Jefferson Burke and The Secret of the Scroll (samples from first five chapters)
Chapter 1 Death! March 14, 753
Baltore had no idea where they had come from, like ghosts they seemed to have appeared out of thin air, but he was well aware his plight was of his own making. He should have stopped at the inn two miles back. That would be the logical thing for a man traveling alone to do. As he dug his heels into his mount he cursed himself for not being more careful. But no! He just had to tempt fate! If he had listened to reason he ‘d be safely sharing a meal with a few Roman citizens rather than riding into the face of cold March winds fleeing a trio of bandits. Alas listening to others had never been his strong suit. He always had to do things his way. His late mother had told him time and time again his mule-headedness would lead to his destruction. Now it appeared she was right. The horse Baltore rode was gentle and trustworthy, but hardly fast. It didn’t as much gallop as it lumbered along the dusty trail. He knew that almost anyone pursuing him were would be riding steeds faster than his. So, if he had no chance to either outwit or outrun them, why was Baltore urging his horse to go faster? Why didn’t he just pull to a stop, dismount and give up? After all, the chase would not last long and the culmination of this adventure would be no different if it ended now or five minutes into the future. Yet, as if driven by the hounds of hell, Baltore raced toward the coming night alternately reviling himself for his stupidity while still praying for a miracle he knew he didn’t deserve. In the dwindling light, neither Baltore nor the aging horse saw the hole, but the rider felt it. At a full gallop he had no time to adjust. As the gray animal stumbled, trying in vain to regain his footing, Baltore was torn from his saddle and tossed headfirst into a dense thicket. While the branches cushioned his fall, the thorns tore at his skin like a flock of vultures going after a dead rabbit. Blood immediately oozed from scores of scratches on his arms and cheeks as he awkwardly rolled to his feet. In the shadows of dusk, as he frantically tried to gather his wits, he heard the bandits. They were still a hundred yards behind him but closing fast. Maybe he had time to remount! Maybe they hadn’t seen him fall! Maybe . . . then the horrible reality flooded his eyes and rushed into his mind. His horse had collapsed on the far side of the road. The ride was over and so was the chase. As he stared at the approaching specter of death, he realized he had one more holy mission to accomplish before a sword was run through his heart. Ignoring searing pain, he raced as fast as his short, thick legs could carry him to the dead animal. Pushing aside his robe’s flowing sleeves, the stocky man reached for the leather bag attached to his saddle. A second before he grabbed it, an arrow pierced his left hand. The chase was now surely finished. Time had run out. In shock Baltore studied the arrow’s point. The head stopped after traveling just six inches through his palm. Just like him, it was stuck in limbo — neither in nor out. As blood filled his palm, the projectile’s tip seemed to mock him, urging him to yell, to scream. Yet though he knew he should be in pain, he wasn’t. It was as if he had fallen into a trance with his only focal point the arrow. Now he was just numb, so numb that he barely heard the voices shouting or noted the black-clad trio dismount. Baltore’s world, which just a few seconds before had been consumed by a race down a forest road, was suddenly void of chaos. There was no mission, no enemy to run from or confront, no yesterday or tomorrow. There was just now. And in the now nothing mattered except the dilemma of how to deal with this unexpected injury. A thousand unseen voices spoke to him and an equal number of questions were tossed his way. Should he pull it out? If he broke it in half would that make it easier to remove? Would it hurt less just to leave it in? His vision remained solidly locked on his hand until he was roughly grabbed by the shoulder and spun around. Suddenly he again found himself a part of the real world. And he felt intense pain as finally he noted the three marauders standing directly in front of him, each panting like a hungry dog. As if a wounded child looking for compassion, Baltore held his hand out toward the men. The shortest of the trio grinned, reached out, grab the crest by the fetching and yank the tip through the wounded hand. As the iron head retraced its path, Baltore’s cries filled the woods. And yet, except for the three men who seemed intent on tormenting him, no one was there to hear. Just like no one was there to watch the injured man’s tears roll down his cheeks and fall onto the parched ground. “Where is it?” The short one demanded as he stuffed the bloody arrow into his belt. Baltore feebly shook his head. It became quickly apparent that was not the answer the man wanted. With no warning a large fist met the friar’s chin dislodging three teeth and knocking him back into a tree. As he spat, Baltore moaned, “I’m a poor priest. I have nothing of value.” The words had barely cleared his mouth when the final rays of sunlight caught a flash of metal. A second later a sword, obviously handled by a master, sliced off his left earlobe. As blood dripped from this new injury, the trio laughed. That chorus of laughter was even more chilling than the injury. “We can take you apart piece by piece,” the tallest almost merrily announced. “We can make it easy for the birds to dine on a meal of Heavenly delight. You see we know you’re a priest. And we don’t care. Killing a king, a peasant or a man of the cloth, it’s all the same to us. If you value your life then give us what we want.” “But I beg you,” Baltore began, his bleeding hand extending forward. “Don’t beg priest,” the leader’s words cut the air with the same authority as his sword. “We know what you have. You can give it to us and keep what’s left of your fleshy body.” He allowed Baltore to swallow that thought before adding, “Or we can simply take it from you after we kill you. It’s up to you. How soon do you want to meet your God?” Baltore glanced back toward his dead horse. That one look was all that was needed. He had given away the only secret he had left. He now had no bargaining chips. No longer was his life worth even a grain of salt. “Grab the bag,” the tall man ordered. The widest of the three, his black hair creeping out from a metal helmet, waddled toward the horse, quickly cutting the rope binding the bag to the saddle before tossing the pouch to the band’s apparent leader. “Your Pope made this far too easy,” the tall one announced as he glanced into the pouch. “Yes, much too easy for us, but not so easy for you.” “Why do you want that?” Baltore demanded, his voice filled with passion. “It’s nothing but a old documents written in a language you wouldn’t understand.” The thin man produced a grin that cut as sharply as a knife. “My name is Thomas – Thomas of Myra. I’ve studied Aramaic, Hebrew and Greek. I can read seven different languages. I once spent three years in the great library in Alexandria. I’ve traveled to places you have never heard of and have met men you revere as legends. In fact, I probably know His Holiness as well as you. Though the Pope doesn’t really know me at all. He doesn’t have a clue as to my potential or my ultimate goals. He knows nothing of my methods either. So you can be sure I know what this is. I also know why you have it and I’m aware of what you intend to do with it.” Thomas pulled a scroll from the pouch. He unrolled a bit of the ancient thin, leather on which the words had been penned and held it up to catch the last of the fading light. After a few moments of intense study, he returned it to the bag. “Baltore,” the priest looked up, “Yes I know your name. I’ve been following you for months waiting for this moment.” The priest was so amazed by this revelation he temporarily forgot about his pain. Why hadn’t he seen these men? How had he not known they were there? He had been so careful. Or at least he thought he had. Maybe one of the monks had given him up. No, that couldn’t be. “Baltore. Wake up!” The priest glanced back toward Thomas. When their eyes met, the mysterious man asked, “Have you read what is written here?” He had been ordered not to, but the temptation had been too great. What good would lying do now? So he nodded. “Did it frighten you?” “No.” Baltore honestly replied. His eyes shining, Thomas grinned, “Why do you suppose these words so frighten the church leaders?” Baltore shrugged. His vows ordered him to serve the church not question the motives of the men who led it. Hence, they thought and he acted. It had never dawned on him to actually consider their motives. “It is about power,” Thomas explained. “In this scroll is the power to control not just men, but governments. This paper rewrites history and there are many who don’t want it to be rewritten. But I do. Baltore, I will rewrite history, at least my own history. And I can do so with what you have so generously given to me. Sadly, you won’t be around to see my rise. As a moral man, I doubt you would enjoy what I will become, but I believe, as a historian, you would find it fascinating.” Moving toward his horse, the man glanced back to his two confederates. “Kill him.” If the orders shocked them, the men’s faces didn’t reveal it. The response was swift and sure. Baltore never saw the sword coming, but he felt it as it sliced into his belly. A second later it slid out of his body as easily as it has entered. Now the wounded hand didn’t bother him. Nor did the ear. Nothing bothered him. As he fell to his knees, he glanced down. In the fading light the last thing he saw was the blood seeping through his red robe. The glint of morning sunlight filtering through the naked branches of the trees brought Baltore to his senses. At least that is what he would later tell his brother. As he lay on the ground looking at the yellow beams he wondered where he was. Perhaps Heaven? Surely not, the air was too cold. But if not Heaven then where? He remembered being murdered. He was sure of that. In fact it had happened right here. So if this was death, it was nothing like he expected. What next? Sucking in a deep breath, Baltore felt the air expand into his lungs. He was alive! Thus everything must have been a dream. That was it, a nightmare. He had fallen off his horse, hit his head and imagined it all. Yes it was a dream and it had been a warning from God. Suddenly a sense of panic set in. He had wasted way too much time. He had an important mission and he had to move on. As he attempted to lift himself off the road, sharp pain proved this had been no dream. Moving his hand up to in front of his face, he was shocked to see a bandage had been carefully wrapped around his wound. Slowly struggling to his knees, he was amazed to see his stomach had also been dressed as well. “God in Heaven!” Now seized by a sense of fear and confusion, Baltore painfully staggered to his feet. Turning right it immediately became clear he wasn’t alone. The trio of bandits had not left, but were now as still as the rocks along the road. Each was lying dead. Baltore scanned the rest of the area. There was no one. Other than the chirping birds, the only other sign of life was a horse tied to a far tree. The priest’s leather pouch, the one the fat man had taken, was carefully bound to the saddle. Making the sign of the cross, Baltore painfully stepped to the animal, untied the reigns, pulled himself up and headed east. Never once did he look back. As the priest disappeared over the hill a man moved from the shadows and grimly smiled. Stepping over the bandits’ bodies he took a final look at the ghastly scene, slipped into the woods, mounted a horse marked with the symbol of the Vatican and rode off into the west. He’d saved the future of the church, at least for the moment. Chapter 2 Too Busy!
More than a bit miffed at having his research interrupted, a thirty-five-year-old man grudgingly pulled his nose from a dusty, century-old book detailing the British assault on Bunker Hill and glanced directly into the dark eyes of a slightly built man at least twice his age. Ignoring the muffled activities of several students and members of the university library staff, the history professor slowly removed his reading glasses, set them on the table and nodded. “So you are Dr. Burke?” The visitor said. “Call me Jeff,” he whispered. Noting the man’s laced-up boots, collarless white shirt and dark suit he added, “You’re not from around here, are you?” “Italy,” came the flat reply. The words had little more than passed his lips when an elderly woman sorting books about ten feet to the men’s left pulled her finger to her mouth in an effort to get the visitor to hush. Like a grade school kid caught passing a note, he meekly smiled before glancing back at Burke and this time softly asking, “Can we go somewhere and talk?” “My office hours don’t begin until two and I have a class that meets in twenty minutes. Emma, you’ll find her at the front desk, can make an appointment for you.” “It can’t wait!” The visitor’s posture was now almost beggar-like as his urgent tone and nervous body language said even more than his voice. “This really is a matter of life and death!” The man seemed sincere and though he despised doing it, Burke gave in. Nodding, he yanked his athletic form from the wooden chair, picked up the book and his glasses, slipping the latter into his brown tweed jacket and signaled for his guest to follow him. From throughout the huge room, a dozen curious eyes watched the small parade that wound through three maze-like, ten-foot high and forty-foot long, wooden bookcases and ended on the huge room’s far south side at a large, imposing door. Etched boldly into the entry’s frosted glass — Dr. Jefferson H. Burke “Dean of the School of History.” Turning and taking a quick inventory of the man who had disturbed him, the professor twisted the brass knob on an ancient entry. After flipping a switch that activated the overhead light, Burke signaled for his guest to enter. Following behind him, the professor removed his coat, tossing it on top of a file cabinet and casually strolled behind a large, walnut desk completely covered with stacks of books. “Have a seat, a Mr. . . .” “The name is Antony Columbo.” “Mr. Columbo,” Burke continued, his tone as flat as the Illinois landscape barely visible through a far window. “What brings you to Urbana?” “As you Americans say, you don’t waste time.” “I don’t have much time,” Burke explained. “Budget cutbacks have hit us hard. They cut my staff in half. I’m teaching twice as many classes as I was last year. If you don’t mind my mixing metaphors, I pretty much have to cut to the chase or be drowned in my work. So, though this might make me appear rude, and I really don’t care if it does, quickly tell me what you need and I’ll determine who I need to send you to next.” If his abrupt tone intimidated his guest, it didn’t show. Columbo smiled, removed his hat and plopped down in the room’s only chair not being used as a platform for books. Meanwhile, Burke picked up a stack of files, and, after casually dropping them on the floor, lit on corner of his desk. “Dr. Burke,” the little man began before catching himself, “Excuse me, I mean Jeff. I need to begin by asking you this question. What do you know about the Biblical Joseph?” The professor had stopped his research for a question like this? Now fully realizing this was going to be a complete waste of time an annoyed Burke barked, “Not my department. You need Briggs in the school of divinity. I’ll draw you a map on how to get there.” “Actually,” Colombo, his voice again showing a bit of urgency, “I do need you.” ”No you don’t!” came the terse reply. “I’m not a student of the Bible. The little I do know pretty much came from Sunday school lessons a lifetime ago. I teach American history. You’ve got the wrong man.” “Maybe I need to give you a bit more background on myself.” “Mr. Columbo,” Burke’s tone revealed the sharp edge of a person who had completely lost his patience. “I don’t care if you’re the Pope, the ghost of Martin Luther or even Billy Graham. I’m covered up with work. I simply don’t have time to breathe, much less answer questions about things of which I’m only vaguely aware. Dr. Alexander Briggs is your man.” With a wave of a hand, the guest caught Burke’s eye before the professor could reach down and lift him out of the chair. “I’m not the Pope, but I am a historian for the Vatican. I’m here on a matter of the greatest importance. You’re the person I need to see, I can assure you of that. Here’s my identification.” The professor eased back onto the desk, cocked his head to the right and quickly studied the papers. After considering the new information, he spat, “As I have told you, Briggs is the expert on these matters. I’ll give him a call.” Grabbing his ID, a suddenly impassioned Columbo yelled, “This isn’t so much about religion as it is about the future of the world.” Burke shook his head in disgust. The world? What did the life of an ancient Jew have to do with the mess that had consumed the modern world? This was beyond belief, a complete waste of time. The man was a lunatic. Yet something kept him from physically removing the visitor from his office. That something was the one element of human nature that caused him to embrace history as his chosen field — curiosity. Even if this man was crazy, there had to be a story here. What was it? “Again,” Columbo cut in, “I ask you what do you know about Joseph?” The guest was not giving up and Burke grudgingly admired his dogged determination to engage him in this conversation. Yet, the professor didn’t want to reveal a sense of approval, so like a bored student sitting in the back of a classroom he mumbled, “He had several brothers and a coat of many colors.” The little man grinned, “Not that Joseph.” Burke was confused for an instant. What other Joseph could he mean? Then, like a bolt of lightning, it hit him. “You mean the father of Christ?” His black eyes sparkling, the visitor smiled, “Let’s say the stepfather.” “Ok, I’ll play the game,” Burke replied, his tone acknowledging he was beginning to be sucked in. “He was a carpenter, married to a woman named Mary and, as I recall, was pretty much dismissed from the biblical story upon returning from a trip to Bethlehem. After that the spotlight fell on Mary and her son. Let me sum up this man this way — Joseph was little more than a bit player in what many called the greatest story ever told. Now, do I get a gold star and a bible verse book marker?” Columbo wrinkled his nose, “I take it from your response you’re not a believer?” “I know the significance of faith,” Burke replied. “I can see Christ’s influence in law and history. Those are my fields of study. I’ll leave the theological debates up to you and Dr. Briggs and I leave church up to those who have much more time to waste than I do.” Columbo nodded, “That’s honest. I’m guessing you still don’t know what any of this has to do with you.” “No! And I think your time is up!” Chapter 3 Frustration!
Columbo didn’t move. He made no attempt to leave. So it was Burke who opted to change positions. Getting up from the corner of the desk, Burke walked ten feet to a far wall and glanced out the window. The leaves were starting to show a hint of color, a crisp breeze spelled out that fall was in the air and to emphasize that fact students were wearing sweaters and jackets as they casually strolled across the campus. The scene three floors below him appeared little different than it had last year, or the year before, or the year before that. But even though it couldn’t be easily seen here in the Midwest, there was a blood red tint washing across much of the world. Already some of his former students had given their lives in a cause far removed from the University of Illinois. At this very moment scores of others were fighting in the Middle East for a cause that had not been clearly defined. For those killing them, it was supposedly all about religion. Not Columbo’s religion, but religion nevertheless. In fact, as history proved to Burke, religion had seemingly killed more people than just about any other cause. That fact never ceased to amaze and disgust the professor. Digging his hands into his pants pockets, Burke slowly shook his head and closed his light green eyes. The world was in chaos, the economy in shambles and death was a far too common guest to people who had done nothing to deserve that fate. In the next six seconds a child would die of hunger or disease and then another the six seconds after that and so on and so on. And no one seemed to care. That thought ate at him day and night. And it could be stopped too. But no one seemed to care, not even those who claimed to be religious. The world was a madhouse! As the images of more and more deaths tore at his fiber, teaching suddenly didn’t seem that vital. After all, it was obvious no one was really learning from history. The same mistakes were being repeated time and time again. For years he vowed to change that, to do something to bring some sense to the irrational actions of men, to counter the destruction with acts of sanity, but his teaching hadn’t produced that change. So what would? And now to throw it all in his face he was listening to an old man who wanted to bring up subjects best left to volunteer Vacation Bible School teachers. Why didn’t someone come to him with a question that really mattered? One that would take history’s pain and transform it into a future with promise. But no, that would never happen. Besides, while he could teach history, Burke had no answers on how to change the course of destruction that pushed each new generation. So, what did any of it matter anyway? The world was a bomb that he couldn’t defuse. So maybe Columbo’s visit was a good thing. Maybe it forced him to acknowledge that his life was pretty much an exercise in futility. “Jeff.” That voice, with its nasal tone and hint of an accent, caused Burke to jerk himself from a pool of self-pity, introspection and inadequacy and turn his attention back to his guest. “Your still here?” Pulling his hands from his pockets the professor strolled to the only corner of the desk not covered with books and retook his seat. As he did Columbo continued his story. “I’m guessing you find it hard to believe that the life of Joseph might well be important in the world we live in now.” Burke grinned. “I’d be crazy if I did. Then again, I’m beginning to wonder if anyone of us really matters. Who is really sane?” “Who will win this struggle for humanity?” Columbo asked. “Who knows?” Burke matter-a-factly replied. His teaching mode automatically reengaged as he explained, “I mean we have the power and the weapons to defeat any nation on this year, but does that matter when you are battling terrorism? I suppose in time we’ll win, but the price will be heavy and when that battle is over mankind will find something else to kill for. Look in these books, it has always been that way.” “That’s a fair assessment,” the guest agreed, “Yet what if I told you, as you Americans say, there is a game changer. And that could just be in the form of a man who died almost two thousand years ago.” Burke shook his head. “You’ve lost me and I’m not so sure you haven’t lost your bearings as well. In this war of terror the bible is used in funerals, not in making bombs or missiles. It’s the latter that’ll determine the outcome of this new kind of war, not words in the so called “Good Book” or even words in any of the books I have piled on my desk. You see I don’t have any answers as to why a civilized world continues to lust for blood and revel in an orgy of death and destruction.” Columbo smiled, “I can understand why you feel that way. But if you will allow me just a small bit of your time to fill you in on some history you do not know then you might see things my way.” “You’ve already taken more than a small bit of my time,” Burke shot back, “but I’ll give you until my next class starts. The clock’s running! Talk fast!” Columbo paused, licked his lips and then carefully continued. “Let me preface my remarks in this fashion. Up until recently what I am going to tell you has been one of the world’s oldest and best-kept historical facts. In fact it is known by only a handful of men in the Vatican.” Maybe it was because a cloud had just crossed in front of the morning sun, but suddenly the visitor seemed to age — the color draining from his face and his dark eyes losing a bit of their shine. It was as if he had seen a ghost. He even trembled a bit as he posed another question. “Why do you suppose there is so little written about Joseph in the Bible?” Burke saw no logical destination for this strange thread of thought. What did this man want? Why had he come halfway around the world to see him? It made no sense. “Did you know his death is not even mentioned,” Columbo continued. “The New Testament’s a pretty lean piece of literature,” Burke finally noted. “Not much fat in the writing, especially in matters concerning Christ’s life. They literally glossed over the first three decades. It’s likely Joseph died during that period and the writers didn’t consider it to be significant.” “Maybe,” the little man noted, “but what if he didn’t die? What if he were alive when Christ was crucified? What if he was there at Calvary?” Burke tossed his arms out with a sense of indignation. This type of tactic was something his students often used to throw him off course during lectures. They would pose questions that had no substantive answers hoping to kill time and avoid quizzes. That was all right for an eighteen-year-old kid who hadn’t done his homework, but the professor expected better of a historian from the Vatican. If that’s who he really was and he was now beginning to doubt it. Glancing at the clock on the far wall, Burke answered, “I don’t really see what this has to do with anything that concerns me or the affairs of the world at present. And your time is about up. So if you have a point – make it!” “Jeff, have you ever wondered how the books we call the Bible were chosen?” Burke took a deep breath, where was Briggs when he needed him? Trapped in a conversation that was headed nowhere he figured he had little choice now but to answer just to move things along. “I remember reading about councils that met and decided what to keep and what to toss out. I’ve even read some of the texts that were deemed as not inspired. As far as the specifics as to what was included and what was discarded, I have no recollection.” “Let me enlighten you on one of those books,” Columbo said. “By the way, my throat is a bit dry, might I have some water?” The professor got up, pulled a paper cup from a dispenser attached to the wall by a corner sink, filled it and brought it back to his guest. He watched as the man slowly drained every drop, licking his lips before tossing the now empty cup onto the top of an overflowing trashcan. “Thank you. Now, where was I? Oh yes. Many years ago I was going through ancient papers in the Vatican library. One of the things I uncovered both fascinated and frightened me. In the diaries of four different Popes I found several early references to a firsthand view of Jesus’ life, including the time before his ministry. In other words — his youth. The writings these references came from were not just omitted from the bible, they were kept secret and supposedly destroyed.” A lost book? As much as he hated to admit it, there was nothing quite as fascinating as a two-thousand-year-old mystery. Even one told by an uninvited guest. Hence, Burke was almost hooked. He leaned forward, suddenly a bit more curious as to the direction of Columbo’s line of talk. “The book was supposedly written by Joseph. Though the materials I found were sketchy on details, I could ascertain the text in the document likely provided new information on Jesus’ birth and early years. Yet there was something else in the writing that the church leaders evidently believed so explosive they buried it.” “So the book was destroyed?” Burke asked. “Not at first. That came later. The early leaders couldn’t bear to get rid of anything that was tied to Christ’s life, even those items they considered either unimportant or controversial. In fact, the records I found indicated that a scribe named Simon, on orders from an early church leader, actually painstakingly created three additional copies of the book. By the third century one had been taken to Constantinople, another was in Rome and a third was placed in a church vault in Jerusalem. My studies revealed the original resided in a mountain monastery in what we now know as Afghanistan.” Burke glanced at his watch. It was time for his freshman early American history class. “Are you about to wrap this up? Burke asked. “It will take me a few more minutes.” Did he have a few more minutes? Was this story worth the wait? His gut told him no, but the curiosity that had likely cost him his marriage begged him to hear his visitor out. Picking up his phone the professor waited for Emma Street to answer. “Emma, would you go to Room 312 and tell my class I’m tied up and they have a walk?” After thanking the woman, he looked back at his guest, “So, did you look for and find any of the copies of this hushed up book?” Columbo shook his head. “The archives were clear as to what happened to them. The copy in Constantinople burned in a fire in 411 B.C. In 751, Pope Stephen II decided that the original and the two copies were far too dangerous to keep and he ordered them to be destroyed as well. He assigned the task to one of his aids, a priest and historian named Baltore of France. While he was highly trusted by Vatican officials, this choice would prove to be anything but wise. “In 752, Baltore removed the copy from its hiding place in Rome and traveled to Jerusalem. It was early in 753 when he arrived there. With the Pope’s orders and official seal, he gained entrance to a vault beneath the church and retrieved that copy as well. He then booked passage to what we know as Afghanistan. It took him four months to convince the monks in the monastery to give him the original. It was late summer when he began his trip back to his office in a church outside of what we now know as Paris.” The sun had returned from behind the cloud and as that light again flooded the room Columbo’s color seemed to return as well. With his hands clasped, Columbo closed his eyes and leaned back. It was as if he was trying to actually place himself into the events he was describing. After taking a deep breath, the old man’s eyes opened and once more locked onto his host. “As I mentioned, Baltore was not only a priest, but he was also a historian. So when it came time to destroy the documents, he could not bring himself to fully complete his assignment. After all, this was a piece of history. He only burned the copies and kept the original. When he died in 791, his brother was given the scroll.” A now fully engrossed Burke asked, “How did the Vatican know Baltore hadn’t destroyed it along with the copies?” “Actually, they didn’t,” Columbo explained, “In fact they assumed he had. It would be more than six hundred years before any news of the document surfaced. While returning from a crusade an English knight stopped at the home of a farmer named Phillpe Baltore. After a bit of ale and some food, Phillipe shared the story of the relic and even showed his guest the scroll. As neither man could read Aramaic, they could only guess as to what was written there.” Now completely sucked in by the tale, Burke asked, “And this was the actual scroll supposedly written by the father, or as you called him, the stepfather of Jesus?” “Yes. I believe it was. And because of that knight’s visit and a later confession to a priest, the Vatican found out about its existence and where it had been kept over the last six hundred years. Upon hearing of the news, Pope Paul II sent a part of his guard to retrieve that document, but before they arrived, Phillipe had sold his farm and moved. For more than sixty years they searched throughout France for the man, but never found him. Hence, the Book of Joseph was again lost and would remain out of sight until 1530 when it turned up in England.” “So,” Burke said, “Phillipe Baltore moved to the British Isles.” “Yes, and if you know your English history as well as you do your American history you can put together why it was impossible for the Vatican to obtain it during that time period.” Burke nodded. Most high school students knew that in 1530 Henry the Eight was in the process of separating the English church from Rome. He would never have allowed an army from the Vatican access to his realm. Thus there was no way any Pope could have recovered the scroll. The Catholics were literally on the outside looking in. His green eyes now glowing, Burke asked, “Did Henry know about the document?” Columbo nodded. “He knew that one of his subjects, a blacksmith named John Green, had a scroll that had been passed down for hundreds of years from family member to family member and the Vatican wanted it. Essentially King Henry didn’t care what was on that document only that it might bring him a measure of power in his discussions with the Pope. Thus, he seized it and tried to use it as a bargaining chip.” Burke smiled, “Knowing history, I’m guessing that even the Book of Joseph didn’t buy Henry what he wanted.” Columbo shook his head. “It was a temptation almost too strong for even the Pope to resist. If he had accepted it, the church would likely not have split. Yet ultimately His Holiness could not see clear to grant Henry his divorce from Catherine and thus the Vatican didn’t regain control of the Book of Joseph. Henry, who apparently had no real curiosity as to why the document was important, put it in his vault and literally forgot about it. It was only when Oliver Cromwell overthrew the English Crown that the manuscript again came back into play.” To the professor Cromwell’s interest in the document made perfect sense. Oliver’s uncle Thomas had once been a trusted advisor to Henry. “So his uncle,” Burke said, “passed down the story of the scroll.” Columbo shook his head. “Actually Oliver learned the information from his mother. She had no idea what was written on the paper, only that it seemed to have some value to the Catholic Church, a group that the noted Puritan had even less use for than Henry. As leader of England, Oliver vowed to have it translated, but his short reign offered him little time for such pursuits. When he was tossed out of office one of his aids, George Temple, took the scroll. He kept it until his death when it was passed on to his son and so forth.” “So,” Burke said with a glint in his eye, “the Temple clan still has the document?” Chapter 4 Confusion!
Now it was clear there was no logical reason for Columbo’s visit. No one in Burke’s family had any biblical relics. The Illinois’ history department didn’t either. And this was not his field of study. The little man from Italy was on a wild goose chase and he appeared to be was a long way from that goose. Besides, what real difference did it make? “Mr. Columbo, I’m not sure how much of this makes any sense and I certainly don’t see how it ties into the fate of the whole world, but your last statement really lost me. Why come to a history teacher living on the plains of Illinois to find a document that was sold in England almost two centuries ago?” “Because,” came the stoic reply, “In 1940 the Roman Catholic Church got to the house of records a few months too late. The civil and criminal papers of the city of Belkshire, like many important documents in England, had already been transported to the United States for safekeeping until World War II was over. After the war the official papers were returned to the English city, but one crate was never returned. It was somehow lost and it was the one with the report of who bought the Book of Joseph at auction. I spent a year looking through those old papers and all records of the transfer of those documents both to the United States and back to the U.K. The papers outlining the auction of George Temple’s possession made it here, but they did not make it back to England after the war. They were in the lost crate.” “And no one noticed?” “Why should they worry?” Columbo replied. “It was an old auction document that no one seemed to care about. To them the tax and property records were far more important and they had all of those. Thus the stuff in the missing crate was viewed as expendable.” “So,” Burke said, rubbing his chin and leaning a bit closer, “you think it might still be here at the U of I?” “That’s what I’m hoping,” the visitor answered. “According to the records I found, you are the trustee of the facility where it might be hiding. I therefore must have your permission to get into the files I need in order to uncover the whereabouts of the Book of Joseph.” Being named the custodian of the records came as a complete surprise to Burke. When did that happen and where was this building? Sliding off the front of the desk, he picked up his phone. “Emma, can you connect me with Dr. Patterson’s office.” The professor glanced back at Columbo as he waited. His story was intriguing, fascinating in a way, but surely the mystery couldn’t be all that important. It couldn’t play into the stability of today’s world. “Pete,” Burke said, “What’s this about my being the trustee of a bunch of stored documents?” As the professor listened, he nodded, “I see. Yes, I’ll find that memo, read the rules and pick up the key later today.” Putting the receiver back in the cradle, Burke crossed his arms and looked back toward his guest. “Actually, I was given those responsibilities two months ago when Dr. Creegle retired. It seems that they informed me via mail. It must be in that batch of unopened stuff sitting in that chair by the wall.” As his guest studied the pile, Burke added, “Probably around two feet down would be my guess.” “So, I can look at the records?” “No.” Burke replied walking back to the corner of his desk. “The rules were just explained to me. It seems, because of the way the insurance is set up, I’m the only one allowed in there. Anyway, why the rush? This thing’s been out of sight and mind for two thousand years. What’s a few more?” Columbo stretched his short arms and straightened his black suit coat before posing a question. “Have you ever heard of Dr. Bruno Krueger?” Burked nodded. Who hadn’t heard of him? He was wealthy South American who had a dozen authorities on ancient history on his payroll. He’d found four different tomb sites in Egypt and claimed to know the whereabouts of Noah’s ark. Twice his team had even beaten Burke to important American Indian burial sites. Worst of all, he kept the loot for himself or sold it on the open market. He was no historian, but a profiteer “I met Krueger once, about ten years ago in New York,” Burke finally admitted. “I was amazed by his knowledge, but didn’t much care for his methods. He was always more about personal glory than sharing historical materials. He shaped his findings to meet his agenda. Worst of all he has unlimited wealth.” Columbo grimly smiled. “Because of Krueger I need to find out what’s in that old auction report as soon as possible. Let me explain the connection. During the early days of World War II, a German spy based in Rome retrieved the information I found on the book. I know that spy relayed his findings to Krueger’s grandfather who was a close aid to Hitler. I know that Hitler himself was interested in discovering and translating the document.” Burke shook his head, “And how does a historian from the Vatican know all this?” “We’ve had a very effective network of espionage agents for a lot longer than either Great Britain or America has had organized governments.” As Burke considered the ramification of the spying capabilities of the Roman Catholic Church, he also tried to wrap his arms around why the Nazis would have been interested in the ancient document. During a time of war, when everyone was spending resources on finding fuel to run armies and seeking out the new technology to build super weapons, an almost two-thousand-year-old scrap of paper would seem to matter little to the Germans or anyone else. “Mr. Columbo, I fancy myself a pretty bright person, but I can’t seem to put this into a perspective that makes a bit of sense. I don’t understand how finding a copy of a book written by Joseph would have been important to the Nazis in World War II or to anyone but a small number of theologians now.” The visitor pushed himself out of the chair, and, after shaking his left knee as if to wake up his foot, walked over to the window. “Jeff, what roll did faith play in World War II?” Getting off the desk and moving to the man’s side, the professor replied, “What do you mean?” “I believe,” the slight man began, “that a large part of the drive to beat the Axis Powers was based on faith. Your leaders and your clergymen, as well as those all across the free world, framed that war as a struggle of good against evil, right vs. wrong. How many times have you heard someone say, ‘God is on our side?’ In World War II, if this was the case, then Hitler must have been in league with the devil. And I believe if you study the book of Revelation and realize that one of the pagan Roman altars was rebuilt in Germany for Hitler to use in his speeches, that fact rings home to those who believe.” “You mean the Pergamon Altar?” Burke cut in. Columbo nodded, then using the index finger of his right hand, waving it like a preacher delivering a sermon, the visitor pushed forward. “It is much easier to get men to fight and die in a war if they believe they are doing God’s will. This is especially true in the case of the United States. You see, while the Hawaiian Islands might have been attacked, no one in power at the time actually believed the Japanese or Germans would invade this nation. So, unlike in England, where people saw bombs falling on London every night and were fighting a war for the survival of their country, where life, death and war were so very real and known by all ages, in the United States war was seen as a faraway crusade. Thus Americans viewed themselves as the noble people out to impose God’s will on the world more than protecting their own shores.” Burke considered the theory. It seemed sound. Even during World War II most Americans actually felt pretty secure. Many had even argued that the war in Europe was one we should have avoided when we declared war on Japan. And there was no doubt the war was sold as one where God was on the side of the red, white and blue. “Jeff, what if Germany had gotten its hands on the Book of Joseph?” “I don’t really see that being too important,” Burke replied. “Historical relics don’t decide wars. During World War II it hardly mattered where King Tut and the Statue of David were housed.” “Maybe not, but Krueger’s grandfather and Hitler must have believe the Book of Joseph meant something.” “How?” Burke asked. “During your research did you find anything that pointed to this ancient scroll containing something that could give an advantage to either side? I don’t think a simple carpenter from the holy land invented a super weapon two thousand years ago. I have problems believing that God gave him orders that read, ‘Now Joseph, build a bomb three hundred cubits long and fill it with this stuff called TNT.’” Columbo shook his head. “I doubt that as well. And sadly, there was no reason listed why the Book of Joseph was hidden for seven centuries or why orders were eventually given to destroy it. But over time I’ve come up with a theory. And when I discovered that Hitler was interested, I began to believe my thoughts were correct.” “What’s that?” Burke asked. “Surely Hitler wasn’t going to claim that Joseph was the world’s founding member of the Aryan race? After all, wasn’t Joseph a Jew?” As if he was trying to keep his heart from jumping from his chest, the little man folded his arms and slowly returned to his chair. For several minutes the sole sound in the room was the ticking of the wall clock. Only when Columbo contorted his face into an almost ghostly visage did he continue, this time speaking in tones so hushed his host had to lean closer just to hear the words. “I hesitate to even speak it out loud. Up until this moment I have only told the Pope.” He paused, taking a deep breath. “I hope I’m wrong, but I fear that Joseph may have written that he was the actual father of Jesus. Thus I’m afraid that the book might erase the divine element from Jesus’ birth. This is the only reason I can fathom for the early church not including this important man’s words in the bible.” Chapter 5 Bombshell!
Burke turned back to the window and considered the words. The news would certainly set off explosions in the worlds of both history and religion. It would literally change the way the whole course of history was viewed. Thus, what might be locked in a warehouse less than two miles from the professor’s office could well be the key to the future of the Christian faith. That was pretty salty stuff. Burke’s answer was cold and straightforward. “No doubt I’d have it translated and published. History would demand it. Don’t you agree?” “No, I’d burn it.” “But if the divinity of Christ was proven to be a lie . . .” Columbo didn’t let Burke finish he statement. “Think of what that news would do to the world!” “But . . .” “If Jesus is not divine,” Columbo fired back, his words spitting out like machine gun bursts, “then the church is no longer about faith, it’s only about philosophy. Philosophy is cheap! How many men will give their lives for philosophy? Right now there are men and women fighting the forces of evil to win for God’s cause all over the globe. They view terrorism as an attack on the Christian faith. Essentially you had a president who in 2001 framed it that way. Might these men and women reconsider if they suddenly didn’t believe that they were going to Heaven? You see, if Jesus was just a human, then many wouldn’t even believe there was a Heaven. Hence, there would be no onward Christian soldiers and there is so much more. “In an instant hundreds of millions who pray would likely cease praying. Within months the moral centers of communities, the churches, would likely close their doors. Sin would become so abstract it would be just a matter of personal taste. In the future, if any law survived, it would be based solely on the Old Testament. We would go back to an eye for an eye. That style justice is what haunts us in much of the developing world. It is what terrorism is all about. Forgiveness and second chances would be considered a historical misstep. Do you fully understand what this would mean to just the American way of life? This news would make it a complete lie! Now consider what it would mean to the world. Would you really want to that kind of news to be published?” A cold shiver went down Burke’s spine. As a historian he knew that no man had affected the course of human history as had Jesus Christ. He was able to so impact the world due to his claim of divinity. If there were a document calling into question the story of his birth then how many would still believe in his resurrection? And as much of the free world was now based on the parameters of Christian faith, what would that mean to democracy? Columbo was right, this news might bring the whole of Christianity to its knees. “It is my belief,” Columbo continued, “that if Krueger gets his hands on the scroll that his grandfather and Hitler wanted so badly, and it contains the information I fear, when he makes that knowledge public it will have a profound affect on the course of this world. I fear that the Jewish race will be wiped out and modern Gentiles will allow it because we will feel no spiritual tie to them.” “That’s a pretty chilling theory,” Burke replied. “You actually believe the war against terror would end because of an old scrap of paper?” The visitor shrugged, “If your faith has been wiped out, if the one driving force that sent you off to fight a war for other countries — nations you now have little or nothing in common with — was destroyed, if lives and souls were cheapened by the knowledge that Jesus did not die for them, if the God of Moses did not send a son to save both Jew and Gentile alike, then why would you continue to fight? After all, if the moral fiber of the world was torn asunder, the very foundation of civilization and modern law revealed as a myth, then what is life really about? The mighty will rule! The meek won’t inherit the earth. The slave will live and die a slave and there will be no salvation to break away those chains in the afterlife. So now you see why I have to find that book and destroy it.” Burke strolled back to the window. In the background he noted a steeple. Right now in that church, perhaps men and women were praying for sons and husbands and daughters and wives in the Middle East. They were actually asking the son of a carpenter to protect their loved ones. It was a scene being repeated all over the country and the world. What if that hope were taken away? The professor whirled around, “What if you’re wrong? What if the book reveals the words of a man who was overcome with joy at being chosen to raise the Son of God? Then that book will only add validity to your faith.” Columbo managed a grim smile before whispering, “I pray for that, but think for a moment; why would the church condemn the Book of Joseph if the news was not damning? So what if I’m right and Krueger gets to it before I do? What if he makes that story public? Can the world, as we know it, survive?” The little man allowed his words to linger for a few moments before looking Burke directly in the eye. “Krueger has his father’s encoded diaries. Therefore he has a head start. I need your help to catch up. Will you let me into that warehouse?” Jeff Burke turned back toward the window. He might well have the key to a story of a lifetime in his hands. Now, what would he do with that key? “No,” the professor replied, “you can’t go in, but I will and I’ll share with you whatever I find. You have my word on that. Where are you staying?” “Haven’t checked into a motel yet.” Opening a desk drawer, Burke pulled out a key. “My place is at 2317 Cedar in Urbana. The guest room is to the right off the living room. Get some sleep. You look like you need it. I’ve got a full day ahead of me, a dinner tonight, but after that I’ll make a trek over to Bruce Hall. If there is something there, I’ll find it and bring it back to the house.” “I couldn’t accept your hospitality. I would be taking advantage . . .” Pressing the key into the old man hand, Burke smiled for the first time, “You can and you will. Grab a business card off my desk. It has my home address and cell number. Call me if you need anything. “Now, I need to go get a key to a building and see what I can find.” | ||
 | | |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
