The City of Lost Secrets: A Mara Beltane Mystery (17 page)
“Keep in mind, Mara, that inscriptions were usually made by family members of the dead, using crude instruments like chisels and nails, and often in the darkness of a tomb. So carelessly executed etchings, sometimes with misspelled words, were very common.”
Uri seemed to have also regained his focus.
“But someone as important as Jesus of Nazareth?” I challenged Uri. “Certainly more care would have been taken for his ossuary!”
“This is not surprising,” Uri said, pointing to the inscription. “Even ossuaries of renowned families and high-ranking officials are known to be illegible and contain spelling mistakes.”
In an effort to assuage my disbelief, Uri mentioned again the common Jewish practice of second burial: A body is laid out to decompose, and then, about a year later, the remains are placed in an ossuary where they would remain forever in a family cave.
This is vastly different from the burial practices of modern Jerusalem, Uri said. Ossuaries would have been seen by family members only, shut away in dusty caves that only family members accessed, not put on display for the whole world to see.
I had to remember that Jesus was a simple man who had humble beginnings. The earliest “Christians,” the ones who existed during Jesus’ time, followed a Jewish brand of theology. To them, and to Jesus’ family as well, Jesus was neither a God nor a deity, despite the importance placed on him by his disciples. Therefore, his family still adhered to Jewish burial practices when he died; a simple burial in a non-descript cave, and a simple bone box clumsily etched with his name to house his remains. It was modern Christianity that created pomp and circumstance for Jesus’ sake: fabricated holidays to celebrate the supposed dates of his birth and death and resurrection; cavernous churches and highly embellished cathedrals in which to pray; and a long tradition of popes and bishops and cardinals and priests to keep us in line, to remind us to do as they say, not as they do.
The politics of religion aside, there was a bone box in front of me demanding my attention, an ossuary that a controversial documentary claimed was the final resting place of Jesus of Nazareth. I was beginning to have my doubts that this theory was real, but the fate of my novel depended on it. I couldn’t allow myself to get wrapped up in the state of modern Christianity.
“I think you’re missing something,” I said to Uri after he had concluded his speech about Jewish burial practices.
“I am?” he said.
“The X mark,” I said, looking again at the etching of what looked like a cross tilted on its side.
“Ah, yes,” Uri said.
“Is it a Christian symbol of the cross? Is it meant to denote that someone important—-like Jesus—-is inside?”
“No, it is probably a mark of the stone mason or the person who etched the inscription.” Uri pointed to a mark on the lid, this one looking like a greater-than sign. “Here’s another example.”
“So the fact that the X mark looks like a cross and just happens to be preceding the name Jesus is just coincidence?”
“I’m afraid so. X marks were typically used to show how the ossuary was supposed to align with the lid, and there would be two matching symbols, one of the box and one on the lid. There are many ossuaries at Dominus Flevit that prove this theory. In this case, and on a lot of the other ossuaries that have been discovered, the marks were used to identify the mason or inscriber.
“Not religious in nature,” I summed up.
“It looks that way. Besides, the cross was not established as a Christian symbol until the time of Emperor Constantine, in the fourth century A.D.”
“Surely the cross as symbol was used before then,” I said. “Certainly the early Christians made the connection that Christ died on a cross and therefore a cross was the most powerful and enduring symbol they had to remember him by.”
I was grasping at straws. The X mark as Christian symbol would be a strong argument in proving the validity of the Talpiot tomb. It was also one of the last pieces of evidence I had. Without it, the X mark was just another piece of graffiti, a stray mark among many on a stone box that I was using to tell the world that everything previously thought about Jesus’ life was a lie. But as it stood now, the X was just another hole in my story.
“Perhaps the early Christians passed the history of the cross symbol along in oral traditions until it was finally adopted several hundred years later as the official symbol of Christianity,” I was saying when Uri reached out and took my hand.
“I know you think you need this argument,” he said, “but you’ll have to find another way.”
I looked at Uri, over to the box that had been causing me such frustration, and finally at the ground.
“Why?” I whispered.
“Crucifixion is something that no one should have to endure,” Uri said, releasing my hand. “To the early Christians, the cross would have been a painful reminder that their son, their friend, their leader, had died a long, cruel and excruciating death. Why would they willingly subject themselves to such emotional torture by adopting a symbol that would be a constant reminder of that?”
“No, that’s not what I meant when I asked why,” I said.
Uri looked at me curiously.
I felt chastened, like this was a lost cause. There seemed to be no avenues left to explore. Everything could be explained away. Ancient stone boxes carved only with first names--common names at that. Cross symbols that were little more than instructions for lid and box alignment. Bones that had been reburied nearly thirty years ago and long forgotten. With all evidence pointing to the Talpiot tomb not being the final resting place of Jesus, how could I possibly convince everyone that it was?
It was then I realized that I hadn’t yet looked at the
Yehudah bar Yeshua
ossuary, the bone box that some believed belonged to Jesus’ son, Jude. But what would be the point? If there was no strong evidence proving that the ossuaries belonged to Jesus and his family, then what difference would one more ossuary make? DNA testing couldn’t even conclusively link the Jesus and Mariamne ossuaries, and there was no other evidence whatsoever of a marriage or proof of a child…
I didn’t even want to look at the Yehuda ossuary. I didn’t need another slap in the face, another reminder that my mission had failed, that I would be returning to Philadelphia empty-handed.
“Why is this so hard?” I asked, more of myself than Uri. But he answered anyway.
“Because you’re one person attempting to challenge a 2,000 year-old institution that is one billion people strong, nothing less than a religion that has formed the foundation of western civilization.”
I leaned against a metal shelf. “I’m lost.”
“How do you mean?” Uri asked.
“There’s nothing left. How can I…how can I write this book? It wouldn’t be right. None of it would be true. I’d be lying…”
“Make no mistake, Mara, this is the ossuary of Jesus,” Uri stated authoritatively, standing up straight and pointing to the stone box sitting on a shelf next to us.
I sighed. Why was Uri trying to confuse me? He claimed he wanted me to draw my own conclusions about the Talpiot tomb. Which I had. I was pretty sure the Talpiot tomb did not belong to Jesus of Nazareth and his family. But with the right amount of spin I could novelize it and make the claim legitimate. If only I could stay in Jerusalem with Uri until I figured out how to do that…
So why was Uri now trying to lead me to a conclusion? Why was he stating the ossuary in front of us did belong to Jesus? I was lost and confused and hadn’t the energy to continue today.
“Uri,” I said, “I’m tired.”
Uri stared down at me lovingly and took a few steps toward me. He leaned against me, the metal shelf now supporting both of our weights.
“I think you’re…I mean, you must know how I…” I stammered, the words muffled by his shoulder as it pressed against my cheek. I was attempting to let Uri know that I appreciated everything he had done for me. No, that I would be nowhere without his help. But given my exhaustion and Uri’s sudden advances, I couldn’t begin to express it.
And there was no way in hell that I could even come close to saying what was really running through my mind at that moment: That I thought Uri was a remarkable man and I found myself falling uncontrollably for him.
Uri gently kissed my forehead. “There’s no need,” he said. “I understand.”
“You do?” I asked.
Uri gave me a squeeze before stepping away from our embrace. He nodded his head. “Let’s go. We’re done for the day.”
“What’s next?” I asked.
“We still have one thing left to see,” Uri said. And then he leaned in close and whispered in my ear, “Tomorrow night we visit the tomb.”
It was a cool night and the dark sky was full of stars. A light breeze nipped at us as we walked, and I was glad I decided to wear a light jacket. As we approached the clearing I saw him, standing alone with his hands in his pockets, a large duffle bag at his feet.
“Hello, Miss Mara,” he said as Uri and I walked towards him. It had been quite a few days since I’d seen him, and it felt good to be greeted by a friendly face.
Instinctively I hugged him, wrapping my arms around his thin shoulders.
“Hi, Lev.”
He put his arms around me loosely, as if afraid to squeeze too hard or get too close. But then he brushed his lips across my cheek in a quick kiss as he let go.
“It’s been some time,” he said. “I haven’t seen you in the store lately.”
“I’m sorry, I…well…” I started to explain.
“It’s okay, I understand,” Lev said, looking at me and then to Uri. “You’ve been busy.”
There was a moment of silence between the three of us, and I wondered what Lev was thinking. I looked over at Uri for some sign as to what the quiet meant, but he seemed to be lost in his own world, staring at the entrance to the tomb, which I noticed was uncovered. The stone slab that had been welded in place was now laying askew across the stone walls that had been built to box out the entrance to the tomb.
“Did you do that?” I asked Lev, pointing to the unobstructed entrance just a few steps away.
“I had help,” he said.
“How did you…?” I asked. “Who…?”
“Does it really matter, Miss Mara? It is done. It is time for you to do what you’ve most been wanting to do. Your whole reason for coming to Jerusalem.” He reached into the duffel bag and pulled out a rope ladder. “Here. You will need this to get down to the entrance of the tomb.”
I looked at Lev and then at Uri, the two men now exchanging glances.
“You’re not coming with us?” I asked Lev.
“Someone must stand guard,” he said.
I looked around at the large apartment buildings around us, their lower levels shrouded by trees and shrubbery. Talpiot was a popular residential suburb of Jerusalem, notable for its clubs and restaurants and for the tomb discovered during the construction of the apartment complex nearly thirty years before--a tomb a controversial documentary claimed was the final resting place of Jesus of Nazareth, a tomb I had come thousands of miles to see, and would be inside in a matter of minutes.
A dog barked off in the distance, but otherwise all was still and quiet.
Uri gently took hold of my elbow, leading me up the small stone steps toward the entrance of the tomb.
I motioned to Lev, who was still standing on the street where we’d met him, just below the entrance to the tomb. “Are you sure you can’t come with us, Lev?”
“Too risky,” he whispered. “There isn’t much time and you’ll need a lookout.”
Uri unrolled the rope ladder, secured it to one of the concrete walls that boxed out the entrance to the tomb, and instructed me to go first. He shined a flashlight down the shaft and I hoisted myself over the wall and slowly down the ladder. Thousand-year-old dirt crunched beneath my shoes as I hit the bottom and stepped out of the way to make room for Uri’s descent. He climbed down, unsteadily at first, the rope swaying and straining against his weight, his left hand bearing all the weight as his right hand held the flashlight to light the way.
We were once again on solid ground, albeit underground at the entrance to an ancient tomb.
“First thing’s first,” Uri said, shining the flashlight on the area just above the tomb entrance. I turned around to see what he was motioning to. There, etched deeply into the rock, was what looked like an upside-down letter V with a circle in the middle of it.
“I’ve seen that symbol before,” I said.
“A circle, or rosette, under a gable,” Uri explained. “You probably remember it from Dominus Flevit. Some of the ossuaries kept there have this symbol etched on them. Do you remember me showing them to you?”
“Yes, I remember. One of the ossuaries, etched with the name Simon bar Jonah, had this symbol etched on it.”
“Peter, son of Jonah,” Uri translated from Hebrew. “Yes, the dot and gable symbol on that ossuary are quite unmistakable.”
“I’ve read that some people actually believe that ossuary belongs to the apostle Peter. As in, the great Saint Peter! Can you imagine?”
“Don’t you think that’s possible?”
“That his remains are stored in a plain ossuary in Jerusalem rather than a necropolis under the basilica in Rome that bears his name?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know. Tradition says his remains are in Rome.”
“Ah, tradition,” Uri said. “Such a tricky word when science is involved. Tradition would also have you believe that Jesus was resurrected on the site of what is now the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. Aren’t we here to prove the opposite? That he in fact did not resurrect, that his body lied right here in this tomb, miles from Jerusalem, for nearly 2,000 years?”
“Yes, but this is different,” I said.
“How so?”
“Because there is no mention of Peter being resurrected from the dead. He was martyred for his beliefs and his remains were buried…somewhere. It doesn’t really matter where. Could be Rome. Could be Jerusalem.”
“So you’ve seen the gable symbol etched on an ossuary and now on this tomb,” Uri said, shifting the focus of our conversation back to the symbol above the entrance to the tomb. “What do you think it means?”
