Islam in that chapter, all sorts of debates are springing up between Muslims and Christians in various cities here, including Boston.”
“Nothing wrong with that-so long as it remains dialogue and no one gets steamed. By the way, anything from the Iranians?”
“Do you mean, has your fatwa been lifted?”
“Yeah, I guess that’s what I mean.”
“No. Which reminds me, Mr. Dillingham-the CIA, you’ll recall-has phoned several times to complain that you aren’t checking in with their operatives in Greece, as you should have.”
“Darn. I plumb forgot. But hey, I haven’t been assassinated yet, have I?”
“That’s so comforting, Dr. Weber. Now please do the right thing?”
“I promise. Oh, and please ask Osman al-Ghazali to try and monitor some of those Christian-Muslim debates and get back to me, okay?”
Shannon had not worried about the fatwa for several days, but Jon’s mention of it restored a furrow or two to her brow. He saw it and immediately switched the subject to their favorite topic of late: the five leaves of brown parchment that had such explosive implications-provided they were authentic and could be dated.
“Those just have to be pages from Hegesippus’s lost memoirs, honey. And no, you don’t have to ask if I packed them. The attache case went into the trunk first.”
“Let me play devil’s advocate, Jon, and ask why you seem to be so sure that this is material from Hegesippus. After all, those pages are anonymous-no author’s name anywhere.”
“True enough. But they provide new detail on the death of James the Just that doesn’t appear anywhere else. So when Eusebius states that he got his information from Hegesippus, and the expanded version of this material shows up inside Eusebius just at that passage where Eusebius tells of the death of James, I think any scholar would support our conclusion that yes, this obviously older text must come from Hegesippus.”
She nodded. “I only hope the experts agree, especially because of what Hegesippus wrote about the Canon.”
“Yessss!” Jon dragged out the sibilants in his enthusiasm. He would never forget the tidal wave of excitement that had splashed over them both in Cambridge when they read the passage: After blessed Luke wrote his first treatise to Theophilus, which we call Luke’s Gospel, and his second treatise to Theophilus, which we call the Acts of the Apostles, he wrote yet a third treatise to the same person, which we call the Second Acts of the Apostles.
“Second Acts, Shannon, Second Acts!”
She beamed as if it were fresh news. “No less than a missing book of the New Testament!”
“What do you think Luke wrote in the second book of Acts?”
“I think it’s obvious, Jon. He must have finished off St. Paul’s story, since he really leaves us hanging in the last verse of Acts, where Paul is in Rome for two years, waiting for his trial before Nero.”
“True. Luke loved reporting about trials-think how many times Paul shows up before Greek and Roman authorities in the book of Acts. Wild horses couldn’t have prevented him from telling about Paul’s biggest trial of all-before the emperor himself. And yet, no report of it in Acts.”
“So that’s why he must have told of it in Second Acts.”
“Exactly. I’d give my left arm-no, maybe both-if I could find that third treatise, O Theophilus.”
“Think it will ever be found?”
“Unlikely. Nobody ever mentioned it in other sources from that era.”
“Except for Hegesippus,” she corrected him.
“Except for Hegesippus-if dating those pages can authenticate their antiquity. Which, of course, is why we’re heading for Mount Athos. You and I have dealt with frauds before, but this particular find is different. Concocting those pages would be virtually impossible, and their random discovery all but shouts authenticity. Frankly, the main reason I want Father Miltiades to look at our treasure is less to see if they’re genuine and more to gauge their age-no rhyme intended.”
“Assuming they’re authentic, Jon, how do you think the public will react once we break the news?”
“The reference to Second Acts alone is going to shake the whole world of biblical scholarship.”
By now they were approaching Thessalonica on the national road, the inky blue Aegean Sea to the east and the towering hulk of Mount Olympus to the west, its top lost in the clouds. Jon opened the window and yelled up to the mythological home of the gods, “Hey, Zeus! How’s your dysfunctional family?”
“Jon, have you lost it?” Shannon wondered.
“Shhhh! I’m waiting for his answer.”
“You have lost it!”
“Probably. But we don’t skirt Mount Olympus every day, now, do we?”
They reached Thessalonica in time for dinner at their hotel, the Macedonia Palace, which stood proudly over the eastern waterfront of the city. Jon noticed that Shannon’s ire over his performance at Meteora had moderated, a mood change fostered by the delicious Greek cuisine they were sampling at a table on the hotel terrace overlooking the harbor. Below them was a band shell, where a small orchestra was filling the warm evening air with syrtaki music in general, Mikis Theodorakis in particular. Jon looked at Shannon and found her especially lovely when gilded by the setting sun. He took her hand in his and gave it a gentle squeeze. When she squeezed back, he assumed all was well again and that they could look forward to a beautiful evening.
At breakfast, they discussed Jon’s overnight trip to Mount Athos. While Shannon stayed at their hotel with plans to visit the museums and excavations in Thessalonica, Jon would embark on a ferry for the voyage to the port of Dafni midway down the western shore of the Athos peninsula.
Shannon would much rather have accompanied Jon to discuss the age of her documents with Miltiades Papandriou. She asked, “What about that strange rule excluding women from Mount Athos, Jon? Isn’t it the only place on earth with that restriction?”
“Probably.”
“Well, I think it’s antiquated at best, and sexist, medieval, discriminatory, demeaning, and an insult to women everywhere at worst.”
“I really wish you’d have an opinion on the subject,” he trifled. “But I don’t think women ought to feel singled out by that policy since it applies also to all female members of the animal kingdom.”
Fortunately she caught the slight smile at the corner of his mouth or she would have given it an affectionate slap.
“Wait… I think I made a mistake,” Jon confessed. “They do allow hens on Mount Athos. They need the fresh egg yolks to supply the tempera for painting their icons.”
“How very generous of them!”
“Oh, and feline femmes too. If it weren’t for cats, rodents would overrun all twenty monasteries on the Holy Mountain.”
“And that’s it for females on Mount Athos?”
“So far as I know.”
“But why, Jon?”
“The monks don’t want any of you sexy creatures around. These are holy men, my darling, and they don’t want to be tempted or seduced by womankind. At least, that’s the standard impression across the world.”
“Well, what’s the real reason, then?”
“I still think that what I told you is the real reason. Officially, though, they claim that women would distract them from their prayers and meditations-the higher purposes for which they chose the monastic life.”
She was pensive for some moments, her fingers turning an orange juice glass around several times.
Somewhat warily, Jon asked, “So what exactly are you thinking, my darling? I can see the wheels turning inside that lovely head of yours.”
“Oh, nothing really.” She gave him a teasing smile. “Just toying with the idea of somehow disguising myself as a man and accompanying you.”
“Shannon, it wouldn’t-”
“I could wear jeans, carry equipment, and don a cap to hide my hair. I’d speak very little-using the lowest voice I could manage when I had to-and simply go along as your aide?”
“I don’t think so, Shannon.”
