Paul Maier - The Constantine Codex

Perhaps the most colorful, yet crucial of the many imported experts was Lancaster Whimpole, curator of manuscripts for the British Library in London. Here was the man who was largely responsible not only for that library’s immense collection of papyri, but who also served as curator for the until-now greatest of all New Testament manuscripts, the Codex Sinaiticus. Whimpole was a tall, tweedy Oxonian sort who looked like James I of England, though even more slender, his teeth yellowed from years of contact with a meerschaum pipe. Whimpole did not suffer fools gladly and could detect fraud with one eye at a distance of fifty paces. Jon knew the man would have to be skeptical regarding the codex since nothing could dare rival “his” Sinaiticus.

Watching Whimpole examine the codex was an event in itself. He bent over the document like a Sherlock Holmes-with magnifying glass but without the silly cap. His gloved hands felt the texture of the cover and swept across the pages of vellum. From time to time he would stop, squint, use the magnifying glass, and then move on. He pulled out an orthography chart of Greek writing styles from the first to the fifth century AD and compared the uncial lettering for each era. He then superimposed another chart of the uncials in the Sinaiticus and nodded briefly-the first sign of any sort that his poker face or bodily mien had betrayed.

It seemed to Jon that he spent an eternity going through almost every page of the codex, again without registering any sort of response. Jon looked helplessly at Shannon, who stood beside him, just as eager for the verdict as he.

Whimpole failed to notice the Markan ending, but his eyes widened when he came to Second Acts. And they seemed to remain wider for the rest of his perusal. When he had finally finished, he stepped back, looked up, pieced his fingers together, and then said to Jon, “I hope you’ll provide more detail on how you discovered this. You gave some information in your phone call.”

“I will indeed. But what’s your impression of the codex thus far, Dr. Whimpole?”

“Well, I would call it an extremely clever fraud…”

Jon froze.

“… were I given to what you colonials call ‘practical jokes.’ But this codex is authentic. Absolutely authentic. Beyond all debate. The orthography-those beautiful uncials-are fully consistent with the Sinaiticus and other manuscripts from the fourth century. I… I must congratulate you, Professor Weber, on the manuscript find of the century-no, of the millennium. And-quite naturally-I’m also fiercely jealous of your success!”

A round of laughter was enough to transform the stiff and stodgy Brit into a fellow human being.

Two weeks later, all the material test results arrived at Jon’s Harvard office. It began with a phone call from Arizona, Duncan Fraser genially announcing, “I guess you want a pair of dates, Jon, right?”

“That would be very helpful, Duncan.”

“How about 1650, plus or minus fifty years-both samples?”

Jon’s heart plummeted. “AD 1650? You mean… you mean the vellum’s less than four centuries old?”

Fraser laughed. “I knew I’d catch you on that one! No, Jon, 1650 BP, and I don’t mean British Petroleum.”

“So, 1,650 years before the present?”

“Yes. Of course.”

Jon quickly calculated, then broke out laughing. “Perfect! Right on target! Early to mid-fourth century AD. You and your TAMS toy do great work, Duncan!”

“Only to keep you amused, Jon. What did you discover this time, the memoirs of Constantine?”

Jon was startled for a moment by the name but then said, “No, a shade more important than that. Tell you what, because you’ve been so kind, I’ll phone you about it just before we make the general announcement.”

“TAMS and I will be honored.”

Sandy McHugh phoned from Washington with similar results. Every test of the adhesive swipes he had taken from the leather cover and vellum pages showed a progression of pollen running up to the present day, yet also strains that went back to the fourth century.

All tests, then, were conclusive: the codex was absolutely authentic. As Jon told Shannon, “Obviously, we didn’t need the tests in the first place, since no one today could have forged 140 pages of perfect, fourth-century Greek.”

“Why did we go to all that bother, then?”

“The public, Shannon. The skeptical public, not to mention an army of critics.”

That evening, Jon put in two calls, the first to the Ecumenical Patriarch in Istanbul, the other to Kevin Sullivan in Rome. Both were for the purpose of establishing a date for the announcement to the world. His All Holiness Bartholomew II would have the honor of making the initial announcement. Pope Benedict XVI would be invited to attend and participate in the presentation or be represented by Monsignor Sullivan. The location should have been the Ecumenical Patriarchate in Istanbul, but for obvious security reasons, it would instead be the Greek Orthodox Cathedral of the Holy Trinity in New York.

“Glad I caught you before your flight to Cairo this afternoon, Osman,” Jon said as he chatted with his associate. It was a mild spring morning in early May, warm enough for Jon to open the windows of his office. “Like some coffee?”

“Please.”

As Jon poured two mugs, he continued. “I understand you’re visiting relatives in Cairo?”

Osman nodded. “In the western suburbs. At Giza-near the pyramids.”

“Do look in on our publisher while you’re there, Osman, and try to iron out any remaining problems in the Arabic edition of our book-if there are any.”

“Will do. Soon, maybe, I’ll have to do the Arabic translation of Mark 16 and Second Acts from our magnificent codex there.” It was lying atop Jon’s desk.

“Could well be. By the way, didn’t you once tell me you could face death if you ever returned to a Muslim country after converting to Christianity?”

“True for Islamic theocracies like Iran but not for secular states like Egypt. And you’ll recall that we all got back safely from Turkey.”

“True enough.”

“Of course, if they knew about me, Muslim fanatics in any country would find me fair game.”

“Better watch your back, then. I understand that Osman Mahmoud al-Ghazali’s fame is rising in the world of Islam!” Jon was smiling, but then he grew serious. “Hate to bring this up again, but a couple weeks ago, you’ll recall, we talked about the remaining problem in the disappearance of the codex?”

Osman nodded. “How could the perpetrators in Istanbul have known its dimensions, when the patriarch would fly here, et cetera, right?”

“Exactly. We all agreed that it had to be an inside job by someone in the patriarchate over there. But then I recalled that when we told you and Dick Ferris about the codex at the Istanbul Hilton, it was you who asked me about its size.”

“Right. And your point is…?”

“Well, I told you about the size of its pages, but then you also asked me how thick it was.”

“So? Both Dick and I wanted very badly to see the actual codex. And that was as close as we could come at the time.”

“Fair enough. And it’s just possible that my awful vector of suspicion may be pointed in the wrong direction.”

“At me, Jon? Me? After all we’ve been through together?”

“Hate to say it, but yes, Osman, even though it absolutely tears me apart to admit it.”

“Well, you can spare yourself that kind of personal agony because I’d never ever go back to the other side. Conversion is conversion. A Judas Iscariot I am not!”

Jon clenched his jaw muscles and rolled his knuckles on the desk. “I’d like to believe that. I really would.” He paused, avoided eye contact with Osman, and stared out the window. Then he turned in his chair and faced al-Ghazali directly. “Yesterday evening, Mort Dillingham called me from Washington. He hated to admit it, he said, but yes, the CIA asked the FBI to check all phone records on all of us during the weeks preceding the theft of the codex and the weeks afterward. After we hung up, Dillingham faxed me this record. It’s a long list, but please note the items I’ve underlined in red.”