The Betrayal Read online

  As they marched down the hall side-by-side, passing the soldiers, Silvester hissed, “My personal boat is waiting on the dock at Ephesus. Take it to Egypt. Keep me apprised.”

  THE TEACHING ON THE SWORD

  Rain clouds drift through the sky, but there is no rain today, only heat and more heat. You are irritable as you walk down the road toward Yerushalaim. Your brothers and sisters walk ahead of you. You lag, swatting at flies, grumbling to yourself because you want nothing more than to go and sleep in the shade of an olive tree until night comes. But he will not allow it. You have finally escaped the crowds, and he says you must rush on. You hear his voice, teaching, as always … but can’t make out most of the words until he calls:

  “Did you hear that, brother?” Yeshu stops and turns around to look straight at you.

  You squint against the glare to see him. His black hair haloes his face in tight, sweat-drenched curls. The sun beats down upon your head like a fiery hammer.

  “No. I’m too far behind. What did you say?”

  “We were talking about the art of the sword. I said that it was, for the most part, the art of being truly present with God.”

  The disciples gather around him in a milling circle, listening. They can tell by his tone of voice that this is another lesson, and they want to hear it.

  Unlike you. You just want to get to a cold drink of water.

  As he needs you to, you say, “That sounds ridiculous. Am I not always present with God? How could I be otherwise, for you have told us that God is everywhere, all the time.”

  He suppresses a smile. It’s his way of thanking you for asking the questions no one else will. You are his acknowledged adversary, and he both resents and cherishes it.

  Yeshu says, “I think, in fact, that people are almost never present with God. They are thinking about the past or the future, worried about what their enemies are doing, or worse, what their friends are plotting. But rarely do they live truly Now. And that is where God lives.”

  You flap your arms in exasperation. “Very fascinating, but I don’t see what that has to do with the art of the sword.”

  He cuts the air with his hand, as though swinging an invisible sword. “The sword has a living heart. It beats. It listens. It strikes. But the blow is only lethal when the swordsman acts in an instant of utter awareness of the cause of life and death.”

  You glance around at the disciples. They look as mystified as you do. Poor Matya, his young face is screwed up in total confusion.

  “Truly,” you say, “I hate your parables. They are utter nonsense. I wish you would speak straightly.”

  He tilts his head, and smiles. “I mean that it is only when you are fully present with another that you can know him, or love him.”

  “Or ‘it’ in the case of a sword.”

  “Yes. Very good, brother. I knew you would understand.”

  He smiles broadly, turns, and heads up the road again.

  The disciples fall into line behind him, their sandals kicking up puffs of tan dust. You, alone, remain standing, grimacing at his back.

  It takes several moments before you realize he means “ … or in the case of God.”

  You shake your head, annoyed that it was meant specifically for you, and run to catch up.

  THREE

  MONASTERY OF SAINT STEPHEN THE MARTYR, EGYPT

  For the most part the pungent scents of decaying vegetation and damp soil filled the air. But on those occasions when the breeze shifted, the hot dusty breath of the desert could be felt. It was a reminder for the monks of Pachomius that their fertile fields edged a vast, arid waste.

  Brother Zarathan wiped his dirt-coated hands on his white robe and gazed out at the fishing boats. They bobbed with the current of the wide Nile River. From his vantage he could see seven of them, filled with men and boys, probably fathers and sons going about their day.

  He shifted to look across the fields of the monastery to the great walled city of Phoou where his own family lived. Heat waves rose from the warm stones, making the irregular circular wall seem somehow unreal. Beyond the city, to the north, the high cliff of Gebel et-Tarif was almost invisible, cloaked in a dusty haze.

  Zarathan sighed, wondering what his friends in the city would be doing today. Probably helping their families to prepare the fields, just as he was doing. Or, rather, as he was supposed to be doing.

  He was sixteen, with bright flaxen hair, clear blue eyes, and, as the girls in the village used to tell him, the face of a freshly circumcised cat. He’d never really understood that, though the insult might have referred to the fact that he frequently felt a little stunned by life. Or maybe it was the thin fuzz of blond beard, the length of a cat’s hair, that whiskered his chin. Not that it had mattered much. Though his mother had wanted him to marry, Thaddeus—that had been his name three months ago—had been totally uninterested in matrimony. Even before he’d come here, he’d spent his nights in prayer, yearning with all his heart for one single glimpse of the heavenly kingdom. Sometimes, after he’d prayed until dawn, tiny tendrils of pure aching love had filtered through him, and he’d wept with the knowledge that he had, perhaps, touched the hem of his Lord, Iesous Christos.

  “Thank you, brother,” Zarathan said as another in a long line of monks delivered an empty seed pot to his washing table beneath the palm tree.

  Zarathan sheepishly glanced at the other monks who tilled the soil, planted seeds, and carried water. Then he blinked at the row of clay pots before him. There were so many! When had he gotten so behind?

  Brother Jonas had assigned him the simple duty of cleaning the empty seed pots and returning them to their shelves in the monastery. More than twenty unclean pots and a basin of water sat before him—as well as a water jar and ladle to quench the thirst of the laboring monks. Where had the time gone? Had he dreamed it all away?

  Another two pots were delivered to his table by silent monks.

  His shoulders sagged.

  Zarathan absently ran his finger around the rim of the most recent pot. Barley chaff coated his fingertip.

  He thought again of those long nights spent in prayer, and the ecstatic memories left Zarathan feeling light-headed. He—

  “Zarathan?” The gravelly voice of Brother Jonas surprised him from behind.

  He spun around like a dog caught with a roasted lamb shank in its teeth. “Yes, Brother Jonas?”

  “Before you realize it, that pile of pots will be as tall as you are, and when they fall and crush you to mush, I will be forced to walk into the city—which you know I hate—and tell your wailing parents that it was not an accident. You, in fact, died from slothfulness.”

  The other monks in the field turned to look.

  Zarathan reddened in shame. “Forgive me, brother. I’ll try to concentrate.”

  “See that you do.”

  Jonas, over forty, had wild brown hair, a scraggly beard, and a wrinkled nose that reminded Zarathan of a date left too long in the sun. The old monk just shook his head and picked up his water pot again, pouring it out in a thin stream over the freshly planted barley seeds.

  Zarathan dunked a pot into the water basin and used his linen cloth to swab out the inside. More pots arrived and thunked on the wooden table.

  Zarathan’s heart sank. Beneath his breath, he whispered, “This is a waste of my potential. I should be in my cell, on my knees, seeking divine love—”

  From his right, a deep voice whispered, “First, wash the pots, then seek divine love.”

  Zarathan jumped. “Brother Cyrus! I—I didn’t hear you approach.”

  Cyrus suppressed a smile and leaned against the table. He was tall and muscular. Black curly hair hung to his broad shoulders, and he had a thick beard and mustache. His green eyes always seemed half amused. Zarathan guessed his age at around thirty-five.

  As Cyrus wiped his sweating brow on his dirty white sleeve, he said, “Would you like some help, brother? Jonas sent me to ask. I think he wants you to finish sometime befor
e the plants mature and are harvested.”

  Zarathan frowned, dunked another pot, and said, “Yes, thank you, brother.”

  Cyrus picked up a pot and proceeded to wash it while Zarathan turned his clean pot upside down on the table to drain and dry. The sunlight on this day was painfully bright. When he turned to Cyrus, he squinted against the glare.

  “He’s such a taskmaster, forever watching,” Zarathan whispered. “Has he always been like this?”

  Cyrus smiled. “I can’t say. I’ve been here less than a year, but you must understand that Brother Jonas is in charge of seeing that the fields are planted properly so the monastery has food. Abba Pachomius says we must be self-sufficient. It’s a heavy burden. Jonas needs each one of us to help him if he’s going to succeed.”

  Zarathan studied Cyrus from the corner of his eye. When he was out of earshot, the other brothers told spectacular stories about Cyrus. They said he’d been a fierce soldier, an archer in the Roman army, and that he’d killed many men.

  Cyrus leaned sideways and whispered, “You’re dreaming again, brother. Come back to our task.”

  “What?”

  The vision of a thousand archers letting their arrows fly burst, and Zarathan morosely focused on the tall man standing beside him.

  “Wash pots,” Cyrus repeated, “then seek divine love.”

  Zarathan grimaced. “I am not meant for the world of pot washing, brother. Mine is a higher calling. I came here because everyone said Abba Pachomius allowed monks to spend their time doing spiritual exercises.”

  Cyrus’ green eyes twinkled. “Planting is a spiritual exercise, brother, though I see you’ve been brooding too much to realize it.” He gestured to the prayer rope that hung from Zarathan’s leather belt.

  Zarathan looked down. They were ordered to carry their prayer rope, a woolen cord, with them at all times. Each time they said the Iesous Prayer, “Lord Iesous Christos, son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner,” they were supposed to tie a knot in the rope. The knots recorded how many times during the day they’d said the prayer. Zarathan’s rope had two knots. He glanced at Cyrus’ rope. There were too many knots to count.

  He said, “Cyrus, I wish to ‘pray without ceasing,’ as Saint Paulus instructed, but I wish to do it correctly, on my knees in my cell. Standing out here in the hot sun washing pots prevents me from pursuing my holy calling.”

  Cyrus burst out laughing, and Zarathan gave him an askance look, at a loss to understand what his brother found comical.

  From the rear of the monastery, on the south side that faced the Nile River, Kalay, the washerwoman, emerged, along with her young assistant, Sophia. While Sophia was a dark-haired imp from the city who spent afternoons helping Kalay, Kalay was tall and lithe with long wavy red hair and a face that rivaled the legendary beauty of the Magdalen’s.

  Zarathan looked at her and made a gulping sound. “I don’t know why Abba Pachomius lets her live here,” he whispered. “She’s a harlot. Maybe even a demon.”

  Cyrus’ dark brows plunged down. “She’s a washerwoman. Would you rather wash your clothing yourself? I thought you needed every moment to pray without ceasing?”

  Zarathan watched Kalay walk down to the river with her tan dress dancing about her long legs. “She truly scares me, Cyrus.”

  “She scares all of us, brother. But that is not her failing. It is ours.”

  Fortunately, she was never allowed to interact with the monks. She lived in a hut by herself, ate by herself, and was forbidden to speak to anyone other than Brother Jonas, who delivered and retrieved the wash.

  With his eyes still glued to Kalay, Zarathan picked up another pot. When it slipped from his wet fingers, he cried, “Oh!” just before it crashed to the ground and shattered. Shards cartwheeled in every direction.

  Jonas must have heard. He straightened in the field, stretched his back muscles, and plodded across the soft earth toward Zarathan.

  “I’ll be washing pots for the rest of my life now,” Zarathan said. “That’s the third pot I’ve broken this week.”

  “You just need to learn to focus, brother. When you begin using your prayer rope, you’ll find it helps.”

  Jonas walked into the shade beneath the palm tree and dipped himself a ladle of water before he said, “I see a broken pot.” He drank the ladle to the last drop and hung it back on the water jar without so much as glancing at Zarathan.

  Cyrus said, “I dropped the pot, brother. Forgive me. It was sheer carelessness. I should have dried my hands before I reached for it.” He bowed his dark head in apparent shame.

  Zarathan stared wide-eyed at Cyrus.

  Jonas looked from Cyrus to Zarathan and back again. His mouth quirked. He could not in good conscience ask Zarathan if it were true, because that might force Zarathan to lie, which would mean Jonas was culpable in the sinful act.

  Cyrus, his head still bowed, said, “I will accept any penance you give me, brother. I vow to be more careful in the future.”

  Jonas contemplatively stroked his scraggly brown beard. “It is not my place to punish you. I will refer the matter to Brother Barnabas.”

  “Barnabas!” Zarathan said in surprise. “The heretic?”

  Jonas’ bushy brows lowered thunderously. “Brother Barnabas helped Abba Pachomius build this monastery. He has been here for twenty years and is probably the most devoted, certainly the most scholarly, monk we have. Just because he believes in leaving room for compromise on the scriptures does not mean he’s a heretic. It would, perhaps, be more accurate to say he is a pragmatist.”

  “Well,” Zarathan said and puffed out his chest, “we will see if the synod of bishops meeting in Nicea agrees—”

  “Thank you, brother,” Cyrus interrupted, which annoyed Zarathan, who had only just begun his tirade. “We know that Brother Barnabas is a very holy man.”

  Jonas scowled at Zarathan. “You may both go and see Brother Barnabas. Now. And keep in your hearts the fact that Barnabas never assigns a punishment he does not follow himself. If he tells you to scrub floors for a month, he will be there beside you on his hands and knees. Let that knowledge be your burden.” He started to turn away, then added, “And maintain silence until he speaks to you.”

  Cyrus nodded, dried his hands, and started for the monastery. Zarathan hurried behind him. Why had Cyrus taken responsibility for something he had not done? Zarathan knew he shouldn’t speak until released from the vow of silence, but he caught up with Cyrus and whispered, “Brother, why did—”

  Cyrus gave him a reproachful look and firmly shook his head.

  The stunning basilica with its magnificent dome rose in front of them. The walls had been built two cubits thick to support the majestic arches and columns inside and the roof that stretched eighty cubits into the sky.

  Zarathan breathed a sigh of relief. This was the place where hearts were weighed. Whoever entered here with faith found the forgiveness of sins and offenses, and the glory of the pure of heart shone over the whole world.

  Cool air rushed from the door when Cyrus opened it, and they stepped into the shadowed interior. High above, in the vaulted ceiling, dust danced and spun in the light streaming through the windows. Paintings covered the walls depicting sacred moments in the life of their Lord: his birth, the breaking of the bread at the Last Supper, his trial, the crucifixion.

  They walked side-by-side toward the library where Brother Barnabas spent the day, every day, translating tiny fragments of ancient documents brought to him by nearby villagers. Sometimes even traders passing through, who knew of his peculiar interests, brought him scraps of papyri.

  Zarathan hissed, “Cyrus? What do you think of Brother Barnabas? Do you agree that he is a heretic? I’ve heard him say, for example, that our Lord did not rise in the flesh, but that it might have been a spiritual resurrection of the soul! The emperor has ruled such utterances heresy. What do you think?”

  He gave Cyrus a sidelong glance and saw his brother lift his eyes briefly to heaven, as tho
ugh begging God to give him patience.

  “Cyrus,” he continued, “you know the synod of bishops recently met in Nicea to decide such issues once and for all. Has there been any word as to their decisions?”

  When Cyrus kept his green eyes on the massive wooden library door ahead, Zarathan added, “I have truly been eager to learn what day they have decided is Easter. Will it be on the date of the Jewish Passover, as the Gospel of Ioannes says, or the day after as told to us in the Gospels of Markos, Loukas, and Maththaios. Personally, I think the correct date—”13

  Cyrus stopped and gently put his fingers over Zarathan’s mouth. He said nothing, but just stared down into Zarathan’s eyes.

  Grudgingly, Zarathan nodded.

  Cyrus continued toward the library door. The iron hinges groaned when Cyrus swung it back, and they stepped into the musty air. The room smelled like moldering books and dust. Candlelight fluttered over the stone walls like amber wings flying toward the high vaulted ceiling above.

  Zarathan stood quietly, as he’d been instructed, waiting for Brother Barnabas to speak to him. The old man, at least fifty, sat on a long bench, hunched over a table covered with scraps of papyrus. They resembled dried golden leaves inscribed with black ink and looked very old. He seemed to be arranging them in some kind of order.

  Barnabas squinted and exhaled hard. As though having difficulty deciphering the ancient text, he muttered to himself. His gray hair and beard shimmered slightly when he cocked his head. He had a curious face; all of the proportions seemed to be oversized. Though his skull was long and narrow, he had a grotesquely wide mouth, long hooked nose, and brown eyes that were too deeply sunken into his head. Truly, he looked more like a recent corpse than a living man. Like every other monk, he wore a long white robe with a leather belt and prayer rope.

  Zarathan heaved a sigh and studied the shelves filled with ancient parchment books and papyrus scrolls of scripture, most of which he knew to be heretical. He’d once seen Brother Barnabas studying the forbidden Gospel of Maryam.