Brotherhood of the Tomb (2 page)

Finally, Aharoni stood and turned to face the other man.

‘I think you should come here,’ he said. His voice was shaking, and Migliau noticed that the hand in which he held the lamp was also unsteady. The bishop felt something clutch at his heart and squeeze it like a wet sponge. This was no ordinary tomb, these were no ordinary coffins, they contained no ordinary

bones. He was certain of it. And his certainty frightened him to the marrow. Something told him that he had found what he had been looking for.

It seemed to him that the distance between the wall and the sarcophagi was the longest he had ever traversed, that it was not mere feet and inches, and not even centuries, but something more tremendous and more internal than any of those.

‘What’s wrong?’ he asked. ‘Is something wrong?’

Aharoni’s face was pale in spite of the yellow light. Migliau wanted to laugh, to cry out, to strike something. His mood was fluctuating wildly. He felt confined in the tiny chamber.

The Israeli licked his lips. He could hear the faint hissing of the lamp. He could hear his own breathing, in and out. The rest was silence. He had not wanted this.

‘Can you read Aramaic?’ he asked.

‘A little ... Enough to get by on. I’m no scholar, I...’

‘No matter. I just want you to help me examine these inscriptions, that’s all.’

‘But you’ve examined them. What do they say?’

Aharoni did not answer. He looked at the Italian enigmatically.

‘I think you should take a look at them,’ he whispered.

The first sarcophagus was a long box with a gabled lid, ornamented with rosettes and incised lines. It was about six feet long and rather over two feet wide. A typical Jewish sarcophagus of the period. An inscription in Hebraic characters ran down one of the long sides.

‘Can you read it?’ asked Aharoni.

Migliau shook his head. It was nothing more than a box full of bones, he told himself. The flesh had

been allowed to rot away, then the bones had been gathered together in a heap and placed in this box. Why should the sight of it disturb him so?

‘I’ll read it for you. Tell me if you think I’m wrong.’

Aharoni bent closer to the inscription, bringing the lamp nearer.

... Then there’s a couple of words I can’t make out, then As far as I can interpret it, it reads: “This is the tomb of James son of Joseph, master and shepherd ... the community which is in Jerusalem - killed at the command of Hananiah the high priest in the days after the death of Festus the governor.” ‘

Migliau said nothing. His breath caught tightly in his chest, but he was unable to breathe out. He was no scholar, but he knew enough to understand just what the inscription was about, whose bones it referred to. James, the brother of Jesus, first head of the Christian community in Jerusalem, had been stoned to death with some others in ad 62. By decree of the Sanhedrin. On the orders of Hananiah - Ananias.

The bishop did not know what to do. He wanted to weep or shout or find some other means of giving voice to the emotion he felt, but all he could manage was to stare at the stone as though the very sight had struck him dumb. He breathed out at last and reached for Aharoni, grabbing him hard by the upper arm.

‘Are you certain?’ he demanded.

The Israeli placed a hand on his, dislodging his fingers.

Aharoni paused. ‘No, I’m not certain. The lettering’s

poor, this light is terrible. But I think I’m right. When you see the other two, you’ll understand.’

‘Understand? Understand what?’

‘You’ll see.’ The Israeli stood and went across to the second ossuary. It was simpler than the first, but otherwise of the same design and quality. The outline of a tree had been carved on the lid, but the sides bore no pattern, only a brief inscription. Migliau knew how it would read. He had known for years.

Aharoni read awkwardly, as though the words refused to surrender themselves to him.’ “The bones of Miryam, wife of Joseph, mother of Jesus and James. Peace be upon her.”’

The light made ghastly shadows all across the walls and ceiling. Migliau thought he could hear them as they moved, like vast black wings flapping in the enclosed space, the wings of blind, outraged birds. He raised a hand as though to ward them off, but they grew still and left him in a vast silence.

‘There’s one more,’ said Aharoni, and to Migliau the voice seemed to come from the other end of the universe.

Together, they walked the last few paces to the third and final sarcophagus. It was a thing drained of colour, white and delicately carved, yet very solid, as though it was not hollow at all but a single block hewn from living stone. Migliau watched as Aharoni ran a hand lightly along the lid.

On the side, among the rosettes and incised patterns, a circle stood out in sharp relief. Inside it there was carved a seven-branched menorah, the Temple candlestick, taken by the Romans when they destroyed Jerusalem in the year 70. This was not a normal menorah, however. The six side branches

were the usual shape, but the middle column was shaped in the form of a cross. Beneath the circle, a row of sharply-cut characters struggled for expression in the light.

He read in a slow voice, meticulously pronouncing each word, not with the awkwardness of uncertainty, but with the precision of one who knows exactly what it is he is reading and what it signifies:

He fell silent. Migliau had understood. Not every word, not every syllable, perhaps, but as much as was needful. Aharoni could not bear to look up, to see him watching him. There was nothing he could do, nothing. He had read the inscription. It only remained to translate it.

“The body of Jesus, son of Joseph and Miryam, who was crucified at the command of Pontius Pilate, governor of Judaea, in the fourth year of his governorship. And he was the sacrifice which completes the offering of the Temple, and he is buried in this place to bring everything to fulfilment in our days. Peace be upon him.”

For a long time, neither man spoke. Words were inappropriate, dangerous. Neither man could bear to look the other in the eye, Jew and Gentile, believer and unbeliever. Two thousand years of misunderstandings stood between them.

Once, Migliau almost giggled out loud. A terrible tension had taken hold of him. He felt simultaneously

euphoric and appalled, like a child brought suddenly into the presence of adult matters. In an instant, a lifetime’s doubts had been resolved and transformed to certainty. What had been mere belief had become knowledge. His search was over. And his mission was about to begin.

Time passed as though it no longer had any meaning. Finally, Aharoni broke the silence.

‘Bishop Migliau,’ he whispered, ‘I think we should go. There may still be someone working late at the Museum. This will have to be reported. Arrangements will have to be made. You understand that this is ... monumental. We must take steps to ensure that news of this discovery is not leaked prematurely. You do understand? If word got out before there was time for a proper investigation ... I think there might be trouble. Newspapers, television - every newspaper, every television company in the world! We couldn’t cope with that, not without help.

‘And there may be political dimensions - do you understand me? Your church will naturally demand a say in what happens. No doubt it is exceptionally fortunate for them that you are here. But the Orthodox churches will want their say too. Then the Anglicans. The other Protestants. Everyone will want his pound of flesh.’ He winced, thinking he had chosen an unfortunate expression. ‘But look at the inscriptions, look at the sarcophagi: this is a Jewish tomb. Doesn’t it seem that way to you? You do understand, don’t you?’

Aharoni knew that a Catholic bishop was as big a complication as anyone in his position could possibly have feared. Another archaeologist would have appreciated the need for caution, for tact. But Migliau would want to milk this for all it was worth. Aharoni had heard that the bishop was ambitious, that he had

expectations of being made a cardinal. To be associated with a discovery of this order would no doubt secure all that and more for him. And he would, of course, want to be sure that his own church had total control over the tombs: they would not want another Holy Sepulchre on their hands, divided among warring factions like a bone between packs of squabbling dogs.

‘No, Doctor Aharoni,’ said the Italian. He looked up. All his diffidence had evaporated. He was coming to terms with their discovery at a rapid pace. ‘I don’t understand you. I don’t see what you’re driving at.’

The big man took a step towards Aharoni. In the confined space, he seemed to tower over him. His tension was becoming anger. The Israeli could not understand it.

‘I merely meant...’

‘It seemed to me that you implied some sort of ownership for your people. “A Jewish tomb”, you said. Do you intend to take possession here as you have just taken control of the Temple Mount? You hold the third holiest shrine of Islam. Now, perhaps, you think you have some right to this.’

‘No. No, of course not. We just have to be careful. This is not a Christian country. If you think ...’

‘I have already thought. You want to make a fetish of your Jewishness. Isn’t that right? You want to wave it in front of me like a flag, until I nod and say, “Yes, this is yours. And this. And this. Take it all. Mea cul-pa. You have suffered enough. Take what you want in recompense.”’

Migliau’s voice was growing guttural and menacing. He felt hemmed in by the walls, and as much threatened as uplifted by what he had found. More than anything, he felt an obscure resentment against Aharoni building in him like a tide. It was irrational,

he hardly knew the man, had no reason to fear or hate him, yet it rankled to have him here.

‘Your Excellency, please ... you misunderstand.’ Aharoni sensed the bishop’s anger. It frightened him, here in this confined space, with so little light.

‘I think you should leave.’

What...?’

‘I think you should get out of here. This is a holy place. I don’t expect you to understand that. But I do. You’ve no right to be here. No right at all.’

But that was no good. If the Jew left, he would only bring more back with him. They ran this city now. They would just march into God’s inner sanctum and claim it for their own. He hated them for their self-righteousness, for their sanctimonious possession of the land where his saviour had walked. A stiffnecked people, that’s what God had called them. And now, here they were, about to lay godless hands on the mortal remains of God’s son.

‘I think we should both leave,’ said Aharoni. The Italian was over-reacting to their discovery. Perhaps it was understandable. Aharoni, who wasn’t even a practising Jew, let alone a Christian, had been deeply moved by what they had found. He appreciated its emotional charge. That was why he wanted the whole thing handled properly, before the wreckers and sloganizers and opportunists had a chance to move in. With a shudder, he remembered how an American company had offered to market pieces from the wreck of the Titanic as paperweights. What would Jesus’s bones fetch on the Stock Exchange?

He took a step forward and put a hand on the big man’s arm. Migliau grabbed his wrist and pulled him towards himself.

Tour Messiah came and you crucified him. And now you want to turn his bones into some sort of

political toy, something your politicians can use to bargain with. You...’

‘Please, I don’t want some sort of religious argument with you. That’s not my problem.’

All his life, Bishop Migliau had been waiting for this moment. He had never doubted that there would be a tomb, never doubted that he would be the one to find it. But in his imagination, he had always been alone at the moment of discovery. Aharoni had never figured in his calculations before this moment.

‘Please God,’ he thought, ‘tell me what to do. You have guided me here, you have given me this honour. I need your help. I can’t do this alone.’

He looked round, at Aharoni, at the tomb. His whole life had been rewritten here, on a limestone box in an unlit sepulchre - an imperfect inscription by an unknown hand. In that moment, he knew what he had to do. What God wanted him to do. It was God’s will. The Jew wanted to tell the unbelieving world of this place. He could not be allowed to do that. God would not let him.

Migliau looked once into Aharoni’s eyes.

‘Forgive me,’ he whispered. But he knew that God had already forgiven him.

He pushed the Israeli hard. Aharoni stumbled backwards, losing his balance. He tripped and fell, striking his head hard on the sharp corner of the middle sarcophagus. He did not even cry out. There was no time between push and crushing blow, between fall and final agony. Death was instantaneous. Blood streamed across the white stone, bright and gleaming.

Migliau watched the red stain spread and listened to his heart beating in the stillness. He felt the weight of the sepulchre all about him, and the air moving heavily through it without sound. He heard the rustle

of shadowed wings again, harsh above the beating of his heart. Aharoni lay slumped where he had fallen, a scarlet pool forming beneath him among shadows on the floor.

He lifted the lamp and shone it on the coffins. Aharoni lay unmoving at the Saviour’s feet. The blood had stopped flowing. Migliau turned and looked at the little opening through which they had entered. There was plenty of time. It would not be too difficult to put the entrance slab back as it had been. He could push it along the floor, up into the first tomb, then tilt it back into the opening.

The generators would provide their harsh lighting again in the morning. No one would ever find the break in the wall. No one would ever know that another tomb existed. It had remained hidden all these years, it would remain hidden now.

In three days they would rebury the bones of the dead and seal the tomb again. The bulldozers and cement mixers would return to work. Houses would be built, and shops, and car parks. Next year, he would buy the entire development through one of his family’s holding companies. He had come into his true inheritance at last.

THREE