Justin stooped in the dark confines of the tomb. The heady scent of old paper filled his nostrils and a languid chill foisted deep within his bones.
The tomb should have been spacious, but the floor was littered with rolled up parchments. The paper tubes were so numerous they created a carpet three feet deep. The walls were bare and the chamber looked like it was hewn from the hillside. It was no more than twenty feet square and the four of them filled what little space remained almost completely.
In his years of discussions online, Justin listened to many people talk about certain locales holding what they described as an aura, the places transferring a sensation of otherworldliness that could not be explained by science. He always dismissed the claims as foolish nonsense, more likely driven by fear and tricks of the mind than by anything tangible. However, bent over in the dark with the echoed breathing of his colleagues filling his ears, he was no longer sure those assertions were entirely false.
“I thought you said before there was no evidence for a historical person called Jesus?” asked Justin, trying to take away his uneasiness.
“I did.” said Carl, kneeling to fit his massive frame into the limited height available. “I’m not even sure why Dave wanted me to come here. He must have known there’s no solid evidence for Jesus having existed.”
“How can there be no evidence?” said Louisa, incredulously. “We’re in Jerusalem and I’ve seen the Garden of Gethsemane. I spent the morning walking up and down the Mount of Olives, and can see the Dome of the Rock from the street; which sits on the foundations of King Solomon’s temple! In addition, just to cap it all, I’m stood on a mound of rotting paper in a tomb belonging to Jesus Christ! There’s loads of evidence!”
“I think we have a closet agnostic on our hands.” said Carl, turning to Louisa. “None of those things prove anything other than the Bible writers knew the area. Independence Day the movie is set in major cities in the United States, and I know the landmarks in it are historically accurate. Are you telling me the characters and events are historically accurate too?”
“Of course not.” said Louisa, unsure where Carl was going.
“Then I suggest you use that thought when you look at the stories in the Bible. All too soon, you’ll realise that what you thought was truth, is just well described fiction.”
Justin had never considered that fact before. Most of the religious people who joined online debates used the historically correct locations and people found in the Bible as proof the other characters must be historically accurate. However, Carl’s simple supposition proved just how stupid a thought that was. No proof meant no proof. Evidence by association to locations was patently ridiculous.
“But there has to be some. You wouldn’t have half the planet believing in someone for whom there isn’t a scrap of evidence.” said Louisa, still pushing her point.
“There is some, of course. Written by Flavius Josephus in the first century AD, ‘The Antiquities of the Jews’ tells the story of the Jewish faith from its beginning to its then, current state. It has a reference to Jesus that says, in relation to man called James, he was the brother of Jesus, who was called Christ. There is nothing else, and even this should be discarded because Christian dogma says Jesus had no brothers or sisters. Add to this that all other historical references to Jesus were written by, or substantially altered by Christians and thus cannot be accepted because of their undoubted bias, and you’re left with nothing; not a single shred of evidence for God’s son to be found anywhere on Earth. Tell me you think that’s plausible; even remotely.”
“Then why did you believe in him?”
“Because I wanted to believe. I wanted there to be a life after death. I wanted to feel immortal. Most of all, I wanted there to be a purpose to life. Belief in Jesus provided that.” Carl’s tone softened, and a distant look washed over him. “I realise now that all fables have a hero at their core and those heroes are usually archetypal. There’s a test called the Hero Scale, which measures certain attributes of characters to tell how heroic they are and thus how much the stories affect us. On that scale, Oedipus comes first, and Jesus third. King Arthur and Captain Kirk also score well. Nobody who can be proved to have lived is in the top half of the list. Ghandi for example, gets one-third of the score of Jesus. Alexander the great, possibly the most heroic human who ever lived, only does better than Jesus if you accept the stories he told about himself are true; which they are not.”
“I don’t mean to break up another fantastic discussion, guys,” said Chris, looking frustrated, “but we’re not getting anywhere stood here talking. Can we get on with this?”
Carl nodded and motioned for the group to disperse around the chamber.
“Can I ask what these things are?” asked Justin, picking up one of the paper tubes.
“Homework.” said Carl. “Israeli children, when learning to write Hebrew, are asked to copy passages from the Torah in their best script. They throw their attempts into open tombs as it is said to bring good luck to their endeavours.”
“Oh.” said Justin, unravelling one. “They’re very neat.”
“Can you guys start digging down in the corners? There should be six loculi, or passageways, tunnelled into the walls. We need to look for markings or writing near them. The loculi in the corner near you Chris, is where they found Yeshua’s ossuary. That would be my best guess.”
The four began to dig down through the papers, the rustling noise echoing through the small chamber and magnifying its ancient feeling.
“There’s writing here!” said Justin, a few inches down into the scrolls. “It’s like hieroglyphs.”
“What?” said Carl, shuffling over.
There on the wall, about midway up the chamber, was a single line of script. Its flowing shapes and semi-pictorial nature did give it a feel of early hieroglyphs, but Justin could tell Carl knew it was not Egyptian in origin.
“What is it?” asked Chris.
“I don’t know.” said Carl.
Justin could not be sure, but something told him he had seen writing like this before.
Before he could speak, a gunshot echoed outside, its distant sound wafting through the tomb.
“I assume that means time is nearly up, guys.” said Chris. “Let’s get what we need out of…” Before Chris could finish, an explosion shook the tomb. Dust, thousands of years old, drifted down from the roof and choked the air. “Scratch that. We leave now!”
“Throw me your phone, Carl!” said Justin, unmoved from his position. “You get Louisa out, whilst I take some pictures.”
Carl looked at Chris, who acquiesced to Justin’s wishes and tossed him his phone. “Be quick, kid. That blast was real close.”
Justin thumbed through the menu. He set the phone’s camera to its maximum resolution and got as close as he could to the writing. Starting at the far end, he took photos, two feet apart, as he slowly made his way toward the exit.
“Are we good to go man?” asked Carl, poking his head out to see what was happening.
“I’ll climb out, you pass me Louisa.” said Chris, clambering out on to what remained of the dais. Once atop the cover, he reached out an arm into the darkness and waited for Louisa to grab hold. He hoisted her carefully through the gap and placed her to his side, as more gunfire rang out. “It’s now or never, Carl.” he said, leaning into the hole. “They’re practically on top of us, mate.”
Carl carefully moved back into the tomb, where Justin was completing his photo run. “We’re on our…” Before he could finish, another explosion, much closer than the first, ripped through the cramped interior and sent him tumbling to the floor. Above him through the opening, the sound of gunfire increased. “We’re going to have to climb out, kid.”
“Straight into a war zone? Sounds great!” said Justin, barrelling toward the exit.
They climbed up and threw themselves over the metal fence, pressing their backs against the concrete dais. The sound of gunfire was everywhere. Tracer rounds, whistli
ng as they scorched by, collided against the structure and sent a fine spray of dust into the heavy air. They looked about, but Chris and Louisa were nowhere to be seen.
“This is no place to be sitting!” said Carl. “We’re completely prone here.”
“Agreed.” said Justin, searching for an escape route. “Follow me.”
Before Carl could stop him, Justin made a dash for a ground floor balcony in the apartment block opposite. As he ran across to the fence that edged its boundary, he could see the impacts of bullets in the soil around him. He cursed under his breath and drew a lungful of air. He settled his mind as best he could, and screaming like a banshee began to lengthen his gait. Blood rushed through his veins and the heavy thump of his heart blotted out all other sounds. He tore across the ground, almost on autopilot, as he bore down on the low barrier before the building.
Justin vaulted the wall in a single bound, landing and hitting the wooden patio doors with his shoulder, splintering the wood with the impact and flying into the room beyond. Not stopping in the first room, he continued his sprint until he was into the next, well protected by multiple layers of concrete.
He turned, peering out into the night, as Carl careered into the room, tumbling over a stool and crashing to the tiled floor.
“Carl.” Justin whispered, as Carl righted himself. “Over here.”
Carl turned and saw Justin, down on his haunches near the door. He walked over, avoiding the furniture that lay haphazardly in his path and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Well, this is turning into a real hoot!”
Justin smiled, craning his neck out of the slightly ajar door of the apartment into the corridor beyond. He caught the tell-tale shaft of torchlight as it wavered in the dusty air. Turning to look in the opposite direction, he could see two more menacing cones appear. “We’re not alone in here, and I don’t think it’s the colonel.” he said, leaning back into the room.
Carl went to look for himself, momentarily snapping his head back as a beam brushed the wall near the door. To their right, a short stride across the corridor was a staircase. It may not be the exit they were looking for, but it would at least allow them to get out of the position they were in.
Justin glanced out and saw the staircase as well, gesturing his acceptance of the plan.
A moment later, they darted into the shelter of the stairwell. Bullets zinged off the floor behind them and echoed cries thundered down the corridor, as their stalkers descended on their position.
Carl led the way up the stairs, running as fast as he could to the second floor. Once he was out, he searched for an open doorway. As Justin reached his side, he pressed a finger to his lips and the pair silently slipped into an apartment, closing the door as quietly as they could.
Outside, screams of frustration and barked orders could be heard, as footfalls dispersed through the building.
Carl cautiously moved to the back wall, conscious that knocking into furniture would have their followers converge on them. To his right, a set of patio doors led to a veranda. He opened them, gratefully feeling the glass slide gracefully aside. He stepped out into the night, the distant repel of gunfire and screams still filling the air. Clambering over the railing surrounding the platform, he grabbed the sewerage pipe located there tightly.
A stiff breeze blew through the barbed branches of the acacia tree at the base of the apartment and rustled its pulpy leaves, as Justin waited for Carl to finish his descent. Carefully crawling downward, he was soon stood by Carl’s side in the heavy shadow.
Justin scanned his locality, but the absence of light meant seeing anything more than the vague outline of the wall next to him was nearly impossible.
“We have to assume our safe house is no longer safe.” Carl said, as quietly as he could. “So we should head back to our last known, safe location.”
“The coffee shop?” asked Justin.
“Don’t be stupid kid. It was probably the shop owner who ratted us out. We should head back to the…”
Carl’s words were cut short by the sound of safeties being released behind them.
“Ogarf bimkaneek la tetherek!” a heavily accented voice intoned. “Raweany edeik!”
“Put your hands up, kid.” said Carl, twisting to face the voice. “No sudden movements.”
The pair turned to see a group of casually dressed Arabian men, carrying Russian assault rifles. The lead man twisted a grin through a thick grey beard, as he strode forward. As he advanced, his beady eyes flashed in the moonlight and picked out the edges of his loosely bound turban.
“Ah, Mister Walters.” said the man.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you too.” said Carl. “I’m not sure what Iranian nationals are doing in Israel, but I’m sure you have a pretty good reason to risk being tortured by Mossad.”
The man snapped a fist out and caught Carl square on the chin, twisting his head and momentarily dazing him. “I take it that the bag your colleague carries contains the artefacts?”
“Take it, it’s yours.” said Justin, holding the duffel out.
“I know it is.” the man said, raising an arm and dropping it to his side.
Justin stared in terror, as the men hoisted their guns into firing positions. Carl instinctively drew an arm across his chest in protection, holding his other palm outward in hope it would stop what was to occur.
The sound of gunfire rang out underneath the acacia, startling the murder of hooded crows lingering in its thick branches. The echoed gunshots merged with the plaintive ka-ka of the birds, as they bemoaned vacating their roost, before the area fell back into inky silence.
Chapter 36