by Barry Sadler
"These look authentic," he said to the storekeeper, and indeed the sandals, leather skirt, breastpiece, and helmet were old enough and of the correct type.
But he smiled inwardly as he recalled the commander of that squad. No centurion, but a mere sergeant. Casca remembered him well as the first of the many men who were to kill him. The sergeant had died in the whore's bedroom, but Casca, to his own amazement, had survived his mortal wound.
"One hundred percent genuine, good sir. If that centurion were to enter this room today, this uniform would fit him."
"He might have put on some weight since those days," Casca said, and realized that indeed he himself had grown much bigger than he had been then. If he were to find his own old uniform, he would burst it apart if he were to try to don it.
"This is all mere trivia," Epstein said sourly. "Do you not have anything that might be worth our while to look at?"
A look of irritation flickered for a moment across the Arab's face. Of course none of the merchandise was what he claimed it to be. He did not for a moment expect that anybody would be stupid enough to believe the lies that he told. But his fakes were good fakes, contrived from genuine articles of the period, or at least carefully crafted copies. Politeness demanded that they not be disparaged. But what could one expect from ill-mannered Jews? Well, they were the conquerors. It must be Allah's will that this rude infidel should afflict him. So be it.
"As your honor pleases," He bowed. "I do have one treasure that would interest a true scholar. But I fear it is above price."
"There is a price for everything," Epstein returned sourly. "First show us the merchandise and then let us haggle over price.”
The Arab looked hurt. Haggle? Fishwives at the coastal ports haggled over the price of their wares. Gentlemen did not so demean themselves. In the lengthy process of discussion and flattery and persuasion that accompanied the making of a sale, the price might, perhaps, be modified until two gentlemen came to a mutually acceptable figure. But haggle? Certainly not.
On the other hand, these infidels are the conquerors.
And the only customers. Let us see how Allah wills the outcome. "I have," the Arab announced ceremoniously, "a piece of the true Bible."
Epstein shrugged and started to rise. "And of the True Cross, the Robe, the lash–"
"Aha. Your cynicism shows a wise awareness," the Arab interrupted smoothly. "But please do not allow such wariness to cloud your judgment."
Epstein got up and paced about. "This is all foolish banter. If you do have something to sell, show it to us. I am in no mood for this game of words."
The Arab bowed, and Casca caught a gleam of satisfaction in his eye. He was getting Epstein's goat and so was moving toward control of the negotiations.
"Honorable sir, please do not incommode yourself. You will see for yourself that this fragment of which I speak is genuine. Indeed, I would not even show it to anybody other than a scholar such as yourself. To the fools in the street this scroll of parchment would only be–"
"Scroll of parchment? You have a parchment scroll? Where from? How old?" Epstein's cynical pose fell from him like a discarded cloak. "Show me this parchment."
The boy re-entered the room bearing a silver tray on which stood a coffeepot and cups, a decanter and small liqueur glasses, and a plate of sweets. He placed the tray on a low table.
"Please take some coffee, or a little wine," the Arab said, "while I ready this treasure for your inspection. As you might imagine, I do not keep it where it could be easily observed and might be stolen."
He slowly poured cups of coffee while Epstein struggled to disguise his impatience. Casca sat on a cushion by the little table and accepted a cup and sipped at it meditatively. A parchment scroll? A piece of the true Bible?
Epstein was in haste over the prospect of a choice collectible. But Casca's very being seethed as he waited to see the scroll. Was this why he was here? Was he about to learn something new about the Nazarene? About himself?
The shopkeeper rolled back a rug and knelt to prise up a floorboard. From the cache beneath he withdrew a battered thermos flask. He replaced the board, re-spread the rug, then seated himself on a cushion by the low table.
He took an appreciative sip of the sweet, black coffee, spread his hands to indicate the wine and the sweetmeats.
"Will you not honor my humble household by tasting these refreshments? The wine is forbidden to me by edict of the Prophet, His name be praised, but I am permitted to keep it for guests who come to do business."
"To cloud the mind and sweeten the deal," Epstein sneered, but he tasted the wine and was surprised to find it good. He smacked his lips and sipped again, but refrained from congratulating the Arab on its excellence.
"Your camel driver prophet is of no more interest to me than the fisherman prophet of the Christians. Nor am I interested in Abraham or Isaac. I am not a religious man."
The Arab's hand hesitated on the thermos cap.
"Then perhaps this will not interest you. It deals, I am told, with an obscure reference to Christ's burial party."
Epstein put down his glass. "What it says does not interest me. I am only concerned with checking its antiquity and authenticity."
Casca sipped distractedly at his glass of wine. The Arab was doing a superb job of baiting his hook, too good for Casca's pleasure.
Casca had no doubt that the scroll would prove genuine. And he wanted it, whatever the price. But the Arab's leisurely ritual had brought the reluctant Epstein to such a fevered pitch of anticipation that he was now itching to get his hands on the parchment.
The antiquarian removed the stopper and shook from the flask a tightly rolled yellowish scroll. He carefully spread it on the table, using the wine decanter and some glasses to hold it in place. It was about nine inches wide and less than three feet long..
It reeked of authenticity. The fragment had been torn out of a larger length of parchment, and the text commenced in the middle of a sentence and ended partway into another. The language was Aramaic, which had still been the formal language of Palestine at the time of Christ. Casca had spoken it badly as he fraternized little with the locals apart from brief liaisons with whores. By the time he had returned to Palestine in the time of Saladin, Aramaic had given way to Hebrew. But there were enough words that he knew for him to get the gist of what was said.
He recognized the words accursed and soldier and mother and then he realized that the fragment described the moment when he, "the forever accursed soldier," had handed over Christ's spent body to his patiently waiting mother.
The Dutchman sat back. His pursed lips betrayed the thoughts that were tumbling through his mind. It was genuine, not a doubt of it, but he must not let the Arab see that he believed so.
"An ingenious forgery," the Dutchman said, unable to refrain from fingering the parchment. He leaned back and feigned disinterest.
"There are those," the Arab said, as if in agreement, "who say that the whole legend of Christ, the whole Christian Bible is but a forgery laid upon the world by–"
"By scheming Jews," Epstein finished for him. "Is that what you believe?"
The old Arab spread his hands wide. "Good sir, I am but a buyer and a seller of goods that come to my hands. The myths and legends that accompany them I pass on as a matter of interest."
"And what sort of myth accompanies this scrap of material?" Epstein snapped. "How do you claim to have come by it?"
"A desert Bedouin brought it to me. He found it in a cave by the Dead Sea."
"Rubbish!" Epstein shouted, jumping to his feet. "Do you take me for a complete idiot? You have the effrontery to claim that this scrap of garbage is a part of the Dead Sea Scrolls?"
"I make no such claim, effendi. But the Bedouin did say that he found it by the Dead Sea. I believed him and paid him accordingly. It is certainly very old, preserved wonderfully by the desert climate. What it says I do not know. The language is strange to me."
"If it were genuine you
would have long since sold it in London or New York."
"It would please me greatly to do so, sir. But I am a poor man and could not afford such a journey. And few scholars such as yourself come to my poor store."
"I'm not going to listen to any more of this garbage," Epstein snapped. "How much do you want for it?"
"For you, effendi, one thousand dollars."
"Wha-a-at? You rotten thief. A thousand dollars! A thousand?"
"Effendi, if I were to tell you what I paid for–"
"I wouldn't believe you. You bet I wouldn't. If there ever was a Bedouin, I'll bet you robbed him just as you're trying to rob me. I'll give you a hundred dollars."
He took out his wallet and held out a note. "Take it or leave it."
The antiquarian removed the decanter and began to reroll the scroll. He waved a hand airily about the room.
"If it is your wish to spend a hundred dollars, I have a few trifles said to have belonged to St. Stephen, and part of a dress that may have been worn by Magdalena."
"Two hundred is my final word." Epstein slapped two bills on the table.
The Arab went on rolling the parchment and reached for the thermos. "For two hundred dollars I could, perhaps, sell you a fragment of the True Cross. It would represent a loss for me, but for such a gracious customer I–"
"Three hundred, damn you. Three hundred and not one penny more."
"Aha. Now, for three hundred," the scroll was back in the flask "I have a very interesting relic of the fisherman, Peter. If you would care–"
"The hell with it. I've had enough." Epstein was heading for the door. "Are you coming, Colonel?"
"No." Casca picked up his glass. "I think I'll finish this wine. There are some items here I would like to look at more closely."
"Then I'll see you at the barracks." He bowed ironically to the Arab, his good humor returning. "Good bye, you old rogue. Don't cheat my friend too thoroughly."
Abu ben Asid returned the bow and was shaking the scroll from the flask before Epstein crossed the threshold. He spread it again on the table, then turned his back and busied himself at some shelves.
Casca pored over the document. He recognized the words of the curse: "Soldier, you are content with what you are, then that you shall remain until we meet again. As I go now to the father, so you shall come to me."
The next phrase he guessed as: "And so it shall come to pass," but then his rusty knowledge of the ancient tongue gave out. He could only discern an odd word, a snatch or two here and there: "in that year," "when all the world." He leaned back on the cushions as Abu turned from the shelves. "A most interesting piece, Father; do you not have also the beginning or the end?"
"Alas no, noble one. The stupid Bedouin used the rest of the scroll for a most unworthy purpose and would have so used this part too, but then another alerted him to its possible value. If this document were complete it would indeed be beyond price."
"Granted, old one. But incomplete, it is surely not worth much."
"Not much to be sure. From you I ask only one thousand dollars."
Casca laughed. "The same as you asked of the rude Jew who has just left?"
"Your point is well taken, effendi. Your gracious manners merit consideration. For you nine hundred, ahem, and fifty dollars."
"It would please me immensely to purchase this excellent antique from you, but such a price is way beyond my present means. I am but a poor soldier."
The Arab bowed. "Then let us say only nine hundred American dollars. Surely that is within the reach of a colonel in a conquering army?"
"A half colonel, Father, and I have not drawn pay. Nor have we yet conquered. I would undertake to return another time and try to meet your price, but who can say where the fortunes of war may carry me, or for how long?"
Abu seated himself opposite Casca, settling himself into the cushions like a man ready to sit for a long time. "Perhaps, as a special favor to a brave man, albeit an enemy of my people, I could let this precious item go for eight hundred dollars."
"You are most gracious. Another time and I would gladly pay this price. But just now my purse cannot stretch to even half of that figure. I can pay no more than three hundred and fifty."
"If it would serve, effendi, I would offer to tear the piece in twain and sell you one half, but I fear this would ruin its value altogether. I can see that you appreciate its worth, and I am moved. I will accept a mere seven hundred dollars."
"Alas, even so, I cannot buy. Four hundred dollars is more than I can afford. I can offer no more. "
"For such a genuine interest as yours, I will forgo my profit. Pay me but six hundred."
Casca took out his billfold. He withdrew four one hundred dollar bills and laid them on the table. "See, my friend, this is almost all that I have." He riffled a few other crumpled bills. "Perhaps there is another fifty here. Could you not permit me to buy your treasure for four hundred and fifty?"
The Arab looked at the bills, rolled his eyes to the ceiling as if in prayer, then looked directly at Casca. "I see that you earnestly want this piece. What can I do? I must suffer a great loss, but I will accept five hundred dollars.''
Casca made a show of digging out more bills and added them to the four on the table. "I shall be impoverished for a month, but it is worth it to do business with a gentleman."
The Arab scooped up the money and handed Casca the thermos flask. "Please roll your treasure with your own hands."
As if by chance his hand fell upon a small string of beads made of date pips. "And perhaps you will also accept this little gift. These prayer beads are said to have belonged to one Saul of Tarsus who came to be St. Paul."
Casca accepted the beads and stood. The Arab stood, too, and walked with Casca to the door where he bowed him into the street.
"A thousand thanks, effendi. May you find in the scroll the message you seek."
Bemused, Casca replied, "Indeed, Father, I do seek a message amongst these words. I thank you for them."
"A little way down the street," Abu said, "toward the market, you will find a public scribe who may translate it for you."
Casca came upon the scribe's place of business on the sidewalk by the market place. He sat beneath an awning at a battered desk behind an ancient typewriter, surrounded by signs in half a dozen different languages: Arabic, Hebrew, Yiddish, English, French, Italian, German. He offered to prepare correspondence, draft legal documents, compose love letters. One sign proclaimed: ANTIQUE DOCUMENTS APPRAISED. Another said: ARAMAIC TEXTS TRANSLATED.
Casca sat on the tiny stool by the desk and spread out the scroll.
"You want English?" the scribe asked.
"It is my only language," Casca lied.
"Forty drachmas for a translation. Forty more for an appraisal."
"Then I shall have both." Casca laid a hundred drachmas on the desk.
The scribe peered intently at the scroll, then picked it up and held it toward the sun. "Undoubtedly authentic. I would estimate its age as more than a thousand years, perhaps two thousand. In the desert this material lasts forever."
He looked at it more closely. "Why, this could be a piece of the Dead Sea Scrolls. Numerous pieces have turned up since the first findings twenty years ago. Where did you get it?"
"I bought it from Abu ben Asid."
"An honest enough trader as antiquarians go. If you paid anything less than one thousand American dollars you have made a bargain."
"What does it say?"
The scribe took the scroll and rolled it from one hand to the other as he read the small, close script. It was indeed an account of the removal of Christ's body from the cross, and of its being carried to the tomb that had been prepared for the rich Pharisee, Joseph of Arimathea.
"And the accursed one shall soldier on through many lives and many deaths, and shall come again unto the land of Israel." Casca was all ears. "And yet again, and still again." A frown began to crease Casca's brow. "But from the curse he shall not be released, not ev
en unto the seventh time he cometh unto Israel."
A long groan escaped from Casca.
"And the time of his release shall by this sign be known...”
"By what, man, by what?" Casca shouted as the scribe paused.
The scribe shrugged. "There is no more. The end of the passage has been torn away." He handed Casca his change of twenty drachmas.
Casca let the coin fall and got wearily to his feet. The scribe said something he didn't hear. "What?"
"Your scroll, effendi. Here is your scroll." The scribe held out the parchment.
"Oh. That? I don't want it." He turned away.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
"Not even the seventh time?" Casca mused unhappily as he made his way along the narrow street. Somewhere that damned carpenter's boy had used the expression not even seventy times seven. But that had been something about forgiving enemies. In the Nazarene's whole life he had only encountered three: the money changers, whom he had taken to with a whip; Judas, whom he had cursed to hell for all eternity; and Casca, whom he cursed to soldier until he came again.
"Though he may die many deaths..." The words were still running through part of Casca's mind as another part dimly registered the soft pad of fast moving feet behind him. Lost in gloom, Casca had not noticed that his plodding feet had taken him along the crooked lanes of the ancient city. A dog-leg turn in the twisting street had placed him just beyond the mouth of a narrow alley, and out of it had come the scrawny Arab whose knife now pierced Casca's rib cage.
Ali had been born on a dirty rag on the stones of this alley and had lived in it and on it for all of his seventeen years. The street whore who had borne him had vanished from his ken about the time he was weaned. He had learned to steal as naturally as he had learned to walk, but not so well. To be a good thief took some talent and enterprise, and Ali possessed neither. He survived mainly on the charity of other thieves.
A year ago he had been caught in a stupid robbery attempt and had paid for it with his right hand. Since then he had been reduced mainly to begging as the lack of a hand was a severe handicap in the thieving business.