Year Zero by Jeff Long Read Free Book Online Page A

Kings, in the Old Testament, they describe the miraculous recovery of a dead soldier when his body touched the bones of the prophet Elisha. Early Israelites were attributing magical powers to their dead saints—their prophets—centuries before Jesus was ever born. That got me thinking.” He paused and said, “try again.”
    The Egyptian set the dental pick on a rugosity on the gem. He applied pressure, an ounce, no more. Nothing happened. Nikos took his syringe and circled the stone with another line of oil. Nikos continued his thought.
    “All art is derivative.” He pointed at the painting on the wall. “Koons borrowed from Rubens who borrowed from earlier artists. The mortuary arts are no different. I realized that the early Christians creating these miniature tombs had a context. They lived during the Roman empire. Craftsmen from dozens of countries were being brought to Rome. Craftsmen from your own country, as well. Their ancient skills were being transported to the very place Christians were being persecuted.”
    The Egyptian touched the cross. “You think one of my ancestors built this?” It was an astounding notion.
    “Perhaps not this very object,” said Nikos. “But the Christians learned how to make puzzle boxes from someone. Someone highly skilled in a dying art. The art of preserving the dead. That would explain why some of these very early domos are so complex. Like your booby-trapped tombs and pyramids, they are meant to thwart the uninvited visitor.”
    The Egyptian looked at Nikos. “We seem to have forgotten our art,” he said. “Your box is beyond me.”
    Nikos smiled. Turning his pencil upside down, he gave a single jab at the amethyst. The pink eraser struck its center. The stone sank into its mount. A piece of metal clicked inside. A small hatch released on the top of the cross. “We’re in,” said Nikos.
    They were like two small boys building a model airplane, only here they were unbuilding it. Neither paid attention to the twilight stealing across Homer’s wine-dark sea. Standing the cross on end, they removed the hatch and shined a light inside. At the base of a tin pit, two inches square, was a keyhole. “Now what?” said the Egyptian.
    Nikos produced a locksmith’s prong. Ten minutes passed as he tried different picks and angles. After another injection of oil, the lock gave way. A second lid opened, and they carefully removed that with tweezers. It seemed a dead end until Nikos inserted a dental mirror and they found a small hook hidden under a concealed shelf.
    Stage by stage, they dismantled the box. It was an ingenious device. Nikos proved himself a master, overcoming the safeguards and odd defenses. After an hour, they heard three distinct clicking sounds. “Oh no,” breathed Nikos. “It is destroying itself. They are sometimes rigged to crush the capsules and their relic material.”
    But as it turned out, the sounds were of latches unfastening. The entire front rose a quarter inch. Nikos exchanged a glance with his friend, then took the invitation. With his fingertips, he evenly lifted the face from the cross.
    The interior was a marvel. The artisan’s secrets lay exposed like metal organs and veins, the wires and latches and levers. There was more. “I’ve never seen such a thing,” said Nikos. “It holds not one capsule, but four. What an extraordinary find!”
    In each corner of the cross, trapped like a fly in spider webbing, a glass capsule lay bound in place with red thread. The Egyptian could barely contain his excitement. Nikos drew a rough diagram of the cross and labeled each corner A through D. Beneath that, he wrote “A” and set down his pencil.
    Using a scalpel, Nikos severed the threads securing the topmost capsule. Beneath the tightly-drawn threads was an oblong ampule with marbled swirls of blue and white. “Roman glass,” said Nikos. “The Romans learned from the Greeks the technology of hermetically sealing objects inside of glass