“My dear girl,” he said, “I must admit that I was quite shocked to see you and my son holding hands on the evening news back in the States, when he had barely mentioned you up to that point. That being said, I am delighted that you two have such an interest in each other.”
Isabella smiled warmly. Josh’s dad reminded her of an old cowboy from an American Western, with a faint drawl, a tanned, leathery face, and a kind smile. She said, “Well, sir, I must confess that I found him pretty irresistible from the start.”
Josh laughed. “Not nearly as irresistible as I found her!” he said.
His mother beamed. “I am just so proud my baby boy has finally gotten interested in girls!”
Josh rolled his eyes. “Mom, I have been interested in girls since I was ten years old!” he said. “I just had a hard time . . . expressing that interest.”
He was blushing to the roots of his hair, and Isabella was enjoying herself enormously. “Well,” she said, “I can see where Josh gets his good looks.”
Reverend Parker smiled. “And I can see why he found you so charming!” he said.
Mrs. Parker looked over her glasses at Isabella. “You two aren’t . . . you know—”
Isabella leaned forward with a conspiratorial air. “Sadly, your son has resisted my every effort to plunder his virtue!”
“MOM!” Josh shouted, flushing scarlet, while Dr. Martens and Alicia leaned against one another hooting with laughter.
Reverend Parker did his best to look stern. “A good thing, there!” he said. “I am not familiar with Italian customs, but in Oklahoma we have these things called ‘shotgun weddings’!”
Isabella looked at him with an air of studied innocence. “Now why would anyone want to marry a firearm?” she asked.
About that time another knock came at the door, and Josh rushed to answer it, eager to be away from his parents for a moment. Father MacDonald stood at the door, looking a little more rested and relaxed than he had on television.
“I heard that there was a party going on,” he said with a touch of his old mischievous humor.
“What the heck!” Josh said. “Come on in. Mom and Isabella are taking turns to see who can embarrass me the most!”
“Well, I certainly would not want to miss that!” the Scottish priest said.
Josh walked him in and introduced MacDonald to his parents. “Mom and Dad, this is Father Duncan MacDonald, one of my colleagues and a renowned Vatican archeologist. Duncan, this is my father, Reverend Ben Parker, and my mom, Louise Parker.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Father!” said Parker, holding out his hand. He had always gotten on well with Catholic priests in the communities where he pastored, regarding them as a different department, but working under the same management he did.
“Good day to you, Father MacDonald!” said Josh’s mom. “I must confess to you that I was raised by two old hard-shell Pentecostals who taught me that Catholics were all the devil’s minions—but I never could see my Jesus rejecting some sweet people just because they were too fond of his mother!”
Josh groaned. His folks were in rare form today. MacDonald, on the other hand, threw back his head and roared with laughter. He took Louise’s hand and placed a gallant kiss on it.
“Well, dear lady,” he said, “I can see where Josh gets his gift of charm from! I have never been so sweetly insulted in my whole life!”
“Oh, I meant no offense, Father!” Mrs. Parker said. “I truly love our Catholic brothers and sisters.”
MacDonald chuckled. “No offense taken, my dear. Josh and I have been re-fighting the Protestant Reformation since we met, but we’ve become good friends in the process. He’s got a keen mind and a good heart.”
Reverend Parker patted his wife’s arm. “She is an impossible woman,” he said. “I only married her to spare some other man such an awful fate!”
She turned to her husband. “And here I thought you said it was because I had an excellent set of ‘breeder’s hips’!”
Now it was Reverend Parker’s turn to blush. “That’s quite enough, dear!” he said. Then he turned back to Father MacDonald. “I must admit, sir,” he said, “I just don’t feel right not going to church on Sunday. Is there an afternoon mass my wife and I might attend somewhere?”
MacDonald raised an eyebrow. Not many Protestant ministers from America volunteered to attend an Italian Catholic service. “I would be glad to take you and your wife to the three o’clock mass,” he said. “But I am afraid I do need to take Josh and Isabella from you for an hour or so first.”
“What’s going on?” Josh asked, but as the words left his lips he remembered. “Is it about Giuseppe’s service?” he asked.
The priest nodded, and the room grew quickly still. The humor drained from the air in an instant. “His son and daughter will be waiting for us at twelve thirty,” he said. “I told them we could meet over at the museum boardroom and go over the service together.”
“I’m still not sure why they want me to speak,” Josh said. “I loved Giuseppe dearly, but I only knew him for a couple of weeks.”
“Why don’t you come with me,” said the Scottish priest. “I’ll let his son explain it to you.”
Josh and Isabella excused themselves and stepped out of the room after MacDonald. As they made their way toward the elevator, Josh realized that being with his parents had already begun to heal him, both spiritually and physically. He still grieved for his friends, but his father’s steady presence and his mother’s deliberate silliness had reduced that grief to a manageable ache instead of a devouring gloom. In his heart, he said a prayer of thanks that they had come.
“Dr. Parker!” the hotel’s maître d’hotel said as they passed the front desk.
“Yes?” Josh said.
“I hate to bother you, sir, but could you pick up your messages? They are really starting to stack up!” the man said.
“I picked them up Friday, didn’t I?” Josh asked.
“Well, actually, it was Thursday evening,” the manager said.
Josh nodded. “Of course,” he said. “The last few days have got me a bit rattled. Let me have them and I will read them as we walk to the museum.”
“That might be a difficult proposition,” said the rather prissy Englishman.
“How so?” asked Josh. “How many are there?”
“Three laundry bins full, and counting!” said the maître d’hotel.
Josh slumped, stunned. “All right, then,” he said. “Send them to my room and I will go through them later.”
MacDonald looked at him, amused. “Seems as if you are officially now a celebrity, lad!” he exclaimed.
Josh rolled his eyes. “That is the last thing I need!” he replied.
After running through the usual gauntlet of reporters outside the hotel, they briskly hiked down the block to the museum. Josh was stunned when he saw a large crowd gathered outside, many of them holding signs. The largest group was holding up crucifixes and other Christian emblems. A few of their signs were in English, and Josh read them across the square. SEE, WE TOLD YOU SO! The first one read. Another read CHRIST IS RISEN INDEED! Yet another carried that hoary old warning uttered by every prophet of doom from Jeremiah onward: REPENT!
A second group seemed composed primarily of Muslims. More of their signs were in English, not Italian, and some were in Arabic. One read in bold letters: VIOLENCE IS NOT THE WAY OF THE PROPHET. A shame all Muslims didn’t share that philosophy, Josh thought as he remembered his slain friends. Another sign said JESUS: A PROPHET, NOT A GOD! And another contained the Shahada, the age-old confession of the Islamic faith: THERE IS ONE GOD AND MUHAMMAD IS HIS PROPHET. One angry-looking cleric carried a more militant sign: DEATH TO THOSE WHO PRACTICE SHIRK! Josh knew that in the Quran, the sin of shirk was to associate the glory of God with another. Muhammad and the caliphs who followed him all taught that, by honoring Jesus as the Son of God instead of just another prophet, all Christians were guilty of shirk.
The th
ird group was the smallest, and seemed to be composed primarily of well-dressed, academic-looking men. One of them held up a sign that was simply a cross with a red slash through it. Another waved aloft a quote from Voltaire: MAN WILL NEVER TRULY BE FREE UNTIL THE LAST PRIEST IS STRANGLED WITH THE BOWELS OF THE LAST KING. Another simply read: HAVEN’T WE KILLED ENOUGH PEOPLE OVER GODS THAT DON’T EXIST?
Josh shook his head. Here was freedom of speech in its rawest, purest form. The three groups shouted slogans back and forth, and some of their leaders argued vociferously near the center. He and his two companions skirted along the edge toward the doors of the museum, and almost made it in without being recognized. By the time the demonstrators saw them and stampeded toward the door, they were close enough to slip in without being detained. The security guard firmly locked the doors in the faces of the howling crowd, and Josh and Isabella looked at one another with relief.
“Sorry, lad,” said MacDonald. “There was only a handful gathered when I headed over to the hotel, but their numbers are growing by the minute.”
“I’ve called the police and asked for extra security around the museum from this point forward,” said Dr. Castolfo, who had been waiting for them. “Of course, that is over and above the extra security we have had in place since the attack Friday. I am not exactly on Police Chief Zadora’s ‘Friends’ list anymore!”
Josh sighed. “I wonder how long this will go on?” he asked. “And how will we be able to get any work done at all?”
“One thing is clear,” said Castolfo. “When we transport the scroll, we will have to have some heavy security along for the ride!” He paused, and then looked at Josh and Isabella sympathetically. “But that should be the least of your concerns. Giuseppe’s children are waiting for you in the boardroom. Take all the time you need and I will drive you back to the hotel when you are ready to return. Follow me.” He turned and led them to the second floor, where the ornately appointed meeting room of Italy’s Board of Antiquities was located. Josh paused at the door, remembering his trepidation when he had shared the contents of the scroll with the board only a few days before. Then he stepped in and gasped in shock.
Giuseppe Rossini stood before him—about twenty years younger, but the smile, the crinkles around the eyes (albeit less pronounced), and the wavy dark hair were identical. He gulped and realized he was staring, then said, “I am sorry, Mr. Rossini. You look so much like your father that it is a bit unnerving!”
Guillermo Rossini smiled. “You are not the first to say that, Dr. Parker,” he replied in heavily accented English. “I’ve actually had a couple of my father’s old girlfriends hit on me before.”
His sister rose and joined him. Very pretty and feminine, she still carried the strong stamp of Giuseppe’s heritage on her features as well—piercing blue eyes, aquiline nose, and a smile that was just as infectious and ingratiating. “It is good to meet you, sir,” she said in impeccable English. Josh remembered that she had gone to college at Yale, according to her proud father. “I am Andrea Rossini-Pellata.”
Isabella stepped through the door and embraced them both. She had met them on several occasions when she was Giuseppe’s student, although the last time they had met was at their mother’s funeral. They chatted together in Italian for a moment, and then turned back to Josh.
“I am sorry, Dr. Parker, Father MacDonald,” said Andrea. “We forgot our manners for a moment.”
Duncan smiled. “I haven’t worked at the Vatican this many years and not learned some of your local lingo, my dear!” he said.
“I am just an ignorant foreigner, but, please, call me Josh,” Parker added.
“Well, Joshua,” said Guillermo, “come and sit at the table with us. My sister and I have been dying to meet you for the last two weeks.”
They moved to the large conference table together, and sat down, clustered at one end. Guillermo took the head of the table and gestured for Josh and Duncan to sit at his right, while the two ladies sat across from him. Once they were settled, Giuseppe’s son looked fondly at the American.
“You are probably wondering why we have requested that you speak at our father’s funeral,” he said.
“The thought has crossed my mind since your request was relayed to me by Father MacDonald here. I loved your father as a good friend, but my acquaintance with him was very brief. Surely there are others who would be better able to remember him publicly,” Josh said.
Brother and sister looked at one another and smiled. “You have no idea of the impact you had on our father’s life,” said Andrea. “That is the reason we chose you. He thought very highly of you during your brief acquaintance.”
Josh looked puzzled. “I don’t understand,” he finally replied.
“I thought you might not,” said Guillermo. “So I printed these out for you.” He handed Josh a sheaf of papers. “I ran them through an Internet translator, but Andrea assures me it got the gist of his words correctly.”
“What are they?” asked Josh.
“His nightly emails to us,” replied Giuseppe’s son. “Dad wrote faithfully, every evening that he could, to tell us about his day and stay in touch. I copied and pasted all the paragraphs where he talked about you, and the discovery you shared. I want you to read them as soon as you can. Then I think you will have a better idea what to say tomorrow afternoon at the service.”
“I must admit I am now very curious,” Josh said. “If I may—”
“By all means,” said Andrea. “We need to do some catching up with Isabella, and go over the order of service with Duncan as well.”
“Two o’clock tomorrow, right?” asked Josh as he moved down to the other end of the table.
“That is correct, Josh,” said the priest. “And Simone’s service is at one o’clock the next day.”
Josh nodded and sat down, the conversation at the other end of the room quickly fading to a low buzz. He looked down at the first email and began reading, and it seemed as if immediately he could hear Rossini’s booming voice echo through the room.
“My dear children,” read the first one. “You must forgive your old man his failure to communicate the last couple of days. I have made a remarkable discovery up at the Villa Jovis, uncovered by the earthquake that rattled the island on Easter Sunday. I cannot, as yet, tell you exactly what it is, but I can tell you that Bernardo and Isabella have assembled an international team to conduct the excavation here at the site! A remarkable team they are, too. You have heard me talk about my old friend Duncan MacDonald, the Scottish priest and expert on papyrus. He is here, along with Simone Apriceno, the paleobotanist who helped me out on that dig at Crete back before I hurt my leg. Isabella and I are the team leaders, and there is one other fellow in the group as well—a remarkable young American named Joshua Parker. He seems a very pleasant fellow, even though he is one of those Evangelical Christians you read about in the American press. I must admit, I was expecting him to be more of a knuckle-dragger! But he comes to us with first-rate academic credentials and seems to be very solid in his field techniques. He knows a lot about first-century Rome as well. I think I will enjoy working with him, even if he does seem to have eyes for Isabella. Of course, every man who sees her tends to suffer from that malady!”
Josh smiled, remembering how sternly Giuseppe had warned him against tampering with Isabella’s emotions when they first met. He turned the page and read the second email.
“Dear Children, the work at the Villa Jovis goes on, and the discoveries are remarkable! While much work remains to be done, I can tell you we did find a signed letter, perfectly preserved, bearing the actual signature of Tiberius Caesar, the second Emperor of Rome. We are continuing to excavate, and more discoveries are coming forth every day. It is far and away the most exciting discovery I have ever been party to!” Josh smiled, remembering how enthusiastic Giuseppe had been about their discoveries in the chamber.
The missive went on: “I am becoming better acquainted with Dr. Parker, and the better I know h
im the more I like him. He is a first rate scientist and a man of faith, something that is very rare these days. He not only believes that all the New Testament tales about Jesus of Nazareth are literally true, he can argue point by point why history proves them to be so! In fact, he has forced me to re-examine some of my own beliefs in the process. He is quite a good-looking young fellow as well, and unless I miss my guess, he has caught Isabella’s eye. She looks at him in a way I haven’t seen her look at anyone since Marc died—and he returns her gaze with equal ardor. It does my old heart good to see her happy again, and I don’t think Joshua is the sort to take advantage of her affections.”
Josh flipped through several more of the emails. In each of them, Giuseppe informed his children about the excavation as much as his professional confidentiality would allow, and also talked about his growing friendship with the other members of the team. But again and again he returned to the subject of Josh. “Our latest discovery, without saying too much, has the potential to either compromise or confirm some very important parts of the New Testament narrative about Jesus,” he wrote after they had found the Pilate scroll. “Joshua is as unflappable as ever. He is so firmly convinced of the historical truth of the Biblical claims about Jesus that I don’t think he even considers the possibility that our discovery might reveal a very different story. I must admit, I envy him his certainty. I will write you more on the topic as soon as I can, but for the moment I am under a vow of confidentiality.”
Josh kept reading. After the contents of the chamber were transferred to the mainland and the archeologists enjoyed their night on the town, Giuseppe had written faithfully, commenting again and again how delighted he was to see Isabella and Josh falling in love with one another, and hinting that he might be developing a romantic interest of his own, although he never mentioned Mrs. Bustamante by name. After reading several more, Josh came to the last email in the stack.
The Testimonium Page 36
