The Christos Mosaic

by Vincent Czyz

  The settlement at Qumran was an attempt to establish a priestly community of unblemished ritual purity. Their main concern was restoring a Zadokite high priest. The archaeological record showed that the Qumran community was active under the Maccabeans, but, with the coming of Herod the Great, who ended the Maccabean dynasty in 40 BC, the Essenes abandoned Qumran.

  Why? The simplest explanation was also the most convincing. Herod, affecting respect for the religious purity of the Essenes but in reality more concerned with effacing all traces of the Maccabees, removed the last Maccabean high priest. Jonathan Maccabee, a boy of eighteen who would have been the next high priest, was drowned while frolicking in a swimming pool at the palace. Herod then replaced the Maccabean high priests with Zadokites. The restoration of the Zadokites to the Temple explained the Essene desertion of Qumran: their goal had been accomplished.

  After the death of Herod, however, Romans once again imposed direct rule on Palestine. In 6 AD they allowed the Zadokites to be ousted and installed a new high priest. Qumran, as much a military outpost as a religious community, was rebuilt.

  The year 6 AD stopped Drew from reading any further.

  According to the Gospel of Luke, Jesus was born during the census of Quirinius taken in 6 AD. Was it coincidence that Jesus’ reputed birth in Luke overlapped with the downfall of the Zadokites? With the re-establishment of Qumran and the renewed ferocity of Judas of Galilee’s rebellion?

  Drew scissored fingers into his back pocket for the folded-up sheet of paper listing the professor’s keywords. He scanned the names, halting his descent—as if down a ladder for eyes only—when he came to Judas of Galilee. He pulled his knapsack onto his lap and groped around inside until he felt the kind of hardcover heft that could only belong to his copy of Josephus. The index was written in type so small he would’ve picked up a magnifying glass if one had been handy. Judas of Galilee had touched off his revolt against the Romans in 4 BC, rushing—armed— into the opening left by Herod’s death. Give or take a year, that was about the time Matthew placed Jesus’ birth.

  A pattern, like a single recognizable word in an otherwise undeciphered text, resolved itself: Matthew had used Judas’s first revolt to mark Jesus’ birth, drawing the obvious parallel between Judas of Galilee and Jesus of Galilee. Luke, on the other hand, had used the Essenes’ return to Qumran and the ousting of the Zadokites from the office of high priest. Matthew emphasized the political messiah embodied by Judas of Galilee, who’d crossed swords with the Romans. It is Matthew’s Jesus who says, “I came not to bring peace but a sword.” Luke, however, emphasized the priestly savior. Traditionally, the first would be descended of David, while the other was an heir of Aaron and Zadok. Conveniently enough, Jesus was descended of David on his father’s side—assuming his father wasn’t the Holy Spirit—and of Aaron and therefore of Zadok on his mother’s. That made Jesus both messiahs in a single person.

  James the Just, possibly the Teacher of Righteousness, and John the Baptist, also a savior figure, were brother and—at least in Luke—cousin to Christ. John in many ways was actually more like a brother than James. Both Matthew and Luke make much of the fact that Elizabeth’s and Mary’s pregnancies overlapped, with John being born six months earlier than Jesus. Which raised another question: if John and Jesus were the same age, how was it that John had built up a huge following by the time of Christ’s baptism in the Jordan, but there wasn’t a single word about Christ’s ministry until then? What was Jesus doing all that time? The gospel account made sense only if John was passing the torch—not as the Messiah but as a messiah.

  Judas of Galilee was far more central to the Gospels than Drew had realized. His story seemed to end with his sons, Simon and James, who were crucified by the Roman procurator Tiberius Julius Alexander although they led no popular uprisings—a pre-emptive strike apparently—but Josephus was strangely silent on the fate of Judas himself.

  “Crucifixion most likely,” Drew said to himself. But why omit the account of it?

  There was a Simon on the list, as Drew recalled, who had squared off with Rome in 66 AD. He glanced at the list. Simon bar Giora. Drew found Simon’s quixotic drama in Book 4 of Josephus’s Jewish War. Although he was of peasant stock, Simon’s skill with a sword and natural gift for leadership eventually brought an army of 40,000 under his command. According to Josephus, Simon entered Jerusalem in the third year of the revolt as a savior and a preserver. He reigned as king, had coins struck with the motto Redemption of Zion, and was thought by many to be the Messiah.

  The Romans, however, overran the city in 70 AD and destroyed the Temple. Simon and a handful of stonecutters took refuge in a cavern under Jerusalem, hoping to escape by burrowing under the city walls. But the digging was so impeded by rock, their provisions ran out.

  Simon hit on a new strategy. He put on a white robe and a purple cloak and appeared out of rocky ground where the Temple had been as though he’d risen from a tomb. The Romans were astonished—they stood still where they were as Josephus put it. It didn’t take them long, however, to figure out Simon wasn’t an apparition. Refusing to identify himself, he insisted they call their captain. The men ran to their captain, Rufus Terentius, who arrested Simon.

  “Hm.” Drew rested his chin on his fist. When Jesus was crucified, a purple mantle was thrown over him to mock his supposed claims to royalty … but the resurrected Jesus wore a white robe. And the astonishment of the Romans seemed to mirror the astonishment of the women who find Jesus’ tomb empty—a tomb, as Drew recalled, newly carved out of rock. The women in Mark run to tell the disciples the same way the soldiers run to tell their captain. Had Mark pilfered these details? Or was he alluding to something?

  Simon was put in chains and loaded onto a ship bound for Rome, where he became part of a triumphal parade. He was haltered like a horse, flogged, and beheaded.

  Drew wrote three names on the back of Stephen’s list: Judas, James, Simon.

  Oddly enough, these were three of Jesus’ four brothers: And are not his brothers James and Joses, and Simon and Judas? Were the names veiled references to James the Just, Judas of Galilee, and Simon bar Giora? Then what about Joses?

  Drew flipped back to the passage about Judas of Galilee. He had broken into the armory in Sepphoris—not five miles from the site on which Nazareth would later be founded. Drew shook his head. “This can’t be coincidence.”

  “Ne?” What? Kadir had closed The Stars, My Destination.

  “The Gospels. In one sense they’re fiction, but in another … there are things that go beyond metaphor and symbol. There are references to historical events and people that we don’t usually connect with Christ. Clever allusions that maybe a certain elite within the early Christian Church would understand but that would mean nothing to the uneducated.”

  Kadir shrugged and went back to his book.

  Drew typed out hidden, Mark, allegories on the computer keyboard. Seconds later he had the quote he was looking for:

  And Jesus said to them, “Things are hidden only to be revealed, and made secret only to be brought to light. If any have ears to hear, let them hear.” And he kept speaking to them in allegories, according as they could hear, and he said nothing to them without allegories, but privately to his own students he always gave the key.

  Had the Gospel authors written in allegories so that the illiterate took away only the surface meaning while learned Christians understood the deeper meanings encoded in the Gospels?

  The overwhelming need he had felt to pray during the conversation with Nathan and Father Hawass had been replaced by anger. Was Stephen right? Had the Gospel writers invented a messiah—a messiah for whom wars had been fought? In whose name thousands of men and women had died after tortures that equaled anything their role model had supposedly endured on the cross?

  The lock to the front door clicked over and Zafer came in.

  Drew stood up. “I’m going to need some books from my apartment. The Collected Works of Philo, Ancient Chr
istian Gospels, Eusebius’s History of the Church—”

  “Yeah, sure.” Zafer smiled indulgently. “Write them down and give me the key. I’ll get them for you tomorrow.”

  So far Drew had been letting Stephen’s keywords come to him. Not anymore. He was going to track down each one, starting with James the Just. Time to find out what the fuck went on two thousand years ago.

  6: 4

  RECOGNITIONS

  “DREW. OVER HERE …” Zafer beckoned with a hand. He was sitting on the couch next to Kadir.

  The photographs of the three Sicarii were laid out on the coffee table.

  Drew sank into a cushion next to the ex-commando.

  “I spoke with my kankardesh at MIT. He didn’t have as much for me as I’d like, but then MIT has no reason to have files on these guys.

  “Looks like Nathan isn’t connected with the Ecole Biblique—not on the surface anyway. These other three are, probably only as a front.” Zafer tapped one of the pictures with a finger. “Memorize these faces.”

  Drew looked at their names again: Raymond Duvall, Jean Saint-Savoy, Francis Collins. “It won’t be hard to remember him.” Drew pointed at the picture of Duvall. Stubbly blond hair, eyes a ghostly blue, face raw-boned.

  “Which is why he probably never does sidewalk surveillance himself. For that you have to have a face people forget as soon as they see it. He’s probably the most dangerous, too—a Maltese Knight, a Sicarii, a couple of medals with the French Foreign Legion in Operation Daguet during first Gulf War. Should have gone higher than captain, but he doesn’t like taking orders. He was thrown out of the Legion for challenging a superior officer. Pulled out a knife and said, ‘God will decide between us.’”

  “Damn.” Not someone Drew wanted to meet.

  Zafer handed him color copies of three of the photos. “Keep them with you.”

  Drew stared again at Raymond’s pale eyes. “Kadir says you have a date with your ex-wife tonight.”

  Drew glanced at the dwarf. “Maybe. I haven’t spoken to her.”

  “Well, figure it out.”

  “Give me a minute.” Drew pulled out his cell phone and texted her the time and place he wanted to meet. A message came back in seconds: Seni bekliyorum. I’m waiting for you. Zafer’s dusty warehouse of an apartment became palatial, the steel furniture seemed plunder from a sultan’s chamber, and even the grit on the floor might as well have been tracked in from an imperial garden.

  “I’m meeting her on the Asian side.”

  “Good. It’s better if you stay out of Taksim.”

  Something in Drew’s chest unknotted.

  Kadir smiled. “Good luck.”

  “One thing,” Zafer added. “I spoke with Serafis. We have a flight to Adana tomorrow.”

  “Antakya doesn’t have an airport?”

  “No. We leave at three.”

  “Not a problem,” Drew said.

  “When you want to come back, call me. I’ll meet you in Karaköy. Just to make sure you didn’t grow a tail while you were straightening things out with your ex.”

  “Will do.” Drew stood up.

  “You know what? I’ll walk you down. Safer that way.”

  Kadir was still grinning. “Tonight I will see you.”

  “I hope not.”

  6: 5

  THE OLDEST MYTH

  ZAFER SCRUPULOUSLY AVOIDED ISTIKLAL. It was always crowded, but if the Sicarii were watching, they’d definitely have eyes there.

  A leather jacket Zafer had loaned Drew was draped over an arm. The air was warm, but with the Sun down, it wouldn’t take long to cool off.

  They took narrow streets that skirted the westerly slope of the hill, angling east. Through a break in the static procession of buildings, Drew glimpsed the Golden Horn, a smooth absence of architecture surrounded by sprawling city. The water was slate-colored in the bluish dusk, tinted orange where it caught the last of the sky’s light.

  “Wanna take the funicular down?” Drew asked

  “Nah. I could use the walk.”

  The walk, down a cobblestoned street, became steeper.

  “So what does she do, Yasemin?”

  “She’s an editor at a publishing house. Blue Amber Books.”

  Zafer nodded. “Mavi Ambar? Good one.”

  The street was hardly more than an alley canyoned by a mix of narrow, Ottoman-style tenements and their European counterparts.

  “She was a literature major. Bohazichi University.” Mentioning Bohazichi in Turkey had about the same effect as name-dropping Harvard in the States.

  “Impressive.”

  Yes, she was. “You know how she got her first promotion?”

  “Can’t wait to find out.”

  “She was an editorial assistant—answering phones, opening mail, doing bullshit work basically, and reading manuscripts at home.”

  “A step up from the guy who sweeps out the office at night?”

  “Exactly. The two editors who run the house, both men, pride themselves on their taste in books, but they don’t like to roll up their sleeves and edit. One day they’re arguing over a novel they just bought. Neither wants to work on it. One’s shouting, it’s your turn! The other is yelling back, you do it! And the rest of the office can hear them they’re so loud. So imagine … here’s Yasemin, smart, confident, assertive, but still a grunt. She walks up and knocks on the office door. One of them answers, all pissed off, and asks her what the hell she wants. ‘Give the manuscript to me,’ she says. The guy is shocked. First of all she’s just an editorial assistant. Second— you know how it is in Turkey—she’s a woman. Third, she’s barely out of college. Fourth, she just admitted she was eavesdropping. Her boss thinks he’s misheard her and asks again what she wants. ‘Give me the manuscript,’ she says, ‘I’ll edit it.’ This guy looks at the other editor like what the fuck? Yasemin says, ‘If you don’t like what I do with it, give it to someone else. And you can give my job to someone else too if you want.’ The second editor nods, waves a hand, and she gets the book. She turns it in a week later. A few days after that, boom,they move her up to assistant editor. Now she’s a senior editor, and the company can’t live without her.”

  “Looks like neither can you.”

  “Yeah, maybe.” Some of the same things that made Yasemin so good at the office in a male-dominated society—and some of the very things he admired her for—also made her a bitter adversary when they fought. She took shit from no one. She was headstrong, sure of herself, and could make him think he was wrong even when he wasn’t. He’d never learned how to back off, let things cool down, try a different tack. And it had cost them their marriage.

  The two men came to the bottom of the hill not far from Galata Bridge. Somewhere within a tangle of roads on the far side of the bridge, Tariq had been hit by a truck.

  “All right, you can take it from here. I’m going to find a place to plant myself and watch, make sure nobody’s tagging along.” Zafer whacked Drew on a shoulder. “Iyi shanslar.” Good luck.

  “Thanks.”

  Drew hopped a low, iron-bar fence and crossed a four-lane street divided by an island of paving stones. It was a lot shorter and easier— and more dangerous—than crossing legally. Galata Bridge was a couple hundred yards to his right. The ferry station in Karaköy lay at an oblique angle to his left. Across the Golden Horn, just beyond the bridge brooded the New Mosque. Behind it, half a dozen other mosques, like steps ascending the urbanized hill in which they were embedded, gazed out at the water.

  Drew glanced over a shoulder. No one else had jumped the fence.

  He cut through a small maze of alleys that brought him out to the waterfront.

  The quay edging Karaköy was always crowded with fishmongers, sailors, commuters, tourists. Brothels had attached themselves like barnacles to a slope above the quay. The skin trade in Istanbul was tolerated but strictly segregated. A house of ill-repute could hire either foreign or Turkish women, not both. Foreign men were forbidden to so much as ap
proach the Turkish lovelies leaning out of windows and smiling impishly, but Turkish men had their pick. Police stood sentry, checking IDs and passports to make sure there was no crosspollination.

  Drew dropped a token in a slot and pushed through a turnstile. He was gently bumped along by a crowd moving like an oversized caterpillar up the gangway. The ferry, probably a holdover from the 60s or 70s, held a few hundred people. He took the stairs to the upper deck.

  How many times had he made this crossing? How many times to see Yasemin? The Asian side of Istanbul, where they had always lived, recalled North Jersey. It was mostly residential, and the sights that drew tourists were almost all on the European side, which had its counterpart in New York.

  The breeze off the Bosporous lifted Drew’s hair and whipped it behind him. He slipped into the leather jacket. Zafer was shorter by a few inches, but also broader. It balanced out to a reasonable fit.

  Drew gazed out over the railing, the shifting screen of the water slingshotting him back to first time he’d gone to the cinema with Yasemin. Looking over at her almost as much as up at the screen, he’d watched the silvery blue light fade and intensify on her face, watched her react to what was going in the film. She caught him staring and a smile appeared in the dark. Leaning in, she whispered, “What are you doing?” He shook his head. He didn’t know how to explain he was more interested in watching her than the movie. In that light her face had the marblesque allure of Classical statuary, and he knew if he wasn’t in love, it wouldn’t be long.

  How many moments had been so full that one more drop of anything and he’d have to deal with the overflow? Moments when every sentence spoken was a line of poetry, every movement graceful. When they were suspended by something almost tangible that had formed between them.