the brother of Jesus, first head of the Christian community in Jerusalem, had been stoned to death with some others in ad 62. By decree of the Sanhedrin. On the orders of Hananiah - Ananias.
The bishop did not know what to do. He wanted to weep or shout or find some other means of giving voice to the emotion he felt, but all he could manage was to stare at the stone as though the very sight had struck him dumb. He breathed out at last and reached for Aharoni, grabbing him hard by the upper arm.
‘Are you certain?’ he demanded.
The Israeli placed a hand on his, dislodging his fingers.
Aharoni paused. ‘No, I’m not certain. The lettering’s poor, this light is terrible. But I think I’m right. When you see the other two, you’ll understand.’
‘Understand? Understand what?’
‘You’ll see.’ The Israeli stood and went across to the second ossuary. It was simpler than the first, but otherwise of the same design and quality. The outline of a tree had been carved on the lid, but the sides bore no pattern, only a brief inscription. Migliau knew how it would read. He had known for years.
Aharoni read awkwardly, as though the words refused to surrender themselves to him.’ “The bones of Miryam, wife of Joseph, mother of Jesus and James. Peace be upon her.”’
The light made ghastly shadows all across the walls and ceiling. Migliau thought he could hear them as they moved, like vast black wings flapping in the enclosed space, the wings of blind, outraged birds. He raised a hand as though to ward them off, but they grew still and left him in a vast silence.
‘There’s one more,’ said Aharoni, and to Migliau the voice seemed to come from the other end of the universe.
Together, they walked the last few paces to the third and final sarcophagus. It was a thing drained of colour, white and delicately carved, yet very solid, as though it was not hollow at all but a single block hewn from living stone. Migliau watched as Aharoni ran a hand lightly along the lid.
On the side, among the rosettes and incised patterns, a circle stood out in sharp relief. Inside it there was carved a seven-branched menorah, the Temple candlestick, taken by the Romans when they destroyed Jerusalem in the year 70. This was not a normal menorah, however. The six side branches were the usual shape, but the middle column was shaped in the form of a cross. Beneath the circle, a row of sharply-cut characters struggled for expression in the light.
He read in a slow voice, meticulously pronouncing each word, not with the awkwardness of uncertainty, but with the precision of one who knows exactly what it is he is reading and what it signifies:
He fell silent. Migliau had understood. Not every word, not every syllable, perhaps, but as much as was needful. Aharoni could not bear to look up, to see him watching him. There was nothing he could do, nothing. He had read the inscription. It only remained to translate it.
“The body of Jesus, son of Joseph and Miryam, who was crucified at the command of Pontius Pilate, governor of Judaea, in the fourth year of his governorship. And he was the sacrifice which completes the offering of the Temple, and he is buried in this place to bring everything to fulfilment in our days. Peace be upon him.”
For a long time, neither man spoke. Words were inappropriate, dangerous. Neither man could bear to look the other in the eye, Jew and Gentile, believer and unbeliever. Two thousand years of misunderstandings stood between them.
Once, Migliau almost giggled out loud. A terrible tension had taken hold of him. He felt simultaneously
euphoric and appalled, like a child brought suddenly into the presence of adult matters. In an instant, a lifetime’s doubts had been resolved and transformed to certainty. What had been mere belief had become knowledge. His search was over. And his mission was about to begin.
Time passed as though it no longer had any meaning. Finally, Aharoni broke the silence.
‘Bishop Migliau,’ he whispered, ‘I think we should go. There may still be someone working late at the Museum. This will have to be reported. Arrangements will have to be made. You understand that this is ... monumental. We must take steps to ensure that news of this discovery is not leaked prematurely. You do understand? If word got out before there was time for a proper investigation ... I think there might be trouble. Newspapers, television - every newspaper, every television company in the world! We couldn’t cope with that, not without help.
‘And there may be political dimensions - do you understand me? Your church will naturally demand a say in what happens. No doubt it is exceptionally fortunate for them that you are here. But the Orthodox churches will want their say too. Then the Anglicans. The other Protestants. Everyone will want his pound of flesh.’ He winced, thinking he had chosen an unfortunate expression. ‘But look at the inscriptions, look at the sarcophagi: this is a Jewish tomb. Doesn’t it seem that way to you? You do understand, don’t you?’
Aharoni knew that a Catholic bishop was as big a complication as anyone in his position could possibly have feared. Another archaeologist would have appreciated the need for caution, for tact. But Migliau would want to milk this for all it was worth. Aharoni had heard that the bishop was ambitious, that he had expectations of being made a cardinal. To be associated with a discovery of this order would no doubt secure all that and more for him. And he would, of course, want to be sure that his own church had total control over the tombs: they would not want another Holy Sepulchre on their hands, divided among warring factions like a bone between packs of squabbling dogs.
‘No, Doctor Aharoni,’ said the Italian. He looked up. All his diffidence had evaporated. He was coming to terms with their discovery at a rapid pace. ‘I don’t understand you. I don’t see what you’re driving at.’
The big man took a step towards Aharoni. In the confined space, he seemed to tower over him. His tension was becoming anger. The Israeli could not understand it.
‘I merely meant...’
‘It seemed to me that you implied some sort of ownership for your people. “A Jewish tomb”, you said. Do you intend to take possession here as you have just taken control of the Temple Mount? You hold the third holiest shrine of Islam. Now, perhaps, you think you have some right to this.’
‘No. No, of course not. We just have to be careful. This is not a Christian country. If you think ...’
‘I have already thought. You want to make a fetish of your Jewishness. Isn’t that right? You want to wave it in front of me like a flag, until I nod and say, “Yes, this is yours. And this. And this. Take it all. Mea cul-pa. You have suffered enough. Take what you want in recompense.”’
Migliau’s voice was growing guttural and menacing. He felt hemmed in by the walls, and as much threatened as uplifted by what he had found. More than anything, he felt an obscure resentment against Aharoni building in him like a tide. It was irrational, he hardly knew the man, had no reason to fear or hate him, yet it rankled to have him here.
‘Your Excellency, please ... you misunderstand.’ Aharoni sensed the bishop’s anger. It frightened him, here in this confined space, with so little light.
‘I think you should leave.’
What...?’
‘I think you should get out of here. This is a holy place. I don’t expect you to understand that. But I do. You’ve no right to be here. No right at all.’
But that was no good. If the Jew left, he would only bring more back with him. They ran this city now. They would just march into God’s inner sanctum and claim it for their own. He hated them for their self-righteousness, for their sanctimonious possession of the land where his saviour had walked. A stiffnecked people, that’s what God had called them. And now, here they were, about to lay godless hands on the mortal remains of God’s son.
‘I think we should both leave,’ said Aharoni. The Italian was over-reacting to their discovery. Perhaps it was understandable. Aharoni, who wasn’t even a practising Jew, let alone a Christian, had been deeply moved by what they had found. He appreciated its emotional charge. That was why he wanted the whole thing handled properly, before the wreckers and sloganizers and opportunists had a chance to move in. With a shudder, he remembered how an American company had offered to market pieces from the wreck of the Titanic as paperweights. What would Jesus’s bones fetch on the Stock Exchange?
He took a step forward and put a hand on the big man’s arm. Migliau grabbed his wrist and pulled him towards himself.
Tour Messiah came and you crucified him. And now you want to turn his bones into some sort of political toy, something your politicians can use to bargain with. You...’
‘Please, I don’t want some sort of religious argument with you. That’s not my problem.’
