Fifth District, Budapest Lochum tugged almost frantically at Rebecca's hand, but she refused to let him drag her through the Fifth District. Budapest boasted twenty-three districts, much like New York's boroughs, but this district was unique within the city. It had been so long since she had visited Pest, she had forgotten how unalike the two cities were. While Buda was all about the distant past, Pest was the future. Commerce was key. Shopping, shopping, and more shopping was the order of the day.
It was strange to see Prada and Ralph Lauren sold out of buildings centuries old, but that was the magic of Pest. The streets were lined with hundreds of merchants, each trying to outdo the other. She likened it to a medieval city-but only the serfs were peddling Gucci.
Even this far from the Parliament building, where the parade was intended to conclude, the streets were bustling with costumed shoppers. All around her she heard foreign languages. Budapest might only be the seventh-largest European city, but today it seemed to be number one for power shopping. Italian, German, and Austrian euros flowed as freely as Hungarian forints.
Women dressed in Saks Fifth Avenue suits mingled with girls in burkas and grandmothers in saris. An excited chatter swelled from the shops. These merchants knew that the bulk of their sales came from bargain-conscious tourists, and they made sure to cater to all cultures. At every corner there were tiny cafes and upscale restaurants. If you didn't know better, there were times you might think yourself in Paris.
At night, she knew these streets transformed into a city of youth. Many of the restaurants had nightclubs above them and once the sun went down, neon signs would glow so brightly as to make it seem like daylight. The windows pulsed with enough techno music to satisfy the most discriminating uberelite clubber. Rebecca understood there was a healthy new business of "stag" weekends, where guys from all over Europe would fly in on dirt-cheap flights to get a taste of Budapest's nightlife.
"Please, 'Becca, contain your spending genes and hurry. The synagogue is just down the next block."
Allowing him to pick up the pace, Rebecca noticed how quickly they transitioned from capitalism central to a decidedly residential neighborhood. The shops were replaced by three and four-story apartment buildings. Most showed distress-crumbling bricks, rusted iron, a cracked pot as a meager adornment. But they still had a charm to them.
Strangely, the first things Rebecca spotted were the synagogue's decidedly Moorish domes. If you did not know the place was a temple, you would swear you were walking up to a mosque. She had forgotten how Eastern the synagogue had felt. More Turkish than Christian. While historians noted the unique duality of the temple, they had forgotten the Islamic influence. What she saw dominating Pest's skyline was not an example of duality but a trifecta-Jewish, Christian, and Muslim.
As they approached the building, her initial reaction was reinforced. Beneath the Moorish blue and gold domes were Christian-inspired steeples. The walls were made of rows upon rows of tan brick, giving the appearance that the synagogue was striped. Each window was built into Catholic-like alcoves, while each corner had smaller blue-tiled domes. Again, in every square inch of the synagogue there were three influences.
If she had held misgivings about the location before, Rebecca was now certain this wasn't the resting place for James, but Lochum remained unmoved. He tugged her until they practically ran the last block to the Great Synagogue. This area of town was drained of its population as the parade made its way south to the Parliament building.
Nearly out of breath, Lochum went to open the large gate that led to an inner courtyard, but a security guard stopped him.
"Megnezhetern a jogositv any at?"
Rebecca guessed that the man asked for identification, because the professor drew up to his full height. "I, my dear man, am a personal friend of the rabbi."
The guard snorted. "Ah, as are all Americans." Before Lochum could respond, the man continued in heavily accented English, "Still, I must see documentation before entering."
"What is the meaning of such-"
Rebecca stepped in front of the enraged professor. She pulled out their fake passports. "Here you are."
As the man scanned the documents, she whispered to Lochum, "Tight security works in our favor, Archibald."
To deter any more objections, Rebecca pointed halfway down the building. They were repairing a section of the torched and charred tan wall.
"They are as worried about suicide bombers as we are."
She didn't have to argue further, as Lochum turned to the guard with his "charming" demeanor instead of his insufferably arrogant one.
"Forgive me, of course you have a job to do," he said. "And truly if there is any question about our documentation, please ask Rabbi Milgramisk about his old friend from Oxford."
The guard must have known a little about the chief rabbi's history to know that he had graduated from Oxford, for he nodded with more respect.
"You may buy tickets." The guard pointed inside the gateway where a theater-like ticket window awaited.
"But-"
"Just pay the woman, Archibald," she hissed as she simultaneously smiled at the guard. Once inside the small courtyard, she continued, "And while we are on the run from psychopathic pseudo-historians, we might not want to be name-dropping."
After paying the elderly woman behind the glass, she gave Lochum two tickets and a yarmulke, which he dutifully put on. Twelve years ago, when they had last visited the synagogue, they had gone through none of these procedures because they traveled with a full archaeological team. This time around they were on the down low.
All of Lochum's frustration seemed to vanish as they entered the shul itself. The enormous interior could seat more than three thousand worshippers amongst its rows and rows of pews. Above them ran two balconies with stained glass windows on either side-the women's gallery.
As they walked down the richly carpeted aisle, Rebecca couldn't help but be struck by the history of the place. It had the rich odor of housing worshippers for centuries. Wood and stone could not shelter such for too long without embedding their very essence into the structure. The smell was not unpleasant. Not of dust or mold, just of age.
This synagogue had survived the Ottoman Empire, World War II, and Communist rule. Despite all of this, she was not sure if it had enough history. In her discipline, twelve hundred years old barely qualified you as a teenager. Could the structure's intent and purpose stretch back another millennium?
"Do you doubt now?" Lochum asked, but Rebecca did not answer.
While the vaulted ceilings and chandeliers were of Gothic design, if someone looked just a little closer, the mosaic tile work above these classically Christian elements were etched in blue and gold, one hundred percent Byzantine artistry. Even the dramatic inlay above the altar echoed the Moorish shape to the spires outside. Despite knowing the passage on John's bones, Rebecca still felt as she did over a decade ago that the synagogue's architects were just attempting to assimilate into a predominately Muslim and Christian world.
They were not necessarily dualists but survivalists.
Yet studying her professor's face, Rebecca saw none of her own concerns. He was engrossed in the artwork displayed on either side of the main aisle. Another very Christian influence. She knew he was searching the reliefs for signs of James or the man who bore his bones.
"Sir, please do not touch the art," a man said with an almost African accent, as his voice echoed off the high ceiling.
Rebecca turned to find a small dark-skinned man hustling down the long center aisle, waving Lochum back from the walls. "Please, it will take us a week to get the oils off."
The professor, however, did not back away. "I'm sure if you just-"
"Yes, yes. The guard radioed ahead, but you cannot visit with the Chief Rabbi until his Bible study class is finished."
Surprisingly, Lochum didn't yell. In fact, he spoke quite calmly. "Just let him know his ancient Christianity instructor has been resurrected."
"I don't understand. Ancient Christian?"
"Just tell him that, and I will be satisfied."
"I... I give no guarantees," he stammered.
Hesitating just a moment longer, the man turned and nearly ran back down the aisle. That was the professor's talent. He could win the battle of wits by either bowling you over or luring you into his confidence.
Lochum leaned over a rather remarkable painting of Moses parting the Red Sea when a call came from deep within the synagogue, "Archibald!"
His student of old, Bartholomew Milgramisk, now all grown up, came barreling out of the beth midrish. The years had been kinder to Bartholomew than to him. The rabbi had a full head of hair and looked far more athletic than Lochum remembered back at Oxford. The two met in a friendly embrace.
"You scoundrel! I sat shiva for you!"
Lochum was nothing but sincere. "I am so sorry, Bart. It was a ruse that I could not break, not even for an esteemed colleague such as yourself."
"Please, no apologies. I am just so glad to see you alive! And with Rebecca! Do miracles never cease?"
The rabbi hugged her as well. "You never write. You never call."
"Believe me, I would have, but I was under orders to never contact our common acquaintances."
Rebecca's excuse might have sounded sincere, but Lochum knew the truth. After his "death," the girl had shunned the world. She had retreated deeper into her laboratory or disappeared into uncharted jungles. He had kept tabs on her through the years, disappointed that she had turned from their work and concentrated on her silly radiation theories. But now she was back in the fold.
Bart turned to Lochum. "I would imagine this is no social visit. Not with Paris and all."
"No, I am afraid not. I have been flushed from the bush, but for such a noble calling. Might we discuss this in private?"
"Of course, of course."
As they entered the rabbi's office, Bart indicated two well-stuffed chairs across from his desk. "Please, have a seat."
"I believe it is you who should sit, Rabbi."
Bart obeyed as Lochum pulled John's bone from his pocket and laid it upon the rabbi's desk. "Be so kind as to inspect the shaft."
From his studies at Oxford, Bart should have enough ancient Greek to understand the gist. The rabbi stammered, "You are not suggesting..."
Lochum nodded, then Bart found Rebecca's face. It was only when she confirmed his unspoken question that the rabbi sat back down. "John. So this is John the Baptist... In Paris? He was buried under the Eiffel Tower?"
"There is more. Please, 'Becca, show him the passage."
Bart read it silently, then physically blanched. "All these years everyone has been searching in Buda, but... but James is in Pest?" His eyes flashed to Lochum. "You think because of our unique Christian influence that he might be buried under the synagogue?"
He had always liked Bartholomew and thought him an apt student, but now he wanted to kiss the man. "Or on the grounds, yes."
Letting out a hissing breath, the rabbi leaned back into his chair. "If I had stumbled upon anything, anything at all, to suggest such a thing I would have contacted you, either of you, immediately."
"I have no doubt, Bart. But deep within your archives might be a hint to where we should start looking for his remains."
"It is a fine plan," the rabbi acknowledged, but then turned to Rebecca. "But I don't think you believe as deeply as Archibald that James lies here."
Rebecca's eyes flickered to his. Lochum made it clear that she was to support him in this, but her fingers flew across the keyboard.
"We have a second passage from John's bones that I do not think supports this site as much as the first section."
Lochum watched as Bart read the text. It was clear that the passage concerned the rabbi as well. He meant to cut off the debate, but Rebecca jumped in. "Do you know what the reference 'four and one' means?"
The rabbi shrugged. "The four horsemen and the one true God?" Rebecca shook her head before he continued, "Then I'm sorry, I know of no other reference in Judaism."
"How about a reference to a stag?"
Bartholomew reflected, then spoke. "There is the Kenesh. A white stag that lives in a mythical forest called the Divei llai." Seeing Rebecca's frown, he continued, "It does not look like I hold much practical value for you."
Lochum slid his way into the disappointed silence. "Then until we have more data, we must proceed with what we do know."
"And what would that be, Archibald?"
He took a deep breath, since what he asked went against all that the rabbi held dear. "I must enter your Aron Kodesh. Your Holy Ark."
Rebecca sat in as stunned silence as the rabbi. What Lochum asked was ridiculous. Beyond ridiculous. It was blasphemy. The ark held the shul's most treasured scrolls of the Torah, many dating back to the seventh century BC. They were considered sacred, and only those found worthy by years of faith were allowed to view them from afar, let alone enter the ark itself.
Lochum rushed into the silence. "You have gathered the greatest collection of this region's proto-Christian scrolls, Bart. You must-"
The rabbi found his voice. "But they give no reference to Christ's brother. They detail God's word before the crucifixion. Not after." He became more agitated. "Archibald, you of all people know that!"
"And we both know that the scribes often wrote their own notes in the margins, many times chronicling the turbulence of their own times. Times much later than the originating document. I would imagine a man claiming to be the Son of God and a descendant of King David might have stirred some controversy. Enough that they might have mentioned rumors of that man's brother finding his way to this fair land."
Rebecca felt equal parts admiration and anger. She had never thought to use the Sifrei Torahs for inspiration, but concealing his plan was typical Lochum. Trust to him was a commodity to be tightly restricted.
Bart seemed both excited and doubtful. "But I have studied the texts... However, at the time I was not aware of the dualist nor the Pest references."
"Yes! With Rebecca's program we can shift through the material from the scribes' musings and ferret out clues. Whether the bones be here or not, they must be near. Pest at the time of this writing was only so big, no?"
It was obvious that the rabbi's mind scrambled to find reasons not to fulfill Lochum's request. "I am but a teacher. The Shamash would never allow such a thing." He turned to her. "Help me, Rebecca. Explain to him."
But she shook her head. "He's right, Bart, and you know it. With the citywide celebration outside, it would easy for you to clear the synagogue without raising too many questions."
"I guess no one would suspect if I gave the staff the day off to participate in this afternoon's festivities..." Bart's voice trailed off, and then strengthened. "Give me a few moments. I will return when it is safe."
The rabbi shuffled from the room, but his feet did not quite agree with his decision. Once the door was shut, she turned to Lochum.
"Withhold plans like this again, and I walk."
The professor leaned back and propped his feet up on the rabbi's desk. "But to where, my dear 'Becca, to where?"
Rebecca felt the old resentment snake its way back into her chest. Not because of what he had just said, but for the query he did not voice.
With Brandt gone, to whom would she run?
That was the question she couldn't answer.
The Flock *
Judea AD 42.
"Just as God has his flock to tend, each man has his own, which he must guard through storm and drought," Jesus said to the dozen children gathered at his feet as Judas mended a harness that had become frayed. But the stitching became nearly impossible as the sun's light waned. James must have noticed his difficulty, for he rose and lit a candle.
They had just returned after two long months in the countryside, and with the ache in his leg, he was glad for this time when Jesus could teach in a house with chairs and cushions.
Jesus asked the children, "Do you understand of what I speak?"
They all nodded, but Ameil the most. He nearly bounded from the floor to answer. "Sheep need green grass and always a fresh spring!"
Judas tempered his chuckle at the boy's simple interpretation of Jesus' meditation on man's responsibility to his family. He knew the deeper meaning of the parable would come to Ameil in due course, yet the others could become frustrated if all did not understand Jesus' words immediately. However, it was the Savior himself who laughed the loudest. Soon the others-James, Matthew, Simon, Thomas, and Mary of Magdalene-joined in.