The Eighth Veil by Frederick Ramsay Page A

past the second hour and there were few customers in the street in search of jewelry. The wealthy, his clients, would not bestir themselves much before the fifth hour and by the sixth, when the sun was at its zenith, they would disappear again until the streets cooled once more. He ushered Gamaliel into a back room and pulled out a stool for his guest.
    “Were you successful?”
    “As you will see, yes and no, Rabban. I completed the removal of the paste-like false pottery and copied the inscription for you. I should say inscriptions. I do not read but the small bit of Greek I need to conduct my business. For anything else I must go down the street to the scribe who writes and reads for me. Obviously I dared not employ his services for this project. I can’t be sure but I think I can see that the writing is in three languages.”
    “Three? Let me see.”
    Agon handed over a slip of papyrus that he’d evidently sanded clean and on to which he’d copied the figures exactly as he saw them. Gamaliel picked it up. As Agon’s reading skills were in fact limited he could not know where the words in the inscriptions began or where they ended. Consequently, all the letters were strung together and the words, where they could be made out, were out of order. Gamaliel, who could read, had little difficulty sorting them out after a quick inspection.
    “The inscriptions are in Greek—you recognized that, I suppose—and repeated in Latin and Aramaic.” Gamaliel frowned in concentration. “Now, that is odd. Not in Hebrew. Why do you suppose that is? Why write in Aramaic and not Hebrew?”
    Agon could only shrug.
    “I think it may be important, but do not know why. Our late king never was an easy person to understand, my friend. Is that why you said yes and no? What about the second task. Were you able to replace the glazing or whatever it was? I do hope you managed. I can work as well if you haven’t but…”
    “Yes and no? Here, see for yourself.” Agon dipped his hand into his apron pocket and produced a pendant which he dropped on the counter beside the papyrus.
    “Ah, that is perfect. I am amazed. One could never tell the old false glaze has been removed and replaced. You are a mitzvah , Agon. This looks almost like real ceramic.”
    Agon’s grin split his beard into unequal and unlovely halves. He reached into his pouch and withdrew the original gold piece and laid it next to the first one.
    “What’s this?”
    “Recall, I said yes and no. You should have asked me to explain. I tried for hours to figure out how the coating had been done and failed. I knew you wished the pendent restored. I tried but frankly, I have no idea how it could be reproduced. I have seen this thing on pieces from the east—beyond India even, but again, how it is done, I do not know. I could not do as you wished, so instead, I made you a copy.”
    “I can’t tell them apart. This one looks like clay baked and glazed.”
    “There is a reason it looks like ceramic. It is ceramic. I simply molded a pendant from clay, glazed and painted it and then fired it, a far simpler task than reproducing or repairing the covering on the original.”
    “That is even better. Now I do not have to worry about it being stolen. I can keep the original in a safe place and dangle the copy if needed.” He paused and narrowed his eyes. “Yes this is perfect. I could set a trap with it.”
    “A trap? To catch what?”
    “A thief, perhaps.”
    “What does the writing say, Rabban?”
    Gamaliel reread the inscriptions again, compared them to the papyrus to be sure Agon had copied them faithfully, and shook his head. “Do you know the symbolism of the lion’s head in the center?”
    “Is for a king I think. Is it a King David’s pendant?”
    “No, not King David, a later king, much later, but just as important to many. No, I will not tell you today, old friend. You will be safer knowing only what you do already, trust me. And be warned, if someone comes