The Bard of Pendragon

By Keith Rasmusen

Jesus finished describing the events which would precede the end of the age, and signify his return. He then told his disciples, "Truly I say to you, this generation will not pass away until all these things take place" (Matthew 24:34). What if Jesus really meant what he said? Now an exciting new discovery sheds light on this ancient mystery, and the whole story is told in this book. The day was dawning on the second Sunday of December, 131 C.E. For many, this would be their last day in Jerusalem; by sunset, not one of these would remain. During the night, alarming news had come to their attention: The Roman emperor Hadrian had kept his promise, and the huge statue of Jupiter was now standing upon the site of the former Jewish Temple. Meanwhile, outside the Holy City, the Jews were gathering to finalize their plans for a revolt against their Roman oppressors. Hadrian had gone too far. Soon the nation of Israel would rise up under the command of Shime'on ben Kosiba, known as Bar Kochba, "Son of the Star." He was rumored to possess superhuman strength and supernatural abilities, and was hailed by many as the long-awaited Messiah. On one side of this conflict was the fearsome might of the Roman Empire, a vast, disciplined army led by the Emperor himself. On the other side was the small nation of Israel, whose leaders included the ancient and charismatic rabbi Akiba ben Joseph. He was the religious leader of the Jews and famed Kabbalistic master, a man of such miraculous powers as to call fire down from heaven. Caught in the middle was the new sect known as the Nazarenes, or Jewish Christians, who interpreted these recent events as a fulfillment of Jesus' prophecies predicting the "end of the age". And one man was there to see it all - from the very beginning to its tragic conclusion, and to record these events for posterity: Flavius Boadicus, also known as Gaelbyrth Macus Aldynn, the Bard of Pendragon.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jul 25, 2016
• ISBN: 9781681971308

Book preview

Foreword

Time is like a river, made up of the events

which happen, and a violent stream; for as soon

as a thing has been seen, it is carried away, and another

comes in its place, and this will be carried away too.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, IV.43

How many of us, at some time in our lives, have ever dreamed of discovering buried treasure? The treasure itself may vary from person to person, to be sure. For some it may be the priceless artifacts found in a Pharaoh’s tomb or the silt-covered cargo of an ancient shipwreck; to others, maybe a lost city or natural splendours such as gold, diamonds, or pearls. For many of us, perhaps, it could be finding that great prize at the next garage sale. But the common desire among all dreamers is to unearth a vast fortune of untold worth, hidden—or lost—long ago and long forgotten.

Unfortunately, for most people, such a discovery will remain no more than just a dream. Others will actually pursue that dream, but the treasure eludes them. Occasionally, the seeker does, in fact, succeed. But then, once in a great while, someone stumbles upon that fortune without even trying. The ancient Persians called this phenomenon serendipidity.

In the spring of 2004, Guy Puckett, a part-time flight instructor and freelance aerial photographer, was called in by local residents to fly over the fields south of Chesterholm in Northern England and to photograph several crop circles which had mysteriously appeared there over a two-week period. In his studio, Mr. Puckett noticed—as he processed the digital images—that in several shots taken of one of these circles, there appeared other field anomalies, including squares, semicircles, and rectangles.

He showed these pictures to Whitney Marshall, who was then working on a series of articles for Science Magazine. Mr. Marshall, in turn, notified Professor Stanley Norse of Cambridge, who readily identified the odd lines as those which indicate subterranean ruins. In these lines Professor Norse recognized the familiar pattern of an ancient Roman villa, one which had somehow evaded detection subsequent to the aerial survey of Northern England during the years following the Second World War. Aerial photography at sites such as Cromwell, Winterton, and Ditchley—to name a few—had revealed similar Roman estates comprised of small portico villas within rectangular enclosures, including also plots which had likely served as stalls for livestock such as sheep and goats, and courtyards which may have contained simple gardens and small orchards.

Soon after excavations began I received a telegram from Professor Norse, insisting that I join him at the site. Archaeologists had uncovered one of the greatest finds of the late twentieth century, the Villa in Littium, home of a wealthy Roman magistrate of the mid-second-century CE. True, Romano-British finds are not rare in Northern England, especially near Hadrian’s Wall. But what made the discovery of the Villa in Littium so exciting for archaeologists and historians (and many theologians) was a marvelous cache of second-century documents unearthed in a hidden chamber beneath the former owner’s tombstone, or burial marker. My task was to supervise the translation of these manuscripts. This unique collection, and the story they tell, is what this book is about.

* * * * * * *

The day was dawning on the second Sunday of December, 131 CE. In the City of David, the Nazarenes, or Jewish Christians, were beginning to gather in the very same Upper Room where their brothers had met on that first Pentecost, nearly one hundred years earlier. This was to be their last day in Jerusalem; by sunset, not one of these would remain. During the night, alarming news had come to their attention: The Roman emperor Hadrian had kept his promise, and the huge statue of Jupiter was now standing upon the site of the Holy of Holies in the ruined Jewish temple. They understood this to be the Abomination of Desolation about which Jesus had foretold.

Meanwhile, outside the Holy City, the Jews were gathering to finalize their plans for a revolt against their Roman oppressors. Hadrian had gone too far. Soon the nation of Israel would rise up under the command of Shime’on ben Kosiba, known as Bar Kochba, Son of the Star. The great Rabbi Akiba ben Joseph, the religious leader of the Jews and famed kabbalistic master, a man of such powers as to call fire down from heaven, hailed Bar Kochba as the long-awaited Messiah.

Within a year Jerusalem would be delivered, and shortly thereafter all Judaea was freed from the Romans. Preparations were made to rebuild their temple, and the sacrificial system was reinstated. A mint was established, and coins were produced declaring the Freedom of Israel, allowing Bar Kochba’s followers to buy and sell in Judaea. And a mark of distinction was employed to identify all those who belonged to Bar Kochba’s forces. Many of those who did not worship Bar Kochba as the Messiah were either tortured or killed. A further hardship was placed on the Christians in Judaea that first year: Jesus had warned them to pray that your flight may not be in the winter, nor on a Sabbath, and 131–132 CE was what was known as a sabbath year.

For over three years the Jews waged a victorious war against Rome, but the situation eventually reversed. Upon recapturing nearly all the cities in Judaea, the Romans were able to corner the last of the rebel forces in the fortified village of Bethar. On account of the slaughter that occurred when the Romans stormed that town, the blood literally poured out of Bethar up to their horses’ bridles. The nation of Israel was no more.

* * * * * * *

Many of us, admittedly, have never heard that portion of history just described. The history of the early Christian church in Judaea—it would seem—falls strangely silent sixty-five years earlier, at the destruction of Jerusalem in 70 CE. In fact, little is known among non-Jews concerning the history of the nation of Israel itself after that date; it is generally assumed that Israel ceased to exist after the failure of the First Revolt of 66–70 CE. We have been taught to accept the standard epithet: After losing the war against Rome in 70 CE, Israel did not gain its independence again until 1948. This, we shall discover in the following pages, was simply not the case. One recent author, in describing the history of the Christian church, compares it with the meandering flow of a river:

There were periods when the river rushed impatiently through narrows, and at other times it flowed slowly and spread itself at its ease so that it came to resemble a peaceful, idyllic lake. Often it split into different streams, which ran in separate channels, but in the direction of the same sea. And there came times when it simply disappeared as though it had glided down into an underground brook, surfacing only again only after the passage of years.

One of these curious episodes—tunnel periods, they might be called—may be observed in the years which cover the great Jewish War. Here there are twenty or thirty years of Church history which have simply dropped out, vanished into a covered tunnel. And the remarkable thing was that something decisive happened while the stream was out of sight. The river which came out again into the light of day was different in essentials from the one we knew before. The contradiction between Judaism and Christianity had been clarified.

This book you are about to read is what has come to be known as The Autobiography of Flavius Boadicus by Gaelbyrth Macus Aldynn. While this title may seem enigmatic, the tale it tells is just the opposite. The author was presumably an eyewitness to an epoch in history which was—until now—shrouded in mystery, fable, and controversy. In a rare burst of allegory, the author epitomizes his autobiography in terms of walking in the footsteps of others, chronicling a series of extraordinary events through the varied perspectives of those he encounters:

What I saw before me was a snow-covered trail, with several sets of tracks, laid down by a variety of persons at diverse times, each with different goals in mind and yet seemingly on the same path. I found myself wandering toward this trail, as a child, lost and alone. Before long I was plodding along in what appeared to be the bold tracks left by a Roman soldier; and so, as I followed these, I began to view life as a Roman. After some miles I stepped into the often erratic and unpredictable footprints of a Greek philosopher, then briefly into the dangerous stride of a Christian, later that of a Jew, then back into the tracks of the Roman. At times I spend more time following the steps of the Jew or Greek, although even these ran parallel to the Christian, and those to the Roman.

As I trudged on, I saw an image emerging. It was the same whether viewed from the boots of the Soldier or the sandals of the Philosopher, the shoes of the Jew or the bare feet of the Christian. However each different perspective afforded vantages unseen to the others. Had the Christian, Jew, and Roman walked together, I would have no need to tell thee this tale. But as they walked as individuals, isolated from one another by years and class, not sharing their insights, experiences, hopes, or dreams, there was no one to see the picture as a whole. Until I came along and followed this same path, at times in the steps of a Roman, at times in those of a Christian, and at times in those of a Jew.

Take what ye will, dear Siblius, from this—the tale of my own meagre life and those of the exceptional and uncommon acquaintances with whom I have been blessed by the gods to associate. Take what ye will—enjoy it, learn from it, and give what remains to anyone who will have it…as I attempt here to tell ye the tale of my life, such as it was, till now.

* * * * * * *

As head of the translation staff, it was my rare privilege to read historical information which actually seemed to support ancient biblical texts, and among those often ignored, even by theologians—that is, the prophetic writings. But for those among you who are Bible scholars and historians, you will no doubt find the author’s insights—especially those into the biblical Book of Revelation—particularly disturbing. I know this will be true because my own team of translators encountered these same difficulties.

Then one day I offered a suggestion which enabled my staff to work their way through this new material: I told them to forget everything they had ever read or been told regarding the Book of Revelation and eschatology in general. I asked them to look at the Revelation scientifically: What does the evidence suggest? Often there is no biblical basis for our beliefs, merely tradition. We discovered that, as Peter Mere Latham has written, "it takes as much time and trouble to pull down a falsehood as to build up a truth."

This proved doubly true for the translators, as much of what we once believed needed to be discarded as new light was being shed on a very dark chapter in history. Popular opinion often weighs heavier on the scale than fact. For example, does the evidence indicate that Revelation should be read chronologically? Perhaps it does, indeed. Does Revelation portray events that are strictly and entirely in our future? Not necessarily, as you shall see. In the words of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.

As the author shares the events of his life, he takes his readers on a marvelous tour of the ancient world. We are standing at the threshold of this remarkable journey. Join us as we travel back through the pages of time, into another realm—one of fierce battles and warlords, of magic and sorcery, of philosophers and renegades, and distant, exotic cities.

Let us, then, now take the author’s advice: Enjoy this book, and learn from it.

Florence, 2014

R. E. G. Ian, FhS

Professor of Paleography

Introduction

Familiar letters written by eyewitnesses,

without design, disclose circumstances that let us

more intimately into important events, are genuine history;

and, so far as they go, (inform) more satisfactorily

than formal, premeditated narratives.

—Horace Walpole, June 29, 1784

On his celebrated tour of the Empire, in 122 CE, the Roman emperor Hadrian visited his northernmost province, Britannia. While there, he envisioned the famous Wall which stretches more than 70 miles across Northern England from coast to coast, from Newcastle upon Tyne to Bowness on Solway Firth. Averaging eight to ten feet wide and nearly twenty feet high, this wall was originally fortified with small bastions, or milecastles, spaced evenly as their name suggests, with two lookout turrets, or watchtowers, placed between each of these. Each milecastle was defended by up to thirty soldiers.

The wall also contained sixteen large forts, and a massive ditch (vallum) as constructed along much of the wall. Hadrian’s Wall was built by legionaries stationed in Britain, presumably to control the wild and warlike northern tribes, but also to regulate traffic and trade. The project itself was no doubt also designed to keep these soldiers busy during the many years of relative peace.

Near the midway point of Hadrian’s Wall was the fortress known as Vindolanda (modern Chesterholm). Founded around 95 CE and constructed largely by soldiers of the Sixth Legion, Vindolanda actually preceded the Wall by nearly three decades. Much of this fort has been excavated in recent years, including two of the main gates and their adjacent guard’s chambers and the headquarters building (principia).

Beyond the gates at Vindolanda there had been a sizeable civilian settlement, known as a vicus, which simply means a street of houses. But there were also many shops which sold everything from food and clothes, to leather goods and even souvenirs. There was a public inn for travelers, a bathhouse, a brothel, and several taverns selling, not only local and imported wines, but also beer which was distilled in the town’s own brewery.

Excavations at the settlement have uncovered several iron tools and weapons, silver and bronze coins, bronze and gold jewellery, a bronze legionary standard, and other various items such as leather shoes, textiles, and several bronze styli and three or four wooden stylus tablets. These writing tablets were made from two hollowed-out pieces of wood hinged together, the recess of which was then filled with a thin layer of wax. This wax could be inscribed by the pointed stylus, then smoothed over (or erased) by the flattened end of the stylus, and reinscribed many times.

Also found, buried in the debris of Vindolanda, were discarded documents, written with ink on a different kind of tablet, made from thinly sliced wood, predominately birch and alder. Many of these were fortunately well preserved due to the chemical properties of the soil. Upon these thin tablets could be deciphered various personal correspondences, duty rosters, even a quartermaster’s list of provisions.

* * * * * * *

Our story, however, begins as a team of archaeologists were busy excavating a Roman villa near the mineral baths at the ruins of Littium (Aquae Littium), an ancient civilian settlement located southwest of Vindolanda. First discovered in 2004, aerial photographs revealed typical streets and building foundations, surrounded by orderly arranged fields and orchards. A small shrine was unearthed near the mineral springs, dedicated to the Roman goddess Coventina; traces of whose cult have also been found at the spring and sacred well at Carrawburgh (Brocolitia), near the fort on Hadrian’s Wall. Dominating the ruins, however, was what appeared to be a substantial Roman-style estate, or Class-II villa, which has come to be known as the famous Villa in Littium. Complete with a great hall, or dining area, with an elaborate, geometric floor mosaic; large rooms connected by corridors; courtyards which contained fountains and an elegant piscina, or fish pool; and the remains of a colonnade, this complex represented the epitome of Romanization in Northern England. Similar architectural details are seen at sites such as North Leigh, Woodchester, and Spoonley Wood.

Villas were not uncommon in Roman Britain, especially near larger commercial centres including Gloucester, Winchester, and London. Early examples were simple in design, primarily consisting of four to six rooms joined by covered porticoes. These were usually of timber construction, the walls of wattle and daub, with tiled or thatched roofs. Often the interior walls were plastered, and remains of painted frescoes are not uncommon. In wealthier homes we find simple to elegant floor mosaics and even traces of window glazing. The term villa is perhaps misleading, however, as it often denotes something quite different than the Mediterranean sense of the word. Meaning literally, a farm (Latin), villas typically encompassed the complex as a whole, not just the residence. The imperial estate at Hambledon, for instance, also included several corn-drying kilns.

In the summer of 2008, during the course of a routine dig at the Villa in Littium, a series of exciting discoveries was made. A marvelous cache of artifacts was unearthed in the burial chamber of a man named Siblius Brutalius, who died circa 145 CE. The architecture of this chamber was similar to the mysterious underground room located at the opulent late-second-century villa at Lullingstone, where two near life-sized busts were buried vicariously in lieu of the actual bodies of the deceased. This cache in Littium included pottery, glassware, gold, silver, and bronze jewelry; bronze and iron weaponry and utensils; and gold, silver, and bronze coins dated from the first and early second centuries CE. There were also assorted wooden and parchment documents at various stages of deterioration, and one large, exquisite, beautifully glazed earthenware jar—complete with lid, which was sealed tight with what proved to be native bee’s wax, and packed into an oak chest—now nearly completely decayed. The bottom of this jar bore the unmistakable Greek monogram (ΦΕΦ) and characteristic trademark (the outline of an open hand) of Phinehas the Ephesian, a painter, potter, and philosopher during the early years of the second century CE. The jar itself is similar to Rhodian marbleware; only Phinehas used imported white pipeclay blended with pulverized translucent Patmian marble, creating almost an alabaster-like product. One example of Phinehas’ work can be seen in the Stedman Collection (Athens Museum), and another is on display at the excavations at Pompeii.

Within this jar, whose seal had remained miraculously intact, we discovered a bundle of parchment scrolls, each consecutively numbered and filled to the margins in well-written, clearly legible second-century Greek. The manuscripts, for the most part, were seemingly well preserved and have given us rare and intimate insights into the lives of a variety of well-known personalities. Most thrilling among the documents were early biblical texts which included sections from the Gospel according to Saint Matthew and portions of a primitive version of the prophetic Book of Revelation—unique in the fact that it is the only known copy of what many have surmised represents the Hebrew original of that great and enigmatic Christian apocalypse.

Also, there is what appears to have been the private journal, or diary, of one C. Spurius Maximus, a Roman centurion during the first half of the second century CE, which records, among other things, aspects of Rome’s second war against the inhabitants of Judaea. The year was late l33 or early 134 CE: A Jewish rebellion had broken out two or three years earlier and had swiftly grown into a full-scale war. The Roman Tenth Legion, Legio X Fretensis, troops of which were stationed in Jerusalem itself, was completely driven out of Judaea, and the emperor Hadrian, fearing a complete overthrow, was forced to bring in his ablest commanders, among them Sextus Julius Severus of Britannia. The Diary of Maximus describes this war between the Roman armies and the Jewish rebel forces led by the charismatic Shime’on ben Kosiba, also known as Bar Kochba, the Son of a Star.

The most significant find, however, was a lovely but tragic and at times poetic piece of literature which interpreters have dubbed the Autobiography of Flavius Boadicus, who was also known as Gaelbyrth Macus Aldynn, the Bard of Pendragon (and hence the title of this current volume).

The author of this apparent Autobiography, written in the form of personal letters contained in twelve extant individual scrolls, led an extraordinary and adventurous life. (At least one scroll is evidently missing from this corpus, that which presumably described in detail Trajan’s Parthian Campaign.) Having been raised in the lowlands of what is now Scotland, he was later captured by the Romans prior to the withdrawal of troops following Agricola’s recall to Rome in 84 CE. He was schooled in the various arts and languages by a Greek philosopher named Phinehas of Ephesus (the famed maker of that jar which contained these scrolls) and eventually appointed by the emperor Trajan to chronicle the conquest of Parthia. The final parts of this document, and by far the best preserved portions, detail the aforementioned war in Judaea, known as the Second Jewish War—or more commonly, the Bar Kochba Revolt—of 130–135 CE. Whereas the memoirs, or diary, of the centurion Maximus gives the Roman military perspective, the autobiography provides us with a more intimate look at the inner mechanics of that War, introducing us to some of the major players and redefining some of the motivations responsible for this tragic and hopeless rebellion.

But one may ask: Are we expected to believe everything the author records? Clearly, no—for the writer himself does not seem to accept all of it. In fact, he appears to have been more of an observer than a participant in the events he describes and the various tales he recounts. Having received preliminary instruction as a bard and further educated by the Romans, he was adequately qualified and trusted to record the lives and stories of those whom he served. Technically, bards were trained poets and historiographers who composed epics and sang hymns in praise of their warrior heroes, heroines, and chiefs, both living and dead, often accompanying themselves on stringed instruments or to the music of pipes. Were it not for the bards of antiquity, Achilles, Hector, and Jason, with countless others, would have been unsung heroes.

As with the ancient Skalds of Scandinavia, the bards were responsible for accurately maintaining the oral tradition of their people, including genealogies, major battles, and other significant information. Speeches and conversations, however, retained in this autobiography are most certainly contrived, as are the dialogues and speeches in the writings of historians such as Josephus Flavius or Cornelius Tacitus, and very probably all classic histories. This author, no doubt, followed the example set forth by Thucydides, a Greek historian from the fifth century BCE: I have put into each speaker’s mouth sentiments proper to the occasion, expressed as I thought he would be likely to express them.

Furthermore, we must stress the author’s seeming naiveté with regards to Roman social dynamics, military intricacies, philosophical nuances, etc., as solecisms abound. Nevertheless, these errors do not detract from his sincere effort to convey the gist of each situation described, much as an impressionist painter depicts his scenes versus a realist. Some things are better seen and understood from a certain degree of distance, as opposed to a close and clinical scrutiny. Understandably, the temptation for many readers will be to discount these events as pure fiction. True, it would be easy to dismiss the autobiography in its entirety as a product of the author’s imagination, were it not for the abundance of corroborating documentation from a number of unlikely sources. These will be considered throughout as they are encountered in the text. Therefore, we hesitate to classify this as a work of fantasy or mythology, despite its legendary, at times faerie-tale quality as it reveals legitimate historical facts attested to elsewhere, and theological doctrines current in the first and second centuries. To call these legends or myths might seem inappropriate in light of the wealth of other contemporary supporting manuscripts.

This having been said, it must be pointed out that concerning the bulk of chapter 1 (scroll 1) many scholars presume this to be fictitious, as the author commonly mentioned characters and place-names unknown to the classic historians—those which dealt largely with the province of Britannia, including Tacitus, Suetonius, and others. The author also utilized flagrant and spectacular name-dropping with the apparent objective of establishing his own pedigree. Such associations between the family of the author and the celebrities he names have yet to be attested by any other source. As it stands, prior to the discovery of the Littium manuscripts, no other mention of Flavius Boadicus seems to exist. Those who discredit the authenticity of the events portrayed in chapter 1 surmise that perhaps the author was an adventurous and fortunate youth who, having narrowly escaped the destruction of his settlement and the slaughter of his clan, chanced to stow away on that trade vessel which he described at the beginning of chapter 2 (scroll 2). There, likely, he was found, spared, and befriended by that Phinehas who features prominently in the second and third surviving scrolls (chapters 2 and 3). Regrettably, there had been a scroll which occurred between scrolls 3 and 4 (chapters 3 and 4) which has not been preserved.

Scholars therefore tend to be polarized with regards to the first chapter, but nothing worse than feigned animosity exists between these two camps. For the most part, it is read cum grano salis (with a grain of salt). Whether fact or fable, the events of chapter 1 have little to do with the real focus of the so-called autobiography, which starts to unfold in the second chapter. Ellery Sedgwick once observed: Autobiographies ought to begin with Chapter Two.

Beginning at chapter 2 and through the remaining scrolls, most are agreed: We have little recourse but to accept the eyewitness account of the events described, including, and most significantly, the Second Jewish Revolt against Rome.

The author of the Autobiography of Flavius Boadicus was clearly not Roman. He was, in all likelihood, native to that area we now call Scotland, as he explained at the beginning of his work. But many feel that his acquired name is highly skeptical, and suggest that Flavius Boadicus is merely a clever pseudonym, or pen name. Some have even questioned his birth name and lineage, as stated above. That he was not a native Roman, nor native to their ways, is further evidenced in the fun he seems to have with other Roman first names and surnames [praenomen and cognomen]. One of the more striking examples of this occurs in the highly unlikely name of the author’s Centurion friend, Spurius Maximus, and some have pointed out the apparent cheeky pun in the name of this centurion’s brother, Glutius. Either these two names are fabrications of the author, or we must call into suspect the intentions of the parents in naming their sons Spurius, and Glutius Maximus. Perhaps these names were chosen to make them tough soldiers? Or maybe the author was simply having fun, exercising what he called the Poet’s Privilege as he composed his narrative. This tends to balance the horrors he described later in his Autobiography. At times the author seems to plagiarize the writings of Cornelius Tacitus, and several of these instances have been cited in the text.

Finally, it should be noted that in the first and second centuries CE, life literally revolved around the supernatural. Back then, the gods and goddesses were real; nymphs, demigods, and departed spirits were seemingly commonplace; and sorcerers, magicians, and miracle-workers—though less common—were nevertheless an accepted, and often respected, part of everyday society.

Other manuscripts found in that burial chamber at the Villa in Littium, as stated previously, included biblical texts; some of which are the earliest known examples of New Testament writings, including sections from the Gospel according to Saint Matthew and of the apocalyptic Book of Revelation, which appears here in the only known extant, late-first-century copy, written entirely in Hebrew. Previously, the earliest surviving text of this book had been the so-called Chester Beatty Papyrus III (designated B47), which contains the middle ten leaves of a papyrus copy of Revelation (which originally comprised thirty-two leaves). The bulk of Revelation 9:10–17:2 is fairly well preserved. Similarities between the Chester Beatty Papyrus III (B47) and the Codex Sinaiticus suggest the existence of B47 as early as the middle of the third century CE. However, radiocarbon testing in three independent laboratories on the Littium biblical scrolls (Lit.19.HR; Lit.21.HRF), prove that they predate B47 by nearly 150 years (+/- 20 years), dating their composition to between 90 and 110 CE.

No other book of the Bible elicits as much controversy as the Apocalypse. Scholars are sharply divided as to whether this manuscript (of Revelation) from Littium (Lit.19.HR) represents a Hebrew translation from the Greek or perhaps, as some have suggested, the Hebrew original from which the Greek version was derived. The existence—or rather, possibility—of a Hebraic origin has been proposed at various times by biblical scholars throughout history. Such appraisals in the past have been due to linguistic examinations including Old Testament allusions, as well as the fluent use of first-century Hebrew idiom, spelling, and phrase formation, and the overall theme and subthemes of the book. Subtle nuances in this Hebrew version have clarified many hitherto problematic phrases which appear in the Greek translation. These difficulties in the Greek caused some scholars of the early Christian Church much consternation as they struggled in assigning apostolic authorship to the Apocalypse—a necessary element in considering certain scriptures authoritative and therefore worthy of canonization. For example, Dionysius, the bishop of the church in Alexandria circa 247–264 CE, who did not believe that Revelation was written by the same John whom tradition held was the author of both the Gospel and the Epistle by that name, had this to say:

By the phraseology also we can measure the difference between the Gospel and Epistle (of John) and the Revelation. The first two are written not only without any blunders in the use of Greek, but with remarkable skill as regards diction, logical thought, and orderly expression. It is impossible to find in them (the Gospel and Epistle) one barbarous word or solecism, or any kind of vulgarism. For, by the grace of the Lord, it seems their author possessed both things, the gift of knowledge and the gift of speech. That the other saw revelations and received knowledge and prophecy I will not deny; but I observe that his language and style are not really Greek: he uses barbarous idioms, and is sometimes guilty of solecisms. There is no need to pick these out now; for I have not said these things in order to pour scorn on him—do not imagine it—but solely to prove the dissimilarity between these books.

Apocalyptic language in prophecy and symbolism were widely used in the writings of ancient Judaism, specifically between around 170 BCE–130 CE, as a means of which to explain and interpret the role of the nation of Israel in world history. That the author of Revelation was himself of Jewish origin is evident by his wide utilization of Old Testament themes and phrases, more often conforming to the original Hebrew (Masoretic) text than the Greek translation, or Septuagint (LXX).

Because of its mysterious nature, the Book of Revelation has had a history of both acceptance and rejection. In the second century, Papias of Hierapolis, Justin Martyr, Irenaeus, and Melito of Sardis highly regarded the Apocalypse. But in the third and fourth centuries, churches in the east began to criticize this book and questioned its authenticity, and it was omitted from several published lists of accepted or canonical writings, including those by Cyril, bishop of Jerusalem (340 CE); the assembly of bishops at the Council of Laodicea (364 CE); Gregory Nazianzen, bishop of Constantinople (375 CE); and Philastrius, the bishop of Brixia in Venice (380 CE).

Revelation’s checkered history and its wholesale rejection in many circles may