13th Apostle (17 page)

A few hours later
Weymouth-Dorset Car Rental Agency

They needed a luxury sedan, Sabbie told Gil. A car big enough for her to spread out the scroll. “You can't unroll a piece of history in the backseat of a subcompact,” she added.

To pay for the rental of the car, Sabbie had produced a credit card with yet another name, Sarkami. The name rang a bell. As far as Gil could remember, Sarkami was the metalsmith guy she had talked about. The Great Artificer or something like that. The one who introduced her to Ludlow. Whatever.

Gil knew better than to ask her how she came by Sarkami's credit card. She wouldn't have told him the truth anyway. If she did, he probably wouldn't have believed her, so what was the use? Besides, if Sarkami's credit card would get them the car they needed to leave Weymouth, who cared?

“I'll get in the backseat with the scroll and take a stab at the translation,” she said. “You drive. Remember to rest your hand,” she said gently. “Also, keep it as high as you can.”

Gil looked at her in surprise then down at his injury. Somewhere along the way he must have removed her makeshift dressing without thinking. He extended his hand for her to see and as a way of making a statement he could not explain.

The puncture wound that had been red and swollen from the piercing oleander stick was barely visible. The red trail of poison up his arm had disappeared and with it the pain and numbness that gave testimony to the spread of the plant's toxin.

Sabbie had never seen so fast a recovery, she said. “You must have one hell of an immune system.”

“Immunity doesn't work on toxins unless you've built up a resistance, which I haven't,” Gil said. When they were in the Monastery, the ache and numbness had steadily increased as the night progressed. At the altar, when he caught the cross that teetered off the wobbly table, the pain had been excruciating. But from the moment he had first held the scroll, all discomfort had disappeared.

Gil reached to touch the knot on his head, the reminder of his abrupt encounter with the chamber's stone ceiling. He knew what he'd find before his fingers made contact with the injury. No knot, no discomfort. Where there had been swelling and a throbbing ache, not even a twinge of pain remained.

Gil shook his head in wonder. She nodded hers in confirmation. There was no need to put into words what they had just witnessed.

They had two hours of driving ahead of them, she said, three if they allowed time for crosstown London traffic. Once they got to the outskirts of the city, she'd direct him to a place that was safe. Until then, he'd have to drive and navigate on his own. She needed to focus on removing the scroll from the box with as little damage to either as possible.

“The box will be needed for authentication, if it ever comes to that,” she said. If the scroll turned out to be made of the same delicate copper sheets as The Cave 3 Scroll, unrolling and translating them while in a moving vehicle would prove as impossible as any undertaking she could imagine. But, she added, they had no choice.

There was another hitch that concerned Sabbie. Elias' diary bore testimony to a scroll that, during his time, was considered blasphemous. Apparently, it challenged the very foundations of Christianity. The problem was, there was no way of knowing whether this message would reveal anything new or exciting today.

“Interpretations of what others have purported to be Jesus' teachings and actions have changed over the centuries. What was considered sacrilege at one time, might now be considered the proper practice of faith,” Sabbie concluded.

Still, no matter whose view in today's world the scroll upheld, the immensity of the discovery of Jesus' teachings, teachings dictated in His own words and recorded by one who lived at His side, was simply too great to imagine.

Gil glanced back at her in the rear view mirror. “This could challenge the whole enchilada,” he said.

“Which is more likely the case,
if
you put stock in what Elias' wrote in the diary,” she added.

Gil looked at her reflection in surprise.

“And
if
you believe what is inscribed in the scroll,” she said without expression.

“What reason would Elias or the author of the scroll have to lie?” Gil asked. “What would either of them have to gain?”

“What reason do any of us have?” she countered.

Sabbie shrugged. Gil turned back to his driving, she to the scroll that she continued to gently unroll. Word by word, the message revealed itself to her. It filled her with joy, then sadness. Its story of betrayal echoed her own, its promise of renewal, a pledge of redemption. When she had unrolled the scroll as far as she dared without risking damage to it, she began to read it aloud, so that Gil, too, might share in the greatest story never told.

Thirty-three years before the Crucifixion Southwest of Jerusalem, main route to Hebron and Egypt

The cloths the young girl held in readiness for the newborn were finer than anything she had ever seen. It was rumored among the other domestics that the master of the house had been presented with these rich fabrics by a Roman general who was so high in rank that it was said he reported directly to Pontius Pilot himself.

The maidservant considered herself fortunate to be part of a household where the fame of the master was great and whose friendship was courted with the spoils of Roman campaigns. For a moment, she allowed herself the pleasure of caressing the edge of the exceptional material, imagining what it might be like to be mistress of this great home complete with all of the luxuries and pleasures that money could buy.

A sudden shriek from her mistress shook the young girl from her daydream. She turned in time to see the midwife pull the bloody infant into the world. “That's the last battle he'll ever have to fight,” she heard old cook remark to the wet nurse as they stood watching from the door. “Little bastard will want for nothing.”

The young maidservant flushed at so bitter of a comment and hoped her mistress had not overheard. She was summoned to help bathe and swaddle the child in his first silken wrappings, and all concern vanished.

Haggai ben Asher waited by the inner court fountain, alone by choice. The cry of his firstborn brought with it the relief Haggai sought. The child lived. Today was born a son to the house of Asher and his name would be Micah, may God be praised.

For more than a score of years his wife had diligently applied the plethora of tinctures and balms prescribed by the ministers of such therapies but there had been no pregnancies. Fully aware that it was forbidden for Jews to do so, he had begun to consider taking a second wife in order to ensure that his legacy would pass to future generations. But now, with God's blessing, all was right with the world.

He had worked hard and had succeeded in trading and securing great and varied consignments of fine metals. Yet, until now, he had been unable to claim what the most ignorant peasant was granted without thought or concern—a son—a fine and beautiful son.

When out, among his friends, Haggai blamed his wife for their lack of offspring. Alone in his private quarters, however, he had sometimes wondered if in a way unknown to him, he had offended the Lord. Perhaps his pursuit and accumulation of riches had been so great so as to win him disfavor. Yet, like his father and grandfather before him, he sought the security that wealth could buy, gold and lands that could be traded for freedom in times of unrest in Jerusalem, or, if need be, purchase a Jew's very life. Now the high-pitched wail of the infant filled his heart with joy, and he knew that God had, indeed, smiled upon him.

Some people thought him a traitor, an appeaser of the enemy, a Roman-lover. Some assumed that he favored only those of similar aristocratic birthright. Others claimed that because he traded with the lower and middle-class Pharisees, he had turned his back on his Sadducee heritage. In truth, he cared not a whit for either sect's endless pontifical discussions over the rightness of oral versus written Jewish law. And, if it should it ever come to pass, as it had during previous centuries, before the Roman occupation, when no fewer than eight different world powers had dominated the Jews, those same critics would be the first to beg for his help, for the money he had worked so hard to accumulate, pleading that his hard-earned fortunes might well be used to save their unworthy lives.

No, he neither had time for their religious debates nor defense against their criticisms. He was a practical man, a family man now, and he knew too well how far their philosophic discussions would get them when they stood at the end of a Roman sword. Still, the wagging of too many jealous tongues was making life in Jerusalem unpleasant. His wife complained of a change in the servants' attitudes and, though he had not confirmed her suspicions, he knew their gossiping had gotten out of hand.

Now all of that would change. He would move his newborn son and his wife into the great house being erected on the edge of the sea, near Qumran. Building so great a home a fair distance from Jerusalem was an unusual move. Friends and family warned that his choice of location would mean hardship for his wife and son but Haggai was certain that his wealth would bring all that they needed to their door. Above all else, he prided himself on his independence and the cherished thought of removing his family from the judgmental eyes of others made his choice a most logical one.

The huge estate that awaited him, his wife, and his baby son, Micah, however, remained empty for the moment, watched over only by a single houseman until the day that Caesar Augustus' new census and taxation determination would be completed. Perhaps if King Herod had not been granted a one-year postponement of the census, this birth might have taken place in their new home. Oh, what a blessing that would have been! Still, Haggai had to admit to himself, the delay in moving had meant another year before he would have to pay the higher taxes that came with the great house and that was a blessing in itself. Yes, all was good. Just as it should be. After all, he had worked hard for this good life. It was only right that he should enjoy it.

 

Six miles away in a manger, the high-pitched wail of another newborn son was heard. There was no maidservant in attendance, no fine swaddling clothing in which to wrap the child, and no promise of a great estate in the country where a child might be protected and pampered. There was at this birth, however, as there was in the house of Haggai ben Asher, great joy at the arrival of a firstborn son, healthy and strong, with his whole life yet before him.

Day Ten, mid-morning
Northeast of Weymouth
North Circular Road to London

“Why did you stop reading?” Gil asked.

“Because that's where Micah stopped, when the second baby was born. Besides, I need a bathroom break. Stop at the next petrol station.”

Gil nodded his agreement. They needed gas anyway, and something else was bothering him. A pit stop would give him a chance to test out his suspicion. No need to alarm her unless he was sure. Until then, he'd keep it light.

“So, what do you think so far?” he asked.

“I'm not sure,” she answered. “My Aramaic is good but rusty, and this PDA translation program is practically useless. Still, if the second baby turns out to be who I think it is…Why, what are you thinking?”

Gil straightened out the rearview mirror and, for the tenth time in as many minutes, checked out the road behind them. “I thought the scroll was autobiographical. At least, that's what Elias said in the diary, isn't it? So far it reads like the story of someone else's life. The author of the scroll doesn't mention a word about himself.”

“And he's not about to,” she said.

In a voice too filled with amusement for Gil's liking, Sabbie explained the reason for the third-person view of the births. In all likelihood, she said, the story that was being told in the scroll
was
autobiographical. Two thousand years ago, however, no one would have thought to describe his own life in “I” terms. Everything was written as if it were a story about someone else. First-person wasn't even a known concept.

“Think about the Gospels from the New Testament. Imagine how odd it would sound if Luke said, ‘So, on this day, me and Jesus were discussing such-and-such, and this woman came up to us…'

“Back then, everything was described as if it were being witnessed by another, although the author, himself, may have been involved. Even a thousand years later, when Elias described his brother being burned at the stake, he wrote it in the storytelling method of the day. The last part of Elias' description of the burning, in which he talked about his own feelings, was not only unusual, it was unheard of.

“And probably constituted heresy,” she added.

“So the author of the scroll would have naturally told the story of his own life as if he were describing the life of another,” Gil said.

“Yes, but no one would have ever considered just telling the story of his life two thousand years ago. The whole idea that we're important enough to have a story to leave behind is a modern concept. If you consider how little the individual mattered two thousand years ago, if you think about the fact that the ‘I' in storytelling didn't even exist, then to record the history of your own life, and to engrave it into a copper scroll, would never occur to anyone unless…”

“…unless the story was so important…” Gil continued.

“…or someone else in the story was so important…” Sabbie added.

“…that the story had to be told,” he concluded.

“Exactly.”

There was nothing more to say. They'd have to wait for the scroll to tell them the rest.

They were fast approaching a gas station. Gil kept his foot on the gas until they were almost past the turnoff. Then, without signaling, he swerved onto the off ramp.

“Hey,” she called. “I'd like to keep this in one piece for the moment.”

“You or the scroll?” Gil asked teasingly, then added, more seriously, “That's exactly my intention.”

His eyes remained fixed on the rearview mirror, in search of the black town car that had been following them for the past twenty minutes. No car followed them into the gas station. Gil looked back to the highway in time to see the black town car pass on its way to London, apparently a threat only in the drama of Gil's making.

He filled the tank while she hit the Ladies' Room and, as she headed back to the car, signaled that he was on his way for a similar break.

The green sedan wouldn't have caught his attention except for the odd coincidence of the license plate. It was red, like the plate on their car, and like the plate on the black town car that he had been concerned about. His bladder could wait. He wasn't leaving her alone.

“I thought you had to go to the bathroom,” she said, surprised at his quick return.

“Tell me one thing,” he asked as he stepped on the gas. “Do all rental cars in England have red license plates?”

“Never used to,” she answered. “Why?”

No need to alarm her over nothing. “Just curious,” he said. “I used to play license plate games when I was a kid and I was just wondering. It's not important.”

Sabbie shrugged and returned to her translating.

He drove with his eyes fixed more on the rearview than the front. Although no car, in particular, remained behind them, Gil knew that they were, indeed, being followed. The answer to the question of who was following them and in which car was one he couldn't answer. Not yet.

Thirty minutes had passed before Gil realized he had not paid for the gas that now propelled them to London. He smiled and shrugged.

Just add it to my rap sheet.