‘That’s twice now: you don’t trust me, do you?’ she replied, doing her best to appear offended.
‘No it’s not that. It’s just –’
She looked away and tilted her face slightly upwards. ‘I’ve already told you, the piece is going to be about the evangelical movement and the finding of documentary proof supporting the New Testament. I can assure you it’s not going to be critical of William Sunday University.’
He led her through a set of double swing doors. ‘This is the archive itself,’ he said. ‘It’s temperature and humidity controlled which is why we have triple-glazing on all the external windows, blackout curtains – even over the skylights – and those rubber baffles round the doors.’
‘It’s huge,’ Flora said, genuinely impressed.
‘What is it you want to see?’
‘Anything relating to the New Testament would be wonderful.’
He handed her a pair of cotton gloves. ‘If you wouldn’t mind putting these on we can start.’
For the next hour, Flora had him scurrying around like a circus poodle, delighted to do anything he could for her. She put him at ease by deliberately confusing Coptic script with Greek and then flattered him for his cleverness when he treated her to a ten-minute lecture on the evolution from Egyptian demotic to the modern dialects of Coptic itself. As the visit wore on, she took every opportunity to follow him around and made annoyingly frequent trips to the water-cooler, coffee machine and, inevitably, the lavatory, each distraction yielding an opportunity for an uninterrupted look at doors, windows and locks.
After he’d described in detail yet another text supportive of the Jesus story, Flora took a deep breath and pounced. ‘I know this is primarily a theological college and your collection of manuscripts is just fantastic, but are there any writings that, well, you know…. give a different point of view or are critical of what the Bible says.’
‘Well there are, but most the items in the collection are just historical curiosities really. Not things anyone would take seriously.’
‘What sort of things?’ Flora asked.
‘Oh, the usual. Fragments of apocryphal works, pieces from the Devil’s Codex, that sort of thing. We call the collection “the Black Library”. All harmless fun of course.’
‘That sounds really sinister,’ said Flora, clutching his arm. ‘I’ve never heard of any of those books you mentioned. Do let me have a little look, I promise I won’t keep you long.’
He hesitated but after a few minutes of Flora’s wheedling, pouting and breathy admiration, agreed to show her the collection and led the way through yet another door into a room which formed the corner of the library block. The first few documents were written in Greek and much as she would have loved to spend the day poring over them, continued her act, asking the kind of questions she’d heard a thousand times from her own students. Then, clearly without any idea of the manuscripts’ provenance, he placed two fragments down in front of her and Flora nearly choked. The last time she’d set eyes on them had been at Pompeii nearly a month ago. ‘Oh, I recognise that writing,’ she said, as nonchalantly as possible, placing her hands flat on the table so he wouldn’t see they were shaking. ‘It’s the same as one you showed me just now. It’s Hebrew, isn’t it?’
‘No. Very similar but it’s actually Aramaic: same linguistic family as Hebrew of course – in the same way that German, Dutch and English are all related – but a distinct language with a slightly different character set. We believe it’s the language Jesus spoke.’
And the one Josephus wrote them in, thought Flora. But how the hell did they end up here?
Watching carefully where the archivist replaced the Pompeii fragments, Flora pretended to let her attention wander. While his back was turned she wandered towards an inner door. ‘What’s in here?’ she asked.
‘Oh just a store-room for technical stuff, nothing of any interest,’ he said, steering her back towards the sloping table where the documents lay, gently weighted onto a padded cloth support. ‘So, have you seen enough?’ Clearly, the appeal of looking down her blouse had its limits and she detected an urgency in his voice, almost pleading with her to leave.
‘I think I have thanks,’ said Flora. ‘That was utterly fascinating and so kind of you. I’ve got heaps of information and I’ll send you a copy of the article when it’s published. Promise.’
Almost bursting with excitement, Flora jumped back into the rental car, heading back across the sweeping grounds of the college and on to the Interstate. She drove for ten miles, breaking every speed limit, until she felt it was safe enough to pull over and phone Cohen.
‘And are you sure you didn’t do anything illegal?’ he asked.
‘Unless you count giving a geeky librarian the biggest erection of his life,’ she replied.
‘Uh, too much detail, Flora. But I don’t think causing a hard-on in a built-up area is a felony so you should be OK. Look I’ll go talk to my supervisor and we’ll catch up when you get back.’
‘And when are you going to arrest Donald Sumter?’ she asked, glowing with pleasure at the thought.
She heard Cohen spluttering. ‘Whoa, steady. First we’d have to prove that those documents are what you said they are, then there’s the little matter of Sumter’s complicity –’
‘But he must know they’re in his archive and he must know how they got there,’ Flora said, raising her voice.
‘I’m sure you’re right, but I still don’t have a case for busting down the doors at William Sunday and throwing the evangelical Right’s blue-eyed-boy in a Paddy Wagon.’
‘So what are you going to do?’
‘I told you: talk to my supervisor, talk to my boss at the ACT to see what they say. Don’t forget, we’ve only got your word to go on –’
‘So you knew all along I was wasting my time coming down here? Thanks a bunch.’
‘No, it’s not that. Please listen –’
‘And are you really suggesting you and your colleagues know more about first century Aramaic papyri than I do?’
‘No, but it’s not going to be easy to convince them and politically, given Sumter’s profile, we’ll have to approach this very sensitively. I need time and I need more evidence. Come back to DC and we’ll talk.’
Another bucket of cold water hit white-hot enthusiasm and Flora’s temper snapped. ‘Well sod you then,’ she said. ‘You want more evidence, I’ll bloody well go back and get it for you.’
‘Flora, for Christ’s sake listen to me. Don’t go back there; you’ll get yourself arrested –’ She hung up and switched the phone to divert all calls to voicemail.
At just after eleven thirty that evening Flora turned the rental car off the main road and parked in a stand of trees, well screened from any passing traffic. She locked the door behind her and set out into the humid darkness with a small rucksack slung over her shoulder.
Chapter Forty-three
Hierapolis, Asia Minor AD 72
Josephus had never seen anything like it. The “holy” city of Hierapolis, entirely rebuilt after the earthquake of AD 60, was a cross between an infirmary and a retirement colony. In the early spring sunshine the streets thronged with invalids and the elderly. From all around came the relentless click, click of crutches and walking sticks against the flagstones. Now he understood why Vespasian had referred to it as “Hades’ antechamber”.
News had come that Matityahu and Philippos were both dead. However, on more detailed investigation they proved to be alive and well, enjoying the health-giving powers of Hierapolis’ thermal spas and ministering to a growing community of aged Christian converts, anxious to secure a last-minute berth in the rapidly-approaching afterlife. Bribes, nudges and favours to the former governor of Ephesus, under whose control Hierapolis lay, had been enough to maintain the fiction of their demise, but Vespasian’s new man not only offered Josephus his support, but also provided a detachment of soldiers to help track them down: two of the last three survivors of the group
who brought about his father’s death over thirty five years earlier.
It is said that the best place to hide a leaf is in a tree. The men he sought were in their sixties and instead of standing out in a world where few made it past fifty, it was the thirty-five-year-old Josephus who looked out of place in this necropolis of the living and he wasn’t happy. The detachment of soldiers was nowhere to be seen. At first, he’d been overwhelmed by the kindness and diligence of the governor who had insisted on accompanying him all the way from Ephesus, showing him round the town and then making all the arrangements himself, until it dawned on him that he’d been played for a fool.
From every sweaty pore the city oozed wealth, a good proportion of it in the hands of the Christians and, much as the new man would never dream of disobeying his emperor, he had no personal responsibility for the success of Josephus’ mission. Trying and executing the leaders of a cult considered dangerous by Vespasian would play well in far-off Rome, but would be catastrophic for business.
Of the seven soldiers allocated to him, one was deaf, the youngest spoke only an obscure Syrian dialect, another was morbidly obese and the other four were dug-out reservists all over fifty five. His instructions were simple and they had all claimed to understand so where in Jupiter’s name were they?
Matityahu and Philippos had proved easy to find. The two Christians followed the same routine every day: preaching in the cool of the morning, two hours in the baths and then a gentle stroll into town before lunch. The witnesses had been well rehearsed and generously bribed, so all he had to do was arrange for the soldiers to arrest the two Christians on charges of sedition, the trial would be over in minutes and the governor’s sentence of crucifixion would follow. But where were the soldiers? Josephus was alone, unarmed and in a city of which he knew little beyond his tour in the company of the governor.
Josephus spotted the two men leaving the baths and slotted in a few paces behind as they continued down the street. At the corner they stopped and fell into conversation with what Josephus assumed were friends or fellow-believers, so he busied himself inspecting the day’s catch on a fishmonger’s slab, all the while keeping one eye on his prey. Eventually, the one he’d identified as Matityahu continued on alone and Josephus followed, scouring the crowds for his missing soldiers. Then, as they rounded a corner, Josephus recognised where he was: just ahead lay the temple of Apollo and next to it the Plutonium, the sanctuary of the god of the underworld, Pluto. Drawing alongside the older man, Josephus addressed him in Aramaic, ‘Master, can you spare me a moment of your time?’ he asked.
Matityahu turned and smiled. For a fleeting moment, Josephus felt a pang of guilt. ‘Yes of course, what is it, young man?’
‘I was born a Jew, sir. I was present when God used the Romans to punish Jerusalem for its wickedness and I wish to know more about the teachings of the Christ.’ He blurted it all out without pausing for breath. Matityahu smiled again. This isn’t going to be easy, thought Josephus.
‘But of course. Why don’t you come along tomorrow morning? My friend Philippos and I give daily instruction to the faithful at the new theatre.’
‘It’s not that easy, sir. You see, I am a prominent citizen and open apostasy from the Jewish faith could see me ostracised. I want to know more before making the final decision – can we talk privately, just for a moment? I need to be sure I’m doing the right thing.’
‘Of course,’ he replied, placing a fatherly hand on Josephus’ shoulder. ‘Come to my house for lunch and I’ll tell you the wonderful story of Christ’s triumph over death and of the path to everlasting life.’ As these words fell, any compassion Josephus may have harboured evaporated at the sound of this old fraud basking in the reflected glory of his father’s murder.
Josephus swallowed hard. ‘I don’t wish to seem ungrateful, but until my decision is final, I’d prefer not to be seen in your company.’
Matityahu raised his snowy eyebrows. ‘As you wish, young man. Shall we meet another time?’ he asked.
Josephus pretended to think for a moment. ‘Can’t we just move from here? People are beginning to stare. Look, let’s go in there.’
‘But it’s a pagan temple,’ protested Matityahu.
Now it was Josephus’ turn to smile, ‘Surely, God is everywhere, even in the house of the pagans?’
‘True. Lead on.’ They continued up the dazzling marble steps into the cool dark silence within. ‘Do you know what this place is, young man?’
Josephus feigned ignorance and pretended to study the image of the god on its plinth at the back of the sanctuary. He knew exactly what it was. ‘A temple to Apollo, by the look of it,’ he said casually.
Matityahu pointed out an open stone doorway with a set of steps leading down into the darkness. ‘And this?’
‘No idea,’ replied Josephus.
‘It’s the Plutonium.’
‘The what?’
‘It’s a sanctuary sacred to the god Pluto. The same underground forces that cause the springs to flow so hot also render the air at the bottom of the sanctuary unbreathable. The pagans say it’s the entrance to the underworld.’
‘How fascinating,’ said Josephus, edging closer. He’d received the same guided tour from the governor three days earlier and although Roman science knew nothing of volcanology nor of the dense, odourless gas, carbon dioxide, a permanent seepage via a geological fault into the sanctuary created a pocket of it, lethal to any living creature.
‘No, don’t go any further.’ He felt Matityahu’s hand on his shoulder once more.
‘But surely, it’s just a superstition,’ said Josephus.
‘No, look, let me show you. See, there, at the bottom of the steps,’ Matityahu said, pointing at a lighter patch in the gloom. ‘That’s a sacrificial offering: a ram by the look of it. The priests tie them to a ring and the animals are dead in seconds.’
Josephus smiled. It was just as the governor had told him, word for word. Matityahu bent forward to take a closer look at the dead animal and Josephus slammed his fist into the side of the unsuspecting old man’s head. He drew his arm back to strike again, but Matityahu fell as though poleaxed, his temple crashing against the steps as he fell. Taking a deep breath, as he’d seen the temple priests do during his earlier visit, Josephus grabbed Matityahu by the wrists and dragged him to the very back of the sanctuary. With lungs bursting he half ran, half fell up the steps before daring to breathe. There he waited, watching for any movement from the darkness below and after five minutes he calmly walked out of the temple, down the steps and returned the way he’d come.
Rome AD 72
‘And you’ve no idea where Philippos went?’ asked Vespasian.
Josephus shook his head. ‘The temple priests found Matityahu’s body in the Plutonium and someone reported him having gone in there with a man of my description. I had to leave in a hurry: the governor would’ve had no choice but to arrest me. I presume Philippos left at the same time.’
‘You will have another chance. We’ll find him, just like we found Didymus.’
Josephus’ face lit up. ‘You found Didymus? Where?’
‘Southern India of all places: in the kingdom of Chola. The word from the fleets has it the barbarians got bored with his nonsense and decided to eat him. Can’t say eating one’s enemies appeals, but it saves us having to chase him over the edge of the world.’
‘One left,’ said Josephus, shaking his head. ‘Philippos. And I was as close to him as I am to you.’
‘And when he’s dead, then what are you going to do?’ asked the emperor.
‘I’ll go back to Pompeii and carry on writing.’
‘Poetry? Plays for your chum, Alityros?’
‘No, sir. History. I’ve already started on a history of the Jews, including a detailed account of the revolt.’
‘I’ll look forward to reading it,’ said Vespasian.
‘And I’ve plans for another work,’ said Josephus. ‘You see I’ve kept detailed notes of what I
learned about my father’s life and the men who got him killed just so they could start that wretched cult. It’s going to be called The Seven Stars.’
‘Very apt. I hope it’ll help reason prevail in men’s minds, but you do realise what you’re up against where superstition is concerned, don’t you?’
‘I do, sir.’
‘I hope so. Pliny says man is a superstitious animal by his very nature. It’s in our blood and there’s only so much rationality we can take; even emperors.’
Chapter Forty-four
William Sunday University, Alabama
Flora glanced once more at the GPS display on her phone. Just as she began to think it was playing her false, she saw buildings through the trees: William Sunday University.
With the exception of a few chinks of light from the dormitory block, the place was in darkness and Flora stole from shadow to shadow across the grounds until pausing for a final check beneath the cover of an evergreen magnolia: fifty yards lay between her and the night’s objective.
Waiting and listening until certain no one was around, she sprinted across the manicured turf and jumped over a row of shrubs where she crouched, panting, her face pressed against the brickwork of the library, still warm from the heat of the day. She peered right and left, counting the windows to make sure she’d got the right one, then stood up and pulled at the aluminium sill on the bottom glazing bar. Nothing. She tried again, but it refused to move. Earlier in the day, she’d identified the catch as worn and loose but now it wouldn’t budge. Ducking back down she slipped off the rucksack and took out two of her earlier purchases: a small crowbar and a long-shafted screwdriver. With the former she levered the window up just enough to get the screwdriver into the catch. She pushed. Nothing happened. She tried tapping the screwdriver with the flat of her hand. Still nothing, so, reaching into the rucksack, she pulled out a rubber mallet and gave the screwdriver a thump. With a sound that she was sure must have been audible right across the State of Alabama, the catch turned and the window frame moved upwards. Then she posted the rucksack through the gap and slithered through after it, landing in a panting heap on the wooden floor.
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