The Lost Testament

110

When Angela finished speaking there was a long silence in the office, almost as if the words she had used and the names she had said had imposed a kind of stillness and gravity on that moment.

Bronson broke the silence first. ‘How did you know that Angela was referring to the country in the first century AD, Charles?’

Westman half turned to look at Bronson, who was still sitting in the chair beside the closed door.

‘I know quite a lot of things,’ he replied, then turned his attention back to Angela. ‘And you believe all that, do you?’ he asked.

‘The story of the possible rape of Mary by a Roman archer has been around for a long time, for a lot longer, in fact, than some of the Gospels. The problem is that it’s just been a story, with no documentary evidence or independent sources to back it up. At least, until now. As far as I can tell from my examination of this parchment, it’s the real thing. It appears to be an entirely authentic contemporary account of the trial of the man who fathered Jesus. A foetus which today would probably have been legally aborted in most Western countries due to the violence of its conception.

‘This proves beyond doubt that there was no immaculate conception, and no virgin birth. Instead there was a brutal assault by a heavily armed man against a defenceless child. And what I find particularly appalling about this, almost as appalling as the crime that is being described on this parchment, is the undeniable fact that the Vatican has known about this for decades, possibly centuries, yet chosen to cover it up. And what’s more, when there was a chance that the text of this parchment would be made public, the Mother Church of Christianity sent a bunch of hired killers to recover the relic and to cover their traces by eliminating all those people who had knowledge of this object.’

Westman nodded.

‘I quite agree with you,’ he said. ‘That is simply appalling. Could I take a closer look at the parchment?’

‘Of course,’ Angela said, and slid her chair slightly to one side so that Westman could stand beside her and see the relic clearly.

The ancient weapons specialist bent forward slightly and peered down at the parchment. Then he straightened up and glanced across at Bronson.

‘I really must congratulate you,’ he said. ‘Your deductions and conclusions have been remarkable, quite remarkable. In fact, as far as I can tell from what you’ve said, you’ve only got one thing wrong in the entire story.’

‘And what’s that?’ Angela asked, puzzled.

Westman shook his head and reached into his jacket pocket.

‘The Vatican didn’t send hired killers after you, as you suggested, though of course it’s true that the entire operation was initiated from Rome. Please remain seated and absolutely still, Bronson,’ Westman went on, drawing out a long knife with a dark and mottled blade which he rested against the delicate white skin of Angela’s throat.

‘This blade of this dagger was forged from Damascus steel in a crucible in Persia in the middle of the eighteenth century,’ he went on, his previously gentle voice now edged with steel. ‘It is quite literally as sharp as a razor and if my hand so much as twitches, your lady friend will be dead in less than a minute. And hers will not be the first life that this blade has taken in my hands.’