James Rollins - The Blood Gospel

When she fled her father’s tyranny, she spent a year teaching herself to write with her left hand instead of her right, anger and determination cut into every stroke of the pen. She would not let her father shape who she became. And so far, evil did not seem to have invaded her, although her arm ached when it rained.

“So the Bible was correct.” Heinrich drew her out of her reverie. He lifted a handful of sand off the baby’s legs and deposited it on the ground outside the trench. “The slaughter happened. And it happened here.”

“No.” She studied scattered bone fragments, trying to decide where to start. “You’re overreaching. We have potential evidence that a slaughter occurred here, but I doubt it has anything to do with the birth of Christ. Historical fact and religious stories often get tangled together. Remember, for archaeological purposes, we must always treat the Bible as a …” She struggled to find a noninflammatory word, gave up. “A spiritual interpretation of events, written by someone bent on twisting the facts to suit their ideology. Someone with a religious agenda.”

“Instead of an academic one?” Heinrich’s German accent grew stronger, a sign that he was upset.

“Instead of an objective agenda. Our ultimate goal—as scientists—is to find tangible evidence of past events instead of relying on ancient stories. To question everything.”

Heinrich carefully brushed sand off the little femur. “You don’t believe in God, then? Or Christ?”

She scrutinized the bone’s rough surface. No new damage. “I believe Christ was a man. That he inspired millions. Do I believe that he turned water into wine? I’d need proof.”

She thought back to her First Communion, when she had believed in miracles, believed that she truly drank the blood of Christ. It seemed centuries ago.

“But you are here.” Heinrich swept his pale arm around the site. “Investigating a Bible fable.”

“I’m investigating a historical event,” she corrected. “And I’m here in Caesarea , not in Bethlehem like the Bible says, because I found evidence that drew me to this site. I am here because of facts. Not faith.”

By now, Heinrich had cleared the bottom of the skeleton. They both worked faster than usual, wary that an aftershock might strike at any time.

“A story written on a pot from the first century led us here,” she said. “Not the Bible.”

After months of sifting through potsherds at the Rockefeller Museum in Jerusalem, she had uncovered a misidentified broken jug that alluded to a mass grave of children in Caesarea. It had been enough to receive the grant that had brought them all here.

“So you are trying to … debunk the Bible?” He sounded disappointed.

“I am trying to find out what happened here. Which probably had nothing to do with what the Bible said.”

“So you don’t believe that the Bible is holy?” Heinrich stopped working and stared at her.

“If there is divinity, it’s not in the Bible. It’s in each man, woman, and child. Not in a church or coming out of the mouth of a priest.”

“But—”

“I need to get brushes.” She hauled out of the trench, fighting back her anger, not wanting her student to see it.

When she was halfway to the equipment tent, the sound of a helicopter turned her head. She shaded her eyes and scanned the sky.

The chopper came in fast and low, a massive craft, khaki, with the designation S-92 stenciled on the tail. What was it doing here? She glared at it. The rotors would blow sand right back onto the skeleton.

She spun around to tell Heinrich to cover the bones.

Before she could speak, a lone Arabian stallion, riderless and ghostly white, bolted across the field from the stables. It would not see the trench. She rushed toward Heinrich, knowing she would be too late to beat the horse to him.

Heinrich must have felt the hoofbeats. He stood just as the horse reached the trench, spooking the rushing animal further. It reared and struck his forehead with a hoof. Heinrich disappeared into the trench.

Behind her, the helicopter powered down.

The stallion edged away from the noise, toward the trench.

Erin circled around the horse. “Easy, boy.” She kept her voice low and relaxed. “No one’s going to hurt you here.”

A large brown eye rolled to stare at her. The horse’s chest heaved, his quivering flanks coated in sweat, froth spattering his lips. She had to calm him and keep him from falling into the trench where Heinrich lay motionless.

She stepped between the trench and the horse, talking all the while. When she reached up to stroke his curved neck, the stallion shuddered, but he did not bolt. The familiar smell of horse surrounded her. She drew in a deep breath and exhaled. The animal did the same.

Hoping the horse would follow, she stepped to the side, away from Heinrich. She had to move him someplace safer in case he spooked again.

The stallion moved a step on trembling legs.

Nate came running, followed by Amy and Julia.

Erin held up a hand to stop them.

“Nate,” she said in a singsong voice. “Keep everyone back until I get the horse away from Heinrich.”

Nate skidded to a stop. The others followed suit.

The horse blew out heavily, and his sweat-stained withers twitched.

She threaded her fingers into his gray mane and led him a few steps away from the trench. Then she nodded to Nate.

A cry drew her attention over her shoulder, to a small robed figure flying across the sand. The man, plainly the horse’s handler, came rushing forward.

He dropped a lead over the animal’s head, jabbering and gesturing to where the helicopter had landed. Erin got it. The animal didn’t like helicopters. She didn’t much either. She patted the horse on his withers to say good-bye. The handler led him away.

Amy and Julia had already climbed down next to Heinrich. Julia held one hand to his forehead. Blood coated the side of his face. Julia murmured to Heinrich in German. He didn’t answer. Erin held her breath. At least he was still breathing.

Erin joined them. Kneeling down, she gently moved Julia’s hand aside and felt his head. Plenty of blood, but the skull seemed intact. She stripped off her bandanna and held it against the wound. Far from sterile, but it was all she had. Warm blood wet her palm.

Heinrich opened his gray eyes, groaning. “It takes a sacrifice. In crushed skulls. This site.”

She gave him a tight smile. Two skulls crushed on her watch.

“How do you feel?” she asked.

He muttered something in German through bloodless lips. His eyes lost focus, rolling backward. She had to get him to a doctor.

“Dr. Granger?” A voice with an Israeli accent spoke from behind her. “Please stand at once.”

She put Julia’s trembling hand over the makeshift bandage and stood, hands in the air. In her experience, people used that tone only when they were armed. She turned very slowly, Heinrich’s blood already drying on her palms.

Soldiers. A lot of soldiers.

They stood in a semicircle in front of the trench, dressed in desert sand fatigues, sidearms on their belts, automatic weapons strapped around their shoulders. Eight in all, each standing at attention. They wore gray berets, except for the man in front. His was olive green; obviously their leader. The guns weren’t pointed at her.

Yet.

She lowered her hands.

“Dr. Erin Granger.” It was a statement, not a question. He didn’t sound like he ever asked questions.

“Why are you here?” In spite of her fear, she kept her voice even. “Our permits are in order.”

He studied her with eyes like two oiled brown marbles. “You must come with us, Dr. Granger.”

She had to take care of Heinrich first. “I’m busy. My student is injured and—”