Blood Symbols

by Izak Botha

  Jennifer was studying all the new faces. ‘Whose idea was it to call Geographic America?’ she asked.

  ‘What? To offer them the job, you mean?’

  She glanced at Rabin but kept silent.

  ‘Oh, I wish I could take the credit,’ he chuckled, ‘but really it was Simon’s idea.’

  She smiled warmly. She had made the right choice to come. She set the empty cup on the table and placed one hand on her stomach, just below her navel.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ Rabin asked.

  ‘It must be something I ate,’ she replied. ‘Or nerves.’

  ‘Can I get you something?’

  ‘I’ll be all right. I think I’m just anxious about meeting everyone.’

  Rabin did not say anything, but he understood. Being raised Christian, she was nervous about how the Jewish community would view her.

  Offering her his arm, he said, ‘Let’s go over. I’ll protect you from the bubbes.’

  Jennifer chuckled, and taking his arm they set off for the cemetery.

  Schreider awaited Jennifer and Rabin at the gate. Now dressed in a dark-navy suit, he kissed Jennifer’s hand. Every time he saw her, he sensed something about her. It was as if he were face to face with one of God’s true chosen. Then he thanked Rabin for the hospitality and assured the professor he and his men had been well catered for by the Antiochene staff.

  With Schreider was his captain and the six Swiss guards who had accompanied John’s remains. They had taken it upon themselves to stand guard while the ceremony was in progress. Not that anyone had asked, but as soldiers sworn to serve and protect God’s elite, they could not help themselves.

  Schreider no longer served the Vatican, and although this had meant Verretti’s promotion to temporary head of all security, the colonel had been glad to escape the Catholic establishment. His destiny was now his own. Having lost his belief that protecting the Holy See was serving God, he had resigned as Oberst of the Swiss Guard and was considering his own VIP security service for celebrities.

  Simon pulled away from the quests and briskly walked over to join Jennifer. He kissed her warmly and asked if she would like to join him. When she assured him, she was fine by herself, he excused himself. Returning to the grave where he would lay his brother to rest, he struck up a conversation with the Rabbi.

  Having never set foot in a Jewish cemetery before, Jennifer’s eyes wandered. The graves were different from Christian burial sites, which invariably featured crosses and ornate angelic representations. Here, a tomb was a simple sandstone grave with a granite headstone, its only decoration, if any, an engraved Star of David. As she was staring at the symbol on one tomb, she noticed something unusual about it—the Star of David, which featured two equilateral triangles forming a hexagram at an angle, sat inside an eight-pointed star made of two squares forming an octagram. The age of the graves was immaterial; if they were adorned at all, they featured the emblem.

  Jennifer studied the symbol. ‘There is something familiar about it,’ she thought. Then she remembered the design from the Leningrad Codex in the Russian National Library in Saint Petersburg. She had not personally seen the codex, but it had formed part of her curriculum. The Codex Leningradensis, as it was also known, was the oldest complete manuscript of the Hebrew Bible, and had been written by hand in Ancient Hebrew. For this reason, although scholars preferred an earlier manuscript written in the tenth century, the incomplete Aleppo Codex, the Leningrad served as an important source for reconstructing the Bible. Dating to around 1008 CE, written on parchment and bound in leather, sixteen of its pages contained decorative geometric patterns, one of which was the same as those on the graves around her.

  Rabin noticed her intense stare, and curious, asked, ‘I’m afraid of what might happen if I ask, but what have you found now?’

  ‘I’m not quite sure yet,’ she replied. ‘You wouldn’t have a pen and paper on you again, would you?’

  Rabin patted his jacket and pulled a pen from his inside pocket. Disappointed that he could not find a piece of paper he passed her the pen.

  ‘I’m afraid this is all I have.’

  ‘That’s okay. I’ll use my hand.’

  Jennifer drew the circle and eight-pointed star on the palm of her hand. She connected the eight points with four crisscross lines and filled in some of the segments. Then, she held up her hand for Rabin, showing the two perfectly intertwined Maltese crosses.

  ‘You do your surname justice,’ Rabin said proudly.

  ‘Gift from God—me?’ She smiled humbly. ‘Hardly, Professor.’

  ‘How many people do you think have stood before the Cave Church’s façade and straightaway seen what you’ve seen? The same goes for these graves. No one has ever made the connection. It’s ridiculous!’

  ‘Well, thank you, Uri, but I think anyone could have done the same, given the right perspective.’ She studied the symbol up close. ‘What do you think this means?’

  He contemplated her question. Symbols always stood for something; he of all should know. There was nothing random about them. Traditionally, the six-pointed star was Jewish and the eight-pointed star was Christian.

  ‘Perhaps it is ...’ he stopped himself. ‘I shan’t speculate.’

  Jennifer could not leave it there. She had to try. ‘Judaism meeting Christianity,’ she said. ‘Does Simon’s family tree include gentiles?’

  Rabin felt slightly embarrassed: ‘No, you’re the first.’

  Jennifer blushed. ‘I didn’t mean it like that,’ she chuckled.

  What was he saying? People did not speak of gentiles anymore either; many Jews had intermarried with and invited into their faith the people in their vicinity. Why would Antioch be any different? ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, feeling his temperature rising slightly under his collar as blood rushed to his face. ‘I didn’t mean it that way either. In any case, you’re not even married.’

  Jennifer decided not to respond; it would only contribute to the already awkward conversation. Moving on to the next grave she noticed the tombstone was not as old as the others. She read the names: Mark and Mary Kepa.

  ‘Those are Simon’s parents,’ Rabin said.

  Her gaze took in the adjacent graves. ‘These are all Simon’s relatives?’

  Rabin nodded. ‘Going back hundreds of years.’

  She read the inscriptions. A clear majority read: ‘Simon’, ‘Peter’, Andrew’, ‘Mark’, ‘John’, ‘Nathaniel’ or ‘Mary’. Then she saw a ‘Yeshu’—Jesus’s name in Aramaic—and her heart pounded. ‘These are all Gospel names,’ she said. ‘Why didn’t Simon say anything?’

  Before Rabin had a chance to answer, a woman in her eighties accompanied by a girl struggled over to meet with them.

  ‘Shalom lach ladi,’ the old woman greeted Jennifer.

  Jennifer realized the fragile woman had come over specifically to meet with her and was touched. ‘Shalom,’ she returned the greeting with a small curtsy.

  Rabin interpreted the old woman’s words as she spoke. She mentioned she felt Jennifer belonged with Simon and that Yahweh had brought them together.

  The old woman’s comforting words made Jennifer feel recognized and accepted, and after she had plodded away, Jennifer excused herself to Rabin; she felt boxed in and needed a short walk. Before she and the professor parted, though, another elderly woman approached, asking to speak with her.

  ‘Shalom,’ Jennifer returned the greeting.

  To Jennifer’s surprise, this woman not only expressed how she and Simon belonged together, she was more forthcoming and wanted to know when the two of them were getting married.

  As the woman walked away, Jennifer turned to Rabin. Flattered by their kindness, yet perplexed by their zeal to see her and Simon together, she asked why the women had come to greet her in this way.

  Rabin kissed her on both cheeks and stepped back, still holding her shoulders. ‘Simon is very special to them,’ he said. ‘He is the elder Kepa. For people who believe in the old tradit
ions, this is a big deal. Seeing you with him, they make their own conclusions.’

  Chapter 55

  When the professor excused himself to see if Simon needed his help, Jennifer stayed by the gravestones. Stunned by what she had just seen, she felt unable to join the ceremony yet. Instead of Old Testament names like Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Solomon, David, Daniel or Ezekiel, Simon’s ancestors carried the names of Gospel figures. Jennifer wanted to learn more, but with at least a hundred mourners filling the cemetery, she would have to wait until after the service. Wanting time alone, she looked around to tell Simon, but he had disappeared, so she headed away from the grave site.

  Schreider noticed her leaving and ran up, asking what was wrong and where she was going.

  She looked at him blankly. ‘Anywhere,’ she said.

  Her ambivalence worried him. ‘At least let one of my men join you,’ he offered.

  She declined, but set his mind at ease, promising to stay within sight of the cemetery.

  To the accompaniment of women chanting sacred Hebrew songs, Jennifer set off up a narrow footpath. She did not understand the lyrics, but the gut wrenching melodies, measured rhythms and poised harmonies pierced her heart. The haunting sounds evoked a vision of an unmitigated, ancient suffering.

  The footpath led towards a nearby hill. A tree on its crest served as a focal point, and the scene was framed by the distant glowing mountain she had admired earlier. She set off for the tree, pushing overhanging shrubs and branches aside, while trying to protect her dress. As the sun rose higher in the sky, the air became hotter. Her breathing deepened as her muscles worked harder and drops of perspiration slid down her back.

  The path was rough and seemingly unused, but Jennifer was determined to make it to the top of the hill. At least this time unsuitable shoes were not a handicap. Between rocks, rainwater had washed away sand, leaving stone-filled crevices. Halfway up the hill, she was still lost in thought. As she walked, she touched the leaves and flowers, wondering if the Nazarenes had done the same. Following in their footsteps made her feel like a Nazarene. She no longer considered herself a Christian; she was now a Nazarene. It was not possible to follow both Paul and Peter. It was like serving two masters. She chose Peter, Jesus’s first disciple. He had cared for Jesus’s children.

  At least, that was what she now believed.

  ‘There’s dissonance though,’ she thought. On the one hand, she had given up on blind faith, but on the other, she was convinced that Peter had raised Jesus’s children. Was that belief? It was not purely speculation anymore, but they had no proof that Mark and Bartholomew were Jesus’s offspring. They only knew the two siblings shared a mother—likely Mary Magdalene—with Peter’s sons, Matthew and Luke.

  What was faith anyway? Could she discard the faith of her childhood, which had been such a support in times of crisis? She had needed her faith to be grounded in truth, but even now there were no definitive answers. Peter had proved real, and his burial in Antioch demonstrated that God’s power and authority had never advanced to the popes. The office given to Peter by Jesus would surely have passed to his offspring. That honour would have been bestowed on his firstborn. In ancient Israel, firstborn sons occupied a privileged position; receiving double the inheritance of their younger brothers, and during the period of exile in Egypt, belonging to God. Mark appeared in several other places in the Gospels, performing small tasks, and it was he who had travelled with Peter, so one could assume he was close to Peter. As Q, Bartholomew was also a contender, except that he too was not Peter’s natural child. Between Matthew and Luke, though, it was easier to imagine. With Matthew’s Gospel predating Luke’s by decades, Matthew was likely the elder.

  Jennifer wondered if the Gospel of Matthew appearing first in the New Testament had anything to do with his standing as the heir to God’s power and authority. She discarded the idea. It was probably just coincidence. In any case, Apostolic succession was now relegated to the realm of fantasy—it no longer made any sense.

  The distinctive fragrances, some sweet to attract bees, others spicy and fruity to draw beetles, moved Jennifer to pick a handful of flowers. Closing her eyes, she deeply inhaled their scents. Something tickled her hand. A ladybug was crawling up her finger on its way to the flowers. She smiled. It was a sign of good luck.

  Heading for the shade beneath the tree, a further thought struck Jennifer. The Apostle Peter’s birth name was Simon, but Jesus had called him Kepa—the Rock upon which He would build His church. Shi’mon Kepa—Simon the Rock.

  After all this time and after repeatedly seeing and hearing the same name, it finally struck her: Apostle Peter’s name was the same in Aramaic as the name of the man she loved. She looked for Simon at the cemetery. Was Apostle Peter his ancestor? If so, was it the same stalwart, dogged strength in that ancestor that had led Jesus to name Peter His successor? She thought of the grave she had just seen. Simon’s dad was Mark—a family name, surely. She thought of the DNA fingerprinting. Simon did say they were fingerprinting various DNAs, hoping to establish connections between ancient and contemporary Jews. Had he thought of testing his own?

  Drained, she sat down on a log. Surrounded by mountains, a few farmhouses, each with its own dam and lands, lay scattered throughout the valley. Sheep and goats grazed the fields. In the stable next to Simon’s house, two of the horses were tossing their heads over the stable doors as if wanting to run free.

  The chanting stopped and the Rabbi opened the ceremony with a prayer. Jennifer relaxed her shoulders. Her journey had started with a prayer. Before she had left for the Vatican, she had prayed that God would grant her knowledge and wisdom. Had she not got more than she had asked. None of her plans had come to fruition. Not a thing had worked out as expected. God surely had a mysterious way of doing things. He had turned her life upside-down. It was as if He had placed her on a collision course with destiny.

  She smiled as she reflected that she should stop believing it was God who directed her life. If there was a God, He did not get involved. If He existed, as she wanted to believe, it was insane to think, as Lord of Creation, He would focus on her little planet, let alone her personal problems. Sitting on Cape Town’s Table Mountain while hiking, she could hardly see someone walking in the streets below, and that was only a mile away. How could God see her from wherever He was. Yet somehow, she still suspected that He did—although that would be asking rather a lot.

  From now on, she would follow her own intuition and make her own decisions. She no longer needed a creed to tell her what or how to think. Freewill most likely did not exist. Every thought she had ever had and every choice she had made had seemed like her own, yet there was no guarantee they had not been pre-destined. But she also knew that God could not be so cruel as to create a soul only to damn it. The alternative, of course, was that everyone went to Heaven, good or evil, Christian or not, but Revelation stated explicitly that there was a Hell, and believers had never dismissed the notion, for they lived in a world of suffering and needed to believe evil would be punished. Of course, all these thoughts were the stuff of speculation, and if two thousand years of debate had not settled the questions, she could hardly expect it of herself. Scientific empiricism and theoretical philosophies used to challenge her faith, but no more.

  Sitting on the log under the tree and basking in the comforting relief of the shade, Jennifer felt a stirring inside her. She had always felt something like that and could not recall a time when it had not been. It was a sense of the life force, which impelled her on in life. But this was different, something else. The fluttering was slightly lower down, in her pelvis. She must be about to menstruate. She thought about it and frowned. That was not possible. She should have menstruated already. She always coincided with the new moon, but that had been … She was two weeks late! With so much happening, she had lost track. Could she be pregnant? She hoped she was not. Her gaze fell on Simon in the cemetery below. What would he say? She straightened up. She was being ridiculous. She c
ould not be pregnant. She had just skipped a cycle. It must be the result of so much stress. Stress could easily cause a woman to miss a cycle. She sat motionless, still, without a breath. It could, though, couldn’t it?

  The old women’s chanting rose from the valley below.

  THE END

  ###

  Thank you for the time you have invested in reading to the end. If you enjoyed my book, a moment of your time to leave me a review at your favorite retailer would be greatly appreciated. Also, feel free to try my non-fiction treatise: Angelicals Reviewed.

  Many thanks!

  Izak Botha

  Acknowledgments

  I owe my gratitude to the members of my family, friends and professionals, who over the years have helped making this project a success.

  The first, of course, are my family and friends, who through their input and advice had given me direction when my compass veered from true north.

  To the reviewers, editors and proofreaders, who through their critiques, sometimes harsh, sometimes complementary, but always fair, have made me more determined to achieve what seemed the impossible, I say thank you.

  Particularly, I thank, The Literary Consultancy and their readers: Karen Godfrey, James Pusey and Dr Stephen Carver.

  For the editing and proofreading, I thank, Scribendi and their team: EM463, EM738, EM758, and the inimitable EM953, whom I would love to meet.

  Last but not the least, for the special role each of my local editors and consultants have played in the creation of this work, I thank: Charl-Pierre Naude, Rachelle Greeff, Rinette Champanis and Rose Shearer.

  About Izak Botha

  Izak Botha is a perpetual student of life, a former artist, athlete, performer with the Cape Town City Ballet, counselor, architect, entrepreneur, litigator versus multinational corporations, and now author of Homo Angelicansis, Angelicals Reviewed, and Blood Symbols, which made Semi Finalist in Publishers Weekly’s Book Life Prize 2017.