The Last Secret Of The Temple

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Authors: Paul Sussman

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Paul Sussman is a journalist and author. He has also worked as a field archaeologist, and was part of the first team to excavate new ground in the Valley of the Kings since Tutankhamun was found in 1922. His first novel,
The Lost Army of Cambyses,
was an international bestseller and has been translated into 28 languages. He is married and lives in London.

Praise for
The Last Secret of the Temple

'The intelligent reader's answer to
The Da Vinci Code:
a big, fat satisfying archaeological puzzle'
Independent
'Fifty Best Books of the Summer'

'Ambitious, large-scale adventure . . . Sussman's fastidious research into the novel's setting grants everything a solid plausibility, and his millennia spanning plot functions as a colourful backdrop to the trials of his protagonists'
Good Book Guide

'A rollicking, feel-good adventure set among the murky and convulsive politics of the present-day Middle East'
Jewish Chronicle

'An exciting page-turner . . . an unusual and intriguing tale'
Western Daily Press

Praise for
The Lost Army of Cambyses

'A great adventure, one of the most intriguing mysteries of the past, a great novel masterfully written' Valerio Massimo Manfredi, author of
The Spartan

'A tough, sometimes brutal, but always engrossing thriller. Sussman knows his Egypt, past and present, and he has the gift of creating engaging heroes of both sexes and really,
really
vile villains' Dr Barbara Mertz, archaeologist

'At last, a thriller that gets away from the hackneyed old "curse of Tut" stuff; and since Sussman has actually excavated in Egypt himself, we can trust his background detail . . . the fast-paced plot is one among many good things in this very assured first novel . . . There is also a great description of a
khamsin,
the sandstorm wind, and I can vouch for Sussman's accuracy, having been terrified silly by enduring such a phenomenon myself
Scotland on Sunday

www.booksattransworld.co.uk

'Gripping . . . a spine-chilling, fast-paced thriller . . . It has all the ingredients of a James Bond adventure: exotic locations, priceless antiquities, evil fanatics bent on global domination, brutal murders, corrupt policemen, human heroism, and it keeps you guessing right up to the final chapter. It's rare to find a book which sets your heartbeat racing as you timidly but compulsively turn the page, terrified at what might jump out in the next paragraph. But in a style reminiscent of Patricia Cornwell's early books,
The Lost Army of Cambyses
shocks as well as enthrals . . . A compelling read'
Sunday Business Post

'Adrenaline-packed . . . combines all the elements of a truly great adventure story – a 2,000 year old historical mystery, buried treasure, a race against time – with a profound knowledge of, and feel for, the land of Egypt, both past and present. At the end you feel like you've been on a rollercoaster, in a library, and down the Nile all at the same time . . . Superbly evocative, with a huge epic sweep'
Crime Time

'A textured, well-researched and expertly placed debut . . . the murders and thrills accumulate . . . truly inventive'
Publishers Weekly

'An enjoyable adventure story, replete with archaeological lore and set against a backdrop of Islamic militant action'
Spectator

'An all-action archaeological adventure . . . an edge of your seat thrill ride . . . There is also a great feeling of the desert's vastness, especially in the cinematic adrenaline-packed ending'
Wealden Times

Also by Paul Sussman
The Lost Army of Cambyses
and published by Bantam Books

THE LAST SECRET OF THE TEMPLE

PAUL SUSSMAN

This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

ISBN 9781407041247

Version 1.0

www.randomhouse.co.uk

THE LAST SECRET OF THE TEMPLE A BANTAM BOOK : 9780553814057

Originally published in Great Britain by Bantam Press,
a division of Transworld Publishers

PRINTING HISTORY
Bantam Press edition published 2005
Bantam edition published 2006

12

Copyright © Paul Sussman 2005

The right of Paul Sussman to be identified as the
author of this work has been asserted in accordance with
sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright Designs and
Patents Act 1988.

All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

The author and publishers have made every reasonable effort to contact the copyright owners of the lyrics reproduced in this book. Where they have been unsuccessful they invite copyright holders to contact them direct.

Condition of Sale

This electronic book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

Set in 11/14pt Caslon by
Falcon Oast Graphic Art Ltd.

Bantam Books are published by Transworld Publishers,
61–63 Uxbridge Road, London W5 5SA,
A Random House Group Company.

Addresses for Random House Group Ltd companies outside the UK can be found at:
www.randomhouse.co.uk
The Random House Group Ltd Reg. No. 954009.

ISBN: 9781407041247

Version 1.0

For Alicky, whose light shines brightest of all. And for our beautiful, beloved Layla Rose.

THE LAST SECRET OF THE TEMPLE

PROLOGUE
T
HE
H
OLY
T
EMPLE,
J
ERUSALEM
A
UGUST AD
70

The heads flew over the Temple wall with a hiss, dozens of them, like a flock of ungainly birds, eyes open, mouths agape, tendrils of flesh fluttering where they had been crudely severed at the neck. Some came down in the Court of Women, thudding onto the soot-blackened flagstones with an arhythmic, drum-like patter, causing old folk and children to scatter in horror. Others went further, passing right over the Nicanor Gate into the Court of Israel, where they rained down around the great Altar of Holocausts like giant hailstones. A few flew further still, slamming against the walls and roof of the Mishkan itself, the holy sanctuary at the very heart of the Temple complex, which seemed to groan and echo under the assault, as though in physical pain.

'Bastards,' choked the boy, tears of despair pricking his sapphire-blue eyes. 'Filthy Roman bastards!'

From his vantage point on the Temple ramparts he gazed down at the ant-like mass of legionaries moving around below him, their weapons and armour glinting in the angry firelight. Their cries filled the night, mingling with the whoosh of the mangonels, the pounding of drums, the screams of the dying and, enveloping all else, the metronomic, baritone thud of the battering rams, so that it seemed to the boy the entire world was slowly cleaving apart.

'Be gracious to me, oh Lord,' he whispered, quoting the Psalm. 'For I am in distress; my eye is wasted from grief, my soul and my body also.'

For six months the siege had tightened around the city like a garrotte, throttling the life out of it. From their initial positions on Mount Scopus and the Mount of Olives, the Roman legions, four of them swelled by thousands of auxiliaries, had moved inexorably inwards, breaching every line of defence, driving the Jews backwards, crushing them into the centre. Countless numbers had died, cut down as they tried to repel the attackers or crucified along the city walls and throughout the Kidron Valley, where the flocks of vultures were now so thick they blacked out the sun. The smell of death was everywhere, a corrosive, overpowering stench that tore into the nostrils like flame.

Nine days ago the Antonia fortress had fallen; six days after that the outer courts and colonnades of the Temple compound. Now all that was left was the fortified Inner Temple, where what remained of the city's once proud population was crammed like fish in a barrel, filthy, starving, reduced to eating rats and leather, and drinking their own urine, so pitiful was their thirst. Still they fought, frantically, hopelessly, raining rocks and flaming beams of wood down on the attackers below, occasionally sallying forth to drive the Romans back from the outer courts, only to be driven back themselves, with terrible losses. The boy's two elder brothers had died in the last such sortie, hacked down as they tried to topple a Roman siege engine. For all he knew, their mutilated heads were among those now being catapulted back over the walls into the Temple enclosure.

'Vivat Titus! Vincet Roma! Vivat Titus!'

The voices of the Romans swelled upwards in a roaring wave of sound, chanting the name of their general, Titus, son of the emperor Vespasian. Along the battlements the defenders tried to raise a counter-chant, calling out the names of their own leaders, John of Gischala and Simon Bar-Giora. The cry was frail, however, for their mouths were parched and their lungs weak, and anyway, it was hard to muster much enthusiasm for men who, it was rumoured, had already struck a deal with the Romans for their own lives. They kept it up for half a minute and then their voices slowly dropped away.

The boy removed a pebble from the pocket of his tunic and began sucking it, trying to forget how thirsty he was. David was his name, son of Judah the winemaker. Before the great revolt his family had worked a vineyard on the terraced hills outside Bethlehem, its ruby-red grapes producing the lightest, sweetest wine you had ever tasted, like sunlight on spring mornings, like a soft breeze through shady groves of tamarind. In the summer the boy had helped with the harvest and the treading of the grapes, laughing at the feel of the mushy fruit beneath his feet, the way the juice stained his legs blood-red. Now the wine-presses were smashed, the vines burnt down, and his family dead, all of them. He was alone in the world. Twelve years old, and already he carried the grief of a man five times his age.

'Here they come again! Ready! Ready!'

Along the ramparts the cry rang out as a new wave of Roman auxiliaries poured towards the Temple walls, scaling-ladders held above their heads so that in the infernal shadowy firelight it looked as if dozens of giant centipedes were scuttling across the ground. A desperate hail of rocks showered down on them, causing the charge to falter for a moment before sweeping onwards again, reaching the walls and raising the ladders, each one anchored by two men on the ground while a dozen more used poles to heave it upwards and over against the battlements. Swarms of soldiers began scrambling onto them, streaming up the sides of the Temple like a rising tide of black ink.

The boy spat out his pebble, grabbed a rock from the pile at his feet, placed it in his leather sling and leant out over the ramparts, looking for a suitable target, oblivious to the blizzard of arrows hissing up from below. Beside him a woman, one of the many helping to defend the walls, stumbled backwards, her throat pierced by a harpoon-headed
pilum,
blood spraying through her hands. He ignored her and continued surveying the ranks of the enemy beneath, eventually spotting a Roman standard bearer holding aloft the insignia of Apollinaris, the Fifteenth Legion. He gritted his teeth and began swinging the sling above his head, eyes nailed to his target. One circle, two, three.

His arm was grabbed from behind. He wheeled round, punching with his free fist, kicking.

'David! It's me! Eleazar. Eleazar the Goldsmith!'

A huge bearded man was standing behind him, a heavy iron hammer slotted into his belt, his head wrapped round with a bloodied bandage. The boy stopped punching.

'Eleazar! I thought you were—'

'A Roman?' The man laughed mirthlessly, releasing his grip on the boy's arm. 'I don't smell that bad, do I?'

'I would have hit their standard bearer,' admonished the boy. 'It was an easy shot. I would have smashed the bastard's skull!'

Again the man laughed, with more warmth this time. 'I'm sure you would have. Everyone knows David Bar-Judah is the best sling-shot in the land. But there are more important things now.'

He glanced around, then lowered his voice.

'Matthias has summoned you.'

'Matthias!' The boy's eyes widened. 'The High—'

The man clamped his hand over the boy's mouth, again glancing around. 'Quietly!' he hissed. 'There are things here, secret things. Simon and John would not be happy if they knew this was done without their consent.'

The boy's eyes sparkled with confusion, uncertain what the man was talking about. The goldsmith made no effort to explain himself, simply looked down to make sure his words had hit home, then removed his hand and, taking the boy's arm, steered him along the top of the battlements and down a narrow stairwell into the Court of Women, the stonework beneath their feet trembling as the Roman battering rams punched into the Temple gates with renewed vigour.

'Quickly,' he urged. 'The walls won't hold for long.'

They hurried across the court, dodging the severed heads scattered on the flagstones, arrows clattering all around them. At the far end they climbed the fifteen steps to the Nicanor Gate and passed through into a second open space where crowds of
kohenim
were furiously sacrificing on the great Altar of Holocausts, their robes stained black with soot, their wailing voices all but drowning out the rage of battle.

Oh God, thou hast rejected us, broken our defences;
Thou hast been angry;
Oh restore us!
Thou hast made the land to quake, thou hast rent it open,
Repair its breaches, for it totters!

They crossed this court too and ascended the twelve steps to the porch of the Mishkan, its massive façade rearing over them like a cliff, a hundred cubits high and hung with a magnificent vine worked of pure gold. Here Eleazar stopped, turning to the boy and squatting so that their eyes were level.

'This is as far as I go. Only the
kohenim
and the High Priest may pass into the sanctuary itself.'

'And me?' The boy's voice was unsteady.

'For you it is allowed. At this time, in this extremity. Matthias has said so. The Lord will understand.' He laid his hands on the boy's shoulders, squeezing. 'Do not be afraid, David. Your heart is pure. You will come to no harm.'

He looked into the boy's eyes, then, standing, pushed him away towards the great doorway, with its twin silver pillars and embroidered curtain of red, blue and purple silk.

'Go now. May God be with you.'

The boy looked back at him, a huge figure silhouetted against the flaming sky, then turned and, pushing aside the curtain, passed into a long pillared hall with a floor of polished marble and a ceiling so high it was lost in shadow. It was cool in here, and silent, with sweet, intoxicating fragrance in the air. The battle seemed to recede and disappear, as though it was happening in another world.

'Shema Yisrael, adonai elohenu, adonai ehud,'
he whispered. 'Hear, Oh Israel, the Lord is our God, the Lord is one.'

He paused a moment, overawed, then, slowly, started walking towards the far end of the hall, his feet falling soundlessly onto the white marble. Ahead of him stood the Temple's sacred objects – the table of the shewbread, the golden incense altar, the great seven-branched Menorah – and beyond them a shimmering, diaphanous veil of silk, the entrance to the
debir,
the Holy of Holies, which no man could enter save the High Priest alone, and he only once a year, on the Day of Atonement.

'Welcome, David,' said a voice. 'I have been waiting.'

Matthias, the High Priest, stepped from the shadows to the boy's left. He wore a sky-blue robe bound with a red and gold apron, a thin diadem about his head and, on his chest, the Ephod, the sacred breastplate, with its twelve precious stones, each representing one of the tribes of Israel. His face was deeply lined, his beard white.

'At last we meet, son of Judah,' he said softly, coming over to the boy and staring down at him, his movement accompanied by a soft tinkling sound from the dozens of tiny bells sewn around the hem of his robe. 'Eleazar the Goldsmith has told me much about you. Of all those defending the Holy places, he says, you are the most fearless. And the most worthy of trust. Like the David of old come again. This is what he says.'

He gazed at the boy, then, taking his hand, led him forward, right to the end of the hall, where they stopped in front of the golden Menorah, with its curving branches and intricately decorated stem, the whole beaten from a single block of pure gold to a design laid down by the Almighty himself. The boy stared up at its flickering lamps, eyes glinting like sun-dappled water, overwhelmed.

'Beautiful, isn't it?' said the old man, noting the wonder in the boy's face, laying a hand on his shoulder. 'No object on earth is more sacred to us, nothing more precious to our people, for the light of the Holy Menorah is the light of the Lord God himself. If ever it was to be lost to us . . .'

He sighed and raised a hand, touching it to the breastplate on his chest.

'Eleazar is a good man,' he added, as if as an afterthought. 'A second Bezalel.'

For a long moment they stood in silence contemplating the great candelabrum, its radiance surrounding and enveloping them. Then, with a nod, the High Priest turned so that he was facing the boy directly.

'Today the Lord has decreed that his Holy Temple will fall,' he said quietly, 'just as it did before, on this very day, Tish B'Av, more than six hundred years ago, when the House of Solomon was lost to the Babylonians. The sacred stones will be hammered to dust, the roof-beams torn asunder, our people led into exile and scattered to the four winds.'

He leant back a little, gazing deep into the boy's eyes.

'One hope we have, David, and one hope alone. A secret, a great secret, known only to a few of us. Now, in this final hour, you too shall know it.'

He bent towards the boy, lowering his voice and speaking rapidly, as if afraid they should be overheard, even though they were quite alone. The boy's eyes widened as he listened, his gaze flicking from the floor to the Menorah and back to the floor again, his shoulders trembling. When the priest had finished he straightened and took a step backwards.

'See,' he said, a faint smile pulling at the edges of his pale lips, 'even in defeat there shall still be victory. Even in darkness there shall be light.'

The boy said nothing, his face tangled, caught between amazement and disbelief. The priest reached out and stroked his hair.

'Already it has gone from the city, out beyond the Roman palisade. Now it must leave this land altogether, for our ruin is nigh and its safety can no longer be guaranteed. All has been arranged. One thing alone remains, and that is to name a guardian, one who will convey the thing to its final destination, and there wait with it until better times shall come. To this task you have been appointed, David son of Judah. If you will accept it. Will you accept the task?'

The boy felt his gaze drawn upwards towards that of the priest, as if pulled by invisible cords. The old man's eyes were grey, but with a strange hypnotic translucence behind them, like clouds floating on a vast clear sky. He felt a heaviness inside him, and a weightlessness too, as if he was flying.

'What must I do?' he asked, his voice a croak.

The old man looked down at him, eyes running back and forth across his face, scanning the features as though they were words in a book. Then, with a nod, he reached into his robe and drew out a small roll of parchment, handing it to the boy.

'This will guide you,' he said. 'Do as it says and all will be well.'

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