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his knee and snapped her left arm across it like a piece of wood.
    Erin gripped the site of the fracture, still feeling that pain. She pressed hard enough to know the bone had healed offset. Her father had not allowed her to visit a doctor. If prayer could not heal a wound, or save a baby’s life, then it was not God’s will, and they must submit always to God’s will.
    When she fled her father’s tyranny, she spent a year teaching herself to write with her left hand instead of her right, anger and determination cut into every stroke of the pen. She would not let her father shape who she became. And so far, evil did not seem to have invaded her, although her arm ached when it rained.
    “So the Bible was correct.” Heinrich drew her out of her reverie. He lifted a handful of sand off the baby’s legs and deposited it on the ground outside the trench. “The slaughter happened. And it happened here.”
    “No.” She studied scattered bone fragments, trying to decide where to start. “You’re overreaching. We have potential evidence that a slaughter occurred here, but I doubt it has anything to do with the birth of Christ. Historical fact and religious stories often get tangled together. Remember, for archaeological purposes, we must always treat the Bible as a …” She struggled to find a noninflammatory word, gave up. “A spiritual interpretation of events, written by someone bent on twisting the facts to suit their ideology. Someone with a religious agenda.”
    “Instead of an academic one?” Heinrich’s German accent grew stronger, a sign that he was upset.
    “Instead of an objective agenda. Our ultimate goal—as scientists—is to find tangible evidence of past events instead of relying on ancient stories. To question everything.”
    Heinrich carefully brushed sand off the little femur. “You don’t believe in God, then? Or Christ?”
    She scrutinized the bone’s rough surface. No new damage. “I believe Christ was a man. That he inspired millions. Do I believe that he turned water into wine? I’d need proof.”
    She thought back to her First Communion, when she had believed in miracles, believed that she truly drank the blood of Christ. It seemed centuries ago.
    “But you are here.” Heinrich swept his pale arm around the site. “Investigating a Bible fable.”
    “I’m investigating a historical event,” she corrected. “And I’m here in Caesarea , not in Bethlehem like the Bible says, because I found evidence that drew me to this site. I am here because of facts. Not faith.”
    By now, Heinrich had cleared the bottom of the skeleton. They both worked faster than usual, wary that an aftershock might strike at any time.
    “A story written on a pot from the first century led us here,” she said. “Not the Bible.”
    After months of sifting through potsherds at the Rockefeller Museum in Jerusalem, she had uncovered a misidentified broken jug that alluded to a mass grave of children in Caesarea. It had been enough to receive the grant that had brought them all here.
    “So you are trying to … debunk the Bible?” He sounded disappointed.
    “I am trying to find out what happened here. Which probably had nothing to do with what the Bible said.”
    “So you don’t believe that the Bible is holy?” Heinrich stopped working and stared at her.
    “If there is divinity, it’s not in the Bible. It’s in each man, woman, and child. Not in a church or coming out of the mouth of a priest.”
    “But—”
    “I need to get brushes.” She hauled out of the trench, fighting back her anger, not wanting her student to see it.
    When she was halfway to the equipment tent, the sound of a helicopter turned her head. She shaded her eyes and scanned the sky.
    The chopper came in fast and low, a massive craft, khaki, with the designation S-92 stenciled on the tail. What was it doing here? She glared at it. The rotors would blow sand right back onto the skeleton.
    She spun around to tell Heinrich to cover