by Paul L Maier
“No,” Shannon laughed. “I can’t buy that scenario.”
“See, if that had been the case, then the disciples were geniuses, rather than the dolts they seem in the Gospels. But I’ll tell you when their scheme would have crashed—in Rome. In the arena. Just before he was hoisted up to a cross, Peter would have said, “Okay, friends. This was a great romp while it lasted, but a person could get hurt in this caper. I’ll turn state’s evidence!’”
“True. Someone said it well. Myths don’t make martyrs. ”
“Something about the papyrus has always bothered me,” said Jon. “Okay, we have Jesus lying dead up in Rama. Meanwhile, they find the Jerusalem tomb empty. Why, in heaven’s name, would they have thought anything other than grave theft? That should have been the end of Christianity. Now, ‘Nature abhors a vacuum,’ and so do I. You don’t build on a vacuum, an empty tomb, a ghost, or a spirit. You build on something. ”
“Don’t critics say the ‘something’ was wish-fulfillment and—”
“Yes, and hallucination, visions of the departed loved one. Hey, if Mary Magdalene were the only one involved—” he stopped short and said, “Incredible! I just realized we were sitting on her beach here!”
“What? Oh, that’s right. Migdal is the ancient Magdala.”
“Anyway, if only Mary had been involved, I might have suspected hallucinations.”
“Putting women down, Jon?”
“This has nothing to do with gender, Shannon. I’m talking numbers: one person.”
“Oh.”
“But beyond this one, we have hardheaded, skeptical sorts like Thomas or Saul of Tarsus, not to mention those five hundred up here in Galilee who saw Jesus after Easter. These people experienced a . . . an extraordinary personality transformation. How come they didn’t turn tail when the authorities tried to clamp down on them in Jerusalem after executing their leader? That had been par for their course up to that point! But now they’ll take on priests, governors, or the emperor himself! Why? They must have seen some enormously convincing reality in a resurrected Jesus. A ghost or a vision or a burgled tomb would never have been enough.”
Shannon gazed out at the deepening azure of the lake in the late afternoon. “Well, solve the riddle, then, Jon,” she said. “Rama looks absolutely authentic to me.”
“I know . . . I know . . . I know.” He stood up and scraped the sand off his legs.
“Here comes Naomi,” Shannon said.
“Shannon, I have one last crack at it. Tonight I’m rereading the final draft of the epitome, since it has to go to the publishers day after tomorrow. If I find anything out of place—any hint, any inconsistency—I’ll scream bloody murder!”
He found none. Late the next day, he asked, “Austin, do you remember when Gladwin Dunstable of the London Institute dug with you at Shiloh?”
“Yes.”
“Glastonbury interviewed him, and he said that you once asked him to send you some radiocarbon-datable materials from Pompeii so you could test them at Rehovot to see how close they’d come to AD 79.”
“Ah yes, the new lab there was ‘on probation,’ so far as I was concerned. That was, let’s see, back in ’72, I believe.”
“What did Dunstable send you?”
“Oh . . . some carbonized material buried by Vesuvius. A small piece of wooden tool handle, I think.”
“How well did the lab do?”
“The Weizmann did a rather worthy job, I seem to recall, pegging the material at, oh, about AD 50 to 60, plus or minus. Why do you ask?”
“I just finished Glastonbury’s section in the epitome, and that jogged my memory. I looked it up in his log, but the information wasn’t there.”
“Oh, probably too trivial.”
“By the way, I have to deliver the manuscript to the publishers in Tel Aviv tomorrow anyway, so why don’t I simply drive you to the airport, rather than Dick Cromwell?”
“A worthy scheme, Jonathan! I hate to have to go back to Oxford just now, but we have the annual meeting of the Rama Foundation, and I have to face a pack of rabid conservatives on the board. You thought you had trouble with J. S. Nickel!”
“When do you get back?”
“In about ten days. I have some business to tidy up too. Do hold the fort while I’m gone, won’t you?”
Later on, Jon would not be able to explain exactly why he decided to make the call, but he did. It was on the drive back from Tel Aviv that various options started boiling up in his brain. Stopping at the Albright Institute in Jerusalem, he put in a call to Dr. Reuben Landau at Rehovot and found him in. He asked if the Weizmann Institute had any records of radiocarbon testing back in the seventies. They did. Jon asked Landau if he might be kind enough to give him further detail on a sample that Austin Balfour Jennings had sent there, probably in 1972, which they dated to around 50–60 CE. Landau promised to check and call back.
Twenty minutes later, the phone rang and Landau reported. “We reference our tests both by years and also by clients, Professor Weber. And yes, this was the first time Professor Jennings used our facilities. It was on September 10, 1972, and the results were indeed about 50 CE, plus or minus the usual century.”
“Fine,” said Jon. “But what, specifically, was the sample? What did you test?”
“Let me see a moment here.”
Jon heard the creak of an opening file drawer, and Landau flipping through his records. Finally he came on the line again. “Oh, yes, here it is. It was three grams of granulated carbon.”
“That’s it? Nothing else?”
“No.”
A long pause ensued.
“Professor Weber? Are you there?”
“Ah . . . yes, Dr. Landau. I must have misunderstood something. But I’d appreciate your keeping my inquiry confidential.”
“Certainly, certainly. Let me know if I can be of any further assistance.”
“Thanks. I surely will. Good-bye.”
After hanging up, Jon soon felt like a first-class fool. Jennings’s sample had crumbled in transit. Or they had to granulate the tool handle for testing in any case. Any suspicions of Jennings had to be galloping paranoia. If he didn’t control it, next he’d be snapping at people who wished him a good morning: “What did you mean by that?! ”
Jon left the Albright and was halfway to the street when the same Germanic gene that had caused him to discover the cavern juglet now compelled him to return inside. Thoroughness is a terrible taskmaster, thought Jon. It had convulsed the world with Rama. Why was he responding to it?
Consulting an international scholars’ directory in the reference room, he found Gladwin Dunstable’s number at the London Institute of Archaeology and put in a call. The overseas operator said the line was busy, but she’d try again and call back.
Jon had barely finished reading the front page of the Paris-edition Herald Tribune when the phone rang, and the operator said, “I have Dr. Dunstable on the line, Professor Weber.”
Very little identification and small talk preceded Jon’s inquiry: “Reginald Glastonbury of Scotland Yard told us he interviewed you, Dr. Dunstable, regarding your past contacts with Austin Balfour Jennings, and I understand you could do a Boswell to his Johnson.”
“Oh, I doubt that,” he chuckled. “But Jennings is quite colorful, you know.”
“Indeed! But what interests me is one of your side recollections. Jennings asked you to send him some radiocarbon-datable material from Pompeii to test the new equipment at the Weizmann Institute in Rehovot—”
“Yes. That was on my way home from the Shiloh dig. Late summer of ’72, I believe.”
“What did you send him?”
“You know, that was sort of curious. He suggested that I scrape the soot off one of the bake ovens in a newly excavated sector of the Pompeii ruins—he didn’t care which—and send it to him in a lead-foil envelope. And he wanted quite a quantity, as I recall, because C-14 testing required larger samples in those days. Strange I should remember that, but I fou
nd a bake shop—I think it was along the Via di Nola—and then brushed away for the best part of an hour to get enough of the blinking stuff. Why do you ask?”
“Ah, I’ll explain in a moment. How much of the soot did you send him?”
“Oh, about thirty or forty grams, I think.”
“But what about the larger sample—part of a wooden tool handle, wasn’t it?”
“I . . . don’t understand.”
“I mean, what else did you send him besides that packet of soot?”
“Well, nothing, dear fellow. That was all.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, indeed. The authorities at Pompeii would never have let me send anything else out of the country. It was all I could do to get them to agree to the soot.”
“Yes. Of course.”
“But what’s the problem? Why do you ask?”
“Oh, nothing really,” he fibbed. “We’re publishing a summation of the Rama congress, and we have dozens of small details like this to nail down. This will just be anecdotal material to illustrate Jennings’s thorough approach.”
“Oh. Fine.”
“Thanks for your help, Dr. Dunstable.”
“Anytime, Professor Weber. Good-bye.”
Jon walked outside the Albright Institute and paced its evergreen-shaded lawn fronting on Salah-El-Din Street, fighting to control his rampaging thoughts. Wringing his hands, he stared back at the green shutters and buff limestone that was the Albright, shook his head, and paced some more. “No, there’s no other way,” he told himself. “Time to call Glastonbury.”
Linda, the Albright receptionist, a winsome brunette with deep brown eyes and endless patience, dialed the number Jon gave her and handed him the phone. What she heard next was clearly gibberish from another planet.
“You say you were trying to call me, Reginald? Why?”
For several minutes, Jon said nothing, although Linda could not help noticing his eyes getting wider and wider.
“Oh no!” he finally exclaimed. “That could be why . . . Good Lord, no! . . . No, what I have to say can wait till I see you . . . Yes, no question but that I’ll have to fly in. Let’s see . . . today’s Monday. I’ll try to make it there by Wednesday, Thursday at the latest. I’ll call you from Heathrow, if not sooner.
“But wait, Reginald: in the meantime, you must get to Gladwin Dunstable, swear him to secrecy, and explain how this seems to be shaping up. Then have one of your agents fly with him to Naples. There he’ll be met by Kevin Sullivan from Rome. Here’s Kevin’s number: 39-6-772-4181 . . . Got it? See, you’ll have to call Kevin first and have him clear permission with the Pompeii authorities. Then he must head for Naples to meet Dunstable’s plane. Tell Dunstable he should brush off more soot from the same bake oven he used in 1972 at Pompeii, if at all possible. No! I haven’t gone mad. I’ll explain it all later! Tell Dunstable to try to replicate every-thing, using a similar brush with the same pressure. Then tell him we need another packet of that soot back in London as soon as possible. Got that? . . . Fine. All right then, repeat the whole arrangement so I know you’ve got it down pat.”
A lengthy pause ended when Jon said, “Right! Not bad, Reginald. You can always fall back on sec-retarial work when you retire! See you soon!”
Handing the phone back to Linda, he said, “There, that all made sense, didn’t it?”
“Oh . . . certainly, Dr. Weber! And where’s your next dig? Mars?”
“Close! Thanks, Linda. And don’t forget to send me the bill.”
He left the Albright and looked at his watch. There should be time enough, but, Lord in heaven, how would he ever bring it off? He must go to the Shrine of the Book and perhaps commit a scholarly atrocity that would make Montaigne’s little snip-ping job look like a kindergarten caper! What could happen? He ran over the various scenarios:
1. The ideal: the titulus is released to his care, and he flies to London with scrapings of its ink.
2. Shrine authorities refuse any release, but when he gets access to the titulus, he somehow manages to scrape ink from it without their notice and flies to London with it.
3. The authorities discover the “atrocity” and arrest him. He explains his macabre conduct, and they let him fly to London.
4. Ditto above, except that the authorities are not persuaded, and they throw him in jail.
I can handle all but the last, he mused. Again, he paced the front yard of the Albright, pounding one fist into the other, thinking rapidly. No, there was also scenario number
5. The authorities are not persuaded, but he somehow escapes and flies to London.
But he would be hunted, in that case. All borders would be sealed, and it would be open season on Jonathan Weber. Though it is really quite simple, he thought, with grim humor. He must merely escape across the borders of the most closely guarded country on earth per kilometer—Israel—after an all-points bulletin had been issued for him. Nice work if you can get it!
But stop this madness! he told himself. Instead, come clean—convince the Shrine authorities. Ask for permission.
Then again, what he would ask was unparalleled in the history of archaeology. They would never agree. Never. Nor, probably, would they ever believe his reason for making the outrageous request. Jon shook his head grimly. Montaigne sacrificed his whole professional reputation. Perhaps he would have to do the same.
Again, he faced the façade of the Albright Institute, wondering if its neatly cut blocks of limestone somehow held a solution. And they did! The Albright’s sister institution, he recalled, was the American Center of Oriental Research in Amman, Jordan—ACOR—where Professor Walter Rast was editing his journal of the past summer’s campaign along the eastern shore of the Dead Sea. Jon had dug with Rast earlier in his career.
“Hope he’s still there,” said Jon, as he headed back inside the Albright. “He’s got to still be there!”
Again he approached Linda and said, “I know, it’s been ages since I saw you last, but this time let’s make it a local call. Do you have a direct line to the ACOR in Amman?”
“Sorry, Dr. Weber, it’s still international. But I’ll put you through.”
A short time later she handed him the phone, still smiling. Fortunately.
“Hello, is Professor Walter Rast still in Amman? . . . He is? Fine! May I speak to him? . . . Oh, he’s out to lunch? I’ll call back. Thank you.”
“Be back soon,” Jon promised. Then he went to the El Al office in West Jerusalem and purchased a ticket to London, stopping at a pharmacy next door for a package of five one-sided razor blades. Now he returned to the Albright and got through to Rast.
“Hello, sport! Jon Weber here . . . Great seeing you again at our final conclave! . . . Okay, Walt, I’m in something of a bind. First off, would you please check Wednesday morning flights out of Amman to London and buy a ticket in the name of Ernst Becker. You remember him, don’t you? I told you over a brew after our last plenary here . . . Good, you’ve got it. Now the next part gets a little tricky, but it could be a solution to Rama. Remember how you and I were looking across the Dead Sea the evening after I arrived at your dig many moons ago? And what I said about that narrow tongue of land almost touching Israel? . . . You do? Good!”
Jon looked around and spoke in lower tones. “Ah, Becker may have to take a swim at the beach near Masada late tomorrow night. He’ll . . . ah . . . be swimming eastward past the salt fields to Cape Costigan. And he wouldn’t at all mind if the likes of you were there with a little flashlight around mid-night to welcome him into Jordan . . . No, no. I haven’t suffered a breakdown over Rama . . .Yes, I know it’s dangerous, very dangerous . . . I am too playing with a full deck! And let me prove that. This is only a tertiary plan, which I doubt I’ll—he’ll have to use. It’s just a fall-back in case of emergency. Now, can you be at the ACOR about, say, 5:15 PM tomorrow? . . . Okay, the call should come through telling you go or no-go at that time. I’ll explain everything later on.”
Again Jon look
ed around to see if he were being overheard, but Linda—mercifully—had left her desk. Then he resumed, “I know, I know, Walt—possible mines, border patrols over there. You’ll have an escort if we have to go that route. Our State Department will contact Jordan’s . . . Sure, from the White House, no less . . . Yes, Becker will be in scuba gear, swimming past the canal and across to the base of the cape. Though again, I hope I won’t have to bother you with all this . . . Right. Call is at 5:15 tomorrow afternoon . . . Thanks, Walt! You’re a prince!”
Jon handed the phone back to Linda, who had returned in the meantime. Assuming a godforsaken smile, he said, “I . . . ah . . . know you’d really be disappointed if I didn’t make . . . one last call. This one’s to . . . ah . . . the White House in Washington, DC.” He handed her the card with the president’s private number and smiled. Where’s a camera when you really need one?
He checked his watch as he left the Albright: 2:30 PM. There was still time for a dry run to Masada. He drove out of Jerusalem and down the Jericho Road to the Dead Sea, where he checked his watch again, and then turned south along the shore road, past Qumran and En Gedi to the magnificent rock that Herod had fortified at the southwestern corner of the Dead Sea—Masada, the Gibraltar of Israel. The entire trip from Jerusalem had taken an hour and a half. Luckily he caught the last cable-car run for the day, taking the swift, spectacular ride from the base to Masada’s summit.
Although he had brought binoculars along, he hardly needed them because of the coin-operated high-power telescope so conveniently provided for tourists atop Masada. Dropping coin after coin into the instrument, he scanned the entire border area between Israel and Jordan at the southern end of the Dead Sea. Because of dropping water levels, the tongue that Jordan thrust into Israel’s face was now an almost solid land bridge between the two countries, broken only by a canal. The earth there, however, was soggy with pits of quick mud and crisscrossed with barbed wire—an unlikely route.
Next he scanned the beachfront at Masada and found the seaside spa he remembered from earlier trips. Tilting the telescope upward, he spotted his target near the base of Cape Costigan in Jordan. It looked to be no more than six or seven miles away.
