The Testimonium (36 page)

Isabella looked at him fondly. She was tempted to ask if she could tuck him in for the night, but she had decided that embarrassing him wasn’t as much fun as it had seemed at first. Still, she wished that her apartment wasn’t so empty. Josh’s presence seemed to fill the room all around her, and she didn’t want to leave him yet.

“Shall we take a walk on the observation deck first?” she asked him.

“That sounds fun,” he replied. There was an elevator from the penthouse level that opened on a small rooftop garden overlooking the Mediterranean. As they stood at the rail, they could see the dark silhouette of the isle of Capri in the distance. The waning half-moon was hanging in the sky like a silver spotlight, and the quicksilver reflections sparkled on the water’s surface.

“It is beautiful, isn’t it?” she said.

“Not as beautiful as you,” he replied, slipping his arm around her shoulders. She leaned her head against him and they stood like that for a long time.

* * *

The next morning, as the archeologists assembled and began planning how to present their findings to the press, a ferry boat left the island of Capri for the mainland. Among the smiling tourists and businesslike locals, the mild-mannered Imam Muhammad al-Medina blended in perfectly. He chatted for a while with a Catholic fisherman, Antonio Ginovese, who lived a few doors down from him, about the weather and the general state of the Italian economy.

“Imam Muhammad,” the man said as they neared the mainland, “I would like to thank you.”

“Whatever for?” the Muslim cleric replied.

“I had such a terrible view of Muslims before you came to our island,” he replied. “All I ever saw on the news was the violence and carnage that seem to follow Islam everywhere. I thought everyone who prayed to Allah was a potential Osama bin Laden. But you have shown me that a Muslim cleric can be a kind-hearted, god-fearing, neighborly friend. I am glad you helped me overcome my prejudices against your people.”

Muhammad al-Medina—the mild mannered, moderate Muslim cleric who lived in peace with his Catholic neighbors—regarded him with a curious expression. Ali bin-Hassan, the relentless jihadist who was on his way to pick up a car bomb, smirked behind the false identity he had so carefully crafted. The infidels were so trusting, so easy to deceive! “Antonio,” he said, “I just hope you remember, that when you see me, you are looking at the true face of Islam!”

Hassan turned and walked away, and the Italian fisherman shuddered. He genuinely liked the moderate cleric, but that look in his eyes as the Imam delivered that parting shot had sure seemed hateful. Oh well, he thought. It was just his old prejudices trying to re-assert themselves. By the time he crossed the gangplank to shore, he had completely forgotten about the conversation. He would remember it vividly, however, after the next day’s newscasts.

* * *

That morning, the outside experts had begun to arrive at the museum. Cardinal Heinrich Klein, renowned antiquarian and longtime friend of Benedict XVI, had come in early and asked to study the scroll. He had gone over the entire document with a powerful, illuminated loupe, occasionally switching to black light to see how the ancient ink looked under UV illumination. After about an hour’s examination, he sat at the workstation and began carefully translating the manuscript for himself, referencing the blown-up photographs MacDonald had taken, and never once looking at any of the translations that the team had already completed.

When he was completely finished, he called for the original, handwritten versions prepared by Josh and Father MacDonald. He read each of them carefully, and then read the reconciled version that they had come up with and prepared to hand to the press the next day. Only then did he speak to them.

“Excellent work, gentlemen!” he told them in his strong German accent. “You were careful and deliberate, and I can find no errors in anything that you did. As for the contents—
mein Gott!—
this is a truly amazing discovery! The enemies of the Cross will truly be put to shame!”

Josh smiled. This man was a legend in Biblical textual studies, and coming from him, such remarks were high praise indeed. “Thank you, Your Eminence,” he said. “Father MacDonald made it a very easy task! He is a consummate professional and a great archeologist.”

“The lad is too modest,” the Scots priest replied. “He knows twice as much as I did at his age, and in another decade or two he’ll be giving me a run for my money!”

They stood and excitedly discussed the ramifications of Pilate’s testimony. Worldwide, the twenty-first century had not been kind to the Church, with one expert after another emerging every few months with a discovery—usually dubious but always well-publicized—that called another aspect of New Testament history into question. Traditional scholars were always quick to reply, but they seemed to be constantly on the defensive. There was no doubt the Pilate scroll would give the Church some ammunition to go on the intellectual offensive, and all of them looked forward to the consternation among the anti-Christian intelligentsia with some relish.

Later that afternoon, Josh was sent to the Naples airport to meet his mentor Dr. Martens. The flight was to arrive at 3 PM local time, and it appeared as if it might even be a little ahead of schedule. Josh had the limo driver wait outside and walked over to the reception area, holding up a cardboard sign he had made at the lab. He had written in Latin: “
Doctoris Luke Martens, aestimetur professore antiquitatum
,” as a joke. That was the title that Dr. Martens had demanded all first-year grad students call him.

Since he was on crutches, Martens was one of the first passengers to disembark, with Alicia by his side. Blonde, leggy, and as beautiful as ever, her face lit up when she saw Josh, as did her husband’s. Josh made his way to the rope line and embraced his old mentor, and accepted an enthusiastic kiss on the cheek from Martens’ young bride.

“All right, Dr. Parker,” she said. “I want to meet this Italian hottie who has succeeded where all the girls at college failed!”

Josh laughed. “I had no idea they were trying so hard!” he said.

“That is because you were too afraid to talk to any of them, my boy,” said Martens. “You were the shyest young man I have ever taught! But it is good to see you again and good to be on terra firma! You have no idea how glad I am to be out of that infernal aircraft! Even in first class, the seats are NOT made to accommodate a full-length leg cast! Now, how far is it to the museum from here?” he asked.

“About twenty minutes across town,” Josh replied. “We have a limo waiting for you.”

“You have to hand it to the Italians,” the older archeologist said. “They do know how to roll out the red carpet!”

Josh grabbed their luggage and carried it for them to where the car waited. Alicia, who had never traveled outside the States except for mission trips to the Dominican Republic and Mexico, was agog at the beautiful Renaissance architecture, and the occasional Roman-era structure that peeked out from the twenty-first-century clutter. “I cannot imagine what it would be like to live surrounded by so much history,” she breathed.

“And here I thought all you cared about was fish and extreme sports!” her husband said.

“I can’t be married to you and not appreciate days gone by,” she said. “And I just adore beautiful architecture—and Italy seems to be the global headquarters of the insanely talented builders’ society! Look at that cathedral! Those spires must be two hundred feet tall!”

The two antiquarians sat together and quietly enjoyed her fascination with the historic surroundings. In a matter of minutes they arrived at the museum’s front doors. Isabella was waiting for them, and Luke and Alicia helped the American professor get out of the limo and levered up onto his crutches. He accepted their help with good grace, but both knew how much it grated on him to be limited in his mobility when there was such exciting work ahead.

“Welcome back to Italy, Dr. Martens,” said Isabella.

“Dr. Sforza!” he replied. “It is so nice to finally meet you in person. I loved your paper on that Roman temple of Minerva you excavated. You managed to pull an impressive amount of data from a very limited number of remaining artifacts!”

“Limited! More like nonexistent!” she laughed. “But the architecture of the place was interesting, to say the least. Is this your lovely wife?”

“Alicia Martens,” said the American, holding out her hand. “I hear you and Josh here have become something of an item!”

Isabella rolled her eyes. “You can’t keep anything out of the papers these days,” she laughed. “But I must say I have become rather fond of your friend here.”

Alicia nodded. “If the feeling is mutual, then you have succeeded where half the girls in Texas and Oklahoma failed,” she said.

“Oh please!” said Josh. “She makes me sound like some sort of OSU Romeo. I was just trying to pass her husband’s insanely demanding grad courses when I allegedly attracted all this female attention. Personally, I don’t remember any of it.”

“Really?” said Alicia. “What about the time that Larissa Sorrells asked you to come up to her dorm room for an all-night study session?”

“She was taking advanced calculus, and I was studying Latin grammar and Roman government,” said Josh. “I figured it was some sort of practical joke, and stayed away.”

Alicia rolled her eyes. “See?” she said to Isabella. “He is impossible!”

Sforza laughed in turn, and then looked over at Josh. “I think I like your friend here,” she said. “Now, Alicia, until after the press conference tomorrow, no one but the team members and our visiting experts are allowed back into the lab. I am going to ask Josh to take your husband on back to the lab, and I will show you to your hotel rooms, if that is OK.”

“Sounds fine to me,” Alicia replied. “Any place around here a girl can go for a swim?”

“Josh assures me the hotel pool is excellent, and it’s not a long cab ride to some of our public beaches—however, they are starting to get rather crowded as the weather warms up,” said Isabella. “What is it with you Americans and your obsession with water?”

* * *

Josh helped Dr. Martens navigate the corridors to the back of the museum, and then across the courtyard to the research lab. Bernardo Guioccini was waiting for them, and his face broke into a smile at the sight of his old friend.

“Luke! What a delight to see you again!” he boomed. “My word, man, what has this child bride of yours done to you?”

“I did it to myself, you old misanthrope!” Martens replied. “Tried to dodge a little snow brat on an easy slope and hit a tree! Now I want to see the discovery my young friend here has made.”

“But of course,” said Guioccini. “Come on back to the lab. Cardinal Klein just translated it earlier today and has been comparing his version to that of your young protégé, and his student Father MacDonald. Happily, they both passed muster. But I am sure you want to see the original and make your own notations before seeing theirs.”

“I have been thinking of nothing else for the last week,” said Martens. They had entered the lab by this time, and he made a point of circling the room and looking at every artifact that they had retrieved from the chamber before turning to the opened scroll that was still spread out on the viewing table. He stared for a long time at the sword of Julius Caesar, and then read the will of Augustus, studying the strong, clear Latin handwriting for several minutes. Finally he went to the viewing table and carefully leaned over on his crutches, studying the ancient papyrus for a long time before he spoke.

“
Quid est veritas
?” he breathed softly. “Pilate spoke more than he knew, didn’t he, Joshua?”

Josh nodded, looking over his shoulder. It was still hard to believe that he was staring at the writing of the man who had sent Jesus of Nazareth to the cross! Martens carefully studied the scroll for about a half hour, and then turned to Josh. “I have to get off this leg,” he said. “And I will need a laptop and a yellow pad.”

* * *

Valeria Witherspoon wanted a scoop so bad she could taste it. She had dreamed of being a journalist ever since she was a teenager, but after graduating with a degree in photography and print journalism, the only job she could find was with the
UK Tattler
, a lowbrow tabloid that specialized in scandalous pictures of celebrities and royals, along with articles about space aliens and the Illuminati. She hated it with a passion, but it paid the bills, and every week she sent out résumés to respectable newspapers and magazines, hoping in vain for a return call. So far there had been none.

But the story of the Pontius Pilate scroll had captured the imagination of the sleaze industry just the same as it had everyone else’s. Jesus was still great copy in the UK, even if only fifteen percent of the population actually attended church. In the two years she had worked for the
Tattler
, they had run stories that Jesus was married, Jesus was gay, Jesus never existed, and that Jesus was a reincarnation of Buddha. Now they wanted to run a story on the Pilate scroll, and had sent one of their writers to Naples along with Valeria. Her job was to get the pictures that would go with the article.

That assignment had modified slightly after the press got wind of the burgeoning romance between the American archeologist and his Italian counterpart. Her job now was not just to get pictures of the ancient scroll, but also to try and get some personal shots of the two antiquarian lovebirds—preferably skinny dipping, making out, or otherwise cavorting in a manner that would draw the attention of the scandal-loving British public.

The problem was that the lab where the main work was being done was completely off limits to the press. The modern building sat behind the ancient Renaissance palace that housed the museum, across a small, highly restricted employee parking lot that was surrounded by a ten-foot-tall concrete panel wall. Part of that wall actually connected to the back of the lab building, but there were no windows or doors leading out onto the Via Aventine, the business district street that ran directly behind the lab. However, in doing some reconnaissance, she had discovered that one of the adjacent buildings actually had a second-floor window that opened onto the street about a meter above and half a meter to the left of the wall. She was convinced that if she could crawl out that window and step onto the top of the wall, she could run down its length to the roof of the lab and quietly perch there, getting numerous shots of the scientists and historians coming and going. Maybe even get a shot of some relics being transported to and from the main museum building! This could be the scoop that finally got her out of the tabloids and into the mainstream media, she thought. Tomorrow morning she would find out.