Four sages entered Paradise: Ben Azzai, Ben Zoma, Elisha ben Abuyah, and Rabbi Akiva.

Rabbi Akiva said to them: When you reach the stones of pure marble do not exclaim Water, Water! Ben Azzai looked and died. Ben Zoma looked and lost his mind. Elisha ben Abuyah cut the shoots. Only Rabbi Akiva ascended in peace and descended in peace. The Talmud

PROLOGUE

In a village outside Jerusalem, Israel, 135 A.C.E.

I am a dead man. Akiva scratched the words across a torn piece of parchment, which was stretched over a table made from two clay wine jars and a large piece of wood from an abandoned ox-cart. A faint smell of wine drifted through the cracks in the wood, reminding him his old stomach was as empty as the wine jars. While dismissing the tempting perfume, he dipped his stylus again into the black ink and waited for the bead on the tip to plop back into the pot, for every drop was worth a fortune and he was quickly running out of money and time. Shaping the letters in short, deliberate movements, his hand crept from right to left, aligning each letter to the one before it. For a long moment he stopped to stare at the words as though they were a primal truth and, try as he may to understand them, he knew he never would. The world had gone mad with violence and he seemed to be at the whirling core of it. He felt a sharp pain scrabble inside his chest until it found his heart, making it rattle like a dried up bean in a clay jar. Age had come upon him suddenly in these last few weeks, hurtling itself over him until his bones creaked with the weight of it, or was it, rather, the harrowing millstone of responsibility

for all of those deaths at Masada crushing him? He touched the point of his stylus to the parchment and began writing again. I can hear the soldiers marching several streets away as they search for me and the others involved in the rebellion. They most certainly will find me, unless I am able to escape in the next few moments, leaving little time to explain anything to you, but I shall try. A tear slid down his nose and dropped, drowning the letter it fell upon until it was nothing more than a black spot. He wiped his face with his sleeve and continued writing. I am staying in a village somewhere on the outskirts of Beer Karkom. My life here has been smothering me like an old wool blanket. All the hiding and the reliance upon others to fetch food and supplies has taken its toll on my spirit. I continue to teach, but the number of my students has dwindled to only those brave enough to defy the governors edict. General Vespasian will never give up the search for those who escaped Masada, and my name is on the top of the list. I believed in Bar Kokhba, I believed he was our Savior, but, as you know, hindsight has always had better vision. My students each carry a letter to you through my graduates who are scattered about the countryside. I hope that by using this method, one letter will make it through to you. He stopped suddenly, hearing a noise outside the door. He held his breath as his heart drummed in his chest. A dogs nose peeked through a hole in the wall and snorted. Disinterested, the dog trotted down the mud-soaked alley, oblivious to the fright he caused. Akiva exhaled, placing his hand over his heart, still beating in a furious tattoo of fear. These terror-ridden moments were exhausting him, aging him a year for each moment as they increased in frequency. He knew he must move quickly, but how do you hasten expressing your love? Lowering the stylus to the parchment, he began to shape the letters in quick light strokes. I have made the decision to return to the Cave because there is safety from the Romans within its inaccessible walls. A map accompanies each letter, in the hope that you will be able

to join me if it is possible for you to get away without being followed. You know the secrets and the symbols to find me. I love you, my darling. You know I do not make this decision lightly. The worst part of it is that I may never see your beautiful face again, or lay my lips upon yours. How fortunate I am to be married to you. I still live in the fervent hope that you will find your way to me, unless God has other plans. Here O Israel, the Lord our God is One. Your loving husband, Akiva ben Josef He rolled the parchment and slid it inside a leather saddle bag beside another rolled parchment. He recognized the cadence of his students footsteps outside the door. This was it. The long journey lay ahead of him if the Romans didnt capture him first. Goodbye. He kissed his fingers and touched the small clay mezuzah on the lintel. Returning his fingers to his lips, he turned his face toward the approaching figures. Were any of you seen?

In the year of our Lord 1610, high in the Andes Mountains of Peru

A young Catholic Priest dodged a branch flying toward his anxious face. His black hair was tangled with dried leaves and twigs and his skull cap was threatening to fall off his head. He raised his arm as a shield from any further attacks by the dense jungle and stumbled forward. How much farther? he asked his guide. The sun is about to rise. We will make it, Llactapata lies directly ahead, the Mochens voice sounded reassuring, authoritative. We are nearly there. He was ahead of the Priest, keeping his eyes fixed on the overgrown path before him, a torch in one hand and a machete in the other, never breaking his pace or the rhythm of his machete as it sliced through the underbrush. It had taken a full year for the Priest to get this quiet Mochen to trust him, and another to convert the mans heart from its pagan roots to Christianity, but the question the Priest never bothered to ask himself was whether or not he trusted this unassuming native of Peru. He certainly trusted the Mochen more than the soldiers who he sailed with from Spain. Instead, he placed all of his trust in the vision and the song that he knew he received from God. He could hear it now, pulsing in his ears along with his blood flying like a startled bird through his body. Everyone, even his Bishop, thought he was mad. Only an insane man would dream such bizarre dreams, hear the otherworldly music dancing in his head, and possess such an unwavering desire to come to this wild place to convert these simple Mochen peoples to Christianity. But the Holy Father believed him, the Pontiff Paul V, listened intently to the descriptions of his dreams, and was fascinated by the mystical nature of his visions. After the meeting, the Pontiff immediately secured him a cuddy aboard one of the ships set to sail across the ocean, and presented him with the beautiful gold crucifix, which adorned his neck. He then blessed him and assured him that every priest in the Vatican would be praying for his safety and success, for he was on an incredible mission from God and the gates of Hell

would be pressing against him. Perhaps he was mad, for there were moments when even he believed he might be. The proof of that point was about to be tested. He could hear the muffled sounds of a large gathering, the cadence of a chant rising toward a full-throated hypnotic delirium. His heart leaped in his chest. They were too late. We must hurry. He picked up his pace, nearly running past his Mochen companion. They both pushed through the edge of the jungle into a clearing of terraced gardens and dashed toward the temple rising above them. Dozens of torches lit up the dawning sky and cast a soft, golden glow on the faces of the crowd of worshippers, each swaying as though they were bewitched, their arms raised above their heads with terrifying grimaces stretched across their faces. The Priest had never seen the ceremony before, but he had heard it described by his convert in horrifying detail. Nothing had prepared him for what he saw as they elbowed their way through the crowd. The heads of two men with expressions of sheer terror mortised on their faces lay at the bottom of a trail of blood that led to the top of the small temple. He stared in horror at the bloody visage, feeling light-headed, and that he would faint dead away if someone merely touched him. His stomach churned and twisted while he desperately tried to steel himself against swooning, but his body doubled over and the contents of his hastily consumed last meal spewed over the bloody trail. He wiped his mouth and straightened his uncooperative body as he called upon God to give him strength and direction. Words suddenly came roaring out in a robust, commanding voice that was not his, Stop this evil! What kind of god demands you to murder your brothers, these innocents? It was as though someone had slapped each face in the crowd, their arms dropping limply to their sides, and the grisly sardonic expression metamorphosing into one of surprise and confusion. The pagan priest flashed from rapture to rage in an instant and began a deliberate descent from the top of the temple steps directly toward the young Catholic Priest, his sacrificial knife raised in his hand red

from blood. He stared at the priest as he would a lamb he was about to slaughter, vulnerable and unarmed. His face twitched as his eyes grew into two, huge orbs, his mouth a black gash, and his body taut and consumed with mad hatred. The Mochen Christian moved like lightening toward the pagan priest, grabbing his wrist which was holding a death grip on the knife. Enough, the Mochen Christian announced. There will be no more sacrifices. His eyes toured the crowd. It ends here. Heads swiveled toward their fellow Mochen and the crowd instantly fell to their knees, their faces showing that they knew who he was and that he was an imposing and important person. He hardened his grip on the witchy priest, who reluctantly bowed his head as he lowered his body to a kneeling position. Who, the Catholic Priest swallowed hard, who are you? I am their King. The pagan priest seized the moment, wrested free from the Kings relaxing grip, and leaped from the steps onto the startled Catholic Priest who fell backward from the force. The pagan priest straddled him, raised the knife with both hands, and shrieked with a sound straight from Hell. The determined Catholic Priest began, Christ before me but he was unable to say the next words of Saint Patricks breastplate. At that moment, the sun peeked over the temple and with the precision of a focused beam, landed on the crucifix around his neck, the light exploding with the force of a bomb. The assemblage dropped to the ground and the pagan priest screamed.

CHAPTER ONE

Alana Morgan mused about how quickly she had adapted to Llactapatas altitude. 2,800 meters above sea level was the highest point that she had ever climbed to on an archaeological site. Over the last month, while the world whirled in political chaos below, she felt secure in the rarefied air of Perus mountains, until she was handed a newspaper from New York. She scanned the already week-old paper when her eyes fell upon a particular article. She began to read aloud: Lima, Peru (AP) - Archaeologists from the American Museum of Natural History in New York today stated that a recent excavation in the Andes Mountains of Peru uncovered a torn piece of an ancient map of Israel buried with the body of a Catholic Priest. The site, located near Llactapata, contained the remains of a missionary priest thought to be nearly 400 years old. Found with the body of the priest was a 1602 Spanish Bible, containing some Hebrew Masoretic Text, and a partial map of unknown origin. The possibly pure and rare Spanish Bible seems to be consistent with the old Reina-Valera Castellan Spanish of the period. The map, which was inserted into the pages of Genesis, had the name Akiva ben Josef

near a severed corner. The revered Jewish scholar figured prominently in the establishment and form of Talmudic teachings during the second century. Pressed between the pages of the bible was a flower petal of unknown origin, which is not indigenous to the area. The museum declined further comment and stated that an investigation into the origins of the map and the inscriptions were under review by several universities, including Tel Aviv Universitys prestigious Department of Archaeology and the Vatican. The Vatican also declined to comment until the investigation was completed. She sighed as she lowered the newspaper. Well, if he didnt know before, he probably knows now. Odd, they didnt mention the necklace. That necklace was the most valuable treasure ever excavated in South America. She wondered if the museum deliberately withheld that piece of information. Were they afraid of a heist? She folded the newspaper and stepped out from the darkness of the temple into the glare of the sun. She spent her morning working alone in the small, two-story temple, the eye staring down at the greater, and more famous, citadel in Machu Picchu, its imposing presence rising on a mountain top a thousand meters below this less impressive, but extremely productive, excavation site. Lowering her sunglasses from the bill of her blue, NY cap, she rested them across her straight nose. The mornings excavation had been fruitful, but she needed to stretch her peevish muscles from working too many hours on her knees. She stretched her five foot frame with her face lifted up to the sun and closed her eyes. She loved the warmth of the sun washing her face. A chill brushed over her skin suddenly, while an icy finger flicked her heart and sent it plummeting into her stomach. Something was wrong. She opened her violet eyes and screamed. Staring at her, with the ferocity of a rabid dog, was an angry Quechuan man holding an AK-47 aimed directly at her chest. He had a gaping black hole for a mouth, rotted teeth, matted hair, and filthy clothes. He clutched tenaciously to his gun as though it was a shield for his pitiful life and a substitute for his impotent courage, but she sensed that this man had killed before and that he would do it again without

thinking. He signaled with the gun for her to move toward the camp on the outskirts of the excavation site. She took several hesitating steps in that direction and raised her hands as a sign of compliance. Breathe. She inhaled in small nervous gulps, realizing that she had been holding her breath for the last minute and that her muscles were braided as tightly as her thick, black hair. There was a descent of a chilled stillness around her, prickling her skin, feeling that all of nature was holding its breath waiting for him to appear, the Russian monster, the evil man who hired this thug. A thought sailed across her mind that it would be better to die than live in this constant terror of him dogging her, because if he didnt kill her today, he would eventually. But she didnt want to die. Not yet. She had promises to keep, and a lifetime of wrongs to right. Black Teeth pushed her with the barrel of his gun, shoving her forward with a bruising force, and barking something unintelligible in his aboriginal dialect. With each stuttering step she felt like she was dissolving, the horror passing through her as though she were only a thin membrane. He maliciously jabbed her again. She tried to pick up her pace while she moved toward the clot of terrified humans, but her knees kept buckling. Her entire team was lined up, on their knees with their hands laced behind their heads and guns pointed at the back of their heads. The Quechuan screamed while forcing her to kneel next to one of her team. Max had come too, the Russians right arm and his mercenary. That massive beast was barking at the brutes hed hired through an interpreter. His over muscled skin glistened in the sunlight as he paraded through the assembly like a bloodthirsty Mochen priest on the verge of offering a sacrificial victim to his god of thieves. She turned to the boy kneeling beside her, just a freshman in college on his first archaeological dig. She remembered his excitement when he arrived, that unbounded eagerness he brought to the excavation made her laugh. But, here he was, his head swelled in a matte of hair and blood where he

was hit with the butt of a gun. The gray-haired woman beside him whimpered like a small animal caught in a trap, her eyes darting, wild with fear. She had been on this dig for seven years and was looking toward her retirement in another two. The stern intelligence that once crinkled around her eyes and mouth, wielded like a weapon over the younger principals, was gone, eaten away by the frantic madness now terrorizing her. Alana could feel the despair writhing inside all of her colleagues, her friends, all lined up for their inevitable execution, completely unaware that she had shipped the necklace, the bible, and the priests bones to the museum. She squeezed her violet eyes closed and shivered, steeling herself against the bullets that would burn into her body. Then, she would slip into that black hole of death, and be unforgiven and forgotten by God with only a single act of goodness counted in her favor. She held her breath again, waiting for the blackness to open its arms and welcome her. A flurry of bullets blasted through the still air. She kept shivering, waiting for the burn, for the pain, for the cold slap of blackness, but she felt nothing. Startled, she opened her eyes, her ears ringing with the blasts from the AK 47. The Quechuan had fired over her head and was standing in front of her laughing with his black, rotten teeth bared in a grisly smile, a stream of green liquid running down his chin from the cacao leaf that hed been chewing to ease the pain. The sadist was toying with them, relishing his Peruvian maya, his power at the point of a gun. She could hear the distinct flapping sound of a helicopter coming in for a landing somewhere behind her. He did come after all. She recognized the roll of his voice, that throaty thrum rising above the whimpers and the crying. She turned her head slightly, spying the Russian, Vladimir Hrynevych, exiting his shiny, black chariot of the gods and clanging toward her in his leg braces like a diminutive Frankensteins monster. Black Teeth wrenched her arm until he pulled her trembling body to her feet. She couldnt understand a word of his incomprehensible dialect, but he continued to yell at her, as if volume would

breach the language barrier. He pushed her forward, toward the Russian. Her body wouldnt cooperate, her knees wanted to fold, and she couldnt stop the uncontrollable shivering. You know why Im here, Hrynevych said, his grey eyes narrowing, examining her face like he was memorizing every curve and mark. You cant do this. Dont hurt them . . . Im the one to blame. Im responsible . . . I did it on purpose . . . None of them are involved . . . Please. She hoped her words touched him as she searched his eyes. There was the sadness that shed seen there before. Perhaps he did hear her. The brutes bristled with adrenalines potent anxiety coursing through their body like cocaine, needing to expend it or they would explode. The sweating, fubsy Quechuan threw his head back; his dead, black eyes opened wide as he loosed a screeching predatory sound that sent a chill through her. He moved in closer, his eyes surveying her body like something he wanted to consume. Her stomach moiled from the stench of his rotting teeth and his dreggy body as she turned her head and tried to inch back toward her colleagues, longing to put distance between them. Hrynevych snapped his fingers over his head. An explosive shivaree echoed like a thunderous rain down the mountain and repeated its boom across the valley as they unloaded their magazines on all eight of her comrades. The moment froze in her mind. A death camp portraitall her friends slumped into a bloody heap of human flesh. She doubled over as if by some unseen hand, succumbing to the blackness, curling like an infant at the Russians feet. The Russians mouth opened slightly, his words muted as he gazed down at Alanas unconscious body, Why cant it be like it was in Paris? He pointed at her, directing the hired thugs to take her body to the helicopter while he limped in its direction. They lifted her rag doll body and tossed it on the seat across from him. The helicopter lurched upward and tore across the sky above the jungle and the green velvet terraced plots on the jagged peaks. It might have been a beautiful sight if things were different between them.

Ms. Morgan, wake up, he said. Alana. Something inside of him fluttered as he watched her body react to the harsh tone of his voice. I said wake up. He softened his tone. The anger and sadness inside were whirling about in a maelstrom that he couldnt control any longer. Everything was going wrong. All of his plans were subverted. He breathed in, trying to calm that tornado while waiting for her to come around. Whats happening? She pushed herself up into a sitting position. I must have fallen asleep. Will you be able to send the necklace to Paris? His tone changed, less accusing, softer as he gazed at her pale, pristine face. What necklace? Her teeth began to chatter. Who leaked the excavation to the press? He eyed her carefully. And, what about the map discovered on the priest? Im so cold. Do you have a blanket or a jacket I can wear? Her arms circled her shivering body. He eyed her for a long moment. That feeling fluttered its incipient wings inside of him again. Do you know where you are? She scanned the darkening sky, her eyes darting, her body jerking in short fits. Are you playing a trick on me? she asked. This isnt New York. Where are we? I dont recognize this place. Im so cold, I cant stop shaking. Suddenly, her eyes rolled back, her head lolled, and then she collapsed onto the seat in a wild seizure. Max! Get us to a hospital, he screamed.