CHAPTER TWO

The size and significance of their find had been laid clear by the end of the following day, a collective 18 hours of tedious scraping later. Everyone recognized it for what it was, but left it to their host to make the official pronouncement.

"It's an ossuary," he said. "A bone box. And a real beauty." Udi hopped into the pit, knelt down by the object and lovingly caressed the pitted limestone surface. Traces of red paint still clung to its face. It was two-thirds exposed, sticking up from the ground at an approximately 40-degree angle.

"In first century Jerusalem," he explained, "The dead were laid on stone ledges or niches in burial caves. After about a year, after the body had been skeletonized, the family would go and collect the bones, and place them in the ossuary to make room for the next occupant."

"What's it doing here?" Jennifer asked. "They're typically found in caves, and catacombs, never buried like this. Besides, this would have been an urban, populated area in the first century ... even if they were to bury it, they wouldn't have put it here, in the middle of town."

Udi nodded. "You're right, of course. Religious customs would have forbidden such a thing." He stood up and shrugged. "We won't know until the contents are examined. Many ossuaries had been found to hold other items--lamps, anointing oils and the like. Let's get it out of there. Maybe someone buried the family gold under the floor," he joked.

It took the team another day of meticulous, painstaking work to free the box from the ground where it lay hidden for twenty centuries. Every grain of sand in the pit was sifted for additional artifacts, their effort yielding two dozen small-to-tiny pottery shards, and several more organic stains. The ossuary box aside, the presence of what appeared to be a table along with the pottery at least lent credence to the argument that a public house may have once stood at the site. The evidence was far from conclusive--any home at the time would have held similar objects, of course. But it was the first evidence of habitation that had been discovered at the site, which up to now had only yielded evidence of houses of worship for one sect or another.

The assumed wood samples, along with the pottery shards and other organics were bagged and placed together in a separate box--they would be the first to be radiocarbon dated. Their location in the pit was reason enough for excitement; just inches below the Roman floor, there was a good chance that they would date to the early first century, adding fuel to the argument that the location at least could have been the site of the Last Supper.

The bone box was carefully removed from the pit--with considerable effort, as it weighed, they guessed, close to 90 or 100 pounds--and safely nestled in a straw-filled, wooden crate. The box was about two feet in length and 18" in height and width, with slightly tapered sides, small carved feet and a recessed lid. The pitted limestone surface had retained a remarkable amount of red paint, and there were elaborately carved star designs running along the face, clearly visible, even through the remaining encrusted sand. At first inspection, there didn't seem to be any additional carvings that might have indicated the name of the deceased. All of the artifacts recovered from the dig would be sent to the Hebrew University for radiocarbon dating and further study.

Dave Kemper hammered the last nail into the lid of the crate holding the ossuary. "Why is it so heavy?" he asked, sweating profusely from the effort in the sweltering, un-air-conditioned room. He'd trained his muscles for speed and endurance, not heavy lifting.

"Well, the limestone, of course, is heavy by itself," Udi said. "But, you're correct that it is much too heavy to contain just human remains. Any remains in there would have long ago turned to dust. I suspect it's likely filled with the same dense sand that it was buried in..."

"Lending credence to your theory that there was some kind of flood, or nearby aqueduct break, or something to that effect," Williams added.

"I suspect as much," Udi agreed.

The faculty members watched as Dave and one of the Israeli students lugged the heavy crate to one of two sport-utility vehicles parked in the courtyard. They pushed the box to the very rear of the compartment; the American student tossed a folded, canvas tarp on top the wooden box to make room for the rest of the stuff that would have to be squeezed into the back. Udi lit a cigarette while others shuttled the remaining boxes to the vehicle. The open pits would have to be filled in and the marble floor carefully replaced, but they had another ten days left on their permit, more than enough time to complete the necessary work.

Maybe even time enough to dig down another inch or so... Udi mused. It had been a fruitful, perhaps even historical dig; he hated to let it go without exhausting the site.

His contemplative mood was broken by the sudden, building wail of air raid sirens screaming from all directions. Warning shouts went out from local pedestrians. The nearest air-raid shelter was more than three blocks away ... he didn't want to chance it.

"Get inside, now!" he shouted to the undergraduates standing by the large sand pile at the entrance. The base of the ancient building was constructed of stone blocks more than two-feet thick; they should be safe in there, unless the building came down. "Tell everyone ... stay inside!"

He ran over to the SUV and closed the hatchback, then stepped slowly toward the building, walking backwards, searching the sky and listening for the telltale whistle of an approaching rocket.

Katyusha rockets were unguided missiles, really just big, nasty Fourth-of-July bottle rockets with stabilizing fins and high-explosive warheads. Useless as offensive weapons on the modern battlefield, they remained, however, excellent and effective terrorist tools against civilian populations. Launched in clusters by the enemy on an easily calculated ballistic arc, the rockets would land in a widely defined and scattered kill zone, wreaking destruction in a deliberately random fashion.

"What's going on?" Sam Williams stuck his head out of the entrance of the building.

"Probably a rocket attack," Udi said, now pausing in the courtyard and staring expectantly at the sky. "Could be anywhere in the city, though. We won't know until the first one lands..."

The first one landed with an immense, boiling, 50-foot fireball and a heart-thumping concussion, right smack in the middle of a busy intersection some 300 yards to their left. Udi turned and ran for the door.

"Get down!" he screamed to Williams, who'd already disappeared inside the building.

The second one landed not 50 yards outside the courtyard, sending razor-sharp stone splinters from the wall surrounding the historic site tearing into Udi's legs. He fell just five feet from the entrance, screaming in pain.

Sam Williams didn't hesitate; he ran out, grabbed Udi roughly by his arms and swiftly dragged him into the relative safety of the building, trailing bright streaks of blood across the smooth gray cobblestone surface. Another missile landed, this one about a quarter-mile to their left. Screams and sirens filled the air. A thick, acrid smoke reeking of high-explosives and burning automobiles drifted across the courtyard.

Once inside, the students helped sit Udi against the thick wall. The legs of his jeans were soaked with blood. Sam Williams grabbed a knife and started slicing the length of the pants legs, exposing his bloodied limbs. Udi remained conscious, but was hyperventilating and spastically pedaling his legs in pain.

"Where's the nearest hospital?" Jennifer asked. "The cars don't look like they've been hit, we could drive him there ourselves."

"No! Wait!" Udi gasped through clenched teeth. Yet another heavy boom of a rocket strike could be heard echoing from somewhere in the city. "Wait until it's over."

Williams was inspecting his injuries. "You're chopped up pretty bad, my friend, but I don't think the artery's been hit. Let's try to get this bleeding under control and get you to the emergency room as soon as we can get out of here. You're going to be fine..."

Williams turned to the students gathered around the stricken Israeli: "Somebody bring me the first aid kit ... it should be in the tool crate over there..."

One of the Israeli students ran over to the heavy wooden box and dug through the various tools, tossing aside stiff, dirt-caked work gloves and extension cords to get to the first aid kit buried on the bottom. It was a basic kit, nothing fancy, just enough to patch up the routine cuts, scrapes and blisters frequently accompanying long hours working around sharp tools and heavy stones.

Williams asked for more light, and then went to work, using a pair of forceps to pluck out the most easily visible and accessible slivers of stone shrapnel sticking out of Udi's legs. He liberally poured antiseptic Betadine solution over the wounds, and started bandaging his bloodied limbs.

Using every piece of gauze and medical tape he had in the kit, he bound the wounds as best he could, then waited until someone up on the second floor--which had remained open for tourists--shouted down that the "all-clear" had been signaled on the radio. Udi insisted that his undergraduate students drive him to the emergency room; they knew the area, and would make quicker work of the confusing maze of closed-off and otherwise impassible streets and traffic chaos that inevitably followed such attacks. He suggested Williams take his team back to their hotel to wait out the aftermath and to safeguard the valuable artifacts stashed in the vehicle.

That plan made as much sense as any; they lifted Udi to his feet and, with the aid of two of his male students, he was able to hobble over to the car and get himself stretched out in the back seat. The rest of the undergraduates piled in and, within seconds, were on their way.

Prof. Williams watched the car drive out of the courtyard. He felt that he should at least accompany his associate to the hospital, if only to show solidarity. But Udi was fully conscious, barking orders to his kids and looking for his cigarettes as they drove away, and was reasonably patched up given the circumstances. Besides, Williams knew, he had his own students to worry about--he needed to get them back to the hotel, ASAP.

"Let's go," he said. "Toss the loose tools in the crate, make sure we have our cameras and all the documentation and let's get the hell out of here. Leave the big lights for now. We'll come back and finish up when we have the chance."

The two students scrambled to collect the remaining items strewn around the site. Dave hauled the heavy toolbox to the SUV and slid it into the back. Then the three of them climbed into the vehicle and started heading north to the City Center West, where they hoped their hotel rooms remained unscathed by the attacks and were still waiting for them.

Traffic on Yafo Road was, as might be expected, impossibly congested and slow, but it was, at least, moving. The attacks had been centered on the Old City; they were moving away from the chaos, and the emergency vehicles were heading into it on the southbound side of the highway, where traffic was at a complete standstill.

The normally ten-minute ride to their exit took them a half hour, but once they got off the highway the City Center looked its normal, bustling self, as if nothing had happened just a few miles to the south. They were no more than a mile from the hotel when the air raid sirens started screaming again.

"Shit!" Williams cursed. He was at the wheel. "We're not going to make it ... any ideas?"

"There!" Jennifer shouted, pointing to the right. "See that closed-off street? The American Consulate is down there. Maybe the guards will let us through..."

"Get your passports out," Williams directed. "Hold them up where they can see them. The last thing they want to see now is a low-hanging SUV heading towards the consulate."

Williams slowly crawled the vehicle up to the cement barricades blocking access to the street. One guard, a U.S. Marine strapped with body armor, menacingly pointing his M-16, complete with a 40mm grenade launcher, directly at Williams. He stood blocking the vehicle, while another Marine, similarly equipped, slowly approached the driver's window. The sirens were wound up and wailing all over the city now.

"We're Americans," Williams shouted, holding his passport, already opened to show his picture, out the window. "Can you give us some shelter until this thing is over?"

The marine, a young sergeant, collected all three passports and gave them a quick look. "Pull over here," he pointed to a spot just outside the barricades, "and get out of the vehicle." Their guns remained trained on the vehicle until it had been shut off and everyone had exited. He gave everyone a quick pat down and returned their passports.

"The consulate is 100 yards down the street, to your right," he said, all business. "RUN down there and show your passports to the guards at the gate. Get a move on, folks..."

The American archeology team sprinted to the gate, squeezed between the second set of barricades set in front of the building, and presented their passports as instructed. After a quick look at the photos the marine pointed them to a path that ran along the left side of the building. "Go inside that door, make a right and go down the stairs. There's a safe room down there, clearly marked. Follow the red arrows. You'll have lots of company. Go!" He held out the passports to Williams.

"Thanks, we really appreciate it," Williams said, panting from his run, taking back the bundle of passports. "Let's go!"

The three of them ran down the path and rushed into the door. They heard the now all-too-familiar boom of a rocket strike as they raced down the stairs.

"And they say archeology is boring," Williams quipped, now that they were in the safety of the basement. The space was brightly lit, and obviously served as administrative office space for consulate employees when they weren't huddled in the back hiding from missile attacks. They quickstepped down a long hallway to the back of the building, following the large red arrows painted on both the wall and floor.

The hall led to a specially constructed, steel-reinforced, sealed suite of rooms equipped with a ventilation system that filtered for both chemical and biological agents. Williams guessed that there were about 25 people standing around, with probably two-thirds of them glued to cell phones. Maybe half a dozen were dressed in business suits and had an official air about them. The rest were attired a bit more casually--administrative staff, he guessed. More booms could be heard outside, though significantly muted by the thickly walled, reinforced bunker. Several women were in tears.

Williams handed his team back their passports and tried to catch his breath. Less than 40 minutes ago he had been admiring the fruits of what was likely the most significant dig of his career, and now ... this.

A dark-haired man in his mid-thirties, of medium height and dressed in an off-the-rack dark blue suit snapped his cell phone closed and approached Williams. He stuck out his hand.

"Hi there. Welcome to the American consulate. I'm Tim Luks, Chief of Staff to the Consul General."

Williams shook his hand, suddenly self-conscious of the fact that his hands were still dirty from that morning's work and his jeans hadn't been washed in three weeks, and looked it. "Sam Williams, Professor of Anthropology at Cornell University in Ithaca, New York. We really appreciate your letting us hide out here until the excitement outside blows over."

"Not at all, Professor Williams. Your tax dollars helped pay for the place. It's as much yours as it is mine."

Williams introduced the rest of his team, telling Luks about the interrupted dig at David's Tomb without revealing any details of their discoveries.

Luks was aware that the first attacks had struck the Old City. "Did everybody get out okay?" he asked.

Williams related the story of Udi's injuries. Luks stepped over to a desk and picked up a clipboard with a yellow pad and took down Udi's name, university affiliation and all of the personal contact information that Williams could recall. "I'll follow up on his situation when things calm down a bit. We'll have an easier time getting through to the hospital then you will."

"I appreciate that. How bad are things out there?"

"Bad. And things are going to get worse before they get better. Where were you folks headed before you ducked down here?"

"We were on our way back to the hotel to sit things out." Luks waved Williams and his crew over to a table set up with coffee and a nice selection of cookies and pastries. "Help yourself. Might as well fatten up ... we could all die any minute." His tone indicated he was joking, but there was no telltale smile. He fixed himself a cup of coffee while Williams and the two students did the same.

"Is this your entire team?" Luks asked quietly.

"Yep," Williams answered, blowing on the hot coffee. "This is everybody."

"What do you have back at the hotel? Do you have any valuables back there?"

"I don't have any valuables anywhere!" he laughed. Luks nodded, still with the serious look on his face. "And you have your passports with you, I saw. That's good." He glanced around the room and stepped over to an empty corner, signaling Williams to follow him.

"Listen. The Iranians are massing troops on the Iraqi border, Hezbollah fighters are pouring into the northern West Bank--that's where these missiles are coming from--our navy has four carrier strike groups in the Persian Gulf and both the U.S.S. Teddy Roosevelt and the U.S.S. Ronny Reagan are hauling ass across the Mediterranean. The Reagan is going to be 30 miles off the Israeli coast by this time tomorrow. And believe me when I tell you, if they see one of those Iranian rockets heading anywhere in their general direction, they aim to misbehave." He took a sip of coffee and continued.

"Between me and you, this is about as good a time to leave Israel as any in the past 50 years--and that's really saying something..."

"You don't think we're safe in here?" Williams asked, not yet entirely grasping the significance of the man's warning.

"Safe is not a word I'd use to describe our situation," Luks responded, reflexively resorting to diplo-speak. "We have a chartered flight waiting on the runway at Atarot Airport. We've already put out the word to all of the hotels in the city that any Americans who want to hitch a ride should get out there, pronto. Most of my staff is already there; the rest of these folks are down here waiting for a ride. Do you have a vehicle?"

"Yeah, we had to leave it out by the barricades. I thought Atarot Airport was closed to commercial traffic?"

"It is ... it was turned over for use by the Israeli Defense Force years ago. It's in the northernmost tip of Jerusalem, right on the border of the Palestinian territories, way too dangerous for routine civilian use. The IDF will have attack choppers combing the surrounding area when the charter takes off and two fighter jets escorting it out over the Mediterranean."

"Holy shit," Williams muttered, the reality finally setting in. "I, uh, have some possibly valuable artifacts in the truck, you know, from the dig. They were supposed to be taken to the Hebrew University. Can I leave them with you? Maybe you can have somebody drop them off when things cool down a bit..."

"How valuable?"

"I can't answer that yet. They could be important, they could be nothing, we won't know until we take a closer look at them. We've got some old pottery shards..."

"Screw the pottery shards, Professor. Look, you can leave the stuff here if you're really that concerned, but if I were you I'd just take them with me and straighten it out with your Israeli partners later. You said you had an Israeli representative on the dig, correct?"

"Yep."

"And you have all of your paperwork from the Israel Antiquities Authority and the rest of it?"

"Of course." Luks thought for a moment. "I don't want to overstate this, but if we're overrun, it'll be by a bunch of fanatical seventh century Islamic holy warriors--I wouldn't expect to ever see your artifacts again, you get my drift?"

"You really think there's a chance of your being overrun?"

"We're the American consulate, Professor ... everyone's favorite Great Satan. If they race across the border, we're the finish line."

The Cup of My Blood © Copyright 2008, Anthony F. Lewis