“No. How is it that you came here?”
“The Commander sent us as…as shadows to your person.”
Placida exhaled and color returned to her complexion. “We will commend you to Aetius.” She searched her purse and gave each a gold coin. “Return to the palace.”
As the Huns left, Sigisvult, still retching, followed them into the cold air. Getorius took the cloak from Renatus and covered the body of Feletheus.
“I saw something shining in that niche,” Placidia said, “and I didn’t want those Huns looking at it. Surgeon, get whatever is up there.”
“I noticed it too, Regina.” Getorius gathered up the folds of his bulky toga to climb the framework.
Arcadia looked around and spotted a long-handled grout spatula. “Keep your head down and poke around in the opening with this first,” she advised, handing the tool up to her husband. “There may be some other trap you don’t know about.”
After ducking low, and pushing the spatula from side to side to move the bow, Getorius reached in and carefully pulled out a long tube. His fingers felt the raised designs on the surface before he saw them on the golden cylinder. When he handed the container down to Placidia, he heard an inner case slide forward a short distance.
Getorius clambered down and stood with the others as Placidia turned the case over in her hands. The gold was embossed with designs whose motifs were three-looped triskelion circles, and bands of spirals inlaid with red and blue enamel.
“Celtic work,” Arcadia observed. “My father has a brooch in the style. This must be very old, some of the enameling is broken off.”
“Surgeon, clear that table,” Placidia ordered, indicating a bench where workers cut tiles for the mosaics. “I want to see what this holds that is worth a man’s life.”
Theokritos watched Placidia try to twist off the cover. “It will take a goldworker to open it, Regina.”
“No, the fewer who know about this the better.” She handed the tube to Getorius.
“Surgeon, operate on the lid and open it.”
A golden disc which had been soldered on sealed the container’s bottom, but the top was closed with an overlapping cap, also soldered around the edge. Getorius poked around among the tools he had pushed aside and selected a tile-cutting chisel. Arcadia held the cylinder, while he scraped the sharp edge along the seam until he had worked the cap free. He pulled it off and found the gold case reinforced by a heavier inner cylinder of copper.
“There’s a leather tube inside,” he told Placidia, handing her the container.
When she slid the smaller tube out, a sheet wrapped around it came loose.
“Bring that torch closer,” she ordered Theokritos, unrolling the page to scan the writing. “This is gibberish. The provenance is yours, Librarian.”
Theokritos took the sheet and held it near the light and felt the material. “Papyrus. Old, the ink has turned brown. The writing is Hebrew…no, Aramaic, with some interpolation of Greek words.”
“What does that mean?” Placidia asked. “How old?”
“Aramaic was the language of Judea in the time of Christ.”
“Four centuries ago,” Arcadia remarked. “Are you able to read what it says?”
Theokritos squinted at the words a moment, then read, “I, Simeon bar Jonah, called Petros by the Nazarene, when in the courtyard of the Praetorium, received this from the centurion Gaius Salutus, a secret disciple.”
“Simon Peter?” Getorius exclaimed. “The letter was written by Christ’s disciple?”
Theokritos ignored the question to continue, “It is the Last Testament of the Christ, but the presence of a centurion speaking to me aroused the curiosity of those around the fire. Fearing for the document’s safety, and mine, I thrice denied the Nazarene and fled.
“It came to pass as the Lord had prophesied. After I had presided over the Assembly for twenty-three years, I was instructed in a dream to embark on a boat and sail beyond the Pillars of Hercules. Yet it was the power of God that steered the boat. I sailed north for seven days and sighted no land, and then the boat directed itself to an island where no Roman legions had set foot, to the village of Corcaigh. There, by the grace of God, I built a chapel where I placed the Testament until, in God’s own time, He will choose to reveal these things.”
Stunned, no one reacted. Theokritos stared at the niche as he rolled up the letter.
Renatus was the first to speak. “Peter in Hibernia? Ridiculous. The Apostle died at Rome…was buried in the Vatican Hill necropolis.”
“That is the tradition,” Theokritos agreed, “but there is no real evidence, no body. And the man cannot be accounted for during those years.”
“Peter’s chains,” Placidia countered. “The chains from his imprisonment have been found. Surely, Archdeacon…” Her voice trailed off in a plea for confirmation.
When Renatus did not reply, Arcadia said, “There must be another document. The testament of Christ the letter mentions.”
Her comment revived Theokritos. He examined the leather tube, which was brittle and no longer smelled of tanned hide, and exuded a musty odor. Its shrunken top easily slipped off, revealing a gold foil lining inside that protected another papyrus from the sides of the case. Easing the sheet out, Theokritos read a few lines, then staggered against the bench for support.
Getorius helped him onto a stool. When he took the manuscript from the librarian, Theokritos’ hands felt as cold as had those of Marios’ corpse.
“Can you read it, Surgeon?” Placidia asked in an anxious tone.
“I…I think so. The style is old, but it’s Latin:
THE LAST LEGACY AND TESTAMENT
Of Jesus of Galilee, the Nazarene, Proclaimed Messiah,
The said Son of God and King of the Judeans
Dictated to L. Flav. Secundus
Secretary to PONTIVS PILATVS, Procurator of Judea
In the Imperium of Tiberius Caesar Augustus
AVG. XIX. COS. V. PP. PM.
The Procurator, having asked the accused, “What is Truth?” the Nazarene replied, “I am the truth, the light
