by Vincent Czyz
“And Moses,” Jesse added. “Pharoah tried to kill Moses when he was an infant.”
“Sure,” Drew conceded, “that would make Jewish converts happy.”
A sudden gust of wind drove rain into the passenger side of the car; it sounded like someone had tossed a handful of raw rice at the window.
Jesse glared at him, probably wrestling with the desire to head-butt him.
“Like Christ, Panthera was killed on the Eve of Passover. The accounts of his death differ, from being hung on a tree or a stake to being stoned, or being stoned and then hung out as a warning, which is exactly what is prescribed for blasphemy. Paul, who was writing before the Gospels were composed, clearly implies in Galatians that Jesus was hanged on a tree.”
“And how exactly do you fit Jesus’ fourth brother into all this?” Jesse asked.
“The missing part of the mosaic is Jesus Panthera, but you can’t have a brother with the same name. Joses is about as close to Jesus as you can get.”
“It’s a variation on Joseph,” Jesse snapped.
“Right, but it’s not Joseph. It’s shortened. Jesus Panthera is the earliest Jewish model for Jesus of Nazareth. Symbolically at least, he’s Jesus’ father—Joseph. And isn’t it curious that in Jesus’ genealogy Luke includes Jannai a little earlier than the time when there was a King Jannai? Saint Epiphanius actually inserts Panthera into Jesus’ genealogy as Christ’s grandfather, which would have been about the time there was a King Jannai.”
Jesse looked as though she might slap him. “So why did the Gospel writers fix the death of Jesus under the rule of Pontius Pilate?”
“For the drama of the Crucifixion. And the Romans didn’t arrive until 63 BC. Panthera was already dead by then,” he answered. “Since the Gospels were written after the Jewish revolt, after the sack of Jerusalem, and after Roman records had been burned, there was no way of knowing who had been crucified under Pilate.”
“It’s all just a little too neat, don’t you think?”
“But it makes sense. The death of the original Jesus was shameful. Being hanged was a curse. That’s right out of Deuteronomy.”
“For once we agree.”
“The earliest model for Jesus of Nazareth died an embarrassing death, and the whole drama of the Crucifixion covers it up. Isn’t it clear? For centuries, scholars have tried to explain the Gospels’ absurd portrayal of Pontius Pilate, one of the most ruthless rulers in history, as a compassionate man.”
“The Gospel authors did that for incredibly obvious reasons, Drew. Palestine was still under Roman rule. They had to avoid antagonizing the Romans.”
“Except that there was no need to exonerate Pilate,” Drew said. “The Jews had complained openly about Pilate for years—Philo of Alexandria was still complaining about him to Caligula even after Pilate had already been recalled to Rome in disgrace.” Since their conversation in Cairo, Drew had discovered a few other things about Philo: his family had put up the money to sheath the Temple gates in gold and silver, and his nephew had actually been married to Herod Agrippa’s daughter, Berenice, who puts in several appearances in Acts of the Apostles. And yet Philo never mentioned Jesus of Nazareth.
Jesse shook her head. “So Jesus wasn’t crucified by the Romans, he was hanged by order of the Jewish Sanhedrin before the Romans had even taken Palestine?”
Drew shrugged. “It’s not impossible. In Matthew, Pilate pardons a man named Barabbas. Bar Abbas is about the extent of my Aramaic, but I know it means Son of the Father. Matthew is telling us that Jesus the Son of God the Father was not crucified under Pilate. Not only that, but Jewish Christians would have known what bar Abbas means. Gentiles— the Greeks—wouldn’t have noticed. And that’s who the whole passion play of the Resurrection was for, the Greek converts who were used to the dying-and-rising gods of the Mystery religions.”
“Oh please ...” Jesse seemed unable to find words to match her disgust.
Drew was undeterred. “In Mark, we’re told that Simon of Cyrene carried the cross for Jesus. Simon carried the burden. Simon was the one tortured, not Jesus.”
“Simon of Cyrene was tortured?” Jesse asked.
“No, Simon of Cyrene is a stand-in for Simon bar Giora. Giora, Josephus says, entered Jerusalem in 69 AD as its savior and preserver.”
Jesse nodded. “And then he was dragged to Rome, paraded in a halter, flogged, and beheaded—not crucified. But even if he had been crucified, you can’t possibly know Giora is the Simon being referred to. There are so many—”
“Simon of Cyrene’s son was named Rufus, which also happens to be the name of the Roman captain who took Simon bar Giora captive.”
Jesse sighed theatrically. “I was wrong when I said you should have gotten your PhD in comparative religion. You’re exactly where you belong—fantasy.”
Even though Zafer had switched the air-conditioning back on, Jesse looked like she was beginning to sweat.
“Except that my interpretation explains why there’s no reference to a crucified Savior in the Dead Sea Scrolls, how Jesus the Nazarite became Jesus the Nazarene, why Philo never mentions Jesus although he has plenty to say about Pilate, why Paul never quotes Jesus, mentions his miracles, or any of the biographical stuff in the Gospels, why the only Jesus the Jews knew of died around 90 BC, and why the historical record doesn’t show a trace of Jesus of Nazareth.”
There was a sound like a gunshot, and the car fishtailed. Swearing in Turkish, Zafer fought to control the wheel.
7: 18
THREE-SIXTY
INSTINCTIVELY, DREW GRABBED the headrest of the front seat with his right hand. As Jesse’s hand clamped onto his wrist, Zafer cut the wheel hard in the opposite direction. If it hadn’t been raining, he might have righted the car, but they were already sliding into the middle lane. A horn blared, and the car beside them suddenly filled Drew’s window. The Audi whipped around again, this time in the opposite direction.
Although they had managed to miss the car beside them, they were now staring into the headlights of oncoming traffic. Drew prayed the car had enough momentum to keep going.
It turned nearly a complete 360, but not quite, skidding forward at a lopsided angle, half in the right lane and half in the center. Another horn was distressingly loud. Zafer cut the wheel again, shifted gears, and accelerated. With a jerk that snapped Drew’s head back, the car straightened out, and the pressure on Drew’s wrist eased.
They’d avoided an accident, but there was still something wrong with the car’s back end; it felt like the right rear wheel was thumping over neatly spaced potholes.
“Blowout,” Drew said.
He and Jesse looked at each other at exactly the same time. He had to fight the overwhelming urge to kiss her. She smiled—grateful, relieved—and let go of his wrist.
“Allah’a shukur,” Kadir murmured, exhaling a held breath.
Zafer hit the hazard lights and pulled over to the shoulder. Yanking the parking brake into place, he cut the ignition. He looked over his shoulder at Drew. “C’mon. Let’s have a look.”
The rain had abated to a softly descending mist. Most of the traffic zipped past them at a blur, but cars in the right lane went past slowly enough for Drew to see the inquisitive looks from passengers and drivers.
Zafer squatted down beside the rear right tire. “Blowout all right.”
So much rubber had shredded in one section that hole wasn’t the right word. The steel belt looked like a ribbon of silvery bone exposed beneath thick black skin.
“You don’t think someone shot it…?”
“Can’t tell. But a bullet wouldn’t make sense … we’re selling the scroll. Unless there’s something I’m missing.” He jerked his chin toward the trunk. “You know how to change a flat, right? Get started. I’m going to keep an eye on the traffic.” He swept his eyes over the rugged terrain on their right. “And on the hills.”
“Kadir …” Drew mimed pressing a button with his finger. Kadir nodded and the trunk popped
open. Drew was relieved to see there was a real spare, not a doughnut. While Drew unscrewed the tire lugs, Zafer paced back and forth, and Jesse and Kadir stood on the shoulder glancing around nervously.
No rusted bolts to deal with, Drew had them back on the road in fifteen minutes.
Zafer drove noticeably slower. The weather shifted again, and by the time they began to head west toward Adana, they had bright sunlight and dry asphalt.
Zafer picked up speed.
Less than an hour from Adana, they angled north or they might have passed through Tarsus, where the apostle Paul had been born. Educated in a school founded by the Cynics—Greek philosophers—he was as much a Greek Roman as he was a Jew. Tarsus was also the heart of Mithra’s cult. Was it coincidence that, to Paul, the central fact of Jesus was not what he taught, but his resurrection? Jesus was a dying-and-rising god. The cities Paul preached in were all cult centers of similar gods: Antioch was famous for the Mysteries of Adonis, Ephesus for those of Attis, Corinth for Dionysus. Making Christ into the god of another Mystery cult fit in perfectly with Paul’s tasks of converting Greeks. No one was more familiar with the Mysteries.
By afternoon they weren’t far from the so-called fairy chimneys of Cappadocia. Paul had been there too. Oddly, despite all his years in Turkey, Drew hadn’t.
In the evening, as they approached Ankara, Drew took the wheel.
Zafer didn’t waste any time flirting with Jesse. He entertained her with jokes and by recounting quirks of Turkish history. At one point, Drew’s and Zafer’s eyes met in the mirror and Drew tried to convey how pissed off he was, while Zafer’s expression said, Hey, you’ve got an ex-wife waiting for you in Istanbul.
Drew happily gave up the wheel after night had set in, and at around two in the morning, they were back in Istanbul.
“So …” Jesse asked, “what’re we doing with me?”
“We’re getting off in Sultanahmet,” Drew said, “where I’m going to find you a hotel.”
Zafer gave him an accusing look in the mirror before he shifted his gaze to Jesse. “I’m sure you’ll be safe with Drew.” A last skeptical glance in the rearview.
“Would you mind, though, letting me keep those photographs of the Habakkuk Scroll for a few days?”
“I’ll bring you clean copies.”
“Great.”
“How about the Sarnich Hotel?” Drew asked Zafer.
“Shouldn’t be a problem.”
It was on a narrow cobblestone street not far from the Byzantine cistern after which it had been named.
“You know the drill,” Zafer said to Drew. “Call first.” He smiled at Jesse. “It’s been a pleasure having you aboard our Antakya-to-Istanbul non-stop. We’ll hope you’ll choose us again.”
“But in future time, don’t bring with you the American.” Kadir smirked like a goat.
Jesse laughed and leaned through windows to kiss their cheeks. Bag in hand, Drew watched the Audi disappear around a curve.
Jesse shook her head. “What a pair.” The laptop, in its black case, was at her feet.
Drew nodded absently. “Look, I don’t know how you feel about me staying …”
“I would’ve killed you if you had left me here and gone with them. You’re spending the night with me.”
“Oh.” He couldn’t believe it was so uncomplicated.
His cell phone rang.
Drew dropped his bag on the sidewalk and pulled out his phone. Yasemin. Shit. It wasn’t going to be so uncomplicated.
7: 19
SLOWNESS
“YA, DREWJUH’UM … I couldn’t sleep. Are you in Istanbul?” Drew offered a silent prayer of thanks that Jesse didn’t speak Turkish. “I just got here.” As soon as he said it, he damned himself.
“Hadi, gel.”
“Now?”
“Ya, I miss you. Hadi, gel.”
“Yasemin … I can’t come over right now.”
“Why? What are you doing that’s so important?”
“Look, I can tell you everything tomorrow, okay? And I can probably stay tomorrow night.”
“What’s all this secrecy? What were you doing in Ankara? Why can’t you tell me anything?”
“Look, I can’t. But if it works out …” He suddenly realized that he didn’t want to make any promises. He was no longer sure he wanted a future with her. As much as they loved each other, they had never been able to live together. “If it works out, it’ll be worth a lot more than my salary.”
“For the month?”
“For the year.”
“Drew.” Alarm sharpened her tone. “You’re not doing anything illegal, are you?”
Illegal but not, he reasoned, immoral. “No.”
“You’re lying, Drew. First, you quit your job. Then a trip to Ankara. Now you’re doing business at two in the morning—”
“Yasemin, ya, lütfen … please can’t this wait until tomorrow?”
“Wait? That’s what you told me when you were in Anakara: wait. I’m tired of waiting. I waited our whole marriage for a child. I waited for you to be responsible—”
“Please, please, let’s not do this now. I promise, we’ll talk tomorrow.”
“Fine. Good night.”
He looked at the phone and shook his head.
“Who was that at two in the morning?”
Drew sighed. “My ex-wife.”
“Some kind of emergency?”
“Something like that.” He could see that she was waiting for more. “Look, Jesse, she and I have been talking about reconciling … but I don’t think it’ll work. I don’t think the two of us are capable of going a whole week without a fight. And I can’t live like that anymore. I just can’t.”
“But you still love her.” It wasn’t a question.
“Yeah … till the day they stick me in my grave. But love’s not enough for a marriage. Not by itself.”
Jesse folded her arms over her ivory blouse and switched her weight to one leg, making one hip suddenly higher than the other. “Okay, and, uh, where exactly do I fit in?” Her voice had begun to shake.
“I didn’t have to tell you that was Yasemin on the phone. I didn’t have to tell you I still love her. So you have to believe me when I tell you that there’s a reason twelve years after university just seeing you again in Cairo rearranged my insides. I’m not playing games—”
She stepped close enough to him to put a hand on the back of his neck. “I understand … you have a history with her. You have nothing with me but a lot of ifs, maybes, and an infatuation leftover from college that might or might not turn out to be solid.”
He smiled. “Lots of maybes.” She scraped the back of his neck lightly with her fingernails, and tiny hairs stiffened.
“Fine. I’m used to fighting for what I want, and tonight I’m not letting anything come between us.” Her fingers sent splinters of ice to melt somewhere under his scalp. “If you still want her after we’ve spent some time together …” She shrugged. “At least I’ll know she didn’t get you because I didn’t show up to the match.”
She pulled lightly on his neck. Night-cooled air replaced his blood when they kissed.
As much as he didn’t want to, he pulled back. “This is Turkey.” He smiled apologetically. “We can’t do this in public.”
Her upper lip curled back to expose her prominent front teeth—a smile girlishly innocent and mischievously womanish at the same time. “So let’s get a room.”
Drew took her hand.
The hotel had been modeled on the distinctive wooden Ottoman houses that had mostly either burned down or fallen into ruin around the city. The first floor housed a bar where even at this hour tourists holding drinks and conversations were silhouetted against yellow light.
The man behind the desk, in a suit and tie, spoke excellent English. The room he showed them was a tasteful blend of east and west— European furniture, Turkish rugs, and antiques.
Drew dropped his bag at the foot of the bed. “Looks a little more comf
ortable than the floor of a cave.”
Jesse put a hand on the back of his neck, a thumb behind an ear, and pulled him into a long kiss. In Antakya everything had been rushed, as though they had expected to be interrupted at any moment. Tonight, they moved with deliberate slowness. Drew wasn’t sure who had decided on these soft, underwater movements, but there wasn’t any dissent.
Jesse, slippery with sweat, was still arching against him with teasing sluggishness when the room seemed to grow lighter. It might have been the nighttime glow of a city he was approaching from a distance or something luminous rising from ocean depths. It couldn’t be dawn. It wasn’t blinding, the room wasn’t flooded with it, but the walls—the room itself—seemed to have dissolved in a soft smolder. If someone could make you see stars by hitting you hard enough, maybe someone else could sink you into a star by making you feel the right way.
They were both trembling after he shuddered against her a final time.
Jesse grabbed one of the pillows and threw it off the bed.
“Why’d you do that?
“I don’t want to be that far from you.”
Drew could have cried. He and Yasemin had gotten into a fight about six months into their relationship because there was still only one pillow on his bed. You’re selfish, she had accused, you don’t think about me. He tried to explain that he’d thought it was more romantic to share a pillow, but she never forgave him.
The cell phone beeped to let him know he’d received a message. “Sorry …” He rolled over and picked up the phone. Pawns so far. Tomorrow we take a rook. Brush up on your Hebrew. Zafer.
He put the phone back on the night table, and Jesse nestled her head in the crook between his neck and shoulder. A flowery smell rose with her body heat. They fit together so seamlessly they might have been formed in the same womb. Something told him this was the way it would always be with her.