Discovering the Lead Codices: The Book of Seven Seals and the Secret Teachings of Jesus

‘You’ve got to have a look at these things – I’ve no idea what they are, fakes probably, but I’ve never seen anything like them,’ Ron said, perplexed. His researches had quickly come up against a brick wall.

Jennifer had met Ron Lyons, a journalist, when working on a big news story with him in London, and they had struck up a friendship. She had since met me and had closed down her business as a literary publicist to work full-time on a film project based on the research used in my previous book, some of which happened to cross over with the area of ancient history she represented. Fortunately it didn’t take much to persuade her to leave London, as she had been longing to escape to the country. We reckoned we could work anywhere thanks to the Internet, and as she was eager to be close to her 13-year-old son Alex, who was starting his first year at boarding school in Oxford, this seemed the most logical place to go. So we decamped to Oxfordshire to get Alex settled in – only to find ourselves surprisingly close to Ron’s house. An invitation to dinner immediately ensued.

Towards the end of the evening, the request that Ron had been building up to finally came. ‘David,’ Ron said, ‘I want you to have a look at something – I think you might be able to help me.’ It was the request that was to change the course of our lives. We had just finished dinner and noticed that Ron was getting agitated. He marched determinedly for the stairs and we followed.

‘Take a seat,’ Ron commanded. What I saw next hit me slowly. My initial reaction was bafflement: I had never seen anything like this. The objects in the photographs appeared to be antiquated books, or codices, made of metal, all of them ring-bound. The covers were replete with iconography and inscribed with what looked like an ancient script. Curiously, some of them were sealed on all four sides.

‘No. A friend of mine, she knows the guy who has these books. She believes they were found somewhere in northern Israel. Anyway, he’s got a few of them and thinks they might be important.’

‘Probably fakes,’ I said, taking a closer look. ‘So, what’s the story? How did he come across them?’

‘So, hang on a minute. These are antiquities, right? Has your friend tried to have them authenticated? To have the metal tested and the language looked at?’

‘All I know is that they contacted a couple of universities. The Hebrew University in Jerusalem, I think, and maybe the Sorbonne, but she reckons they’re too hot to handle.’

‘Well, all I can say is I’ve never seen anything like them before. So how are you involved?’

‘There could be a great scoop here, and my friend reckons I could get access to these things. But we need to find out what they are. That’s where I was hoping that you’d be able to help.’

I peered again at the photographs, making out the delicate symbols that adorned the covers of each book. Already there was enough here that fascinated me and made me want to know more.

‘We’re going to need some better photographs and some samples so that we can get them dated. May I have a couple of the images?’

We left Ron’s house in the early hours of the morning, having agreed to speak again in a couple of days’ time. Ron was to gather more information, speak to his contact, and obtain more photographs of the books, whilst my job was to begin to determine what exactly they were.

Introduction to the Codices: The Enigma of Christian Origins

Certainty is impossible, and so what follows is a hypothesis consistent with the evidence.

Modern Christianity is centered on three events that supposedly took place in the life of Jesus: the Incarnation, the Crucifixion and the Resurrection. The aim of this work in relation to the discovery of the codices is to demonstrate that these actions occurred as historical events – but not in the way that we have become accustomed to thinking. These are the central mysteries of the Christian religion and they encapsulate the founding movement of the whole.

However, there is a lack of detail in the Gospels that only an investigation into other, non-canonical texts begins to fill, particularly when it comes to the events surrounding the Passion. The details represented on the codices go some way to suggest that what may actually have occurred, within the context of the Temple of Jerusalem, was as prominent as the figure of Jesus in the later sections of the Gospel stories – stories because they would appear to be a coagulation of real events involving messianic ritual.

The Christian idea of the Messiah is the singular concept of someone who is the only begotten Son of God, whereas in the ancient Hebrew religion, all the Kings of Israel were sons of God. This stems from other, wider, more archaic traditions that come not from paganism or from the influence of Hellenism as many have asserted, but from within the liturgical and theological history of Israel. The main problem with looking at this history and deriving a proper context from it is sorting out fact from fiction, interpretation from misinterpretation. Further complicating matters is the fact that the inconvenient parts of both Hebrew and Christian histories have been written out at various dates in the past, both before and after the lifetime of Jesus.

Also, in the 1st century there were many sects holding all sorts of differing beliefs within Judaism and emergent Christianity, particularly in some of the more remote areas of Judea – Galilee especially. Some of these beliefs would later contribute to the ideas that have been handed down in the guise of ‘Gnosticism’ – seen by later Christian orthodoxies as heretical. Others were merely offshoots of mainstream Judaism. All were affected in one degree or another by the increasingly apocalyptic climate of the times – a direct consequence of centralized Temple worship, Roman oppression and a corrupt regime that ran Judea with an often cruel hand.

A view of this ‘central ideal’ comes from the way in which religious texts were ‘edited’ in order to justify and illustrate the way the situation was many years on. As Robin Lane Fox has observed:

… the scriptures have grown with a splendid incoherence. There was not a single block of early ‘scripture’ which was then padded by later users … Padding has certainly been added to older writings: it is obvious in the books of particular prophets and has had important effects in the older narratives. A covenant, for instance, with God has been added into the earlier stories of God and Moses on Sinai … Some of the texts were compiled from older, separate texts and, unlike bricks and plaster, these earlier building blocks had led a separate meaningful life.²

It may come as a surprise to learn that most of what we know as the Old Testament, upon which the New Testament was founded, is in fact propaganda, not history. As Richard Heller said in a review of Robin Lane Fox’s book (from which the above quotation is taken), ‘the Ten Commandments, as set out in Exodus, would have been unknown to David and Solomon because they were written at least 300 years later.’³ Christianity tells us that Jesus was the Messiah, that he was a King and that he was crucified and resurrected from death three days later. However, it makes by implication an even greater claim, that, by virtue of his status as the Messiah, he is in some way semi-, or even fully, divine: that he is in fact the Son of God.

The Gospels are cited as first-hand testimony to this fact; and the New Testament as a whole provides the single uniting factor of Christianity, which in reality is an agglomeration of disparate trends, sects and sub-sects – namely, the idea of the Crucifixion and the Resurrection that gives Christianity its unique identity.

Christianity was to become a curiously divided religion in a remarkably short time after the passing of Christ, even though we are still inclined to think of it as a singular entity, an entity brought together by the (misleading) view that the Gospels are historical documents.

The last of the canonical Gospels, written by St John, is deemed to be the most reliable in terms of historical detail and first-hand knowledge: it reveals a surprising level of topographical information about Jerusalem in the 1st century. It contains incidents and names that do not occur in the other Gospels. St John’s is the only Gospel most likely to have been written by an actual disciple of Jesus. The other, Synoptic Gospels (from the Greek syn meaning ‘with’, ‘together’ and opsis meaning ‘view’ or ‘similar’) were written by outsiders, not likely to have known Jesus personally – people unfamiliar with Palestine and therefore not conditioned to its way of thinking.

It is important here to bring to mind an important distinction: that the history of the human Jesus is remarkably different from the divine story of Christ. In Catholicism the difference is spelled out in stark fashion: the theological Christ and the historical Jesus. It is my conviction that the two coalesced in the Temple – and that reference is made to such an episode on the codices.

The key point to remember here is that the Gospels to be found in the New Testament were composed in an alien language and in an alien environment for an alien people: by Greeks for Greeks. Greek was not widely spoken in Palestine. It was inevitable that the intrinsic message would have changed emphasis, from one landscape to another, from one politics to another, and thus from one meaning to another. Furthermore, until now, no Hebrew texts from the first Christians have survived or have been located, although there were plenty around in the first few generations of Christianity. Given that the Gospels were compiled many years after the events they describe, as eyewitness accounts they are unreliable: in fact they should be seen more as articles of faith than as documents of history (and yet, paradoxically, as articles of faith they make interesting historical reading).

For a start, there are few independent eyewitness accounts of the most important parts of Jesus’s life, so the Gospels are the only guide to what might or might not have happened. The very few references in the classical sources, particularly in Josephus’ Antiquities of the Jews, are regarded as suspect owing to the editorial influence of pious Christian editors during the early centuries of the rise of the faith. It is even likely that these editors destroyed much that they did not agree with or did not want to be seen by others, viewing the material as heretical or, possibly, too revealing.

In the Antiquities of the Jews, compiled towards the end of the 1st century, Josephus reports as follows:

Now, there was about this time Jesus, a wise man, if it be lawful to call him a man, for he was a doer of wonderful works – a teacher of such men as receive the truth with pleasure. He drew over to him both many of the Jews, and many of the Gentiles. He was [the] Christ; and when Pilate, at the suggestion of the principal men amongst us, had condemned him to the cross, those that loved him at the first did not forsake him, for he appeared to them alive again the third day, as the divine prophets had foretold these and ten thousand other wonderful things concerning him: and the tribe of Christians, so named from him, are not extinct at this day.⁴

The Testimonium Flavianum is much disputed. It bears all the hallmarks of having been tampered with. Josephus, the turncoat Jewish general, to those unfamiliar with him comes across as a closet Christian; and as others have pointed out, the Testimonium almost conforms to the Apostolic Creed. However, much of the text does indeed have the flavour of Josephus’ style, his vocabulary and his way of thinking. The jury is still out on whether the passage is original or not – particularly as Josephus in his narrative, The Jewish War, blames the Messianists and the Zealots for the destruction of his people in the war of AD 66–70.

The four canonical Gospels, with perhaps the exception of John, in being written after Paul’s letters, reflect to a large extent Paul’s influence: his theological musings were not unknown to the authors, yet at the same time the Gospels reflect traditions and writings prior to Paul’s theological input. Every deed and word of Christ seems overlaid with a divine context, and this is a testament to the sheer weight of influence that the character of Paul brought to bear on the early Church and its writings – those that he managed to inspire.

The immediate period after the disappearance and death of St Paul in AD c60 seems to draw a demarcation line in the early story of the Gospels and thus the story of early Christianity. What non-canonical Gospels such as the Gospels of Peter or of Philip demonstrate is that there were many Christianities co-existing in the era of the early 1st millennium AD, versions of the faith that until relatively recently were still condemned as heretical or ‘off message’. It was not really until the discovery of the Nag Hammadi texts in the desert of Egypt in 1945 that a whole cache of Gnostic and alternative manuscripts came to light and our ideas about the origins of Christianity began to change. For much of this material had been hidden away by those condemned in the various Church Councils following the acknowledgement of Christianity as the official religion of the Roman Empire by Constantine the Great in AD 313.

By this stage Pauline thought had taken over the Church of Rome and was never in any danger of being toppled; except at the Council of Nicaea, when Arianism and its view of the human Jesus almost became the sole religion of the empire. However, the crisis was averted and Arianism went the way of all the other differences of opinion – heresy (from the Greek, haireseis, to make a choice). These were the events that saw the rise of Christianity in the Western world. Within Christianity itself much also had changed. St Paul’s original inspiration had begun to metamorphose into what we would now recognize as orthodox Christianity centred on the concept of the Saviour Messiah.

The idea of the Messiah is a far more complex and ultimately revealing concept than is generally considered by mainstream Christianity. In the millennium prior to Jesus, Israel had undergone significant changes; and perhaps when considering the subject of the Messiah, it is necessary to understand that everything changed in 722 BC, when the northern kingdom of Israel (as opposed to the southern kingdom of Judah), comprising ten of the tribes of Israel, was destroyed; and again in c586 BC when Judah was in large part sent into the Babylonian exile. It was during this time of exile that the term ‘Jew’ was coined – it was Babylonian slang for a member of the tribe of Judah.

In the New Testament Epistle of James the very first words are: ‘To the twelve tribes scattered among the nations …’ Consistent reference is made by the Apostles and by the early Church Fathers to Israel – explicitly Israel in the sense of the twelve tribes of which Judea was merely one part. Jesus has to be seen as the King of all Israel, not just of Judea; or else his mission, his story and the liturgy that has built up around Christianity would make no sense. Jesus must therefore have had a good claim on such a title. In this sense, the term Messiah means truly the acknowledged King of the 12 tribes of Israel. How doubly cruel it was to Christ, as he hung in his death agony from the cross, to display the titulus above him that read with bitter irony: King of the Jews.

The first real acknowledged Messiah, King of Israel, is David, whose intermarriage with the 12 tribal heiresses sustained and confirmed his title. Kings of later Judea and the northern Kings of Israel would have had to claim descent from David in order to assert their entitlement to the throne. The role of the Messiah was to act as a kind of semi-divine interlocutor between the populace and God. When the candidate became King, the spirit of God would descend into him, and thus in an almost shamanic way he was half in this world and half in the next.

However, it is from the northern kingdom of Israel, which had seceded from Judah at the death of Solomon, c900 BC, that we derive the most interesting concept and the one that Jesus fits most accurately: the Suffering Servant, the Son of Joseph – the one exception to the idea of the Messiah always being a warrior king. Joseph is the famous patriarch with the coat of many colours, whose father was Jacob, also known as Israel (Ish-Ra-El, a probable translation being ‘The Man Who Saw God’).

The Suffering Servant is mentioned most famously by the prophet Isaiah, who lived around 740–680 BC. What Isaiah has to say is probably one of the most significant passages in the whole of the Old Testament, as we know it.

He was despised and rejected by others, a man of suffering, and familiar with pain, like one from whom people hide their faces. He was despised and we held him in low esteem. Surely he took up our pain and bore our suffering, yet we considered him punished by God, stricken by him and afflicted. But he was pierced for our transgressions, he was crushed for our iniquities: the punishment that brought us peace was on him, and by his wounds we are healed.

… and though the Lord makes his life an offering for sin … after he has suffered, he will see the light of life and be satisfied; by his knowledge. My righteous servant will justify many and he will bear their iniquities … because he poured his life unto death, and he was numbered with the transgressors.

But it is this next (and last) line in the passage that justifies my earlier comparison of Isaiah in the midst of his prophetic ecstasy with the tribal shaman:

For he bore the sin of many, and made intercession for the transgressors.

Perhaps it is my Western Christian conditioning, but this idea, this specific concept of the Messiah, has about it such an extraordinary touch of humanity and an implicit awareness of the human condition that one can fully understand, not only its popularity, but also its meaning. That is to say, when we read about the Messiah, son of David, we get the impression of a ruthless slashing and hacking warrior king out for glory, in the usual testosterone-filled sense of the word; but with the idea of the Suffering Servant we have almost the exact opposite.

But surely, what is most striking of all is that this should have emerged from northern Israel – the place where Jesus made his home and pursued his mission before going on to Jerusalem and higher things.

In the Old Testament book of Numbers (24.17) there is an even older prophecy about the Suffering Servant: ‘I see him … but not in the present, I behold him – but not close at hand, a star from Jacob takes the leadership, a sceptre arises from Israel’ (Jerusalem Bible).

To truly understand these texts we have to appreciate that most of them were rewritten or ‘adjusted’ in order to underline the importance of certain specific issues – and to cover up others. This was undertaken in response to the early Christian movement – the people who were largely held responsible for the fall of Jerusalem in the war of AD 66–70.

The early Christian writer Justin Martyr, who was born AD c100 in the former Roman city of Flavia Neapolis (modern-day Nablus), near the old territory of Samaria, took issue with the Jews over their rewriting of texts. In conversation with Trypho he declares:

I certainly do not trust your teachers who refuse to admit that the translation made by the seventy elders who were with Ptolemy [king] of the Egyptians is a correct one and attempt to make their own translation. And I wish you to observe that they have altogether taken away many Scriptures composed by those elders.’⁵

Justin then reveals precisely which Scriptures he knows to have been altered. This is entirely relevant to our understanding of the Lead Codices, for what Justin is saying is that the parts recognized by Christians as messianic texts were being removed. Trypho denies this but Justin quotes deleted words from 1 Esdras, which cannot be found today – but they were certainly known to Lactantius (AD 240–320), a later Christian author, and adviser to the first Christian Roman emperor, Constantine.

And Esdras said to the people, this Passover is our Saviour and our refuge. And if you have understood, and your heart has taken it in, that we shall humble Him on a standard, and thereafter hope in Him, then this place shall not be forsaken for ever, says the God of hosts. But if you will not believe Him, and will not listen to His declaration, you shall be a laughingstock to the nations.⁶

Justin also refers to words deleted from the Book of Jeremiah, now lost to us, but quoted by another Church Father, Irenaeus.

From the Book of Jeremiah Justin informs us that the following words, though ‘still found in some copies of the Scripture in Jewish synagogues’, were deleted:

I was like a lamb that is brought to the slaughter: they devised a device against me, saying, Come, let us lay on wood on His bread, and let us blot Him out from the land of the living; and His name shall no more be remembered.

In addition Justin points out that the text of Psalm 96.10 has also been tampered with, since it no longer reads, ‘The Lord reigns from the tree,’ the last three words having been deleted.

It is interesting that a Christian scholar of the mid-2nd century should claim that the older Greek version of the Scriptures was being replaced by new translations, and that parts being used by the Christians as messianic texts were being removed, for there is more than an intimation here of what we recognize today as Christian writings – even though they pre-date the era of Jesus.

Warning about the accuracy of his translation from Hebrew into Greek, Ben Sira (2nd century BC) wrote: ‘You are urged therefore to read with goodwill and attention, and to be indulgent in cases where, despite our diligent labour in translating, we may seem to have rendered some phrases imperfectly. For what was originally expressed in Hebrew does not have exactly the same sense when translated into another language.’⁷

The Hebrew Scriptures had been translated into Greek under the aegis of Ptolemy of Egypt around 285–247 BC. When the work, called the Septuagint (LXX), was finished, it was read to the Jewish community of the city, who agreed it was an accurate translation, going so far as to lay a curse on anyone who should attempt to alter it (Letter of Aristeas 311). The Septuagint was regarded with honour in the lifetime of Jesus, yet by the end of the 2nd century AD it was being condemned (m. Soferim 1.7).

At a much later date St Jerome (AD c400) made a new translation of the Bible into Latin, but where possible used Hebrew translations as a source, abandoning the Greek Old Testament, which until this point had been the Scripture of the Church. The early Church Father Origen (AD 184/5–253/5) had known passages important to the Christians that were not in the Jewish Scriptures, but also he was well aware that Jewish Scripture had passages not in the Christian texts. Scripture had become a war zone.

The unacknowledged consequence of the Western Church accepting the Jewish canon and the text of the Old Testament as its Scripture, to the exclusion of other books, has been profound. Evidence shows clearly that the earliest Church used a very different set of Scriptures. After the destruction of the Temple (the blame for which was laid firmly at the door of the Christians), some of the Hebrew books came to be accepted as Scripture by the Jewish community, whilst others were excluded. That Rabbi Akiva could say that anyone ‘who read a book excluded from the Scripture would have no part in the world to come’ (m. Sanhedrin 10.1) shows the starkness of the distinction. The decision to adopt the newly altered canon is thought to have taken place at Jamnia in the years after the fall of the Temple in AD 135. There is a disguised account of this process in 2 Esdras, describing how Ezra heard the Most High speaking to him from a bush (2 Esdras 14.1).

Ezra was the new Moses. He was told to write the new canon in the form of a series of books, only some of which were to be made public. The remainder, containing the source of understanding, wisdom and knowledge, were therefore of utmost importance. It is possible that they were the pre-Christian books that came to be preserved only by the Christians: The Ascension of Isaiah, 1 and 2 Enoch and so on. The discovery of the Dead Sea Scrolls in the 1940s has brought this issue into sharp relief, since texts long cited as major, yet written out of the Scriptures, were found in the hoard, and were obviously important to the Dead Sea community (see Margaret Barker, The Great High Priest, p298ff).

The alteration of scripture was remembered ever after. Later, Muslim scholars too would also cite their accusations that the texts had been altered. What was being hidden away or completely rewritten was nothing less than the secret history of Hebraism, the long-lost original theology – and the fact that it was based upon ritual performed at the Temple of Jerusalem.

The 1st century was the era of the Second Temple, built by Herod the Great – he who tried to massacre the innocents according to Scripture. It bore little resemblance to the original Temple of Solomon. In antiquity the Temple had played a crucial role as a mouthpiece of the divine through the person of the King-Messiah; and as these traditions were altered, redacted and edited down the centuries, there came into being movements that sought to preserve them, and came to see the later, reconstructed Temple as somehow polluted.

By the time of Jesus the image of the Temple was tarnished; for the truth of the matter is that God’s name resided in the middle of what was effectively Judea’s central bank. In this capacity the Temple attracted the rather unwelcome attentions of Judea’s ruling élite on a regular basis. The very thing that had caused the secession with the ten northern tribes of Israel at the end of the reign of Solomon had made the Temple an extraordinarily wealthy place: taxes. Payment of Temple tax was compulsory for every devout pilgrim, and such a captive following – thousands went up to Jerusalem every year for the Passover – brought phenomenal power to the heart of the city. But it was also a hotbed of intrigue, strife and political assassination, as various parties struggled for prestige and influence.

The latent power of Jerusalem’s ancient traditions and practices was to resurface in the 1st century – in the teachings of the early Jerusalem Church.

The Christians adopted Temple ways of thinking in their liturgies and continued to worship in the Temple. Jesus went to the Temple often and even after it was destroyed in AD 70 ‘the Christians,’ as Dr Margaret Barker put it to me in private conversation, ‘continued to use the Temple ways of thinking, Temple styles of decoration, Temple styles of worship; and a lot of the Temple, in every sense of the word, passed into Christianity.’

When we first looked upon the codices and their iconography, an image of the Temple, with its accoutrements, was precisely what stood out for us. One of these accoutrements strongly affirmed that this was indeed the holy place in which Jesus had preached and worked: the seven-branched menorah. This singular item was to be found in only one place: deep inside the hall of the Holy of Holies, the most sacred place in 1st-century Palestine. In Christian memory it was held to reside inside the Holy of Holies. It was a piece of God’s furniture – forbidden from representation at the time on the grounds of blasphemy. Seeing the Menorah on the codices was the moment of confirmation – that the codices abounded in hidden knowledge, sealed in books and then hidden away for many, many centuries.

At this time no Christian iconography existed. All that there was were the vivid descriptions in Revelation, the last book in the Bible. One missing letter in the Book of Haggai was said to indicate that five items were now absent from the Second Temple. Later Jewish texts remember what these were: the Menorah, the Ark, the Spirit, the Fire and the Cherubim. We were soon to realize that at least two of these, the Menorah and the Spirit, are to be found in or around the discovery of the codices; furthermore, if the discovery comprises a ‘New Covenant’ with God as seems to be suggested, then the fact that they were contained in a series of lead boxes would also imply the Ark. However, it was only when we first saw, on one codex, the face of Jesus, the Man of Woes, with all of its power and the sadness in its eyes that we began fully to appreciate the codices as repositories of early Christianity.

According to one of the eminent scholars who has examined the codices, the Key of Heaven, often to be seen in the hands of St Peter and other saints, is actually a reference to a seal, as in the seal of a book. In stained-glass windows in churches St Peter is often to be seen holding both a key and a sealed book: according to Clement of Alexandria (in Hypotyposes) he was a recipient of the secret teachings of Jesus and was also a Nasorean – a guardian of these mysteries and guardians always have a key.

In the light of this, it is significant that the very texts Justin Martyr mentions as being altered are also writings that mention secret books and other items hidden away in caves. In 2 Maccabees, written c140 BC, which placed the prophet Jeremiah at the end of the First Temple period, we read specifically of Jeremiah sealing and hiding away the Ark of the Covenant in a cave in Jordan near Mount Nebo (2.1–8). Specifically the passage tells of ‘images of silver and gold’.

And how that the prophet, having given them the law, charged them not to forget the commandments of the Lord, and that they should not err in their minds, when they see images of silver and gold, with their ornaments.

Jeremiah is said to have been the last person to see the Ark of the Covenant before its disappearance from the Temple, and it was he who secreted it away, never to be seen again. However, the account in 2 Maccabees was written by Hebrew-Christians in the 1st century. Were they hinting at something? Not necessarily the Ark of the Covenant but perhaps a new Ark, a New Covenant, a treasure held to be of equal importance: a treasure hidden in a cave.

More than this, 2 Esdras 14 describes in explicit terms the making of many books and an instruction from God to keep 70 of them and give them only to the wise. It is the last few lines that are revealing:

… but keep the seventy last, that thou mayest deliver them only to such as be wise among the people: For in them is the spring of understanding, the fountain of wisdom, and the stream of knowledge.

The final reference is telling, for the female figure of Wisdom resided deep inside the original temple and her story was to play a major part in the upheavals of the 1st century – for there were those who sought her return to the centre of Temple worship and rite, preservers of the old ways. These people were Nazoreans and at their heart were the secret teachings of Jesus, their rightful King, whose prophecies told of the destruction of Jerusalem if the polluted temple was not cleansed and whose words were sealed and hidden away in caves across the Jordan – until the end of time.

15 September – 18 October 2007: The Codices

Over the next few days I poured over the four images that Ron had given me. They were crude photographs, printed on photocopy paper, but at least there was enough to begin a rudimentary analysis. The first thing that struck me about the images was the variation in size and thickness of the codices, which could be easily ascertained as they had been helpfully placed next to a bright green plastic ruler. Two were reasonably large, the size of a standard hardback book, whilst the other two were so small they could fit into the palm of a hand. One of the photographs showed a book resting face up, and through the outward-facing binding I was able to count four or five metal leaves (the thick detritus covering them made it difficult to ascertain precisely how many). On the smaller books there was one motif I struggled to work out at first, eventually identifying it as the flower of a pomegranate tree.

The covers of the larger books were of a different order: they were festooned with palm trees and palm branches, and I could just make out a wall that seemed to be either crumbling or under construction. In the centre of the entire tableau was a column of what I thought to be Palaeo-Hebraic text. The best overall explanation of the codices, however, seemed to be offered by the menorah, or Jewish candlestick. At first sight it had taken my breath away: it was the very same candlestick that was to be found in the inner sanctuary of the Temple of Solomon. What was odd about this candlestick was that it did not have the usual seven branches; rather, it appeared to have nine. However, the eighth and ninth branches were literally that – tree branches formed of leaves, or fronds, though elsewhere in the photos there were also menorahs bearing the standard seven branches. I repeatedly counted the branches to make sure that there were indeed nine and not seven: there were menorahs all over the covers of the books, always within a boundary of palm trees.

The extraordinary nine-branched candlestick is called the chanukiyah and, in a later pious Jewish myth, symbolizes a miracle wherein one day’s worth of oil burned for eight days, after the rededication of the Temple in the time of the Maccabean Kings (immediately before the time of Jesus). The nine-branched menorah was a symbol of the Jewish Exile to Babylon, which had occurred at the end of the kingdom of Judah way back in c586 BC.

It was to Babylon that Nebuchadnezzar had exiled the Jews, in c586 BC; and it was from here that some elements of Judaism familiar to us today had begun to emerge. An earlier King of Babylon, Hammurabi, had been presented with a gift of two tablets by the god Shamash – tablets that contained the Law, echoing most obviously the story of Moses on Mount Sinai. To represent the seven-branched menorah was utterly forbidden by edict of the Elders of the Hebrew community, since the original was uniquely sacred: it was the golden candlestick placed at the heart of Solomon’s Temple, housed in the Holy of Holies – the place wherein God Himself was said to reside. After the last great rebellion of the Jews in AD 132–5, this edict was destroyed, along with the Temple that housed it. From then on the image was freely portrayed.

Another thing I noted was that almost all of the books were covered in eight-pointed stars (see plate 2) – so many of them that it was impossible to ignore their implied importance. To the people of ancient Judah and those who followed after, these motifs were not simple ornamentation: every depiction had meaning and was placed upon the page with purpose and intent, mere decoration being potentially blasphemous.

It was the stars that prompted my first insight: they were symbolic of kingship. The six-pointed star is familiar to us today as a symbol of black magic and of Israel: it is derived from the famous King, Solomon. The seven-pointed star denoted Solomon’s father, King David. However, of particular interest to me at the time was the fact that the eight-pointed star was indicative of the enigmatic figure of Melchizedek, the figure to whom Abraham showed obeisance. Melchizedek appears in Genesis 14 as the King of Salem. Moreover, his role is that of High Priest, and a cursory inspection of the codices showed definite High Priestly and regal references. Could the codices possibly be early Christian documents? It was an intriguing thought.

The symbols gathered around the square in the middle of some of the books were largely of menorah and palm trees and, everywhere, eight-pointed stars. All of this was turning over in my mind: the books were trying to tell me something, but I was struggling to understand what it was. I looked again at the palm trees. They looked remarkably similar to the symbols often seen on coins from the era of Simon bar Kokhba, the last of the Jewish ‘rebel’ leaders and a messianic candidate whose symbol was a star – his name translates as ‘son of the Star’. Bar Kokhba’s revolt took place in AD 132–5 and was, at first, successful. But it was only a matter of time before the Romans struck back. The Temple of Jerusalem had been utterly destroyed at the end of the first Great Revolt in AD 70. Roman rule had been brutal, but it was matched by the fanaticism that the occupying force had witnessed first-hand in this most reluctant of provinces. The rebellion had started as most rebellions do. Jerusalem had become a tinder-box of ill-feeling towards its rulers, both foreign and domestic, over a long period. There was a rumour that the rebellion had been stirred in the aftermath of the death of St James, brother of Jesus. When Roman retaliation eventually came, it was swift, brutal and horrific. This was the final punishment for a province long seen as a thorn in the imperial flesh. With the final Roman victory and the death of bar Kokhba and his cohorts, Jerusalem was destroyed and a new, Roman city was built upon its ruins: Aelia Capitolina. Another messianic hope of the people had been annihilated.

Bar Kokhba had issued his own coinage, and on some of the examples I had seen online I was able to make out the very same palm trees that appeared on the codices. This is where I began to make a bit of headway in my interpretation. The palm tree was symbolic of the House of David, King of Israel. Furthermore, on the codices they are in fruit, which implies that an offshoot of David will arise to claim the throne. Palm fronds, as is well known, were used to usher Jesus into the Holy City of Jerusalem on what is now called Palm Sunday (John 12.12–19; Mark 11.1–11). There are separate representations of palm branches (that is, as single details rather than on the whole tree) throughout the codices, and they immediately struck me as indicative that what was being celebrated here was something to do with kingship.

Moreover, the eight-pointed stars, my researches had told me, represented stars of the House of Jesse, the father of David. Epiphanius (AD c315–403), the early Church Father, claims that the Essenes took their name from him. The star of Jesse, most famous as the Star of Bethlehem, is an unmistakable messianic symbol. Strangely, it was only when I took note of these particular stars (see plate 2) that I was struck by how often they appear in churches all over Europe – particularly medieval churches. If these were kingly documents, then the presence of lulavim and etrogim would go some way to confirming it.

Lulavim are bundles of branches that included palm branches. They were laid in the path of Jesus on his entry into Jerusalem. They are a sign of kingship. Etrogim are a kind of Rubenesque lemon – citrus with cellulite. They were one of the four species brought by the Israelites out of Egypt during the Exodus. (See plate 14 for a row of etrogim.) They are still used in the festival of Sukkot, otherwise known as Tabernacles. Two thousand years ago this annual event in the calendar was called the Feast of the Messiah. I had a strong intuition regarding the orthodox Jewish connection, and felt compelled to pursue this. The books, to my mind, were likely to be Hebrew-Christian.

We all too often forget that the first Christians were Jewish, but it is even more difficult to appreciate the idea of a ‘Hebrew-Christian’. We shall use this term for the first followers of the early Church surrounding Jesus, the last King of Israel, to avoid confusion with later converts. Jesus was Jewish, as they all were. To them he was the fulfilment of the Law of the prophets. However, he was one King among the many that Israel had had in her long history. All the Kings of Israel were Messiahs: all the word Messiah means is the ‘anointed one’.

To these people Greek was a foreign language – and, of course, the New Testament was written in Greek. Thus, the New Testament was foreign in their eyes and bore little resemblance to what these early believers had witnessed. The Hebrew-Christians were the actual family, as well as the followers, of Christ. Until now, no existing texts from these groups have survived, with the possible exception of the newly restored Gospel of Judas. They were either hidden away or ordered destroyed by the winners in the game of competing Christianities.

18 October 2007: A Secret Meeting

Jennifer and I were excited. It was the day of our first official meeting about forming a team of professionals to authenticate and investigate the codices. I had in the meantime been in touch with Allen Ferkel, a well-respected metallurgist whom I had met at the London Book Fair. I also suggested to Ron that we include Shane Kimberley. Shane was a businessman from Melbourne whom I’d met in Bath some time back when he was project-managing for the Wisdom of the Ancients trust. We picked up Shane from Didcot Parkway station and drove over to Ron’s, only 15 minutes away. He greeted us enthusiastically.

There was a woman already in the room, in a stylish tunic and beaded necklace. Her demeanour was stern. Ron introduced her as Maryam.

‘Maryam is here from Israel representing the owner of the artefacts. She is a museum curator and archaeologist in Palestine.’

Allen had arrived by this time, and we were all shown through into the dining room. Ron gave a brief assessment of the discovery and informed us that as an indication of the owner’s serious intentions he was prepared to provide research funds for testing and analysis. Midway through the discussion that ensued, Maryam reached into her handbag and pulled out a small velvet pouch. Carefully removing the object, she unfurled it from its wrapping. It was a tiny lead book. Everyone leaned forward, straining to get a closer look. It was without a doubt one of the most beautiful and surprising things I had ever seen.

My hands quivered with anticipation as Ron passed the little book to me. I weighed it in my hand; it was surprisingly heavy, much heavier than I had expected considering its small size. Its weight determined that the metal had to be lead. The book emanated power that both intrigued and fascinated me. It had quite obviously been cleaned, but with great care. Turning it over, I could see that it comprised a collection of five lead plates bound together by thick lead wire. It was inscribed both inside and out. My immediate reaction was that it seemed to impart a religious or magical intent. The book appeared to represent a scheme or pattern: both front and back displayed a stylized palm tree in fruit with two eight-pointed stars below. At the top there was a nine-branched menorah, just as I had seen in the earlier photographs, only this one had an inscription above it.

As I held the little book in the palm of my hand, taking in its delicate beauty, everything around me seemed to fade. My mind was racing. Who made this? Who would have carried it? Why lead? Why make a collection of books out of this metal?

Allen had brought a camera and had just taken it out of his tote bag and rested it on the table when Ron barked out, ‘No pictures!’

‘Why not’? Allen enquired dejectedly. ‘I have a very good camera with a 50mm macro lens that can take a much better photo than the images you have on your computer. It will be helpful to use for research.’

Allen reluctantly backed down, instead producing a jeweller’s loupe with which he studied the book closely. By this stage Maryam was getting agitated: she clearly could not wait to put the little book back in its pouch and out of the thrall of everyone in the room. I wondered how on earth she had sneaked it past airport customs.

Having asked various questions of the team, she packed up the booty and left, looking at all of us suspiciously as she said her hasty goodbyes.

It was Allen who broke the silence. He told us he had done some online research and found that someone had already posted a few images on a website. Clearly we were not the only ones to know about the discovery. Ron explained that Maryam had shown a few of the codices to a couple of universities, but he did not know who else had seen them.

Less than half an hour after Maryam had left, Ron received a call. His expression was grim as he hung up. Maryam had been in a car accident: the brakes had failed. She was fine but the car had been written off. She was lucky to be alive. Jennifer and I did not say this out loud, but somehow it felt like a warning. Apprehension clouded our initial excitement.

The lead is likely to be Roman in provenance,’ he said. ‘There’s a lot of information on Roman lead – I’ll gather what I can. I think that my first guess would take us to Anatolia, modern-day Turkey. The Romans used lead the way we do today – for pipes and roofing … although we’ve stopped using it for piping – for obvious reasons, of course. But a book? I’ve certainly never come across anything like that, but I have plenty of notes and sources at home. I’m sure I’ll come up with something. I remember an article on some lead artefacts that were discovered a couple of centuries ago, which have since disappeared into the Vatican archives. I’ll dig that up and email it to you.’

A strategy was devised, with a role for everyone. When we got up to leave, Allen extended his hand, giving me what seemed like an unmistakably Masonic handshake – pressing his thumb to the knuckle of the forefinger.

‘Not very well,’ I admitted, ‘but he does have a good reputation as a metallurgist.’

Jennifer and I had talked a lot about the discovery over the past month, and had decided to throw everything at it once the metal analysis had confirmed the age and authenticity of the hoard. It was agreed that Allen would get together with Ron and arrange for samples to be taken and sent to the two laboratories he recommended: the Oxford Materials Characterisation Service (OMCS) at Oxford University Begbroke Science Park; and the Swiss Federal Laboratories for Materials Science and Technology (EMPA) in Dübendorf, Switzerland. Scrapings would be taken from the edges, leaving no traces; and if possible perhaps a small cutting would be taken from one side. These would be obtained from the book that Maryam had brought with her, as it would save time. Ron would gather more background information on the discovery and I would continue my search to establish the identity of the codices.

We needed more information about the cave where the books had been discovered. Ron had a photograph that he thought would be helpful, so we drove over to visit him. The image he handed to me depicted what appeared to be a wall of niches carved into a dusty limestone wall. Thick roots were growing out of the sides where the undergrowth had matured over the years, pushing its way through the rocky soil.

‘Some of the books were found in situ in those series of individually carved niches,’ Ron said, pointing to the shallow recesses.

I had gathered that much. Apart from the obvious fact that Maryam was Palestinian and Ron had mentioned that she had taken the books to the Hebrew University in Jerusalem to be analysed, for me the script on the codices had narrowed down the possibilities for the location.

The Early Christians

… behold, how great a matter a little flame kindleth.

From my initial study of the images it was easy to conclude that they may well be Hebrew-Christian, the work of people who saw themselves as preservers or restorers of writings and rituals that had long ago been taken away from them. They were not therefore abandoning their identities, just reasserting them. The shock of this realization is that Christianity was not a new religion. Furthermore, in the early 1st century there was no such thing as ‘Christianity’, just a miscellany of sects representing variations upon a theme. Therefore, if Christianity, as the codices seem to suggest, harks back to the days of Solomon’s Temple, then it also harks back to the days of the original twelve tribes of Israel – the Hebrews. What we are looking at is Hebrew-Christianity or, in a 1st-century context, Christian Hebrews.⁸

The ‘earliest Christians’ were known as the Jerusalem Church – a far better term for this breakaway movement, composed not only of Jews but of Samaritans and others too. They believed that Jesus was the rightful King, the expected Messiah – the King/God of Israel. This was the movement that in due course would become defined as Christianity. They were also called Nazarenes or Nazoreans. The term comes from the Hebrew notsrim, meaning ‘keepers’ or ‘preservers’ or even ‘guardians’; this is turn comes from the root nezer, meaning ‘branch’.

From the time of Solomon until the Seleucid period (c176 BC), Temple ritual, it is believed, had been overseen by priests of the House of Zadok (meaning ‘Righteous’). This practice had come to an end after Antiochus Epiphanes, the Seleucid King, had deposed the last of the Zadokite High Priests in 175 BC.⁹ However, with the restoration of independence, the Maccabean rulers chose priests from within their own family. They became Kings and High Priests. The House of Zadok was to remain in exile. Scholars believe that a group from within this house had separated themselves from the Temple and settled by the shores of the Dead Sea: they became known as the Essenes.

The Essenes had ever since then been a thorn in the side of the Temple authorities, for it was widely believed that only a High Priest from the House of Zadok, the Righteous, could give legitimacy to the Temple ritual. Only they could speak on behalf of the people before God – and therefore make the offering of Atonement once a year at the Temple. Their emphasis was purity: ritual and liturgical. They believed that the Temple of Herod was polluted, that the rituals there were improper, involving practices that they saw as abominable. They insisted upon the proper practice by the proper people; and they yearned for the coming of the Messiah King of Israel to cleanse the sins of the nation.

When Herod the Great had ascended the throne he had restored the High Priesthood to the House of Zadok, giving himself the right to depose High Priests when he saw fit: traditionally it had been a hereditary office and a lifelong one. Politics ruled the day and demands for purity by the traditionalists became ever more urgent. These factors play a part in the significance of the codices, most obviously in their representation of the Temple. They have the shape and the feel of sectarian documents produced by a community in exile.

The Temple authorities were confronted by a double-edged sword: on the one hand, they had the Romans, wanting to impose peace under their own terms; on the other, they had the many factions of Judea wanting to be forever rid of the Romans. Ever practical, the Temple, its High Priesthood and the Sanhedrin walked the tightrope between the Romans and the destruction of all they held dear. This was the extremely tense situation shortly before and after the Crucifixion of Jesus.

By the time that the Church came to take on a recognizable form, Jerusalem had fallen and Christianity was beginning to develop in two distinct regions: the Greek-speaking area of Asia Minor, the playground of St Paul; and the Aramaic, Syriac area north of Palestine, including the region of Antioch. It is in this latter area that very early Christian writings were formulated from what were older Christian traditions.

Before the author of Matthew composed his Gospel in Greek, the saint to whom authorship is ascribed is credited with a now lost collection of the sayings of Jesus in Aramaic. A small but important selection of these sayings, or logia (from logos, the Word) as they are sometimes called, has been partially incorporated into the Gospel. An earlier work that incorporated more of the sayings was described by St Jerome as the Gospel According to the Hebrews. ‘I had an opportunity of copying it,’ he writes, ‘afforded me by the Nazarenes who use the book, at Beroea, a city of Syria.’

It is significant that St Jerome (AD c330–420) should have had in his hands a copy of the original Nazarene gospel. He was private secretary to Pope Damasus and after the latter’s death demonstrated his scholarly talent by translating the Bible from its original Hebrew into Latin.

Of all the Gospels, Matthew’s is the most symbolic in its use of mythic imagery: there is a tension here, an urgency, suggesting a writer eager to impart something important, something encoded. Many scholars in recent years have asserted that the Gospels are more myth than history, and in Matthew we get a taste of why this argument has emerged. The idea of Jesus that we get from Matthew and the other Gospels is like a reflection in a plate-glass window. This is the Jesus of faith, the Son of God, tangible but ghostly: Jesus appears every inch the hero, performing miracles and doing good – only for it all to end when he is brought before the Roman procurator Pontius Pilate on an unspecified charge and condemned to death by the most gruesome means possible: crucifixion.

The Gospels were not only written long after the events they describe but with an eye to their readership – a largely Roman audience. Suddenly we can see why Matthew appears to be holding back. It is all a matter of subtlety. The Gospels show a keenness to appear free of anti-Roman sentiment: this at least is the view of modern Biblical scholarship.

Around AD 110, Papias, Bishop of Hierapolis, wrote a work in five books entitled Exposition of the Oracles of the Lord, in which he reports that Matthew, the disciple, compiled the sayings of the Lord in Hebrew. This has been taken to mean the first Gospel, whereas it is known that St Matthew’s Gospel used the Greek Gospel of Mark as a source; the many scriptural quotations within Matthew’s Gospel are from a Greek translation rather than from a direct Hebrew source.

… all the Gospels, except the patently fictitious ones, were based on notes taken by Greek-speaking converts from the Aramaic Gospel orally current among the Nazarenes; and … each evangelist, as Papias reports; ‘interpreted them as best he could’ – that is to say, uncritically and, in general, with studied ignorance of their historical background.¹⁰

St Matthew’s Gospel¹¹ and the Exposition of the Oracles of the Lord are two entirely different works, and one might have come from out of the other – the Oracles first, the Gospel second. Furthermore, the shape of Matthew’s Gospel was very likely to have been inspired by the Oracles, even though its narrative form relied on notes taken in Greek.¹² (Oracular retelling of various traditions was common throughout Asia Minor and Palestine at the time of Jesus.)

Unfortunately, Matthew’s use of Greek is confusing. He uses the Greek ‘Nazoraios’ – a ‘preserver of the old ways’. It later became associated with the place called Nazareth; but there is no archaeological evidence to show that Nazareth existed at this time. Matthew states: ‘He [Jesus] will be called a Nazarean’ (Matthew 2.22–23). This does not correspond at all closely to anything in either the Old or New Testaments. As Professor J R Porter points out:

… many scholars think that it is based on Isaiah 11.1, a well-known messianic passage where the Messiah is described as a ‘branch’ (Hebrew ‘nezer’) of the tree of Jesse (the father of King David). But Matthew normally cites the Septuagint, the Greek version of the Hebrew Bible, which has nothing like Nazaraios at this point. However, he may be translating directly from the original Hebrew …¹³

I will not hesitate to add also for you to my interpretations which I formerly learned with care from the Presbyters [elders or priests in local Christian congregations] and have carefully stored in memory, giving assurance of its truth. For I did not take pleasure as the many do in those who speak much, but in those who teach what is true, nor in those who relate foreign precepts, but in those who relate the precepts which were given by the Lord to the faith and came down from the Truth itself. And also if any follower of the Presbyters happened to come, I would inquire for the sayings of the Presbyters, what Andrew said, or what Peter said, or what Philip or what Thomas or James or what John or Matthew or any other of the Lord’s disciples, and for the things which other of the Lord’s disciples, and for the things which Aristion and the Presbyter John, the disciples of the Lord, were saying. For I considered that I should not get so much advantage from matter in books as from the voice which yet lives and remains.¹⁴

Papias is telling us that he had these things from an unwritten oral tradition passed directly from Jesus’s immediate Nazarene followers and that they were written in the native language:

Matthew put together the Oracles [of the Lord] in the Hebrew language, and each one interpreted them as best he could.¹⁵

In the years after the Council of Nicaea in AD 325, when Church teaching had been formalized under the aegis of Constantine the Great, much was subsequently destroyed as heretical or inconvenient. The consequence of these actions has led to many misunderstandings about the Jerusalem Church. This was the Mother Church. However, in the West it was the Christianity of St Paul that had won out – and it bore little resemblance to the early Church of the 1st century. It has even sought to play down the image of the early Church, as Hyam Maccoby points out:

It is, after all, implausible, to say the least, that the close followers of Jesus, his companions during his lifetime, led by his brother, should have so misunderstood him that they reversed his views immediately after his death. The ‘stupidity’ motif characterizing the disciples in the Gospels is best understood as a Pauline attempt to explain away the attachment of the ‘Jerusalem Church’ to Judaism, rather than as historical obtuseness.¹⁶

In the Clementine Literature (the Homilies and the Recognitions attributed to St Clement of Rome, who died in AD 99, but more likely authored by early Hebrew-Christian Church communities) there is a scene in which James, brother of Jesus, is preaching in the Temple and on the verge of converting a substantial group within his audience. It is at this point that an ‘enemy’ appears and starts to incite a crowd against James. In the ensuing mêlée James is thrown down the Temple steps, suffering great injury, whereupon he is quickly taken away to safety by his followers. The enemy was Saul of Tarsus, soon to change his name to Paul.

In AD 42 James was forced to leave Jerusalem on pain of death; and so it was that his burgeoning community vacated the divided powder-keg of a city, taking their archive with them and carrying the shattered remains of his lame body.

Many scholars believe that this single act of persecution against James was a contributory factor in the eventual rebellion of the Jews against the might of Rome. Paul, being a representative of the ruling élite of the city, the Sanhedrin, was probably all too aware of the need for the authorities to keep a lid on any perceived threats to the might of Rome. Jerusalem was faced with its gravest crisis in years.¹⁷

In everything I have read about James he is described as a good man, always placed in high regard. His supremacy was recognized throughout Christendom. ‘Good’ in this sense would mean to a person of 1st-century Palestine, a man of God.

Hegesippus, a 2nd-century saint, in a remaining fragment from his lost Commentaries writes the following about James:

After the apostles, James the brother of the Lord surnamed the Just was made head of the Church at Jerusalem. Many indeed are called James. This one was holy from his mother’s womb. He drank neither wine nor strong drink, ate no flesh, never shaved or anointed himself with ointment or bathed. He alone had the privilege of entering the Holy of Holies since indeed he did not use woollen vestments but linen and went alone into the Temple and prayed on behalf of the people, insomuch that his knees were reputed to have acquired the hardness of camels’ knees.¹⁸

From an early age James had been an avowed Nazirite, an ascetic in the service of God. The fact that he was allowed to enter the Holy of Holies also suggests that he was not only a High Priest but also a member of the exiled community by the shores of the Dead Sea, the community that the Greeks called Essenes.¹⁹

In the early texts there is an intriguing dearth of references to the figure of St James: the Epistle of James in the New Testament says little about him, and so too does the Book of Acts, where we see him as the leader of the Jerusalem Church in the wake of the Crucifixion.²⁰ Clement of Alexandria (AD c150–c215) wrote:

For they say that Peter and James and John after the ascension of our Saviour, as if also preferred by our Lord, strove not after honour, but chose James the Just bishop of Jerusalem.²¹

The Lord after his resurrection imparted knowledge to James the Just and to John and Peter, and they imparted it to the rest of the apostles, and the rest of the apostles to the seventy, of whom Barnabas was one.²²

The ‘knowledge’ spoken of by Clement is what, in likelihood, gave James the level of power and influence that he so clearly enjoyed. However, it also made him a lot of enemies, particularly within the organization of the Temple. But if such knowledge was dangerous to James, then it was dangerous also to his entire family, for it seems that the Jerusalem Church was run on the principle of dynastic succession. There is enough strong historical evidence to demonstrate that James was in turn succeeded by another relative of Jesus: James’ cousin, Simeon.

Moreover, for a few hundred years after Jesus’s death, a remnant of this sect of Jewish Messianists, known as Ebionim or Ebionites (‘poor men’), still survived. They revered Jesus as one of the last prophets without attributing to him anything of the divinity that Paul accorded him. Within this sect were a select group called the Desposyni, descendants of Jesus. There is a reference to these descendants by Eusebius (AD c260–340), Bishop of Caesarea and the Father of Church History. Commenting on the earlier words of Hegesippus (2nd century), Eusebius writes:

But there still survived of the family of the Lord the grandsons of Jude, his brother after the flesh, as he was called. These they informed against, as being of the family of David; and the evocatus [a soldier in the Roman army who had gained his discharge but chosen to stay in service] brought them before Domitian Caesar. For he feared the coming of the Christ, as did also Herod. And he asked them if they were of David’s line and they acknowledged it. Then he asked them what possessions they had or what fortune they owned. And they said that between the two of them they had only nine hundred denari, half belonging to each of them … after this Domitian in no way condemned them, but despised them as men of no account.²³

Domitian Caesar, the younger son of the Emperor Vespasian and brother of Titus (victor of the battle to re-take Jerusalem from the Jewish rebels after a fanatical four-year struggle) had good reason to be afraid of the remnant of the family of Jesus; but how low they had fallen, truly they were now poor men. Some writers and scholars have interpreted this as evidence of an attempt to depict the Jerusalem Church and the followers of James as a part of the general fanaticism of the time, to theorize that they were Zealots, or Sicarii (‘knife wielders’). This is pure speculation, and to my mind misguided, since according to the precepts of practising Essenes and their various off-shoot movements, violence was something to be abhorred.²⁴ The fact that such texts as the Dead Sea Scrolls sometimes speak in violent terms does not mean to say that this was reflected in reality. (Ironically, modern scholarly debate on the subject can be just as contentious, without necessarily resorting to physical violence in the aftermath of heated argument.)

Paul also mentions James the Just, writing in Galatians 1.19: ‘Other of the apostles saw I none, save James, the Lord’s brother.’ Paul was a divisive figure in the early Church after his famous conversion. Two warring factions developed: the Jerusalem Church, which did not see itself as separate from the general Hebrew-Jewish community; and the Gentile Church of Paul – gentile because by this time Paul had begun to travel across the breadth of the Roman Empire, beyond the remit of Judaism, with his message of salvation.

Meanwhile, the situation in Jerusalem continued to be fraught. James was leading the Jerusalem Church, a Nazarene party riven by factional fighting.²⁵ It was only after the return of Paul from various of his post-conversion foreign travels, around AD c43–4, that the Jerusalem Church began to look anything like a focused entity – focused on mutual enmity towards Paul and his ‘deviant’ message.²⁶

November 2007: Reading Between the Lines

Ron called in a panic. He was having misgivings about the project and asked if we could come over as soon as possible. He had decided to take the little book to nearby Reading University to perform a test on the lead with a spectrographic gun. I was surprised to discover that he had the codex in his possession. And to take the whole book and not just a few scrapings to Reading was, in my opinion, unwise. He had potentially sent out a huge advert to the academic community as a whole, and we hadn’t even begun to determine whom we could trust yet. We were still in the very first stages of analysis and it was crucial that, until we had more of an idea of what we were working with, we treated our discovery as highly confidential.

Ron told us that the metallurgist had said, ‘Artefacts like this shouldn’t be in the hands of someone like you.’

‘Did they give you any results from the spectrographic test on the metal?’ I asked.

‘Yes,’ Ron replied. ‘The good news is that he confirmed that the provenance of the lead is indeed ancient, although the professor recommended we get more testing done to arrive at a more comprehensive and detailed analysis.’

‘I haven’t yet told you the bad part,’ Ron continued. ‘I got an email from Scotland Yard yesterday. Apparently Reading University contacted them.’

The metallurgist clearly wondered what on earth a British journalist was doing toting around an observably unique and potentially important artefact. Ron would have been obliged to tell him that the codex had come from Israel, as provenance is a key aspect in obtaining accurate and relevant test results. How did it come to be in the UK? Was there no archaeological or academic team behind this discovery? Admittedly, the scenario was highly suspicious.

Upstairs in his office, Ron showed us the email, which said that the police had been contacted by the university about a ‘matter of possible illegal stolen antiquities’. Ron was simply asked to get in touch with the police to cooperate with them on this.

I asked him what proof he had that the artefacts were legitimately owned, and he informed me that the owner had provided him with a document showing legal ownership. I wondered why he hadn’t shown it to anyone, and suggested that this might be a good idea. I also recommended that he give Allen a call, as the two of them were supposed to be sending samples to laboratories in Oxford and Switzerland. Ron had trust issues with this, but I told him I thought he was making a mistake. So Ron agreed to give Allen a call and tell him about Reading and hopefully speed up the process with the other laboratories, as the Israelis were already starting to pressure him for results.

December 2007 – March 2008, Castle Combe, Wiltshire

It was late November when Jennifer and I relocated to my old neck of the woods, near Bath, in Wiltshire. I was looking forward to getting on with my research unencumbered and furthering the historical analysis, as well as discussing key points with the others. For the moment, pieces of the puzzle were still floating loosely around my mind. I wanted to put everything in some kind of order, to step back and try to piece the fragments together as a whole. In the meantime I also had to wait for the scientific tests on the metal. Although the Reading University test for antiquity was positive, Ron seemed to be withholding essential elements from me, and this made me uncomfortable, creating doubt in my mind over the authenticity of the codices.

‘I thought I’d let you know what happened with Scotland Yard,’ Ron told me next day in a phone call. ‘I went in last week and showed them the letter I told you about. They seemed to accept it.’

‘That’s good news indeed. And have you had any luck tracking down the person behind the website?’

‘Oh yes, I meant to tell you. She’s actually known to the owner. Her name’s Yvette something or other. He knows her from when he lived in Sweden, although she’s a British journalist. I spoke to her and she’s agreed to take the photographs off the Internet and to keep quiet about them.’

Weeks passed by without any news from anyone. I called Shane, who said he had organized a conference call with his lawyer friend in Melbourne to discuss Heads of Agreement, but Ron had backed out at the last moment.

‘Well, at least Hassan has agreed to pay for the research and analysis. In fact Ron’s going to visit him sometime in March.’

I rang off, more than a little perturbed. Why had Ron not mentioned his trip to Israel last night when we had spoken? However, at least I now knew the name of one of the protagonists – it was some sort of breakthrough.

Knowing that Ron was going to be on a plane to Israel sometime within the next two months, my next task was going to be to draw up a set of guidelines for his visit: upon this we had agreed. We would need forensic protocols for handling the books and on-the-spot research would be essential – without it there was not much further I could go beyond mere speculation.

As I continued my research, I was beginning to realize that the codices were even more important than I had appreciated. It was now time to call in help from more specialized scholars, but for the moment I had to be more certain of the codices’ authenticity, so as not to waste anyone’s valuable time, let alone make a fool of myself.

One of the things that preoccupied me about the codices was the language – and the fact that it did not seem to be Aramaic, the language of 1st-century Palestine. My guess was that it could possibly be a Phoenician-Canaanite script. The problem was that nothing we had researched had matched it. I knew, moreover, that the search for a match would be futile, as I already felt in my bones that the writing was Palaeo-Hebrew, an obscure form of the ancient Phoenician-Canaanite.

Aramaic was the language of the Palestinian region in the first few centuries of the rise of Christianity. It had its origins in Syria. The Judeans and other peoples of Palestine would have been Aramaic speakers. By the time of Jesus, Hebrew had become a script reserved largely for sacred texts, and rarely, if ever, used for everyday purposes. There are examples of it on the Dead Sea Scrolls written in an elegant hand and with great care. However, Aramaic was the everyday language used for note-taking and doing business.

Looking at the lettering on the codices, I observed the way the characters seemed to rise up from the base metal, as if they were embossed, the equally strange way in which detached single letters were scattered here and there, and the archaic character of the language. All this sent my mind into a spin. For a 1st–century text to be written in such an archaic script could mean only one thing: that the texts were very holy indeed. Why else would the writers hark back to such a long-forgotten language?

I remembered what my researches had told me: that Hebrew had first been formulated on Mount Sinai, probably by Hebrew slaves. Apparently the latest thinking is that the language we today know as Hebrew was originally a series of graffito which were interpretations of Egyptian hieratic – a style of communication in large part incomprehensible to these people, who sought an easier way to understand it. In this early language, called Western Sinaitic by philologists, the letters Y, J and G were from the start one letter as represented by one specific glyph. The letter Shin, the S in today’s Western alphabet, was represented by one specific glyph also.

The original glyphs for these letters were a hand pierced by a nail and a spear entering between the fourth and fifth ribs – for anyone who knows the story of Christ’s Passion, obvious bells will be starting to ring. Jesus has these letters in its spelling. It would appear that his name was actually a prediction of what the Gospels would later describe as his sacrifice.

Looking at icons of the Orthodox Church repeatedly, one thing struck me like a bolt from the blue – an idea that was to have vital repercussions for the project. In my earlier years I had studied painting at the Bath Academy of Art. Colour and form have always held a fascination for me, but it was the wonderful aroma of artists’ pigments and the lingering odour of linseed that especially moved me. As a former student of fine art, I knew the painter’s palette like an extension of myself.

Once, I had been given a lesson on all the different versions of white available. There was painter’s white, titanium white, zinc white, and so on. And then there was lead white, which was always used as a base on which to put other colours.

I already knew about the use of lead by medieval icon painters as the background on which they made their images. As a trained painter myself, I knew that Renaissance artists often used a substance called litharge. This was a mixture of lead monoxide and lead. Then one day, in the catalogue of an academic publisher specializing in Orthodox Christian art, I came across a reference to the symbolic importance of lead. Apparently, this metal represented the veil of the Temple and its promise of the world beyond. Lead was the base physical nature of the earth devoid of all spirit. It was a ground through which the idea of the divine might shine – to someone in the right frame of mind to perceive it. The idea was that meditating upon a holy icon might bring about the revelation of a secret inherent in the image.

White was light. The light itself was within the painting, within the image of the divine or of the saint depicted there. Was this an ancient tradition that had been passed down through the centuries, originating long before it was expressed in practice by the icon painters. Was it a time-honoured way of thinking about, and celebrating, the divine? My instinct was telling me that I was on the right path. What we were now looking at was nothing less than a series of icons: possibly the very first icons.

What initially seemed strange to me, that metal should have played such an important but understated role in the history of the icon, was starting to make sense. At the base of the icon was lead; and on the very top, as a symbol of immortality, the eternal quality of the divine, was gold. This brought me full circle to the view held by the alchemists, of lead as representing the base nature of our existence and of gold as somehow stating the obverse of that: our understanding of perfection.

This idea of the baseness of lead intrigued me. Such was its popularity that in the age of Queen Elizabeth I of England, lead was used as a make-up to whiten the complexion of the skin. It was a sign of breeding and of wealth – of someone wealthy enough not to have to work outside in the sun. (It is extraordinary to think that, 400 years later, exactly the opposite is true: the mark of affluence is a suntan, denoting leisure in the sun, with pallor perhaps denoting poverty.) However, in the centuries before Elizabeth, lead was seen differently: as the veil between worlds, which kept us at a safe distance from the divine. It seemed to me, by extension, that we too were being characterized as base, that our natural element was the lead in the alchemist’s alembic.

To gaze upon an icon, and to meditate in its presence, was gradually to strip away the layers, pierce the veil and look, however briefly, upon the divine mystery – and in the process transform the viewer into spiritual gold. Many saints and holy people within the Orthodox Church and beyond claim to have experienced precisely this. The idea is that God’s eternal light, the very essence of divinity, is so ultra-intense that we can see, feel or witness it only rarely, under special and testing conditions. To experience the divine, we need to be correctly attuned.

This makes perfect sense, given our limitations as a species. Our experience as human beings is of a small planet located somewhere within a vast cosmos. Our consciousness is highly localized, and incapable of cosmic understanding. To the ancient mind, ironically, the concept of God or divinity as a whole was imagined on a grand scale, although the ancients also had the humility to realize their own inadequacy in meaningfully grasping such a scale. A transcendent understanding was attainable, but the problem was how to explain it when it happened. Thus they resorted to symbols. A deeply felt symbolism is at the heart of all iconography, conveying the personal sense of revelation that words can never capture. A person who could penetrate the leaden veil of the mysteries was someone to be reckoned with, someone with priceless insight. How appropriate that our codices were composed of this very same substance: lead.

I had by this time deduced that the codices seemed to encapsulate a representation of Solomon’s Temple. The larger of the books portrayed in the photographs that I had been given had a rectangular column of text hemmed in by half-menorahs and messianic stars, palm trees, and lemon-like etrogim. What seemed significant to me is that the text within the rectangle was untouched by any of these symbols. The text stood alone, as if uniquely special: holy, even.

I rang Shane again the following week. I was more than a little surprised to find out that he and Ron had been to various meetings with the Israelis.

‘You met the Israelis?’ I asked unable to disguise the surprise in my voice.

‘Yup. And you’ll be surprised to hear that, Hassan, who owns the artefacts, is not the poor farmer that we were led to believe he is. Hassan is actually quite well off, though I don’t know exactly what his business is.’

‘I guess that’s why he was able to underwrite the initial research costs,’ I answered.

‘Well, what happened with the dealer?’ I asked, astonished that he would do such a thing.

‘Apparently he offered them all of fifty pounds for the book that Hassan had with him.’

I shared the news with Jennifer: ‘I don’t buy it. Either Ron’s being economical with the truth or the dealer believed them to be fakes.’

It seemed to me that any dealer who had the good fortune to be shown the books, upon seeing them simply would not have believed his luck – so did not. This scenario was reminiscent of the initial reaction to the discovery of the Dead Sea Scrolls. The priceless artefacts had at first been dismissed in exactly the same manner: at first they were thought to be medieval forgeries, then they were advertised ‘for sale’ in the Jerusalem Post.

Ron seemed to have been following his own agenda. Selling the artefacts had not been discussed with the group – or at least not with Jennifer and me. Why had he not extended us the courtesy of a call or an email? The best that I could do was to give him the set of protocols that I had prepared to act as a guide in the event that he laid his hands upon the codices. What was required was dust and pollen samples; and, if possible, good clean images shot on a white background in order to adduce the darkness and coloration of the images. We needed a true sense of what they really looked like and an accurate assessment of their size. In my memorandum I asked Ron not to handle the artefacts with his bare hands and to provide me with a set of photographs that were taken from all angles – so that we could deduce the thickness of the books and what kind of condition they were in. I called a few days later and wished him bon voyage.

March 2008: An Astonishing Evaluation

Jennifer and I set out for Ron’s house in Oxfordshire. Ron had returned from Israel and we were eager to see his photographs and to hear all about the trip. Confronted with the pictures, I stared open-mouthed at what I could only describe as ‘archaeological porn’. The lead books had been propped up against a series of plush velvet backdrops as if stylized for a glossy adult publication. For academic use and study they were quite useless.

Moving in to get a closer look at the screen, I had to admit the codices were indeed more beautiful and astonishing than I had ever expected. They varied in size, and there were a lot of them. They were very similar to the one Maryam had brought – no more than the size of the palm of a hand.

Ron seemed uncomfortable about showing us all the pictures. What he had not told us was that he took a photojournalist with him. I could tell because when he scanned his mouse over the images the text box came up showing that they had been taken by a Nikon D2X – a topof-the-range professional digital camera. Ron was unlikely to have had one in his kit: they cost a small fortune. My hunch was confirmed by the next set of photos, which were quite obviously taken by a different camera. The images were indistinct; many of them were out of focus. On a cheap veneered table that took up 90 percent of the photograph was a book. It was hardly recognizable, since it was so out of focus and was held in Ron’s ungloved white hand. In other photos were more books, and an assortment of bizarre ‘artefacts’ leaning against empty Marlboro packets.

I stopped looking – I could not bear to see any more. ‘Did you take any pollen or dust samples?’ I dared to ask. He replied that there not been time to do this. ‘So what about the inside of the books – from the looks of things, some of them have been opened?’

‘Yes, not much in them though, just a lot of writing,’ he said casually, handing me a CD he had burned for me of his photography.

‘Oh, did I tell you? Allen came over a while back and took some metal samples, which have now been sent to two laboratories, one in Oxford and one in Switzerland? Only, the results are not expected to come in any time soon.’ I was pleased to hear that Ron had been working with Allen, and told him so.

‘Yes, Allen’s been great. He told me he knows some collectors in New York and Israel who’d be interested in buying some of the books.’ This last piece of information really knocked me sideways. Allen was purportedly an academic: we could not imagine that he might have considered selling the codices.

‘Two of the books have been evaluated by Christie’s New York in excess of 50 million dollars!’ he exclaimed excitedly.

A few weeks later I decided to give Shane a call to hear his take on things. He told me that he and Ron had attended more meetings in London with the Israelis, who had agreed to fund further research. This baffled me, as the initial funding was more than enough to carry out preliminary testing. We still had no results back from the labs to show for this money, which concerned me, especially as the testing at the Oxford lab had cost £10,000, according to Shane. This seemed a huge amount to pay to wait months to test a tiny scrap of metal. Shane agreed that it all seemed a bit fishy. He admitted that he and Ron were not quite seeing eye to eye, as the trip to Israel had been a waste of time and expenses, with little to show for it apart from the useless photographs. I gleaned as much as I could from the conversation, particularly the intriguing fact that during their meetings Hassan had brought an adviser.

Unfamiliar Christianity

He who controls the past controls the future.

We rarely hear about the unfamiliar aspects of Christianity, the events that unfolded in the immediate aftermath of the death of Jesus. The Gospels end with the Resurrection; and the Book of Acts speaks mainly of the arrival and the career of Paul – from a Pauline perspective. There are few non-Pauline Letters. And then we are confronted with the Book of Revelation. However, when we take a look at some of the supposedly apocryphal texts of the New Testament, judged by certain Churches to be either anathema or of doubtful provenance, we can see that they actually contain some intriguing information, making us question their exclusion in the first place. One such text is the 2 Esdras.

In 2 Esdras Ezra has a vision whereby he is commanded to restore the Law. He does this by producing a series of books, 94 in number. The first 24 of these books are assumed to be the Tanakh, the canon of the Hebrew Bible – these were published openly. However, the last 70 are the secret books, containing the real wisdom that was to be made available only to a select few. God gave a specific command that the secret books were to be given to the wise among the people. Significantly, these texts were written by the early Hebrew-Christians: when James and his followers had fled Jerusalem, they had taken their secret books with them. In my discussions about the hoard with Hassan, it became clear to me that 70 books was about the sum of it. They were more important than the Tanakh: they were the source of understanding, knowledge and wisdom. It is likely that they were off-limits to anyone outside the early Church, which would have included anyone identified as Jewish who was a supporter of the new Hebrew translations. As Dr Margaret Barker puts it, in her book The Great High Priest, ‘If, as seems likely, they were the pre-Christian texts that were only preserved by the Christians, eg the earlier strata of the Ascension of Isaiah, the texts known as 1 (and 2) Enoch … there must have been something of great importance in these texts.’²⁷

The Clementine Recognitions tell us that James and his community fled Jerusalem north-east to Pella and beyond – to the area where the codices were discovered. Eusebius, probably using Hegesippus as a source, writes:

But the people of the Church in Jerusalem had been commanded by a revelation, vouchsafed to approved men there before the war, to leave the city and to dwell in a certain town of Perea called Pella.²⁸

This episode has presented quandaries for scholars, many of whom may have been unable to understand or accept it: the lack of evidence from Jordan until now has justified their doubts. There seems to have been more than one exodus of the early Jerusalem Church to Pella – and beyond. Epiphanius, the Church Father, writing in AD c374, gives a little more detail:

The Nazoraean sect exists in Beroea near Coele, Syria, in the Decapolis near the region of Pella, and in Bashan in the place called Cocaba, which in Hebrew is called Chochabe. That is where the sect began, when all the disciples were living in Pella after they moved from Jerusalem, since Christ told them to leave Jerusalem and withdraw because it was about to be besieged. For this reason they settled in Peraea and there, as I said, they lived. This is where the Nazoraean sect began.²⁹

I soon realized that at least one part of the story had to be more or less true. Saul of Tarsus had shortly afterwards been given a remit by the Jerusalem Temple authorities to go in pursuit of James and his community. It was while he was engaged in this pursuit that Saul, or Paul as he was soon to become known, witnessed something secret, something that today would be classified as ‘for your eyes only’, hidden away from us all. And the only secret thing or things that he could have seen were in the hands of James and his community. This was the event that was to change Western civilization.

The problem is that at a very early stage much was either rewritten or destroyed by both Christians and Jews. The Tanakh or Hebrew Canon – the Old Testament, as we think of it (though there are differences) – is riddled with inconsistencies as a result of being rewritten and edited to exclude anything that might be perceived as Christian. For example, Genesis 22 tells of the sacrifice of Isaac: this was omitted as a result of antipathy to the Christians. There is evidence of redacting in the apocryphal Gospel of Barnabas as well as in the Quran, which mentions the Jews altering their books.

Although most Christians are hardly aware of the fact, the Quran is a reliable source of the history, and the only reason it is not often quoted in this context is that it does not agree with mainstream Christian doctrine. It is quite specific in mentioning that the Temple authorities removed the line from Isaiah 7, ‘He shall be named a Nazarene.’ This is reflected by Gregory of Nyssa (AD 335–95) who wrote that the Old Testament prophet Isaiah ‘knew more perfectly than all others the mystery of the religion of the Gospel’.³⁰ In praising Isaiah St Jerome states tellingly:

… he was more of an evangelist than a prophet, because he described all of the mysteries of the Church of Christ so vividly that you would assume he was not prophesying about the future, but rather was composing a history of past events.³¹

If we look at the New Testament from an Old Testament perspective we can see many inconsistencies in how Jesus lives up to the promise of the prophets, yet this is not reflected in the surviving Old Testament Scriptures that have come down to us. St Jerome (AD c347–420), when compiling his translation of the Bible, one of the most influential events of Western history, took the view that the Hebrew text used by the Jews and not the Greek Septuagint was the most reliable text of the Old Testament. He used this translation for his Latin Vulgate Bible and it was this that was gradually accepted into the Catholic Church. Jewish authorities, in altering their texts, were understandably antipathetic to Christians, holding them responsible for the destruction of the Temple of Jerusalem in AD 70. It was other groups who preserved the hidden and altered traditions, much to the ire of the Temple authorities and the later editors and redactors.

In Jesus’s own lifetime the Septuagint had been held in the highest esteem and was greatly honoured. According to Philo, the translators were ‘prophets and priests of the mysteries whose sincerity and singleness of thought has enabled them to go hand in hand with the purest of spirits …’³² Indeed, such was the regard in which the translators were held that there was an annual celebration at Pharos, where they had worked on the text.

By St Jerome’s day this situation had altered radically. The Diaspora Jews had accepted a new translation by Aquila³³ in the 2nd century AD and had condemned the Septuagint translation in the strongest possible terms. This condemnation was itself condemned in a 5th-century text, the Dialogue of Timothy and Aquila, thought to be a reworking of much earlier material. Timothy, a Christian, writes of the corruption not only of the Greek text of Scripture but also of the Hebrew: ‘If you find that a testimony to Christ has disappeared from the Hebrew or has been concealed in the Greek, it is Aquila’s plot.’³⁴ The problem of Old Testament Scriptures was one that beset the early Church for many years.³⁵ In The Clementine Homilies (18.20) Jesus says:

On this account do you go astray, not knowing the true things of the Scriptures [cf Mark 12.24] and for this reason you are also ignorant of the Power of God. Therefore every man who wishes to be saved must become, as the Teacher said, a judge of the books written to try us. For he said: ‘Become experienced bankers.’ Now the need for bankers arises when forgeries are mixed up with the genuine.³⁶

This points to the central enigma of Jesus and the early Church and the struggle by scholars to understand what actually happened. The problem for scholarship has been the recognition of what was lost or rewritten. The Christian view was often dismissed on the grounds that the lost passages must be interpolations, as they cannot be found in the original Hebrew. The discovery of the Dead Sea Scrolls began to change this view, prompting a re-evaluation of old assumptions. Basically, the heart of the problem is that the Western Church has as a major part of its Scriptures the Jewish canon: the early Church used very different Scriptures. This explains why certain texts are listed as non-canonical and are little known. The general reader, coming across them for the first time, is likely to find their content surprising:³⁷

The Jews … had it written in their sacred oracles, ‘That then should their city be taken, as well as their holy house …’ [There was] an ambiguous oracle that was also found in their sacred writings how, ‘about that time, one from their country should become governor of the habitable earth.’³⁸

In Revelation, the last book of the Bible, the seventh angel sounds his trumpet and voices are heard in heaven: ‘The kingdom of the world has become the kingdom of our Lord and of his Christ’ (Revelation 11.15). In his Gospel and in Revelation, John, who had a close relationship with James, the leader of the early Church, criticizes ‘the Jews’, but what he is criticizing more specifically is the abolition of the older traditions, the failure to preserve the older writings.

Josephus, who seems antagonistic towards the Messianic movement in his writings, fled to the Roman side during the Jewish Revolt. He managed to gain the ear of the future Emperor, Vespasian, by declaring that it was the Roman General himself who was destined to fulfil the prophecy (The Jewish War, 3.400–02).

From this brief assessment it will be appreciated that the later ‘heretics’ of the Western Church after the great Council of Nicaea in AD 325 were highly misunderstood figures who were, in some cases, aware of the rewriting of scripture and were familiar with some of the texts in their original form. The idea of John’s Gospel being seen at the time of Nicaea as verging on the Gnostic seems understandable. The Western Church was using an inaccurate canon on which to base its decisions in council. The ship of the Church had only to be one degree off course and the destination would change profoundly. If this seems shocking, that is down purely to our conditioning – it is what we have been taught.

There is another statement that is equally strange, or so it seems, in the The Jewish War by Josephus. It was brought to my attention in conversation with Dr Margaret Barker and Professor Philip Davies. When they first made the remark, I was caught slightly unawares and thought, somewhat bizarrely, that they were referring to a song by the late George Harrison. For apparently, the Great Revolt of the Jews was led in part by nationalist Hebrew-Christians, who when they saw the approach of the armies of the Romans, come to destroy them, shouted ‘Here comes the Son.’³⁹ What is remarkable is that this too would appear to be a reference to Revelation, whose prophecies were to be a significant factor in the war against Rome. Josephus seems to be referring either to Revelation or to a common source. Yet until this moment scholars have had a difficult time determining if Josephus had anything to say about the Christians that had not since been tampered with by Christians.

The effect on those of us who are not familiar with the early years of Christianity is to tell us that the movement was not as meek, mild and loving as we have been led to believe. This view also goes some way to explaining why Rome remained ever-suspicious of Christians and threw them to the lions.

It also explains why Sulpicius Severus, writing in the 5th century, contradicted Josephus (Sulpicius is quoting from a lost book of Tacitus) by stating that Titus, son of the Emperor Vespasian, wanted to pull down the Temple because it was important to both Jews and Christians. Josephus suggests that Titus had no clear wish to demolish the building: he was in two minds about whether it was necessary. It is discomfiting to think that we have been fed the illusion that events were other than they really were.

October 2008 – January 2009, Wiltshire

Although hard to pin down, Shane had become our only source of news regarding the project. Our own role was proving troublesome to the group. Jennifer and I had made clear our feelings against selling the codices. However, the others could not afford to lose my wide knowledge and my grip on the essential facts and interpretation. It was impossible to sell the books without knowing what they were. Hence, begrudgingly, they kept in touch with me through Shane, although even he was keeping me at arm’s length. We felt that they perceived our intentions to see the artefacts in a museum as naïve.

When I had last spoken to Shane, he told me of the Israelis’ frustration that it was taking so long to get the report that they had been patiently waiting for. They had paid what was asked of them and now they wanted results – not an unfair demand. We too were mystified as to quite why it was all taking so long.

I contacted Allen to see if he had heard back from the laboratories. He would only tell me what we already knew, that scrapings from two of the books had gone off to the OSMC lab in Oxford and to the EMPA lab in Dübendorf, Switzerland. He said he had spoken to his contact at OSMC, who told him that they had a backlog of work to get through before they could do our testing for us, and that it could take up to another two months. Jennifer and I could not help thinking that this was an inordinate amount of time.

I called Shane out of courtesy to report back on my conversation with Allen. He said they had lined up a few more meetings in London and were seeing a few potential buyers over the coming weeks. Then he dropped the bombshell:

‘Yes, there’s a good 10 percent commission in it for us – of course, it will have to be split four ways, but it will still be substantial.’ I remained silent, knowing that until I had a copy of the metal analysis no definite move could be made. As far as I knew, we were still waiting to hear back from the laboratory.

‘By the way, I’m heading off to Ukraine for a couple of weeks to renew my visa.’ Jennifer and I wondered why Ukraine and where was Shane getting the money to travel there? We had been funding him out of our own pockets, something we could scant afford, but he had assured us he would be able to repay us. We were starting to get increasingly uncomfortable about the direction in which things were heading. It would help if we could speak to the Israelis ourselves.

Then I put in a call to Ron, who had been quiet for far too long. The research funds had come in at last and he wanted the analysis to be written up as soon as possible. I reminded him that he would need to send me a full set of photographs before this could happen. A few days later I received the CD and swiftly looked through the images stored there. To my surprise, they included scrolls, tablets, incense dishes and other artefacts. My eyes went over these in hurried anticipation, eager to see what else there was. I halted in astonishment at the next image. The photograph was lacking definition, but there was enough of a contrast on the codex to make out what was unmistakably portrayed on the cover: the face of Jesus Christ.

Romans and Christians

‘What is truth?’

Fact: Jesus was declared King in an occupied country. Fact: Christianity as a word did not exist until it was coined in Antioch at the end of the 1st century.

The early written history of Christianity is not nearly as antagonistic towards the Romans as might have been the case, particularly in the aftermath of the Great Revolt against Rome and the subsequent destruction of the Temple. The roots of the Jewish revolt of AD 66–70 and the rise of Western Christianity lie within the Temple itself. For, once a year at the feast of Yom Kippur, great swathes of the population of Judea would descend upon Jerusalem to pay court to God. The people hated the compulsory Temple tax, which led to further dissent and occasional revolt, all of which were ruthlessly suppressed by the Temple authorities, working in tandem with their Roman overlords.

Herod the Great had ascended the throne of Judea around 40 BC, and immediately set about the refurbishment of the Temple. It was a vast structure. As the building rose at the heart of Jerusalem, its ever more splendid presence must have been a source of great wonder and pride to the people of Judea, who had finally wrought a palace worthy enough for their God. Herod had spared no expense. A period of significant prosperity ensued: a great army of craftsmen, architects, priests, sub-priests and suppliers needed to be fed and housed as the Temple grew and grew over the next 80 or so years.

By the time of Jesus, the Temple was nearing completion, and this had led to a reduction of work for the skilled labourers who now called Jerusalem home. This in turn led to significant problems with the economy. When Jesus foresaw the downfall of the Temple, it was in fact a justifiable prediction. The stage was set for an explosive confrontation, one that would see the ruin of Jewish hope to be free of Roman dominion and the end of the Temple.

Judea was a hornet’s nest of dangers for any Roman governor, made worse by the fact that it was not considered important enough to send from Rome an official of senatorial status. As a result of Roman greed, Temple mismanagement and general dissatisfaction, revolt broke out in AD 66. It proved easy to overwhelm the Romans stationed in the city and to gain the upper hand. This in turn led to false hopes on the part of the rebels, and more than a little fanaticism in their approach to outsiders who dared cross them with anything approaching a rational assessment. The Jewish historian Josephus was caught up in the revolt and witnessed the utter destruction of his beloved country from behind Roman lines. Josephus came from a High Priestly Jewish family and practised the Pharisaic mode of Judaism that was less reactive and reactionary than the path trodden by the Sadducees. From the very beginning of the revolt, Josephus was a reluctant participant, becoming a general and, from his own account, a good one. However, he soon tired of war, disgusted by the fanaticism displayed by some of his fellow countrymen. As far as Josephus was concerned, it was the intolerance of these fanatics that had led to the revolt: how could they possibly hope to win against the might of the Roman Empire?

Having jumped ship to the Romans, Josephus was brought before the Roman general Vespasian, whereupon he effected a shrewd bargain in an opening gambit that he guessed might save his life: he predicted that within a very short space of time Vespasian would be Emperor. When the prophecy came true, Josephus was adopted into the imperial family as Flavius Josephus, and thereafter he whiled away his days by writing his histories of the Jews.

Josephus is a rich source for the story of the revolt, although despised by scholars and contemporaries alike for no other reason than that he was a turncoat. Personally, I think this is unfair, as he is nowhere near comparable to, say, Benedict Arnold, the infamous traitor who switched sides to the British during the American War of Independence. He was merely a shrewd observer, and preserver of the once-doomed culture of his people.

Not surprisingly, Judea was retaken by the Romans three and a half years later; and after Vespasian’s son Titus had walked, with impunity, right to the heart of the Temple and into the Holy of Holies, into the presence of God Himself, he was astonished to discover that after all of that the room was empty.

When, 60 years later, the Jews rose up again in revolt against the Romans, the Temple yet again lay at the heart of the problem. The Emperor Hadrian had offered to rebuild it in an attempt to mend fences with the Jews, but when his request to have his statue placed within its environs was made, the response was as volatile as it was disastrous: a rerun of the First Great Revolt was set in train.

Led by the last of the messianic claimants, Simon bar Kokhba (the ‘son of the star’), the ferocity of the initial assault by the rebels was such that for three years Jerusalem and large parts of Judea remained independent – but all to no avail. When the Romans returned, this time they meant business. Jerusalem was put to the sword and Judea destroyed once and for all, in name and in deed: the death toll was terrible. The Jews were forbidden entry into Jerusalem and the city’s name was changed to Aelia Capitolina. The surviving remnants of the Jerusalem Church, unable to withstand such a fury, were largely eliminated. All that appeared to be left of Christianity, ironically, now resided in Rome.

Some early Christians, in their enthusiasm for all things Roman, did their best to obscure or even remove the traces of their origins in the feverish race to orthodoxy. Accusations of heresy abounded, and those who disagreed, however minute their differences, were hounded into oblivion, on occasion facing death for their pains. The genius of Constantine the Great was in moulding the new orthodoxy to the needs of his empire. Gone was the story of a remarkable man; in came the supergod, with the power of the Roman spin machine behind him. It was a brilliant, but ultimately tragic, PR job. I say ‘tragic’ because what remained of the original story may well have been far more accessible if its sheer humanity had been allowed to shine through; and also because, in its context, the narrative is strikingly more spiritual, precisely because of its humanity. The Gospels too were depoliticized; and, in order to achieve this, the true history also had to be altered.

In the aftermath of Christianity becoming the official religion of the Roman Empire in the days of Constantine the Great, it was necessary for the message of Christ to become more uniform, particularly from a theological point of view. This may, in part, account for some of the apparent inconsistencies in the message that the Gospels give out. When reading them we are dazzled by what they have to say, and yet struck by the occasional lumpiness of the text. It is easy to see that there are things that they are trying to say, even while they seem to be missing their aim. It is almost as if they have been redacted as stories, rewritten to be more ‘on message’. The sense of history in these Scriptures has been replaced more by a sense of story as ritual. For example, St John’s is the only Gospel that tells of the raising of Lazarus; and yet Professor Morton Smith describes how, one day in 1958 deep inside a monastery not far from Jerusalem, he stumbled across a missing chapter from the Gospel of St Mark. The missing fragment had never been detected as such by Biblical scholars, and if Professor Smith had never encountered it, there it would have remained. The subsequent controversy that raged was prompted by the fact that the fragment had been suppressed in antiquity – by none other than the Church Father, Clement of Alexandria. Clement had received a letter from someone calling himself ‘Theodore’. In it Theodore complains about the practices of a Gnostic – and thereby heretical – sect called the Carpocratians. Members of this sect were apparently interpreting specific passages in the Gospel of Mark according to their own ritual practices, practices of which Clement and Theodore disapproved. Their interpretations are revealing. In the letter discovered by Professor Smith, Clement, responding to the ‘unspeakable teachings of the Carpocratians’, speaks of secret things.

[As for] Mark, then, during Peter’s stay in Rome he wrote [an account of] the Lord’s doings; not, however, declaring all [of them], nor yet hinting at the secret [ones], but selecting those he thought most useful for increasing the faith of those who were being instructed. But when Peter died as a martyr, Mark came over to Alexandria, bringing both his own notes and those of Peter, from which he transferred to his former book the things suitable to whatever makes for progress towards knowledge [gnosis, hence Gnosticism]. [Thus] he composed a more spiritual gospel for the use of those who were being perfected. Nevertheless, he yet did not divulge the things not to be uttered, nor did he write down the hierophantic teaching of the Lord, but to the stories already written he added yet others and, moreover, brought in certain sayings of which he knew the interpretation would, as a mystagogue, lead the hearers into the innermost sanctuary of that truth hidden by seven [veils]. Thus, in sum, he prearranged matters, neither grudgingly nor incautiously, in my opinion, and, dying, he left his composition to the Church in Alexandria, where it even yet is most carefully guarded, being read only to those who are being initiated into the great mysteries.⁴⁰

It is then that Clement, in Donald Rumsfeld mode, makes an astonishing, though at the time secret, admission:

For, even if they should say something true, one who loves the truth should not, even so, agree with them. For not all true [things] are the truth, nor should that truth which [merely] seems true according to human opinions be preferred to the true truth, that according to the faith.⁴¹

So at an early stage, Clement, who lived in the 2nd century (AD c150–c215), was admitting that all was not as it seemed. In his response he admits that there is indeed an authentic Gospel of Mark, but he instructs Theodore to deny it. What they are corresponding about is the real nature of Jesus’s raising of Lazarus from a state of apparent death … apparent because in his response Clement reveals the truth by giving a verbatim description of what is in the original text:

And they came into Bethany, and a certain woman, whose brother had died, was there. And coming, she prostrated herself before Jesus and said to him, ‘Son of David, have mercy on me.’ But the disciples rebuked her. And Jesus, being angered, went off with her into the garden where the tomb was, and straightway a great cry was heard from the tomb. And going near, Jesus rolled away the stone from the door of the tomb. And straightway, going in where the youth was, he stretched forth his hand and raised him, seizing his hand. But the youth, looking upon him, loved him and began to beseech him that he might be with him. And going out of the tomb they came into the house of the youth, for he was rich. And after six days, Jesus told him what to do and in the evening the youth came to him, wearing a linen cloth over his naked [body]. And he remained with him that night, for Jesus taught him the mystery of the kingdom of God. And thence arising he returned to the other side of the Jordan.⁴²

Now, it is only proper to mention that many scholars question the antiquity and genuineness of this document; however, pace such objections, it does have the Marcan style of composition and writing. The implication of the text is that the raising of Lazarus, mentioned as one of the most remarkable miracles in St John’s testimony, was a ritualistic affair. The connection of both men seems particularly strong, as if the youth were expecting Jesus to arrive and to be initiated into the central mystery. What this instance demonstrates is that this Gospel was changed, and it is likely that others too suffered the same fate. Gospels were expurgated, revised and edited into a form that suited the needs of the soon to be organized religion of Christianity. Matthew, Mark and Luke tell the story of the betrayal of Jesus by Judas, as does John (who omits the Last Supper). However, when we come to the events of Jesus’s execution, each is seemingly at odds with the other, particularly regarding the actual day of the Crucifixion: in the Synoptic Gospels it occurs the day after the Passover, whereas in John it is the day before.

The fact that the Gospels agree on the circumstance of Jesus’s death is intriguing: all concur that he was crucified between two criminals, as well as conveying the prophetic nature of his agony. However, when we arrive at the moment of his death, the discrepancies really do stand out. Matthew has him cry out one final futile question: ‘Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani?’: ‘My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?’ Mark agrees with this version of events. Luke does not quite contradict them, but in Luke after his final agonized question Jesus makes one last cry, not detailed by Matthew or Mark: ‘Father, into Your hands I commend my spirit.’ The sheer despairing power of Jesus’s last prophetic cry from the cross in his death agony is lost. When we come to John’s Gospel, he states simply: ‘It is finished.’ Then comes the Resurrection.

Given the noticeably different details (within an overview of events that is broadly consistent), we can only conclude that much has been tampered with. This is certainly borne out by the discovery by scholars that when Mark’s Gospel was composed, it ended at the site of the empty tomb. The Resurrection text was written into it subsequently, possibly as much as 150 years later.

This is merely a taste of what had happened to the Gospels in the early years after they were written. However, this is also a good description of what happened to those other Gospels called ‘non-canonical’ written around the same time and shortly after the four Gospels familiar to most Christians from the New Testament. Some of these appear as very obvious forgeries, even dating into the Middle Ages – reflecting a practice that has ‘a long and distinguished history’.⁴³

After the Crucifixion, the main centre of the new religion was, initially, Jerusalem. However, from AD 40 the focus of ideas shifted to Antioch in Syria; and from thence, around AD 60 to Ephesus; and eventually to Rome around AD 180. Constantine convened the Council of Nicaea in AD 325. It was at this council that Jesus was finally voted as having divine status, the creed was agreed upon and the dating of Easter was confirmed. Jesus was God, and now equal, if not superior, to all of the other gods – no longer was he a dangerous mortal. It was also at Nicaea that the orthodoxies of the faith were established: for the first time the word ‘heresy’ began its intimate association with the Church. Our view of early Christianity is derived mainly from the work of Eusebius, an early Church Father and adviser to the Emperor Constantine. Unsurprisingly, Eusebius’ work appears biased towards what had come out of Nicaea as accepted Christianity. By this time, anything that went against such views was condemned and ultimately destroyed. Image, to the new Church, was everything. Eusebius was a godsend to the new ‘literalist’ Christianity: he lent it a power and authority previously lacking, and very soon it would go on the rampage. It was Eusebius who drew up the Nicaean creed, the article of faith that is still used in modern times. People who objected were themselves objected to, and eventually banished. It was the Christianity of Eusebius that set the course for the future of the faith. Under the auspices of Constantine the united front of Christianity papered over a lot of cracks. Christianity even rewrote and, in one sense, reconstructed its own history. When the tomb of Christ at Jerusalem was discovered, a pagan temple stood upon the site. Special permission was sought from Constantine to demolish this, and a new construction was begun. Uniformity was paramount and Christianity was the new politics.

The early Church Father Tertullian (AD c160–225) had stated only a hundred years before the accession of Constantine: ‘The world may need its Caesars, but the Emperor can never be a Christian, nor a Christian ever be the Emperor.’⁴⁴ In Tertullian’s day, Christians considered themselves as Jesus had: as bringers of peace. Suddenly, and by association with Constantine’s victory against his brother-inlaw Maxentius at the Battle of Milvian Bridge (AD 312), all of that had changed. Christianity had now become corporate.

January – March 2008: The Showdown

Ron called to say that the metal analysis had come back from the Oxford laboratory, but he had no idea how to read it. He urged me to call Allen for his opinion of the report. Allen was non-committal about when he would be able to send me a copy, but offered to go over the findings on the phone with me.

‘It states here in the report, that lead sheets bound together as a codex are not previously known from Roman times, and the present samples may well be unique,’ he said, reading a key passage verbatim.

‘According to the report, how likely is it that the samples are fakes?’ I asked.

‘Well, basically they’re saying that the lead samples have significant levels of impurities and can be paralleled with ancient lead ingots from Western Europe. Furthermore,’ he read aloud, perusing the conclusion, ‘the analysis of the two samples taken showed compositions consistent with a range of ancient lead, one recycled, the other probably from ingot lead. The corrosion on the surface has built up over a period of time making it clear that the book is not a recent production.’

Although elated that the codices were starting to look as if they were indeed genuine, suspecting that important information was being withheld from me made me uneasy. My request for a copy of the report, which I was sure held vital clues that would back up my own historical notes, went ignored. Much to my relief, the report was conclusive: if the books had been forged, then that could not have been done in the past 100 years – and 100 years ago the process of genuine enquiry into the origins of Christianity was only just beginning.

Before I received the full OMCS laboratory report many months later, all I had to go on was what seemed to me to be an abridged version that had been sent to me following my phone conversation with Allen. Not only did it appear to be lacking in detail, but I sensed that something had been withheld from me, for in his summary Allen wrote: ‘The conclusion from the analysis of the two samples is that both are compatible with an ancient date, and fall within the range of compositions known from the Roman-period lead relics. Also the conclusion is consistent with the location site of the original discovery [my italics].

So, there it was. The location must have been given to Ron whilst he was in Israel, despite his reluctance to tell me where it was. Although I could not be sure, I felt that he and Allen had to be working closely together, and likely had been for some time. At Jennifer’s suggestion, I called Allen: I was determined to get to the bottom of the matter. I relayed my discomfort about the air of mistrust between us as a team, as well as my conviction that if we were all going to work together there had to be a certain level of disclosure between us.

‘I’m not interested in getting involved in the politics of it,’ was all Allen would say.

Despite my reservations about the group, I decided that I would honour my side of the bargain and write my report, but after that I was going to throw in the towel. It had been a privilege to come across the codices, but against a wall of silence there was no point in continuing to be involved.

The question of what caused the divide between the Orthodox Church and the Catholic Church began to nag at me: what is the main difference between the two? The Churches went their separate ways in AD 1054 – and have wrangled over their differences ever since. Basically the distinction is that the Orthodox Church has retained, to a large extent, the ancient rites centred upon the Temple in Jerusalem, whereas the Catholic Church follows Pauline doctrine.

When we look at the New Testament, we see that it is brimful of Temple references. Perhaps the most famous example is that of Jesus cleansing the Augean Stable (to use an ancient Greek analogy) that the Temple had become in his day. His spat with the money-changers makes compelling reading even now. What we see in modern-day Orthodoxy, in terms of rite, architecture and foundation, is reminiscent of the Temple and its practice. Perhaps the other major difference is that in the West St Paul plays a bigger role than he does elsewhere. In the East it is St Andrew or St John the Evangelist, also known as the Beloved Disciple, who assumes the prominent role. Both Paul and John had visions of how the Church should be, and what moral precepts it should follow.

St John is perhaps best known as the author of the Book of Revelation – the last book of the Bible. Look around you next time you go into an Orthodox Church and you will see icons everywhere, and in many of these you will also see St John and scenes from Revelation. These are found in many Western churches but not to the same degree as in the East.

Christmas 2009 came and went. I called Shane early in the New Year to get an update on the latest meeting with the Israelis. We had hardly heard from him since he had returned from Kiev, but he was still our link with Ron and with what was going on. Somehow we had to keep open the lines of communication.

I remonstrated with Shane that I had remained patient for long enough, but he did not offer me much encouragement. There was no mistaking that we were being left in the dark. I decided on one last throw of the dice and decided to have it out with Ron. Over the next two days I received a flurry of emails from him trying to justify his position, the last one challenging me to call Hassan myself … and passing on Hassan’s phone number.

PART I

SIGNS AND WONDERS

Autumn 2007, Wallingford, Oxfordshire