Sensing no reservation in his strong eyes, she could tell that Bersei wanted to remain objective.
“Have you finished scanning the skeleton?”
“All done.”
“Great.” Standing, he snatched a printout of the Web page from the printer. “Let me show you how to put it all together.” He gestured to the skeleton laid out on the workstation. “Then we can see what that guy really looked like.”
31
******
Temple Mount
At precisely twelve o’clock, Razak strolled over to the square wooden table where Graham Barton was seated in front of the tiny open-air café, drinking black coffee and reading the Jerusalem Post. Seeing Razak, Barton folded the paper and stood to greet him.
Razak proferred a humble smile. “Good morning, Graham.”
Barton offered a hand and Razak accepted. “ Assalaamu ‘alaykum,” Barton said in respectable Arabic.
Razak was impressed. “Wa ‘alaykum assalaam. We’ll need to work on that, but not bad for an infidel,” he said, smiling.
“Thank you. I appreciate that. Please sit.” The archaeologist motioned to the chair on the table’s opposite side.
“This was a fine choice.”
“I thought you’d like it.” Barton had purposely selected this popular, small café in the Muslim Quarter since, as of late, he’d been hearing rumblings that Jewish shopkeepers weren’t taking kindly to Muslim guests— more fallout from the theft’s aftermath.
Pulling in his chair, Razak was immediately approached by a young male Palestinian waiter, painfully thin, just sprouting a sparse beard.
“Will you eat, Graham?”
“Yes, if you have time.”
“Any preferences?”
“Whatever you recommend.”
Razak turned to the waiter and rattled off a few dishes—the restaurant’s famous hummus with black beans and roasted pine nuts, pita bread “hot please,” he specified, falafel, two shwarma kabobs—and asked for a pot of shai mint tea “with two cups,” purposely in English so as not to make Barton uncomfortable.
Once the waiter had jotted everything on his pad and read it back, he retreated to the rear kitchen.
“Tell me, what have you found out?”
Barton’s face lit up. “Something quite extraordinary.” He reached into his shirt pocket and anxiously pulled out a folded sheet of paper. “See here,” he opened the paper and laid it out for Razak. “On top is a photocopy of the original text, below it, the English cipher. Why don’t you take a moment to read it for yourself?”
Briefly, Razak admired the beautiful handwriting of the ancient script. Then his eyes skipped down the page to the translation.
Having fulfilled God’s will, I, Joseph of Arimathea and my beloved family wait here for the glorious day when our fallen Messiah shall return to reclaim God’s testimony from beneath Abraham’s altar, to restore the holy Tabernacle.
Razak’s expression showed his confusion. “Who is this Joseph?”
The waiter returned with a steaming pot of tea and Razak covered the document with his hand while the young man poured out two cups.
Barton waited for him to leave. “Joseph is the man whose skeleton is in the ninth ossuary. You see, the Hebrew name ‘Yosef’ translates in English to ‘Joseph.’ ” He gave Razak a moment to let that sink in and continued, “Have you ever heard of Joseph of Arimathea?”
Razak shook his head.
“I’m not surprised. He’s an obscure first-century biblical figure who appears only briefly in the New Testament.”
Sipping his tea, Razak suddenly looked uneasy. “And what does the book say about him?”
The Englishman spread his hands on the table. “Let me first say that most of what we hear about Joseph of Arimathea is purely legend. That’s what’s most interesting about this find.” Barton was speaking quickly, but in a hushed tone to avoid being overheard. “Many say he was a wealthy tradesman who supplied metals to both the Jewish aristocracy and Rome’s bureaucrats, both of whom needed steady supplies of bronze, tin, and copper to produce weaponry and mint coins.”
“An important man.”
“Yes.” Tentative, Barton continued by saying, “In fact, the Gospels of Mark and Luke state that Joseph was a prominent member of the Sanhedrin—the council of seventy-one Jewish sages who acted as the supreme court of ancient Judea. The Gospels also suggest that Joseph was a close confidant of a very famous, charismatic Jew named Joshua.”
The name didn’t register with Razak, but Barton was looking at him like it should. “Am I supposed to know this Joshua?”
“Oh you know him,” Barton confidently replied. “Some Hebrew translations also refer to him as ‘Yeshua.’ The original Greek gospels referred to him as ‘Iesous.’ ” He could tell Razak was growing impatient with the name game. “But surely you know his Arabic name,...‘Isa.’”
Razak’s eyes went wide. “Jesus?”
“And though Joshua—or Jesus—was the second most popular name here back in the first century, I don’t think the Jesus I’m referring to needs any explanation.”
Razak shifted in his chair.
“Following Jesus’s death, Joseph was said to have gone to Gaul— modern-day France. Accompanied by the disciples, Lazarus, Mary Magdalene, Philip, he preached Jesus’s teachings. Supposedly around 63 CE, he even spent time in Glastonbury, England, where he acquired land and built England’s first monastery.”
Sipping more tea, Razak raised his eyebrows. “Go on.”
“Fast-forward to the Middle Ages and Joseph becomes a cult hero with monarchs fabricating lineal ties to share his fame. And during this time another story surfaces, claiming that Joseph possessed Jesus’s crown of thorns and the chalice he drank from at the Last Supper.” Barton paused to let Razak absorb all the details. “Some believed that Joseph collected the blood of Jesus’s crucified body in that cup.” He noticed Razak’s lips purse at the words “crucified body.” “Better known as ‘the Holy Grail,’ the cup was believed to possess healing powers and granted its owner immortality.”
“Those certainly are fantastic stories,” Razak stated. “Surely you’re not suggesting that the thieves thought the missing ossuary contained the Holy Grail?”
Pursing his lips, Barton made a dismissive motion with his hand. “There are some fanatics out there,” he admitted, “but no. I’d certainly not push that idea.” He continued tentatively. “I decided to do a bit more research on Joseph of Arimathea using the most convenient and relevant handbook available.” He held up a book.
Razak’s eyes bored into the copy of the New Testament he held. “More legend,” he said cynically.
Knowing that the New Testament would be a touchy matter, Barton expected this reaction. Any discussion of Jesus had to recognize that Muslims revered him as one in a long series of human prophets that included Abraham, Moses, and Allah’s final servant, Muhammad. Under no circumstances would Islam accept any man or prophet as an equal to God himself. It was this pillar of Islamic faith that to Muslims rendered the Christian concept of the Trinity absolute blasphemy, creating the most significant rift between the two faiths. And this book was considered by Muslims as a gross misinterpretation of Jesus’s life.
Ignoring the jab, Barton forged on, “Of the twenty-seven books in the New Testament, four give detailed historical accounts of the prophet Jesus: Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. Each specifically mentions Joseph of Arimathea.” Barton flipped open the Bible to a section marked by a Post-It note, trying his best to steady his now trembling fingers. What he was about to propose was amazing. He leaned closer across the table. “All four accounts essentially say the same thing, so I’ll just read this first excerpt from Matthew twenty-seven, verse fifty-seven.” Then he slowly read the passage:
As evening approached, there came a rich man from Arimathea, named Joseph, who had himself become a disciple of Jesus. Going to Pilate, he asked for Jesus’s body, and Pilate ordered that it be given to him
. Joseph took the body, wrapped it in a clean linen cloth, and placed it in his own new tomb that he had cut out of the rock. He rolled a big stone in front of the entrance to the tomb and went away.
Barton raised his eyes from the pages. “I’ll read that one sentence again. ‘Joseph took the body, wrapped it in a clean linen cloth, and placed it in his own new tomb that he had cut out of the rock.’ ”
Razak’s mouth gaped open. “Surely you don’t think—”
The waiter suddenly appeared and Razak stopped mid-sentence, waiting for the young man to set down the plates and leave before continuing.
Razak took a deep breath. “I see where you’re going with this, Graham. It is a very dangerous theory indeed.” He took some bread and scooped hummus onto his plate. It smelled spectacular.
“Please hear me out,” Barton continued softly. “We have to at least entertain the idea that the thieves may have truly believed that the missing ossuary contained the remains of Jesus. And this scroll we found in the ninth ossuary clearly references the messiah. It’s far too precise to ignore.”
As he explained this to Razak, Barton was beginning to feel the full weight of Father Demetrios’s subtle warning. The words on this scroll could potentially undermine traditional commemoration of Christ’s mysterious benefactor, because the loculi deep beneath the Church of the Holy Sepulchre were believed to have belonged to Joseph.
Razak stared at the archaeologist. “You should eat your bread while it’s hot.”
“Look. I’m not saying I believe all this.” Barton tore off some bread and spooned some hummus onto his plate. “I’m simply suggesting a motive. If we’re dealing with a fanatic who believed all this to be true, it would make that missing ossuary the ultimate relic.”
Razak finished chewing, swallowed, and said, “I’m sure you’ll understand that I can’t possibly accept the idea that this missing ossuary contained Jesus’s body. Remember Mr. Barton, unlike the misguided men who wrote that book,” he pointed at the Bible, “the Qur’an speaks the literal words of Allah using the great prophet Muhammad—peace be upon him—as his messenger. As Muslims we’ve been told the truth. Jesus was spared the cross. Allah protected him from those who sought to bring him harm. He didn’t die a mortal death but was reclaimed by Allah and ascended to Heaven.” He raised his eyes skyward. “And remember, the men to whom I am accountable will react much worse than me. They won’t hear of such ideas.” He dipped his bread in hummus and popped it into his mouth. “Besides, don’t the Christians claim Jesus rose from the dead and ascended into heaven? Isn’t that what the Easter holiday is all about?”
“Absolutely,” Barton said.
Chewing, Razak looked at him quizzically.
Barton grinned. “The Bible says a lot of things,” he admitted. “But the gospels were drafted decades after Jesus’s ministry, following a long period of oral tradition. I don’t need to tell you how that can affect the integrity of what we read today. Since Jesus’s disciples were themselves Jews, they incorporated a midrashic storytelling style, which, quite frankly, focuses more on meaning and understanding—often at the expense of historical accuracy. I might also point out that ancient interpretations of resurrection had much more to do with a spiritual transformation than a physical one.”
Razak shook his head. “I don’t understand how anyone could believe those stories.”
“Well,” Barton carefully countered, “you need to keep in mind that the target audience for the gospels were pagan converts. Those people believed in divine gods who died tragically and resurrected gloriously. Life, death, then rebirth was a theme common to many pagan gods including Osiris, Adonis, and Mithras. Early Christian leaders, particularly Paul of Tarsus— a Hellenistic, philosophical Jew—knew Jesus needed to fit these criteria. He was selling this new religion in a very competitive environment. We can’t discount the idea that he embellished the story. And of twenty-seven books in the New Testament, he alone is thought to have written fourteen of them. Quite influential, I think you’d agree. It’s prudent, therefore, for us to put these accounts into their proper historical and human context.”
Razak eyed him approvingly. “You’re a very complex man Graham. Your wife must enjoy you very much,” he said, half sarcastic. He pointed to the gold wedding band on the archaeologist’s right hand.
“If you think I’ve got a lot to say, you should hear her. Jenny is a barrister.”
“A lawyer?” Razak’s eyebrows raised up. “A professional debater. I’d hate to see the two of you fight.”
“Luckily that’s an infrequent occurrence.” The truth was, outside the courtroom she was anything but a contender. Lately, they’d been drifting apart across an ever-widening sea of silence.
“Do you have any children?”
“A son, John, twenty-one. Good-looking lad, with more brains than both his parents put together. Attends university at my alma mater in Cambridge. We also have a lovely daughter, Josephine, twenty-five years old. She lives in the States, in Boston. She’s a lawyer, like her mum. And you? Wife and children?”
Razak smiled shyly and shook his head. “Unfortunately Allah has not granted me a suitable wife as of yet.”
Barton thought he detected something in the Muslim’s eyes. Pain? “Maybe it’s not Allah’s will, but because you’re stubborn,” Barton said.
Razak pretended to be offended, then burst out laughing. “Ah yes, perhaps you are right,” he said.
Once they had finished eating, Razak turned his attention back to the transcription. “And what about the rest of this... what does it all mean?” He read the second part of the transcription: “ ‘To reclaim God’s testimony from beneath Abraham’s altar, to restore the holy Tabernacle.’ ”
Barton was hoping to avoid this part of the discussion. “Ah.” He paused. “Abraham’s altar is most likely referring to Mount Moriah.”
“Where the prophet Ibraham was told to sacrifice Ismaeel, son of Hagar,” the Muslim stated flatly.
“Okay.” Barton let the interpretation slide. Though the Torah clearly stated that Abraham was to sacrifice Issaac, the son of his wife Sarah, Muslims traced their lineage back to Ismaeel—the son born to Sarah’s hand servant, Hagar. It was yet another example of the two religions trying desperately to claim as its own the Old Testament’s most revered patriarch—the man credited with monotheistic faith and complete submission to the one true God. After all, that’s what Islam literally meant, Barton thought: submission to the will of Allah.
“And this reference to ‘God’s testimony,’ ” Razak added. “Sounds as if it is a physical thing that is ‘beneath Abraham’s altar.’ I don’t understand.”
A shiver ran down Barton’s arm. “I’m still trying to determine what that means,” he lied. “I’ll need to do a bit more research.”
Looking skeptical, Razak nodded. “I trust you’ll let me know what you discover.”
“Of course.”
“So where do we go from here?”
Barton thought about it. Oddly, his thoughts kept drifting to Father Demetrios—the visit to the Sepulchre’s lower crypt that had supposedly belonged to Joseph of Arimathea. It got him thinking again about the chamber beneath Temple Mount, how it lacked some of the features typical in first-century crypts. “Actually, I think we’ll need to go back to the crypt. There’s something I may have overlooked. When do you think we can get back in there?”
“Let’s hold off on that until tomorrow morning,” he suggested. “I received a very interesting call late this morning from a good friend in Gaza who heard I was involved in this investigation. He says he has some information that might help us out.”
“What kind of information?”
“I’m not sure, actually,” Razak said. “He wouldn’t say over the phone.”
“Which means it’s probably good stuff.”
“That’s what I’m hoping. Anyway, I was going to take a drive...to go and see him this afternoon. If you’re not too busy, maybe you should com
e along.”
“I’d like that. What time?”
“I just have something to attend to first. Won’t take me long.” Razak looked down at his watch. “Can you meet me in the parking lot outside the Jaffa Gate around two?”
“I’ll be there.”
Razak reached into his pants pocket and pulled out his wallet.
“Please, Razak,” Barton insisted, motioning it away. “Let me get this. You run ahead and I’ll see you at two.”
“Thank you, Graham. That’s very generous.”
Opposite the café on El Wad, a forgettable young man was seated on a bench reading a newspaper and sipping coffee, enjoying the mild afternoon. Occasionally he inconspicuously glanced over to the archaeologist and Muslim delegate. The small headphones plugged into his ears, seemingly connected to an iPod, were transmitting the amazing conversation that was taking place to the IDF’s Jerusalem outpost.
Sacred Bones : A Novel Page 16
