The Letter to Cornelius

Bahat was pouring himself his fourth cup of coffee when the phone rang.

“Hello, Bahat here,” he answered.

“Yes, I remember that unusual find in Caesarea … Yes, it was recommended they document all the objects that were found, and to find an expert to look at that jar. It had been sealed, right? …

“So they found an old parchment in it that was basically intact. That’s impossible unless it’s new. The writing is ancient Aramaic, huh? … It’s been translated. Okay, I’ll look at my e-mail right now. Thanks.”

As Bahat hung up the phone, he tried to recall the details of that excavation. A group from one of Rome’s universities had sent a team to dig around the places where first-century Roman soldiers were said to have been billeted. The port city of Caesarea had been Rome’s main headquarters in Israel, with most of their soldiers stationed there. The soldiers could easily be dispatched into the interior at any sign of trouble. These excavations had been going on for several years. They hadn’t found much, but one of the groups started digging a short distance away from the main headquarters and had uncovered some softer ground. Carefully removing the loose dirt, they found a number of objects that could have belonged to an officer. They also found a pottery jar. It was unusual, since it was both intact and had been sealed. Bahat’s knowledge of Roman artifacts was significantly limited, and he couldn’t remember why a jar would have been sealed. But finding unbroken pottery was extremely rare.

This phone call had been from one of his men stationed near the coast. Apparently, the Italians had taken the object to several experts, who eventually offered to date the pottery but wouldn’t unseal it. Finally, they had talked to his man, more as a courtesy, since all major finds must be reported to the IAA. He had recommended opening it in a controlled environment and gave them the name of an expert who could do it. Besides some debris at the bottom that was probably decomposed papyrus, they had found a small piece of parchment in it that was intact. After careful handling they were able to open it up. One of the professors had a passing knowledge of Aramaic, but after looking at it, he said he wanted a second opinion. So they took it to an Israeli expert, who was able to provide an accurate translation.

His man from the coast had just sent Bahat both a picture of the original parchment and the translation via e-mail, and he wanted Bahat to know about it as soon as possible. “It is very important,” he had said.

Bahat grabbed his coffee, and went to the e-mail on his computer. He double clicked on the message and began reading. It started with some preliminary information, followed by the translation, then some more information, and finally two pictures, one of the jar and one of the parchment. “No, it’s impossible,” he said aloud to himself. “It’s undoubtedly a forgery.”

He read the translation of the Aramaic again, this time carefully considering each word. Then he leaned back in his chair, took out his cigarette pack from his shirt pocket, tapped out a cigarette, and lit it. He inhaled deeply and let the smoke stay in his lungs for a few seconds before blowing it toward the computer screen, as if he could make vanish what he had just read. He cursed out loud.