“So then she came down and then what?”
Step by step, Jim got the details of that day.
“She wouldn’t even smoke in the dig. That’s how careful she was when other archaeologists would smoke anything and anytime. But she did smoke the second day, after we found the body.”
“Why do you think that was?”
“There are some people who are so beautiful inside that they are riven by any thought of suffering. I think seeing the skeleton reminded her of suffering in her life.”
“She is an archaeologist, Mark. That would be like a dentist being upset by a tooth.”
“Well, she certainly was flustered.”
Jim nodded. This verified Sharon’s reaction.
“What do you know about the body?”
“Well, we got a picture of it but I didn’t see it developed.”
“Do you know the cause of death, any marks or anything?”
“Not that I know of. Maria, she’s gone back to Holland, got the picture with the Zensa Bronica.”
Jim nodded. He remembered those pictures the first night, of the skeleton and the disk lying on those vertebrae. Apparently Dr. Golban had not mentioned to the volunteer crew what she had seen in later notes, that what appeared as a dark smudge on the black and white film was actually orange, the remnant color of a crucifying spike.
“She said there was writing on the disk and that really got us excited, you know. Really! To find something with writing on it is an archaeological triumph, you know. It tells you so much.”
“And then she read the disk to you, right?”
“No, she just stood there and then she led all of us out of the tomb, and she was sick or something because she looked pale, and she was upset and lit the cigarette right in front of the stone itself, and so we all figured she was upset by something. It reminded her of something horrible.”
“And that was the second day. But the first day, you just dug to the stone?”
“Right, and I put a match down, sort of just to make sure, you know, that no one would come in and steal something or leave something. Like my own seal.”
“And everyone saw you do it?”
“Right.”
“So if someone wanted to enter the tomb that night and leave something or take out something they could have taken away your match and then put it right back.”
“No,” said Mark.
They had been walking along the Old City walls, past the Jaffa Gate, south and downhill toward a valley. Palm trees and shrubs and neat, tender grass made the walls seem like great lengths of gardens. Across the valley they could see blue and white villages on distant slopes. According to the signs, Bethlehem was the next right turn.
Mark took a little box of matches out of his pocket and pointed to the six sides, a stick of wood that had been machine-tooled in the millions, a hundred probably costing less than a penny to cut. Mark dug a thumbnail into the white wood.
“This is what I did. And I remember facing it into the stone but I didn’t tell anyone.”
“You mentioned that you put the match there, why not the mark? Didn’t you trust the rest of the crew?”
“I was embarrassed. After Sharon had said the stone had been there a couple of thousand years, and it could last another night, I didn’t want to mention the nail mark.”
“Why not?”
“Because I got that from Sky King on television, when I was a kid. It was a trick he used to foil bank robbers. I felt kind of stupid, you know.”
They passed the open gate, and Mark nodded into the city. “That’s the accepted place of the Last Supper, although they’re not sure.”
They continued to walk around the walls of the Old City, and Jim could now see how difficult an attack by ancients would have been through the southern part.
And they came again to the eastern part of the city, and Mark pointed across the Valley of the Kidron to the Mount of Olives, for they had passed, he had said, the Valley of Gehenna.
“There. Up there. That’s where He will come again,” said Mark. And Mark quoted the Bible, and pointed across the valley, which was a graveyard on the far side of a deep valley, which ran through the southern half of Israel, he said, to the Dead Sea.
“Read the Bible, His words are in there. Don’t pray to statues,” said Mark sincerely. “He’s coming back over there. Read His book.”
“I know you mean well, Mark, but the book is only part of the faith.”
“It’s the only part. It’s the one thing you know isn’t going to lie to you. Now I don’t mean to be insulting. You’ve got to know a Pope can lie to you.”
Some Arab boys came up to them wanting to sell bits of antiquities found along side roads or traded, Jim imagined, like American kids would trade baseball cards back home.
Behind them was the Temple Mount, the Temple having been destroyed nineteen centuries before, as Jesus had predicted. Jim, even now looking back up the hill upon which that great Temple had been and where now the Muslims’ mosques sat, felt the hugeness of it.
And larger still was the death of one man.
“Coin from Herod. Coin from Herod. Coin from Herod,” insisted one urchin.
Jim shook his head. Mark ignored the boys too. But they would not leave.
“Byzantine. Do you want Byzantine?”
“He’s coming there. And He has only one book. That’s the only thing we know. The only thing.”
“May I ask you a question?” said Jim.
“Sure.”
“Why do you believe that book?”
“Because it’s God’s book.”
“Who told you?”
“God. I know.”
“That’s what you feel now, but why do you believe the Bible is the word of God? Who told you?”
“Well, first, my father.”
“And who told him?”
“Well, I guess his father or his mother or a preacher, and it made sense.”
“But who told them? Why did they believe it?” said Jim.
“Crusader coin. Beautiful Crusader coin. Perfect condition. Make an offer,” said one boy, shoving a large black disk in front of Jim’s face.
“Preachers before them.”
“And before them?”
“More preachers.”
“And before them? Why? Why do you believe the Bible? I’ll tell you why,” said Jim. “Because the Church said that was the book of God. The Church said, as part of tradition, that these books are true, and the word of God. That’s why you believe.”
A hot wind blew up out of the Valley of Gehenna and Jim could see that the young man was thinking.
“No,” said Mark finally. “That’s not why I believe in the book or Jesus. Not because somebody says this man said this at this time. And you can prove that here or this there, or any of that stuff. None of it. You know how I know …”
Jim turned to the Arab boys and shook his head forcefully. They understood that.
“How?” asked Jim.
“In my heart,” said Mark. “And that’s the only way you can know. In your heart.”
“There is more,” said Jim.
“And if you need more,” said the young American, “I feel sorry for you.” He lowered his eyes when he said that.
Suddenly the wind shifted out of the valley, and it was no longer hot with the day’s baking of the sun, but was cool to the point of discomforting chill. The breath of autumn was coming now from the wilderness.
Tabinian, the antiquities dealer, was difficult to pin down on a time, so Jim had to phone Sharon and tell her he was ready.
“Do you really want to see it? Really?” asked Sharon.
Jim was phoning from Isaiah House.
“Yes. I do.”
“I thought you were avoiding it?”
“I’m ready to see it. Ten tomorrow?”
“All right. Good. I’ll phone Mendel,” said Sharon.
“What for?”
“You want to roll back the stone, do
n’t you? You can’t do it alone.”
“You mean it is a big stone?” asked Jim, remembering how Mark, Matthew, and Luke made reference to how big the stone was, showing that just a few Roman guards could not have moved it, the great stone that the priests felt would protect them all from the removal of the body.
“Not big so much as heavy.”
“That could be a great stone in Aramaic?” said Jim.
“Absolutely. Same word. Is something bothering you? I get the feeling you are delaying. If you want to delay some more, go right ahead. I can’t stop you.”
“No. Let’s do it. We have to do it, and it is right on schedule. Right on schedule,” said Jim.
But that night in his examen he realized he had felt protected in a way by having to study the surrounding facts first. He had hoped for a while to find just the sort of evidence that might cast some severe questions as to how the body got there. There were none, and now it didn’t look as though there were going to be any.
9
Atonement
Jerusalem was quiet as judgment day. Hardly a car moved, and the traffic lights blinked to empty streets. The shops were closed and Jim could hear his footsteps as he walked up the normally busy Jaffa Road and to the northwest corner of the Old City.
This was not Saturday. It was Tuesday. He remembered his first shock at how quiet Jerusalem became on a Saturday, until he remembered that was the Jewish sabbath, Shabbat, and he was advised if he wanted to do anything or buy anything, he would be best off in Tel Aviv.
But this morning was quieter than even Shabbat. It was eerily quiet and reminded Jim how he used to feel when the streets were sometimes empty back in South Portland. God had come and gone, taking his own with him and leaving Jimmy Folan behind. So quiet on this chill autumn morning in Jerusalem.
Down the street, near Damascus Gate, he saw Arabs busy as usual. The Arab produce stores on Haneviim Street were open as on every day except their holy day, Friday.
Sharon was standing on the street blowing into a paper cup of steaming coffee. Soldiers lounged around a three-quarter-ton truck just behind her. She had been talking to the soldiers.
“What are they here for?”
“To roll back the stone,” said Sharon. Her delicate brown eyes were still soft with sleep.
“Soldiers will attract attention,” said Jim.
“They’re all over Israel. What’s bothering you?”
“I don’t want soldiers. We have an arrangement on some sort of discretion and soldiers violate that discretion.”
“All right, we’ll do it tomorrow. We’ll do it next week. But don’t hold me up for another semester.”
“Why can’t we get someone else?” said Jim. The soldiers watched them. He did not know if they spoke English but they would certainly know the edge of hostility.
“Because it’s Yom Kippur.”
“Oh. I’m sorry,” said Jim. “This is your holiest day, I know. I didn’t mean to open the tomb on your Day of Atonement.”
“What are you afraid of?”
“I am not afraid, I am just showing respect.”
“You’ve been here almost four weeks and you haven’t looked at the dig you came to investigate. I’ve got to assume you’re delaying.”
“I’m not,” said Jim.
“Then let’s go,” said Sharon.
“I do not wish to take your soldiers away from their most sacred holiday.”
“It’s not your religion. What do you care?”
“I care,” said Jim.
“Listen, if they really wanted to observe Yom Kippur they probably could have traded off with someone. And if they couldn’t, I’m sure they got something from a rabbi saying it was all right. Religious laws are like the weather. They only affect people who can’t afford air conditioning or stoves. You’ve got Vitamin P from Rabbi Mendel Hirsch.”
“I didn’t know he was a rabbi.”
“He’s not. But anyone who can bargain in the Knesset is already a Talmudic scholar. There is no religious law so strong here as a few deciding votes. But what am I telling you for? It’s got to work the same way with your church.”
“Ask the soldiers which ones wish to observe their holiday.”
“Their commander has sent them here, Jim. Now, are you afraid of what you’re going to see?”
“No,” said Jim, and he heard his voice crack. There was no reason for it to crack, he thought. He was not afraid of what he would see. What bothered him was that he had planned to have by this time at least some evidence to indicate if not fraud at least some discrepancies. He was here after four weeks of research with absolutely nothing, shorn of even a possibility that the bones had not been there two thousand years, just as they were found.
“I am not afraid,” said Jim. And then he noticed how carefully Sharon was watching his eyes. “I am a bit apprehensive. This is very important. I am not, mind you, afraid of who that was, if you understand.”
“I think I do,” said Dr. Golban, and for the first time Jim felt a softness in her voice. “I’ve read your books. I think I can understand.”
“Thank you,” said Jim.
“But you don’t have to worry, Jim. No matter what you are going to find, you already have your mind made up.”
“But what if I am honest … ruthlessly honest with what we find?”
“Then you’re in trouble,” she said with laughter, which for the first time was not unkind. She had a beautiful smile, with beautiful long even teeth that somehow Jim felt never had to be wired into that evenness but were natural. Everything about her could be naturally beautiful if she weren’t scarred by her prickly hostility to any modern religion.
He was sure she didn’t feel the same way about some discovered altar to Baal or Astarte. As long as it was dead, she could live with man’s faith.
She nodded the soldiers to the hole and they hauled out two lengths of ladder from the truck.
This morning, despite the chill, she wore a maroon sweater over shorts. Her legs were sleek and beautiful. Her hair was brought back tight in a bun and she wore lipstick, leaving it faintly imprinted on the cigarette. Her dark eyes were sleepy and warm.
Jim’s toes had become cold as he stood there in his new sandals. They were part of his one great indulgence, $60 American for his entire new wardrobe, which would enable him to have to get his clothes all washed at once in only every eight days. Isaiah House was not the Vatican with an army of nuns to serve the priests.
“Look,” she said, putting a hand on his arm, “you don’t know archaeology, but when you get into it, and I think you will, because you’re not quite as ignorant as you appear, not in the least … when you get into it, you will find that even archaeologists disagree on many things. Even big things like where David’s tower was. We had several sites. Even Kathleen Kenyon herself was not always right. In the end archaeology is analysis, which is a fancy word for guesswork. I have no doubt that, given any guesswork, you will have everything just where you want it theologically.”
She released his arm and gave him a pat, puffing on her cigarette as she started toward the hole. Jim stumbled trying to keep up with her across the rock-shrewn lot.
At the edge of the dig Sharon put a hand on his stomach to keep him from going farther. It looked deeper than just three meters.
The soldiers were waiting four ladder lengths and two thousand years down at bedrock beside a piece of plywood apparently covering what was supposed to be the great stone. Sharon nodded. One soldier removed the plywood.
Four soldiers got into position, bracing themselves, and with a unified grunt the stone screamed upon stone as it rolled with a lurch, and a little opening, very dark, appeared in the golden brown of limestone.
At first glance the stone had looked small, too small to be the great stone the Gospels referred to as that which covered His tomb. But the weight of it, the difficulty the soldiers had in moving it, the heavy scream of stone against stone removed that bit of Gospel disproof
. The tomb was open.
“They have been told,” Sharon said softly, “only that we wish to protect this body from religious extremists. I don’t know if you are aware of the troubles we have with the religious zealots.”
“I’ve read about some incidents. I’ve seen it on TV.”
“You’ve seen the police chasing them. You have not seen them throwing stones and using knives, or lying. Having your television cover an archaeological dispute is like excavating the Suez Canal with a cocaine spoon. It was horrible.”
“How do you know what we see in the States?”
“I’ve heard.”
“From rabbis?” said Jim with a smile.
“From people I trust.”
“Not rabbis?”
“Not rabbis, of course. Scientists.”
“Where do you get evidence that scientists are somehow more trustworthy than holy men?” said Jim.
Some of the soldiers were casting glances into the hole. Jim could see what he thought were carved steps down there.
“When you people give as much knowledge, as much light, instead of flames to the world, as archaeologists, I will give you that respect,” said Sharon.
“Have you heard of the Biblical Institute?”
“Of course,” said Sharon. “It is here in Jerusalem.”
“And what do you think of the work done there?” said Jim.
“Solid work. Class A,” said Sharon. “Some solid archaeologists come from there.”
“And how can you explain that the Biblical Institute is run and staffed by Jesuits, a Roman Catholic order of priests?”
“I know they are supposed to be Jesuits, one of your orders. I knew that. But they don’t believe like you do. That’s probably why you are here instead of them. Jesuits don’t believe like you.”
“Oh, really. How do you know?” said Jim.
“I’ve read academic papers. You know what a man thinks from his papers. I never saw holiness out of the Biblical Institute.”
The Body Page 14