He grinned. “Oh, something like that. But not just any Christian.”
“Peter? Paul?”
“Think bigger.”
She looked at the ossuary and fished for the impossible. “No way. Not Jesus.”
Amit nodded.
This made Jules snicker. “Amit, you’re talking to an Egyptologist,” she reminded him. “You know how I feel about the whole Jesus thing.”
“And?” But he already knew where this was going.
“There’s no evidence that Jesus was a living historical figure.”
He already knew her stance. “So he’s a literary creation?”
“Jesus reads like an Egyptian folk hero. Let me remind you—Osiris was brutally mutilated, his body parts collected by the female goddess Isis and put in a stone tomb, only to be resurrected three days later so that he ascended up into the sky. Crucifixion, burial, resurrection on day three, and ascension into heaven?” She spread her hands. “Osiris, mind you, who judged souls in the hereafter, weighed the heart against Ma’at’s feather and either granted the deceased eternal bliss or fed him to Ammit, the Devourer . . .”
“Heaven and hell,” he admitted. With Jules getting more impassioned, the female docent was now casting curious glances at them. Amit held an index finger to his lips so Jules would lower her volume.
“And in the Book of the Dead,” she continued more quietly, “Osiris’s son, Horus, fed five thousand with just a few loaves of bread.”
“Jesus feeds the multitudes,” he said, playing along.
“The five thousand, to be precise,” she said. “There’s the image of Horus suckling the breast of Isis, later spun as the Madonna and child,” she sarcastically added.
Amit knew there were dozens of parallels between Jesus and Horus— everything from virgin birth to consecration through ritual baptism, and both were even portrayed as a shepherd or a lamb. So he only hoped Jules would keep it short.
“And let’s not forget this one: Isis, the healer and life giver”—she stuck out her right index finger; “Osiris, the judge of souls”—the middle finger went up; “and Horus, ruler of the heavens who happens to be the son of Osiris.” When the splayed ring finger went up, she tightly fused it with the other two. “Sound familiar? Three separate gods recast as one?”
“The Trinity.” He nodded.
“And Jesus’s assertions about the afterlife and the judgment of souls? That’s philosophical thinking that’s got Egypt written all over it. Just think about the ba,” she said.
The ba, Amit recalled, was the ancient Egyptian equivalent of a soul, which separated from the body at death to roam at will. And it was depicted as a bird, which Jules would no doubt consider the forerunner of the Holy Spirit.
“Forgive me if I’m not racing off to church every Sunday,” she said skeptically, crossing her arms tight in front of her chest and leaning back on her left leg.
He held up his hands in peaceful surrender. “Got it, Jules. ‘All things Egypt.’ We could go through the same motions with the Old Testament too, and come up with the idea that the whole Jesus story was made up.” He began spouting off a few examples, tipping his head side to side to emphasize the parallels between stories: “David was born in Bethlehem”— head to the left; “Jesus was born in Bethlehem”—head to the right. “Moses went up on Sinai for forty days”—left; “Jesus went into the desert for forty days”—right.
Her eyes now seemed apologetic.
“You could also point out that Jesus’s father was descended directly from David and Abraham and his mother descended directly from Moses’s first high priest, Aaron, the Levite; a convenient fulfillment of Isaiah’s prophecy—making the Messiah a priest and a king. And of course the whole thing with God offering his own son the same way Abraham tried to sacrifice Isaac—”
“Okay,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Do I sound that crazy?”
He shrugged. “You don’t really think Jesus is just a created literary figure, do you?” He could only hope she wasn’t aware that Jesus exhibited nineteen of the twenty motifs associated with the heroes of Greek mythology.
She sighed wearily—the way any sympathetic minimalist would. “Then how do you explain that historians who lived during the time of Jesus— Philo and Josephus, to name a couple—never mention anyone even remotely close to Jesus or his disciples? Let’s face it, a guy who walks on water, feeds multitudes with a sack lunch, and raises the dead isn’t exactly B-list material.”
“Sure, no direct mention of Jesus himself. But Josephus’s accounts vividly described the Essenes as one of three Jewish sects in first-century Judea. Philo wrote about them as well.”
“So what does that have to do with it?”
A knowing smile pulled at Amit’s goatee. Doubters overlooked the historical record time and time again. “ ‘Essene’ is actually a bad transliteration of the word Josephus and Philo ascribe to the Jews at Qumran. It was actually pronounced ‘Esaoin’—a word with roots in Greek, Aramaic, and Arabic. Since you live in Cairo, I’m sure you can figure this one out.” He could tell by the softened look on her face that she already had. Finally, something broke through her armor.
“ ‘Follower of Jesus,’ ” she said with some reluctance in a low voice.
“Right. ‘Follower of Jesus,’ ” he repeated. “And this Jesus happens to have an Egyptian spin to his name. So if you ask me, history does provide an account of a group many believe were the earliest Christians.”
“Now you’re stretching it a bit.”
“Perhaps. But we both saw this same symbol in that chamber at Qumran,” he said, pointing to the ossuary’s relief again. “And like I said, some very intelligent archaeologists are whispering that this ossuary belonged to Jesus.”
Jules gave the ossuary another once-over, this time more seriously.
Seeing that she still looked skeptical, he decided to lay it on thicker. “You remember John the Baptist?”
“Of course.”
“Many biblical scholars contend that his teachings echo teachings found in the Dead Sea Scrolls. He too was a minimalist who practiced ritual immersion, or baptism. And if you recall, he lived in the desert and baptized his followers in the Jordan River, which flows directly into the north end of the Dead Sea. Jesus was baptized by him, then remained in the desert for forty days. And where is Qumran located?”
She rolled her eyes. “The northwest shore of the Dead Sea.”
“After Herod Antipas beheaded John, Jesus continued John’s ministry. A changing of the guard, some might say.” He stared at the ossuary again. “And what if I told you that the thief also returned a book that was determined to be the oldest Gospel ever recovered, dating to the early first century, and regarded as the original source for the books of Matthew, Mark, and Luke?”
“Makes for a compelling case,” she admitted.
“It certainly does. But the interesting part is that the last four pages of the text were purposely cut out so that the story ended with the crucifixion.”
“So I take it someone didn’t like the ending?”
He nodded. “The conspiracy builds. Another great example of how editing can rewrite history. And if you choose to believe the rumors, this same editor also didn’t like what was inside this ossuary.” Jules still looked incredulous as she put it all together. Stubborn as always, he thought.
“So somewhere out there are four pages of the oldest Gospel and the physical remains of Jesus?” she clarified.
“That’s the rumor.”
“Any way to get in touch with this Barton fellow you mentioned earlier?” she suggested. “Maybe he can help us.”
Amit quickly dismissed the idea. Not only had the English archaeologist gone through his own tribulations, he explained, but there was a high probability that Barton was still being closely surveilled by Israeli intelligence, even though he’d long since returned to his home in London.
A boisterous American tour group suddenly poured into the gallery.
<
br /> “Let’s go,” Amit suggested.
They wove through the tourists, back toward Tower Hall. But halfway through the South Octagon, Amit spotted Joshua’s wheelchair parked near the front entrance.
Amit grabbed Jules’s arm and yanked her behind Seti’s stele.
“What are you—”
“Quiet!” he demanded in a hushed tone. He peeked out to confirm that Cohen’s son was talking to a man of medium height with an awfully familiar face. Amit panicked when he saw the fresh laceration just below the man’s hairline, then the fresh white cast wound round his right forearm.
“My father told me to call you if anyone came asking about Yosi,” Joshua reported.
“You said someone was in his office?” the tall man said. The kid’s voice message to him hadn’t been very clear.
“Two people actually. Amit Mizrachi. And he was with a very pretty—”
“Are they still here?” the man broke in, looking like he’d just touched a live wire.
“I ...I think so.” Joshua backed the chair up a bit, because the man looked like he was going to explode. Then his wild eyes began scanning the hall. “They might still be in the South Gallery—”
But before he could finish, the man broke into a full sprint, practically bowling over the American tour group assembling in the hall.
29
******
Egypt
Exiting Inshas Airport, the driver turned the dusty Peugeot south onto highway 41.
Rabbi Aaron Cohen checked his watch: 12:32.
His private jet had covered the four hundred kilometers from Ben Gurion International in less than forty minutes. He’d instructed the pilot to expect to have the jet on the tarmac for a return trip later that afternoon. They’d need to work quickly before Egyptian authorities could start asking questions, he’d reminded everyone. But he took great comfort in knowing that the VIP charter flights coming in and out of Inshas enjoyed far more liberties than El-Al flights heading to Cairo International.
“You called ahead to let the others know we’ve arrived?”
“I did,” the driver replied.
Cohen settled into his seat.
The road paralleled the glistening Ismailiya Canal, where a magnificent sailboat was lazily motoring its way south, its mainsail down, an Egyptian flag flapping gently atop its mast. On the spacious aft deck, Cohen spotted a lithe woman with obviously surgically enhanced breasts and hair like raven’s wings, sunning herself in a bikini. The shirtless, beerdrinking helmsman—also Egyptian—was much older than the woman and looked very, very proud. In a country full of Muslim fundamentalists who aspired to be the next great hope for an Islamic state, it flew in the face of Sharia, Islamic law, and exemplified how wealth came with great exception.
Vanity and pride have no place in the eyes of God.
He diverted his gaze out the right window to the flat swaths of sugarcane and rice fields.
They were heading to Heliopolis. Not the modern suburb on the outsk ir ts of Ca iro t hat loc a ls referred to a s Misr el- Gadida— or “New Ca iro”— but its ancient namesake about twenty kilometers north.
With Amit Mizrachi still alive, Cohen wasn’t taking any chances; the archaeologist or the French Egyptologist who’d accompanied him to Qumran might have somehow deciphered the hidden meaning of the hieroglyph. Centuries of planning could potentially be undone. Besides, with the prophecy already set into motion, the timing for this visit couldn’t have been better.
The driver turned west, following signs for Kafr Hamra.
Minutes later, they passed a tiny Coptic church with a mosaic on its belfry depicting Joseph guiding a donkey burdened with Mary. The Holy Mother was tightly cradling the baby Jesus. Laid out in colorful tiles, the narrative placed them along the palm-treed Nile, three distant pyramids rising up on the opposing riverbank. The imagery always made Cohen smile.
Churches like this could be found throughout the Nile Delta—Tel Basta, Farama, Wadi al-Natrun, Bilbeis, Mostorod, even Cairo. Each venerated its own ancient folklore built around the Holy Family’s refuge in Egypt after escaping Herod’s supposed infanticide in Judea: water springs brought forth by the baby Jesus; caves and sacred trees that had given the Holy Family shelter; wells from which the Holy Family drank; a granite trough used by the Virgin for kneading dough; the Holy Child’s footprint and handprint set in separate stones; pagan idols that crumbled in the Holy Child’s presence.
Despite these tales, Grandfather had taught him that many truths could also be found here in Egypt—and many facts had bled into ancient Christian scriptures deemed heretical by the Catholic Church.
Like the Essenes at Qumran who’d preserved the Dead Sea Scrolls from Roman destruction, the ancient Egyptian Christians, called Gnostics, had hidden their Coptic texts in buried jars. In 1945 thirteen leatherbound Gnostic codices had been accidentally unearthed by local peasants at Nag Hammadi. This caused much controversy for the Vatican since the texts spoke at great length about the resurrected Jesus as a spiritual being. How the Vatican had twisted the truth, he lamented. And still they stop at nothing to protect their lies.
Cohen particularly admired the stunning accuracy of the Gnostic codex entitled the Dialogue of the Savior, in which Jesus himself denounces the weakness of the flesh: “Matthew said, ‘Lord, I want to see that place of life, [the place] where there is no wickedness, but rather, there is pure light!’ The Lord said, ‘Brother Matthew, you will not be able to see it as long as you are carrying flesh around . . . Whatever is born of truth does not die. Whatever is born of woman dies.’ ” And in the codex called the Apocryphon of James, Jesus’s words resonated with Cohen even more so: “For it is the spirit that raises the soul, but the body that kills it . . .”
The spiritual being—the eternal spark—was paramount to the Gnostics, as well as to their brothers in Judea, the Essenes—all members of Cohen’s legacy. Those who understood the weakness of the flesh were the enlightened—“Sons of Light.” And they had been given secret knowledge that from the one true God did all light (spiritual essence) flow in perpetuity.
Heading north on Highway 400, they approached their destination— Tel el-Yahudiyeh, or “Mound of the Jews.” Across the expansive delta plain, the tightly packed buildings of Shabin al Qanatir could easily be seen in the distance.
As they rounded a bend in the road, Cohen peered over at the ancient heap of marl and sand that rose up from the dust. It resembled a huge sand castle built too close to an ocean swell, washed over and stripped of detail. Some of the ancient fortifications could still be made out along the mound’s expansive boomerang footprint.
This ruin had once been a grand temple-fortress built by Cohen’s ancient ancestor.
The car drove past the mound and a wide-open field separating it from an industrial, corrugated steel warehouse. The driver slowed as he approached the warehouse and turned onto the short drive leading up to it. He waited as the bay door rolled back on creaking hardware.
Squeezing the Peugeot in beside a dilapidated tractor, the driver slid the gearshift into park. In the rearview mirror, he watched a man dressed in a white tunic press the button to close the door.
“Did you see anything suspicious?” Cohen inquired.
“Nothing,” he confirmed.
“Good.” He waited for the driver to open his door.
Cohen stepped out onto the cement floor. The warehouse’s expansive, raw interior was lined with steel support columns and had a high ceiling with exposed rafters. Corralled into crude work bays were tool chests and various machines dismantled to their bare mechanical guts.
The moist air stank of motor oil and acetylene.
The building had been registered with the municipality as a machine repair shop. To legitimize that claim, the priests spent considerable time tending to local clients’ broken-down tractors, tillers, and farm machinery. Lately, the decoy operation had expanded to include car repair too. A healthy profit fed the coffers of the Temple Society.
Cohen turned to the driver. “Have them prepare the truck. I want to be out of here in an hour.”
Strutting with a slight limp—too much time sitting always aggravated his damaged hip—to the rear of the building, he opened the door to the office and stepped around a beat-up metal desk that hosted a greasy computer monitor and a stack of crisp yellow invoices.
He dragged a box of motor parts off a stain-covered Persian rug centered on the plank floor. Then he half squatted to grab a corner of the rug and peeled it back. What lay beneath was a rectangular hatch. He threaded his finger through its O-shaped hasp, heaved the door up, and let it fall open with a dull thud.
Patting dust from his black vest, he proceeded downward into complete darkness, the wooden treads groaning under his weight.
“...Eleven ... twelve,” he muttered, counting the last steps.
The Sacred Blood Page 14