He checked his elapsed time: thirty minutes. He had to move fast now, do a quick exploration of this virtual time capsule, and then get back out. He decided to stay on the scuba tank. God only knew what ancient microbes might be trapped in this place. He got up on his hands and knees, stood up, took off his fins, and then walked carefully across the sandy floor toward the structure and the rags. When he got closer, he realized that the bundle of rags contained a badly decomposed skeleton, barely recognizable as human bones, complete with a jawless skull. The bones were no longer attached to one another and were clustered around a huge dagger. He didn’t touch anything but just stood there, looking down at the human remains. From how long ago, he wondered. Was this one of the Zealots? There were small clay pots scattered around the sand floor of the cave, and their blackened tops showed that they had been used as lamps. His light swept the wall, and he realized that it was covered in writing. It looked like it had been done in charcoal or perhaps lampblack. He could not begin to decipher it, but an examination of both walls revealed that they were entirely covered in some kind of Arabic or Hebraic script, to the height that a man could reach on tiptoes.
He looked up at the bench structure. It was made of wood and shaped like a large table. The legs didn’t match: Some were rough-hewn; others appeared to be made of highly polished and richly carved wood. There were rough planks across the top, which was slightly higher than he could see. Ghostly remains of some kind of heavy, decorated cloth draped like spiderwebs down one side. Moving awkwardly in his scuba rig, he walked over to the right side of the cave, where the floor was slightly higher than on the left side. From here, standing on tiptoe, he could just see up onto the top of the structure, and what he saw took his breath away.
The altarlike structure was much deeper than he had thought, its top surface going back into the angle between the two sloping cave walls some four feet. There was a cracked marble slab lying on the planks, and on top of that, lying on its side, was an enormous menorah, the seven-branched candelabrum of Jewish ritual. It looked to be almost five feet from its boxy base to the top of its outflung arms, and close to four feet across. The base was heavily engraved. Two of the seven arms were damaged, bent out of the original plane, but it was still magnificent. The entire artifact appeared to be made of either bronze or even gold, he couldn’t be sure. Next to the menorah were several ivory cylinders, their circular bronze or gold ends heavily engraved. The cylinders were shaped like rolling pins and were some six inches in diameter, with ornate wooden handles sticking out of each end. He was pretty sure these were scroll holders. The scrolls, if they were still there, would be sealed inside. The cylindrical sides were embossed with what looked like gold filigree. To the left of the enormous menorah was a pile of what had probably been vestments of some kind, long since rotted away, with only a few patches of color visible in his light. The only other object on the altar top was a small, very plain bronze bowl or cup, eight inches or so in diameter at the top, which was set off to one side with a small pile of what looked like old coins lying right next to it. The cup did not appear to have any markings whatsoever, contrasting dramatically with the glorious objects around it.
He lowered himself to a more comfortable position and tried to slow his heartbeat down. He’d found it. If these objects were sacred relics from the Second Temple, it would be the find of the century. Of course, he had no way of proving that, but the writing on the cave walls, once deciphered, might tell the tale. He examined the pile of bones, kneeling down to study that wicked-looking iron blade. It was almost eighteen inches long, with a workmanlike leather handle. He wanted to pick it up, feel its heft, but knew better than to touch anything. He shone the light on the walls again, covered with their strange symbols. He didn’t even know where the text began and ended — but Judith Ressner, ancient language expert, sure as hell would.
He looked at his timer: forty-six minutes. He had to get out of here and back to the surface. He would leave everything right there in the bat cave, changing into his street clothes and then slipping back into the fortress for a cable-car ride. If asked, he’d make something up about trying the Serpent Path descent and then walking around under the fortress walls. The guards would be anxious to close the site down for Shabbat and just tell him to get on the damn cable car. He’d be fine — but he had to get going. Now.
He couldn’t wait to call Judith and tell her of his incredible discovery. She would be furious, of course, but he was willing to bet she would come like a bat out of hell when he told her what was buried in the mountain. He tried to control his surging heartbeat. As he exited the cave mouth he anchored a chemical light-stick to a rock and then cracked it on.
Judith got home to her apartment at five o’clock. She was still depressed about not hearing anything from David Hall, and the silent, uncaring answering machine did nothing to lift her spirits. She shucked her coat, kicked off her shoes, and went to get a glass of wine. Yossi Ellerstein had also found out nothing, apparently. Or, more likely, was afraid to call her and tell her the truth: Mr. Hall is out on a date with Bar Refaeli.
Yet something was playing at the back of her mind. That business with the extra air tanks — something odd there. Hall was an experienced diver; he wouldn’t be planning solo dives anywhere, which meant he had to have set up some other diving tours. That in itself was a bit strange, given what had happened. That night together he’d been a bit of a wreck. Now he was diving again? Why hadn’t he called her, dammit! Because you were no longer included in the equation, my dear, she thought. The phone rang and she jumped.
“It’s me,” he said when she answered.
“Indeed,” she said, sitting down. “Well, Mr. Me, it is nice to hear from you. At last.”
It sounded like he was on a pay phone; she could hear machinery noise in the background, and the sounds of foreign tourists. She’d heard that noise before. Wait — Metsadá? The cable-car machinery room? Oh, no!
“I’m at the hostel. At Metsadá. As you can probably tell.”
She felt a flare of anger. “What on earth are you doing there?”
He was silent for a moment while a tour guide got on her bullhorn in Japanese to round up her tour group to get them to their bus.
“I’ve been bad again,” he said. She could barely hear him. Her heart sank when she realized what he was saying.
“Bad? Bad?! Oh, no — for God’s sake, Mr. Hall — David — tell me you haven’t been digging!”
“Not exactly, but I need you to come down here. Immediately.”
She pressed the telephone to her head, her thoughts whirling. What had this lunatic been doing? “Me? Why? Why me?”
“Because you’re an archaeologist. I’ve made a significant discovery, but now I need a professional.”
“A discovery? What kind of discovery?” She was almost afraid to ask. Masada! The authorities would kill him. She was ready to kill him.
“How about some major relics from the Second Temple? That strike your fancy?”
She was momentarily stunned into silence. “My God, Mr. Hall,” she whispered. “Where? How? What exactly?”
“Too hard to explain this way. I have to leave now — they’re closing the place down for the Sabbath. Come down here. Tonight. Please. Meet me at that geothermal building on the seashore.”