somewhere in the church, he heard a requiem being chanted.
“Rumor has it that the Israelis have called you in to assist in the investigation over at Temple Mount,” the priest whispered. “Is there any truth to that?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“I don’t blame you. But if it is true, please tread lightly, Graham.”
The priest led him into the Greek Orthodox chapel known as “the Center of the World,” named for a stone basin in its center that marked the spot ancient mapmakers had designated as the divide between east and west. From his last visit, Barton knew that Father Demetrios felt most comfortable here, on his own turf.
On the side wall stood a Byzantine shrine, covered with gold ornamentation and dominated by a massive gold crucifix boasting a life-sized, solarhaloed Christ, flanked by two Marys looking up in mourning. At the altar’s base was a glass enclosure encasing a rocky outcropping where Christ had supposedly been crucified. Golgotha.
The twelfth station of the cross.
In front of the altar, the priest made the sign of the cross, then turned to Barton. “Show me what you have, Graham.” He reached beneath his vestment and produced a pair of reading glasses.
Barton pulled the plastic-sealed vellum from his breast pocket and handed it over.
The priest fingered the Ziploc bag. “Good to see you’ve employed the latest technology. Now let’s see what you have here.” Putting on his glasses, he held the document higher against the ambient glow of an ornate hanging candelabrum and studied the text intently. Seconds later a blanched expression came over him and his lower lip sagged. “Oh my.”
“What is it?”
The priest looked concerned. Scared.
He peered at Barton over his glasses. “Where did you find this?” he
asked quietly.
Barton considered telling him. “I can’t say. I’m sorry.”
“I see.”
By the look in his eye, it was obvious that the priest already knew the
answer. “Can you tell me what it says?”
Father Demetrios scanned the chapel. Three rival priests, dressed in
Franciscan cassocks, were loitering close by. “Let us go downstairs.” He
motioned for Barton to follow.
Father Demetrios led him down a wide staircase that wound beneath
the nave.
Barton was pondering how the ancient words could have so spooked
the old priest. Deeper they went, until stone brick walls gave way to cool,
hewn earth.
Standing in what looked like a cave, the priest finally stopped. “You
know this place?”
“Of course,” Barton said, scanning the low-hanging rocky ceiling that
bore telltale marks of mining activity. “The old quarry.” His eyes wandered briefly to the wall behind the priest where hundreds of Knights
Templar equilateral crosses had been carved into the rock—twelfthcentury graffiti.
“The tomb,” the priest corrected him, pointing to the long burial
niches carved into the far wall. “Though I know your reservations in wanting to accept this idea.”
Where Helena was also lucky enough to unearth Christ’s cross, too,he
wanted to say, but curbed his response. The fact that Constantine’s elderly
mother had personally selected this site—formerly a Roman temple where
pagans once worshipped Venus—left little doubt that its authenticity was
questionable. Though he was no stranger to the divergent views of the historical versus the religious, he wasn’t about to offend him with blasphemy. “There’s another very sacred tomb just above us,” Father Demetrios reminded him with a serious face.
“And why have you brought me down here? Is it something about this
scroll?”
“Everything about it.” His voice was solemn. “I don’t know where you found this, Graham. But if it wasn’t from here—and I know it’s not—I caution you. Be very, very careful. You know better than most how words can be misconstrued. If you promise me you’ll remember what I’ve said, I will write down your translation.”
“You have my word.”
“Good.” The priest shook his head and let out a deep breath. “Let me have your pen and paper.”
