly stricken by doubt about the Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon Him) and wondering if perhaps Isa had been what the church claimed him to have been all along! It was unconscionable! The veteran terrorist was determined that this scroll could not be allowed to undermine the faith of one more follower of the Prophet!
* * *
Alessandro Zadora, the Police Chief of Naples, was still trying to piece together the clues from the horrific blast that had destroyed the new research lab at the National Museum of Antiquities. The self-confessed bomber turned out to have been a long-term Al Qaeda sleeper who had been dormant for the better part of a decade. However, al-Medina had not left Capri for more than a year before the blast. So who had bought the explosives and loaded them onto the truck? That investigation was baffling him, so he had called in the State Security Police Force’s leading anti-terrorism expert, Antonio Lucoccini, to help him in the investigation.
The two men had worked together before, and had a healthy respect for each other’s professional abilities. Zadora was surveying the wreckage of the lab, counting the yellow flags that indicated where pieces of the bomb and the truck that delivered it had been found. Al-Medina’s body had been completely shredded in the blast, pieces of it being recovered in more than twenty locations, too badly damaged to help investigators much. So far, only a few clues had been located as to the device that had caused so much devastation: a small fragment of the detonator, a badly damaged remote control, and a few pieces of the crates that had contained the explosives themselves. It appeared to be a standard ammonium nitrate bomb—the fertilizer was easily obtained in small quantities, and occasionally larger amounts of it were reported stolen.
“This place is a mess! Looks like a bomb went off or something!” a familiar voice said behind him.
“Always the wise guy,” said Zadora, turning to face Lucoccini. “If I wanted a comedian, I could have hired one from a local nightclub and left you in Rome taking bribes!”
“Now that hurts, coming from an old friend! Any leads on who supplied the bomb?” asked Lucoccini.
“We’ve barely recovered any pieces of the device at all,” said Zadora. “The fertilizer was most likely stolen—there have been several thefts of ammonium nitrate the last few years. Some have been recovered, some not. Our best shot is going to be with the detonator, but we need to find more pieces of it before we can begin to figure out who might have put it together.”
They walked together through the wreckage of the lab. Two police technicians
were lifting a shattered Formica tabletop with the help of a small forklift. Underneath they found some half-melted plexiglass, a crushed stool, and some sort of very black wooden desk or small table, its legs broken and laid flat. Zadora reached down and turned it over to find an ancient piece of parchment, streaked with soot, somehow glued to the surface of the wood. It was covered with writing. “Someone call the archies in,” he said. “We found some more of their junk.”
“Junk?” said Lucoccini. “That’s the Tiberius letter, you uncultured rube! Haven’t you watched any of the news about what they were working on?”
“I’ve been tracking a serial rapist, two kidnapping cases, and a child murderer for the last month,” snapped Zadora. “All I’ve had time to watch is my blood pressure going up!”
“And then came this,” said Lucoccini thoughtfully.
“Exactly!” his friend snapped. “And then came this!” They watched as one of the museum staff made his way down the ruined hallway between them and the main building. “Hard to believe a two-thousand-year-old scrap of paper was worth this much trouble, isn’t it?”
* * *
At ten thirty Sunday morning Josh heard a steady pounding sound insert itself into his dreams. He groaned and rolled over; trying to return to the creek bed he was walking down in northeast Texas, ten years old again, with a pocket full of arrowheads and not a care in the world. But the persistent pounding sound kept forcing itself into his mind until he finally sat up with a lurch and realized that someone was knocking on his door. Grumbling, he pulled on a T-shirt and stumbled through the suite, realizing as he did so that the soreness in his limbs and the pounding in his head were much more subdued than they had been the day before. Still, he was not very happy—he had left the “Do Not Disturb” sign out, and really felt as if he could have slept for another eight or ten hours.
“Who is it?” he shouted, not even looking through the keyhole.
“Are you going to lie in bed all day while the fish are biting?” a familiar voice answered.
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