The Betrayal Page 4

  The faint scent of ink pervaded the air, as though Barnabas had been writing just before they’d entered the library. A calamus—a pointed reed split to form a nib—rested in an inkstand to Barnabas’ right. The red ink, made of iron oxide and gum, resembled old blood. An assortment of other writing supplies rested close at hand: a knife for sharpening the pen, a whetstone for sharpening the knife, a chunk of pumice for smoothing the papyrus, a sponge for making erasures, a pair of compasses for making the lines equidistant from each other, and a ruler and a thin lead disk for drawing the lines.

  Zarathan scratched beneath his armpit. The linen robes itched. There were times at night when he pulled his robe over his head and found his arms and belly covered with red welts. But he understood; it was part of the price he had to pay for seeking the divine love of his risen Lord.

  Brother Barnabas pulled a fragment of papyrus from a distant spot on the table, said, “Ah!” as though he’d made a great discovery, and rearranged the fragments to put it in the proper place. After several moments, his breath seemed to catch, and in a dire voice, he whispered, “ … buried shamefully.” He didn’t seem to be breathing. Finally, he whispered, “I need more … details … .”

  Zarathan cast a look of incomprehension at Cyrus, who softly cleared his throat.

  Barnabas whirled and stared at them in surprise, as though they’d sneaked up on him with battle-axes in their fists. A little breathlessly, he said, “Forgive me, brothers, I did not realize you were there. Zarathan, you’re not in trouble again, are you?”

  Zarathan blushed and shifted his weight to his other foot. Cyrus turned to Zarathan, giving him the opportunity to confess.

  In a morose voice, Zarathan said, “I broke another pot, brother.”

  “I see.” Barnabas looked at Cyrus. “And your offense, Cyrus?”

  “I lied to protect Zarathan from Brother Jonas’ wrath. I said that I dropped the pot.”

  “Then your offense is worse; you realize that? Even though you meant good by it?”

  Cyrus nodded obediently. “Yes, brother.”

  Barnabas rose to his feet and the mere motion fluttered the fragments spread over the table. His eyes flew wide, and he eased back to the long bench.

  “I’m supposed to prescribe some punishment, I suppose.” He folded his hands in his lap and appeared to be thinking. After a time, he said, “In penance, I want both of you to fast for three days and—and to help me translate a recent library acquisition. Cyrus, I believe you are skilled in the Aramaic language?”

  Cyrus nodded. “Yes, brother.”

  “Good. I want both of you to go to the library crypt beneath the oratory. There are leaves laid out on the table there. Please translate them into Greek.”

  The library crypt was where they kept their most valuable documents. Zarathan had never even seen it. Few of the monks had.

  “Greek, brother?” Cyrus asked. “Not Coptic?”

  Though they often spoke in Greek—the language of the Gospels—Coptic was the common language of Egyptian Christians. Why would Brother Barnabas want them translated into Greek?

  “Yes, Greek. I want the book to have a wider audience. I believe the Gospel of Petros is important—”

  “The Gospel of Petros!” Zarathan blurted. “Hasn’t that book been banned?”

  Barnabas seemed to barely register Zarathan’s objection. He said softly, “To the earliest Christians, books like the Gospels of Petros, Philippon, and Maryam were the holy books, Zarathan. You need to read them to understand why.”

  “But they’ve been—”

  Barnabas lifted a hand to still him. “Do not make the Kingdom of God a desert within you, Zarathan. Read our Lord’s words wherever you find them … and be grateful.”14

  Zarathan let out a pained sound.

  Cyrus answered, “Yes, brother.”

  Barnabas waved his hand, dismissing them, and turned back to his little bits of papyrus. “The key to the crypt rests above the altar to the Magdalen. Please remember to put it back.”

  “We will, brother.” Cyrus turned and pushed open the heavy door.

  As they walked into the corridor, Zarathan complained, “I am being forced to read heresy! The emperor has made it a death sentence!”

  Cyrus drily replied, “Emperor Constantine is, fortunately, far away. I suggest you heed Brother Barnabas’ advice and read everything before such opportunities vanish.”

  “If I’m not executed first. I don’t see how you can be so calm about this, when—”

  “Brother,” Cyrus interrupted and stopped in the middle of the long quiet hall to peer down at Zarathan. “Earlier you asked why I had taken responsibility for the broken pot.”

  “Yes. Why did you?”

  Cyrus gave him a serious look. “When I lived in Rome, I was taught never to let a day pass without performing at least one act of mercy. Today, you helped me remember. Now it’s your turn. Be merciful—and quiet.”

  Cyrus started down the corridor again, taking long, measured steps, much longer than Zarathan’s stride, which forced him to run to catch up.

  “You lived in Rome?” Zarathan asked in awe. “What did you do there? Were you a soldier as everyone says, or—”

  “Mercy, Zarathan. I beg you.”

  Two men turned the corner ahead and strode toward them. One, Abba Pachomius, they knew. The white-haired Abba, which meant “father” in Hebrew, was fondly regarded as the founder of Christian monasticism. So far, he’d established four monasteries in Egypt and had several more planned. Usually, Pachomius looked serene, but today, he wore a slightly frightened expression. The other man, dressed in a black robe, had short blond hair and seething eyes. Zarathan had never seen him before.

  As they passed, Cyrus bowed his head and said, “The Lord be with you, Abba, brother.”

  “And with you, Cyrus and Zarathan,” Abba Pachomius said.

  The blond man did not even deign to speak to them. He just marched toward the library like a man on a holy mission.

  When they heard the heavy iron hinges squeal, Cyrus frowned and turned to watch. Abba Pachomius entered first. The other man remained standing outside, staring back at Cyrus. Zarathan would have sworn their locked gazes were those of wary lions appraising each other from afar.

  Cyrus swiftly turned to walk away, but a harsh voice called: “Wait.”

  Cyrus tensed and turned back. “Yes, brother?”

  The blond man’s eyes narrowed. He said, “Are you Jairus Claudius Atinius?”

  Zarathan saw the muscles in Cyrus’ shoulders begin to bulge through his white robe. In a firm voice, he answered, “No, brother, I am not.”

  Tendons stood out on the backs of Cyrus’ clenched hands, and Zarathan instantly suspected Cyrus had committed yet another sin he would have to confess.

  The black-robed man stared hard at Cyrus’ face. Romans shaved their faces and kept their hair cut short. Was the black-robed priest trying to see through Cyrus’ thick beard and curly shoulder-length hair?

  The Roman grunted, said, “Do you know where he is? I heard he was here, though I did not believe it.”

  Cyrus answered, “We are given new names when we come to our Lord. I do not know the name of the man you are seeking.”

  “No, of course not,” the Roman replied skeptically. For three or four heartbeats, he hesitated, then he stepped into the library, leaving the heavy door ajar.

  Zarathan whispered, “Do you know that man?”

  “No.” Cyrus shook his head. “But he’s a messenger from Rome. You wanted to know about the synod’s conclusions in Nicea? I think you are about to have your answers. We had better—”

  Voices rose from the library.

  Brother Barnabas cried in shock, “It cannot be true. They wouldn’t order us to consign them to the fire! They are the words of our Lord.” 15

  In a strident voice, the Roman said, “The bishops have ordained twenty-seven books as the New Testament. Another fifty-two books have been declared hereti
cal, a hotbed of manifold perversity. The Council of Nicea orders that they are not only to be forbidden, but entirely destroyed. Anyone found reading or copying these books is to be declared a Christian heretic and executed.”

  Steps moved across the floor, pounding out authority. “Also, I am to inform you that the doctrine of the resurrection has been ordained. It was a fleshly resurrection. Our Lord rose in the body. Is that clear?” After a moment, the blond continued: “In addition, the Council has established that Miriam was a virgin. They are even considering ordaining that she was a perpetual virgin, that she was a virgin when she gave birth to our Lord, and she remained a virgin for the rest of her life.”

  “But … ,” Barnabas said in disbelief. “Our Lord had four brothers: Iakobos, Ioses, Iuda, and Simon. And he had two sisters, Mariam and Salome. What about them?”16

  “The Council has declared that they were not true brothers and sisters. They were stepbrothers and sisters, perhaps even cousins, but not real brothers or sisters.”

  There was a short pause, and Zarathan heard the Roman ask, “What’s that you’re reading?”

  In a soft, fearful voice, Brother Barnabas said, “I’m not certain, yet. I believe it is a book written by the brother, uh, cousin, of our Lord: Iakobos. It is in Hebrew, so naturally, it’s called the Secret Book of Yakob. I’ve only just begun to translate—”

  The Roman ordered, “Burn it! Burn every book in this room that has been judged heretical. I’ll provide you with a list, and I want you to give me a list of the monks who have read these books.”

  “But,” Abba Pachomius objected, “the entire monastery has read at least parts of these books.”

  “Then bring every man before me, tonight at supper. That’s two hours away, isn’t it? I must make certain the monks understand the Council’s declarations.”

  The Roman stalked from the library with a pale and devastated Abba Pachomius trailing a few steps behind. “Pappas Meridias, please wait.”

  “You have another monastery just upriver, Abba. When I have finished here, I’ll meet you there. Then we’ll discuss the situation in greater detail.” Meridias had his chin up and wore an arrogant expression.

  “Yes, Pappas Meridias,” Pachomius obediently agreed. “I’ll be waiting. There is much we need to clarify before we ask our monks to …”

  They rounded a corner and their voices dropped too low to hear.

  “So, he’s a bishop,” Cyrus said.

  Pappas, Greek for “father,” referred to bishops.

  Cyrus quietly said, “Come on. We’re supposed to be in the crypt translating a book.”

  Cyrus turned right and headed down the corridor. Light streamed through the high windows and illuminated the magnificent vault above them.

  Zarathan whispered, “Translating a book we’ve been ordered to burn. If anyone finds out, we’ll be executed.”

  He studied Cyrus from the corner of his eye. Jairus Claudius Atinius? Why would a bishop from Rome call him by name? If the man had not known Cyrus personally, then someone must have described Cyrus in great detail for the Roman to have recognized him … if indeed he really had recognized him.

  Just before they exited into the sunlit garden where palms swayed in the late afternoon breeze, Cyrus stopped and turned. “Zarathan, I suppose it is impossible for you to forget the Roman name you just heard.”

  With hurt pride, he straightened and answered, “I can keep a secret.”

  The lines at the corners of Cyrus’ eyes deepened. He gave Zarathan a short, relieved nod. “I would take that as a great favor, brother.”

  FOUR

  Mahanayim

  NISAN THE 15TH, THE YEAR 3771

  Thunder rumbled in the distance, and the earthy scent of the coming storm was heavy on the breeze that swept the dark mountain. Already rain had begun to spot the wool of Yosef’s cloak, and catch like jewels in the golden threads that stitched the fabric.

  As they guided their horses up the steep trail toward the pass, starlight glimmered from the leaves of the olive trees and cast uncertain shadows across the rocky slopes.

  Yosef studied the darkness, and found himself listening intently for the sound of soldiers, for reins clinking, or a sword being drawn from a scabbard, perhaps spears cutting the air. It would not be long before their crime was discovered, and centurions were sent to hunt them down. He did not know how much time they had. To his servant, riding ahead of him, he called, “You are a Samaritan, Titus. When will we reach the mountaintop?”

  Titus, twenty-five years old, with gray eyes and curly brown hair, had the stony expression of a brave man awaiting his own execution. He replied, “We should reach the tor by the fifth or sixth hour of night, Master.”17

  “Good. I will be glad when our task is finished. You know the place we are seeking?”

  “Yes, Master. I grew up here. I know it well.”

  Yosef hesitated a moment, then more softly asked, “And, as well, you remember what we must do if we fail here?”

  “I do, Master, though I pray that is not required of us.”

  “As I do, Titus.”

  The third man among them had a face like a scavenger bird’s, narrow and beaked, with alert brown eyes. He wore a long white robe. His name was Mattias, though he’d asked Yosef never to say it aloud in public—a precaution in case they were caught. He walked two paces behind, leading the packhorse. The poor animal struggled up the trail with its head down, as though the linen-wrapped burden strapped over its back was almost too heavy to bear.

  “Do you think they are already after us?” Titus asked.

  Yosef reined his horse around a rock before responding, “Probably not. The Law forbids our people from leaving their houses for another two days. That’s when they’ll know and notify the praefectus. I pray Petronius makes a good excuse.”

  Petronius, a centurion of some reputation, would still have a hard time explaining his failure.

  In the rear, young Mattias said, “He will tell them he fell asleep.”

  A tremor shook Yosef. The past few days had been terrifying. The whispers and secrecy had drained his strength. He drew in a breath and let it out slowly. “I hope not. No one will believe him. They’ll kill him for it.”

  “No, they won’t,” Mattias responded. “The two who stood guard with him will support his story. Our bribes were enough to buy them each a kingdom of their own.”

  Titus cast an unkind glance at the youth, and said, “I thought the Dawn Bathers had forsaken worldly wealth. Where would you get such a ransom?”

  The Dawn Bathers, so called because of their custom of taking a ritual bath each morning, were also known as the Essenes. The name of the sect came from a lost sacred artifact, the oracle, or essen, a breastplate worn by ancient high priests. Twelve stones, each inscribed with the name of a tribe, in four rows, gleamed on the essen, and the Lord God had always signaled victory in battle by sending his power flowing into the stones and causing them to shine brilliantly enough to light the soldiers’ way. According to lore, the essen had ceased to shine two centuries ago. After God had abandoned the sacred artifact, it had disappeared, or perhaps been cast aside in the desert by frustrated men.18 Yosef had heard rumors that the Dawn Bathers kept it hidden deep in a cave near Qumran, where it was guarded by giant fanged beasts with wings.

  Mattias said, “We have ways of acquiring necessary funds.”

  Titus waved a disparaging hand. “Forgive my impudence, Master, but I don’t know why you listen to these people. They are sinners of the worst sort. I wouldn’t let them tie my sandals, let alone—”

  “Silence!” The surly tone of Titus’ voice had obviously rankled Mattias. “Do not forget that I was there when Yeshua first began studying with Yohanan Baptistes at Qumran. I was there at his arrest! I was his last chosen apostle! My brothers will meet Maryam at the tomb in the morning, give her the sacred artifact, and tell her we have executed her plan. My community has taken great risks, and thereby earned certain rights—th
e least of which is your courtesy.”

  Titus’ stiff neck eased and he looked away.

  Taking it for contrition, Mattias continued in a milder voice. “There are many people who share our beliefs, but who are not members of our community. A few are wealthy—though I fear we may have asked too much this time. I think some of them emptied their homes to fill this last request. If any of their servants speak of it, word may get around … and then we will all be lost.”

  Titus glanced at Yosef as though waiting for a response.

  Yosef finally said, “You, too, have earned certain rights, Titus. Especially the right to be impudent. Go ahead and say what you wished to.”

  Titus had been Yosef’s faithful servant for more than ten years. It had been Titus and Maryam who had performed the most difficult tasks. They had accepted the ceremonial uncleanness associated with touching the dead, and done it without complaint, so that Yosef might cleanse himself of the impurity before the holy days and thereby salvage his political and religious careers. Little did they know that Yosef had already surrendered both. This night he would flee Palestine forever, before the Romans could accuse him of the role he’d played.

  Everything that he had ever wanted or loved was here. For days and nights his head had been drumming with the agony of loss, ready to split. Now all he felt was a gut-wrenching loneliness.

  Titus shoved brown curls away from his eyes and said, “The man was a criminal, Master. You should not have allowed the Dawn Bathers to talk you into this insanity. The body should have been released to his relatives, as is customary.”

  “His relatives.” Mattias spat in disgust.

  Titus shifted on his horse to glare back at the man.

  Yosef patiently explained, “His relatives did not want the body, Titus. They thought him mad. They cast him aside many years ago. There was no one else. If I had not pleaded for the right to give him an honorable burial, his body would have been left out for days to be devoured by jackals and vultures. I could not have borne it.”19

  “Nevertheless, I do not understand why you place yourself in such peril. If they discover—”