The City of Lost Secrets: A Mara Beltane Mystery (8 page)
“Meet me for lunch tomorrow at the café on Tiferet Yisrael Street.” he said. “I will tell you what I know about the lost tomb of Jesus.”
I spent the next morning holed up in my hotel room, reviewing my notes from Dr. Nevon’s class, pouring over everything I’d found on the Internet about the Talpiot tomb, and scanning books I’d brought along on the subject of the supposed lost tomb of Jesus. I was hoping the brainstorming session would help me flesh out a riveting action-filled plot for the novel I would write.
I was unsure how I should begin the novel, but I knew what I wanted the ending to be: that the Talpiot tomb was indeed the final resting place of Jesus Christ, not the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, and that the six inscribed ossuaries belonged to Jesus and various members of his family. Hence Mary Magdalene was his wife, and Judah, their son. I wasn’t going to hint at the idea of a Jesus family tree, I would prove it.
The revelation would rock the Christian world to its core.
And the novel, I hoped, would be a smash hit, topping best-seller lists for months. I would be catapulted to a new level of fame for having the audacity to upend the very heart of Christianity. I would be revered by some, hated by others, but the experience would cement me as a literary force to be reckoned with. It would be my ticket to a new life, a happier life.
It didn’t matter if the tomb or the ossuaries were really those of Jesus and his family; I just had to make it believable. Have enough evidence to erase doubt. I was hoping that Professor Uri Nevon could give me the evidence I needed. I was hoping the tomb hid secrets that only he could reveal.
The professor promised to tell me everything he knew about the tomb. But why? Why was he suddenly willing to share his knowledge with me? Wasn’t he worried about the possible consequences?
Mostly, though, I wondered how he’d done it, gained access to the tomb that is covered up by a large slab of rock welded in place. And how had he avoided detection?
Perhaps he hadn’t gone undetected. Maybe he’d been caught and arrested, and was pardoned in exchange for his silence. Maybe he was tired of being silent and wanted to reveal what he knew. Maybe his secret was that the Talpiot tomb really was the resting place of Jesus Christ!
Hopefully I would discover all the answers in a few short hours during my lunch meeting with him. At the moment, though, I had to be patient, stay focused, and stop looking at my watch every ten minutes.
I had a thought to call Lisa and Jenny, since I hadn’t checked in with them since arriving in Jerusalem, but decided to e-mail them instead. Lisa would still be at work and probably unable to talk. And Jenny, well, I didn’t feel like dealing with the tongue lashing she would inevitably give me for my rash decision to fly off to Jerusalem.
I fired off a quick e-mail to Lisa first--the easier of the two--and was just about ready to start an apologetic e-mail to Jenny when my cell phone rang.
I went over to the double bed, where my cell phone laid on top of a pile of clothes.
“Hello?” I said, sitting back down at the desk.
“Is this Mara Beltane?” a slightly accented, raspy female voice asked.
“Yes, speaking.”
“This is Abigail Greenberg, archeologist with Bar Ilan University. You e-mailed me about a story you were writing?”
“Oh, yes!” I said, excited that someone had finally responded to my request for interviews. “Thank you for calling me back.”
“Are you really with TIME magazine?” Abigail asked. “They’ve become too left-leaning for my taste over the years, politically speaking, but you sounded sincere in your e-mail.”
“Actually, I’m, um, not working for TIME,” I said, suddenly remembering I’d told everyone I emailed that I was a writer for the magazine. I had hoped the credibility of the publication would prompt people to respond. But now, my plan from here on out was to tell the truth. “I’m working…independently on this story.”
“What’s the story about?” Abigail asked, seemingly unfazed by the shift in my story. “The security barrier being built along the West Bank to keep the Arabs out? The continuing land dispute? Keep in mind I’m just an archeologist, so if you’re looking for the science behind the quest for peace…”
Abigail sounded old enough to remember the violent birth of Israel in 1948 and bitter enough to discuss it with everyone she encountered.
“No, nothing like that,” I said. “I’m actually writing about the Talpiot tomb.”
“The Talpiot tomb,” Abigail said, familiarity ringing in her voice.
“Are you familiar with it?”
“Sure, sure,” she said. “What about it?”
“I’m trying to find out if it’s at all possible that the tomb is the final resting place of Jesus Christ.”
“Oy! Okay,” Abigail croaked.
“So what can you tell me about it, from your perspective?” I asked. I positioned my notebook in front of me on the desk and prepared to take notes.
“I was thirty years-old when the tomb was discovered all those year ago,” Abigail said. “I can tell you the discovery of the tomb was just that: another discovery. All discoveries are exciting, of course, but there was nothing extraordinary about this one.”
“Were you involved at all with the excavation?”
“Oh, no. The IAA had full authority of the site. I wasn’t even in Jerusalem at the time, anyway.”
“Where were you?” I asked.
“Let’s see. The year was 1980 so I think I was doing research in Qumran…” Abigail said. “No, wait. I might’ve been excavating in Jezreel…or maybe I was in Jericho…”
“You’ve been to all those places?” Amazement registered in my voice, like a small child asking Santa Claus if he really circumnavigates the entire globe in one night.
“I’m a biblical archeologist, my dear!” Abigail laughed, a hearty, chest-rattling sound that gave her away as a smoker. “I’m inspired by the historical events described in the Bible. What kind of archeologist would I be if I didn’t travel to the places referenced in the Bible?”
“So you didn’t get to see the Talpiot tomb at all?” I asked, embarrassed by my naiveté and deciding to switch gears.
“Like I said, I’m not a member of the IAA, and my services weren’t called upon. Besides, it only took the IAA two weeks to completely excavate the tomb. By the time I arrived home from wherever I was, the Talpiot tomb was long forgotten.”
The Israel Antiquities Authority, or IAA for short, was responsible for the safeguarding of all of Israel’s antiquities and treasures. Surely being a member of the largest archeological organization in all of Israel was an important and delicate job, a job with lots of responsibilities and authority…and power.
It gave me an idea.
“The IAA was in charge of the Talpiot tomb excavation, right?” I asked, scribbling furiously in my notebook as I spoke.
“Yes,” Abigail confirmed.
“So the IAA was responsible for analysis and storage of the tomb’s contents, as well?”
“Correct.”
“Including the six inscribed ossuaries?”
“What are you driving at, my dear?” Abigail’s voice was tinged with suspicion.
“Well, it seems the IAA has a lot of power. Maybe too much power?” I suggested.
“Ha!” Abigail wailed. She tried to speak, but the words got caught in her throat and her voice convulsed in a series of giggles and snickers and snorts. She seemed to be having a good time at my expense.
But no matter. I had had a breakthrough. Another piece of my novel’s puzzle had fallen into place. I now had my antagonist, my bad guy--the person, or people, who would stop at nothing to keep the Talpiot tomb’s secrets hidden forever.
I pulled the phone away from my ear and wrote in my notebook, waiting for Abigail to recover from her fit of amusement.
She coughed one last time and cleared her throat.
“My apologies, Miss Beltane,” she said. “The IAA is involved in all matters concerning Israel’s antiquities. That’s its job. So of course the IAA was involved with all aspects of the Talpiot tomb excavation.”
“Yes, I realize that,” I said, putting my pen down and shaking out the cramp that suddenly seized my hand. “But don’t you think it’s strange that a lot of the IAA’s discoveries are on display at the Israel and Rockefeller Museums, but the six inscribed ossuaries from the Talpiot tomb are hidden away in a storeroom miles from here?”
“Are you a writer or a kochleffl?” Abigail said with a chuckle.
“Am I a
what
?” I asked, confused. “I’m a writer.”
She offered no explanation as to what a
kochleffl
was and forged ahead with another question.
“Are you a religious woman, Miss Beltane?”
“You can call me Mara,” I told her. “And no, I’m not religious. Why do you ask?”
“Everybody answers to somebody…or something. Most scientists, for example, are not interested in beliefs and theories. We need hard evidence--absolute, undeniable proof--in order to believe. In other words, we answer to science. But men and women of faith, the truly devout…well, it doesn’t matter what evidence you present. Historical accuracy is not important to them. They answer only to God.”
Abigail was absolutely right. My father was a prime example. He went to church every week and prayed to God and praised Jesus despite the lack of scientific evidence proving they existed. Because other than the Bible, what evidence is there? What would it take for my father to suddenly not believe? What would cause him to turn his back on religion and his belief in Jesus the Son of God? A stone box with Jesus’ name on it?
I didn’t think so.
Religious belief, to me, is so deep-seated as to defy all logic and reasoning and scientific evidence. It is, I believe, beyond proof or disproof.
“Tomb or no tomb,” Abigail continued, “followers of Jesus simply trust he is the true Son of God. And they are more than willing to fight for this belief. Keep this in mind as you set out to prove that the Talpiot tomb is the final resting place of Jesus Christ.”
“You’re interested in biblical history,” I said. “As a historian and archeologist, aren’t you the least bit curious?”
“My time has come and gone,” Abigail said, sighing. “I will be retiring soon, clearing the way for someone else to discover more about the history of our world. Perhaps that person will discover the truth about the Talpiot tomb.”
“Maybe someone like Dr. Uri Nevon,” I said softly to myself. But I had spoken louder than I thought.
“Ah, yes. My dear friend Uri,” Abigail said. “If anyone can convince the world the Talpiot tomb is real, it’s him.”
“You know him?” I asked, my ears perking up.
“Sure, sure.”
“How?”
“I was a guest lecturer at Bar Ilan University when he was an undergraduate student there. Oh, that must be 20 years ago now. That is when we first met.”
“And you stayed in touch with him?”
“From time to time. He’d contact me whenever he had archeology questions. We spoke a lot, in fact, when he was researching the Talpiot tomb.”
“Did you know he gained access to the Talpiot tomb?”
“Certainly,” Abigail said. “He asked for my blessing.”
I sat forward in my chair, excited by the new direction the conversation had taken. “And you told him you thought it was okay?”
“What could I do?” she said. “He had his heart set on it.”
“So you didn’t try to stop him?”
“My dear, do you know the professor?” Abigail asked, continuing before I had a chance to answer. “Spend some time with Uri and you’ll discover there’s no stopping him once an idea takes hold.”
“Actually, Dr. Nevon and I met for the first time just yesterday,” I said. “I found him quite by accident.”
“Accident?” Abigail bellowed. “I’d say more like
bashert
!”
“Bashert?”
Abigail explained that
bashert
was the Yiddish word for fate. “Perhaps it was your destiny to meet Uri,” she said. “He knows more about the Talpiot tomb than anyone.”
“So I’ve heard,” I said. I don’t put much stock in Abigail’s belief that most things in life are a product of fate, or are the will of God.
“Yes, well. Unfortunately, Uri’s idea to search for the truth behind the Talpiot tomb has cost him a great deal.”
“Really?” I asked, surprised and saddened at the same time.
“Shtuken nisht in harts,” Abigail said.
“More Yiddish?” I asked, laughing.
“A stab in the heart, my dear,” Abigail translated. “A stab in the heart.”
“How so?”
“Oy. Uri’s is such a tragic story,” she said, sighing. “I’ll let him tell you…”
Abigail’s last words to me were equal parts warning and blessing.
“May God watch over you, my dear. You will need it for this adventure you are about to undertake.”
I walked through the streets of Old City feeling that Dr. Uri Nevon was my last hope. I had already been cautioned by Abigail and scoffed at by Tovah the tour guide and IAA employee in my attempts to learn about any secrets the Talpiot tomb may be hiding. Were they not brave enough to tell me the truth? Was there even anything to tell?
Dr. Uri Nevon seemed to think so. When I mentioned the Talpiot tomb documentary and its heretical accusations, the professor didn’t immediately dismiss the claims. In fact, he referred to the Talpiot tomb as the lost tomb of Jesus. Why else would he do that unless he believed it?
What I wanted to do—-what I felt I
needed
to do—-was see the tomb for myself. But gaining access was illegal. Would the professor be willing to break the law again to help me? Maybe his supposed obsession with the Talpiot tomb was enough of an incentive. I sure hoped so, because the future of my book depended on it. And it was too early in the process to let the idea for my next novel slip through my fingers…
So, while there was self-imposed pressure to nurture a novel idea, getting to know Jerusalem and its people was a substantial help.
Most of the trips I’d taken with Thomas required hustling from one city to another. Sometimes we barely had a chance to stop and listen to life happening around us, to truly experience the places and its people. We had traveled to nearly twenty countries, but had we really “seen” any of them?
