The City of Lost Secrets: A Mara Beltane Mystery (5 page)

“No
family
ties,” Tovah said, shifting on her feet again. “Other than Jesus, who?”

“Well, we know from the Gospel of Mark that Jesus’ brother James lived and died in Jerusalem, so there’s a family tie,” I said. “Is it such a stretch to suggest that Jesus’ family relocated here from Galilee, and was therefore buried here?”

“No, that is not a stretch,” Tovah said, suddenly distracted by something outside, perhaps the tour group that was congregating at the entrance. She paused and stood on tip toe to get a better look. Sensing my eyes on her, she returned her gaze to me and continued. “But to suggest that the Talpiot tomb specifically-–with ossuaries etched with the most common names at the time--is the burial cave of Jesus of Nazareth is a stretch.” 

Our conversation had come full circle.

“The common name theory is well documented and seems to make sense,” I said. “But just because I’m originally from Philadelphia doesn’t mean I’ll be buried in Philadelphia.”

“You can’t compare the funerary practices of different religions and different time periods to prove your argument,” Tovah said, exasperation in her voice. But despite the argumentative conversation, she forged on. “Jews in first- century Jerusalem practiced secondary burial: bones of the deceased were removed from a first grave and then placed in an ossuary and buried in a familial cave near the family’s geographic origins.”

Tovah was standing her ground and had made her opinion very clear. But I had to test her one last time.

“You said there was ‘little likelihood’ that the Talpiot tomb was the tomb of Jesus. But you didn’t say there was
no
likelihood. Which tells me you’re not completely convinced. You think there’s still a possibility that the mystery hasn’t been solved.”

Tovah sighed. “Miss Beltane, if you are trying to get me to confess to something I do not believe, you are out of luck.”

Voices started filling the lobby. The tour group was making its way inside. I turned my head and saw the tour leader waving a red flag attached to a long stick, herding her flock. I didn’t have much time left.

“If only the ossuaries were researched further,” I said. “Maybe then you’d--”

“We don’t find the ossuaries to be worthy of further research,” Tovah interjected, raising her voice to compete with the influx of noise.

“If they’re not worthy of further research, then why are they locked up in a warehouse in Bet Shemesh?” I asked, also raising my voice, which had less to do with the crowd of talkative tourists and more to do with wanting to challenge Tovah. “Why aren’t they on display for the general public to see?”

“The ossuaries are old and fragile and in need of protection.”

“Protection?” I asked, surprised by her choice of words. From what?”

Tovah stood on tip toe, her round figure stretched as high as her balance would allow. Doing so raised her just barely above my eye level, so that I had to lift my eyes ever so slightly to look at her. The meaning and implication of her body language was not lost on me. Tovah had to look down to address me.

“Miss Beltane, perhaps you don’t understand the full implications of the Talpiot tomb,” she said sternly. “Israel has seen enough war and terror. My country doesn’t need another battle on its hands.”

I took a step back, alarmed by the scolding look on Tovah’s face and the accusatory look in her eyes.

“Battle? I’m afraid I don’t understand,” I said.

Tovah ignored my statement, motioning instead to the tour group that was mingling in the corner by the entrance, and allowing her body to resume its normal position. She was smiling as if she knew she’d won the battle. She’d given me a thorough dressing down and was proud of her accomplishment. “If you’ll excuse me,” she said, her hand still outstretched. “I have another tour to give.”

“Of course,” I said, with as fake a smile as I could muster. I wanted to let her know that although she had won the battle, the war was not lost.

“It was a pleasure meeting you, Miss Beltane,” Tovah said. “Enjoy the rest of your stay, and good luck with whatever business brings you to Jerusalem.”

Then Tovah left my company and waddled away, back towards the counter where we’d first met, and to a group of tourists who would, no doubt, never dream of usurping her authority.

CHAPTER SIX

The next day I found myself in the Old City, walking through a small and touristy souk. All around me shops and stalls were filled with racks overflowing with scarves, rugs, shoes, and religious trinkets. Tables lined the path on both sides, overflowing with even more souvenirs: books, cheap magnets, stationary, handbags. English, Hebrew and Arabic were shouted all at once, as tourists haggled for that perfect find with local merchants who were searching for the best price for their wares. The aisle was narrow and as I struggled to push my way through the throngs of people, I occasionally had to turn sideways to pass, mumbling an apology the few times I accidentally bumped into someone.

To compound my discomfort was the thick air, filled with the scent of spices and incense so intense that I was sometimes forced to hold my nose against their dizzying intoxication. And the heat! Surely I’d never felt any fever as powerful as this, the result of a blazing Middle Eastern sun in June.

I was careful not to make eye contact with any vendor or pause too long at any one stall, lest I find myself invited in for a closer look. I was not here to shop, after all; I was simply looking for a shortcut through the Old City en route to the Mount of Olives.

The Mount of Olives overlooks Old City to the east, and most visitors climb its summit for the breathtaking view. I, on the other hand, wanted to go there for an entirely different reason. The Mount of Olives, along with Mount Zion to the west, is where Jesus spent his last days, and it was important for me—-for the novel I was going to write-—to walk in his shoes.

But at the moment I was walking through a souk, and I was distracted—-by the heat, by the intense noise, by the stench that was meant to lure visitors…and by the conversation I’d had yesterday with Tovah at the Rockefeller Museum. She had been hesitant to give her personal opinion of the Talpiot tomb at first, answering in the plural.
We
don’t think the tomb is worthy of further research.
We
, as in the IAA, her employer, the agency that was responsible for excavating the Talpiot tomb back in 1980. The same agency that is now housing the six inscribed ossuaries that were found in the tomb in a warehouse outside of Jerusalem.

When I pressed her further, however, Tovah made it very clear that she didn’t think the Talpiot tomb was the final resting place of Jesus Christ. My research indicated that most people shared her opinion. So, while Tovah told me what I needed to hear, I certainly had not made a friend or earned her trust.

I wanted to believe the Talpiot tomb was real, that the final resting place of Jesus Christ had been found. It would be the perfect scenario for the novel I was attempting to write. But I needed to confirm it with scholars, scientists, skeptics, believers, professors.

Was Jesus married to Mary Magdalene? Did they have a child? Were they all buried together, along with other family members, in a family cave on the outskirts of Jerusalem? Could all that possibly be true? The makers of the documentary that inspired my trip to Jerusalem think so, and went so far as to hint at a conspiracy to cover up the truth.

So, as I walked through the crowded pathway of the souk, glancing fleetingly at the faces of the people who knew and loved Jerusalem best, I wondered: would anyone come forward and admit they believed the Talpiot tomb was the real deal? Perhaps Tovah’s response was just the first of many disappointments I would face as I attempted to discover the truth.

Perhaps Lisa was right. I had been so sure about my trip to Jerusalem during our lunch together at Reading Terminal Market a few days before, telling her that I was certain I’d find lots of people in Jerusalem willing to talk about the Talpiot tomb. But Lisa, ever the sensible one, had said, “Think of where you are going. Three major religions co-exist in Jerusalem, two of which are explicitly linked to Jesus. You may not find anyone openly willing to talk about it.”

This was bore out by the fact that my emails to carefully researched Jerusalem-based scholars and professors had gone unanswered. I had come to Jerusalem empty-handed but undeterred, with nothing but an idea and a dream to guide me.

The heat of the day was starting to get to me, as was the atmosphere of the market, so as I emerged from the souk I decided to duck into a small, air-conditioned store for a few minutes of quiet, cool relief. There were no other patrons and the shopkeeper was nowhere to be found, but the bell that chimed as I entered the store would surely cause him or her to emerge eventually. I took the brief moment alone to catch my breath and look around.

The store’s carpet was the color of midnight and the walls were white, with blue and teal and green geometric patterns painted like tiles around the perimeter. There were several glass display cases in the middle of the store, as well as shelves mounted on the walls that held everything from copper and brass eating and drinking vessels, to beauty products, to silver jewelry. A service counter stood against the back wall straight ahead of me.

My eye was drawn to a display of olive wood objects on a shelf to the left of the entry door. The light-colored wood items were intricately carved figures of Christ and the Virgin Mary, as well as nativity scenes and crucifixes. I bent over and picked up an olive wood rosary, which I thought would make a nice gift for my mother. It was just about then that I heard rustling behind me.

“Business or pleasure?” a male voice asked.

I stood up, startled, and turned and saw a tall, scrawny boy, perhaps eighteen or twenty years old. He had dark brown eyes framed by glasses and cropped black hair. He was wearing a green and white striped pull-over collared shirt that hung over a baggy pair of jeans.

“I’m sorry?” I asked.

“Are you in Jerusalem for business or pleasure?” he said again, removing his hands from his pockets and folding them awkwardly in front of him in what I assumed was meant to be a more friendly, welcoming posture.

“A little of both, I guess,” I said, thinking to myself how perfect his English was.

“I figured as much,” he said, nodding knowingly. “Most women don’t travel here alone. Especially American women.”

“No, I suppose not,” I said, surprised at his honesty. I wondered if he was the store clerk or just a helpful fellow traveler.

“You’ll find that men might stare at you, and possibly taunt you,” he warned. “You must be careful.”

I’d read as much in my guidebook, but thankfully I had had no encounters so far.

“Thanks for the tip,” I said.

The boy smiled, then motioned to the rosary I still held in my hand. “Good choice,” he said. “All of our olive wood pieces are from Bethlehem. The best that money can buy.”

“You work here?” I asked, and the boy nodded. “It’s beautiful,” I said. ”But I’m not looking to buy anything today.”

“We carry special gifts for the whole family,” the young man said, motioning around the store with outstretched arms. “If you don’t see what you’re looking for here, I bet I could find it for you elsewhere.”

I placed the rosary back on the shelf. “Thank you, but I really don’t think you have what I’m looking for.”

As I started to walk past him to leave the store, he shoved his hand out and introduced himself.

“My name is Lev,” he said.

“Oh, okay,” I said, not expecting to be engaged further. I thought I had made myself clear, that I was only browsing. “Mara,” I said, hesitantly taking his hand.

“Well, Miss Mara,” Lev said, bowing at the waist as if he was at my service. “What is it, exactly, that you are looking for?”

I felt cornered. I was halfway to the exit. With a few quick steps I could be out the door and on my way to the Mount of Olives, instead of here, with a strange boy I had no intentions of buying anything from. But I decided to play along, realizing that a few minutes spent with a local wouldn’t completely derail my plans. Besides, I thought, once I told Lev what I was really looking for, he’d say he had no idea what the Talpiot tomb was and that would give me reason enough to take my leave. 

“It’s silly, really,” I said.

“Please, tell me,” the boy said, smiling, excited that his help may indeed be needed. “Perhaps I can help you.”

“Well, there’s this ancient tomb on the outskirts of town that was discovered almost thirty years ago, and it’s covered up now…” I began.

Lev’s eyes grew large behind his glasses and he shrank back a few steps. “Are you with the police?” he asked.

“No, of course not.”

“A reporter?” he asked, continuing to back away from me.

“Not exactly. Look, I didn’t mean to upset you. Did I say something wrong?”

Lev stopped and stared at me a minute. “I know why you’re here,” he finally said.

“You do?”

“Of course,” he said, and walked behind the service counter. “The Talpiot tomb.”

“You’ve heard about it?”

“Heard about it?” he said incredulously. “Of course I have! When that documentary first aired, claiming the Talpiot tomb was the final resting place of Jesus of Nazareth, it created quite a controversy. Scientists and journalists and researchers and scholars, not to mention Christians, from all over the world went into a frenzy!”

“So I’ve heard,” I said, easing my way to the counter, thinking that the boy was starting to open up to me. “I’ve seen many of the blogs and books written in response to the claims made about the tomb. It seems no one believes it could be the real thing.”

“No, not many people do,” Lev said.

“What do you think?”

Lev eyed me suspiciously. “Who are you?”

“Nobody,” I said. “I’m nobody.”

“What do you want?”

“Nothing. I’m just curious about the tomb.”

“You said you were looking for something. What is it?”