It was as they had expected, and not as they had thought. In some deep part of him, each of the four soldiers knew there could be no turning back from this moment, that they had passed a point of no return.
The box on the floor of the Ark was white, and better carved at all points than any of the others. It bore an inscription on the front, the letters of which had been incised with care and precision, first in Greek, then in Hebrew or its sister tongue of Aramaic, none of them could guess.
Across the top of the box, which was some three feet long, someone had laid a wooden plank, rather like a shelf, and on this rested several objects, none of any great size, save for two long rods that stretched diagonally to the top of the Ark.
‘What on earth are those?’ asked Donaldson, curious now past measure, the cold scientist in him gone for good.
Max reached inside and, using both hands, gently lifted the rods out, one at a time. The first to be dislodged was a wooden shaft about four and a half feet in length, with what appeared to be a thick wooden handle at one end. The other was a metal spike with a barbed head, about the same length.
Max examined the two objects for a minute or so, then took the metal rod and pushed it down past the handle into the wooden shaft. It fitted perfectly, making a lance or javelin almost seven feet long.
‘It’s a pilum,’ he said. ‘A Roman lance. This lower half is probably made of cornel wood. There would have been nails to hold it together, here, and here.’ He pointed to two holes through which nails might at one time have been driven.
‘It’s a fierce-looking thing,’ the doctor said. ‘You could do some damage with that.’
‘It was used in battle by legionaries called pilani.’
‘“One of the soldiers pierced his side with a lance, and immediately there came out blood and water.”’ Gerald spoke the words like someone in a vast cathedral, intoning verses for Easter, without force, knowing them lost in the vastness. ‘St John’s Gospel,’ he said. ‘He’s the only one who mentioned the soldier.’
‘Longinus,’ said Max. ‘That’s supposed to have been his name. It’s the stuff of legend. Like the lance. The Spear of Destiny.’
‘You’re having us on,’ said Donaldson. ‘You’re not going to tell me—’
‘Maybe I am, maybe I’m not. But I think you should see the rest of what’s in here.’
One at a time, he started to take the other objects from the Ark, and laid them gently on the floor. They seemed fragile enough things, some of them, and heavy, not with substance, but with age and significance.
There were five items in alclass="underline" the lance; an ochre-coloured pottery goblet shaped like a ‘v’, without decoration of any kind; a bowl into which someone had pressed what looked like a rounded cap of brambles; a finely carved ivory box whose lid came off easily, revealing inside three rough-cast metal spikes, each about seven inches long; and a large wooden rectangle that carried three inscriptions that had been painted hurriedly in Greek, Latin, and Hebrew, each on one line:
‘Ιησους ‘ο Ναζωραιος ‘ο Βασιλευς των ‘Ιουδαιων
IESVS NAZARENVS REX IVDAEORVM.
היהודים מלך הנצרת ישוע
While Gerald held an oil lamp steady over his shoulder, Max deciphered the first two lines.
‘They both say the same thing,’ he said. ‘I expect you can all guess. “Jesus the Nazerene, King of the Jews”. This is the titulus, the wooden plaque that was nailed to the top of the cross.’
In the shadows, Clark’s fingers flickered across his chest. Gerald, a run-of-the-mill Anglican, felt a fluttering at his heart. Even the two unbelievers, Chippendale and Donaldson, sensed the enormity of this object and the inscription it bore.
Max placed the titulus on the floor, and straightened.
‘If this is the titulus,’ he said, ‘then the identity of these other objects is undeniable. The nails that held Christ to the cross, the Crown of Thorns, the Lance of Longinus, and the Holy Grail.’
‘I thought the Grail—’ began Donaldson.
‘Was a jewel-encrusted goblet of gold?’ Max shook his head. ‘Jesus was a poor Jewish teacher born to a carpenter. This pottery cup is exactly the sort of thing the real Jesus would have drunk from at the Last Supper. I think this little trove is the real thing. Not even King Tut’s tomb matches this place. We’ve stumbled on the most important archaeological find in history. The question is, what do we do with it? We can leave everything here, just as we found it, and bring some archaeologists back here with us. Somebody who reads Hebrew and Aramaic for one thing. Or we can take some of it with us, to make sure it’s kept safe.’
Gerald decided it was time he took back control of the situation. After all, he thought, he was in charge of the patrol.
‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘we have to take everything back to Cairo. As much as will fit in the cars. We’ve already dumped a lot here, there’s room for all this and more. If we leave them here, God knows what will become of them. We can bring Lieutenant Chippendale’s precious archaeologists back later, and let them loose. The war will be over before they even make a start on it. But I don’t have to tell you just how explosive this could be. Private Clark, get on back to the cars PDQ and fetch Leary and Skinner. Clear out some ammunition boxes and bring them here, as many as the three of you can carry.’
Max tried to protest.
‘Sir, don’t you think—?’
‘I’m not here to think. I leave that to Johnnies like you. You’ve just done your thinking, but I’m in charge here, and I’m making the decisions. If the Tuareg lay their filthy hands on these, they’ll probably chuck them in a bin somewhere, rip out anything that breaks off, and flog it all up in Ghadames for two bob apiece. They’re Muslims, none of this would mean a thing to them.’
At that moment, a sound came from the direction of the stairs down which they had entered, and when they looked round they could see a wavering light growing in intensity among the shadows.
‘I thought A’isha was scared of this place,’ Donaldson said.
But it wasn’t A’isha. Gerald let his torch beam play across the entrance to the crypt. A pair of feet came into view, followed by a dark-blue robe that came through the opening. A Tuareg man, fully veiled, appeared, hesitating as he tried to adjust to the flickering play of shadow and light, the whiteness of the sepulchres, and the figures of the four Englishmen standing among them.
It took a few seconds for Gerald to recognise the newcomer. Then he noticed the coarsely stitched leather wallets slung over his shoulder, containing a Qur’an and talismans. He lifted his left hand to shield his eyes from the light, and Gerald caught sight of the masbaha, the amber rosary hanging from his wrist. It was the Anislem, Shaykh Harun agg Da’ud. As he stepped forward, trying to escape the light, his right hand came forward, and Gerald saw he was carrying a gun, the service revolver he had given earlier to the headman.
‘Shaykh Harun!’ called Gerald. ‘Al-salam ‘alaykum. You have found us in a very strange place. A holy place. The tomb of the Prophet Jesus.’
Gerald had thought quickly, referring to the fact that the Qur’an honours Jesus, not as the Son of God, but as a mortal prophet, lesser only to Muhammad himself. If Shaykh Harun recognised this and could be persuaded that this was a holy site connected to one of Islam’s great prophetic figures, perhaps any looming trouble could be averted. He was to be disappointed.
‘This place does not belong to you. These are the tombs of our ancestors. This is the sacred city of Wardabaha; you have found the tombs of the king and queen of the city, but you have no right to be here. You have to leave this place and never return.’