[Betrayed 01.0] 30 Pieces of Silver

by Carolyn McCray

  “Everything okay?”

  Instead of an answer, she gave a shake of her head.

  Rebecca hadn’t been this reluctant to walk into the ambush back at the Bazaar. Sometimes it was easy to forget she was a civilian, or more importantly a woman. And as a man, he wanted to comfort her, but as a sergeant he should tell her to cowboy up. His duty lay between them. Then he realized. What lead guitarist and lead vocalist didn’t have a relationship?

  Using their cover story to the fullest, Brandt laid an arm over her shoulder. “Everything’s going to be fine.”

  Midnight-black mascara ran at the corner of her eye. “Promise?”

  He pulled her tighter into his embrace. “Promise.”

  Keeping his arm around her, they walked into the vaulted interior of the Hagia Sophia. No travel guide could prepare him for the sight. The dome climbed so high above their heads that it really did make it seem like the ceiling floated above them.

  And the light? The brilliant row of stained glass windows allowed in exactly the right amount of illumination. This was the texture of heaven. Everything glowed, wrapping its warm hue around visitors. But the longer tourists stared upward, the more they realized the dome was inscribed in Arabic.

  Rebecca’s voice was intimate in his ear. “From the Ottoman conquerors after they converted the church into a mosque.”

  The Hagia Sophia’s exterior certainly suggested the blending of the two religions, but inside they melted into one another. Christ above the gate and Mohammed’s words on the ceiling. It seemed strangely appropriate.

  Everywhere one looked, there were arches upon arches giving the vast space a sense of the ephemeral. Truly it seemed that God could, in fact, fit himself into a place of worship this large.

  Svengurd climbed up on a large dais.

  “Hey, this is the Coronation Square,” Lopez stated.

  “Yes, yes, that is where the Byzantine Emperors were crowned,” Lochum acknowledged, then hurried them forward. “Now the second floor, if you would, please.”

  Svengurd headed toward a gently sloping ramp. But before Brandt could follow, a glint of gold caught his eye. Tucked away in a small corner of the church was the nave. It wasn’t as grand as everything else they had seen, but it was all the more impressive for it.

  Glittering candlesticks added radiance to the small enclosure. The red candles twinkled, playfully illuminating the stained glass windows behind the pulpit. The space was so intimate that it felt as if the nave had been built for personal worship. Brandt’s instinct was to drop to his knees and pray, which he might have if Lopez hadn’t appeared at the doorway.

  “I’m going to hit the restroom.”

  For a moment, he wondered why the corporal would announce something like that, then remembered that this bathroom excursion was integral to their plan. Lopez really announced that he was going to fetch their getaway vehicle.

  The sergeant nodded. “If you gotta go, go.”

  Rebecca gave him an odd look as he joined the rest of the team, but Brandt waved off her concern. The nave had given him exactly what he needed. A reminder of God’s love.

  CHAPTER 22

  Hagia Sophia, Istanbul

  Rebecca followed Svengurd and the professor up the sweeping ramp, feeling more than a little overwhelmed. The Hagia Sophia was enormous. It could take weeks or years to research the place properly.

  But you couldn’t tell that by the way Lochum vibrated with excitement. If you looked at him you’d think they were within moments of overturning Jesus’ bones.

  “Come, come. Look at the players in this mosaic. Remind you of anything?” The professor pointed to the mural that portrayed Christ in the center with John the Baptist on the left and the Virgin Mary on the right.

  Careful not to slip on the slick marble floor, Rebecca stepped closer and studied the life-size painting. The Baptist and the Virgin both had their heads inclined toward Jesus, who stood in the traditional Greek Orthodox manner. He held a large box in his hands. She tried to read the inscription on the blue and gold container, but the image was damaged. The entire bottom half of the mural was destroyed, and whatever John or Mary were holding was also obscured.

  “What happened to it?” Svengurd asked from over her shoulder.

  Surprisingly, it was Brandt who answered. “When the Turks took over Constantinople, they plastered over the Christian images, since they are forbidden by Islamic law.”

  Obviously not wishing the sergeant to overshadow his influence, Lochum waved away Brandt’s words. “True, true, but the Turks also carefully removed the plaster at regular intervals to retouch the work before covering it again. Most of this artwork is in better shape for being so protected. No, this damage was done intentionally. Look at the lettering above John.”

  Above each of the figures were several words painted in ancient Greek. They were not so much scripture as just identification of the divine person beneath, but several of the letters were out of context.

  Lochum pulled out the pages of their transcription from James’ bone. He pointed to the lettering from the wall. They matched. They made no sense, but they matched.

  “Coincidence? I think not.”

  As the professor scribbled away, Rebecca studied the partial image of the box in Jesus’ hands. By tradition, Christ usually held a lamb, or a child, or even the Torah, but a box? She couldn’t remember another other major work that had him holding a container. Especially in Greek Orthodox art, where Jesus invariably had one hand up and the other over his heart.

  “This is a tourist spot, right?” Svengurd asked.

  Brandt answered, “Yeah.”

  “Then where are all the tourists?”

  She could feel the tension in the soldiers, but she wasn’t worried.

  Stepping closer to the mosaic, Rebecca craned her neck as Lochum answered the soldier’s concern. “The huddling masses come in waves during Muslim prayer times.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense,” Brandt retorted.

  “It does when the Blue Mosque directly across the street does not allow tourists inside during prayer hour, so when the Mosque is finally open to the public, it drains the Hagia Sophia of its travelers.”

  “Plus the Royal Palace has air-conditioning,” Rebecca added, even though she really wasn’t paying attention to their conversation.

  Both men nodded. The heat of the day was just beginning, and already their shirts were stuck to their backs.

  But Rebecca barely noticed the uncomfortable heat. She just couldn’t shake the fact that the box appeared to have the same dimensions as the ossuary they found in the subterranean pool. Granted, the container was brightly painted and not inscribed stone, but still the resemblance was striking. As was the choice the artisan made of color. The reds and silvers were in stark contrast to the blue and gold of the rest of the painting. And were there symbols etched into the plaster?

  Leaning over, she found Brandt at her side. “See something?”

  “I’m not sure,” Rebecca mumbled as Lochum joined them.

  “What did you find?” the professor asked anxiously.

  The questionable symbols seemed to be repeated on the box, but most were partially destroyed. Lochum nudged her aside as he put on his reading glasses. The professor stood at nose length from the wall for several seconds, but ended up shaking his head.

  “Clearly they are important, but someone made sure we could not decipher them.”

  Rebecca took several steps back in frustration. The disjointed letters from the mosaic and James’ bones swimming in her head. She tried putting them in every combination of order, but they made no coherent word or phrase. There was something missing.

  Lochum was right back at it, though, using his leg as a desktop, scribbling down everything they could discern from the wall, and then rearranging the symbols like a Boggle puzzle.

  Leaning against the marble railing, Rebecca found herself missing her laptop once again. Maybe it could crunch the letters and find a p
attern obscured to them.

  “Giving up?” Brandt asked as he leaned next to her.

  Rebecca just shrugged. “So far, the mosaic is useless to us.”

  “Of course it is.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Brandt said with an arched eyebrow, “Did you really look at it?”

  Feeling her hackles rise, she unsuccessfully tried to keep it from her voice. “Of course, I did.”

  “You studied it.” Urging her over to the wall, Brandt smiled. “But did you really see it?” He indicated to the central figure. “Do you see the compassion in Jesus’ eyes? Or Mary? Her sad smile.”

  For the moment, Rebecca let the mystery of the lettering fade as she soaked in the craftsmanship of the mosaic. It was a true master who created this image out of the tiniest flecks of tile. “You’re right. Maybe he has hidden something in the pattern of their robes or even halos.”

  “No, Rebecca.” Now it was he who sounded frustrated. “Forget about your brain. Open up your heart.”

  She frowned, not really understanding what he wanted of her. How many years had she gotten by on her brain alone?

  “If only I had my laptop, I could—”

  “Did you hear me?” The sergeant pointed her directly toward the mosaic. “Shut off your brain and just appreciate the painting.” As she tried to do as requested, Brandt whispered into her ear. “Look at the way he has rendered the Baptist. His head is bent in the most subtle of supplication.”

  Brandt was right. Unlike much Orthodox art that seemed to make the biblical figures appear greater than life, this mosaic somehow brought out their humanity, which somehow made it all the more moving.

  Rebecca didn’t realize that she had held her breath until she let out a long sigh. The sergeant squeezed her shoulders before he stepped away from her. “So, can you see the reason there’s no clue here?”

  She turned to him, sorry to disappoint him. “No, I don’t.”

  But Brandt just smiled. “This man loves his God and Christ. With every stroke of his brush and setting of tile, he loves them. Whoever created this work of art would never betray Jesus. Even if he knew that he survived the cross, this man would never share that with the world.”

  As he was speaking, Rebecca realized Brandt was right. Her instincts were right. There was something missing. Frustration began to replace wonder, but the sergeant just kept grinning.

  “What?”

  “Well, the flowers above the mural are a different story.”

  Her neck nearly snapped as her head twisted to look up at the decorative border. At first she had no idea what Brandt was talking about. The intricately carved blooms were exactly the same as the rest of the delicate red-and-gold flowers that lined the arches supporting the dome. The pattern continued along the edge of the ceiling. The small flowers were a splash of bright color against the pale beige walls.

  Beautiful? Yes.

  Helpful? Not so much.

  Rebecca almost said as much until she noticed that a petite bloom of blue and silver occasionally broke the line of red and gold petals—the same colors as the mysterious box in Jesus’ hands. The box that had a striking resemblance to James’ ossuary box.

  “Want a leg up?” Brandt asked, with a coy smile.

  Rebecca returned the grin. “Absolutely.”

  Using the sergeant’s broad shoulders as support, she brought herself level with the intriguing bloom. Upon its leaves were faint inscriptions. These were not in ancient Greek, but written in Arabic.

  Disappointed, she glanced around the rest of the church. During its years of occupation by the Ottoman sultans, the Turks had not only converted the church into a mosque and plastered over the Christian artwork, but they had also put their own stamp on the interior by decorating the ceiling with Arabic calligraphy.

  Since iconography was forbidden in Islam, the only way the ancient Muslims had to express themselves artistically was through elaborate script. Beyond the detailed writing on the ceiling there were also huge silver discs that hung from the walls with similar impressive lettering.

  “What does it say?” Lochum asked, as he balanced his reading glasses on the tip of his nose.

  Out of courtesy, Rebecca began reading the inscription, but she was certain it would be a passage out of the Koran just as all the other lettering throughout the museum. “‘He who was dead then…’”

  Rebecca paused as she tried to translate the next few words, but out of the corner of her eye she could see the disillusionment in Lochum’s face. The line she had just read was from a passage in the Koran entitled “The Cattle.” It was a story similar to Christ’s raising of Lazarus. One that she was sure surrounded them a hundred times over.

  Almost without studying the lettering she began to recite the rest of the passage. “We raised him to life—”

  When she cut off in mid-sentence, Lochum scowled. “What’s wrong?”

  Her eyes scanned back over the last sentence, but the letters did not spell out the rest of “The Cattle’s” parable. Much more carefully, Rebecca read the actual words, not what she presupposed the text to be. “‘Came to our shores and was met with cries of joy.’”

  Rebecca gripped Brandt’s shoulder even tighter. She wasn’t mistaken. This passage did not come from the Koran.

  The professor stretched to the tips of his toes. “Read it again.” As she did, Lochum’s pupils began to dilate. “Finish the passage!” Lochum urged, but the rest was only a prayer to Allah.

  Only the one line was altered from traditional Islamic scripture.

  “There must be something more.”

  Rebecca squinted at the flower until her eyes were ready to burst, but no matter the strain, it did not change the passage.

  “There isn’t,” she answered as Lochum elbowed her out of the way.

  Brandt slowly lowered her to the floor as the professor strained to read the tiny silver lettering. Again the sergeant smiled.

  Maybe Brandt didn’t understand, so she clarified, “The one line is significant, but not that helpful.”

  “Luckily, that’s not the only blue flower.”

  * * *

  The Neanderthal had somehow done it again, Lochum thought, as ‘Becca read from the fourth bloom.

  “‘But you ever remained in doubt as to what he brought. Until when he died, you said: Allah will never raise an apostle after him…’ “

  Lochum nodded. He knew the passage well. It was from the Koran, entitled, “The Believer.”

  “Go on, go on.”

  The next line should have been, “Thus does Allah cause him to err who is extravagant, a doubter,” but given Rebecca’s hesitation, he seriously doubted if those were the next words.

  She looked down to Brandt, who was holding her up. They looked the pair in their ridiculous black garb. But he couldn’t care less.

  “If you two are done posing for a Hallmark card…”

  Rebecca blushed, and then cleared her throat before she repeated the last line. “‘Allah will never raise an apostle after him… But all that came before were cherished, so when the man of greatness asked for sanctuary of one of Allah’s favored, how could the Sultan decline his wishes?’”

  Lochum could feel his heart beat all the way out to the tip of his fingers. He almost did not want to breathe. He wanted this moment, this moment when they found written documentation of the final interment of Christ, to last forever.

  He distantly heard Brandt ask, “Any location?”

  Rebecca shook her head as Svengurd announced from around the corner. “Here’s another one, but it’s bigger.”

  Shoving the sergeant out of the way, Lochum burst around the corner, but skidded to a halt. Under the largest bloom yet, stood a huge mosaic of Christ holding the Torah.

  Lochum feared he might descend into a convulsive seizure. “It is his bones. It is his bones.” He kept repeating the phrase as Brandt lifted Rebecca to the heights once more, but she did not read. “Speak, woman!”

 
; “There are only ten words.”

  Every ounce of urgency was packed into his words. “Then read them.”

  Licking her lips, ‘Becca spoke slowly. “‘Those who seek the bones must search beyond and below.’”

  “That’s all? You are certain?”

  However, from the despondent look on his student’s face, Lochum knew that she was most certain.

  Search beyond and below? That was the clue that led to Christ? He felt a rage build within his chest. They had come so far for so little.

  “All right, doctors. I’ve given you more time than I should. We need to be hitting the road.”

  Lochum was no fool. Even without Brandt’s urging, the professor knew they would have to leave the Hagia Sophia. They could not linger here too long without being recognized.

  Yet, even though he knew the sergeant to be right, Lochum did not move. Could not move. He stood before Christ with the words to find him, but he did not know how to interpret them.

  Beyond where? Below what?

  Now it was he who coveted Rebecca’s old computer. She could cross-reference all instances of the words beyond and below in the Koran to figure out possible locations.

  “Rebecca, we need to head out,” Brandt reiterated.

  Her lack of response made Lochum turn toward his student. She had that gaze that carried past the embossed ceiling and through to the heavens. Brandt urged her toward the ramp, but Lochum interceded.

  “Leave her alone.” Gently touching her elbow, the professor spoke softly. “What is it, ‘Becca?”

  “It’s probably… It’s probably nothing.”

  But he knew full well it wasn’t. As did Brandt, for he was at her other shoulder as she mumbled, “Beyond and below.”

  Lochum could see her brain correlating data, discarding all that was superfluous and stringing together tiny beads of information.

  “That’s right, ‘Becca. Let those synapses fire. Let it flow.”

  Almost in a trance, his student kept repeating the phrase, and then she suddenly sucked in a breath. Her first action was to look to Brandt and smile. He smiled back.

  Their gaze locked, but Lochum intruded. “Would you care to share?”