Suddenly, she stopped reading. ‘Lavinia Hilda Crump!’ she spluttered. ‘Are you pulling my leg? Nobody’s going to believe any parent would inflict a name like that on a child.’
‘I agree it does seem a little old-fashioned,’ he said. ‘But the late Miss Crump really existed. Sadly, the airliner carrying the infant Lavinia and her parents hit the side of a mountain in Ecuador twenty six years ago. There were no survivors.’
‘Oh, God. I’m sorry I made fun of her, I’d no idea,’ said Flora, clapping her hand to her mouth.
‘Please don’t worry; you weren’t to know. Now if you take a look at the front pages of the passport, you’ll see there are a number of Israeli entry and exit stamps, all of which correspond to your trips to visit a Mr Benjamin Grossman – which is agent Cohen’s alias – for whom you provide consultancy services and advice on the purchase of ancient texts.’ Noticing her quizzical expression he continued. ‘Just for your information, we’ve given Agent Cohen’s alter-ego the same first name, firstly because it’s one less thing to remember and secondly, if he ever bumps into someone he knows while under-cover – and believe me it happens – and they say “Hi, Ben, how ya doing?” in front of one of his targets, then it’s going to take a lot less explaining than if he was passing himself off as Fred, say.’
‘OK, so now what?’ asked Flora.
‘The “now what” is that we’d like you to memorise this,’ said Smith, holding up another envelope. ‘It’s Lavinia Crump’s CV from cradle to now. Please don’t copy it or take it off the premises. We’ll test you on it and you don’t go anywhere till you’re word-perfect.’
‘But what if someone Googles Lavinia Crump?’ asked Flora.
‘That’s all taken care of. We’ve created social networking profiles for her, online links to various academic papers and other references which have all been given the right search engine optimisation so they’ll come up exactly where you’d expect and not just all over the first page.’
Flora paused again. ‘Look,’ she said. ‘I’m one of the privileged few who’ve actually seen the codices, so I’m as keen to get them back as anyone. And I hope the people who stole them get locked up and the key thrown away, but it’s not as simple as that.’
‘Meaning what?’
‘Meaning that you seem to have forgotten that it’s all very well changing my plans to help you out, but I do have a day job – academics don’t roost like bats until term starts – and outside that job I actually have a life: you know, friends, plans I’ve made, bills to pay, my house to look after.’
‘You’ve nothing to worry about,’ said Hayek. ‘We’ve already spoken with Giles Smith about that. We can look after your house, make sure the garden’s done, bills are paid and any emergencies – burst pipes and so on – are dealt with. I take it you run a car?’
‘Only an old one.’
‘Well, we can have it serviced, make sure the battery’s charged for when you come home. We won’t leave you in the lurch.’
Flora paused, choosing her words with care. ‘Of course I want to help but I need assurances – just like my Embassy has agreed to give me. I need to know I can trust you people if things go wrong.’
‘I’m listening,’ said Hayek.
‘Firstly, I want to know exactly who I’ll be working for and that they’ll guarantee me something approaching diplomatic status – I don’t want to end up rotting in jail somewhere when one of your stings goes wrong and I’m trampled in the rush to be first out of the door.’
‘I think we can manage that without any problems. Anything else, Miss Kemble?’
‘Yes. I’m not carrying a gun or any other kind of weapon, and furthermore, you undertake never knowingly to put me into a situation where I might need one.’ Hayek signalled his agreement and she continued. ‘And finally, I want to be able to continue the work I’ve started for Francesco Moretti.’ She sat back and fixed her gaze on Hayek, hoping he wouldn’t notice she was pretending to be far more confident than she felt. She looked once more at the three men sitting around the table and caught Lombardi’s eye. In return he gave her an approving nod.
‘So are we all agreed then?’ asked Colonel Andretti, receiving nods and general murmurs of approval in reply. ‘Splendid,’ he said, rubbing his hands in anticipation. ‘In that case, I suggest we continue this conversation over lunch.’
Chapter Thirteen
Rome, the Capitoline Hill, AD 62
Nero led Josephus away from the little group of dutifully laughing people and into his private apartments, all the while, treating the Judean to a non-stop description of his most recent poetic works and their rapturous reception by all who’d been lucky enough to hear them. ‘Poppaea tells me you’re not keen on music or theatre.’
‘I just prefer rhetoric and prose, that’s all.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Nero over his shoulder. ‘You’ve no need to flatter me, you know, just in case you thought you did.’
‘It wasn’t my intention, sir.’
‘Good. I have plenty of people to do that for me and who think I don’t notice.’ He stopped at a doorway and motioned at Josephus to enter. The room was surprisingly plain – decorated plaster above half-height on the walls its only concession to opulence, with pudgy-cheeked putti playing hide-and-seek with a lascivious-looking Bacchus in between tresses of delicately-painted vines.
‘Please sit down,’ said Nero, all traces of the slapstick buffoon now gone. Either side of a low table stood two couches facing one another. Josephus sat and the emperor continued. ‘I understand you want your priests back. Is that right?’
‘Yes sir. They’re old friends.’
‘Do you know why they’re in custody?
Josephus answered cautiously. ‘They were arrested on Governor Festus’ orders, sir.’
‘And do you know what the charges were?’ Josephus’ perplexity was growing by the minute and his features showed it. ‘Don’t worry, these aren’t trick questions,’ said Nero. ‘There was a report; I did read it but Jupiter only knows what’s happened to it, and given that Festus is dead, he’s not going to be able to tell us either.’
‘I don’t wish to be impolite, sir, but had you thought of having someone go and ask them?’
‘No, it’s not impolite, it’s a very sensible question to which the answer is yes.’
‘And if you don’t mind my asking, what did they say?’
Nero made a dismissive gesture. ‘All three gave the same story: Festus had them arrested for preaching sedition. According to their version of events, they were merely preaching to the Jews to maintain the Jewish law.’
‘That’s what I heard too, sir,’ said Josephus.
‘Oh, well, that at least confirms what I’ve thought all along.’
‘What’s that?’ asked Josephus, waiting with trepidation for the outburst which he was expecting at any moment.
‘That under Roman law they’ve committed no offence and we’ve no grounds for holding them.’
‘But that’s wonderful news,’ said Josephus, unable to believe his ears. ‘Would it be all right for me to see them, you know, make sure they’re all right?’
Nero smiled. Unlike Poppaea, the smile looked genuine – to fake a smile that well takes genuine madness, thought Josephus, still waiting for the unstable emperor to turn on him. ‘Of course you can see them, Josephus, but all in good time. We have more important matters to discuss first, don’t we?’
‘We do?’ he asked nervously.
‘Yes, we most certainly do. Do you really think I had you come all this way just to talk about three Jewish mumbo-jumbo merchants? Please credit me with some intelligence. No, Rome has a problem and I understand you have a dog in the same fight.’
‘The Lady Poppaea told you then?’ said Josephus.
‘She confirmed what I already knew. We have a common enemy: the followers of the so-called anointed one: the Chrestos. You’ve given my local commanders valuable help, but we all know there are others.�
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‘That’s correct, sir.’
‘And you’re serious about hunting them down from what I’ve seen so far,’ said Nero.
‘I am, sir.’
‘Good. So am I. Let me explain. It was Seneca who first realised this cult posed a serious threat. Phony Jewish messiah cults are two-a-denarius all the way from Syria to Egypt, and usually their followers lose interest when a better one comes along, but what Seneca spotted was the organising genius behind this one and that’s what makes it different.’
‘He’s right,’ said Josephus. ‘The people behind it are evil and manipulative, but highly intelligent.’
Nero snorted with amusement. ‘I wouldn’t start feeling too smug; you obviously haven’t heard what Seneca says about the Jews.’
Josephus did his best to hide his wounded pride. ‘And what’s that, sir?’
‘Well I don’t know what you’ve done to upset him but if I remember correctly, his precise words were “sceleratissima gens” – a most wicked people.’
‘I hardly think a sweeping generalisation like that is fair, sir –’
‘Life isn’t fair,’ said Nero, scowling at him. ‘Get used to it. Seneca’s a great one for spotting other people’s shortcomings and ignoring his own. He rightly mocks Jews for not eating pork when he himself subsists on a diet of radishes.’
‘That does seem a little inconsistent, doesn’t it?’ said Josephus, choosing his words more carefully this time.
‘Inconsistent or not, he talks a lot of sense and what’s more he lumps you Jews and the followers of this wretched cult in together – to him you’re as bad as each other.’ Josephus thought about interrupting but the expression on the emperor’s face made him think better of it. ‘As for the cult itself, he says it’s the perfect combination: apparent fulfilment of earlier prophecy plus a personality cult based around a real individual who demonstrably existed and onto whom a whole slew of supposedly miraculous conjuring tricks has been grafted.’
‘A perfect description,’ said Josephus.
‘Quite. And where they’ve been clever is in controlling the message so tightly. Normally with these things the rumour mill runs out of control and within five minutes all the idiots who’ve persuaded themselves that the messiah has finally come are at each other’s throats over whose version of the truth is best.’
‘If they can make it work, it’s the ultimate political triumph, isn’t it sir?’
Nero half smiled. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Turning superstition into perception: and from there you’re only one step away from reality.’
‘Very astute, Josephus, but where does your personal animus against these people stem from?’
‘My father, sir. They had him killed.’
‘Saw through them did he? What was his name.’
‘Yeshua Bar Yosef, sir. It wasn’t that he saw through them. In fact he started the movement that’s been twisted into this dreadful cult –’ Josephus paused; a mixture of sadness and hatred washed over him as he recalled the words of his adoptive father when he’d finally broken the truth to him all those years ago.
‘Go on. I’m intrigued.’
‘He was an aristocrat,’ said Josephus. ‘A member of the priestly caste and by all accounts a decent, pious and just man. I suppose because he’d never wanted for anything he was able to preach against the love of money – for him it truly was the radix malorum – and to encourage the creation of a society based on those things which unite us, rather than carrying on slaughtering one another in the name of a merciful God.’
Nero wrinkled his nose. ‘I don’t see anything to object to in that. What happened to him?’
‘That’s the whole point, sir. As an intelligent, charismatic man he attracted a different calibre of person than the usual rabble and that was his undoing. It all started with a small number of ambitious, unscrupulous men – there were eleven of them at the start – led by a man called Simon Kefas, better known as Peter: they even got my father’s brother involved. They realised that by turning my father’s message, and the movement which was developing around it, into something it wasn’t they could ride his coat-tails to fame, power and the wealth that comes from leading the credulous.’
‘Seneca says credulity will be man’s undoing.’
‘I think he’s right. These men were all wealthy, the sort who can play at being hair-shirt ascetics when it suits them and then return to their villas when they get bored. As you can imagine, the appearance of rejecting worldly wealth harnessed to my father’s charisma and piety made for a powerful force and the mob lapped it up. They took his basic message that it’s the vain striving after wealth that causes discord and turned it into something that looked to his less-educated followers like an attack on the rich and hence on the status quo ante.’
‘Hmm,’ said Nero, stroking his unshaven chin. ‘I can’t imagine that went down very well with the procurator at the time – remind me who that was.’
‘Pilate. At first, there were no problems because there was never any violence, in fact my father always preached against it. He saw there was plenty to gain by co-operating with Rome and far more to lose by living down to your stereotypes of us.’
Nero fixed him with a penetrating stare. ‘And is that the view you hold, Josephus?’
‘It is, sir, as I hope the Lady Poppaea has told you.’
‘She has indeed. She also told me you seem to think rather too highly of yourself. That, on the other hand is not a quality I admire in those who are offered the privilege of working for me: you’ll do well to remember that.’
Josephus lowered his head as if in submission. ‘I’ll bear that in mind, sir, but I can assure you that on this occasion perception is not reality.’
At this, Nero’s features darkened and he stared at him in a way that caused Josephus to wish he’d kept quiet. ‘That’s a very diplomatic way of suggesting that the emperor and his wife are talking out of their collective hindquarters.’
‘It’s not for me to tell you how to interpret what I say, sir.’
The anger seemed to melt as quickly as it had arisen. ‘You’re good, Josephus, I’ll grant you that,’ said Nero with a chuckle that Josephus didn’t like the sound of. Caution: at all times caution – no more clever answers; don’t give the cobra an excuse to strike. ‘So back to your father. What happened then?’
‘Well, gradually they reduced him to nothing more than a figurehead and then falsely attributed all manner of words and deeds to him until eventually, the Sanhedrin took against him, which of course was the idea all along. The prophecy had to be fulfilled.’
‘What prophecy?’
‘That the messiah, Jesus the Chrestos, would rise from the dead.’
‘Only gods can do that,’ said Nero.
‘But that was it, you see. Their idea was to present him as the God of Israel’s incarnation on earth. Other messiahs have claimed to be that but for obvious reasons, none of them have ever pulled off the rising from the dead stunt.’
‘And to rise from the dead, someone had to kill him: his twelve good friends and true presumably?’
‘No, sir. It was more subtle than that. With the right bribes in the right places and their heavies controlling access to the streets leading to the procurator’s palace, they engineered it such that a mob, ably encouraged by the Sanhedrin, persuaded Pilate to have him crucified.’
‘And presumably his chums cut him down overnight and claimed their Jesus had risen from the dead with nothing worse than a few puncture wounds and smashed ankle bones for his pains?’ said Nero, shaking his head. ‘Cynical, cruel and very effective.’
To Josephus, the words sounded uncomfortably like approval. ‘No, sir. They let him die, took him to the family tomb and after three days opened it up, dumped his body on a midden and claimed he’d risen from the dead.’
Nero slapped his thighs – he seemed to be enjoying the story far too much for Josephus’ taste. ‘Fascinating. So how did they get
away with it without him being there as proof?’
‘Easily. By then, people were so used to this group acting as my father’s spokesmen that his followers swallowed the story of the risen Jesus hook, line and sinker. And as soon as the awkward questions started, they made up a few more miracle stories about him to distract the mob’s attention and finished it off with him last seen floating up to heaven on a column of golden light to sit at God’s right hand.’
‘It’s staggering what people will believe, isn’t it?’ said Nero, half in admiration. ‘But what about his family, why didn’t they intervene? Why didn’t they expose these men for what they were?’
Josephus took a deep breath. He’d told the story very few times and on each occasion, the pain grew more acute.
‘It happened in the first year of Gaius Caesar’s imperium, just before I was born. My poor mother was pregnant but that didn’t stop them coming after her. Luckily, being a well-connected family – my mother has royal blood through her descent from the Hasmonean line –’
‘Can’t say I’ve heard of them,’ said Nero, picking at his fingernails.
Josephus flinched at the insult but continued, ‘Matthias, one of my father’s cousins, took her in and protected her: six months later I was born but she died in childbirth. It’s unusual in our culture, but he adopted me which is why I bear his name. Everything I know about my father’s life and his murder come from Matthias. I owe him my life.’
Nero frowned. ‘Are you telling me the rest of this aristocratic family of yours just sat on their hands and let it happen? I can’t see a noble Roman family being so cowardly.’
‘From what Matthias told me, it wasn’t anything to do with cowardice – they simply never had a chance. My father’s brother, James, could have helped but they’d already thought of that – they lured him out of Jerusalem on a fool’s errand to Alexandria. From my father being under no threat to going on trial for his life all happened in the space of two days and none of the family knew what was happening until it was too late. Afterwards, James and some of the others tried to stem all the nonsense about him rising from the dead, being Jesus the Chrestos, God’s incarnation and so on, but by then, there was such a tide of mob hysteria that they nearly got lynched just for trying to speak the truth.’
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