CHAPTER SIX

 

"I DONT know," Taylor said, pacing up and down in her living room. "I really don't know!"

They had spent the whole day in the house, taking turns making coffee and running the negatives through the projector, looking at every slide in the "L" section, beginning with the year 1914.

Weddings, funerals, anniversaries, baptisms, baby pictures, honorary testimonial dinners, mayoral elections, war heroes, championship soccer teams, closeups of soccer stars, even some mild porn.

Jason tried to make light of it. "Here's a cute little naked baby, probably dead of old age by now—and here, looky here now..."

At one point Taylor exploded, "Did any of these pictures ever mean a goddamn thing to anybody?"

Jason patted her hand. "Calm, calm... such language!'' he said. "Didn't the nuns teach you better?"

"The Catholic faith is something I espoused when I married, along with the man. Fortunately, it was more faithful than he was, so I didn't give it up when he departed."

"Look we're both tired, but let's try a bit longer, okay?”

But while several more amusing old photographs emerged, they found nothing that could hive any bearing on history or antiquity. And still, the quantity of negatives remaining to be viewed was numbing to contemplate. 

"Hey!" Jason suddenly said. "Look at this tombstone!"

But that was all it was—a tombstone.

Then Jason said wearily, "I'm getting punchy. I give up. We're just grasping at straws anyway."

Taylor sighed in agreement "You look beat. Why don't, you go get some sleep?"

"Join me?"

"Later."

He kissed her and shuffled off to the bedroom. He was exhausted and his intelligence told him that this long shot was not coming in for him.

He eased his body gratefully down onto the bed.

There came a light tap on the door and Taylor asked in a low voice, "Jason, are you asleep?"

He sat up. "No, not yet."

Her face was slightly flushed with excitement. "I'm sorry to bother you, but I think we've been going at this ass-backwards!”

Jason gave her a puzzled look.

"Look, sure the negatives are old, made years ago... way back when. But why did the old man stop at the shop just before he met you at the boat? Because he had ordered some new prints made from the old negatives, correct?"

Jason nodded.

"Then it was a new order! We started at the wrong end!"

Jason leaped up and pulled on his slacks, and together they went back into the living room and started viewing negatives from the other end of the box.

In ten minutes Jason exclaimed, "There it is!"

Part of an ancient scroll flashed on the screen, then another and another.

"I'm not crazy! That's it!"

"Aramaic!" Taylor exclaimed. She examined it for a moment, and translated the first few words:" 'And it came to pass that Jesus was led...'" Her voice trailed off to a trembling whisper. After a moment she flashed another image on the screen, this one of a page of a writing in English.

  After studying it for a few seconds, Jason said, "That's it! That's exactly as he read it to me—word for word! This must be the translation someone named Krenski made for the old man years ago."

More English translations appeared, apparently picking up the narrative where Lascaris had left off.

“This is probably the part he was going to tell me if he'd been able to return that afternoon. Poor old Lascaris."

Taylor's deep violet eyes were wide, and she said softly, in a voice filled with wonder, "God, now I'm beginning to understand why people would kill to suppress these things."

They continued to project the slides and watch the story unfold...

And so it came to pass that Lael watched Jesus as he was led across the brook of Cedron and through the streets of Jerusalem, and through the Gate of Sheep near unto the temple, where the sacrificial animals were passed. First to Annas, father of the wife of Caiaphas. the high priest and presiding officer of the Sanhedrin, was Jesus taken...

Annas then did order Jesus to be taken to the palace of Caiaphas, he who had instructed the Jews that it would be good that one man should die for the people. In the palace and bound like Jesus was the murderer Barabbas, also on trial.

Then were brought forth witnesses, an old man among them, and thus was he questioned:

"Say you not that you had palsy all your life and that now you do not? Who then did heal you of this affliction?"

And with his staff did the old man point. "He who stands before you."

"And how is he called?"

"Jesus of Nazareth."

Then spoke Caiaphas: "And did this man say unto you that he was the son of God?"

"He said only that he did God's work. And behold, my hands no longer shake."

Then did the hearers say much among themselves in low voices, and they did look to the old man with wonder. And then did Caiaphas make haste to call forth other witnesses.

And many were those who bore witness to the acts of Jesus I and after each did Caiaphas turn to Jesus and say, "How say you?" And ever did Jesus stand silent and say naught.

Then did Caiaphas, the high priest, grow wrathful, and he did say unto Jesus, "Swearest thou that thou art the son of God?"

And Jesus did say unto him, "This only I say unto thee: Henceforth thou shall see the Son of Man seated at the right hand of God."

Then was Jesus beaten, and then was he dragged before the Procurator, Pontius Pilate, there to be sentenced.

But Pilate did only speak thus to Caiaphas and say, "Do with him what you want, for he is your prisoner”

And Caiaphas beseeched Pilate and spoke thusly: For us it is unlawful to put a man to death."

And Pilate answered, "Thus it is left to us to do your bidding:'

And Jesus stood before Pontius Pilate, and the soldiers did make mockery of him and dress him in purple robes and call him King of the Jews in jest, but Jesus did stand silent, with head bowed and sorely marked by blows.

I, John, was among the throng who sat by Lael, and we were in the front row before Pilate, and I could study his countenance, and it was that of a man much hated, for he was the sixth Procurator of Judea since the conquest, and had been so for ten years; and each year was he more hated and despised by us. Many were the things he had caused to be done as the representative of the Emperor Tiberius, whose statues were brought by night and set up in our temples. Confiscated were our treasury funds and murdered were many of our people, for reasons never explained. I did search his face for some sign that would give me hope; none did I see. Yet did it give me hope that the hearing was not within the house of the governor, for then we would not have entered, as we would not defile ourselves by entering the house of a Gentile before Passover. Also did the multitude who had gathered give me hope, for they were mostly Jews.

Then did Pontius Pilate speak to the multitude in mockery, saying, "You may have your king." And he looked down upon us.

And as he did look from one to another of us who were near to him, he looked also at Lael. And his gaze did stay upon her, for she was beautiful to behold.

And Lael raised her hand in blessing as he gazed upon her face and he spoke to his soldiers, saying, "Why does this woman of Judah bless me when all others curse?"

And none among them could answer. Then did Pontius Pilate speak to the multitude, saying, "I find no case against this man. No more did Herod, for he sent him back to us. This man has done nothing to deserve death”.

Then did my heart become joyful, for our prayers were to be answered, and so great was my relief that I did not hear the unrest of the multitude behind us. And yet did my heart wonder at such charity, for Herod Antipas was the son of Herod the Great, who had caused the slaughter of the infants, and wise was I to wonder, for Herod Antipas had his own reasons to keep Jesus alive, as he wanted some miracles performed. Thus was he little better than his father and his uncle, Herod Agrippa, who later had my friend James, also an Apostle, put to death. This Herod Antipas was known to be worldly and sensual, and had left his wife and lived with his brother's wife. For this, John the Baptist had condemned him, and thus Herod Antipas had John put to death.

And as I sat thus with my head bowed in prayer of thanksgiving, I heard a voice cry out, "Crucify him!"

And yet did I go on with my prayers of thanksgiving, for well I knew that most of the multitude behind me were also Jews, and none but a Roman would cry out thus.

Then did I lift my eyes to Lael and there saw her anguish, for many were the voices that were crying out, "Crucify him!" In haste I looked up to Pilate as he sat watching over the crowd and listening to their cries.

And then Pilate spoke, saying, "It is the custom to be generous during your time of Passover. One prisoner may be spared. I leave it to you to choose. Which of these men would you crucify?" And he did point to the murderer Barabbas, and then to Jesus, and it was when he pointed to Jesus that my heart turned to stone, for the multitude called out as one; "Kill him!”

Then did Pilate look to Lael, and seeing the bowed head of flaming hair, he again spoke to the multitude, saying, “Flogging would befit this man more, for he has done no wrong.”

But the people only cried louder, "Crucify him!"

Then did Pilate speak to his men, saying, "Take him away."

Again I turned to look at Lael, but her face was in her hands and she wept, much as any other woman.

After the trial, we disciples were sore afraid and most of us did hide. But Lael was ever steadfast, and she feared not for herself, but only for Jesus. And Mary, too, did counsel her to leave Jerusalem, for the mood of the people she understood not, and she was fearful that harm might come to Lael. But Lael stood by Jesus and would not leave.

And it came to pass that during the terrible ordeal, Mary and Lael and I followed as Jesus bore his cross and trod the long way to the hill of Golgotha, and sick I was to see his face as the blood did come from the thorns of the rude crown that had been placed on his head in mockery. And my heart was heavy laden to see him hanging there on the cross, and I was numb with sorrow.

Long we knelt watching while Jesus suffered, and then those who had followed Jesus to see him crucified did go their ways, and so we were but few left on Golgotha.

Then did Lael go forth, and the centurion let her pass, and she came near to Jesus and then his voice cried out, "Lael, Lael, lama sabachthani!"

A priest, standing not far from Mary, was heard to say, "Hear, he says, 'Eli, Eli, lamma sabachthani!'" And so it has been repeated over and over again through the years: "Eli, Eli, why hast thou forsaken me?"

But only Mary and I did know that he spoke to Lael.

And then Jesus looked upon Mary and spoke to her, saying, “Woman, behold thy daughter," Yet that has come to be repeated as, "Woman, behold thy son." Even so, I, John, know that I heard what heard.

And then the skies grew dark and the rain came down upon us, and out of the body of Jesus drained all life.

Then came Joseph of Arimathea, for he had permission to place the body of Jesus in the tomb of his family. And we did place the body of Jesus upon a roll of linen that was rich with the odor of spices, and we did roll the linen about his sorely wounded body, and we did lay him down according to custom, with his face toward Jerusalem.

Then did I find Lael upon her knees, praying, and...

It was at this point that the scrolls and their translation came to an abrupt end, and Jason said, "I guess that's it. Wish we could have known how it ended."

"But you do. You've heard it many times, even if you don't attend church," Taylor said.

"Not this version."

"Parthenogenesis," Taylor mused as she sat, still staring at the now blank screen.

"What?" Jason watched as she got up and went to the bookcase.

"Parthenogenesis," repeated Taylor. "Means 'virgin birth'... from Greek parthenos, meaning virgin, and genesis, as in the Bible, meaning 'beginning.' I've just read an article on it. I still have it around here somewhere. I think this Scientific American...yes, here it is. You might want to read this while I get us some food. You must be starving."

"Sounds good," Jason said as he took the magazine from her.

"And here's a book too, on some other discovered scrolls," she said as she handed him The Gnostic Chronicles. "Let me add that I don't find it very believable."

Jason started to read, but glanced up from time to time to watch Taylor as she prepared the food, finding it amusing to watch her head bobbing from side to side to the tune she was humming as she put the oranges in the squeezer. She was quite a woman, and he wondered what could have happened to her marriage. His own marriage had been very comfortable—perhaps not sensational, by some standards, but good and easy. They'd had a few fights, but divorce? As his grandfather had said about his own happy marriage, "Murder, yes—divorce, never!"

He was really tired now, and the excitement of finding the negatives of the scrolls had taken its toll of his energy. It was difficult for him to concentrate on the dry parthenogenesis literature, but he kept trying. He read that numerous plants reproduce themselves by parthenogenesis, and that some insects—greenflies, wasps, and honeybees—give birth asexually. He read of the famous hen turkeys of the U.S. Department of Agriculture Research Center at Beltsville, Maryland, that reproduced without male participation. Then there were the Belgian hares that reproduced "if they could barely smell the male, even if his cage was no nearer than twenty feet away."

The article went on to say that parthenogenesis in humans had been reported in many cases since the Virgin Mary, and had been reliably documented by a team of scientists who found that a shock to the body was sufficient to make a woman's cells divide, multiply until nine months later, a baby—a duplicate of the mother—was born.

Jason read on. He couldn't believe the number of case histories reported in which women swore they had not had intercourse to give birth, their stories supported by extensive medical and lie-detector tests.

"Learn anything?" asked Taylor as she set the table.

Jason looked up. “Always the same” he said thoughtfully.

"It's always the same.”

"What do you mean, always the same?"

"They always had offspring of the same sex—female."  

"Really?" she frowned. Then she put down the utensils.

"Wait a minute. There was something about..." Taylor went to her bedroom and Jason could hear her saying, "This book.. .it's about something else entirely...where is it? Here..." Her voice trailed off as she riffled through the pages while walking slowly back into the living room.

She sat down beside Jason and continued to search for the information.

"It's only a few sentences. I can't seem to find it now, but I do remember that it said every fetus starts out as a female! Then it requires the stimulation of the male sex hormones to begin the changeover at about the fifth week of pregnancy. That would mean, wouldn't it, that in the case of parthenogenesis, the offspring could only be female!"

"So," Jason said, "without the introduction of the male sex hormones, the offspring will always be an exact duplicate of the mother!"

"And in the translations, it said that Lael looked exactly like Mary had looked as a child! Then Lael...?"

"Right!"

“There's only one trouble with all this." She frowned.

"Yes?"

"We're trying to come up with all these rational explanations for the story.".

"So?"

"We're forgetting that religion is not rational. There's something called faith, you know."

Jason thought for a moment.

"Tay..."

"Yes?"

"Supposing it is true. Would it be the end of the world? Does it matter, really, who thought out and taught the great concepts of the Christian religion? Supposing we found out definitely, for example, that Bacon wrote Shakespeare's plays— or that Mrs. Bacon wrote them, for that matter—what difference would it make? The plays are still there, not a word could be changed or have another connotation. The plays would not be one whit diminished."

"Ah, but this is so different, Jason!" Taylor said. "There the works stand alone, apart from the author, about whom we know virtually nothing. But with the Messiah, the words He left us with cannot be taken separately—they cannot be divorced from the man, from His life, from His miracles, from His sacrifices, from His Crucifixion and Resurrection. Yes, it would matter."

"We don't know the whole story yet—the new version."

"Are you going to try to tell me this Lael ends up on the cross too? How very strange that no one has ever seen a painting or statue of a crucified woman."

"I'm not trying to tell you anything, because I don't know any more than you do. But I'm sure as hell curious, and what I want to do now is get to an expert and have this checked for authenticity, or at least antiquity."

"But I wonder if your curiosity may not end up simply jeopardizing the faith of many, many people. I think I could accept it, if it were the truth. In fact, I'm sure I could. But

obviously some people out there don't think the rest of Christian world would."

"You mean the global repercussions, the domino principle, the lowering of the power of the Vatican, the social and political implications?"

"True or not, it could cause chaos—a moral A-bomb." Taylor said.

"Somebody out there certainly seems to agree with you, and will go to any lengths to suppress the story. That's just what is keeping me hooked on this thing. Who are they? Don't you understand, Taylor? I really don't care all that much about these scrolls, true or not. What I care about is the real story, the story about the people who don't want this to come out, and are apparently willing to resort to murder to see that it doesn't."          “In other words, the case of Mr. Nestor Lascaris."

"Exactly. But it's not quite as simple as that. The fact that the man was murdered shortly after talking to me means that they may now believe I know more than I do."

The phone rang. Taylor picked it up and spoke first in Turkish, then in Italian and English.

When she hung up she said flatly, "There goes your story. My friend at the Vatican says that Cardinal Patrick, who knows more about Church history than anyone, says he's never even heard of the scrolls."

"But—but you just saw them! Did you tell him that?" 

"He said that was like the man who claimed he rode around the world on a bicycle and kept pointing to a bike saying, 'If you don't believe me, there's the bicycle."

"In other words, there are the scrolls, but that doesn't make the story true. All right, I'll buy that. But the scrolls still exist and some people will kill for them!”

Captain Elev of the Istanbul homicide department had been helpful enough, once fifty thousand lira were slipped into his sweaty palm by Jason. The dossier was opened and Captain Elev, tugging at his Fu Manchu moustache, provided superfluous information, accompanied by an array of sickening details.

It appeared that one Nestor Lascaris, aged over ninety, had  been attacked by thugs on a side street of Izmir, near the home of his relatives. The thugs had smashed the victim's skull with a blunt instrument, possibly a tire iron, and his right hand had been severed with a surgically sharp knife.

The Turkish police, Captain Elev went on loftily, had repeatedly advised the citizens of Izmir and Istanbul to avoid walking in the streets while conspicuously carrying cases and purses that might provoke thugs. The captain also said it was doubtful they would find further evidence that might link anyone to the crime. He regretted the incident, offered his condolences, gave them the address of the nephew who had claimed the body for burial, and then dismissed them curtly.

"Shows the quirks of their mentality," said Jason as they walked out of the station. "One would think it would have been easier to cut off the handle of the briefcase."

Taylor gave a low moan of revulsion.

"Lascaris told me he had a daughter—a nun," said Jason. "I think we ought to talk to her, but he didn't tell me where she is."

"Why don't you just forget the whole thing, Jason? I think you're asking for trouble. Big trouble!"

"I told you, running away won't help. And the nephew lives here in Istanbul. He might know which convent she's in." "I could drive you there," she offered finally.

The house was in a narrow alley in the heart of the city— an odoriferous, short street that stank of rotten melons and a thousand human urinations and dog excrement. After parking, they went to the door, which had a tile with the number twelve sunk into it, and they knocked with the heavy lion's-head knocker.

A young boy shyly opened the door.

Inside they could see that the house was surprisingly well furnished, though dark. A bald man with a paunch, wearing an undershirt, came up behind the boy, frowning suspiciously.

He had a newspaper in one hand, a cigar in the other. He didn't invite them in or even greet them.

"Sir, do you speak English?" Jason asked.

The man nodded and growled, "What you want?"

"Nestor Lascaris..." Jason began.

"My uncle dead."

"Yes, I know and I am sorry. I met him the very day he died."

"Ah," the man said enigmatically. "That what you say."

"We had some unfinished business. He was anxious for me to collaborate with him on a book."

"Now my uncle dead. Crazy bullshit scrolls. Trouble for my uncle, trouble for me, my family... you keep on, trouble for you!" He started to close the door.

"He mentioned a daughter," Jason persisted.

"My aunt," the man said.

"Is she here? Could I see her?”

"Eugenia not see you even if she here. But she not here. Not live here. Not live in Turkey." He pronounced it toor-kee.

"Mr. Lascaris told me his daughter lived in a convent, on an island, Mykonos."

"You crazy. Eugenia live on Tinos.”

"Of course... I meant Tinos.”

"She not see you...she not crazy."

"What can you tell me about the scrolls?" Jason asked.

"I already tell you all I know—trouble! That all I know you see Eugenia, and I no think so, you tell her about Uncle Nestor. Tell her he had good funeral."

"She—she hasn't been told?"

"We no want her to see how he die. We tell her later he die of old age."

He slammed the door.

They walked down toward the car.

"Clearly, a graduate of the Idi Amin school of charm," Taylor said.     

“At least I now know where to find Eugenia."

A dying newspaper caught Jason's eye as it lay in the gutter fluttering its wings. Something about a photograph on one page looked familiar, and he reached down and picked it up. "That's Phillips Taylor!" he said as he held it up for Taylor to read. "What does it say?"

"Oh, Lord," Taylor said as she scanned the Turkish letters. "It says he was shot and killed in the streets!"

"When?"

"The night we met with him at the Golden Sphincter."

"Oh, great," Jason muttered.

They walked in silence back to the car.

"Where is Tinos?" asked Jason.

"Near Athens."

"How near?"

"Well, it's an island, like Mykonos. I'm not sure how far."

"Mind driving me to the airport?" he asked.

"Yes, I would. I'd mind a whole lot," she said angrily. Then she looked over at him for an instant and said, "I wish—I really wish you wouldn't. I'm afraid for you."

"And I'm afraid for you. I've told you what happened to my wife. I'd better get away from you before they associate you with me. At least that way I can be pretty sure I'm the only one they'll follow. And whoever they are, I might be able to bargain with them if I can get them out in the open.. Those photographs of the scrolls should give me some leverage."

Taylor drove on in silence, and just a bit too fast.

"You should be reasonably safe in your house, but it might be a good idea to ask your friend Ali Reza for another favor... like a security guard," Jason suggested.

"I don't think that will be necessary," she snapped. "I've been taking care of myself very adequately for years."

"Anyway, if I have to go to Athens to get to Tinos, I'll be able to stop by to see Yanni Elias. Ever heard of him? An ecclesiastical and political reporter for a big Athens newspaper. Used to be a stringer for the Times. He did some research for me by mail years ago, and then he looked me up when he came to the States. Quite a guy. Maybe he can shed some light—"

"Maybe he can make you see the light," Taylor said. "Make you cease and desist all this cloak-and-dagger stuff. Make you accept the Christian religion as it's been for two thousand years. I feel like that comic strip where Lucy says she'd have made a good evangelist because she'd convinced the kid who sits behind her that her religion was better than his, and when Charlie Brown asks how she did that, she says, 'I hit him with my lunch box."

She shot an angry look toward Jason and said, "I wish I had a very large lunch box now."

"Madame," he replied, "I have a very hard head. Anyway, all I'm going to do is go see a harmless old nun and then have a drink with ah old newspaper reporter. Nothing very dangerous about that. And you may be right. Yanni may tell me I'm just wasting my time."

The pickup truck had circled the house twice — a small, well-kept white house with a red-tiled roof, on the outskirts of Rome. Two American boys, Jonny Phillips and his cousin, Rob Hudson, were playing soccer in the big front yard. Four Fanta cans  marked the goal areas. Jonny, a good-looking eight year older cousin. 

For the first time in their intensely rival lives, Jonny was beating his cousin.

"Hey, spastic!" laughed Jonny. "Use your damn foot!"

"You better not let my mother hear you talk like that!" Rob warned with a scowl. He took his soccer and his tennis and his swimming very seriously; he took every thing very seriously except his studies, at which Jonny excelled.

The truck stopped and one of the two men in it stepped out. With a big smile, he walked over to Rob, and said a few words.

"Hey, Jonny, he wants to talk to you!" Rob called out.

The boy amused himself by bouncing the soccer ball on his head while Jonny came over.

"Hi, Jonny . . . how goes it?"

He was a big, ruddy man with graying hair, and his English was perfect — a bit too perfect. He said "Jawnie" instead of "Jonny."

"Fine, sir," said the boy, his brow wrinkled questioningly.

What was this about?

"Want to talk to you," said the man with his toothy smile.

“Something wrong? Mom?”

"No, nothing too serious. Just that your friend, Father Bartolomeo—well, he fell and broke his hip."

"Gee, that's too bad!"

"Oh, he's doing fine, but he'd like a visit from you. He's at a hospital near here. Won't take long."

Jonny hesitated. "Well, sure, but let me ask my aunt."

"Well, there's a problem—he's about to go into surgery. You'll be back in twenty minutes."

Jonny looked back at the house, then turned to his cousin and said, "Got to see a friend, Rob. Be right back. Practice up while I'm gone—you need it!"

He waved cheerily as they drove off, and Rob thumbed his nose at his cousin in return.