The Cairo Codex (40 page)

James seems even more troubled. “I heard a story at the canal this week.” He seeks everyone’s attention before continuing. “At the Alexandria theater there is a play with music. As part of the entertainment, actors dressed as Jews are brought on stage, and they pretend to be hung up, bound to a wheel. Mauled. They are marched through the orchestra. All the while, the dancers, flute players, and mimes continue to perform, to the delight of the audience.” He takes a deep breath and sits back in his chair, smoothing the fine linen tablecloth.

We are horrified to hear that persecution of our people is beginning again, this time in a community with such a large number of Israelites, many of whom are well-respected scholars.

“Why is that, Father?” asks Jesus. “Why would our people be treated like that? Why would people find it funny?”

Innocence is a wonderful gift. It asks explanations of us we might not otherwise want to consider. Are we trapped by both the Romans and the Alexandrians? I wonder. Will our people ever be at peace?

Joseph hesitates for a moment, then replies, “We are a special people, my son. We keep our own laws and do not participate in many of the pagan and Roman celebrations. By separating ourselves, we raise suspicions and distrust. We make people uncomfortable. It is the price we pay for keeping to ourselves.” Isaiah and Noha nod in agreement.

“These pagans want us to pollute ourselves,” Noha says, smirking. “They want us to prostrate ourselves to strange, animal-like gods. Better that we keep to ourselves.”

Joseph flinches at the raw truth of Noha’s comment. “We must return to Palestine soon. I have heard that Herod Antipas is much like his father, capricious and unpredictable, so we can expect the Romans to cause their armies to swell with Palestinians as well. Yet the Romans have been in Palestine much longer than in Egypt, and there are certain agreements there.”

“Our Rabbis have more authority over our people in Palestine, it is true,” adds Isaiah. “Egypt is being treated as a land subject to the whims and desires of the Romans. We may be safer among our own people.” Isaiah yearns for the support of the larger family and familiar customs in his advancing years. He thinks that Noha might be happier there as well, although he is doubtful.

I have known this moment was near. I will miss Egypt so. In Palestine, women are often thought unclean and unable to do many things men do. In Egypt, I have seen women sell in the market, work in the fields, make beer, pilot boats . . . and when they die, their property is granted to their children as they will it. My grandmother and mother would have been pleased with this land. Perhaps the goddess Isis created such freedom. Yet even in a land of freedom, my duty is to my family. I will not make my own thoughts known. Not now.

“There is a further reason,” begins Joseph, his tired eyes glowing with newfound energy. “I was visited by a dream.”

I am shaken out of my private thoughts. Grasping my chair tightly with both hands, I rest my eyes on this man I have learned to love. His declaration draws rapt attention from everyone, for we all know well that a dream is a revelation from God.

“There are wolves, many wolves,” he begins, his brows furrowing. “They are chasing a group of young men and biting at their legs, trying to kill them. Our sons and their cousin John are among them. The fangs of one of the wolves takes hold of John’s leg, cutting deeply into his flesh, but James pulls him away. Suddenly a figure, a guide, in a long white tunic and golden girdle appears, holding a lantern to show them the way out. He comes out from among the hills, and I can see the skyline of Jerusalem in the background. As the young men follow the guide, the wolves fall away. I look closely at the guide.” He turns his gaze on our youngest son. “His face is that of Jesus.”

I hear a gasp and realize it is my own.

“I’ve had this dream three times. We must return to Palestine,” Joseph concludes. “This is what God wants, Jesus.” My youngest son nods, already at peace with this revelation.

The knock at the entrance to the cave comes suddenly, violently. No one moves.

F
ORTUNATELY
, N
ASSER WASN
’
T IN
J
USTINE
’
S
apartment when she arrived home. She’d forgotten that he was involved in a Nazarene conference in Port Suez today and tomorrow. Just in case he might show up early, she sent him a text message saying she would be very busy, tied up with meetings for a couple of days. She had no intention of running into him before she had sorted out what she would say to him about his deception.

Waking up the next morning, Justine stretched, but failed to get out of bed. Through the tall Victorian windows, she methodically counted the television satellites on the building facing the street behind her as she reflected back on the dream she’d had on her first day in Cairo.
What will be my impossible choice? Choices? Nasser? The codex?

It was early, and she had time for a run before the 10 a.m. meeting at the Museum. It would clear her head.

As her feet pounded the earthen path on Roda Island, her heart was a miniature pendulum setting the rhythm of her run. The morning was clammy, a warm and humid harbinger of June. Above her, the rising sun, made deep orange by Cairo’s omnipresent smog, cast a distinctive glow. Her chest tightened and her heart sped up as she sank into her hips with each footfall. The more she thought, the more her pace became uneven, erratic.

The Red Sea. Mornings on the Corniche. Nights in her apartment. Nasser. She halted her run at the crest of the hill, breathed deeply, and shook her head to clear it of decisions ahead.
This morning, I’m with Mary of Nazareth
. She pivoted on the balls of her feet and ran back to her apartment to shower and dress for the challenging day ahead.

“I have an announcement,” began Mostafa, standing before the group with uncharacteristic diffidence. It was nearly 10:00 a.m. and everyone had shown up early, a historical event in Egypt. He was sweating profusely; his tight voice struggled to sound casual. “The codex has been stolen. It was taken from our safe yesterday morning, or the night before.”

Al Rasul grunted like an annoyed camel. Andrea and Justine, wide-eyed, stared at each other, while Amir’s pencil broke under the pressure of his shaking hand. Only Ibrahim and Isaac gazed hazily at the front of the report, as though they didn’t quite understand what was being said.

“Not quite sure when it was taken?” challenged Andrea. “How could you not be sure? What kind of security do you have in your office, Mostafa?” Her tone dripped contempt.

“Excellent security, I assure you, Dr. LeMartin. But the guards don’t open the safe during every shift to examine its contents,” he said defensively. “Laser beams surround the safe, but the electricity had been turned off, and the generator failed to kick in.” The Great Man twisted the large gold ring on his right hand. “The codex will show up on the black market.”

“Great comfort,” said Al Rasul acidly. The two men had known each other since their days at Cairo University. This would not be the first time, nor the last, that Al Rasul had found reason to admonish the famed Omar Mostafa. “It may or may not show up in the market, but someone will buy it at a trumped up price. You should be more careful, my friend.”

Amir couldn’t contain himself; he lashed out at his boss. “This isn’t the first time, Mostafa! Why did it take years to translate Nag Hammadi fragments? You kept ‘losing track’ of them.”

Obviously stung by Amir’s embarrassing comments, the director continued: “This isn’t my greatest problem at the moment. I—we—have more at stake here.”

“You have a greater problem than the theft of the codex?” Justine was incredulous. “I think we would like to know what it is.”

“How am I going to explain this to National Geographic? We have, let me say, a financial agreement.” Mostafa said this with the reluctance of a boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

“A financial agreement? With National Geographic? Are you telling us you sold the rights to the codex without consultation?” asked Ibrahim, finally provoked to respond. The tone in the room grew increasingly hostile. The Supreme Minister of Antiquities cringed.

“Such an arrangement is not unusual,” Mostafa protested, allowing himself to be briefly distracted by the arrival of the Chinese tea service. “I didn’t sell the codex. It belongs to Egypt, only to Egypt. The arrangements concern publication and co-hosting the entry of the codex into the world of religious history. Not ownership.”

And controlling its release
. “These are major arrangements, Dr. Mostafa,” insisted Justine, emboldened. “Ones that should have been made in consultation with those of us involved in the discovery and translation of the codex!” She held his stare, refusing to relinquish further authority over the codex. “Fortunately, we have the photographed images of the pages made last month, which clear the way for continued translation. At least, I assume the copy has not been stolen as well.”

“The copy is still in our possession,” affirmed Ibrahim, his classic Semitic features moving in on themselves, extending the nose, narrowing the eyes. “It will have to do for now. But this is such a blow to credibility, I don’t know if the results will mean anything. First we have an unprovenanced find, then no find at all.”

“This may be merely an academic exercise,” said Amir, thoroughly disgusted, “without any validity in the field of archeology.”

“I’d suggest we proceed with our agenda,” said Mostafa, although charges continued to fly, the group dividing into side conversations. “Ibrahim?”

“I think it would be wise to take a break before we continue,” said Ibrahim. The other team members were already pushing back their chairs from the table as though to unbridle themselves from the debacle and speculate on the theft.

“Professor Ibrahim. I believe you have something for us.” The group had settled down, patience bought with tea and chocolate. It was anticipation that now tensed the air as the elder man sorted through a pile of xeroxed pages, cradling them gently, and handed four to each person at the table. Careful hands received the pages as though they were touching a divine tunic.

“I believe they’re in order,” said Ibrahim, pulling at his nose. “We’ve selected four entries from the period immediately following Mary’s marriage to Joseph. History tells us that her parents were older and that they chose to entrust her to a good man, an older man, someone who was trustworthy and could be counted on to take care of Mary and a family. In the diary, Mary verifies these assumptions herself. The pages you have before you are meant to answer your questions about Mary’s relationship with Joseph.” He was surprisingly matter-of-fact.

Justine wondered whether Ibrahim was numbed by the events of these two days or resigned to the revelations he was presenting, the very pages he had stolen and returned. Her anger toward him had diminished; she now redirected a part of it toward herself.
Two men, two deceits. Just a coincidence? Or am I losing myself in the chaos around me?