The City of Lost Secrets: A Mara Beltane Mystery (16 page)

“I don’t understand.”

“We’ve already determined that the name Jose is short for Joseph, and that Marya can be translated as Mary,” Uri said. “And now we know that the Jose and Marya inscriptions were similar…”

Then it hit me. I suddenly knew what Uri was suggesting. “Do you think it’s possible that the Jose ossuary belongs to Joseph, the father of Jesus?”

“Yes!” he exclaimed. “Think about it: The Jose ossuary and the Marya ossuary had similar inscriptions that look like they were written by the same hand in Hebrew, and they were found in the same tomb.” 

“The ossuaries
do
translate into Joseph and Mary…” I said, tapping my pen against my cheek as I contemplated the possibility of Jesus’ parents’ ossuaries having been found. “But still, those were two of the most popular names at the time of Jesus. It’s like walking into a graveyard and finding side-by-side tombstones etched with the names William and Elizabeth. Who could tell how they were related, or if they were related at all?”

I was starting to sound like Tovah, the skeptical tour guide who walked me through the Rockefeller Museum.

“There’s no way of knowing, Uri,” I concluded.

“It’s likely that Jose wasn’t Jesus’ father, but with no evidence to discredit it, no proof, it must remain a possibility, right? After all,” he added, “the fate of your novel depends on it.”

With that, Uri hastily grabbed my hand and led me to the next ossuary, around the corner from Jose’s. He didn’t have to rotate this ossuary because the inscription was on the narrow side facing out at us. Large Hebrew letters were etched near the top of the rim, slightly off-center. Uri looked at me in that curious way of his, eyebrows raised, as if willing me to speak.

I stared at the inscription, knowing that I’d seen it before. I’d seen them all before. On television. In books. On the Internet. And now live, in the flesh, so to speak.

“Matia!” I said, reinvigorated about our mission, for which I had Uri to thank. I had so much to thank him for, and I didn’t for the life of me know how I would ever repay him. 

“Yes!” Uri confirmed. “A shortened form of Matthias, or Matthew. This is the most misunderstood ossuary from the Talpiot tomb.”

“Why?” I asked, flipping over a new page in my notebook.

“Family tombs were reserved for family members only, and there is no known Matthew in the Jesus family.”

“What about the apostle Matthew?” I ventured a guess. “Is it possible he was related to Jesus somehow?”

“I guess it’s possible,” Uri said, “but there’s no known biblical document that states they were related.”

“No known document that has been
found
,” I clarified. “With no evidence to discredit it…”

“...It must remain a possibility,” Uri finished his own statement, smiling in recognition of my attempt to keep his positive words on our side as we continued our mission.

“What about the apostle Matthias, the one who was chosen to replace Judas Iscariot?” I asked, suddenly remembering another Matthew from the New Testament. “Is it possible he was related to Jesus? Could it be his ossuary that was found in the Talpiot tomb?”

Uri thought about this a minute. “Well, if they were related, that would explain Matthias’ sudden promotion to Apostle after Judas’ death.”

“A classic example of nepotism, first-century style,” I said. “Can you imagine? Jesus interviewing Matthias for the position of Apostle, asking about his skills and qualifications and former employers…and then suddenly realizing, ‘Oh, wait. You’re my cousin. You’re hired!’”

We both laughed at the thought of Jesus doing something as reviled as advancing a man’s status simply because he was a blood relative.

Uri composed himself, and a look of seriousness came over his face.

“Mara, are you ready to move on?”

“We’re leaving?” I asked.

“On the contrary,” he said, taking a step toward me and gently taking my hand. “We’re not going anywhere. We’ve only just begun.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

“We’ve spoken in length already about this ossuary,” Uri said, motioning to the most controversial ossuary found in the Talpiot tomb.

The authenticity of this bone box could make or break the case that the tomb was the final resting place of Jesus of Nazareth. 

“Mariamene e Mara,” I said, giving in to the urge to want to touch the ossuary. I placed a hand on the side of the ossuary facing me and stroked the cold stone. “Mary Magdalene.”

“Perhaps,” Uri said, “if we accept that two separate languages were inscribed on the bone box: Mariamene, written in Greek, and Mara, which is Hebrew.”

“Mary the Master,” I translated into English.

“Yes,” Uri said. “But two languages on the same ossuary is very rare. Another rarity is an ossuary identifying a person with a title, such as master. And no evidence exists that shows Mary Magdalene was ever called ‘Mary the Master.’ So we must throw out those two options. Do you remember a third possibility I mentioned?”

“Yes,” I said, removing my hand from the stone box. “Two women in the same ossuary: a Mariamene and a Mara. They could have been interred at different times, their names inscribed in different Greek scripts--one formal, one informal--by two different people. If this is true, then most likely the women were related.”

“That’s right. We know that Jesus had at least two sisters, one of which we think was named Mary. Which could mean…” Uri pointed at me, wanting me to take over.

“…Which could mean that Mariamene and Mara were sisters-in-law: Mariamene, otherwise known as Mary Magdalene, being Jesus’ wife, and Mara, also known as Mary, being Jesus’ sister.”

“If you accept the sisters-in-law option as the truth, it would allow the names to fall in place, leaving you with the possibility that the Talpiot tomb is indeed the final resting place of Jesus and his family,” Uri concluded. “This would be interesting fodder for your novel.”

“Yes…my novel,” I said, placing a hand on the ossuary once more and tracing my fingers over the inscription.

I had temporarily forgotten about researching my novel, my original reason for being here, in this storeroom, in Jerusalem. How could I forget the sacrifice I made to be here? The trouble I--and Uri and Lev, as well--could still get in? The lengths to which Uri had gone to help me?

How important it all seemed in the beginning of my journey to prove to myself that I was more than just a chick-lit writer. How insatiable my need to reinvent myself and my career. How absolutely essential it was to me that I write a controversial, bestselling novel. A novel to end all novels. The one that would definitively prove that everything we thought we knew about Jesus’ death was wrong.  

Now, suddenly, it was gone—-the need to prove that I could be someone else, the importance of reinventing my career, the essentialness of this controversial idea that could no sooner by proven than sold to the masses as the truth. 

One thing was still present, however. Desire. Oh, there was desire, but not for a novel. The desire I felt was for a man. And as I looked up at him, saw his dark brown eyes, I felt it. I had lost my original reason for coming to Jerusalem, but I had found a reason to stay.

“…but it could also mean that the Mariamne and Mara in this ossuary were mother and daughter…” Uri was saying.

I regained my focus and continued looking at Uri, who seemed to be talking more to himself than to me. He was gazing at the ceiling and counting on his fingers. I had lost some of what he said, but I assumed he was still speaking about all the different options for the supposed ossuary of Mary Magdalene.

“There are so many different interpretations of the name,” I chimed in, trying to appear as if I’d be listening the whole time.

Uri shifted his eyes down from the ceiling to me.

“Precisely,” he said. “Mary, Maria, Mara, Mariamne, Mariamme, Mariam, Mariamnon…Every epigrapher asked to translate the ossuary has presented a different opinion. Some say there was one person in this ossuary. Others say there were two. As old as the inscriptions are, and as clumsily carved, there’s not one shared interpretation among language experts.”

“But among biblical scholars?” I asked. “Is there a general consensus among them about this ossuary?”

“Well, sure,” Uri said. “Scholars believe there were two people interred in here.” He gave the ossuary a few gentle taps.

I was writing in my notebook when his next statement caught me off guard.

“And if there were two people contained in this ossuary,” he said, “we can’t even be sure if they were both female!”

“What do you mean?” I asked. “Of course they’re both female!”

Uri wagged a finger at me, as if I should’ve known the answer to this latest puzzle. “There are nine known ossuaries that contain the name Mara, and in two of the cases it is believed the name Mara belonged to men!”

“Men named Mara?” I said, a concept I hadn’t thought of. “Is Mara a unisex name, like Terry or Robin?”

“Well, not exactly,” Uri said, wrinkling his nose as if to suggest the answer was complicated. “Jewish names that could be used as both male and female are rare. The ossuaries we’ve seen with Mara etched on them were clearly indicating the Aramaic word for
master
.”

“Mariamne and her master?” I said, translating into English yet another interpretation of the Mary Magdalene ossuary.

“Yes. The ‘master’ most likely being her husband.”

“Of course,” I said, rolling my eyes.

Uri shrugged, as if he was just stating the facts, that he shouldn’t be blamed for the implication of female subservience.

“So the person interred with Mariamne, the Mara part of the inscription, could be a female relative…or her husband,” I said, summarizing the two options for the second person interred in the ossuary.

“Yes, both very good possibilities,” Uri said.

“That shoots a lot of holes in the Mary Magdalene theory,” I said, writing down more notes. “And if this isn’t the ossuary of Mary Magdalene, then the house of cards falls apart. It throws even more doubt on the claim that the Talpiot tomb is the final resting place of Jesus of Nazareth.”

Uri inhaled deeply and opened his mouth like he was about to say something, and then stopped. “Let’s move on,” he said after a brief pause. “There is one last treasure to behold.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

“Close your eyes,” he said.

“What?”

Uri repeated his request. “Close your eyes.”

We were standing in yet another aisle, surrounded by bone boxes stacked floor to ceiling on high metal shelves.

Uri reached out and took my right hand in his. My heart started to beat faster.

“Mara yakiri. B’vakasha.” Uri said in Hebrew.
My dear Mara. Please
.

I closed my eyes.

“You are here to see, but also to feel,” he said, gently lifting my hand until I felt cool stone on my fingertips.

“Sham,” he said.
There
. “Do you feel that?”

As he guided my hand over the smooth surface I felt deep carved lines in the stone under my fingers. 

“Yes, I feel it,” I said. “Is that an inscription? Someone’s name?”

“Achat, shtayim, shalosh, arba, hamesh, shesh,” Uri whispered softly in my ear, counting off the number of letters as he traced them with my fingertips. 

“Six letters,” Uri said. “They spell Yeshua.”

My eyes popped open. We were standing next to the controversial ossuary that started it all.

Yeshua bar Yosef
.

Jesus son of Joseph
.

I was touching what may be the vessel that contained the remains of Jesus Christ.

It was then that I noticed Uri was standing unbelievably close to me. Our feet were nearly touching and his hand still held mine. With a few more steps our lips would meet in a kiss.

For a moment I felt it: requited attraction. The way Uri whispered almost seductively in my ear. How close our bodies were. How tenderly he held my hand. There was a longing in his eyes, a curiosity I felt as he leaned in toward me. As if he was thinking, What would it be like to kiss this American girl?

How badly I wanted him to follow through! And how palpable my desire to kiss this Israeli man! But not here. Not now.

I lowered my eyes and took a few steps back, forcing myself to temporarily ignore my feelings for Uri and attempt to keep this meeting strictly professional.

“Mara?” he asked, sensing my discomfort.

I fumbled with my notebook and cleared my throat. “So…um, this is it?” I asked, looking at the ossuary for the first time.

Keep it together
, I told myself.
Focus
.

I trained my eye on the ancient inscription, the one that indicated this ossuary may have contained the remains of the most controversial person the world has ever known. The inscription was located on the narrow side facing out, directly under the rim. The inscription was preceded by a mark that resembled an X or a cross tilted on one side. The ossuary itself was undecorated and badly scratched, its lid flat and broken. Hardly the type of vessel you’d think would contain the remains of Jesus of Nazareth.

Uri looked at me, his eyes flickering back and forth as if reading my thoughts. He smiled, then continued.

“Yes, so, this portion of the inscription is generally accepted to read Yeshua,” he said, pointing to the clumsily carved letters immediately to the left of the cross mark. As he pointed I could see his hand trembling.

“Jesus,” I translated. “A common name at the time, right?”

“The sixth most popular name,” Uri said.

“And that part of the inscription?” I asked, pointing to the farthest left part of the etching.

“Bar Yehosef. Son of Joseph.”

“I don’t know anything about ancient languages, but even I can tell you that this inscription is very difficult to make out,” I said, moving closer to the ossuary and squinting, as if doing so would make the scribbles legible. “It looks like it was inscribed by a child.”