Ask your friend to come up. This is the Greek part, that the Catholic. But these are Catholics at the Greek altar, because Calvary was there. Look at the inscription over the cross. It’s in real diamonds and was given by the Tsar. And look at this image. Catholics come and give these things to her.”

Gabriel pointed to a glass case. Inside I beheld a wax Virgin, draped in a pawnbroker’s stock of chains, watches, and pendants.

“My friend here is a Catholic,” I informed Gabriel maliciously.

“Oh, is he? And what are you? Protestant? Or nothing at all?”

“I think I shall be Orthodox while I’m here.”

“I shall tell God that. You see these two holes? They put Christ in them, one leg in each.”

“But is that in the Bible?”

“Of course it’s in the Bible. This cave is the place of the Skull. That’s where the earthquake split the rock. My mother in Samos had thirteen children. Now only my brother in America, my sister in Constantinople, and myself are left. That there is Nicodemus’s tomb, and that the tomb of Joseph of Arimathaea.”

“And what are the two little tombs?”

“They’re for the children of Joseph of Arimathaea.”

“I thought Joseph of Arimathaea was buried in England.”

Gabriel smiled, as though to say “Tell that to the marines”.

“Here,” he continued, “is a picture of Alexander the Great visiting Jerusalem, and being received by one of the prophets—I can’t remember which.”

“But did Alexander ever visit Jerusalem?”

“Certainly. I only tell you the truth.”

“I’m sorry. I thought it might be a legend.”

We emerged at last into the daylight.

“If you come and see me the day after tomorrow, I shall be out of the Tomb again. I come out at eleven, after being in all night.”

“But won’t you want to sleep?”

“No. I don’t like sleeping.”

The other holy sites are the Weeping Wall and the Dome of the Rock. Nodding and ululating over their books, squeezing their heads into crevices of the enormous masonry, the Jewish mourners are not more attractive than the performers in the Sepulchre. But at least it is light; the sun shines, and the Wall itself is comparable to the walls of the Incas. The Dome of the Rock shelters an enormous crag, whence Mohammad the Prophet took off on his ride up to Heaven. And here at last, apart from its associations, is a monument worthy of Jerusalem. A white marble platform, several acres in extent and commanding a view of the city walls and the Mount of Olives, is approached on different sides by eight flights of steps announced by lines of arches. In the middle of the platform, dwarfed by the space around it, stands a low octagon spangled with blue tiles and supporting a blue-tiled drum, whose breadth is about one-third of the octagon’s. On top of the drum is a dome, faintly bulbous and powdered with ancient gilt. To one side stands another miniature octagon, as it were a child of the larger, resting on pillars and sheltering a fountain. The inside has a Greek impress: the marble pillars uphold Byzantine capitals, and the vaults of gold mosaic, adorned with twirling arabesques, must be the work of Greek craftsmen. Iron screens commemorate a Christian interlude, when the Crusaders turned the place into a church. As a mosque, it was founded in the VIIth century. But many ages have contributed to its present form.