He pressed the stone with his fingertips. It moved. Time and dust had concealed the fact that someone had scraped the mortar away to free the stone. He carefully pushed it through the wall. It was utterly dark beyond. Against his better judgement he reached his arm through up to the shoulder. What frustration! He couldn’t feel a thing with these cursed metal hands!
His fingertips tapped a solid object, metallic by the sound. He fumbled about until he was able to grasp it and pull it through the gap. It was a bronze scroll-case, beautifully engraved with a geometric pattern. He held it close to the lantern. The cylinder was split through the centre and hinged at the base. He pulled the cap and it sprang apart, each half having an irregular edge at the join, much like the teeth of a key. Inside were two perfectly preserved papyrus scrolls. Kidd removed them with great care, conscious his hands could easily crush them into worthless dust. He was able to read the first scroll. It was a letter dated August 258 AD and signed ‘Jabez’. Somehow, the fates of Jabez and Lawrence had become intertwined.
The second scroll was illegible. It looked like a collection of miniature pictures and symbols at evenly spaced intervals. It wasn’t any language he recognised. The repetition of certain characters suggested it was some form of writing, a code perhaps. A trickle of stone dust fell from the ceiling and Kidd coughed. This wasn’t a suitable place to read ancient scrolls.
No sooner than he had the scrolls back in their case and safely tucked into his coat, he heard a “tut-tut” echo down the chimney shaft and a familiar voice.
“You really should know better, William!”
Hamilton Rush! Although, it appeared his arch rival had developed a pronounced lisp.
“A clever fox digs two holes into a burrow.”
Kidd scrambled back through the fireplace. His ladder, as expected, had been removed.
Rush wore a smugly satisfied grin on his scarred face. “Because he knows a single hole leaves him vulnerable to a passing hound. And the alternative, being buried alive, is a truly unpleasant way to die, don’t you think?” He wiped his eye theatrically with a gloved finger. “The very thought brings a tear to my eye.”
The reference was not lost on Kidd. “I see we have a common purpose once more.”
“Indeed. And justly, Great Harry will defy the Pope again and lay claim to the artefact. How could you take up his banner, William? Have you no allegiance at all?”
“Word of my affairs travels fast.”
“Not for much longer. Farewell, William.”
Kidd heard the slab grind across the floor. “Hamilton! Let’s make a deal!”
The noise stopped and Rush’s face appeared at the top of the shaft again. “What can you possibly offer me?”
Kidd scratched his chin and considered the consequences of telling Rush about the scroll-case, but being buried alive was infinitely worse. “I’ve discovered some information about The Tears, but you’ll have to let me out if you want it.”
Rush grinned. “I’ll simply take whatever you found down that hole off your dead body. So, I guess this is finally goodbye, and you know how I hate long farewells!”
The square of light at the top of the shaft became a fast shrinking rectangle as Rush pushed the slab back into place.
“Rush, you filthy son of a—”
Kidd’s final words were lost to the dull boom of the stone falling into place. He shielded the lantern with his body as a torrent of dust rained down upon him. The last thing he needed was to lose his light.
As the dust settled, he gripped the lantern in his teeth and began to climb the narrow chimney, with his back against the wall and his feet against the other. It was a difficult ascent with few handholds. By the time he reached the top he was breathing hard. He braced himself to free his arms and pushed against the stone, but it wouldn’t budge, not even an inch. No doubt Rush had stacked something weighty on top to ensure the shaft and Kidd’s fate was sealed.
When his arms ached unbearably and he could push no more, he consented to the idea that he was trapped. The flame in the lantern waned as if to remind him his air was also in limited supply. He caught his breath and clambered slowly back down the shaft.
Damn Hamilton Rush! It had been sloppy to ignore the feeling he was being watched at the entranceway.
Kidd searched every inch of wall, tapping with his fingers in case one stone block echoed more than the next. It was a slow, painstaking process. All the while he was conscious his lantern was burning precious air, so he closed the shutters to reduce the light to a soft glow. His efforts were fruitless. Eventually, he was left with only the kitchen to explore. The walls were equally solid. He hopped into the storage trough. The stink was appalling, much too potent for fossilised waste. He held his breath and began to dig through the muck, and was rewarded with a curious find, an iron ring the size of his fist. He scraped away the remaining filth with his sleeve to reveal a trapdoor set into the stone.
He pulled it open without hesitation and was greeted with the stench of raw sewage. This was probably how Lawrence had managed to smuggle the treasures of the Church out of Rome, through the very underground waterways the Roman Emperors had constructed. More curious was the fact that Lawrence hadn’t used it to save himself from being executed. Perhaps he had been unwilling or unable to do so.
Kidd lowered the lantern and stuck his head through. There appeared to be passage below. He made certain the scroll-case was secure in his coat pocket before dropping down. With a sickening splash he landed knee deep in waste. He covered his nose and mouth with his sleeve to avoid retching.
The passage was a complex latticework of bricks, blackened and slimy from years of pollution. He heard something beyond the sound of water trickling down the walls, the invisible army of rats twittering in the darkness beyond the lantern’s light.
He waded onwards, thankful that the pathway gradually ascended from the filth. He came upon a narrow passage adjoining the central sewer. It was a vent of some kind, leading upwards, and just big enough to squeeze inside. He climbed for some time, scraping his skin repeatedly on rough ancient stones. Eventually, the slime gave way to clean brickwork, the colour of thinned wine, and he arrived at a great drain. He climbed over the lip and emerged into what was once a courtyard, only two feet high. The new was built onto the old.
At one end, Kidd found wooden framing and floorboards above. He rested his lantern on the ground and began to hammer away at the boards with his fists. With a great deal of screeching the nails released their grip on the wood.
He stood up, only to be met with the glittering tip of a carving knife. The owner was an old woman with unkempt hair, wearing a greyed nightgown.
What a sight he must have been, bursting through her floor covered in filth, cobwebs, and dust. She was sobbing and afraid, but prepared to defend her life with the blade. Kidd, however, was not prepared to harm her and received a painful cut to his left shoulder before he escaped into the dusk.
He found his bearings and made his way back to his lodgings in a very round about way and with a wary eye out for Hamilton Rush. On the way he purchased a new shirt and breeches, and a skin of water. He bolted the door, stripped off his soiled clothes and threw them in a corner. For the first time, he thought fondly of Vllen’s scalding tub as he washed himself down with the icy water and a cloth. He attended to his cut, dressed in fresh clothes, and fetched bread, cheese and some wine. He swallowed a mouthful, and filled his goblet again before he sat down at the table to open the scroll-case. He handled the papyrus carefully, setting aside the one with strange pictures. He focused on the one written in Latin, carefully translating the words.
There was no mistake. It had been written by Jabez.
~ Chapter 9 ~
THE CONFESSION OF JABEZ
The City of Rome, August 258 AD
My name is Jabez. In Hebrew, it means sorrow. It has taken me two hundred years to understand why I deserved such a name, but now I do. As I stand on the precipice of death, at long la
st, on this ninth day of August, I must confess to you, Oh Reader, the sins of my life.
Excuse the poor rendition, Oh Reader, for despite my exulted status, I am, and always will be, a common man. Nor do I want to excuse my deeds with the rhetoric of a scholar.
The acceptance of death hasn’t come easily to me. Despite the long torment of my life, I’ve never considered suicide, and not because the Christian faith frowns upon the act, but because I am a healer.
Primum non nocere.
First, do no harm.
Yet every day I remain on this good earth, I must live with the knowledge that I have indeed caused harm. For I, more than any man alive, even those with unwavering faith, have proof of the power that Christ possessed. I stole it from him.
It isn’t a long story, but it happened long ago.
From a young age, I dreamed of becoming a healer, but my parents were poor. Fortunately, I was a nimble climber, and could make a modest living collecting dates to sell at market. However, Bethany wasn’t an easy place to raise a family, and prayer offered no relief from poverty. Yes, I accepted Yahweh was the God of our people, but faith didn’t put food into the mouths of my children. I did, by working hard each and every day. Even as an adult I could climb a date palm faster than the strongest boy, but I never earned enough shekels to buy my children good meat or fresh fish. I still love the succulent sweetness of a fresh date to this day, but there are only so many dates a man can put on the dinner table in the place of a proper meal. Only the lucky few, those with an education or a trade, made a decent living in this part of the world.
One day my life changed forever. I was on my way to market, minding my own business, when I saw a crowd of men and women gathered at the tomb of Lazarus. Poor Lazarus had been very ill and died not four days before. I hadn’t known him personally, but he must have been well-liked. I’ve never heard so much weeping and wailing.
Curiosity got the better of me, for this wasn’t just a mourning procession. Some of the people gathered were also involved in a heated debate. I placed my basket on the sand, and pretended to rest while I eavesdropped.
A man with a strong voice cut through the hubbub. “Why couldn’t Jesus save Lazarus, when he can cure the blind?” he cried.
Jesus? He was here?
I’d heard a bit about the man. People were saying he was the Son of God and that he performed miracles. All I knew was that he was a carpenter, but whatever the truth was, he brought good luck wherever he went.
Then I saw him in the crowd and thought he didn’t look so lucky after all. He looked utterly sad, as if his heart had been torn out. He fell to his knees and wept openly, the tears rolling down his nose onto the sand. I couldn’t take my eyes away. He stood, groaned, and walked slowly to the small cave where Lazarus had been entombed.
Everyone in the gathering was concentrated on Jesus, but I was aware of something else. I crept over to the spot where Jesus had grieved. There was a glimmer under the sand. I brushed it aside and discovered a roughly formed blue jewel. To my eye it was perfect, like the sun, sky and ocean had been distilled into stone. I tucked it into my pocket without a thought for any consequence.
Very lucky indeed! I couldn’t help imagining what I could buy with the proceeds of its sale—meat for the children—a new dress for my wife—maybe some tools to start a business.
Meanwhile, Jesus asked the men to remove the stone covering the entrance to the grave. There were objections, and rightly so! Lazarus would smell awful by now. Jesus insisted, and two men came forth to push the boulder aside.
That was my cue to leave. I had taken three steps with the basket hoisted on my shoulder before I heard the crowd gasp. I had to stop and see what could have caused such a commotion. There in the mouth of the cave stood Lazarus, blinking in the sunlight.
Suddenly the stone felt heavy in my pocket. I lost my grip on the basket. Dates spilled in every direction, but all I could do was stare.
This Jesus had some unearthly power. The crowd huddled around him, begging forgiveness for their lack of faith, but he looked past them right at me. His eyes bored though my flesh and into my soul. His mouth moved, and while I couldn’t hear what he said, it was as if he knew what I had in my pocket.
I’ve never felt so afraid. I turned and ran and continued running until my lungs burned and my feet were blistered and sore. When I collapsed at last from exhaustion, I grieved for the life I’d lost. I knew I could never return home.
When my tears finally dried up I felt like a newborn child, sent into the world a fully grown man. I wandered the land for some years without purpose or direction. I grew to love and hate The Tears. I wanted to throw them away and return to my wife and children, but every time my arm lifted to cast them into the sea, my hand would not release the stone.
Eventually, I bought a length of supple calf hide and cut a pouch to strap The Tears to my wrist. I felt deeply reassured when it touched my flesh. It was like the loving embrace of my wife. I also began to notice that I didn’t want for food, or sicken, and that any injury I suffered healed with remarkable speed. I even broke my leg on one occasion. By the next morning the bones had bonded and I was able to walk again.
It gave me an idea. If I could use the power of The Tears to cure the sick and wounded it might absolve my sin. I knew little about medicine, but became a proficient healer in a short space of time. Over a period of many years, my wanderings led me to Rome. The Romans had great need of physicians. Too many skilled healers were occupied with wounded soldiers on the front lines of the advancing empire.
After word of my ability spread, I was brought into the employment of the Emperor. Almost overnight, The Tears changed my life again. I quickly found I had more money than I could spend, and lovers, and the admiration of my peers. It was everything I had ever wanted, with one exception, the family I had lost.
I sent money to my wife and children in Bethany. I paid the messengers well for any news on their return. My family had declared me dead, and grieved, but they wanted for nothing. Many times I considered taking another wife to raise a new family, but my heart couldn’t settle on another woman.
Some years later I heard news of the crucifixion. The Son of God had been executed at the order of Pontius Pilate. I was saddened and confused. How could the Romans do such a thing? At the same time I worried The Tears would lose their power. I even cut myself deeply to find out. I spent a long afternoon watching the blood flow down my wrists before the wound scabbed and closed as if the tip of the knife had never passed my flesh.
The next morning I announced I was in need of a long holiday. I travelled to Bethany in disguise. My heart yearned to return home. From a distance, I saw my wife and children. It would cause her too much pain to have her husband return after so much time. It hurt, but I needed to face my past.
I undertook this journey many times over the years. I convinced myself that I did it to ensure they remained free from the burden of poverty. It was about that time I became aware that The Tears were prolonging my life.
Of all the trials I have suffered, watching my children grow old and die was the hardest. Oh, such bitter cruelty!
I tried many times to rebuild my existence. Sometimes it was a necessity. When power changed hands, so did the Emperor’s administration. As a trusted physician, I had access to official documents. I lodged falsified birth certificates to provide evidence of a lost heir. I would fake my death, shave my beard, dye my hair, and emerge some time later to lay claim to my estate.
I can even say I was happy sometimes, but every time I met someone I cared about, I had to watch them grow old and die. After two and a half centuries of life, I finally decided that I’d had enough. As I mentioned before, I could never commit suicide. In my purest self I will always be a healer. You see, I never squandered my time nor took my profession lightly. I learned the pleasure of reading and writing, and studied every book I could find about medicine. With lifetimes to study, I surpassed the skill of any surgeon, physicia
n, or pharmacist, even without the aid of The Tears.
Just as my life changed with the discovery of The Tears, it did so again when I met a Christian called Lorenzo. By this time Christianity was illegal and religious persecution was rampant. The Emperor Valerian asked me to attend Lorenzo on the night before his execution, to ensure he was fit and healthy before he was burned alive on a giant griddle. Valerian was most specific in his instructions. He wanted to hear Lorenzo scream.
I had performed many such services for Emperors over the years, but Lorenzo was not a common man waiting for death. He was a Deacon of the Roman Church, and entirely at peace with himself despite the injustices of the world.
We talked at length, and instead of my saving his life, he saved mine.
I confessed my sins, Lorenzo forgave me, and so I gave him The Tears.
Now I wait for my death, and I know it will come in the morning. For I have taken Lorenzo’s robes, and his place at the execution.
Now that I have had time to reflect, I believe The Tears came to me to fulfil the destiny I so desired. It was time to pass them into the care of a man who sought to have his life and faith restored.
It saddens me to part with The Tears after so many years, but unlike all the wounds of the patients I have treated, mine has never healed.
May The Lord have mercy on my soul.
Jabez.
~ Chapter 10 ~
THE SECOND SCROLL
Kidd took a long draught of wine. If Jabez’s confession were true, The Tears had greater significance than Cardinal Cresci had disclosed. He wondered how pure Cresci’s intentions were if indeed The Tears had the power to keep a man alive for more than two hundred years. Immortality was a prize that had been sought since the dawn of time.
The Tears had passed to Lawrence, and Lawrence had made use of his secret passage through the sewers after all. Kidd felt certain Lawrence’s whereabouts were concealed in the second scroll. Jabez’s confession was so profoundly final he had no reason to leave another mystery at his passing. The second scroll must have been put there by Lawrence. On that night, some twelve hundred years ago, the two men had conspired to keep a secret. A secret lost in the passing of time. A secret now discovered, but protected by lost knowledge.
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