Casca 20: Soldier of Gideon (12 page)

An Arab poked his head timidly from the doorway of his shuttered shop.

"Honorable masters," he whined, "would you care to honor my store by looking upon some rare and exotic treasures not frequently offered for sale?"

They stopped. A faded sign announced: ABU BEN ASID,
ANTIQUARY AND RELIQUARY.

"I'
ll bet he tries to sell us Moshe Dayan's eye patch," Epstein sneered as they moved toward the doorway.

Casca was less concerned with the merchandise than with the possibility of a trap. The wily old Arab might well consider it a good afternoon's work to dispatch a colonel and a major of the conquerors' army.

Casca unlatched the flap of his pistol holster and waved Epstein back to step warily into the store, his eyes searching for trip wires or other signs of a booby trap.

As if aware of his apprehension, the old Arab threw open the window shutters, flooding the small room with light. Still Casca hesitated, allowing his eyes to grow accustomed to the light that now illuminated the Arab's treasures.

And what treasures. Casca recognized immediately the Gladius Imperius Iberius, the Roman shortsword, and alongside it a legionnaire's helmet and leather armor. On another wall was arranged the shield and armor of an English Crusader.

Another wall was devoted to relics of the Great War: rifles of Lawrence's Arab Legion, spent artillery shells, the emu plumed slouch hat of an Australian light horseman, the helmet and goggles of a downed German flyer. A sign said that the helmet and goggles had belonged to von
Richtofen, the Red Baron, whom Casca had good reason to remember had died over France. The fourth wall was covered with swastika flags, Union Jacks, World War II steel helmets, bayonets, Lee Enfield rifles, some pistons salvaged from the Maybach engine of a Panzer III tank, and a German officer's cap and jacket with the badges of a colonel general. Another sign said that these had been part of Rommel's uniform.

"Fakes.
Fakes. Fakes. Fakes. Fakes," Casca heard Epstein grumbling behind him. "I'll bet you he offers us one of Christ's sandals." The cynical Dutchman laughed mirthlessly.

The old Arab stared in amazement. "You are interested in Christ?"

Epstein winked at Casca. "Yes," he replied archly, "I am a collector of Christian bric-a-brac. What do you have?"

The Arab bowed and waved a hand toward a curtained doorway. "
I do not deal in mere bric-a-brac, but please do me the honor of entering this farther room of my humble store." He bowed again.

Epstein was already striding toward the curtain when Casca spoke: "Major, a little more slowly, please. This toothless old Arab may be even better pleased to kill us than to cheat us. We could represent his ticket to Paradise."

Epstein looked with disdain from Casca to the Arab and back again. The corners of his mouth turned down in contempt for the notion that this old man might represent a danger. But even an army as casual as his observed the protocol of rank and he silently accepted the warning from his superior officer. But the corners of his mouth curved farther downward.

Casca bowed to the Arab: "Pray, lead us to your treasures."

The old shopkeeper inclined his head and walked unhesitatingly through the doorway, holding aside the curtain for Casca and Epstein to follow.

He clapped his hands and a young boy appeared. At a gesture from his grandfather the boy opened shutters to light the room.

The Arab gestured gracefully. The whole room was crammed with memorabilia of the time of Christ. Prominently displayed on one wall was the Spear of Longinus. Casca gave it a cursory glance. It was right for the period, but it certainly was not the spear he had carried that day on Calvary.

There were pieces of "The True Cross," thongs from a whip of the time, pieces of cloth from the robe Christ wore at his trial. Casca was amused to see that the whole of a Roman Centurion's uniform had been assembled and was
labeled as belonging to the man who had commanded the squad that had crucified Jesus.

"These look authentic," he said to the storekeeper, and indeed the sandals, leather skirt,
breastpiece, and helmet were old enough and of the correct type.

But he smiled inwardly as he recalled the commander of that squad. No centurion, but a mere sergeant. Casca remembered him well as the first of the many men who were to kill him. The sergeant had died in the whore's bedroom, but Casca, to his own amazement, had survived his mortal wound.

"One hundred percent genuine, good sir. If that centurion were to enter this room today, this uniform would fit him."

"He might have put on some weight since those days," Casca said, and realized that indeed he himself had grown much bigger than he had been then. If he were to f
ind his own old uniform, he would burst it apart if he were to try to don it.

"This is all mere trivia," Epstein said sourly. "Do you not have anything that might be worth our while to look at?"

A look of irritation flickered for a moment across the Arab's face. Of course none of the merchandise was what he claimed it to be. He did not for a moment expect that anybody would be stupid enough to believe the lies that he told. But his fakes were good fakes, contrived from genuine articles of the period, or at least carefully crafted copies. Politeness demanded that they not be disparaged. But what could one expect from ill-mannered Jews? Well, they were the conquerors. It must be Allah's will that this rude infidel should afflict him. So be it.

"As your
honor pleases," He bowed. "I do have one treasure that would interest a true scholar. But I fear it is above price."

"There is a price for everything," Epstein returned sourly. "First show us the merchandise and then let us haggle over price.
”

The Arab looked hurt. Haggle? Fishwives at the coastal ports haggled over the price of their wares. Gentlemen did not so demean themselves. In the lengthy process of discussion and flattery and persuasion that accompanied the making of a sale, the price might, perhaps, be modified until two gentlemen came to a mutually acceptable figure. But haggle?
Certainly not.

On the other hand, these infidels are the conquerors.

And the only customers. Let us see how Allah wills the outcome. "I have," the Arab announced ceremoniously, "a piece of the true Bible."

Epstein shrugged and started to rise. "And of the True Cross, the Robe, the lash
–"

"Aha. Your cynicism shows a wise awareness," the Arab interrupted smoothly. "But please do not allow such wariness to cloud your judgment."

Epstein got up and paced about. "This is all foolish banter. If you do have something to sell, show it to us. I am in no mood for this game of words."

The Arab bowed, and Casca caught a gleam of satisfaction in his eye. He was getting Epstein's goat and so was moving toward control of the negotiations.

"Honorable sir, please do not incommode yourself. You will see for yourself that this fragment of which I speak is genuine. Indeed, I would not even show it to anybody other than a scholar such as yourself. To the fools in the street this scroll of parchment would only be–"

"Scroll of parchment? You have a parchment scroll? Where from?
How old?" Epstein's cynical pose fell from him like a discarded cloak. "Show me this parchment."

The boy re
-entered the room bearing a silver tray on which stood a coffeepot and cups, a decanter and small liqueur glasses, and a plate of sweets. He placed the tray on a low table.

"Please take some coffee, or a little wine," the Arab said, "while I ready this treasure for your inspection. As you might imagine, I do not keep it where it could be easily observed and might be stolen."

He slowly poured cups of coffee while Epstein struggled to disguise his impatience. Casca sat on a cushion by the little table and accepted a cup and sipped at it meditatively. A parchment scroll? A piece of the true Bible?

Epstein was in haste over the prospect of a choice collectible.
But Casca's very being seethed as he waited to see the scroll. Was this why he was here? Was he about to learn something new about the Nazarene? About himself?

The shopkeeper rolled back a rug and knelt to prise up a floorboard. From the cache beneath he withdrew a battered thermos flask. He replaced the board, re
-spread the rug, then seated himself on a cushion by the low table.

He took an appreciative sip of the sweet, black
coffee, spread his hands to indicate the wine and the sweetmeats.

"Will you not
honor my humble household by tasting these refreshments? The wine is forbidden to me by edict of the Prophet, His name be praised, but I am permitted to keep it for guests who come to do business."

"To cloud the mind and sweeten the deal," Epstein sneered, but he tasted the wine and was surprised to find it good. He smacked his lips and sipped again, but refrained from congratulating the Arab on its excellence.

"Your camel driver prophet is of no more interest to me than the fisherman prophet of the Christians. Nor am I interested in Abraham or Isaac. I am not a religious man."

The Arab's hand hesitated on the thermos cap.

"Then perhaps this will not interest you. It deals, I am told, with an obscure reference to Christ's burial party."

Epstein put down his glass. "What it says does not interest me. I am only concerned with checking its antiquity and authenticity."

Casca sipped distractedly at his glass of wine. The Arab was doing a superb job of baiting his hook, too good for Casca's pleasure.

Casca had no doubt that the scroll would prove genuine. And he wanted it, whatever the price. But the Arab's leisurely ritual had brought the reluctant Epstein to such a fevered pitch of anticipation that he was now itching to get his hands on the parchment.

The antiquarian removed the stopper and shook from the flask a tightly rolled yellowish scroll. He carefully spread it on the table, using the wine decanter and some glasses to hold it in place. It was about nine inches wide and less than three feet long..

It reeked of authenticity. The fragment had been torn out of a larger length of parchment, and the text commenced in the middle of a sentence and ended partway into another. The language was Aramaic, which had still been the formal language of Palestine at the time of Christ. Casca had spoken it badly as he fraternized little with the locals apart from brief liaisons with whores. By the time he had returned to Palestine in the time of Saladin, Aramaic had given way to Hebrew. But there were enough words that he knew for him to get the gist of what was said.

He recognized the words accursed and soldier and mother and then he realized that the fragment described the moment when he, "the forever accursed soldier," had handed over Christ's spent body to his patiently waiting mother.

The Dutchman sat back. His pursed lips betrayed the thoughts that were tumbling through his mind. It was genuine, not a doubt of it, but he must not let the Arab see that he believed so.

"An ingenious forgery," the Dutchman said, unable to refrain from fingering the parchment. He leaned back and feigned disinterest.

"There are those," the Arab said, as if in agreement, "who say that the whole legend of Christ, the whole Christian Bible is but a forgery
laid upon the world by–"

"By scheming Jews," Epstein finished for him. "Is that what you believe?"

The old Arab spread his hands wide. "Good sir, I am but a buyer and a seller of goods that come to my hands. The myths and legends that accompany them I pass on as a matter of interest."

"And what sort of myth accompanies this scrap of material?" Epstein snapped. "How do you claim to have come by it?"

"A desert Bedouin brought it to me. He found it in a cave by the Dead Sea."

"Rubbish!" Epstein shouted, jumping to his feet. "Do you take me for a complete idiot? You have the effrontery to claim that this scrap of garbage is a part of the Dead Sea Scrolls?"

"I make no such claim, effendi. But the Bedouin did say that he found it by the Dead Sea. I believed him and paid him accordingly. It is certainly very old, preserved wonderfully by the desert climate. What it says I do not know. The language is strange to me."

"If it were genuine you would have long since sold it in London or New York."

"It would please me greatly to do so, sir. But I am a poor man and could not afford such a journey. And few scholars such as yourself come to my poor store."

"I'm not going to listen to any more of this garbage," Epstein snapped. "How much do you want for it?"

"For you, effendi, one thousand dollars."

"
Wha-a-at? You rotten thief. A thousand dollars! A thousand?"

"Effendi, if I were to tell you what I paid for
–"

"I wouldn't believe you. You bet I wouldn't. If there ever was a Bedouin, I'll bet you robbed him just as you're trying to rob me. I'll give you a hundred dollars."

He took out his wallet and held out a note. "Take it or leave it."

The antiquarian removed the decanter and began to reroll the scroll. He waved a hand airily about the room.