The Third Apostle

By John W. Yarbro

"Professor Batchelor Calwood leaves his university campus, torn by the riots of Vietnam protesters, to search for an ancient library buried near a monastery at Gaza in Israel. Unknown to him, an assistant has concealed in their luggage a new and deadly device that will allow terrorists to highjack and destroy airplanes. As the Professors archeological discoveries about the origins of Christianity begin to cause alarm in the Vatican, his accidental involvement with terrorists puts his own life at risk on the eve of the six day war between Israel and her neighbors."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 10, 2006
• ISBN: 9781469123905

John W. Yarbro

The author is a retired physician and teacher. He has been a faculty member at several medical schools and is presently editor of a medical journal. He has written many scientific articles about cancer but The Third Apostle is his first work of fiction. He has doctoral degrees in medicine and biochemistry from the University of Louisville and the University of Minnesota and has, for many years, had an interest in the early history of Christianity. The Third Apostle is fiction with no basis in fact. Dr. Yarbro lives in Sandestin, Florida where he spends his time with medical editing, reading, and golf.

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The Third Apostle

________________________________

John W. Yarbro

Copyright © 2006 by John W. Yarbro.

Library of Congress Control Number:       2006905010

ISBN:         Hardcover                               1-4257-1785-3

                   Softcover                                 1-4257-1786-1

                   Ebook                                      978-1-4691-2390-5

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in

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in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance

to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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CONTENTS

The University

Prologue 105 A.D.

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

The Dig: Gaza and Rome

Prologue 1187 A.D.

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

33

34

35

36

37

38

39

40

41

42

43

44

45

46

The Scroll

Prologue 1967 A.D.

47

48

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50

51

52

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54

55

56

The University

Prologue 105 A.D.

The frail white-robed man crouched in the hot desert sun. Between his knees he held a cylindrical earthen jar about two feet high with a conical lid. Carefully he removed the lid and took out a parchment scroll. He stared down at it with ancient, patriarchal eyes. High above a hawk circled slowly, watching as a buzzard ripped chunks of flesh from a stinking goat carcass nearby, drawing flies in the sweltering desert heat.

The old man felt once again the sharp pain in his chest and left shoulder which seemed to drive the breath from his body. His heart which had not failed him for almost a century seemed about to explode in his chest. When the pain passed, he could breathe again, but he heard bubbles in his chest as he sucked in air.

Slowly and with great care he began to unroll the parchment manuscript. He read his meticulously composed words one last time, nodding with satisfaction. When he had finished, the pain came again and he waited patiently until it passed.

The truth should be written down, he thought. Someday it will matter. Someday people will know. Not now. Suddenly anger erased his thoughts of death and he cursed through clenched teeth.

Greeks! Pagan Greeks and their gods that copulate with humans! They could not believe the simple truth!

With a deep sigh he rolled and tied the precious scroll. His mind went back to his long journey to Gaza, to his careful teaching of the priests as they recorded his words. His journey to the wilderness. The writing of his book. Now it was finished.

Slowly he wrapped the scroll in white linen. He covered the linen with an oily pitch and replaced it in the earthen vessel. He sealed the lid with more pitch.

The hawk dived sharply on the buzzard to do battle for the carrion. The old man looked up.

Even the land is dying, he said aloud.

When he stood up the pain came again. When it eased he turned and began to walk toward a small hill. The hill was a single karst rock formation jutting sharply up from the desert floor over two hundred feet into the air. The creation of a long lost current in some forgotten sea. From a distance it looked like a pyramid, capped by a reddish stone, as if man made.

When the old man reached the base of the rock he began to climb a narrow path. He moved sluggishly because the pain came frequently now and breathing was more difficult. Near the top where the trail narrowed and curved, he paused at the entrance to a small cave hidden from view below. He glanced over his shoulder at the blue sea in the distance. Looking back he saw the buildings of the monastery that had been his home for two decades. He entered the cave, and straining to keep his balance, he lifted the large earthen jar high above his head and placed it on a ledge where it rolled back out of sight.

It is done. The truth should be placed in a cave for those who follow. It is our way.

The old man returned to the cave entrance and squatted down. He could feel the frenzied beating of his heart. The bubbling in his lungs was worse now, but the pain was gone. He knew he would never feel pain again. If those who had said he would live forever could only see him now, he thought.

He looked out over the wilderness. The hawk was nowhere to be seen and the buzzard had returned to gorge itself on the carrion. The sea to the west gleamed brilliantly in the afternoon sun. He could see the ant like motions of the white robed monks near the monastery in the distance.

His thoughts went back to his youth in Jerusalem. To his father’s large house looking down on Solomon’s Temple and his life of luxury as the son of a priest training to join his father’s work. He thought of the new things he had learned from the wise men in the wilderness by the salty sea. He remembered that glorious year of his life. I was the beloved one! The only really trusted one. He shuddered as he remembered that night of fear when he ran from the Temple with the warning that was too late. The Roman soldier had caught him in a firm grip by his robe but he slipped free of it and ran away naked and ashamed. Ashamed not of his nakedness, but of his fear.

He remembered that fateful day in Jerusalem when he had held his tongue as the unlettered fisherman had debated the erudite evangelist. The simple story of a fisherman against the sophisticated vision of the Greek. He thought of that fool in Ephesus who had twisted his words. The true story had been too simple for any Greek to believe. The evangelist had spoken to the fool first. That man who called himself an apostle and thought of himself as the First Apostle had been everywhere first. Even to Gaza and to this cave and the monks had believed him. Only the scrolls have preserved the truth, he thought.

As his sight dimmed and his thoughts began to fade his last conscious act was to curse that First Apostle.

1

Professor Batchelor Prentiss Calwood was tall, dark, handsome, brilliant, and broke. He was also trapped in his own office by his own graduate students. He sat dejectedly at his desk in the History Building peering out the window at the gathering crowd on the grassy campus of Midwestern University.

Across the quadrangle in the Administration Building frantic university officials were trying to figure out a way to deal with yet another radical student demonstration. The professor was trying to figure out how to escape without being seen because he had made promises he did not intend to keep. It was early Spring of 1967.

It had been a mistake to return to the campus in the late afternoon. He had known about the student demonstration and feared he would be summoned to an emergency meeting of the faculty council. The students were protesting Vietnam War related research and demanding open dormitories and a Black Studies program. The faculty council would try desperately to keep the lid on. He had no desire to be caught up in the controversy.

He lit a cigarette and propped his long legs up on the desk. Maybe the demonstrators would move away from the History Building and give him a chance to escape without being seen. He had to get away in time to meet Lindstrom at seven o’clock. Lindstrom was the key to the money he so desperately needed. He looked at the Seth Thomas clock on the cluttered bookcase. It was 5:15.

As he stared at the battered clock he heard the soft mechanical sound that preceded the Westminster chime. Then the quarter hour chime sounded, gentle and incomplete. The clock was from the Prentiss side of the family. That’s double S and no C, his grandmother had told him over and over when he was growing up in Charleston. He chuckled as he remembered her stories and how many times he had heard them.

His other grandmother had always reminded him, You’re named after your great-grandfather Batchelor Taylor. That’s Batchelor with a T. The Taylors never could spell very well, but they sure knew how to make money. They claimed to be English but everybody knew they were Scots-Irish. They might have been Taylors but at least they were not related to Zachary, thank God. Batch could never figure out why his grandmother was so happy the family was not related to the Taylor who had been President of the United States. He had always been afraid to ask since it had seemed so obvious to everyone except him. It had something to do with Kentucky, but he was not sure what was wrong with Kentucky. Growing up in the South required a boy to accept a great deal on faith.

After four years at Washington and Lee followed by graduate school in London he had begun an academic career in History. Now at forty-one, he was nearing the point where he could reap the harvest of years of jumping through academic hoops. Unlike his older brother Jay, who found time even as a busy surgeon for a wife and family, his work was his whole life. He pursued it with an ardor that placed everything else second. His passion to unravel the secrets of the past possessed his mind day and night. Jay had always been more pragmatic about everything. Jason takes after the Taylors, his grandmother had said, but, you are a Prentiss through and through. They had culture in their blood.

He had hoped to slip in and out of his office unnoticed, but he was trapped once Lynn and the other graduate students began assembling around the building. This was no time to get ambushed by campus politics. His career depended on presenting a strong case at dinner tonight to the man who would determine his future.

He cursed himself for having forgotten his lab notebook when he left earlier. It contained the radiocarbon data he needed to prove the age of the Dita scroll. And Professor Lindstrom was not fool enough to gamble the Foundation’s money without proof. Dinner tonight would be a hard sell. Without Lindstrom’s blessing there was no way to get the money for a research trip to the Middle East. And that’s what it would take to prove his theory.

Lindstrom was not just a source of money. He was also the key that would open the Gaza monastery for him. That monastery had been a center of religious activities for over two thousand years. Wars had destroyed it many times only to see the enduring monks rebuild the shattered remains. The monks had kept careful records that, at times, were lost or buried during the wars that were a chronic affliction of the region. His discovery of the age of the Dita scroll was the clue that some documents from the first century had survived. He was sure there was a buried treasure trove of scrolls somewhere in or near Gaza. If he could find it, he could open a window to the history of ancient Palestine. And, not a minor factor in his deliberations, he could establish himself as a tenured professor in the Department of Ancient History at Midwestern University.

Batch decided to make another try to slip out the back corridor from his office. A picket line was forming as he reached the door. He recognized Roger Braisted, an instructor in his section. Roger was well dressed in sport coat and tie in contrast to the students he was leading. The tall, gangling youth swept his dark hair from his eyes and gestured vigorously to his followers. Behind him walked Lynn Mahan, a graduate student in history, her striking figure covered by a nondescript pants suit and her long auburn hair blowing in the afternoon breeze. He had promised them his support and he realized it would be impossible to leave now without being forced to join them in at least a token march around the building. That was not what he wanted the Dean to see. Dodging back into the hall, he raced upstairs to his office, scribbled a hasty note to Roger which he tacked to his door, and locked himself in. He slumped back in his chair, sweating and cursing himself for his stupidity.

Moments later he heard voices outside his door. Roger and Lynn had found his note and left. Tomorrow he would return to campus, express his regrets to both sides and remain safe for another month. Lindstrom was the perfect excuse. A noted historian, Professor Berg Lindstrom also had solid credentials as a left wing advocate. The old man had won the Nobel Peace Prize for his support of activist causes.

The clock chimed six. He had to meet Lindstrom at Charlie’s Cafe at seven o’clock. There was still time, but the picket line around the building was now complete. At least a hundred loyal activists circled the building, their beads, beards, and sandals calculated to enrage the conservative faculty council. Several hundred student spectators also gathered, laughing and throwing empty beer cans freely about, knowing that the campus cops could hardly worry about beer on campus at a time like this.

As the time went by, Batch began to feel more alarmed. Several thousand students were now massed. Two appeals by the Dean had failed to disperse the demonstrators, and television crews were setting up equipment around the campus. It was clear that escape was becoming more difficult every minute. His plan to slip out after dark seemed less likely to succeed as he saw the spotlights of the television companies being put in place in anticipation of an all night event.

Dr. Roberts, Dean of the Arts College, had been unable to influence the students by his appeals. Roberts was disliked by the students as a conservative who opposed all changes in curriculum and policy. Unlike the Provost, who had been able to maintain a relatively neutral posture, the Dean was thoroughly identified as a pro-war hawk. From the moment he began speaking, the students hooted and jeered at his every word.

Batch recalled the Dean’s comments of the previous day in the Administration Building. He had launched into a long attack on the student protest movement and Batch had nodded agreement. Robert’s left eye had twitched when he spoke, as it always did when he became angry. Dean Roberts was much too important to his future to provoke into anger by argument.

When the short, fat figure of the Dean walked back to the Administration Building after his last unsuccessful appeal to the students, Batch was certain he saw the left eye twitching as the bald head turned a last angry glance in the direction of the History Building.

The loudspeaker blared again and this time he recognized the voice of the University Provost, Dr. Black.

PLEASE LISTEN, PLEASE… FIRST LET ME GIVE YOU MY PROMISE THAT THE POLICE WILL NOT BE CALLED UNLESS ACTUAL PHYSICAL VIOLENCE OCCURS.

The crowd became quiet at that. Several protestors seemed to become angry at failing to produce a confrontation with the police, but Roger and Lynn were leading the demonstration and kept it under careful control. They circulated through the ranks with whispered commands and reassurances.

YOU MAY PICKET AND PEACEFULLY DEMONSTRATE AS YOU WILL. WE WILL NOT INTERFERE WITH YOUR RIGHTS OF FREE SPEECH. CLASSES IN THE HISTORY BUILDING ARE CANCELED FOR THE TIME BEING. THE GRIEVANCES YOUR LEADERS HAVE PRESENTED ARE UNDER CAREFUL CONSIDERATION BY THE FACULTY COUNCIL. THIS PROCESS TAKES TIME, BUT I CAN ANNOUNCE THAT APPROVAL HAS BEEN GIVEN TO THE NEW POLICY ON STUDENT DORMITORIES AND TO THE ESTABLISHMENT OF A BLACK STUDIES PROGRAM.

A loud cheer greeted this last statement, but Batch noted that it was the spectators, not the protestors, who cheered the loudest.

YOUR OTHER GRIEVANCES ARE ALSO BEING CAREFULLY CONSIDERED AND THE RESULTS OF THESE DELIBERATIONS WILL BE ANNOUNCED AS SOON AS POSSIBLE. THOSE STUDENTS WHO WISH TO ATTEND CLASS IN OTHER BUILDINGS MAY DO SO. THOSE WHO WISH TO PICKET MAY DO SO. IF THERE IS NO VIOLENCE THERE WILL BE NO POLICE.

As the Provost left the steps of the History Building and proceeded on his way, a cheer followed him. The Dean shook his hand vigorously and Batch could see, even from a distance, the smiles of victory on their faces. He knew what this had cost the Provost. Dean Roberts had recounted to Batch the meeting last month which the Provost had with the Governor.

Provost Black had spent several hours trying to convince the Governor that the use of police would only enrage the bulk of the student body and promote the cause of the protestors. The Governor had been elected the previous year on a tide of conservatism following a wave of campus riots that had swept the entire state. At the Polytechnic Institute last Spring, he had used police to suppress a student protest. The sound of nightsticks on skulls and the sight of blood smeared faces had been so graphically presented over the television screens of the nation that conservative groups everywhere were talking of nominating him for President. His future as a champion of the right was secure. But the Governor was sometimes a practical man and when the Provost had assured him that a riot could be avoided if a few demands were met without interfering with the picket lines, the Governor was almost convinced.

The Provost had given his promise to publicly accept the blame if anything went wrong and the Governor agreed to try his approach, provided, he insisted, that a National Guard unit was available nearby in case the media succeeded in making the action seem to be a surrender by the Governor to leftist demands.

Batch knew about this agreement, he knew about the National Guard unit, and he knew what the Provost was going to say to the demonstrators. In fact, it was his use of this information with Roger Braisted that had established him firmly with the campus radical leadership. He felt trapped in the unwilling role of double agent. This political intrigue increasingly interfered with his research. All he really wanted to do was to keep everybody happy until he could find the money to visit the monastery at Gaza.

The crowd of observers began to disperse after the Provost left. The newsmen, sensing a defusing of the volatile situation, began preparations to depart. After all, avoiding a campus riot was not a big news story. Roger had anticipated precisely this reaction after his conversation with Batch.

How dumb do they think we are? he had said. The Provost is trying to defend a society with so many hang-ups it can’t be defended. Non-violence? We’ll give ’em non-violence. We’ll give ’em love!

The twang of the electric guitars split the silence as the crowd began to disperse. The heavy drum beat, like a call to young bodies, reverberated through the air. The crowd began to cheer as several protestor couples climbed the stairs of the History Building and began a jerky rhythmic dance to the music.

Roger let the fever build for some time as darkness settled and then signaled for the cries of Make love not war to begin. Led by students Roger had dispersed throughout the crowd, the chants were repeated over and over. The dancers began to entwine their bodies in response. The result was inevitable.

Students massed at the foot of the stairs. The television crewmen wheeled the eyes of the nation as close as possible, frantically calling their stations for on-line coverage. As the dancers disrobed the newscasters concentrated their spotlights on the embracing figures casting grotesque shadows on the marble columns and walls of the History Building. The music furnished a sensual background to complete the scene.

Roger smiled. The dancers had been carefully selected and instructed. Their leader watched closely for Roger’s signals. Dependable members of the movement had been stationed at the foot of the stairs to prevent students with an urge to dance from spoiling the effect. Roger was playing this show for one man alone. He chuckled as he imagined the scene in the Governor’s Mansion. The Dean had told Batch that the Governor always watched the local evening news. Tonight he would get a special treat.

The half naked dancers writhed and twisted as their contorted shadows magnified their suggestive movements. Roger looked at his watch, and then signaled for the amplifiers to be turned to maximum. He signaled one last time, then adjusted his tie, turned, and walked away. Lynn Mahan moved to the center of the spotlighted steps as the other dancers moved to the background. She was nearly naked now and her movements suggested that she had been drugged. Her magnificent breasts swayed to the rhythm of the sensual dance. From the shadows behind her a Black athlete emerged. Roger had specifically recruited him for this assignment. As he approached Lynn and his intentions became clear, the cries of the audience almost overwhelmed the heavy rhythmic drumbeat.

When Lynn lay back on the top step, the Provost turned from his window in the Administration Building and walked slowly back to his desk to await the Governor’s call.

2

Batch bent over the wash basin in Charlie’s Cafe, retching. The tear gas had burned his eyes and his throat was raw. His ears still felt the concussion of the shots fired by the National Guard troopers as they charged the students on the tear gas covered lawn by the History Building.

The action had been swift and brutal, but Batch had hardly noticed as he saw the perfect opportunity to escape his trap. His fear of discovery outweighed his fear of the bullets as he ran desperately out of the building and away from the sounds of riot. Racing across town, his precious notebook clutched under his arm, he entered Charlie’s by the side door. He was late, but he had made it.

He combed his hair and put his rumpled clothing in the best possible shape before leaving the bathroom. He prayed silently that his stomach would not betray him. Controlling his emotions, he prepared to face Professor Berg Lindstrom, Nobel Laureate.

Sorry to be late, Professor, he said as he sat down at the small corner table, I wanted to pick up these data on the age calculations of the Dita scroll.

That’s all right, Batchelor, said Lindstrom. I’ve been enjoying this menu. You know, you people in the Midwest have no idea how much the rest of us look forward to the steaks you take for granted.

I wish the university cafeteria took them for granted, said Batch, but his stomach recoiled at the thought of food.

How are things at the university? I heard at the airport that there was some kind of demonstration.

Not really. Some of us are trying to teach the Governor and his lackeys a few things about human rights. I would be over there now, but I knew you would only be in town a few hours.

The Professor smiled. Batchelor, I’m glad that young men such as you are fighting so hard for the right things in the world. I’m too old for it.

Nonsense, Professor. Your trip to Moscow was an inspiration to us all. Without leaders like you, we would long since have given in to the fascists.

I doubt that, but thank you.

Batch looked into the sincere blue eyes and noted that his former professor seemed much older than during those exciting days in London. Even then Lindstrom’s penetrating and analytical mind, so skeptical in evaluating archeological evidence, had uncritically accepted all the doctrines of the left. With a sincerity that was pathetic, Lindstrom had offered his name and reputation to the most ludicrous advocates of unilateral disarmament. It had been a standing joke among his graduate students that he had far more insight into the motivations of a king of ancient Babylon than of any modern statesman. Yet the kindness of this distinguished grey haired gentleman shown like a beacon from his face. Those years had been the most important of Batch’s life as Lindstrom had, day by day, molded him into a critical scholar and imbued him with a passion for fact and truth. The love for history that had been his legacy from this brilliant teacher had changed his life.

You underestimate your influence, Dr. Lindstrom.

Perhaps. But I’m growing old. Well now, let’s get down to business. What’s so important about radioactive carbon dating experiments on the Dita scroll?

Batch decided to use his discovery for maximum effect. He paused briefly and then said with determination, The Dita scroll is almost two hundred years younger than we thought.

The Professor’s mouth dropped open. He stared in amazement at Batch.

That’s not possible, Batchelor, it’s simply not possible. The Dita scroll contains information later copied into the Dead Sea scrolls and is clearly older. There is no doubt about the age of the Dead Sea scrolls. Your own doctoral dissertation analyzed the methods we use to determine the age of these kinds of scrolls.

What if the Dead Sea scrolls were not copied from the Dita scroll, but from another source? Batch asked quietly.

That’s highly unlikely, Batchelor, and you know it. Besides, the monastery at Dita was destroyed by Roman troops a hundred years before this preposterous date you are suggesting!

Batch smiled. His revelation had produced the desired effect. Lindstrom was impressed with the impossibility of Batch’s theory. This was beyond his wildest expectations. And now, he thought, if I can work him up gradually to the punch line he will support the discovery with the passion of a recent convert.

Let’s order, he said, and I’ll show you the data.

The next two hours required all the self control Batch possessed. He pushed food into an unstable stomach, all the time afraid that somehow word of the disaster on campus would reach their table and the Professor would desert him for the students. He held his breath each time the voices rose in the restaurant bar, only a few feet away from their table. He had no doubt what the people in the bar were talking about. Yet he had to present his analysis with great care to convince the Professor of the need to pursue this observation and to conceal any lingering doubts he himself had about the significance of his discovery. Most importantly, he had to maneuver the Professor into asking the right question at just the right time.

The Dita scroll had come to Batch’s attention quite by accident. Discovered near Dita in that part of old Palestine north of the Dead Sea, it was at first thought to be of only minor importance. Unlike most of the Dead Sea scrolls, the one found at Dita had fallen from its broken jar centuries before and the state of decay was severe. Only a few portions were legible and these contained little of historical interest.

Batch had been invited to assist in the routine job of translation and the standard documentation of the contents of the scroll before placing it in the archives of the museum that Lindstrom had established in London. As a part of this routine, he had obtained an age estimate on the scroll by a determination of the amount of radioactive carbon which it contained. He had sacrificed a full two grams of the scroll to insure an accurate determination.

To his surprise, the age estimate had been substantially different than expected. Several hundred years younger, in fact. Recognizing that the scroll could not have been written at Dita if the radioactive carbon age were correct, Batch had begun a search for the source of the scroll. Certain similarities to the documents Lindstrom had discovered at Gaza led him to the conclusion that this was the original source of the Dita scroll. But if this was true, there was a strong possibility that Lindstrom had not found all of the scrolls at the Gaza Monastery. It was possible that there existed a large undiscovered section of that library.

This theory rested on a series of highly technical considerations including not only the radioactive carbon age determinations but the similarities in style between the Gaza and Dita scrolls. There were several substantial assumptions and Batch would need to be very careful presenting his arguments to his old professor.

After a final recheck of the data, Lindstrom looked up at Batch, removed his glasses, and said, Batchelor, there’s no doubt about these figures. I really would not have believed your data alone, but since you had Morrison’s people in Boston duplicate your analysis, and their figures check out… well, there’s just no doubt. The Dita scroll was written in the first century AD. But where? There wasn’t even a monastery at Dita then.

Batch felt an almost audible click in his head. The trap is sprung, he thought. For over an hour he had been trying to get the Professor to ask where the scroll was written. He reached down slowly into his briefcase and removed a photocopy which he handed dramatically to the Professor.

Compare the inscription on this document with the top part of the Dita scroll, he said.

The Professor replaced his glasses, hunched over the table and carefully studied the two documents. Five minutes went by, then ten. Batch got up unnoticed and walked to the men’s room. He relieved himself and noted that someone had cleaned up the mess he had made earlier. He stopped at the bar and bought a fresh drink. Loud voices discussed the campus riot still in progress. When he returned to the table, the Professor was still bent over the documents.

Suddenly the Professor looked up as though Batch had never left and said, You are quite right, Batchelor, but how did this scroll get to Dita from Gaza?

Batch’s heart rose in his throat. The Professor had recognized the similarity of the documents but now he had to be careful. This is no old fool I’m dealing with, Batch reminded himself. This is the greatest scholar on the ancient Middle East in the world today. He has forgotten more than I will ever know and now he knows the only new thing I have learned—the age and source of the Dita scroll. Batch realized with fear that, starting from that knowledge, the Professor could do the whole thing alone now, or worse, have one of his graduate students do it. He slowly brought himself under control. He realized he had to keep one step ahead.

That’s the wrong question, Professor.

What do you mean? Lindstrom first looked puzzled, then angry.

Carefully Batch said, The right question is when did the monks at Gaza stop writing scrolls after the Romans destroyed Palestine?

Lindstrom looked stunned. Then his blue eyes widened and he exclaimed loudly, By God you’re right! There’s no record of Gaza documents during the first century AD. But there’s no question about it, the Dita scroll was written in Gaza during the first century!

Batch leaned forward across the table, his voice quiet and sincere. He knew this was his best and, possibly, his only chance.

Professor, help me get to Gaza.

Lindstrom paused in thought and Batch could see his mind leaping back to his own explorations that lead to the original discovery of the library at Gaza. That trip had been the capstone of Lindstrom’s career and had established his reputation beyond question as the preeminent scholar in his field. Batch could imagine the plan for a second trip taking shape behind those keen eyes sparkling as they had fifteen years before when Batch had studied with him in London. Then suddenly his head dropped down, his eyes dimmed, and his face looked older than Batch had ever seen it. It was the face of a man no longer young. He looked up slowly.

Of course, Batchelor. How can I help?

You’re the only man in the world who is personally acquainted with the necessary people in the Israeli and Egyptian governments and with the Church authorities. I’ll need approval from all three. You’re a personal friend of Provost Black, and he’ll have to spring me from a hellish teaching schedule. And you control the Mideast Scholars Fund. I’ll need money to support this trip.

Hold on, young man, hold on, said the Professor, extending both hands protectively before him. In the first place, I don’t control anyone in either Egypt or Israel, and the Church people suspect me of trying to prove that Jesus wasn’t God. In the second place, I don’t give orders to Provost Black, even if we are old friends. And finally, there is a committee that makes the decisions on disbursements from the Mideast Scholars Fund.

He paused briefly and then, looking almost like a conspirator, he smiled and added, But I’ll see what I can do. I’ll see what I can do. You wouldn’t by any chance happen to have the Provost’s phone number, would you?

Batch laughed genuinely for the first time that night and handed a small white card to the Professor who rose and walked to the phone in the restaurant lobby.