The director said nothing, loosening the fashionable silk scarf around her neck, her gaze drifting out the window.
“Has there been any unusual activity by Dr. Travia, any professional matters that may help our investigation?”
“A hearing began this morning regarding some fragments of the Forma Urbis that Dr. Travia’s team discovered beneath Jerusalem last year. Our office lost a colleague on that mission. The hearing has taken its toll on us all, I’m afraid.”
“Fragments of the Forma Urbis?” Profeta asked, watching the director’s face.
“Yes,” she said. “Two fragments covering the area of the Colosseum. They turned up on display at the Capitoline on anonymous loan. The Cultural Ministry used Dottoressa Travia’s testimony to disprove the lender’s bogus provenance.” The director opened a file folder and handed Profeta a newspaper clipping. His eyes glanced across the subheading, “Two Years Later, Fragment of Forma Urbis Resurfaces in Rome. UN Official to Testify.”
Profeta’s eyes froze as he glanced at the photograph in the margin. The fragments Dr. Travia claimed to have discovered in Jerusalem portrayed the same section of the Colosseum that was pictured on the computer monitor his team recovered from their warehouse raid the night before.
“Director,” Profeta said, leaning forward as though on the verge of a significant discovery, “I’ll need to see all the information you have regarding Dr. Travia’s work in Jerusalem.”
28
S
acred Tree of Light,” Chandler exhaled, still wide-eyed. He was now engaged in his most nervous habit: dismantling paper clips and using them to jimmy the tumblers of a rusty padlock that he used as a paper-weight. He sat at his desk, his fingers working with uncanny ease, stroking the tip of the paper clip back and forth across the lock’s pins. No sooner would the lock spring open than he would snap it shut, beginning the procedure all over again.
“This inscription is a
tsurat ha-hidah
,” Chandler said.
“A what?” Emili said.
“A
tsurat ha-hidah
, literally translated from ancient Aramaic as ‘emblem riddle.’ They were popular in antiquity,” he said. “Very sophisticated, mul tilinguistic phrases, in this case Latin and Hebrew, would interact with amuletic symbols. The illustrations in these riddles were known as an ηδηθ, or an
embalo
, the Greek word from which we get the word ‘em blem.’ It’s classic tradecraft of the ancient world.”
“In other words,” Jonathan said to Emili, “it’s a message intended only for those who could understand it.”
“That’s right, Marcus,” Chandler said, turning to Emili. “Spymaster of the ancient world, this one. The rest of the academy was basking in ancient heroic poetry, but not Marcus. He holed himself up in the academy library, searching for ancient spies under every parchment.”
“The phrase ‘Titus’s mistake’ could refer to any of the names we saw inscribed in the Colosseum,” Jonathan suggested. “Many of the people listed were likely executed as traitors: Berenice, Clemens, Epaphroditus.”
“It’s true that Titus didn’t want to take any chances,” Chandler said, his eyes returning to Jonathan. “But I think his mistake is bigger than that. I think he’s talking about the spies’
motivation
for their espionage.”
“Which you think is divulged in the relief?” Emili asked.
“Yes. Remember, none of these people were optimistic about their chances of leaving that arena alive. This relief might have been a message, an emblem riddle, intended for the descendants of the captives from Jerusalem. That’s why some words are written in Hebraic text. Just look at what all the names you saw have in common,” Chandler said. “They’re all connected to Jerusalem. Berenice was a daughter of the king of Ju daea, Clemens was executed for treason by sending messages to Jerusalem, Aliterius is described as a Jewish stage satirist, Epaphroditus published provocative histories of Rome’s war against Jerusalem.”
“Then why would their last drawing reference a pagan image, a sacred tree of light?” Jonathan asked. “Sacred trees were a part of the pagan pantheon, not the monotheism of Jerusalem.”
“But are you really sure that this image is a reference to
pagan
tree worship?” There was mischief in Chandler’s eyes. “Or is this reference merely a disguise?”
“What do you mean?” Emili demanded.
“Yes, worshipping trees was a pagan ritual,” Chandler continued. “The earliest religious practice was mainly comprised of tree worship. These prebiblical cults appear to have worshipped the tree as a female life-giving force, a Mother Earth of some sort, often depicted as a seven-branched tree with breasts on Sumerian amulets from the Bronze Age.”
“But those were pagan cults,” Emili said. “Monotheism abandoned those images completely.”
“Completely? I’m not so sure,” Chandler countered. “Ancient monotheism included motifs of tree worship in their earliest stories to win converts. Think about it. Gilgamesh seeks a sacred vine, the divine Sitar seeks the plant of life in the underworld. How about a tree from which we may not eat? Keep away from the tree? Don’t go near
that
tree in the garden.” A smile played across Chandler’s lips. “Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?”
“Genesis,” Emili said.
“It is no accident that the Holy Book practically opens in a garden,” Chandler said. “Why is there a tree that we must keep away from, that cannot
feed
us? It is early monotheism’s rebuke against tree worship and all those who find eating from it
nourishing
. In fact, some biblical scholars argue that our expulsion from the Garden of Eden is a story that reveals our difficult departure from the easy idol worship of fertility cults and tree worship to a more difficult and abstract spirituality that we actually had to work at. Remember, outside the garden, Adam and Eve must now till the spiritual soil.”
Chandler stood up to reach for a text on the wall behind him.
“Of course, biblical texts still give us hints of tree worship. There is a bush that does not burn, isn’t there? Leaves that do not wither?” He smiled. “The road from polytheism to monotheism was not as smooth as most biblical scholars admit.”
“But what does this have to do with a tree from Jerusalem?” Emili asked impatiently.
“This inscription,” Chandler said, “is protecting a sacred object of Jerusalem.”
“It says ‘tree,’ ” Emili said.
“But it means something far more powerful,” Chandler said. “Think back to the earliest monotheists. As their mysticism matured, their worship of a life-giving tree became more
metaphysical
. Rather than shaping idolatrous images of clay trees with seven branches, early monotheists slightly altered the image to resemble a
lamp
with seven branches.”
Chandler reached for the thick Bible to his right, and began reading from the Book of Exodus: “And you shall fashion a menorah beaten out of the same piece of pure gold. Six branches emerging from its sides.” Chandler leaned back in his chair as though his point had been made. “The relief beneath the Colosseum is a direct reference to the menorah of the Temple’s inner sanctuary, known as the
mishkan
, or in English, ‘tabernacle,’ from the Latin
tabernaculum
, meaning a tent or a small sacred place, from which we still get the word ‘tavern.’ Bet you never knew your local bar shared its etymological roots with the world’s most sacred room—”
“Wait a minute,” Jonathan stopped him. “You’re saying this riddle is a veiled reference to monotheism’s most ancient symbol, the
menorah
?”
“Think about it, Jon,” Emili said. “It has been a tribute of faith throughout the ages, whether etched in the stones of Masada or carved on the concentration camp walls of Majdanek. Why should those prisoners from Jerusalem, condemned to die in the Colosseum, have been any different?”
“Well,” Chandler said, “there is one way in which their drawing was different.”
“How?” Emili said.
“I don’t think they were referencing just the symbol.” Chandler stood up. “I think they were describing the sacred lamp itself, the one fashioned by King Herod in eight feet of solid gold that remained lit in the inner sanctum of the Temple of Jerusalem. I think one of those prisoners is trying to tell you where he put it.”
29
T
he menorah,” Emili said flatly. “The one from Herod’s Temple in Jerusalem. You can’t be serious.”
“It’s one of the only artifacts of the ancient world for which the historical account of its journey is more interesting than the popular mythology that surrounds it,” Chandler said.
“Didn’t the Romans melt it down?” Emili asked. As a preservationist, Emili knew the story of the menorah had been repeated throughout the ages. “We know that gold prices in Syria halved because of all the gold the Romans pillaged from the Temple in Jerusalem in A.D. 70.”
“Other vessels of Herod’s Temple were melted down to finance the construction of the Colosseum, but not the menorah,” Chandler said. “The menorah was more valuable as a symbol of conquest than it was as bullion. Emperor Vespasian even built a new structure in the Roman Forum to display the menorah as the centerpiece of his war treasures. It remained there for four hundred years, until A.D. 455, when the Vandals sacked Rome and stole the menorah, shipping it to Carthage. The Vandals displayed the menorah as a symbol that Carthage was the only nation in a thousand years to breach the walls of Rome.”
“Rome has her revenge, though,” Jonathan added, turning to Emili. “Seventy years later, in A.D. 515, the Roman general Belisarius sailed for Carthage to get even. He left Carthage in ruins and plundered North Africa, returning to Rome with its treasures. The Roman historian Pro copius reported that the Romans carried the menorah shoulder high once again through the streets of Rome.”
“So the menorah returned to Rome early in the sixth century, then?” Emili asked.
“Not for long,” Chandler answered. “Remember, in A.D. 515 Rome is now a Christian empire with the seat of power in Constantinople. General Belisarius travels to Constantinople and presents the menorah to the court of the Byzantine emperor Justinian. But here there is a historical oddity. Emperor Justinian, it turns out, is superstitious. Every city that possessed the sacred lamp has been left in ruins: Jerusalem, Rome, Carthage. Will he bring the same destruction upon Constantinople? So Justinian arranges for the menorah to be shipped to a Christian church in Jerusalem.”
“So the menorah returned to Jerusalem, then?” Emili said, with a tinge of exasperation.
“It’s not even there for fifty years before it was probably moved,” Jonathan said. “The Persians sacked Jerusalem in A.D. 614, but according to many historical texts, Christian priests were able to smuggle the menorah back to Constantinople. That is corroborated by various seventh-century texts describing this odd-shaped lamp being displayed inside the domed palace of the
heptalychnos
for festivals. In fact, historical sources account for the menorah being in the Byzantine palace until Constantinople was looted in 1204.”
“The year of the Fourth Crusade,” Chandler added. “The pope charged the crusaders to take Jerusalem, but the Holy City was too well fortified, so they inexplicably made a sharp left turn and headed east for Constantinople. The crusaders sacked and burned Constantinople and presumably took the menorah with them back to Rome.”
“Are you guys done?” Emili asked.
“Yes,” Chandler and Jonathan answered simultaneously.
“So it’s possible that the Catholic Church has it?”
“You certainly wouldn’t be the first to suggest it,” Chandler said. “In 2002, a delegation from the state of Israel traveled to the Vatican and formally petitioned the Church to return the menorah stolen by the first-century Roman legionnaires, or at least provide relevant information from the Vatican secret archives pertaining to its current whereabouts. The result was that they signed a diplomatic agreement, and the Israeli delegation returned to Tel Aviv with a permanent loan of priceless Jewish manuscripts confiscated by the Church during the persecution of the Roman Jewish community in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. But no menorah. In fact, the Vatican’s explicit condition for the loan was that no answer would be given regarding Israel’s original request and the Israeli government would permit no further formal inquiries to the Vatican on the topic of the menorah.”
“But if this trail ends with the Church, then why is someone excavating beneath the Colosseum to learn the menorah’s whereabouts from first-century prisoners?”
“Ah. Now, here’s where it gets a little complicated,” Chandler said.
“
Here’s
where it gets complicated?” Emili looked at Jonathan plaintively. Jonathan shrugged.
“Look at the procession portrayed on the Arch of Titus,” Chandler said, scrambling to his bookshelves like a hound trailing a scent. He pulled down a poster-sized collection of nineteenth-century archaeological sketches, turning them frantically until reaching the Arch of Titus. He pointed at the southern bas-relief inside the arch. “What do you see?”
Emili’s eyes took in the graphic scene, the slaves from Jerusalem under the whip of Roman taskmasters. “Roman soldiers carrying Titus’s prized possession, the Tabernacle menorah, back to Rome.”
“
The
Tabernacle menorah?” Chandler said. “Look more closely. Are you sure?”
“Yes,” Emili said. “That’s the menorah from Herod’s Temple.”
“Wait,” Jonathan said. He leaned over Emili’s shoulder, his eyes focusing on the base of the menorah carved in the arch. “Look at the base of the menorah,” he said. “It doesn’t match up with the biblical dimensions. It’s not all from one piece of gold. And look at these images on it: an eagle bearing a wreath in its beak.” Jonathan looked up at Chandler. “That was the Roman imperial symbol. And here”—Jonathan pointed at the lower hexagonal base—“it’s the image of a sea monster of some kind. Or a dragon.”