He flipped over to one of the late-night talk shows. Will Mayor was on every Sunday night back in the states, and his show was just starting on one of the international movie channels. He was a foul-mouthed, sarcastic atheist who loved nothing better than bashing religion and right-wing politicians at every opportunity; he was one of the few entertainers that actually made Josh angry. But the panel of guests included the irrepressible Joel Wombaker, and the Smithsonian’s Biblical archeologist, Andy Henderson, in addition to an American starlet named Sandee McClusky and the ever-grouchy atheist, David Hubbard. This ought to be interesting, Joshua thought. The program was just beginning, and the Testimonium was the topic.
“Now let’s just suppose,” said Mayor, “that this papyrus really is two thousand years old, and was really written by Pontius Pilate. Does that prove that the Christians have been right this whole time about their magical Jewish carpenter being the Son of God? I vote no, but since we have a certified fundamentalist idiot here, I’ll let him speak first. Pastor Wombaker, let’s get your take on this!” He rolled his eyes as he looked down the table at the evangelical preacher.
Wombaker simply flashed his famous smile at the cable TV icon. “Well, Will, I’m just blessed to be here tonight, and I know that, for someone like you who has based his whole life on the proposition that God is NOT real, this must be a really tough time! So you can keep right on calling me an idiot, because I am a fool for Christ through and through!”
Mayor laughed. “Well, on that at least we can agree!” he said.
Wombaker went on. “I remember you bluntly asserting in your little mockumentary about religion a few years ago that—and I quote—‘the Gospels aren’t eyewitness testimony!’ And I also noticed you did not give the token Bible scholar you were interviewing any time to respond to that blanket assertion. So I am going to respond right here and now. We have now found eyewitness testimony, sir, and it confirms the Gospel accounts to a degree that we never even hoped for! So it is in a spirit of Christian charity that I offer, here and now, a washcloth for you to wipe that egg off your face.” He produced a white cloth from his suit pocket and offered it to the talk show host, and the studio audience roared with laughter. Josh smiled. This was too good to miss!
Mayor, meantime, looked as if he had taken a bite out of a green persimmon. But, not willing to be upstaged, he smiled and felt around his mouth. “No egg here, pastor!” he said. “You still haven’t proven that this mystery papyrus is the real deal, and even if you do, it just means that the folktales the Gospels were based on might have gotten a few details correct.”
Wombaker shook his head. “You, my friend, are living in an Egyptian river if you believe that! First of all, the discovery and excavation of the Testimonium Pilatus was painstakingly recorded, and the preliminary tests of the dust and pollen from the chamber show that it originated in the first century AD. Even though many of the samples were destroyed, the scroll itself has been preserved, and the media told us this morning that some other relics from the chamber have also been recovered. If the dust is two thousand years old, and the artifacts in the chamber are two thousand years old, and the scroll itself dates back two thousand years, then what we have is historical confirmation of the most important claim of the Christian faith—that Jesus of Nazareth rose from the dead, which in turn proves that He was who He claimed to be all along!”
“Oh, please!” snapped Hubbard. “What a crock of bull! You know and I know, pastor, that we live in a day and age in which digital media can be manipulated and faked more easily and with less chance of detection than ever before. With much of the physical evidence conveniently destroyed, all the claims that this Dr. Parker and Father MacDonald and their cohorts are making will boil down to the tests on the papyrus itself. And I imagine that it may be two thousand years old—that doesn’t mean the writing on it is! I also have no doubt that this hoax was years, maybe a century or more, in the planning. Recover an old piece of papyrus from some ancient document at the Vatican, use an ancient ink formula to do the writing on it, and plant it at Capri to be found. And then, hey presto! Here we have proof that the great fraud of the ages, organized religion, is no fraud at all!”
Mayor smiled. “That certainly would make a great plot for a novel,” he said. “Dr. Henderson, you have handled papyrus documents all your life, and you are leaving for Italy tomorrow to examine this papyrus yourself. Would you be able to detect a fake such as my pal Hubbard here has described?”
Henderson was a dark-haired, rather intense Californian whose reputation in the world of classical archeology was legend. He had spent ten years examining the vast collection of ancient documents at Qumran, and had also assisted in analyzing a more recent cache of Gnostic material found in the deserts of Egypt in 2009. Josh had read his work on that discovery with great interest, and met the man personally on a couple of occasions.
“Well, Will, first of all, it would be pretty easy to detect modern writing on an ancient papyrus. Virtually all ancient inks used some form of charcoal for coloring, and charcoal is easily datable. There were only two or three varieties of ink available during the first century, all of which are easy to date using C-14. If the ink is not right, the writing is probably faked. But I will say, based on what I have seen so far—and I have viewed all the video and photographs of the excavations at Capri—that I have seen nothing which indicates any fraud, recent or otherwise, associated with the discovery of the chamber. Now I am no Christian, but as a historian and archeologist I will say that your dismissal of the Gospel accounts is a bit cavalier. They may not be eyewitness testimony, but they certainly could be! The Synoptic Gospels were all most likely completed within forty years of the time of Christ—some, like Pastor Wombaker here, can make an argument for an even earlier date—and even John’s Gospel was still written at the end of the first century. If the early accounts of the Apostle John living to a great old age were true, then that Gospel could certainly have its roots in his testimony about Jesus. I have worked with the Gnostic Gospels extensively in the last decade, and I can say with some authority that none of them date to within a century of the actual lifetime of Jesus of Nazareth, and many of them were written two or three hundred years later. Does that automatically mean the Biblical Gospel accounts are true? No—but this latest discovery, if it is authentic, will show that they are far more accurate than critics like you have been willing to acknowledge.”
Mayor obviously didn’t care for the direction this conversation was taking. “Well,” he finally conceded, “even if Pilate wrote this thing, I think it is worth recording that he never claims to have personally seen what happened at the tomb that morning. Everything he records is second-hand testimony from a band of ignorant and frightened soldiers who were obviously shaken up by something. But who knows what it really was? Maybe aliens kidnapped the body of Jesus!”
The pretty young starlet had been waiting for a chance to jump in. “Aliens!” she said. “That would certainly explain all those weird miracles stories, wouldn’t it? I think the topic of Jesus and space aliens could make a really good movie!”
Wombaker interjected: “That would make more sense than an archeological find of this magnitude being a plant! But, Will, you are truly a jewel of denial tonight! Maybe they should make a movie about you!” The audience laughed again, and Mayor muttered an obscenity under his breath.
Hubbard jumped into the gap. “You know, Will, I would be more willing to believe that Jesus of Nazareth was a space alien than I would to think that he might be the Son of a fictitious God. At least science is friendly to the possibility of alien life!”
Now it was Henderson’s turn to roll his eyes, and Wombaker tried to cut in again, but Mayor interrupted both of them. “Well, with that, folks, looks like time for this segment is up. Next up: the governor of California and Texas Congressman Rick Roberts on the topic of welfare reform. Thank you, Dr. Hubbard, Pastor Wombaker, and Dr. Henderson for your time.”
Josh turned off the
TV with a yawn. It was nearly midnight, and he was exhausted. His bruises and abrasions still ached a little, but he decided to forego the pain meds and see how he did without them. He was dreading the next two days—he hated funerals, and saying goodbye to Simone and Giuseppe was going to be very hard. He took his well-worn travel Bible off of the desk and read a couple of Psalms before bed, taking comfort in the three-thousand-year-old words of a shepherd boy named David. Then he said a prayer—for the souls of his departed friends, for their grieving families, and for Isabella—especially for Isabella. He had never wanted anything in the world as much as he wanted to make her his wife, but he wanted her to belong fully to God before she came to belong with him. He reflected on the verse he had just read from Psalm 37: “Delight thyself also in the Lord, and He will give thee the desires of thy heart.” For the first time in his life he really knew what his chief desire was.
<<
CASTOLFO: Good evening, Chief Zadora.
ZADORA: Dr. Castolfo! I am afraid there is nothing new in the investigation of the bombing, but we are keeping security around the museum as tight as we can.
CASTOLFO: Your efforts are much appreciated, sir. I am sure you will find any accomplices that Ali bin-Hassan may have had very soon. But that is not why I called you tonight.
ZADORA: What else is going on, Benito?
CASTOLFO: I am concerned about transporting the scroll to Rome Friday. If Hassan has any accomplices out there, that would be the time for them to strike again and try to finish what he started. I think we will need massive security when we move the scroll.
ZADORA: Agreed. A full police escort, perhaps an armored car and even air support might be in order.
CASTOLFO: I was afraid you might think I was being paranoid.
ZADORA: These animals already blew up a research lab in the heart of a major Italian city in order to destroy one two-thousand-year-old piece of paper. It is obvious they will stop at nothing. I am not a religious man, but that Testimonium is a national treasure of the Italian people. Those bastards will not destroy it on my watch!
CASTOLFO: That is a great relief, Chief Zadora. I have to bury two dear comrades this week. I do not want to attend any further funerals anytime soon.
ZADORA: I will do my best to see to it you do not. Good night, Benito.
CASTOLFO: Good night, Chief!
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Josh woke the next morning surprisingly rested. His bruises still ached, but less than they had since the day after the blast. He looked at the clock in his room and saw that it was 6:30, so he decided to see if his battered body could still do a few laps in the pool. He slid into his trunks and T-shirt, grabbed a towel and his room key, and headed downstairs. He had the large, heated pool to himself, and the water felt wonderful as he stroked back and forth. He could feel the knots in his back and limbs unkinking as he swam.
He swam back and forth for about twenty minutes, then looked up and saw, to his surprise, that his dad was standing beside the pool watching. Josh climbed out and grabbed his towel.
“A long way from Lake Hugo, isn’t it, son?” his dad asked.
“Sure is, Pop,” he said. “But for all the sadness of the last few days, I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”
“Why don’t you join your mother and I for breakfast?” Brother Ben asked. “We found an American restaurant not far from here, and I sure would enjoy some old-fashioned pancakes or biscuits and gravy!”
“I’d love to,” Josh said, “but I need to run out and buy a suit and tie this morning for the funeral, and I don’t know how long that will take.”
His dad smiled. “Son, you are selling your mother and I short! As soon as we heard the news, and then got word that you were OK, we knew that you would be attending your friends’ funerals. So we brought both your suits, several dress shirts, and a selection of ties for you.”
Josh embraced his father. “You never quit looking out for me, do you, Dad?” he asked.
“Of course not!” Ben Parker replied. “That’s my job—at least, until it’s your turn to look after me!” He looked at his son with great affection. “I hope you know that my heart sunk in my chest when I saw the news of the attack. Your mother and I were sure we had lost you.”
“If Isabella and I had walked out of the building a few seconds later, you would have!” Josh said. “I thought I was a goner when that blast picked me up and tossed me into the side of the museum. But we Parkers are made of pretty tough stuff, I guess.”
“That Isabella is a real beauty,” his dad said. “And she has a sense of humor, too. Your mother and I are quite taken with her.”
“Not half as taken as I am,” Josh said. “I really think she may be the one, Dad. So please tell Mom not to scare her off!”
His dad chuckled. “I don’t think you have much to worry about there,” he said. “I don’t believe Dr. Sforza scares too easily.”
“You’ve got that right,” Josh said. “She does scare me a little, sometimes. I don’t ever want to be on her bad side. But she is just—well, what can I say? I find her amazing, fascinating, and completely awesome!”
Ben Parker laughed out loud. “You’ve got it bad, boy!” he said. “But, all joking aside, after over forty years together, your mother still takes my breath away every time I wake up and see her by my side. The world may see a graying senior citizen, but I still see the black-haired beauty that caught my eye at the County Fair in 1968.”
Josh rolled his eyes, but in his heart he adored his parents’ incredible love story. He never doubted his own place in their affections, but when they looked at each other he knew that the bond between them was something unique, and he had prayed for years that God would send him someone that he could share that same incredible closeness with. Now he hoped that his prayer had been answered.
He wondered if Isabella had read the Gospel as he asked her too. He wanted to guide her toward the same bright faith that had burned in his heart since he was a child, but he also knew that he could never push another person into a saving relationship with Christ. In the end, all he could do was model that relationship and try to nudge her toward it. But his heart ached with the knowledge that she had not yet made that personal commitment. When they were one in the Lord, they could be one with each other, and he could imagine no greater joy. Give me patience, Lord, he prayed. Let me be a stepping stone under her feet and not a millstone around her neck.
Suddenly he realized that his dad was speaking to him again. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I was a million miles away for a minute there.”
His dad grinned at him. “I think I know what country you were visiting,” he said. “But what I was telling you was that I don’t think the restaurant will let you in wearing swim trunks and a towel!”
Josh looked down and realized that he had walked to the elevators without even putting his T-shirt on. He shook his head, shrugged it on, and punched the button. “You’re right,” he said. “Give me a few minutes to get changed, and I’ll meet you in the lobby.”
“Sure thing,” his dad said. “And feel free to call your lovely Italian friend and invite her along. I’d enjoy spending some more time with her.”
“Only if you tell Mom to quit being such a walking cliché!” Josh said over his shoulder.
Back in his room, he grabbed his cell and dialed Isabella’s number. She answered on the second ring.
“Hello, love!” he said, amazed at how naturally the word rolled off his tongue.
“Good morning, Josh!” she replied. “How are you feeling?”
“Tons better,” he replied. “I don’t think I am going to need these pain pills any more. I took a nice swim and worked my muscles out, and it’s amazing what a little exercise did! Listen, I am going to breakfast with my mom and mad. Would you like to come with us?”
“Yes, I would,” she replied. “It’s going to b
e a long, sad couple of days, and I would like to start it doing something happy. Your folks make me smile.”
“They have that effect on me, too,” Josh said. “We are heading out in a half hour, if that is not too soon for you.”
“Not at all,” she said. “I woke about an hour ago, showered, and dressed. I will see you in the hotel lobby shortly. And Josh—”
“Yes, Isabella?” he asked.
“I read four chapters last night. I really didn’t want to start, but I decided I would just read a few verses so I could say I kept my promise—and kept going! I must admit, John paints a compelling picture of Jesus,” she said.
“Wonderful!” he replied. “The story just gets better as it goes along. Maybe we will have time to talk about it soon.”
* * *
On the other side of Naples, Ibrahim Abbasside was listening to a conversation recorded the previous evening. The president of the Bureau of Antiquities was speaking to the Naples police chief, asking for armed escort when the scroll was transported. He was not surprised, since Hassan’s failed attack had alerted the world that the soldiers of Islam wanted to destroy this accursed document. But the Italians would soon see what kind of firepower Allah’s jihadi could bring to bear. He had already alerted the two sleeper cells in Southern Italy that he might require their services, but it was time to make sure they were properly equipped.
He picked up his secure cell phone and called a number he had committed to memory before leaving Libya.
“Ali’s African Pets,” said a voice on the other end in heavily accented Italian.
“Hello, Ali, my old friend!” he said in Arabic. “Do you still have those gerbils ready for Suleiman to pick up?”
“Two cages full!” said the voice on the other end. His name was not actually Ali, of course, but Ismael Falladah, a former Red Brigade member who had embraced the Religion of Truth after the end of the Cold War. Ibrahim had recruited him fifteen years before and sent him into Italy with a small, dedicated team of fanatical jihadists. All of them spoke passable Italian, and had acquired jobs, families, and cover stories that masked their actual purpose. The second “cage” was another cell, led by a portly restaurateur who went by the name Achmed, although his real name was Muhammad Sharif. He was a vicious killer whose plump build and deep laugh masked a truly psychotic nature that sometimes even frightened Abbasside. The two cell leaders were acquainted, but the members were all completely ignorant of each other’s existence.
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