The Demas Revelation

by Shane Johnson

  The room went silent. No one had an answer.

  “How can something make so much sense,” she added, “and yet at the same time, make no sense at all?”

  Mercer shook his head.

  “Well,” Anna said, “we’ve come to a parting of the ways. There’s nothing more to be done here.”

  “What do you mean?” Beth asked, no longer so anxious to return home.

  “I want you all headed home tomorrow afternoon. I contacted the airline, and the arrangements have been made.”

  “But what about the site?” Beth asked, hopefully, wanting the woman she so admired to tell her she needed her. “The foundation hasn’t been completely cleared, and we could—”

  “I’m turning the dig over to the museum. You were going back to the States anyway, remember? Your enthusiasm and support have been invaluable, and I love you all, but you have other responsibilities waiting. I’ve kept you away from your theses and your families long enough.”

  The students’ heads hung low.

  “Well,” Roberto said, “we sure can’t say we didn’t learn anything.”

  Seven

  News of the find had crossed land and ocean with lightning speed. The North American continent, with the world’s highest per capita Christian population, had received word just after noon on the day of the leak. Immediately sensing blood and unprecedented vulnerability in the water, atheists and long-time critics of the Christian church’s every facet filled the domestic airwaves, crowding talk shows and news broadcasts, crowing proudly that they had been right all along, that their minds had been the rational and reasoned ones.

  And in the span of that first hour after the news broke, two hundred fifty million people who had professed themselves as followers of Christ no longer knew who he was. A church body largely weakened by decades of political correctness and social pressure, having embraced carrying a lighter load rather than gaining a stronger back, found itself unable to cope with an adversity their forefathers would easily have weathered.

  As the report was repeated throughout the day, stating that the “confession of Peter” had been verified as authentic, many believers stood steadfast. They knew what they knew and clung to the hope that somehow, in some way, the document would yet be proven false. Others went into complete denial, as if the news had never broken and there was no crisis with which to deal. Still others went into mourning, crying hysterically or locking themselves away, unable to deal with what they were hearing.

  And some simply went to the phone book and picked out a religion not too dissimilar from that they had known, based largely on geographical proximity.

  Pastor Jerry Orsen left his office for the day and crossed the freshly paved parking lot, headed for the new Mercedes waiting for him in his reserved space, its bronze and chrome gleaming. The pavement was uniformly black, its new striping standing out sharply in vivid white. The new landscaping surrounding the lot was awash in color, with blooms of red and yellow and blue nestled amid vivid green. So many such improvements had been made since Orsen had taken the helm, with many others to follow.

  As he neared his car, he noticed an elderly man sitting on one of the concrete benches installed alongside the beautiful new flower garden. The man was dressed in a gray suit that showed its age but wasn’t tattered. His hat, too—a fedora—had seen better days since leaving the milliners,which, judging from the wear around its edges, had been well before the Second World War. He held a small paper bag of peanuts, from which he had been feeding squirrels.

  “Afternoon,” Orsen said, uncomfortable with the man’s presence and never breaking stride.

  The gnarled stranger stared at him, his face shadowed by the brim of his hat, his fingers curled as if by arthritis, and gave a subtle nod of acknowledgment.

  Orsen turned toward his car and pressed the button to deactivate its alarm system. As the expected chirp sounded and he opened the door, he caught an odd flurry of motion at the corner of his eye, a swirl of light and dark. He glanced over at the man again.

  He was sitting there as before. Still staring.

  “Lovely day,” the pastor added.

  And then, never blinking, the man spoke in a voice bolder than Orsen would have expected.

  “He will tear down what you have covered in whitewash,” he said, “and will level it to the ground, and when it falls, you will be destroyed in it.”

  Orsen, taken aback, paused before speaking. Though he was shaken, his tone as always remained jovial. “I look forward to seeing you Sunday morning, friend.”

  He climbed into the car, started it up, and headed home. As he sat at the edge of the lot, waiting to pull out onto the street, he looked into his rearview mirror, which framed the now-distant bench.

  It was empty.

  Jack Dyson drove south, hoping his was not a race against anything—or anyone—but purely against time. Not knowing who might have seen the papyri, Anna had warned him that he might not be alone in his quest for the second trove.

  He found himself pressing a little harder on the accelerator.

  With him were two Italian archaeologists with whom he had worked before, both men of solid reputation, whose credentials were impeccable. Gianni Valerio and Stefano di Meo worked their notebook computers as he drove, calling up reference data on the excavations at Pompeii and reacquainting themselves with the ancient city’s layout. Dyson had given them the file Anna had provided—a simple description of the specific location accompanied by an even simpler map.

  “She really said it was in the Villa of Juliae Felicis?” Stefano asked. “That should make it easy. It’s one of the few places in the city where we have the actual name of the ancient owner.”

  “And it’s one of the more impressive houses in town,” Dyson observed. “A big place. As I recall, the owner rented upstairs rooms with a five-year lease. Had its own public baths and gardens, and art to die for. It wouldn’t be an unusual choice for hiding something, especially if you wanted someone to be able to find it later without too much trouble.”

  “Who?” Gianni asked. “Who hid the scrolls there?”

  “Supposedly the ‘scribe of the apostles,’” Dyson said. “Whoever that was. If not the apostles themselves.”

  Mount Vesuvius rose ominously to Dyson’s left, its formidable shoulders tinged with the golden light of the sun rising behind it.

  “Don’t blow up, baby,” he joked. “Not while we’re here.”

  The miles swept by. The peace of the road, largely empty at that early hour, was welcome. The beauty of the surrounding countryside, more visible with each passing moment, briefly wiped away the urgency of the excursion, and the possible risks involved.

  “So,” Gianni wondered, “where exactly in the house do we dig?”

  “Sorry,” Dyson said. “It’s ‘need to know,’ guys. I’ll tell you when we get there. Anna’s really nervous about this. She doesn’t know who she can trust and who she can’t.”

  “So she’s taking a chance on you,” Stefano laughed.

  “And don’t think I don’t appreciate it.”

  “You don’t trust us?” Gianni kidded. “After all the times we’ve made you look good?”

  “A promise is a promise.”

  “Especially one made to such a bella ragazza,” Stefano said, kissing the back of his own hand.

  “That may have a little something to do with it,” Dyson admitted with a grin.

  Soon their exit presented itself, and they left the highway, finding themselves on a narrow, paved road. The fields and groves around them looked especially green and lush in the early-morning light, reflecting the fertility of the region’s volcanic soil. That richness came at a price, however, as those of the area well knew.

  Dyson slowed. Not wanting to risk detection by those who made it their job to protect the ex
cavated town, he parked in the lot of a nearby business. From there, they would walk to their target.

  “We’re about a quarter of a mile from the Julia Felix villa,” he said, killing the engine. “We should be able to get there from here without being seen. If we’re spotted, we’re legit archaeologists, remember. Don’t panic. Just tell them we’re checking something out for the Museo Archeologico Milano.”

  “I’d feel better if we had a few security men with us,” Stefano said. “Just in case.”

  “I’ve always hated when people do what we’re about to do,” Gianni said.

  “Yeah,” Dyson replied, grabbing a canvas gym bag, “but it’s for a good cause. We’re trying to keep something out of the hands of looters so it won’t wind up for auction and sold to a private bidder. If it’s here, it belongs in a museum.”

  “Right,” Stefano agreed, nodding.

  As they climbed out of the car, a chilled breeze swept past. Dyson zipped up his jacket halfway and adjusted his collar, then the three left the car behind. The villa they sought lay at the very edge of town, making access and their mission easier than it otherwise might have been.

  They made their way across field, road, and trail, finally entering the city proper. Once there, they crept along the Via del Abbondanza—the “Road of Plenty”—hugging the ancient walls of the buildings along its south side, trying to attract as little attention as possible. Across the narrow thoroughfare, still unexcavated, rose a twelve-foot wall of compacted volcanic soil, the face of a large area within which lay buildings, artifacts, and no doubt, human remains as yet unknown.

  When Vesuvius erupted in AD 79, the city had at first been buried in pumice and volcanic ash to a depth of ten feet. Hours later, in the latter stages of the cataclysm, a pyroclastic surge had rushed down from the mountain, its scorching violence slicing away almost everything standing above that point. Few buildings had retained their upper floors, and none had survived unscathed.

  Dyson had been here many times. They all had. As they moved along, once more they felt the magic that permeated the place—there, time did not exist. Dyson always felt that, had he arrived but a day sooner, he might have captured the city in its vivacious prime.

  And then, it stood before them—the Villa of Julia Felix.

  Following the destructive earthquake of AD 62, the owner of the once resplendent building, the daughter of a wealthy man named Spurius Felix, had decided to offset the cost of rebuilding by renting out some of its upper rooms as apartments and shops and by making its generous baths public. Signage chiseled into stone at one north entrance, which specified the name of the owner, the rooms offered, and the five-year duration of the lease, had inadvertently preserved her name forever.

  The men approached the villa cautiously, looking around to make sure they hadn’t been noticed. “I’ll handle the chisel work,” Dyson said. “You two stay out of plain sight, but watch for any sign that we’ve attracted attention. Digging the thing out of the wall is going to make some noise … Nothing I can do about that.”

  “Right,” Gianni said. “Good luck.”

  Dyson flipped open his phone and called up the photo Anna had sent him. Zooming in on the crude map, he determined that the artifact in question rested inside a wall of the atrium north of the main portico. He paused, inhaled the cool sea air, and made his way into the room, where he hurriedly located the correct point in the specified wall.

  Two cubits above the floor, he had been told. Estimating with palm widths, he chose his spot.

  Man, I hate doing this!

  He pulled the chisel and hammer from his bag and started to work, intensely conscious of the distinctive sound his tools were making. He tried muffling the noise by wrapping the chisel in a rag, but still the toll of metal into stone rang out. He repeatedly looked back over his shoulder and scanned the courtyard, finding no one each time.

  We might just get away with this.

  The chisel dug at the mortar, freeing a few of the stones from their home of thousands of years. Since the day Julia’s workmen had set them in the shadow of Vesuvius, they had remained unmoved.

  Until now.

  He pulled the stones away, carefully setting them one by one on the floor, trying to minimize the damage. When an area of almost two square feet had been opened, he pulled a small flashlight from his pocket and shined it into the hole.

  Something red glinted low and to the left.

  Again, the chisel freed the stone. Sundered mortar coated the floor at his feet. Finally, he set his tools aside and reached into the opening. His hands found cold, smooth stone.

  A box. Of red travertine.

  Twisting his body to create leverage, he freed the box from its dark tomb and pulled it clear, into the light. For a few moments he couldn’t help but study it. Polished smooth, it was featureless save for a seam running around the sides, a groove filled with dark, hardened wax.

  Bull’s-eye, Anna.

  “Thank you, Dr. Dyson,” a voice sounded, echoing in the room. “You’ve saved us a bit of effort.”

  He spun around to see a face he knew—and dreaded.

  Raphael.

  Unblinking blue eyes were fixed on him, piercing, set amid angled features. Framing the eyes was a crop of short, perfectly arranged blonde hair. Below them, a chiseled jaw. His clothing was impeccable, his heavy cotton shirt tucked into pleated gray slacks. But Dyson’s eyes registered none of this. They were locked upon the dark open barrel of the automatic pistol being leveled at him.

  Three other men emerged and entered the atrium. All carried guns equipped with silencers, every weapon trained on Dyson.

  “I’ll be taking that,” Raphael said, indicating the box. “I have a very interested party waiting. Interested … and generous.”

  “You don’t even know what’s in it,” Dyson said.

  “But I do,” Raphael replied, smiling. “And soon, so will the whole world.”

  Dyson detected movement to his right, beyond the portico door. A loud report rang out and stone exploded near Raphael’s head. The bullet dug deep into the wall, shattering ancient plaster and limestone. The looters fell back, seeking cover outside the doorway in which they had been standing. Dyson ran for the portico, only to be cut off halfway along the covered walk as another man emerged at its far end, his gun raised. The professor, weighed down by the travertine box in his hands, dove sideways through an opening in the wall to his right and found himself in the triclinium of the house—the dining room.

  Unfortunately, like many triclinia, it was enclosed on three sides. There was only one way in—or out.

  He looked around and up, desperate for an exit. The ceiling, coated with shards of stone from the river Sarnus, looked for all the world like that of a cave. A small opening on the back wall admitted light but was too narrow for a man to pass through. Dyson reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew the small pistol he had brought with him, just in case. Rarely did he carry one. But today, knowing the possibilities, he had. He knelt low, hugging one end of the U-shaped stone couch on which diners once reclined, and tried to get out of sight, away from the door. Looking out across the way, he saw Gianni taking cover across the courtyard, his gun also drawn.

  With the box tucked under his arm, Dyson slowly approached the doorway. The only doorway. He took position at its side but no longer saw Gianni across the way.

  “Come now, Doctor,” Raphael called out, the direction of his voice disguised by echoes. “I only want the box. I have no interest in killing you.”

  Dyson didn’t reply.

  Do they know where I am? Did they see me come in here?

  He took another cautious look around the edge of the doorway, his pistol primed and ready.

  A searing impact struck his shoulder and jarred him, spinning him and knocking the gun from his hand. He fell back
ward, the box crashing to the floor as he landed hard against the stone couches. His head slammed into the wall, but he didn’t lose consciousness.

  Raphael entered and approached the box, his gun leveled at Dyson, who could do little to stop him. One of his men stood just outside, scanning the courtyard. Dyson’s hand, clamped to his shoulder, was covered in something warm and wet.

  “You might want to get that shoulder looked at,” Raphael mocked. “Bullet wounds can be rather nasty. Ask your friends outside … though I’m afraid one of them is no longer capable of answering you.”

  Bending down, he took the box. Then he was gone.

  After a moment Dyson struggled to his feet. Retrieving his gun with his bloodied left hand, he staggered outside and across the square, almost losing his balance as he crossed one of the ancient reflecting pool’s three bridges. There was no further sign of the looters.

  Gianni lay still, his body sprawled in the cool grass, his face raised toward the sky. Dyson tried to find a pulse, but his own hands were shaking, his grip weak. Stefano, blood soaking the side of his gray sweatshirt, was on his hands and knees. Dyson went to him, trying to lend what help he could.

  “Take it easy,” Dyson said, helping him into a sitting position. “Looks like you took one.”

  “So did you.”

  “Just a scratch.”

  “Gianni …”

  “I don’t know,” Dyson said. “Looks bad.”

  He winced, burying the urge to cry out in pain. The bullet buried deep in his shoulder was agonizing. He was losing blood. His right arm was going numb. With his left hand, he struggled to pull his phone from his pocket and dial for help.

  A man appeared at the edge of the courtyard, a security guard. He had heard the unsilenced shot fired by Gianni.

  “Chiami un’ ambulanza!” Dyson shouted, trying to recall his seldom-used Italian. “Questi uomini sono gravemente feriti … ci serve aiuto!”

  “Presto!” Stefano weakly added.