The Demas Revelation

by Shane Johnson

  Facing the financial crisis his father had left behind, Orsen had quickly turned to what he knew best, the first rule of sales: Give the people what they want.

  His father, shackled by the bonds of biblical truth and sound teaching, had almost destroyed the very church he supposedly wanted to save. Preaching of hellfire and sin and humanity’s inborn need for salvation might have been a timeworn classic, but it wasn’t going to bring the folks in, not anymore. The people needed to hear repeatedly that God loved them just as they were, just as he had created them. Their imperfections were what endeared them to their Creator, after all, just as one feels compassion for a limping puppy. There was no such thing as sin, save for any inability to love ourselves as much as God loves us and to be the happy creatures he wants us to be, free of such hellish encumbrances as guilt and want and fear.

  There is no hell, they needed to be told, but the hell we make for ourselves.

  So, with the mission redefined, the message echoing within the walls of the old church changed dramatically. The people left church each Sunday and Wednesday feeling better about their lives, knowing that God no longer expected them to lean so heavily upon him. He helps those who help themselves, they learned. He loves you just as you are. Everyone goes to heaven, for God loves us all—so much that he sent his Son to show us that love.

  Attendance grew, and quickly. Some of the older members, disliking the new approach, voiced their objections and stopped coming, but their modest numbers were more than offset by those who embraced the message. Week after week the tills filled to overflowing. One by one, the creditors and the banks, their loans satisfied, stopped calling. The building fund swelled, and repairs too long neglected were made. Pay raises for church employees became commonplace. New recreational facilities opened, and frivolous events filled the calendar. Picnics, ball games, and carnivals—entertainment was the key. Everyone was happy.

  With one notable exception.

  Orsen, holding the old photo, looked into his father’s eyes and saw past the gentle smile to the pain there, the burdens the man had shouldered for too long.

  You handled it all wrong, Pop, he mused. You gotta tell them what they want to hear. You gotta make them want more.

  He smiled and set the picture back down.

  You gotta love them to death.

  Anna’s heart pounded as her pupils dilated, soaking up the darkness. Beyond the deep breach a small, shallow vault, level with the bottom of the opening, extended beyond the reach of the light.

  Something glittered from within.

  She ran for her flashlight and shined it into the cavity.

  Breathing became nearly impossible.

  The tiny chamber was like a wall safe, its interior perhaps two feet wide, two feet high, and two feet deep. Several objects rested within, but her eyes fell first upon an inscription etched high into the rear of the vault, words in Latin she could discern as easily as the verse of Dr. Seuss. She read them once, then again.

  She trembled. A deep thrill filled her.

  A scream escaped her lips, not of fear but of joy. Her vision blurred.

  It really is!

  “It’s true,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “The legend is true!”

  She heard a noise behind her and turned to find Roberto standing in the doorway, tensed and ready for anything.

  “What is it?” he asked, watching her. “Are you okay?”

  Words barely came.

  “Oh, Roberto …”

  “A vault?” he wondered aloud. “You found something?”

  “Hand me my gloves.”

  He reached into her bag, then rushed to her side, noting the rotas square at her feet.

  “A secret panel?”

  After hurriedly slipping her hands into the gloves, she again brought the flashlight to bear.

  “Just look!”

  He peered inside. A gasp caught in his throat as his mind wrapped itself around three chiseled lines of Latin text spotlighted in her beam:

  IN THIS PLACE WERE WE TAUGHT BY PAUL

  BLESSED APOSTLE OF THE CHRIST

  THE SON OF THE LIVING GOD

  Roberto whispered something unintelligible, put a hand to his mouth, and turned away.

  “You did it,” he finally said, leaning against the wall, barely able to speak. “You found it!”

  “The first church in Rome,” Anna said knowingly. “The secret meeting place Nero worked so hard to find. To shut down.” She drew a deep breath. “Paul’s church.”

  “He must have taught here before his arrest,” the student said, seeing the room as if for the first time. “Even if only once … he was here! In this very room!”

  “Our noble friend hadn’t simply heard the Christian message. He heard it from Paul directly. That’s why he was so moved.”

  “Moved to build this room.”

  After Roberto snapped a series of photos, Anna reached inside the vault. Preserved there, just as they had been when last they had felt the light, stood three goblets, evenly spaced, each filled to the rim with something hard and granular.

  “Myrrh,” she said, pulling the first goblet free and turning with it to face Roberto. It gleamed in her hands, the lightly ornamented silver having suffered only a trace of tarnish. The pea-sized bits it bore were angled and jagged, gleaming amber and rosy tan in the soft illumination of the work lamp. She held the chalice gently by its stem.

  “This looks Roman,” she said. “The shape and scrollwork both.” She set it on the altar.

  The second goblet followed. It was bronze, dark and heavy.

  “Frankincense,” Roberto noted, as she held the goblet and its contents before him. Clear and golden, tinged with milky white, the irregular pieces of the ancient burial spice were as pure as any they had ever seen.

  “The cup itself looks to have been made in Israel,” Anna suggested. “It may even be Davidic, judging from the design.” She handed it to him, and he studied it for a moment before placing it with the other.

  As she reached back into the vault and began withdrawing the third goblet, Roberto could tell that it was much heavier than the first two treasures had been.

  “Gold,” Anna whispered, her breath stolen by awe. The polished nuggets shone, their color pure, their value incalculable. The cup that bore them was of a dark, glossy reddish brown.

  “This wood is acacia,” she said with a smile. “These three vessels were made from the materials God designated for the Jewish tabernacle. Silver, bronze, and acacia wood—together they symbolize God’s entire relationship with humankind.”

  “And their contents, same as the gifts of the magi,” Roberto added. “That ties the earliest known Christian worship to the nativity.”

  “Burial spices and gold. Symbolic of the death, resurrection, and glory of the Lord.”

  “Maybe they used them in a celebration of his birth, even annually. The first observances of Christmas.”

  “I don’t know,” Anna said. “There was a fillet of plaster around the rotas square. The seam was hidden, as if the vault had been sealed for good. They may just have been icons that, even hidden away, played a role as if the tabernacle had been symbolically re-created here. But you’re right about one thing. This proves that the story of the nativity was known to these people.” She scowled. “Since they didn’t yet have the Gospels, that means—”

  “Maybe they did,” Roberto offered. “Maybe the Gospels were written sooner than anyone thought.”

  Anna grew excited. “What a verification this is! A detail as subtle as what gifts were presented, and the New Testament we know has it exactly right.”

  She placed the third goblet on the altar and turned back toward the vault.

  “There’s something else in here.”

  She reached in and rem
oved an object much larger than the others, and heavier still. It was a box carved of red travertine that looked to be eighteen inches long, eight inches wide, and six inches high, polished to mirror smoothness. Its lid, also of the same stone, covered the top. The box had no carvings, decorations, or other features, save a small groove that ran around its edge at the point where the lid met the container.

  She turned and set it on the altar next to the goblets.

  “Any ideas?” Roberto asked, his eyes wide.

  “Not a one,” Anna said, examining it closely. “Odd. The lid is sealed with wax. That was common with amphorae and other containers of liquid, but I’ve not seen this before.”

  Roberto’s brow furrowed. “You think something liquid’s in there, then?”

  “No, no,” she said. “Doesn’t seem heavy enough for that. But the stone may have been heated before it was sealed, so once it cooled, the air inside would have been less dense. With the wax, it would have stayed that way. Sort of an early hermetic seal.”

  “So, whatever’s in there should be well preserved?”

  “That’s the theory.”

  It occurred to her that Christ’s tomb had also been sealed with Roman wax—not in the same way, but the parallel was undeniable.

  “Shall we open it?”

  “Not here,” Anna said, running a hand along its top. “Back in the lab. I want controlled conditions so that whatever we find inside can be properly documented and further preserved.”

  “Just promise me I’ll be there when you do.”

  She smiled, her dark eyes sparkling. “Deal.”

  “Thank God the looters missed this.”

  “I have,” Anna said, placing a hand against his cheek.

  After they shared a moment of triumph, the vault and its liberated contents were further photographed, every feature documented, every aspect recorded in meticulous detail.

  “I still can’t believe this,” Roberto said as the camera shutter clicked again and again. “Where we are …”

  “Neither can I. I’m afraid I’ll wake up and find myself still on the plane on the way here.”

  “Looks like our Roman noble was everything you said he was.”

  “He believed with all his heart. Just imagine the risk he took. He may even have ended up facing death in the Colosseum. Nero would have declared him a traitor to Rome.”

  “So, our noble friend, in the midst of all the persecution the Christians were suffering, built this.”

  “Or before, perhaps. Paul came to Rome several years before the fire that Nero blamed on the Christian sect. But in any case, to have been so inspired, the noble may have heard Paul himself speak. How powerful those words must have been.”

  “How’d he manage to keep it hidden? This place, I mean.”

  Anna resumed her conjecture. “Well, suppose he instructs a select few of his most trusted slaves to dig through the floor of his house, in an out-of-the-way place, perhaps in a storeroom or an unused bedroom. He tells them it’s a hidden cellar where food and wine can be kept cool and safe from thieves. He designs and builds the congregation chamber as his heart leads him to, as he believes God leads him to. He brings in rare and expensive red azarshahr travertine from Persia, stone the color of blood. He incorporates silver as a symbol of redemption, just as it was in the Jewish tabernacle. He gives his secret passageway thirty-three steps leading downward, one for each year of Christ’s life.

  “Once it’s finished and concealed by a false floor, he contacts Paul.”

  Roberto closed his eyes. “The apostle was here,” he repeated, still in awe. “I can’t get over it. Right here! Just think …”

  “And the Christians of Rome met safely here until the place was destroyed. It must have finally been discovered, but as I said, why is there no historical record of that? Nero would have reveled in his discovery.”

  “I guess we know now that there was a cross up there,” Roberto said, indicating the wall above the altar.

  “I’d say so.” Then her expression changed to puzzlement.

  “What is it?”

  “Well,” she began, “if Nero’s soldiers found the place, why didn’t they destroy this room and not just bury it? The chamber was untouched until today, as far as we can tell. It’s as if the door was sealed and the stairway was just … hidden.”

  “The whole house above was leveled.”

  “It doesn’t make sense. Why destroy the house so savagely but not this room? Sentiment?”

  Roberto lifted the heavy marble rotas square back into place, pressed it flush, and brushed it with his hand.

  “Good as new,” he quipped.

  “Everything goes to Milan with me in the morning,” Anna said. “I’m not risking another theft before we can do a full analysis.”

  “Do we still meet for breakfast in the morning? Do I need to call the others?”

  “No, let them sleep. I’ll tell them at the café. We’ll head up to the lab after breakfast and get a start on these tomorrow afternoon.”

  They ascended the stairs, with the objects from the vault carefully wrapped and packed in Anna’s gym bag. Once outside, Roberto pulled a datapad from his pocket and slid the camera’s memory card into it. “I’m uploading the pictures to a folder on my computer back home,” he said, pressing a few buttons. “I’m not taking any chances.”

  “Excellent,” she said. “I’ll call and get a security team to guard this entrance while we’re away. As far as I know, there’s nothing left to be plundered except the stone steps themselves and that inscription in the vault, but someone’s sure to try to chisel those up, given half a chance.”

  “The chancellor and the board of regents are going to be beside themselves when they hear about this. What a find, dottoressa. You’ll go down in history, like Carter and Carnarvon.”

  She wondered, finally allowing herself the luxury of considering the more personal aspects of the discovery. How will they take it? What will this do for my program? Will they finally see me as worthy of their trust, their backing?

  She smiled faintly. “I don’t care about all that. I just want to bring forgotten truths back to the world.”

  Four

  Anna and her team gathered in a basement lab of the Museo Archeologico Milano, an aging yet vibrant institution housed in the sprawling chambers of an ancient former monastery. Among its treasures were some of the oldest artifacts unearthed in the region, including Bronze Age tools and weapons, Roman art and statuary, and farm equipment more than four thousand years old.

  The basement lab was as secluded a venue as Anna or her students had experienced, made available to them by special arrangement of the university. Anna and her husband had both made good use of the facility through the years, and the staff knew them well. The place was secure and well supplied, and it provided the privacy she desired, especially at that moment.

  Until she knew exactly what they had found, the world would be told nothing.

  She sat at a sprawling worktable, upon which skeletal remains, pottery, works of art, and all manner of relics and remnants had been studied over the years. Behind her rose tall shelves stacked with artifacts, all tagged and categorized, some awaiting display. Old storage units of dark wood and black iron lined the other walls. The scent of great age permeated the air.

  To her left stood Carlo Laneri, the museum’s director of antiquities, his silver hair and tailored dark suit the very image of sophistication. His anticipation was evident in the childlike gleam in his aged eyes, and as Anna’s final preparations unfolded, he assisted in any way he could, however small.

  “How wonderful, Anna,” he said. “How wonderful.”

  “I hope so, Carlo.”

  Her students seated in two tiers before her, she slipped her hands into a pair of cotton analysis gloves, adj
usted the table’s three lamps, and cracked open one of two reinforced transport containers next to the table. Various implements—probes, scalpels, hemostats, seizing tools, and tweezers, all of varied configurations—were arrayed within easy reach. Safety goggles waited alongside, should the use of a high-speed rotary tool prove necessary.

  Her hair was up, out of the way. Her pink poplin shirt with its three-quarter sleeves and her beige capri pants had been chosen not only for comfort but for practicality—she wanted no distractions during the examination, whether from her clothes, her hair, or anything else.

  First on her agenda was the travertine box. She lifted it free, placed it before her, and picked up a surgical steel probe.

  “We’ll carry out our initial analysis here,” she said, making a final adjustment to the stool on which she sat. “Then, once the proper arrangements have been made, we’ll disseminate the various artifacts to other labs for more specific study. Beth, I know you were wondering when we’ll be going home …”

  The girl perked up, a smile crossing her face.

  “I expect we’ll be back at Oldefield and in our classrooms by the end of the week.”

  “Thank you, professor,” Beth said.

  “Don’t thank me yet,” Anna warned with a bit of amusement. “You all have theses waiting for you.”

  The students looked up from their notepads and exchanged glances, laughing softly.

  Anna pressed a button atop a small digital recorder and saw its tiny, green telltale wink to life.

  “As I mentioned earlier,” she began as everyone watched in rapt fascination, “this box, like the other items, was contained within a wall of the underground chamber, in a vault hidden behind the rotas square above the altar. It is composed of red travertine and appears to be in two parts, the box proper and a separate lid. The container is sealed with wax, which is unusual except when liquid contents are involved.”

  She began to draw the probe around the seam, scraping the dark wax free as the point dug more deeply with each pass.