anyway. That’s about how tall they look in the painting. But Tintoretto created Wedding Feast at Cana during the sixteenth century, long after these were buried. Was he incredibly lucky? Did he benefit from divine inspiration? No. It’s more likely that the DeMaj group scoured the world for a set of ancient stone jars that resembled the artist’s famous depiction and upon finding some incorrectly assumed that they’d found the lost jars of Cana. You follow?”
Paul nodded. “I hear you, but Simon’s experts seemed awfully certain. Couldn’t Tintoretto have obtained a valid description from some knowledgeable source? Maybe he found a good sketch preserved in an ancient manuscript. Maybe an older, historically accurate rendering was available in Renaissance Italy, one that has since been lost.”
Ava’s eyes widened. “Or maybe he actually saw a jar! The legend claims a jar came by sea to Rome, where it was kept hidden . . .”
She began her examination. For a while Paul watched her work; then he grew bored.
“We studied them for hours, Ava. We couldn’t find anything.”
Engrossed, she ignored him. Paul decided to do something useful.
“I’ll be outside, okay? I want to see how badly I trashed the truck.”
If she had heard, she gave no sign. Paul shrugged and rested the lantern on the rocky floor. He could find his way back without it. The cave wasn’t very deep. Light filtered in from the entrance.
Paul exited the cavern, hopped down into the ravine, and found the truck. He’d concealed it under a camouflage tarp that looked to be Gulf War surplus. A methodical inspection revealed that the damage was less severe than he’d reckoned. Although he wouldn’t trust the truck across one hundred fifty kilometers of mountainous terrain, with a few repairs he could drive it back to St. Anthony’s.
Paul gazed up into the bright azure sky and observed a hawk’s graceful patrol. He took a long pull from his canteen and splashed cool water on his neck. Then, opening his tool kit, he set to work.
Simon opened his eyes. He wasn’t in heaven. He was in a tent. He remembered now. The Beja caravan had found him bleeding to death in the vast desert. The nomads brought him to a traditional healer who had blessed him and pulled two nine-millimeter slugs out of his body. One had embedded itself in his shoulder muscles, incapacitating his left arm; the other had broken a rib and damaged his right lung. Overall, he’d been lucky.
His mobile phone rang. Wincing, Simon answered it. “Mr. DeMaj, we got a hit on the American girl. She used a credit card on Kamaran Island. We don’t know if she’s still there. Should we send a team?”
“I’ll go myself and track her. We can’t afford more mistakes. Lock on to my GPS signal and send the big chopper.” An hour later, Simon was streaking over the Red Sea. He refused to rest until he located the girl.
“If I find her,” he thought, “I’ll find Paul.”
By mid-afternoon Paul had the truck running. He drained his canteen and went to fetch Ava from the cave. Sitting in the same position, she appeared not to have moved in two hours. Paul stood behind her. What was she looking at?
When he touched her shoulder, she jumped.
“Hey, it’s just me. Time to head back.”
“Okay,” Ava said, coming out of her trance. She explained that when immersed in a particularly difficult problem she sometimes lost touch with external reality.
“You are so odd,” said Paul, grinning. They returned the jars to the protective canisters and loaded both onto the truck. Paul hit the ignition, turned around, and ventured down the ravine.
As they drove, Ava told Paul the results of her analysis. “I’d swear the jars are from the correct historical period. The material is right. The style is right. They look about two thousand years old, give or take a century. I don’t have the capability to determine an exact age myself. I want to try Professor Aitken’s
Paul nodded. “I hear you, but Simon’s experts seemed awfully certain. Couldn’t Tintoretto have obtained a valid description from some knowledgeable source? Maybe he found a good sketch preserved in an ancient manuscript. Maybe an older, historically accurate rendering was available in Renaissance Italy, one that has since been lost.”
Ava’s eyes widened. “Or maybe he actually saw a jar! The legend claims a jar came by sea to Rome, where it was kept hidden . . .”
She began her examination. For a while Paul watched her work; then he grew bored.
“We studied them for hours, Ava. We couldn’t find anything.”
Engrossed, she ignored him. Paul decided to do something useful.
“I’ll be outside, okay? I want to see how badly I trashed the truck.”
If she had heard, she gave no sign. Paul shrugged and rested the lantern on the rocky floor. He could find his way back without it. The cave wasn’t very deep. Light filtered in from the entrance.
Paul exited the cavern, hopped down into the ravine, and found the truck. He’d concealed it under a camouflage tarp that looked to be Gulf War surplus. A methodical inspection revealed that the damage was less severe than he’d reckoned. Although he wouldn’t trust the truck across one hundred fifty kilometers of mountainous terrain, with a few repairs he could drive it back to St. Anthony’s.
Paul gazed up into the bright azure sky and observed a hawk’s graceful patrol. He took a long pull from his canteen and splashed cool water on his neck. Then, opening his tool kit, he set to work.
Simon opened his eyes. He wasn’t in heaven. He was in a tent. He remembered now. The Beja caravan had found him bleeding to death in the vast desert. The nomads brought him to a traditional healer who had blessed him and pulled two nine-millimeter slugs out of his body. One had embedded itself in his shoulder muscles, incapacitating his left arm; the other had broken a rib and damaged his right lung. Overall, he’d been lucky.
His mobile phone rang. Wincing, Simon answered it. “Mr. DeMaj, we got a hit on the American girl. She used a credit card on Kamaran Island. We don’t know if she’s still there. Should we send a team?”
“I’ll go myself and track her. We can’t afford more mistakes. Lock on to my GPS signal and send the big chopper.” An hour later, Simon was streaking over the Red Sea. He refused to rest until he located the girl.
“If I find her,” he thought, “I’ll find Paul.”
By mid-afternoon Paul had the truck running. He drained his canteen and went to fetch Ava from the cave. Sitting in the same position, she appeared not to have moved in two hours. Paul stood behind her. What was she looking at?
When he touched her shoulder, she jumped.
“Hey, it’s just me. Time to head back.”
“Okay,” Ava said, coming out of her trance. She explained that when immersed in a particularly difficult problem she sometimes lost touch with external reality.
“You are so odd,” said Paul, grinning. They returned the jars to the protective canisters and loaded both onto the truck. Paul hit the ignition, turned around, and ventured down the ravine.
As they drove, Ava told Paul the results of her analysis. “I’d swear the jars are from the correct historical period. The material is right. The style is right. They look about two thousand years old, give or take a century. I don’t have the capability to determine an exact age myself. I want to try Professor Aitken’s
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