The Jesus Germ

by Brett Williams

  Cantwell just shook his head. ‘Let’s finish up for the day and take a swim in the river.’

  They worked the site for six more weeks, unearthing a variety of broken clay pots and jars, but little else.

  Early on a Sunday morning a man rode into the camp on horseback and greeted Cantwell outside his tent.

  ‘Mr Cantwell, a letter from Sir Timothy Sivewright.’

  He leant from his saddle, handed over an envelope then rode away.

  Cantwell removed a single sheet of paper filled with Sir Timothy’s familiar longhand.

  My dear Geoffrey,

  Most excited to receive your letter. The find sounds fascinating and I am keen to see the ornaments for myself. I have spoken to Professor Charles Webster regarding the frogs and from the detailed descriptions you gave he is working to identify them.

  Geoffrey, you and the men must return to London immediately. I regret recalling you from the warmth of your current locale, for we are in the grip of a bitter winter. Snow and ice choke the streets, not to mention the cutting gales.

  The Royal Society will clamber over hot coals for this discovery.

  I also have another project in mind, which I will advise on your return. With true winds, I hope to see you within four weeks.

  Trust the men are fit and in good spirits. God speed, dear Geoffrey.

  Sincerely yours,

  Sir Timothy Sivewright.

  Cantwell folded the letter as Dixon emerged from his tent stretching and yawning.

  ‘Did I hear a horse gallop out of camp?’

  Cantwell waved the letter at Dixon. ‘Correspondence from Sir Timothy, we’re heading home.’

  ‘What then? - A trip to Peru in search of Inca relics and a lost city of gold? Regardless, I’ll need a couple of weeks swilling beer at the Boar and Whistle to prepare me for another adventure,’ Dixon put his case.

  ‘I might persuade Sir Timothy to allow you to accompany me to some of the finer establishments of Europe, and you never know, the ladies on the continent may just take a shine to a scrubbed-up bull in a dinner jacket,’ Cantwell said.

  Dixon’s ears pricked up.

  ‘John, let the men know we’ll break camp at midday. I’ll walk into town and lead the horses back.’

  With the sun at its peak, the last of the crates were hoisted onto the long cart. Dixon and Cantwell sat at the front with a black crocodile-skin case wedged between them while the others followed on horseback. They travelled to the Mediterranean Sea where they transferred the equipment to Sir Timothy’s ship, Hercules, then sailed through the Strait of Gibraltar into the Atlantic winds and at last entered the quiet flow of the Thames.

  Sir Timothy Sivewright watched excitedly as the Hercules nudged the dock and lowered its sails. Two sailors ran out a plank, and Cantwell was first off the ship. London was covered by a dusting of snow and a light breeze sent flurries spinning through the air. Sir Timothy greeted Cantwell, wrapping his arms around him, slapping his back with gloved hands.

  ‘Welcome home, Geoffrey. Spring can’t come soon enough. Come, I have the fireplaces burning at Wilsbury and some liquor to warm the soul.’

  ‘Thank you, Sir, but excuse a brief word with Mr Dixon.’

  Dixon was lifting a box out of the hold onto the whitening deck.

  ‘John,’ Cantwell called over the gunwale.

  Dixon banged the box down.

  ‘John, I’m travelling with Sir Timothy to Wilsbury. As soon as the Hercules is unloaded, take the equipment to the London warehouse where we can sort it in a few days’ time.’

  ‘Consider it done, Geoffrey.’

  He withheld a wisecrack since Cantwell was usually the first to bend his back. ‘And don’t forget this.’

  Dixon passed the crocodile-skin case over the gap above the icy Thames.

  ‘Thanks, John. I appreciate your help in this wretched weather. I’m sure Captain Thorpe’s lads will be keen to assist secure the Hercules and enjoy some shore leave too. Let our boys know we’ll meet at the Boar and Whistle next Thursday at midday, when I hope to have an idea of Sir Timothy’s plans for us. See you soon, Mr Dixon.’

  Cantwell departed with a wink.

  The snow kept falling, building a blanket on the dock, decorating the Hercules’ rigging like a Christmas tree. The wind picked up as the men carried crates down the gangway onto a waiting wagon. The hitched horses stood patiently while Dixon gathered his crew on the dock, thanked them and told them of the meeting.

  ‘Enjoy yourselves, men, you’ve earned it. Mr Cantwell informs me he’ll have your pay when we meet at the Boar. Now get going. I don’t want to see your ugly faces till then,’ Dixon said with barely disguised seriousness.

  With rousing cheers the men dispersed into the cobbled streets. Dixon climbed onto the wagon, steering the horses toward the heart of London.

  Cantwell quelled Sir Timothy’s enthusiasm by suggesting they wait to examine the ornaments by good light and the warmth of the drawing room at Wilsbury.

  The horses slowed through the gated entrance of the estate. The lawns were covered in snow and the carriage left deep ruts as it wound its way to the mansion. Sir Timothy and Cantwell disembarked, briskly climbing the stairs to an imposing oak door where a butler relieved them of their coats and mentioned the other guests were waiting.

  Cantwell’s bones slowly thawed. He followed Sir Timothy to the drawing room where a roaring fireplace dispelled the cold. Great stag antlers leered off the walls and a thick redwood chart table rested on a Persian silk rug of the finest quality. Dim light from the high windows was brightened with oil lamps. Relaxing on a leather couch with their backs to the door were two gentlemen, their faces glowing in the firelight. They rose to greet Cantwell and Sir Timothy.

  ‘Gentleman, it is tremendous to see you both and good of you to accept my invitation. This is Geoffrey Cantwell, the finest archaeologist God put breath into,’ Sir Timothy said.

  Cantwell humbly shook their hands.

  ‘Geoffrey, this is Professor Charles Webster, head of biology at the Royal Society, and Doctor Vincent Scanlan, an expert in antiquities.’

  ‘I’m honoured to meet you both,’ Cantwell said.

  ‘The pleasure is ours, Geoffrey,’ Webster said.

  Sir Timothy had a gleam in his eye. ‘Enough formalities, gentleman. Open the case, Geoffrey.’

  Cantwell lifted the crocodile-skin case onto the table, flicked the latches and raised the lid. He took out the ornaments, laying them down to a collective gasp.

  ‘May I?’ Scanlan said.

  ‘Go ahead,’ Cantwell said.

  Scanlan picked up an ornament, holding it against the light of an oil lamp. Sir Timothy took another for himself, marvelling at its beauty while Professor Webster shook with excitement. Cantwell watched them with delight as they examined their trophies.

  ‘They’re Harlequin frogs,’ Webster said. But I’ve never seen any like these. They’re extraordinary.’

  ‘Geoffrey, do you have the coins?’ Scanlan said.

  Cantwell pulled a tightly wrapped handkerchief from his trouser pocket and unravelled it. Scanlan picked out a coin to examine.

  ‘What can you tell us, Vincent?’ Sir Timothy said.

  ‘It’s a denarius. The surface is a little pitted but otherwise it’s in fair condition. The obverse side shows the head of Tiberius Caesar and on the reverse, a woman sitting on a chair holding a staff. That is Livia, dressed as Pax, mother of Tiberius, wife of Augustus. Note the spiral legs of the chair, meaning this coin is pure silver. They were minted in huge numbers until Tiberius’ death in 37 AD. It is the coin mentioned in Matthew’s and Mark’s Gospels. Jesus asked the Pharisees and Herodians whose head was on the coin. He instructed them to give to Caesar what is Caesar’s and to God what is God’s. The Bible reference makes them very collectable.’

  ‘So, the ornaments are from the same era?’ Webster said.

  ‘It’s possible,’ Scanlan said.

  ‘Charles, what can
you tell about the frogs?’ Sir Timothy said.

  ‘Harlequin frogs are in fact toads without teeth. Their bright skin produces toxic secretions, fatal to small birds or snakes if eaten. They possess a rudimentary gland called the Bidder’s organ, enabling males to develop functioning ovaries. Female harlequins are the only female amphibians to emit mating calls. Their life cycle from egg to adult takes just a few weeks,’ Charles finished his short dissertation.

  ‘Can you tell the gender of these frogs?’ Cantwell said.

  ‘While they remain inside the glass it’s almost impossible, Geoffrey. In some species, the males are larger than the females and in others the differences are indiscernible. These frogs are similar in size but could be either sex. Same goes for colouring. Males and females can be identical or so vastly different even an expert might mistake them for separate species,’ Webster said.

  ‘We could break open the ornaments and dissect them out,’ Scanlan said.

  ‘The thought crossed my mind, but the chance to preserve such fine specimens means I have decided against it. They should be on permanent display in our natural history museums,’ Sir Timothy said while pouring four glasses of port.

  ‘If this harlequin is extinct, they will prove to be valuable artefacts,’ Webster said.

  ‘I propose a toast to Geoffrey Cantwell and his men for their magnificent find. Raise your glasses to the biological discovery of the century,’ Sir Timothy said.

  The men tapped glasses and downed their ports in one swig.

  ‘A lovely drop,’ Scanlan said, hinting at a refill.

  ‘Grown on Wilsbury Estate and cellared for fifteen years waiting for the right occasion,’ Sir Timothy said.

  ‘The frogs appear imbedded in a transparent yellowish substance. Any ideas what it might be?’ Cantwell said.

  ‘No, but the clarity is extraordinary, the workmanship divine and to find them in perfect condition is most fortunate,’ Webster said.

  ‘We could still break one open,’ Scanlan said.

  Seeing his benefactor’s annoyance, Cantwell interrupted. ‘Charles will discover much about these frogs without dicing them up.’

  ‘Anything you need, just say the word,’ Sir Timothy said.

  Cantwell continued. ‘Modern day harlequins might be related to these frogs via an evolutionary twist.’

  ‘Evolution, Geoffrey, a precarious new theory according to the Catholic Church,’ Webster said.

  ‘Talk of evolution has been around for years, Charles. Lately though, there have been rumblings in the scientific community. A few of your contemporaries have strong views on the topic without espousing them in public for fear of reprisals. The Holy See is damning of such anti-creationist sentiment. As an evolutionist, the Church would plant horns on your head, a pitch fork in your hand and a barbed tail on your backside,’ Cantwell said.

  Scanlan had little idea to what Cantwell alluded. ‘Excuse my ignorance, gentlemen, but please explain this so-called evolution theory?’

  ‘Put simply, the theory proposes that organisms subjected to continuous changes in their environment, will, in order to adapt and survive, produce subtle physiological changes of their own over subsequent generations that in time result in diversity of species. Failure to adapt can be a precursor for extinction. Take the Dodo bird. Discovered on the island of Mauritius in 1598 by Portuguese explorers it had no natural predators. But within one hundred years it was extinct, unable to cope with the ravages of introduced animals such as dogs, cats, pigs, rats and monkeys, not to mention man. The ground-nesting, flightless Dodo could do little to prevent its own demise short of learning to fly, but the slow-moving cogs of evolution were unable produce the wings of an eagle overnight. Now there are no complete specimens of the Dodo left. The last stuffed specimen, housed in the Ashmolean Museum in Oxford, became so moth-eaten the curator ordered it thrown out around twenty years ago. The head and part of a foot are all that remains,’ Cantwell said.

  ‘Interesting, Geoffrey,’ Scanlan said, somewhat enlightened.

  ‘I didn’t realise you were familiar with the theory, Geoffrey. What you have outlined is consistent with the view of many of us in the scientific world, contentious though it may be. Sir Timothy, are you a creationist or an evolutionist?’ Webster said.

  ‘Well, Charles, I don’t wish to disappoint you but I am a God-fearing man. I’d hedge my bets on the side of the Creator although I admit aspects of evolution theory seem logical and compelling,’ Sir Timothy said.

  Sir Timothy called the butler, whispering to him to bring a selection of Panamanian cigars. Each man took one, lit with a glowing coal from the fireplace, and soon the drawing room filled with smoke that drifted slowly up through the high windows.

  ‘Fine tobacco,’ Scanlan said, relaxing into his chair.

  The men discussed God versus evolution into the early afternoon while draining two bottles of Sir Timothy’s finest port.

  ‘Charles, I want you to study the ornaments and prepare a scientific paper. The university will see fit to release you on my promise of a substantial boost to their building fund.

  ‘Geoffrey, you and the men must take some time to rest. Let the lads know they are still in my gainful employ. I want to meet in a month, this time over dinner. In the meantime, I will piece together an itinerary to tour the frogs across the continent. The harlequins will be the highlight of the academic year. Clear your schedules for the next six months and you will be richly rewarded for your efforts.

  ‘Charles, your work with the harlequins remains a closely guarded secret for now.

  ‘Vincent, take a coin to examine if you wish.

  ‘Gentlemen, I value your input. Charles, remember to keep me updated.’

  Sir Timothy stood to cue the meeting’s end. He motioned Cantwell to remain in the drawing room while he showed Webster and Scanlan out into the ankle-deep snow and a waiting carriage.

  Cantwell was admiring a large set of stag antlers when Sir Timothy returned and pressed a weighty bag into his hand, followed by a smaller pouch pulled from his breast pocket.

  ‘A token of my appreciation, Geoffrey.’

  Cantwell shook Sir Timothy’s hand. ‘Thank you, sir, you are more than generous.’

  The pouch was filled with small diamonds.

  Sir Timothy walked Cantwell to the door.

  ‘Geoffrey, about the other project I mentioned in the letter I forwarded to you Nazareth. I haven’t resolved all the logistics as yet. For now, I want your full concentration on the harlequin project. Suffice to say, expect a long sea voyage of many months,’ Sir Timothy said with mounting excitement.

  ‘Geoffrey, I live an extraordinary life, blessed in more ways than you’ll ever know. I’ve worked hard, deserved my financial success and am well regarded in circles of influence throughout Europe and the Americas. I have properties from Gibraltar to the Greek Islands. Lady Sivewright and the children are holidaying in Spain as we speak, but for all my good fortune, Geoffrey, I feel a part of me remains unfulfilled. I wish to leave a legacy of wonder at our natural world, not just bridges and buildings named in my honour.

  ‘The harlequins represent a small piece of the world that might have been lost forever, and funding the discovery has given me great satisfaction. You may think the places I send you, and the treasures you seek, quite fanciful, but I have lofty dreams, Geoffrey. The things I hope to find may not exist or have ever existed. I am well aware of your scepticism and considered opinion in this regard. Your unquestioning loyalty is well noted.

  ‘So, my friend, the quests will continue under your leadership if you will afford me the honour.

  ‘Also, Geoffrey, I wish to save my soul and spend eternity in a paradise far greater than here on Earth. Currently I am the camel trying to squeeze through the eye of the needle, however much of my wealth aids the less fortunate and promotes scientific research. Having a position of power allows me this indulgence and I trust God will forgive my riches.

  ‘Now, Geoffrey, I ha
ve spoken more of myself than is healthy. I will no longer bore you with philosophy and philanthropy. Thank you for listening. See you in a month. Tell the men they are retained on full pay, but must be ready to depart the Thames in seven months.’

  ‘Again, I am indebted to you, Sir Timothy. I admire your sentiments and am honoured to continue our journey of exploration and discovery together. As you know, Mr Dixon is an integral part of our team and highly thought of by the men. His dry wit and robust manner were eagerly sought when he accompanied us to Paris last spring. In short, Sir, I request he join us in Europe.’

  ‘Consider it done,’ Sir Timothy said.

  Cantwell donned his coat ready to brave the weather outside.

  ‘There is a carriage at your disposal, Geoffrey. I will forward you details of the upcoming dinner.’

  Cantwell walked out of the mansion into the bleak afternoon and the porter gently shut the giant door behind him.

  15

  The Boar and Whistle was a welcome sight. Outside was cold and deeply overcast with London in the grip of a bitter freeze. Rooves, heavy with snow, overhung shop-fronts buried deep in powder.

  Oil lanterns shone through the frosty windows of the inn, beckoning passers-by. Cantwell stopped and admired the taxidermized head of a pig fixed above the entrance. Protruding from its mouth, like a pipe, was an oversize silver boson’s whistle. Tapping the pouch of gold coins in his coat pocket, Cantwell pushed through the oak door.

  Dixon spotted him first. ‘Hey, you ugly rogue,’ he shouted over the din of conversation.

  A rowdy cheer erupted from the long table where Cantwell’s men sat. Clearly, they had arrived some time before. Great silver jugs littered the ironwood table, and mugs stood brimming with beer.

  ‘What kept you, Geoffrey?’ one man said.

  Cantwell calmly withdrew his pocket watch, checking the time.

  ‘Unless I am mistaken it is not yet the stroke of noon, my good men. I only wish you were as eager to leap from your tents in the morning to grab a pick and shovel.’ His straight face cracked into a wide smile and his men joined in the merriment.