The caravan set out from the western shore of Lake Urmia, its vast salt waters teeming with birds of every imaginable shape, color, and size: ducks, swans, spoonbills, egrets, and flamingos, all tarrying in the last rays of autumn light. It was a good omen. So said the augurs, the watchers of birds.

A fortnight's journey brought the caravan over the mountains and down the upper reaches of the great Zab River to the city of Mépsila. The people there marveled at the caravan's splendor, for it seemed to them that the ancient priests of Māda, the Magi, had returned from legend. They celebrated with feasts of honeyed lamb and pomegranate wine. Gifts were lavished upon the caravan's priests, gold and pearls, camels and donkeys, spices and incense.

Rumors of their coming spread like a haboob across the desert. At the front of the caravan, on a great camel, rode one who was said to be the Rab Mag, Lord of the Magi. He was taller and stronger than any man, more like a god. His eyes were the color of storm clouds, and his heavenly robes shimmered like mountain water under the midday sun. He was Neriglissar reborn, Conqueror of Jerusalem, Reader of Dreams, Watcher of Stars.

By night, the caravan steered toward the constellation Ara, the altar of the gods, low on the western horizon, its smoke climbing through the stars, drifting rightward. By day, they followed the King's Highway across the Syrian plain and down to Damascus. Many roads departed that great city, none more heavily traveled than Via Maris, the Way of the Sea.

The morning came clear and cold. Brittle chamomile crunched beneath the camels' hooves, raising a sweet, pungent odor. Down below, the Sea of Galilee reclined in shadow, calm and dark beneath a blanket of haze. All along the western shore, the villages were waking, sending up their tendrils of smoke. The wooded hills beyond blushed with morning light. There, cradled in a gentle valley, lay the village of Nazareth.

***

Adriana Fitzimmin led Peter out of her office on the second floor of the British Museum and down the hallway to a walk-in vault. It was a cramped space, fifteen feet to a side, the walls lined with gray metal drawers, the air kept cool and dry by machinery humming steadily somewhere above the low ceiling. A metal table equipped with an articulated reading glass stood in the center of the room, folding chairs to either side.

Adriana closed the heavy outer door and tapped a code into the glowing keypad. Something heavy clunked inside the wall. "There," she said, turning. "We're safe from anything but a direct mortar strike, or so the engineers tell me."

She went to a high drawer, withdrew a piece of paper and a delicate glass document case the size of an iPad. The case she laid on the table. "This is what your father came to see."

Peter sat for a closer look. Sandwiched between the panes of glass were what appeared to be two small fragments of parchment, each badly burned. In shape they were mirror images, like butterfly wings.

"This is Vindolanda Tablet III-245. It's never been displayed in public." She activated the reading glass's UV lamp and switched off the overhead lights. The writing seemed to leap from the burned material, a fine cursive script.

Adriana explained. "It's colloquial Latin, a form used by the Roman Army in Britain two thousand years ago. This writing tablet was discovered along with many others near Chesterholm, England, in the ruins of an ancient fort called Vindolanda."

"What does it say?"

She switched off the UV lamp, and they were left in complete darkness, the scent of ozone lingering in the cool air, machinery humming above. "Take yourself back," she said. "All the way back to Roman Britain in the first century. Now imagine you're a trader, a businessman. You make your living buying goods from local farmers and selling them at a profit to the Roman Army. You've delivered the goods but haven't received payment yet." Her voice drifted over to the door. "So you sit down to write a letter to the centurion in charge. It's the middle of winter. You huddle in your calfskin tent, wet your quill, and by the light of an oil lamp, compose a letter on a wafer of birch bark. Finished, you score the wafer down the middle, fold it in two, write the recipient's name on the outside, and bind it tight with leather thongs. Then in the morning, you hand it along with a silver coin to the driver of a caravan heading for Vindolanda, and hope for the best."

As the images lingered in Peter's mind, Adriana turned on the overhead lights and stepped forward with the sheet of paper in her hand, a transcription of the tablet's text in Latin and in English.

Octavius Clodius fratri suo salute . . .

[Surface 1]

Octavius to his brother Clodius, greetings. If you love me, brother, you will swiftly send me one hundred pounds of sinew for which I have settled up. I have several times written of this matter, and that I have bought about five thousand modii of ears of grain, on account of which I need cash.

[Surface 2]

Frontius [unreadable] again. He was wanting me to allocate hides for trade in Hibernia, and that being so, was ready to give cash. I told him I would give hides by the Kalends of March, but he would not wait. He had taken as passenger our old Jewish rebel and his mustard seeds. Frontius will return in the summer to collect the hides . . . [remainder is lost]

She settled into the opposite chair, her gaze on the ancient fragments of birch bark in their protective glass case. "This letter was composed around 85 CE. We know from other letters that Octavius was a successful trader based at Carvetiorum on the west coast and that Clodius was a centurion of the Cohors I Tungrorum garrisoned at Vindolanda. Frontius appears to be a mutual acquaintance, probably another trader. It's a rather ordinary letter, really, except for three things. First is the mention of Hibernia, the Latin name for Ireland. This is one of only a handful of documents indicating a Roman presence there."

"Who's the old Jewish rebel?"

She looked up. "Vetus rebellio iudaicum, the core mystery of Vindolanda Tablet III-245. We don't know for sure who he was, but he appears to have been known to all three men."

"So he was famous."

"Infamous might be a better word. For a military man like Clodius, 'Judean rebel' would have held pejorative connotations. Remember that it was only fifteen years earlier that Emperor Titus broke the Jewish insurrection and destroyed the Second Temple of Solomon and most of Jerusalem with it. But you're right, this particular Judean rebel did become famous, very famous indeed. In fact, you've heard of him."

"I have?"

"Yes, but by another name." She seemed to be judging Peter's reaction. "What do you know about the term zealot?"

"A zealot's a religious fanatic, right?"

"That's the modern meaning, yes. In the time of Jesus, however, the term zealot was applied to the most religious of Jews, particularly those who fought against the Roman occupation. So, to a first-century Roman soldier like Clodius, a Judean rebel would have meant a Jewish insurrectionist, a zealot."

"I still don't know who you're talking about."

She nodded. "The Catholic Church has long downplayed the fact that one of its saints might have been an insurgent against the Roman Empire."

"A saint?"

"Not only a saint, but one of the Twelve Apostles. In Aramaic he was known as Shimón qana, Simon the Zealot."

"St. Simon?"

"None other."

"Wait. How do you know this zealot was Simon and not some other rebel?"

She seemed pleased with Peter's question. "What else do you know about Simon the Apostle?"

"Not much, I guess." Peter knew there were actually two apostles named Simon. There was his namesake, Simon whom Jesus later named Peter, the rock of the Church, and there was Simon the Zealot. Peter's catechism teacher once described the apostles as a twelve-man basketball team. Jesus was coach, Peter the all-star captain, and Thomas the starting forward. Way at the end of the bench, down with Thaddeus and Judas, sat Simon the Zealot.

"Simon's hardly mentioned in the New Testament," Adriana explained. "But early Church tradition holds that Jesus sent Simon to the edges of the world to preach the Gospel, to Britain and Ireland."

"So that fits."

"The final piece is the mustard seeds mentioned in the letter. Octavius clearly associates them with the old Judean rebel because he writes his mustard seeds."

"What's so important about mustard seeds?"

"Jesus's parable, of course. 'And Jesus asked, What is the Kingdom of God like? And how shall I come to resemble it? It is like a grain of mustard seed, which a man took and cast into his garden; and it sprouted and grew into a great tree.'"

"Ah, I get it. The mustard seeds symbolize Christianity, and Simon was spreading the new faith to Ireland."

A curt nod. "Precisely. This letter may record the earliest evangelism of Ireland. It's well known that Christianity existed there centuries before St. Patrick arrived."

"What did my dad think about all this?"

Her coarse facial features seemed to bunch up. "Your father was . . . well . . . skeptical. He pointed out, rightly, that the Latin phrase used in the parable of the Mustard Seed is granum sinapis, not the technical term found here, semina sinapis."

A jolt of electricity shot through Peter. "Did you just say seh-mee-nah see-nah-pees?"

"Yes, semina sinapis."

"That's it! That's what he was saying."

"Come again?"

"My dad. Semina sinapis. Those were his last words before he died. He never explained what they meant. He never had a chance to."

A cloud of concern shadowed her face. "Then I think you should speak with my father."

"Your father? Why?"

"There's so much you need to know."

"What do you mean?"

She picked up the document case and returned it to its high drawer. "I'm not the one who should tell you." She took out a business card and began writing something on the back. "Here is my father's address in the Hampstead Garden suburb, and his telephone number. I'll let my parents know to expect you." Then she added what appeared to be a list of words. "Commit these passwords to memory."

"Passwords?"

"Oh, it's all rather dramatic for my tastes. The passwords are plants from the mustard family, the Cruciferae, which refers to their tiny cross-shaped flowers." She sighed and asked him to stand. "When you shake hands with my father, be sure to clasp your left hands underneath, like this. Then you need only to say three of the passwords between you. That's it."

"Was that what you were trying to do when we first met?"

"It's called the usual means of identification. You'll be fine. Don't worry. He'll be ecstatic to finally meet you."

"Finally meet me?"

"Oh dear. I might at as well tell you something. We're family."

__________________

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Image: One of the Vindolanda tablets, courtesy of https://1rs84j3vm0ob2asu30vmou8p-wpengine.netdna-ssl.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/07/Previously-discovered-birthday-invite.jpg