02 The Secret on Ararat (2 page)

Twenty minutes later he was standing on a horizontal outcrop, wiping the sweat from his eyes and trying to catch his breath. In front of him was a tangle of wire—what had clearly once been a chain-link fence designed to seal off the gaping hole in the rock. This was what had caught his eye from the bottom of the mountain. He crouched down and gingerly eased himself around the wire, stepping into the mouth of the cave.

He pulled his flashlight out of his backpack and switched it on. The two cardinal rules of cave exploration came unbidden into his mind: Never cave alone, and never cave without three sources of light.
And, I guess you could add, never enter a cave when you know there’s a psycho lurking in there somewhere
, he thought.

Although the cave entrance was relatively wide, it quickly narrowed, and Murphy soon had to crawl on his hands and knees over the floor of loose stones and grit. After a few minutes of gentle twists and turns, the only light he could see was the beam of his torch, and the familiar thrill, a unique mix of anxiety and excitement that all speleologists experience on entering a new cave system, took over. It had been years since he’d been caving, but the smell of damp limestone and the instant adrenaline surge reminded him of caving holidays with Laura in Mexico—and particularly the extraordinary Flint-Mammoth Cave System in Kentucky. It was said to be over 224 miles long—the longest in the world—and while they’d covered only a fraction of it, the sense of infinite depth was awesome. If you kept going, you could imagine you might eventually reach hell itself. But that wasn’t the deepest cave. That distinction belonged to the Gouffre Jean Bernard in France, which wound its way 4,600 feet below the earth. Every year they’d planned on making the expedition, and every year they’d never quite managed to find the time in their hectic lives of teaching and digging for artifacts. And then …

Murphy shook his head and refocused on the task at hand. He could feel the humidity increasing as the temperature in the cave plummeted. Drops of water from
stalactites on the ceiling started falling onto the back of his head and over his face, and he wiped them away with his sleeve. He pushed himself on, despite the soreness in his knees and elbows, hoping the cave wasn’t narrowing further. After another ten minutes, he decided to take a breather, easing himself onto his back. Energy conservation was a key element of survival in this kind of unfamiliar environment. Something he’d learned from Laura. “You’ve got to pace yourself, Murphy,” she used to tell him. “It isn’t a race, you know.”

And he needed to keep his wits sharp. He wasn’t just dealing with an unmapped cave system where he might plunge off a sheer cliff into fathomless space, or which at any moment could narrow into a stone vise from which he’d never be able to extricate himself. At every step he had to remember why he was here. Methuselah had planned it all. And that meant there was some artifact of great value for an archaeologist—especially a biblical archaeologist—waiting for him at the end of his journey. But Methuselah wouldn’t be content to see him rack up a few scrapes and bruises in search of his prize. For his own insane reasons, Methuselah required Murphy to risk his life. That was how you played the game.

And the game could begin at any moment.

Taking a deep, calming breath, he rolled back onto his hands and knees and crawled forward. Soon the cave walls started to get higher and the floor flattened and broadened out. After a few minutes he could walk easily without ducking his head, and then a sudden turn brought him to a large chamber. Playing his flashlight over the walls, he looked for some sign that someone had been here before him. Something out of place, anything
that didn’t look natural. But all he could see was water glistening on sheer black walls and a cluster of stalactites hugging the roof over his head.

“No booby traps that I can see,” he muttered to himself. “Nothing here that God didn’t create unless I’m much mistaken.” So why was his scalp beginning to itch? Why was his subconscious mind telling him something wasn’t right?

Then it hit him. It wasn’t what he could see. It was what he could hear. Just on the very edge of audibility. A muffled keening, almost a whining sound. Like an animal—maybe more than one animal—in distress. But how could that be? No animal could survive down here—except possibly bats, and this was too deep even for them, surely.

He moved slowly toward the sound, hefting his flashlight like a weapon, every sense alert for danger. And that was when his feet first touched the wooden planks.

His lungs full of air, Murphy had difficulty pushing himself down into the icy depths of the flooded pit, but after a few powerful strokes he managed to grab on to a rock projecting off the bottom, and took a moment to get his bearings. He could feel the rush of water at his back as it continued to power its way into the cave. He figured that must be where the light was coming from that turned what would have been pitch-black into a ghostly, greenish gloom. And the puppies must have been swept in the opposite direction. He launched himself forward, hoping for a glimpse of thrashing limbs. Then suddenly he felt rather than saw the two little
bodies sweeping past him. He reached out a hand but it was too late. But something about the way the puppies seemed to be pulled through the water gave him hope. It was almost as if they were in a giant bath and were being sucked down the plughole. In which case water was going out of the pit as well as coming in.

Maybe there was a way out after all.

He followed in the direction the puppies had taken, and after a few strokes he could see them, their little bodies churning in the water as dirt and debris streamed toward a narrow gap in the rock wall. He thought of going back to the surface for another breath, then realized that this was his only shot. Either they managed to push their way out now or they were done for.

Scooping the puppies up and stuffing them back into the front of his jacket, he could feel them squirming in utter panic as the last molecules of oxygen disappeared from their lungs. Finding a handhold on the wall, he braced himself, then kicked his legs forward until his feet disappeared into the crevice. Every instinct told him to get himself back out, to get back to the surface, knowing that he was probably doing no more than wedging himself into a fissure from which there would be no escape, but he grimly forced himself farther in, his feet now above his head, the water pushing past him through the crack.

As his torso was squeezed into the fissure, he braced his arms across his chest, hoping he’d be able to protect the puppies from being crushed. By now he wouldn’t have been able to force himself back out even if he’d wanted to. The force of the escaping water held him fast. There was only one way to go, and that was deeper into
the crack. With a twist of his hips, he corkscrewed farther in, the jagged sides of the opening scraping deep lacerations into his thighs. But he hardly felt the pain. He was a machine now, with just one purpose: to get through to the other side.

As his head entered the fissure, he could feel his lungs about to give out. In the next five seconds he would take a breath and they would fill with water. For the puppies it was probably already too late. Their movements had become less urgent. Perhaps it was just the flow of water that made them seem alive. With his last scrap of willpower he kicked forward, and a giant hand suddenly seemed to be pulling him through from the other side. With a violent wrench, his head bumping roughly against the rock, he was spewed out onto the floor of another chamber. As the waters still surged over him, he managed at last to take a huge gulp of air—along with a large mouthful of water—into his lungs.

Choking violently, he raised himself onto his hands and knees, and for the first time in what seemed an eternity, his head was fully out of the water, caressed by an icy blast of precious air. And then it was being caressed by two eager pink tongues, as the puppies struggled out of his jacket, yelping with joy as they filled their little lungs. Murphy found he was gasping, laughing, and crying for joy all at the same time.

Once he had managed to steady his breathing and regain his composure, he tried to take stock of his surroundings. Behind him, he could hear the water still pouring through the gap in the rock, but thankfully this chamber was not filling up like the other one. The flood tide remained just a few inches deep and seemed
to be draining away through a sinkhole at the other end. For now, at least, they were safe, and Murphy gave silent thanks for their delivery.

That was when he noticed he was shivering uncontrollably. Hypothermia. The chief cause of death among cave explorers. And the subject of a class on wilderness survival he himself had taught. He remembered the young man at the back who had raised his hand at the end of the lecture.

“How long does it take for a person to die of hypothermia?” he had asked.

“That depends,” Murphy had replied, “on how fast your core temperature drops. When it drops to ninety-six degrees, you begin intense shivering. Between ninety-five and ninety-one degrees the ability to think is reduced. Your speech starts to slur and you become disoriented. As the core temperature drops to between ninety and eighty-six, muscle rigidity and amnesia kick in. Pulse and respiration slow and you get a glassy stare. Between eighty-five and seventy-seven degrees, death will occur.”

That had seemed to impress the questioner. And it impressed Murphy now that he could remember it word for word. So amnesia hadn’t kicked in yet. The good news was he was still in the intense-shivering stage. But it was nothing to get complacent about. The next stage was when you couldn’t think straight, and thinking straight was what he needed to do right now. Especially since he didn’t have a torch anymore and he somehow had to keep control of two surprisingly lively puppies, who seemed to have already forgotten their
near-drowning ordeal as they splashed and yelped happily in the shallow, muddy water.

He gently pushed one of the pups away as it started gnawing at his wristwatch. How could he think straight when—of course! “You’ve got more sense than I have, you clever little pooch,” he said happily, touching the button on the side of the Special Forces watch. A small blue light illuminated the chamber for a few feet around him. He switched it off again to conserve the battery and tried to think. The water was draining out of the chamber through one exit, but he’d had enough of water for one day. He certainly wasn’t going to risk diving into the sinkhole in the hope that he’d emerge into another air pocket. But something else gave him a sliver of hope. The right side of his body was a little colder than the left, and that meant the air must be moving slightly. There was a breeze coming from somewhere and therefore maybe a route to the surface.

He switched the light on again and swung his wrist in a slow arc around his body. His eye was caught by a narrow pillar of rock in the middle of the cave. Something oddly shaped was perched on the top. He crawled over to it cautiously, herding the puppies in front of him. Reaching up, he ran a hand over the object. It felt like a chunk of some kind of very dense wood, the sort of sea-worn fragment you might find washed up on a beach. Had Methuselah put this here? Was this what he had come for? Was his prize for risking his life a worthless piece of flotsam?

There was no point speculating about it now. If Methuselah had finally cracked, that wasn’t such a big surprise, and if this was the booby prize, then maybe
Murphy deserved it for agreeing to play a madman’s game by a madman’s rules. He slipped the piece of wood into a pocket in his combat trousers and turned his face back in the direction of the gentle breeze.

“Come on, you guys. Unless you’ve got a better idea, I think it’s time to follow our noses and see if we can get back home.”

TWO

Jerusalem,
A.D.
30

THE LANKY STRANGER ELBOWED
his way through the milling crowd. Even though he was taller than most, the constant jostling made it difficult to see who was speaking. But one thing was certain: Whoever it was seemed to have the crowd’s attention. People were pushing against those in front of them to try and get nearer the front. Some were even trying to stand on baskets or bundles of cloth to get a better view. A child pulled at his mother’s skirts, desperate to know what was going on, and the stranger hoisted him onto his shoulders with a smile. The boy clapped his hands in delight and the woman nodded her thanks, shyly. The crowd seemed to quiet all at once, as if on cue, and a man began speaking softly but clearly. Feeling the excitement of those around him, the stranger strained to hear…
.

It was his first visit to Jerusalem, and he had never experienced anything like it. In the marketplace the noise of people bartering with one another was overpowering. Every now and then he would stop and watch people who were yelling at each other so vehemently he thought a fight was about to break out—until suddenly they slapped palms and the deal was done. It was a far cry from his sleepy village in the hills, where no one ever seemed to get excited about anything. And the multitude of stalls, with produce so various and exotic he found himself staring openmouthed like an idiot, was truly incredible. Open baskets were filled with every kind of fruit and grain imaginable. Slaughtered carcasses of sheep, goats, and cows hung from poles that held up the tent coverings over the merchants, who cried their wares while lazily swatting at the flies that swarmed over the freshly cut meats. Women selling brightly colored bolts of cloth called to him, gesturing to him to feel the quality of the material—one even grabbed his arm roughly and tried to pull him into her stall. Shiny jewelry and polished daggers dazzled the eye, while the raucous din of ducks and geese in wicker cages assaulted the ear
.

He could quite easily have allowed himself to be pushed and pulled this way and that through the market, like a leaf caught in an eddy, for the rest of the morning, but he’d been told by his cousin-older and more experienced in the ways of the world—that the city contained greater wonders, things a man should see if only once in his lifetime. His journey from his village to Jerusalem, to offer the annual half-shekel of silver required of every adult male, might be the first of many. Maybe one day he might even live in the city (though how a poor shepherd would make a living there he didn’t know). But it would be foolish to trust the future in such troubled times as these, when the Roman
occupation made everything uncertain. The wise thing would be to see all Jerusalem’s wonders now, while he had the chance
.

He strode purposefully out of the marketplace, and the walls of the upper city began to rise in the distance. As he climbed the steeply ascending roadway, he passed the Parbar, where the sacrifice animals were kept, and laughed to hear a sudden burst of squealing. Then the huge stone slabs of the Dung Gate loomed up before him, and he felt his pulse quicken as he stepped through into the city proper
.

What he saw made his breath catch in his throat. The huge walls surrounding Herod’s Temple dazzled with their whiteness. Some of the foundation stones were over sixty-five feet long and four feet high. He couldn’t imagine how mere men could have fashioned such things from the bare rock. Their very existence seemed to speak of the majesty and omnipotence of God
.

Then his eyes were drawn to the side, where the power of Rome boldly showed itself under the shadow of the great temple walls. A century of Roman legionaries, their oiled leather body armor gleaming, swords and spear points glinting in the sun, were marching toward the Fortress of Antonia, where they were quartered. The clatter of their iron-shod sandals over the ancient flagstones sent a momentary shiver through him. Then he pressed on eagerly toward his goal
.

He had heard that the temple had seven entrances but that he must go up the arching viaduct ramp from the lower city. That was the most spectacular, his cousin had said. But what could be more spectacular than what he had already seen?

He walked through the arch to the courtyard, past the enormous bronze gates that he had heard it took twenty men to open and close, beneath the shadow of the great golden eagle Herod had placed there lest any forget who ruled here
.

When he entered the temple courtyard, the vastness of the marketplace suddenly seemed cramped and feeble by comparison. As his eyes ranged over the expanse, he tried to imagine how many people it could hold. A thousand? No! Many thousands, surely. More than he could count! It must have been 1,500 feet long and 1,200 feet wide, and he had been assured that it could hold 250,000 people, but such a number meant nothing to him. He could not imagine what such a host would look like—if Palestine even contained that many people!

In the center of the courtyard was the temple itself, and for the first time his imagination was stirred not merely by scale but by beauty. No wonder it had taken ten thousand men and over sixty years for the temple and its surrounding buildings to be completed. He had no words to express what he was seeing, knowing nothing of harmony and proportion, but the graceful forms nevertheless spoke to something deep within his soul. He found himself giving thanks to God for the world and everything in it
.

Suddenly he realized he was not alone. Many of the men milling around him were wearing prayer shawls. Some had phylactery boxes containing the Ten Commandments tied to their foreheads. Others were leading sacrificial sheep or carrying baskets containing turtle doves, the poor man’s sacrifice offering. Over to one side he could see money changers bargaining with travelers like himself, while under the colonnades, rabbis were teaching little groups of a dozen or so
.

Moving through the throng, he saw a marble wall almost the height of a man, behind which he glimpsed priests attending to various duties. As he drew closer he noticed a sign on the wall with an inscription
.

N
O FOREIGNER IS TO ENTER WITHIN THE
BALUSTRADE AND ENCLOSURE AROUND THE TEMPLE
AREA
. W
HOEVER IS CAUGHT WILL HAVE HIMSELF TO
BLAME FOR HIS DEATH, WHICH WILL FOLLOW
.

 

He didn’t think
foreigner
meant him, but even so the words were intimidating. He resolved to watch his step, to copy the behavior of those around him in case he transgressed some unwritten rule by mistake. Trying to remember what else his cousin had told him, he recalled that the temple itself was divided into three chambers. The first was the vestibule. The second chamber was the Holy Place, containing the Altar of Incense and the golden candlestick with seven branches. The last chamber was the Holy of Holies, separated from the Holy Place by a curtain that hung from the ceiling and was said to be six inches thick. The Holy of Holies housed the most wondrous object of all—the ark of the Covenant. He had heard so many different descriptions of it that the image he had in his head was constantly shifting and blurring into the most fantastic designs. All he really knew for sure was that it was a wondrous piece of workmanship covered with gold
.

He didn’t need a sign to tell him he was forbidden to enter the Holy of Holies, or that sneaking a look at the Ark of the Covenant would be taking his life in his hands—even if he was clever enough to do it. But it sounded so incredible, so awesome, that he felt himself being drawn toward the Holy of Holies like a moth to a flame
.

That was when his attention was diverted by the growing crowd under the colonnades, and he found himself straining forward to hear what the speaker was saying. With the boy on his shoulders, people thought he was a young father bringing his son to the city for the first time, and the crowd parted good-naturedly
to let him move forward—with the boy’s mother bringing up the rear—until he was standing at the front, just a few feet away from the speaker
.

Seated on a bench under the colonnades was a bearded man. He was wearing an earth-colored robe—the sort of rough woolen garment that might belong to a beggar—with a white prayer cloth around his shoulders. There was nothing at all remarkable about his features, but looking at his face somehow made you want to listen to what he was saying. He paused and looked the stranger directly in the eye, as if he was addressing him alone, before continuing
.

“No one knows about that day or hour, not even the angels in heaven, nor the Son, but only the Father. As it was in the days of Noah, so it will be at the coming of the Son of Man. For in the days before the flood, people were eating and drinking, marrying and giving in marriage, up to the day Noah entered the ark; and they knew nothing about what would happen until the flood came and took them all away. That is how it will be at the coming of the Son of Man. Two men will be in the field; one will be taken and the other left. Two women will be grinding with a hand mill; one will be taken and the other left
.

“Therefore keep watch, because you do not know on what day your Lord will come. But understand this: If the owner of the house had known at what time of night the thief was coming, he would have kept watch and would not have let his house be broken into. So you also must be ready, because the Son of Man will come at an hour when you do not expect him.”

“Who is that man?” the stranger asked the person next to him
.

“Do you not know?” said a short, beady-eyed man with bad breath. “Where are you from?”

“I just arrived from Capernaum, next to the Sea of Galilee. I came to pay the annual tribute.”

“That’s a man named Jesus. Some people think he is a prophet. Others say he is a rebel trying to start an insurrection against Rome.”

“What’s he talking about?”

The short man scratched his beard. “I’m not sure. It’s some strange talk about judgment for sin and the end of the world. It doesn’t make all that much sense to me.”

The stranger felt compelled to question him further, even though the man didn’t seem to have the answers. “What is he talking about when he says, ‘As in the days of Noah’?”

The man merely shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. Perhaps the weather’s going to turn nasty.” He grinned
.

The stranger persisted. “Who is this Son of Man he is talking about? And what does he mean ‘So you also must be ready’?”

But the short man with the beady eyes had slipped away through the crowd and the stranger was left to ponder the mystery of the preacher’s words on his own. He gently lowered the boy down to the ground and whispered quietly to himself, as if repeating the words would reveal their meaning:
“… because the Son of Man will come at an hour when you do not expect him….”