The Testimonium

by Lewis Ben Smith

  “I’m coming too,” said Josh, hopping off the bed. It was a bad idea—vertigo overwhelmed him and he had to grip the sides hard to make sure he did not fall over. But in a moment his balance returned, and he willed himself to follow the doctor to the next room. Isabella sat there, an expression of utter devastation on her face. Josh took her hand and kissed it, then stepped back so the doctor could do his work.

  The physician looked in both her ears and eyes, testing her pupils to see if they dilated properly. Then he asked Josh to step out while he did a quick physical exam. Josh moved into the corridor and leaned against the wall, breathing heavily, his head in his hands. Suddenly he heard the familiar chirp of his cell phone from the exam room where he had been moments earlier. He stepped in and found his jacket in a tray next to the bed with his other personal effects. He picked up the phone and saw his dad’s picture on the photo ID.

  “Hello?” he said after picking up.

  “Thank God, son!” his father’s distraught voice came over the line. “Your mother and I saw the explosion on the late news and feared the worst. Are you hurt?”

  “Not really,” he said. “Bumps and bruises, but nothing that won’t heal. Listen, Dad, I will talk to you later, but I need to check on Isabella. I’m OK; just ask the Church to pray for all those who aren’t.”

  “All right, son,” his dad said. “Call soon! I hope Isabella is all right.”

  Josh ducked back into the other exam room after a quick knock. Isabella was buttoning up her blouse. “She got off even lighter than you,” said the doctor. “One ruptured eardrum and some bruises and contusions, plus that little gash on the forehead. I put a couple of butterfly stitches in it and placed a bandage over it, which she needs to leave in place for now. If possible, I would like to keep both of you for observation overnight—”

  “First things first,” said Josh. “How is Dr. Rossini?”

  The Italian doctor frowned. “Not good,” he said. “They took him to the Critical Care ward and were prepping him for surgery last I heard. But that was an hour ago.”

  “Is there a place where we could sit while we wait for him to come out of surgery?” Isabella asked.

  “Let me see,” said Castrillon. He punched a few commands into the computer in the exam room and looked at a lengthy list of names. “It appears he has been assigned a room on the third-floor Intensive Care when he comes out. Why don’t you just wait there, and they will bring him in as soon as they finish operating.”

  So it was they found themselves seated in a quiet room with a hospital bed between them. There were two chairs, one a recliner, which Josh insisted Isabella take. A television was mounted on the wall, and he turned until he found an English language cable news broadcast. The attack on the lab was headline news, and he turned up the volume to catch the details.

  “This is Meagan Hauser with GNN news,” the perky anchor said. “Details are still emerging from the horrific attack at the National Museum of Antiquities in Naples, Italy, three hours ago. The confirmed death toll stands at seven so far, with several victims still being treated. Among those victims whose names have been released are Dr. Simone Apriceno, a well-known paleobotanist; Cardinal Heinrich Klaus, a respected Vatican archeologist and church leader; British journalist Valeria Witherspoon; and two American tourists, Tristan Wooten of Campbell, Texas, and his fiancée Brooke Blue of Commerce, Texas, who were hit by debris from the truck bomb while shopping in a nearby market. Also killed was the self-confessed bomber, Islamic radical Ali bin-Hassan. Hassan emailed his videotaped confession and manifesto to our station and several other news outlets moments before the blast. This is a short clip of what he said.”

  The screen went black, and then a grim, bearded face appeared. Josh was shocked to recognize the man—he had seen him at least twice during his five days on Capri, hanging around Mrs. Bustamante’s restaurant. The imam was speaking in English during this part of his statement, so no subtitles were necessary.

  “The infidels have defiled the lands of Allah with their unbelief, and done their best to shake the will of the faithful around the world,” the cleric intoned. “Now they produce this forged scroll to prove that the Prophet Isa—peace be upon him—was in fact the son of Allah, who neither begets nor is begotten. This forgery is a clear attack upon the religion of truth, designed to shake the faith of the simple. Such an assault on the truth of Islam cannot be tolerated! Those who defile the name of Allah and his prophets cannot be suffered to live. Those who question the truth of the Holy Quran must die. That is why this lying scroll and those who would foist it upon the world must be destroyed. Allahu Akbar!”

  Isabella clicked the remote and the cleric’s face disappeared. She stifled a sob.

  “To think that the best and kindest man I have ever known could be crippled for life by such a medievalist thug!” she said. “It is more than I can bear. Oh, Josh, Giuseppe has been like a father to me.” He took her in his arms and held her tight as she wept again.

  About a half hour later, the doctors wheeled Giuseppe into recovery. Both his legs were gone at the knee, and there was an oxygen mask over his mouth, but his eyes were open and clear. Isabella took him by the hand, and he squeezed gently. The faintest suggestion of a smile crossed his lips.

  “I can only let you stay a moment,” the doctor said. “He is very weak, and the prognosis is still uncertain. His children will be arriving soon.”

  Rossini’s mouth was moving, and Josh and Isabella leaned in close to hear what he was saying.

  “I am glad . . . the two of you are all right,” he said in a weak whisper. “Isabella, you make me so proud. Don’t let this attack quench your fire for truth! Joshua . . .”

  “Yes, Giuseppe?” said Josh.

  “Take care of her for me,” he said. “You are a fine young man. Make her happy. And . . . tell Antonia . . . that I may not be able to make our date.” He smiled faintly and closed his eyes. Then they fluttered open one more time. “I want you to know, Josh . . . I am not afraid. If He rose from the dead . . . I know death can’t hold me either.” His eyes closed again. His breath became slower and more regular.

  Josh stood with tears in his eyes. He looked at Isabella, who was sobbing as if her heart would break. “Let’s get out of here,” he said.

  They paused long enough to sign the papers agreeing not to hold the hospital liable if they both keeled over and died as soon as they left the building, and then Josh led her out into the waiting room. To his surprise, Dr. Martens, Alicia, and Dr. Guioccini were waiting for them.

  “I cannot tell you how glad I am to see the two of you in one piece!” said the Antiquities Bureau archeologist.

  “These Okies are tough, Bernardo,” said Martens. Alicia simply took Isabella by the hand and then caught her up in a gentle hug. Josh looked over at Guioccini.

  “The scroll?” he finally said.

  “Safe and sound!” said the Italian. “Sinisi and MacDonald had taken it out of the lab only a few seconds before the blast. For once Vincent’s insatiable obsession with appearances proved to be a very good thing.”

  Josh let out a long sigh of relief. “Where is Father MacDonald?” he asked.

  “He just went up to be with Rossini. I think he wants to be there . . . in case,” said Guioccini.

  Josh nodded. He didn’t think Rossini would survive the day, but he did not say so. “So what next?” he asked.

  “We are going to take Isabella home. It is important that I speak with both of you for a few minutes, and then I am going to let you both rest. You have been through enough for one day,” Bernardo added.

  The four of them climbed into a waiting limo. Martens was managing his crutches better, Josh saw. He commented on his mentor’s quick recovery.

  The older man laughed. “Actually, it still throbs like crazy. But after this morning’s carnage, my ski injury just doesn’t seem nearly as important. How are you feeling, Josh?”

  Josh thought about it for a long time. “Numb,” h
e finally said. “I just don’t think I can absorb one more blow today. I knew the scroll would attract opposition, and I was ready to go to bat for it—but the idea that someone would kill just to keep its message from being heard! It’s still hard for me to believe.”

  “Islam has been at war with the rest of the world since its inception,” said Guioccini. “Not all Muslims are, of course—most of them are simple, peaceful people who simply want to worship their god and raise their children in peace. But Islam is the only one of the world’s great religions whose holy scriptures call for an ongoing war against all nonbelievers. Most Muslims want to put the ‘sword passages’ behind them as a violent stage their faith went through in its infancy—but others do not. Those who believe that jihad is essential to Islam regard Christianity as the greatest threat to their cause. This scroll—which seems to prove that the most important claim of the New Testament is based on actual facts, not myth and legend—is the worst threat to their faith in a generation.”

  Josh clinched his jaw, and his eyes took on a steely hue. “I will NOT let those bastards win!” he snapped.

  Guioccini nodded. “Nor will I, my young friend.”

  Moments later, they pulled up outside Isabella’s apartment and helped her out of the limo. Now that the initial shock and adrenaline had faded, both she and Josh were beginning to feel sore all over. Fortunately, they both had been prescribed some Percocet to help them deal with the pain. After the elevator deposited them on her floor, Isabella let them into the apartment. They all sat down around her small dinner table. Guioccini spoke quickly.

  “The two of you have been through a horrible ordeal,” he said, “and I do not intend to impose on you long. But I want to propose something to you. This attack was made for the purpose of suppressing your discovery. The best way to honor the sacrifice of those who died this morning is to go right ahead with our plan to release it to the public. I would like to reschedule our press conference for tomorrow afternoon at three PM. If you are physically able, I want you two to be the ones to share our findings with the media. Are you willing to do that?”

  Josh looked at Isabella, and she met his glance with a determined nod. He looked at Guioccini and nodded himself.

  “There is no way I am going to let them silence us,” he said. “We will be there!”

  “Then I shall not keep you longer,” said Guioccini. “Please, both of you get some rest. I will—” He was interrupted by the ringing of his cell phone. He glanced at the incoming number and wrinkled his brow. “Yes, Dr. Castolfo?” he said.

  The voice at the other end was clearly agitated, and as he listened, Guioccini became equally agitated. “She can’t be!” he snapped. “Yes, Benito, I will turn it on immediately!”

  Josh looked at him with a raised eyebrow as Guioccini grabbed the TV remote. The Italian archeologist looked at him with anger radiating from his eyes. “Tintoretto has gone ahead with her press conference,” he said, turning on the television.

  The news channel showed the familiar façade of the National Museum of Antiquities in the background. Smoke was still visible rising from behind the building. Maria Tintoretto stood on the steps, her expression grim. She was about to begin speaking, and Guioccini turned up the volume.

  “I would like to thank the members of the press for agreeing to meet me this afternoon,” she said, “especially in light of the horrific events of this morning. Let me begin by offering my sincere condolences to the families of those who were killed or injured in this terrible attack and my personal best wishes for those recovering from their injuries.”

  “No prayers?” asked a reporter.

  “Talking to an empty sky does nothing to heal wounds or cure diseases,” she snapped. “But you have touched upon part of the reason why I am here, so let me explain. As most of you know, two days ago the so-called ‘Pontius Pilate scroll’ was translated and read to the members of the Bureau of Antiquities. It was immediately apparent to me that this so-called artifact was nothing but a clumsy forgery, a piece of pro-Christian propaganda most likely planted by the Church some time ago in hopes that it would be found and used to bolster their belief in an archaic and obsolete god-myth. However, as the board discussed it further, it also became apparent to me that our members were entirely taken in by this fraud, and were ready to present it to the world as a genuine chronicle from the time of the legendary Jesus of Nazareth. When I raised my voice in objection, the president of the board allowed me to be shouted down and verbally abused by the American member of the dig team, who is the son of a fundamentalist preacher and a religious primitive of the worst sort. What I wanted to do was demand that the surrounding artifacts from the chamber be subjected to the most rigorous of testing, and the scroll itself be carbon-dated, before it was presented to the public. When I was not even given a chance to finish my proposal, I walked out and resigned from the board.”

  There was a buzz of comments among the press representatives, and several reporters began shouting questions. Tintoretto raised her hand and the media grew quieter. “I will take questions, but let me finish my statement. Obviously, I had no idea what would happen this morning—no one did—but I do want to draw your attention to the circumstances. This ‘Testimonium Pilatus’ was to be read and presented to you this morning as an authentic historical document. Supposedly, all the other artifacts from the chamber on Capri would prove its antiquity and authenticity once they were tested. But now, behold! The lab is destroyed, and all the associated artifacts are gone forever. This completely removes them from all scientific scrutiny! So we are handed the scroll as a fait accompli, with absolutely nothing to back up the claim that it is nearly two thousand years old. Awfully convenient, don’t you think, ladies and gentlemen? I tell you, this has the cold, oppressive hand of the Holy See written all over it! I submit to you that the discovery, the announcement, and this morning’s terrorist attack were all engineered by the Church in order to make this fraud appear credible!”

  The reporters roared back in amazement, anger, and disbelief. Antonio Ginovese spoke loudest and first. “Doctor Tintoretto!” he shouted, and she nodded. His cameraman stuck the mike closer to her as Ginovese repeated his question. “I know you are aware one of the victims of this attack is a respected and powerful Cardinal of the Church. Surely you cannot be proposing that the Vatican ordered the murder of one of its own princes?”

  “Why not?” she sneered. “The Church has always been eager to pave its path to power with the blood of its own believers. Martyrdom, they call it, don’t they?”

  Guioccini was livid with rage. “That BITCH!” he roared. “I am going down there right now! This cannot be allowed to stand unanswered! I will send a car for you later, Luke!” He literally ran from the apartment.

  The rest of them continued to watch the press conference in disbelief and outrage. The American, Andrew Eastwood, was asking another question. “Dr. Tintoretto,” he said. “Can you tell me how you know for certain that the ‘Testimonium’ is a fake when the rest of the Antiquities Board seems to accept it as an authentic and ancient manuscript?”

  “Because it describes events that did not and could not have possibly happened!” she snapped.

  “What events are those?” asked the American reporter.

  “The same ones chronicled in that fourfold fairy tale known as the Gospels,” she replied. “That this obscure carpenter was in fact a deity who rose from the dead!”

  “So your problem with the scroll is not with its condition or the circumstances of its recovery, but with the fact that it confirms the Gospel narrative?” he pressed. Josh mentally blessed the dogged young reporter for his persistence.

  “I have many problems with the circumstances of its recovery!” she shot back. “For example, why did the team include both a representative from the Vatican AND an American evangelical? Why were the two of them left alone on Capri while Dr. Sforza returned to the mainland to meet with the board? There was ample opportunity for a substitution to ha
ve been made inside the chamber!”

  Josh groaned and rolled his eyes, and then felt his cell phone vibrating in his pocket. He glanced at the Caller ID and saw that it was Father MacDonald, then answered.

  “Father!” he said. “I am glad to hear from you.”

  “You won’t be, laddie,” said the voice of the priest. He sounded a hundred years old. “I have bad news. Rossini . . .” For a moment MacDonald could not go on, and Josh heard him stifle a sob. “Giuseppe is with the saints now, lad.”

  Josh didn’t even remember hanging up. He looked at Isabella, and she started crying anew at the expression on his face. He slowly nodded, and then went to her and held her as she sobbed bitterly.

  Luke Martens got up and placed his hand on Josh’s shoulder for a moment in silent prayer, and then he and Alicia made their exit. Josh waited till they were gone, scooped Isabella up in his arms, and carried her to her bed. She never quit clinging to him and weeping. He laid her down gently and pulled the blankets over her, then sat on the edge of the bed. Finally she spoke.

  “First Marc,” she said. “Then my papa . . . and now Giuseppe. Every man I have ever loved has been taken from me, Josh!”

  He pressed his lips gently to her bandaged forehead. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said gently.

  Her gaze fixed on him. So much love shone from his eyes that she finally managed a tiny smile. “You know,” she said, “this is not the way that I hoped to finally get you here!”

  He laughed. “It wasn’t something any of us expected,” he said. “But I will stay here tonight and keep an eye on you. I don’t want to be alone, either. Let me get you one of those painkillers, and I will stay with you till you can go to sleep.”

  “You won’t leave then?” she asked plaintively.

  “Only as far as the couch,” he promised.

  He walked back into the den and turned to the television, which was still on. Dr. Guioccini had gotten to the front of the museum in a matter of minutes, and was now addressing the reporters as Tintoretto tried to interrupt. “This press conference is the most gross and disrespectful breach of professional ethics and personal integrity I have ever seen!” he thundered. “The forensics teams are still picking up pieces of Simone Apriceno from the ruins of her lab, and this vile woman calls a press conference to denounce our beloved colleague as a fraud? For shame, Doctor Tintoretto! Even your anti-religious mania should allow for more decorum than this!”