A River Divided Page 2

  Showing it to Michael, she said, “It’s Greek, or maybe Latin. Look, what do you think it stands for?”

  “Michael of Masada,” he said. She did not respond. “Come on, Evelyn, even prisoners of war have humor.”

  “You don’t think this is serious? It could be an offering from His lover.”

  “Whose lover?”

  “Could be from Mary of Magdala.”

  “Evelyn, sorry to say, amateur archeologists have also discovered Noah’s Ark—in a few places.”

  “Inexperienced I am, but I am not fabricating anything.”

  “I thought we dismissed that hypothesis.”

  “I know. I know. Science is doubt in the face of evidence.” Feeling light-headed, she sat down and tried to think of all possibilities. But her mind was stuck on one.

  Michael sat next to her. “Jesus was supposed to have been resurrected in body and spirit. His followers would have left not a skerrick for you to find.”

  She nodded. “More to the point, Jesus would have been buried in Jerusalem. According to custom, there would have been a secondary burial—His bones would have been reburied in a limestone ossuary a year later.”

  “This is not a limestone ossuary, Evelyn. So, our friend was not even Jewish then.”

  “No. But it is stone. Anyway, we can philosophize later. For now, let’s see if the ossuary is marked.”

  She reached for the crowbar and loosened the earth.

  Michael scooped it away with his hands. “You know, if it wasn’t for the salt, this would have been good soil for the garden.”

  Eventually they freed most of the ossuary. Circles with radii resembling daisy petals adorned the sides. There was no writing.

  She wiped sweat from under her nose and over her eyebrows. “That was a waste of time.” As she returned to the assembled skeleton, she noticed a tiny plant with a solitary yellow blossom. “You’re a flower in the desert,” she whispered.

  “Evelyn, that is the nicest thing you’ve said to me all day.”

  She smiled at him. Everything is barren here, she thought. Where did it find the colors to bloom?

  With the sun now dipping toward Masada, Evelyn cast a long shadow on the desert floor as she stood up to stretch. I’d better duck back down before my luck runs out with the security station.

  “Look at this.” Michael showed her a piece of wood he had taken out of the ossuary earlier. “There may be a carving here.”

  Evelyn took the roughly hewn block in her hands. It was the size of a book. As she dusted it off, a letter that resembled an “R” emerged amongst what seemed to be fragments of other letters carved superficially into the desiccated wood. “Iēsus Nazarēnus, Rēx Iūdaeōrum,” she said and breathed in sharply. “Michael, it must be. Look where the ‘R’ is.” Her mind raced back two thousand years, to when Jesus attempted to kindle love in the minds of people. “The Titulus,” she whispered.

  “The what?”

  “Titulus Crucis. Remember, the piece of wood the Romans put on the cross; we saw it depicted at the Church of the Holy Sepulcher.”

  “Wait … This is moving too fast.”

  Evelyn took the camera and began photographing the bones, zooming in to capture the blemishes.

  The sun was now resting on Masada.

  “Darling, it’s getting dark. We should put all this stuff back.”

  “We will, but I’m going to take a bone.”

  “You’re going to take a bone … You’re not going to take a bone.”

  “Yes, and a piece of the wood. For carbon dating. It could be a hoax, like the Shroud of Turin.”

  “I know I suggested that, but it won’t confirm anything, even if the dates matched. Evelyn, there were so many crucifixions back then.”

  Using her Swiss Army knife, she carved out a tiny fragment of wood from the block. Wrapping it and a small bone in tissue, she placed them into her backpack. All that she could think about was that it could be Him. Unless it is a fraud, but, if so, what would have been in it for the fraudsters?

  She gave a quick wipe to the two clay vessels they had set aside earlier when they were concentrating on the bones. They were both dark orange, one cylindrical the other spherical, both sealed.

  As the dust lifted off the sphere, an engraving appeared. On closer examination, she could make out curved lines, like a diagram. Could this contain the brain? The cylinder seemed unmarked. “I’m going to take the pots. They may hold the key.”

  “You’re crazy. This is … you’re really crazy. Do you know how risky it is to smuggle them out of Israel, let alone into Australia?”

  “Michael, I have to know what’s inside,” she said, placing them in her backpack.

  “This is the best way to extend our holiday here indefinitely.”

  They returned everything else to the ossuary. In the fading light, they reburied it, heaping earth over it and placing two rocks on top.

  The desert that kept the secret for so long will do the rest, she thought.

  As they were walking away, she turned her head to look back one last time.

  Chapter 2

  THE GEMS OF HIS MIND

  Carpets in shades of red, cream and blue felt soft underfoot.

  Evelyn was waiting in the hotel lobby, surrounded by rectangular pillars with palm tree motifs that supported a ceiling displaying ancient fertility symbols in various metallic colors punctuated with gold. In glass-fronted octagonal recesses set into the walls, sapphire earrings and various pendants, bracelets and bangles glinted under the display lights. One bangle resembled the one from her ossuary. She went for a closer look, reflecting on how the new art borrowed from the old.

  “Her ossuary;” the words felt unreal. So much had happened since the morning. She had disturbed the remains of a man. But who was this man? The contents indicated he had been someone important. His skeleton suggested someone young and strong. Taller than her. And the cranial dome; why remove that? It was not common posthumous practice in the land of Judea as far as she knew. But what did she really know? She could not even say what era he came from. Had he been crucified? It surely looked like it. So, perhaps during the time of the Roman occupation.

  The Titulus was another clue, as was the engraving “MM.” And the bangle—the “bling” as Michael called it. The delicate piece would be priceless today and must have been valuable even then. There would be answers somewhere. I had thought my DNA research was important. But what could be more important than this?

  As Michael crossed the lobby, a few women glanced at him, some half his age. Seemingly oblivious to their attention, he took Evelyn’s arm more forcefully than usual as they entered King’s Garden Restaurant. It occurred to her that her lips would be in line with his if she wore high heels.

  If only I wanted a kiss.

  The outdoor restaurant overlooked the garden and pool, its backdrop the illuminated stone walls and alcoves of the hotel. As requested, the waiter took them to a corner, but to Evelyn the table seemed totally exposed. Thanking him for reciting the specials, they ordered quickly.

  She scanned Michael’s face as they sat opposite each other—the blue eyes, the high forehead, the small bump on his nose level with his eyes. His jaw was square and his neck thick, like that of the rugby player he had been.

  As soon as they were alone, he began softly, “I put a do-not-disturb sign on our door, not that it makes me feel much safer.”

  “Good idea.”

  “You know, it’s possible you have found His bones.”

  Evelyn leaned toward him. “They found me, more like it.”

  “Either way—but now what?”

  “We announce the find. Let the chips fall where they may.”

  “Evelyn, blind Freddy can see where they’ll fall—on your head.”

  “No, no. Christians will welcome proof He existed.”

  Michael shifted position in his chair. “How naïve can you be! If He has mortal remains, He is no God.”

  “They’ll
find a way to accommodate it. Religious beliefs are irrational, anyway.”

  “I’ll tell you what’s irrational—to think the Church will tolerate this. They’ll say you tampered with the evidence.”

  “I’ll say you did it.”

  He exhaled, more than laughed. “I’m telling you it’s dangerous. To you. At the very least they’ll discredit you. Not that geneticists have credentials in archeology anyway. Not every academic is an Indiana Jones.”

  “You don’t need to be an archeologist to find something in the ground. A shepherd found the Dead Sea Scrolls.”

  “Yes, and he got seven pounds for them. But, really, what do you expect the Israelis to do? Can’t you see? They hope the Pope will come here to apologize for what the Christians have done to the Jews. The Israelis are not going to risk that. They’ll rebury the relics in another desert.”

  His arguments made sense, but, like a hound on the scent, she could not let go. “Let’s be positive, Michael,” she said, tracing the edge of the table with her fingertip. “This is an entirely different situation.”

  “I can’t think of a bigger provocation. And you want me to be ‘positive.’ Just as well your evidence is so skimpy.”

  “I feel positive about the discovery and it is 1997. Queen Isabella is not around to throw me to the Inquisition.”

  “Can’t you lower your voice?”

  “I’m not shouting,” she said, but then she realized she had been and apologized.

  “When the dust settles,” she whispered, “there’ll still be just as many Christians.”

  “No. There won’t. It renders the Resurrection a lie.”

  “You keep your voice down too,” she said, adding, “anyway, I’ve always thought the Resurrection is a metaphor for the rising of the soul. I mean, who needs a body in Heaven?”

  She felt his foot on hers and kept quiet. The waiter was approaching, bringing a bottle of white wine, San Pellegrino water and a tasting plate of dips with warm pita bread. He unfolded the embroidered serviettes across their laps as though they could not do it themselves. Worse yet, he poured the sparkling water without tilting the glasses. Evelyn watched the bubbles escape. In the pause in conversation, her mind turned to the night she met Michael at a friend’s New Year’s Eve party two years earlier. It was on a balcony at Circular Quay in full view of the fireworks that burst into colorful bouquets over Sydney Harbour. Light had fallen on his face and she had fantasized being with him, being challenged by him, being swept up by him, loving him.

  He was fifteen years older, but that did not matter. The dry spells in her emotional life were as big as the Australian deserts. So, when a chance for love arrived, she reached for it. But she was too damaged from her first love; the pain inside her was alive. She could not make it work. In the end, it was—

  “All right then,” said Michael when the waiter left. “I guess if Adam and Eve can be taken metaphorically, why not the Resurrection?”

  “Finally, we agree on something.” Her eyes met his. Their stare held a moment too long for her. Dropping her gaze, she focused on the food, the olive dip a reminder of her time on the island of Ithaca.

  “They might even canonize you for streamlining the dogma. “St. Evelyn” has a nice ring to it.”

  “I’m not trying to streamline anything. I just want the truth. He should be acknowledged for what He was. One of us,” she said, pointing to herself. “Someone with love and courage. We need Him as a human role model.”

  The waiter approached again, this time with the seafood platter. Michael seemed to dither over whether to take a bite of octopus or say something. Eventually he took a bite and asked with his mouth full, “Since when have you been so enamored of Jesus? You’re lionizing Him because you think you’ve found His bones.”

  “No. I’ve always admired Him. He told the truth and accepted the consequences.”

  The couple sitting at the table closest to them departed.

  “Let’s return to the point. Assume we manage to smuggle the artifacts into Australia and dating is consistent with your hypothesis. Then what?”

  “I don’t know. I really need more evidence. Perhaps the clay pots have the answer.” She looked at the illuminated wall and then back at Michael. “And another thing. You know, it’s like that old question—whom would you invite to dinner, dead or alive? For me it is Jesus, the greatest moral innovator of all time.”

  “Others had suggested many of those ideas before, Evelyn. But, indeed, He did pull it all together.”

  “And was ready to die for it.”

  “He must have had a special combination of genes,” said Michael, adding a moment later, “Someone like Him is not born every minute.”

  Michael’s reference to genes still resonated with Evelyn two days later, when, from the back seat of their taxi, she watched the familiar streets of Sydney’s Eastern Suburbs go by.

  All was quiet, bottlebrush trees with red flowers, willow myrtles and paperbarks the only sentinels to the early morning.

  It had been an exhausting twenty-four hours—a sleepless night on a crowded flight and encounters with immigration and customs at both ends of the journey. Her precious cargo was in the middle of her suitcase, inside layers of bubble wrap and clothing.

  When the sniffer dog had approached as she wheeled the trolley through arrivals, she was certain the game was up. It kept wagging its tail while sniffing her belongings. The beagle became a menacing tiger, but then it moved on to another passenger.

  Michael carried her suitcase into the house. The taxi was waiting, yet she kept him just inside the front door in a tight hug.

  He slowly pulled away. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

  “Come back. Without you, none of this would have happened.” She stood on her toes to reach his lips.

  Rays of the morning sun, filtered by the Sydney blue gum, followed a slanted path through the windows. She crossed the open-plan kitchen and went directly to her room. Resting the parcel on the bed, she lay down curling her body around it.

  Serendipity favors the prepared mind, she thought. And mine is totally unprepared.

  Evelyn was only half listening to the discussion on molecular mechanisms involved in the initiation and timing of cell development.

  Every Monday morning she met with her postdoctoral fellows and PhD students. Just as a postdoc was asking her to explain something, her phone rang. For the first time she had left it on during a meeting. It had been nearly a week since she sent away the bone and wood sample for carbon dating and the results were expected. She excused herself and stepped out.

  “Have they called yet?”

  “No, Michael. Not yet. I thought you were them.”

  “Well, keep me posted.”

  After the meeting, she returned to her office and forced herself to write an ethics application for work with transgenic mice constructed to spontaneously develop neuronal plaques, the hallmark of Alzheimer’s disease. She was distractible, pouncing on new emails and glancing at the telephone in case it flashed before it rang. Although she had been back for almost a week, there was still a lot of paperwork and unanswered emails.

  The phone rang. It is the carbon dating lab.

  Both artifacts were from between 30 BC and AD 50.

  She thanked the technician and quickly hung up, worried they might ask where she got them from.

  After a few minutes, she settled down. It was encouraging they were from the right period, but it still didn’t prove anything. She ached to tell Michael, but she wanted to work on the other two pieces of the puzzle first.

  It was hard to keep from running as she headed home, straight to her garage.

  She unpacked the two containers and laid them on her carpenter’s bench, having first covered it with clean plastic. Over the previous week, she had procured a high-speed dental drill and other instruments to work on the specimens.

  She felt like a child at Christmas—the buildup of excitement as she waited to open the gifts. With dates c
onfirmed, she could proceed. Snapping on a surgical mask, she investigated the cylinder first. “Twenty-five and a half centimeters in length and nine centimeters in diameter,” she wrote in her notebook. Under the white light of the fiber optic cables, it had the waxy color of the skin of a butternut pumpkin. She could feel a rough texture through her gloves; the surface of the clay was pockmarked where tiny areas had disintegrated.

  She fitted her reading glasses with loupe six-times magnifier lenses. Placing the cylinder in a padded vise, she took a deep breath to allow her hands to steady, then started to drill. She scored the baked clay a few centimeters from one end. The drilling produced a small cloud of dust. Despite the mask, she could feel dust in her throat. Turning her head to one side, she took another deep breath and then returned to her position, hunched over the vise.

  Before long, she needed to pause and clean her glasses, which had fogged up from her breath. She stopped drilling when the circumference was almost completely scored. With a tap, the end fell off, revealing the dark brown edge of a papyrus. It was stuck to the internal wall on one side. She stared for a little while at the ancient document nesting in the cylinder.

  This scroll could hold all the answers.

  Evelyn’s hands shook as she nudged the papyrus free with a thin spatula. She was desperate to read it, but, as though paralyzed, could not unfurl it. Orthogonal arrays of papyrus strips had been woven together. Clay dust had accumulated in patches on the document, especially at its edges. The scroll was thick, but black ink had seeped through to the reverse side.

  All of a sudden, she could hear the sound of raindrops drumming against her roller door. Aware of the rain now, she could even smell the wet earth. There were sheets and towels on the clothesline, effort now wasted by a Sydney downpour. Could the humidity affect the document?