“I was not aware that priests were allowed to marry,” Spud muttered.
Malamud’s voice was melodic. “Asit, Isis, herself had several husbands. Polygamy is said to honor the example of Isis and Osiris.” Her tone indicated she wasn’t on board. “Fortunately, like most moderns, I’m not a practitioner of any religion. So, I’ve always been a one-man-at-a-time woman.” She smiled at me and Spud and then rested her amused eyes on John.
“Uh, sorry. I was just, uh, wondering why you’re not--“ John stumbled, a hint of pink teasing his face.
“Wearing a stola?” She shrugged. “I find these clothes more comfortable in the heat, and they do not inhibit my activity.”
John nodded. “It’s good not to be inhibited,” escaped his lips before he froze, embarrassed.
Another tuneful laugh. “I agree,” Malamud said, patting his hand. To us: “How can I be of assistance?”
“We are seeking the burial site of an ancient prophet,” Spud began, “As a Professor of Comparative Religion you may be able to guide us as to its location.”
Malamud sighed. “I can try. But human history has provided us with more prophets than knowledge. What is your prophet’s name?”
“Yeshua Bar Maryam,” I volunteered.
Malamud’s olive skin turned ghostly pale.
* * *
“We have no proof that Yeshua even lived,” Professor Malamud said, folding her hands in her lap to hide an obviously unwelcome tremor. “Only fragments written almost two thousand years ago by a follower, Paul, née Saul, have been discovered. They have never become an official part of the Torah.”
“Does that jibe with what you read in Nea Alexandria?” I asked Spud. Would he play it close to the vest—I mean waistcoat?
Spud nodded. “According to Paul, Yeshua was crucified by the Romans, buried in Judea, a footnote in Hebraic history. But,” he glanced the Professor, “Josephus, the renowned chronicler of the era, didn’t mention him at all.”
“So, no resurrection,” said John, to Spud’s dismay.
“On the contrary, resurrection is a theme throughout many documented religions,” the Professor countered. “Osiris and Dionysus were both gods who returned to life after death.” She smiled at John. “You are correct, though, I have found nothing to indicate that a Yeshua Bar Maryam did so.”
My hands unconsciously crept to stroke the Somalderis I was wearing under my toga. I kept my eyes aimed towards my feet.
“Paul’s writing has described a general region where his alleged mentor might be buried,” she continued, “but the grave has never actually been found. Why would you be interested in such ancient remains?” I could feel Malamud’s gaze burning my forehead.
John staved off a lecture from Spud with a loud sigh. “Professor—“
“Aliyah, please.”
“That’s beautiful. Aliyah,” he continued. “Call me John. I’m a research scientist myself, and I spent years searching for the elusive components of our universe’s creation, like the Higgs boson, which people often mis-named ‘The God Particle”. I finally realized that uncovering the building blocks of mass would bring us closer to understanding the laws of our universe, but wouldn’t clarify its history and its purpose. The productive investigation of Quantum Physics, in the end, may be truly inseparable from the study of Metaphysics.”
A snort from Spud’s direction and a chuckle from Aliyah’s.
“Though I’ve turned my back on my own religion,” she admitted, “I’m still convinced that all particles are God’s particles.”
Sarion would have been proud of me--I couldn’t resist the joke. “Hey, Bro, a woman after your own Quark.”
Everybody groaned.
Chapter 19
A Grave Mistake
Isaiah University—alternate present day
“The site you seek is beyond the old city walls.” The Professor handed Spud the tablet on which she had entered directions and instructions. “This monorail,” she pointed to an elevated track which ran a course through the University campus, “will take you to your final destination.”
I wish she hadn’t chosen those particular words.
“Can’t we talk you into joining us?” John’s voice belied his eagerness.
Aliyah held his gaze for a moment, before shaking her head. “I have a seminar to present this afternoon. If you don’t find what you are looking for, return this evening and I may reconsider.” A warm smile. “If you are successful in your quest, you can meet me here tonight and we can celebrate.” Wishing us all good luck, she leaned in close to John and patted him on the arm.
John followed us to the station, grinning from ear to ear. I sighed. What is it with my companions and “wuv” lately?
We boarded the gleaming monorail at the campus station, and settled in for the journey. As the monorail skimmed quietly along its route, Spud recited our travelogue from the data files the Professor had highlighted on his tablet. John and I pressed our faces to the window, gawking like children at the fantasyland below. The old city wall had remained as a crowded tourist attraction filling the suburban villages surrounding Alsharif with travelers; travelers whose diverse toga styles spoke of far-off homes. As we approached the wall, our monorail glided over a busy boulevard labeled Via Laetitia.
“Avenue of Joy,” Spud explained unnecessarily.
A prerecorded message accompanied by faint bouzouki music startled us as the car moved forward. “You are leaving the Old City of Alsharif,” our Ergals translated from the Arabic, “may Isis and Gaia safely guide your journey to the provinces beyond.”
“That was sweet,” John said with a tiny trace of sarcasm.
“The next stop should be ours,” Spud warned, “Gulgalta.”
“We will,” I said, gathering our things.
* * *
Gulgalta—alternate present day
We walked a few yards to a rocky knoll whose dome shape resembled nothing as much as Benedict’s balding scalp. As in the Old City we’d left behind, the landscape we faced was green with medium-sized bushes and grasses, their stalks and leaves wafting in the gentle soothing breeze. The stone path to the edge of the hill split off before us into spokes, each curving along parcels of land blanketed with manicured lawns.
A few tourists were ambling along the smaller paths, stopping to look at the small statues that populated the green section. Noting a statue not far from where we stood, I loped over to it and pulled out my Ergal to translate the writing on its pedestal. “the…ashes…Alharbi…beloved—“
“Serapis,” said Spud over my shoulder
“Huh?” I stood up. “No, I think it’s some kind of a giant urn.”
“Serapis was a Egyptogrecian God who was reputed to be vying with Osiris for Isis’ affections.”
“And we care why?” John said
“All these statues represent Hellenic, Roman, or Egyptian deities. This tract is most likely a burial ground for the cremains of the citizens of Alsharif, guarded by their god of choice.”
“Ugh. Am I stepping on someone?” I jumped back over to the path.
Spud sighed. “Note the drawer on the back of the throne where Serapis sits.” He pointed to a latch which he pulled open with a hesitant finger.
John and I peeked, and saw the drawer open a chute leading down into the darkness. “The ashes could be poured into this cavity during the funeral ceremonies. Our blended god here is probably perched on top of a vault holding thousands of the dearly departed.”
“A cemetery.” I made a face. “Somehow appropriate.”
“’And oftentimes excusing of a fault doth make the fault the worse by the excuse’,” Spud mumbled, confusing me.
“Well, I don’t see anything here that resembles an ancient grave,” John interjected. “All these names and dates seem pretty recent, only a couple of hundred years. And nothing’s in Hebrew or Aramaic. If we’re going to de-hat a rabbit, maybe we
’re going to have to go back to ‘the time of the crime’.”
I knew I would regret using that idiom. Though John did have a point. This grassy knoll might be safekeeping the resting souls of millions of modern Philaians. But I doubted it’d tell us where to find one specific Judean who’d lost his life two millennia before. “At least we’re already wearing togas, so we’ll fit right in,” I said, “but didn’t Les Moore tell us that going back could put us—you—in danger?”
John’s voice was steady. “Moore thinks he can write the future, but he’s really only a reporter of what’s already past. I write my own life scripts, Sis. And I say we go back.” He turned to Spud. “Escott? Are you in the game?”
Spud continued to study the statue and avoid our eyes. Finally, he spoke. “A fool’s errand, I fear, but I shall join you. Else I remain here to be someday flushed through Serapis’ bowels into that watercloset of souls below.”
Thanks, Spud. Glad you’re coming with us. Though, I’m not grateful for that mental image. You could’ve just said ‘yes’.
* * *
We set our black market Ergals for a trip back almost two thousand years, struggling to figure out the best strategy to return our timeline to its previous course. Lester Moore was right—we couldn’t give Yeshua a second Somalderis prior to his arrest without introducing yet another change factor that could have even worse consequences for the timeline. Nor could I catch my earlier self and dissuade her from her quest—that would mean John’s rescue would be voided and my brother would return to his solitary prison—to die. We’d have to try and see if we could get to Yeshua after his arrest, and return the Somalderis before his death, so he could anastasize and “resurrect” himself or use it to transmit a holo from Level Three to his followers. Or?
“Yeshua was sentenced to death by crucifixion, a common means of execution in the era,” Spud reported. “Death would creep in slowly, in some cases over days, and observers would be less likely to stand watch for the duration. Yeshua would be relatively isolated—it would be an opportune time to make contact.”
“We could appear to give him the Somalderis as an offering,” John suggested. “Escott and I could create a distraction and you could sneak up close with the gift.”
“Roman guards are not easily distracted,” Spud said, sounding unenthusiastic. “But I see few other alternatives. Making a move at the Sanhendrin or when he is surrounded by the high priests and elders would be even more challenging. And I do not wish to make the personal acquaintance of the Roman Prefect of Judea or the maddening crowds demanding iniquitous justice at the Governor’s feet. We should endeavor to return at night, two days after your theft.”
“Loan,” I defended. “But you’re probably right. Let’s get moving.”
“Uh, wait,” said John.
We looked at him, waiting.
“I really should thank Aliyah. Before we go. For her help.”
Cue eye roll.
“Another couple of hours here won’t matter. We’ll still set our contract metrics at the correct time in the past,” John pleaded. “It’s only polite.”
Cue sigh.
Spud finally stepped in. “I appreciate your efforts to feign courtesy, but there could be unintended consequences, the longer we stay where we do not belong. It is critical that we leave now.” His hand crept towards the makeshift Ergal on his ring finger.
Spud’s urgency seemed out of place in this peaceful lea. I scanned the well-tended grounds, marveling once again at the intricate and statues that dotted the grass, watching us like a rapt marble audience.
John, leaning against Serapis, waved a hand, brushing off Spud’s anxiety. “Honestly, Escott, you’re such a buzzkill.” He stood up straight and stretched. “Fine, whatever. But, after we’re done, I’m letting you know, I may take a little vacation in the Middle East. This Middle East.”
After entering the correct contact metrics in each of Lester Moore’s “Ergals”, we reached for each other’s hands and stood together in a tight circle, rubbing our clasped fingers over the rings. A millisecond before we X-fanned from the graveyard, I caught a ghostly blur in my peripheral vision behind John. A pair of arms clutching at his chest.
* * *
Golgotha? Time unknown.
The missile exploded less than a hundred feet from where we’d M-fanned. The blast knocked us back onto the parched ground, hard. Eyes to the sky, we saw the shiny, sleek aircraft circling around for a second shot at an aluminum-sided warehouse not far from where we lay.
We jumped up and ran for a concrete building a few yards away, its windows shattered, its walls crumbling. Better than being targets out here in the open.
All four of us.
“Aliyah!”
Those arms. They’d belonged to Professor Malamud, who must have leaped onto John’s back at our critical last second in Alsharif, and had been transported to the past along with us. Was that a look of fear on her face—or regret?
John’s features broadcast a mix of concern and joy. Spud was wearing his “I told you so” expression, peppered with his, “We are so screwed” one.
When we’d hidden inside the shell of the concrete structure, John turned to Dr. Malamud with a broad grin. “Awesome. How did you get here?”
“The same way we did, Rush,” Spud intoned. “I thought I had heard a rustle behind Serapis. I should have arranged our departure with greater haste.”
“You have excellent ears. I slipped on a branch,” Aliyah admitted. “I could barely hear what you were saying and I had to tiptoe in closer.”
As another blast shook our shelter, John slipped an arm over Dr. Malamud’s shoulders. “I’m glad you’re here with us, wherever this is. We could use your help. I just hope we don’t get--”
A third blast, closer to our building.
“We’d better move,” I warned. “We can talk later.”
Nods all around. We ran through the remains of the concrete building and out a large hole in its wall onto a deserted street, its pavement filled with bomb craters, its sidewalks lined with burned-out houses and scorched trees.
“Where the hell are we?” John said, once we’d clambered into a damp cellar next to one of the destroyed homes. “This ain’t ancient Judea.”
Spud was fiddling with his Zygan Ergal, so Aliyah spoke first, in a comprehensible mix of Latin and Arabic. “Though I have no credible explanation for how it happened, it seems as if have landed in the middle of the Canonical Crusades. About eleven hundred years ago.”
Confused looks from me and John.
Spud looked up from his research. “That makes sense. Adding an unexpected fourth person to the transport diffused the Ergals’ energy. They couldn’t take us back as far as we had intended.” His glare was aimed at John.
John was smiling at the Professor. “Oops.”
Her tone was not apologetic. “How could I act otherwise? Aside from your clumsy dress, and your even clumsier Anglish, you three were clearly not typical moderns.”
So much for Lester Moore’s Ergals.
“Yeshua Bar Maryam has long been forgotten in our day,” the Professor continued, “But, like Yeshua, my own ancestors had a covenant with the god Yahweh. There are few historical documents to be found, but those I have researched suggest Yeshua was condemned under a charge of blasphemy for his contention that he was kin to Yahweh. Like most contemporary scholars, I could learn little more.”
She reached out both hands, palms up. “And now three xenoi arrive with urgent questions about this lost martyr, seeking to locate his grave. What is their purpose for this quest? Have they information or revelations that could change our understanding of our past? I am a historian and a scientist, clearly should I not investigate your origins and mission? If only to understand mine?”
“And so here we are.” Apparently, she did comprehend some English. Or Anglish. “Now, it is my turn to ask a few more question
s about you.” She paused, her eyes on our Ergal rings, waiting.
I looked up at John, who seemed to have the best connection with our new “friend”, and shrugged.
He stepped up to the plate. “Well, you’re right, Aliyah. We aren’t exactly, uh, your kind of ‘moderns’. But, we’re just like you in every other way. I mean, human. We, uh, do have some technology here that, uh, you all, haven’t invented yet, that allows us to travel, uh, you know, back. But unless you’re an engineer, too, I don’t think you’ll understand my, uh, technobabble. Um, just think of us as having solved the riddle of cold fusion for time.” At last, John exhaled.
Oh, well. A punt.
Spud came up briskly to bat. “You are correct, we are xenoi, from an impassable part of Earth, I fear, and, in our own way, also students of science and history. But, I am afraid, Professor, that we shall have to accompany you back to Alsharif, thank you for your assistance, and bid you ‘adieu’. Our apologies for this unauthorized excursion, and our best wishes as regards to your academic pursuits.” No hesitation there.
Dr. Malamud raised her hand. “Wait. I’d like to stay with—“
The roar of the jets drowned out the rest of her sentence. Another blast vibrated our underground shelter. “Um, Earth history was never my strong subject, Professor, but weren’t jet fighters discovered less than a hundred years ago?” I asked as the building shook from the force of the bomb.
Dr. Malamud raised an eyebrow, “I’m not familiar with the term ‘jet’, but Heron, Hypatia, and so many other ancient Greeks had developed models such as the aeroripile that could be used for rapid flight. Why would it take more than two thousand years to implement them?”
Spud whispered, “They had no Dark Ages. Our Renaissance was delayed a thousand years.”
Oh. “But, didn’t she say something about the Crusades?” I countered.
“Dr. Malamud, who would the combatants in this epic battle be?” Spud asked.
“Why the Order of Isis and Osiris and the acolytes of Zarathustra, of course.”
Of course. Without Yeshua’s resurrection as their inspiration, the numbers of Yeshua’s followers would never have reached the critical mass needed to unseat the competing religions of the era.