Her mother had pushed her toward her father, urging her to show the crayon picture of the angel that she had drawn. Proudly, with the hope of praise, she held it toward his callused hand. He was so tall that she barely reached past his knee. He took the picture, but only glanced at it.
Instead, he sat and pulled her into his lap. She began to tremble. Only four, she knew already that her father’s lap was the most dangerous place in the world.
“Which hand did you use to draw the angel?” His booming voice washed over her ears like a flood across the land.
Not knowing enough to lie, she held up her left.
“Deceit and damnation arise from the left,” he said. “You are not to use it to write or draw with ever again. Do you understand?”
Terrified, she nodded.
“I will not let evil work through a child of mine.” He looked at her again, as if expecting something.
She did not know what he wanted. “Yes, sir.”
Then he lifted his knee and snapped her left arm across it like a piece of wood.
Erin gripped the site of the fracture, still feeling that pain. She pressed hard enough to know the bone had healed offset. Her father had not allowed her to visit a doctor. If prayer could not heal a wound, or save a baby’s life, then it was not God’s will, and they must submit always to God’s will.
When she fled her father’s tyranny, she spent a year teaching herself to write with her left hand instead of her right, anger and determination cut into every stroke of the pen. She would not let her father shape who she became. And so far, evil did not seem to have invaded her, although her arm ached when it rained.
“So the Bible was correct.” Heinrich drew her out of her reverie. He lifted a handful of sand off the baby’s legs and deposited it on the ground outside the trench. “The slaughter happened. And it happened here.”
“No.” She studied scattered bone fragments, trying to decide where to start. “You’re overreaching. We have potential evidence that a slaughter occurred here, but I doubt it has anything to do with the birth of Christ. Historical fact and religious stories often get tangled together. Remember, for archaeological purposes, we must always treat the Bible as a …” She struggled to find a noninflammatory word, gave up. “A spiritual interpretation of events, written by someone bent on twisting the facts to suit their ideology. Someone with a religious agenda.”
“Instead of an academic one?” Heinrich’s German accent grew stronger, a sign that he was upset.
“Instead of an objective agenda. Our ultimate goal—as scientists—is to find tangible evidence of past events instead of relying on ancient stories. To question everything.”
Heinrich carefully brushed sand off the little femur. “You don’t believe in God, then? Or Christ?”
She scrutinized the bone’s rough surface. No new damage. “I believe Christ was a man. That he inspired millions. Do I believe that he turned water into wine? I’d need proof.”
She thought back to her First Communion, when she had believed in miracles, believed that she truly drank the blood of Christ. It seemed centuries ago.
“But you are here.” Heinrich swept his pale arm around the site. “Investigating a Bible fable.”
“I’m investigating a historical event,” she corrected. “And I’m here in Caesarea, not in Bethlehem like the Bible says, because I found evidence that drew me to this site. I am here because of facts. Not faith.”
By now, Heinrich had cleared the bottom of the skeleton. They both worked faster than usual, wary that an aftershock might strike at any time.
“A story written on a pot from the first century led us here,” she said. “Not the Bible.”
After months of sifting through potsherds at the Rockefeller Museum in Jerusalem, she had uncovered a misidentified broken jug that alluded to a mass grave of children in Caesarea. It had been enough to receive the grant that had brought them all here.
“So you are trying to … debunk the Bible?” He sounded disappointed.
“I am trying to find out what happened here. Which probably had nothing to do with what the Bible said.”
“So you don’t believe that the Bible is holy?” Heinrich stopped working and stared at her.
“If there is divinity, it’s not in the Bible. It’s in each man, woman, and child. Not in a church or coming out of the mouth of a priest.”
“But—”
“I need to get brushes.” She hauled out of the trench, fighting back her anger, not wanting her student to see it.
When she was halfway to the equipment tent, the sound of a helicopter turned her head. She shaded her eyes and scanned the sky.
The chopper came in fast and low, a massive craft, khaki, with the designation S-92 stenciled on the tail. What was it doing here? She glared at it. The rotors would blow sand right back onto the skeleton.
She spun around to tell Heinrich to cover the bones.
Before she could speak, a lone Arabian stallion, riderless and ghostly white, bolted across the field from the stables. It would not see the trench. She rushed toward Heinrich, knowing she would be too late to beat the horse to him.
Heinrich must have felt the hoofbeats. He stood just as the horse reached the trench, spooking the rushing animal further. It reared and struck his forehead with a hoof. Heinrich disappeared into the trench.
Behind her, the helicopter powered down.
The stallion edged away from the noise, toward the trench.
Erin circled around the horse. “Easy, boy.” She kept her voice low and relaxed. “No one’s going to hurt you here.”
A large brown eye rolled to stare at her. The horse’s chest heaved, his quivering flanks coated in sweat, froth spattering his lips. She had to calm him and keep him from falling into the trench where Heinrich lay motionless.
She stepped between the trench and the horse, talking all the while. When she reached up to stroke his curved neck, the stallion shuddered, but he did not bolt. The familiar smell of horse surrounded her. She drew in a deep breath and exhaled. The animal did the same.
Hoping the horse would follow, she stepped to the side, away from Heinrich. She had to move him someplace safer in case he spooked again.
The stallion moved a step on trembling legs.
Nate came running, followed by Amy and Julia.
Erin held up a hand to stop them.
“Nate,” she said in a singsong voice. “Keep everyone back until I get the horse away from Heinrich.”
Nate skidded to a stop. The others followed suit.
The horse blew out heavily, and his sweat-stained withers twitched.
She threaded her fingers into his gray mane and led him a few steps away from the trench. Then she nodded to Nate.
A cry drew her attention over her shoulder, to a small robed figure flying across the sand. The man, plainly the horse’s handler, came rushing forward.
He dropped a lead over the animal’s head, jabbering and gesturing to where the helicopter had landed. Erin got it. The animal didn’t like helicopters. She didn’t much either. She patted the horse on his withers to say good-bye. The handler led him away.
Amy and Julia had already climbed down next to Heinrich. Julia held one hand to his forehead. Blood coated the side of his face. Julia murmured to Heinrich in German. He didn’t answer. Erin held her breath. At least he was still breathing.
Erin joined them. Kneeling down, she gently moved Julia’s hand aside and felt his head. Plenty of blood, but the skull seemed intact. She stripped off her bandanna and held it against the wound. Far from sterile, but it was all she had. Warm blood wet her palm.
Heinrich opened his gray eyes, groaning. “It takes a sacrifice. In crushed skulls. This site.”
She gave him a tight smile. Two skulls crushed on her watch.
“How do you feel?” she asked.
He muttered something in German through bloodless lips. His eyes lost focus, rolling backward. She had to get him to a doctor.
“Dr. Granger
?” A voice with an Israeli accent spoke from behind her. “Please stand at once.”
She put Julia’s trembling hand over the makeshift bandage and stood, hands in the air. In her experience, people used that tone only when they were armed. She turned very slowly, Heinrich’s blood already drying on her palms.
Soldiers. A lot of soldiers.
They stood in a semicircle in front of the trench, dressed in desert sand fatigues, sidearms on their belts, automatic weapons strapped around their shoulders. Eight in all, each standing at attention. They wore gray berets, except for the man in front. His was olive green; obviously their leader. The guns weren’t pointed at her.
Yet.
She lowered her hands.
“Dr. Erin Granger.” It was a statement, not a question. He didn’t sound like he ever asked questions.
“Why are you here?” In spite of her fear, she kept her voice even. “Our permits are in order.”
He studied her with eyes like two oiled brown marbles. “You must come with us, Dr. Granger.”
She had to take care of Heinrich first. “I’m busy. My student is injured and—”
“I’m Lieutenant Perlman. With Aman. I’ve been ordered to fetch you.”
As if to underline his point, the soldiers raised their weapons a fraction of an inch.
Aman was Israeli military intelligence. That couldn’t be good. Anger rose in her chest. They had come to fetch her, and their machine had spooked the horse that hurt Heinrich. Erin kept her voice steady, but it still came out cold. “Fetch me to where?”
“I’m not authorized to say.”
The lieutenant did not look like he would be backing down anytime soon, but she could make use of him. “Your helicopter frightened a horse, and it wounded my student.” She balled her hands into fists at her sides. “Badly.”
He looked down at Heinrich, then inclined his head to one of the soldiers. The man pulled a trauma kit from a pack and climbed into the trench. A medic. That was something. She unclenched her hands and wiped her bloody palms on her jeans.
“I want him airlifted to a hospital,” she said. “Then, perhaps, we can talk about other things.”
The lieutenant looked down at the medic. The man nodded, looking worried.
That couldn’t be good.
“Very well,” Perlman said.
He gestured, and his men responded quickly. Two soldiers helped lift Heinrich out of the trench; another two hauled over a stretcher. Once loaded, he was carried toward the helicopter. Julia followed them, sticking close to his side.
Erin drew in a deep breath. A helicopter ride to the hospital was the best chance Heinrich had.
She took Lieutenant Perlman’s proffered hand, noticing his strength as he pulled her out of the trench.
Without a word, he turned and headed back toward the helicopter. The remaining soldiers stepped in behind her, indicating that she should follow. She stomped after Perlman. She was being kidnapped from her site at gunpoint.
She wouldn’t win this fight, but she would get what information she could from them. “Does this have to do with the earthquake?” she called to Perlman.
The lieutenant glanced back, didn’t answer, but she read his face. Her mind filled in the blanks. Earthquakes broke things. But they also uncovered them.
All of which raised another question.
There were plenty of other archaeologists in Israel. What reason could they have to drag her out of her own dig? No ancient treasure warranted this kind of urgency. Archaeologists didn’t get shuttled around in military helicopters.
Something was very wrong.
“Why me?” she pressed.
Perlman finally responded. “I can only say that it is a delicate situation, and your expertise has been requested.”
“By whom?”
“I could not say.”
“If I refuse?”
Perlman’s gaze bored into her. “You’re a guest of our country. If you refuse to come with us, you’ll no longer be a guest of our country. And your friend will not be taken to the hospital in our helicopter.”
“I think the embassy would not condone this treatment,” she bluffed.
His lips twisted into an unconvincing smile. “It was a member of the delegation at the U.S. embassy who recommended you.”
She fought to conceal her surprise. So far as she knew, no one in the embassy cared anything about her. Either Perlman was lying, or he knew way more than she did. Regardless, the time for talking was past. She had to get Heinrich to a hospital.
So she continued walking toward the helicopter. The soldiers had dropped into formation around her as if she might bolt like the stallion.
Nate and Amy hurried along behind. Nate looked belligerent, Amy worried.
Erin turned and walked backward, calling out instructions. “Nate, you’re in charge until I return. You know what needs to be done.”
Nate talked over a soldier’s shoulder. “But, Professor—”
“Stabilize the skeleton. And have Amy study the left femur before you jacket it.”
Nate pointed toward the helicopter. “Are you sure it’s safe to go with them?”
She shook her head. “Contact the embassy the second I’m gone. Confirm that they recommended me. If they didn’t, call in the cavalry.”
The soldiers didn’t miss a step, impassive faces staring straight ahead. Either they didn’t speak English, or they weren’t worried about her threat. Which could be a good thing or a very bad one.
“Don’t go,” Nate said.
“I don’t think I have a choice,” she said. “And neither does Heinrich.”
She saw him swallow that truth, then nod.
Lieutenant Perlman beckoned from the open cabin door. “Here, Dr. Granger.”
The helicopter’s whirling blades began to roar louder as she ducked under them.
She climbed inside the chopper and strapped into the only empty seat. Heinrich lay on a stretcher on the other side of the craft with Julia in a seat next to him. Julia flashed her a shaky smile, and Erin gave her a thumbs-up. Did they even do that in Germany?
As the chopper lifted off, Erin turned to the soldier next to her and pulled back in surprise. He was no soldier. He was a priest. He wore black pants, overhung by an ankle-length hooded cassock, along with black leather gloves, dark sunglasses, and the familiar white collar of the Roman Catholic clergy.
She recoiled. The priest leaned away from her as well, one hand reaching to adjust his hood.
She’d had more than enough squabbles with Catholic priests over the years concerning her archaeological work. But at least his presence lent some credibility to her hope that it really was an archaeological site she was being called to, something religious, something Christian. The downside was that this priest would probably claim the artifacts before she could see them. If so, she would have been pulled from her site and blood spilled for nothing.
That’s not going to happen.
2:57 P.M.
The woman seated beside him smelled of lavender, horse, and blood. Scents as out of place in this modern era as Father Rhun Korza himself.
She offered her hand. He had not intentionally touched a woman in a very long time. Even though dried blood streaked her palm, he had no choice but to take it, grateful that he wore gloves. He steeled himself and shook. Her warm hand felt strong and capable, but it trembled in his. So, he frightened her.
Good.
He dropped her hand and shifted away, seeking to put space between them. He had no wish to touch her again. In fact, he wished she would climb back out of the craft and return to her safe study of the past.
For her own sake as much as his own.
Before receiving his summons, he had been dwelling in deep meditation, in seclusion, ready to forsake the greater world for the beauty and isolation of the Cloister, as was his right. But Cardinal Bernard had not let him stay there. He had pulled Rhun from his meditative cell and sent him on this journey into the world to
fetch an archaeologist and search for an artifact. Rhun had expected the archaeologist to be a man, but Bernard had chosen a woman, and a beautiful one at that.
Rhun suspected what that meant.
He gripped the silver cross at his throat. Metal warmed through his glove.
Above his head rotor blades throbbed like a massive mechanical heart, beating fast enough to burst.
His gaze fell on the second woman. She was German, from her whispered words to the man on the stretcher. Blood streaked her white cotton dress. She gripped the hand of the wounded man, never taking her eyes off his face. The iron smell of his blood blanketed the airborne vehicle.
Rhun closed his eyes, fingered the rosary on his belt, and began a silent Our Father. Vibrations shuddered through his prayer.
He would much rather travel on a mule with a naturally beating heart.
But the blades drowned out more dangerous sounds—the heavy drip of blood from the split scalp to the floor, the quick breathing of the woman next to him, and the faraway neighing of a frightened stallion.
As the vehicle banked, the stench of jet fuel rolled in. Its foreignness stung his nostrils, but he preferred it to the scent of blood. It gave him the strength to let himself look at the injured man, at the blood running in threads along the metal floor, then dropping out toward the harsh stone landscape below.
This late in the fall, the sun set early, in less than two hours. He could ill afford a delay to aid a wounded man. Much rested on his shoulders.
Out of the corner of his eye, he studied the woman next to him. She wore threadbare denim jeans and a dusty white shirt. Her intelligent brown eyes traveled once around the cabin, seeming to assess each man. Those eyes skittered past him as if he were not there. Did she fear him as a man, as a priest, or as something else?
He tightened his gloved hands on his knees and meditated. He must purge thoughts of her from his mind. He would need all his holy strength for the task ahead. Perhaps, after it was complete, he could return to the Sanctuary, to the Cloister, and rest undisturbed.
Suddenly the woman brushed him with her elbow. He tensed, but did not jump. His meditation had steadied him. She leaned forward to check on her colleague, her fine eyebrows drawn down in worry. The man would not recover, but Rhun could not tell her so. She would never believe him. What did a simple priest know of wounds and blood?
The Blood Gospel Page 4