Cyrus said, “Forgive me, brother, while I grant that it is possible, let me also suggest that the reference could be to Selah, the place in Moab cited in Isaiah’s prophecy, chapter sixteen, verse one.”
Kalay turned halfway around to give Cyrus an admiring look. Her sculpted face was flushed with the effort of rowing and shiny with sweat. “Well done, Cyrus.”
In a complaining voice, Zarathan said, “Why doesn’t someone ask me something? I’m not completely ignorant. For example, I noticed that you forgot to translate the word El after Magdiel. And it means ‘God.’”
The irritated pride in his voice made Barnabas reach back and pat his knee affectionately. “Forgive me, brother. Thank you for pointing out our error. You are right, it means God. Would you like to comment on the next two words? They are the same: Massa, Massa.”
Zarathan’s young face pinched with effort. He shifted his paddle to the other side of the boat and stroked the water. “Is that from Psalms?”
Psalms was one of the few Hebrew texts—translated into Greek—that was available at their monastery, and it pleased Barnabas that Zarathan had read it.
“Possibly.” Barnabas turned back. “Cyrus? What do you think?”
He shook his head. “The son of Ishmael? Or maybe the tribe of Ishmaelites?”
Barnabas looked to the bow. “Kalay? What is your opinion?”
She tilted her head to the side and damp wisps of red hair draped her narrow shoulder. “I’m inclined to agree with the boy that it’s from Psalms—”
“Don’t call me a boy!” Zarathan objected.
With hardly more than a breath taken, Kalay continued. “—and deals with Massa umeriba. Massa being ‘the day of testing.’” She took two more strokes with her paddle. “What do you think, Brother Barnabas?”
He thoughtfully smoothed his gray beard. He had, of course, thought of all these things before, but it was comforting to hear others discuss them. He had never had the luxury of openly discussing the papyrus—except with his friend Libni, in Caesarea. But that was more than twenty years ago.
“I agree with you that it’s about Massa and Meriba, but I’ve often wondered if it doesn’t refer to a passage in Exodus.”
Kalay paused for a few moments, then said, “Where Moshe strikes the rock and water comes out?”
“Yes. He called the place massa, which meant ‘proof,’ because they had proved the power of the Lord.”
“I like my ‘day of testing’ better.”
Cyrus lifted the fragment of papyrus and studied the next letters. “What about Melekiel? Melek was the great-great-grandson of King Saul, but I don’t understand the ending here.”
“Melek means ‘king,’ “Kalay said. “El is ‘God.’”
Barnabas turned around to Zarathan, whose eyes narrowed at the attention. “Can you guess, brother?”
Zarathan said, “Melek. El. The king of God?”
“Excellent work,” Barnabas praised. “Don’t you agree, Kalay?”
“Well, that’s fairly close, I guess. I’d translate it, ‘My king is God.’ And the last one, Magabael, is neither a place nor a name. It means ‘how good is God.’”
“Or maybe just ‘God is good’?” Cyrus suggested.
Kalay braced her paddle over her knees and let Zarathan guide them along the bank while she turned to face them. Her damp, tan dress clung to her body. Barnabas, and, he assumed, his brothers, tried not to notice the way it perfectly sculpted her feminine form.
“If you don’t mind my saying,” she said, “all of that comes down to nothing. The final translation is:
The place where Yakob encountered the angels.
The town conquered by King David.
David’s champion warrior.
The place where the Benjaminite clan was exiled to, or the Edomite, Manahat.
A place in the Gebalene, or another Edomite.
God.
The Edomite rock city, or a place in Moab.
God.
The son of Yismael, or maybe ‘the day of testing,’ or maybe again it means ‘proof.’
Lastly … my king is God—God—and how good is God.
Kalay made a deep-throated sound of irritation. “It’s a whole lot of gibberish.”
Under his breath, Zarathan muttered, “Just like our Lord being a mamzer.”
In a soft, contemplative voice, Cyrus asked, “Do you think it’s a map?”
Kalay’s head jerked up, and Barnabas smiled. “Do you?”
“Well, I—I don’t know, but if we assume that few of these names refer to people, then we’re left with a series of place names. Except for Melekiel-El-Magabael, which seems to be some sort of affirmation of faith. Have you ever tried to plot the places on a map?”
An ache squeezed Barnabas’ heart. “Many times. Some of the places are impossible to locate now, which means the map makes no sense. But you are welcome to try, Cyrus. In fact, I hope you will.”
As they rounded the bend in the river, the city of Leontopolis came into view. People crowded the landing just up from a dock that jutted out into the water. They had apparently arrived on market day. Men and women were milling around the hundreds of booths where merchants and artists sold their wares. Flute music and the sound of singing rose, along with the delicious scents of roasted meat and freshly baked bread.
Zarathan took a deep breath, and his stomach growled. “Dear Lord, please let someone give us food.”
Barnabas glanced at Cyrus, who’d had nothing to eat in two days. He didn’t even seem to notice the enticing smells. He continued to stare hard at the papyrus.
“What’s wrong, Cyrus?”
Cyrus looked at him from the corner of his eye. “I assume you have noticed the number of letters.”
Barnabas nodded. “Yes, but what does it tell you?”
“There are seventy-one letters. There were seventy-one members of the Jerusalem Council, the Great Sanhedrin Court that met on the Temple Mount.”
Cyrus was getting close, his mind moving silently into the ancient Chamber of Hewn Stone, a place where frightened voices whispered dark truths, and the shadows carried daggers. Every letter, every word, was an echo of the deepest secret of their faith.
“Yes,” Barnabas answered quietly. “So?”
Cyrus swallowed hard. “Is it possible this is a clue?”
“A clue to what?”
In a hushed voice, Cyrus said, “The person who wrote this.”
A tiny flame grew in Barnabas’ chest. “I think so, yes.”
In a bare whisper, Cyrus asked, “Which Council member?”
Barnabas looked ahead to the shore where brightly colored lengths of fabric danced in the wind. As their boat drew near the long wooden dock, several merchants ran down with baskets of food, blankets, and clothing over their arms. They were already shouting prices and smiling.
“I believe,” Barnabas whispered, “that he was the first member of the Occultum Lapidem, the Order of the Hidden Stone.”
Cyrus leaned forward with his eyes glittering. “And are you another?”
Barnabas swallowed hard. “Let’s sell the boat and arrange for transportation to Palestine, then we’ll discuss it more.”
Kalay said, “You monks are all fools. You’re discussing secret societies when the answer is clear as the day.”
Barnabas had forgotten her. He shifted to face Kalay. “What’s clear?”
“The person who wrote the message,” she said as she pulled her black cape from the boat and swung it around her shoulders.
Barnabas’ heart started to pound with anticipation. He glanced at Cyrus, who seemed to have stopped breathing. “Who?”
Kalay dipped her dirty hands into the water and washed her sweaty face before she said, “David’s champion, who believes that his king is God, and has the proof of it.”
Cyrus sucked in a sharp breath, and his gaze again fixed on the papyrus, putting the words together as Kalay had suggested. “She may be right.”
&nbs
p; Barnabas stared at Kalay, then nodded, and whispered, “She is right.”
THE TEACHING ON THE CROSSROAD
You perch on a sandstone ledge, dangling your feet, studying the men and women sitting in a circle around Yeshu ten paces away. They have their white himations pulled over their heads, praying.
You all stand on the verge of disaster … and they waste their time praying when they should be gathering weapons and allies to fight the coming war against the Romans. In the beginning, you were naive enough to believe that’s what Yeshu wanted, too. You heard him speaking one day, about Rome and the Romans. He said, “I will destroy this house and no one will be able to rebuild it. He who is near me is near the fire.”
You longed to be aflame in the fight against Rome. You fell into the line of those following him. But your faith has faded, because you’ve never really understood him.
As though he has heard your thoughts, Yeshu raises his voice, obviously for your benefit, and says, “Do not give what is holy to dogs, lest they carry it to the dung pile and endlessly gnaw upon it.”
Your mouth quirks. You are not amused.
You call, “Through our cowardice, we have given our holy Temple to the Romans to defile. They are gnawing upon its bones as we speak. Let us make allies of the Zealots and go down and destroy our enemies!”
The disciples turn as one to stare at you, and the breeze flaps their white himations around their stunned faces. Yeshu has been teaching about peace all morning. They must wonder where you have been. You can almost hear them whispering, “Hasn’t he heard a word the master has said?”
Yeshu calls, “I had a dream, brother. In it, I saw a long caravan coming across the desert and heading into a great darkness. Each wagon was filled with weapons, so full that with each bump or sway of the wagons, swords and knives tumbled down onto the sand. Hordes of people ran behind the wagons, picking them up and clutching them to their chests.”
“Yes?” you call. “Please tell me where this wagon is that I may go and arm myself as well.”
A few of the disciples laugh.
Yeshu does not. An eerie calm comes over him as he replies, “If you wish, brother, but you would do better to arm yourself in the light. The battle that is coming is not of this earth.”
“Light is useless, Yeshu, if it does not have the strength to burn our enemies to ashes. We are at the crossroads! We must act, not spend all day in useless prayers.”
“The crossroads,” he murmurs, almost to himself and his eyes take on a faraway look, as though he’s gazing into that same great darkness the caravan moves toward in his dream.
Several of the disciples are scowling at you now. Not that you care. You are readying yourself to leave this movement, to go and join the Zealots where the real war will be waged.
Yeshu finally looks up and nods to you. “Forgive me, my adversary. You are right. We are at the crossroads. The center of all paths, the place where we must make choices. Make your choice, brother … and I will be there … and you will defeat Rome.”
You just gaze at him, unblinking.
He says, “Do you understand?”
“No.”
In a kind voice he murmurs, “I cannot cease asking your heart to generate something from nothing, brother. Creation is the single greatest moment of forgiveness in any man’s life. As it was in God’s.”
FIFTEEN
Loukas stood in the shade of a merchant’s booth, examining a fine indigo fabric made from pure linen. It was gorgeous, as the merchant well knew. The price was exorbitant. The merchant—a tall man with two missing teeth and a sun-swarthy face—smiled broadly. He was a well-to-do Roman; that much was clear from his accent and attire. The yellow toga he wore, banded along the collar and hem with black diamonds, was surely of imperial manufacture.
Loukas idly pondered what curious twist of fate had brought the man to Leontopolis to sell wares from a street stall.
The merchant lifted a corner of the deep bluish-purple fabric and rubbed it between his fingers. “You will never again find such a fabric in all of Egypt. I purchased this on a caravan trip to Aelia Capitolina. It had been reserved for the wife of a Roman centurion, but he was transferred before she could purchase it. I was lucky enough to be in the right place, at the right time. Her loss will be your gain.”
“Yes, the color is extraordinary,” Loukas said, “but I can’t afford it.”
Loukas turned to examine the river, and the merchant hastily said, “As one Roman to another, I’ll drop the price. Two hundred drachmas! Hmm? What do you say? It would make a magnificent garment for your wife.”
“I don’t have a wife.”
“Ah, well, your mother then, or perhaps a sister?”
“I have no family.”
The merchant spread his arms wide in a flamboyant gesture. “Give this to a woman … and you will!”
Loukas smiled. As he walked away down the line of booths that packed the shoreline, the merchant kept calling to him, further lowering his price.
On the dock below, fishermen sold catches from their boats, which bobbed on the muddy water. People who could not afford to put up a merchant’s booth carried goods over their arms, trying to sell them to each person who passed.
Loukas shouldered through the bustling crowd until he could see Janneus and Flavius standing down on the dock, smiling and talking as though waiting for a boat to come in.
That they remained alert was a tribute to their stamina. It had been a hard ride, broken only by stops to scan the river for the fugitives. The Nile, however, was immensely wide, and thousands of boats plied its waters.
The best chance was to intercept the fleeing monks at the ports. Loukas and his men had changed clothes, selecting common coarsely woven tan robes so they would blend in with the local population. It was a gamble, a hunch on Loukas’ part that had brought him here.
Pappas Meridias had dispatched the remainder of his men to guard the ports where the Nile emptied into the sea, and the main caravan route into Palestine. Loukas had decided on Leontopolis.
He had served under Centurion Atinius, and this was the route he thought the man would choose. It was the route Loukas himself would have selected. Coming here required traveling down a muddy offshoot of the main Nile—a place tormented by bandits and cutthroats—and it led to Leontopolis. Though small, it was a hive of inequity, and generally very crowded. A man could easily obtain anything he needed from this press of people, or lose himself in the maze of merchants hawking their wares.
Loukas casually headed toward the dock, stopping frequently to examine a pot or scabbard. One booth, run by a plump elderly woman, sold exclusively roasted tripe, lamb’s lips, and sow’s genitals. A long line of people waited for their chance to buy one of the delicacies. For a moment he considered it, but temptation wasn’t worth enduring the line.
Everywhere men and women of questionable integrity lounged about. The variety was astonishing: robbers, runaway sailors, bond or debtor slaves, murderers, coffin makers, drunken eunuch priests, and, of course, prostitutes by the bushel. Leontopolis, it appeared, was as bad as the cook-shops, the popinae, in Rome.
While Loukas was fingering a beautiful ivory-handled sword in a tooled leather scabbard, he saw Flavius lift both hands over his head, as though stretching. The signal!
Without thinking, Loukas gripped the sword and turned to leave.
The merchant shouted, “Thief! Bring it back!”
Loukas quickly tossed the man four tetradrachmas, more than enough to pay for the sword. The man grinned, and called, “Return later, and I’ll bring out my good stock!”
Loukas drilled through the crowd at a run, dodged a big, smiling merchant who tried to grab his arm to drag him into his booth, and bounded around a table filled with fish. Reaching the landing, he belted on the sword and slowed again, blending in with the onlookers who were clustered at the foot of the dock.
Ahead of him, he saw Flavius and Janneus staring out at several waiting boats. Most
of the spaces to tie up had already been taken. Since neither Flavius nor Janneus had ever seen Jairus Atinius, their signal had meant only that they’d spotted a boat with three men and one woman, which met the minimum description of their prey.
Loukas slipped through the crowd, and studied the boat in question. It had drifted into one of the few remaining spaces, and a big man with a bearded face and shoulder-length curly black hair stepped onto the dock first. He held the boat and extended a hand to help the others. Loukas was still too far away to be certain, but it did look like Atinius. However, it seemed that half the men in this city had curly black hair and a bushy beard.
Loukas shook his head, disgusted that the man had gone weak-kneed and become an ascetic. During the time they had served together in the century, Atinius had been a devotee of the Roman goddess Spes, the goddess of hope. In fact, he had carried with him a small figurine of Spes. Loukas had seen it once, when the centurion was in prayer on the battlefield. The figurine had shown Spes carrying an opening flower and holding up her long skirt as if about to run away. It had been a beautiful thing. Of course, that was before Atinius was promoted and became the personal guard of Emperor Constantine, and six months before the crucial battle at Milvian Bridge.
What a glorious triumph that had been. They had just stormed Italy and were moving against Maxentius’ army, which was fortified in Rome. The men were tired, demoralized, they’d suffered many desertions. Worse, Maxentius would be fighting on his home ground. They were all scared. Then, the night before the battle, the emperor had seen a cross in the sky, and heard the words In hoc signo vinces, “In this sign you will conquer.” When the news of his vision spread through the troops, many of whom were Christian, the men rallied. Even the wild Teutons and Celts had rallied, for, to them, the cross evoked not the image of Iesous Christos, but the ancestral totem of the sacred tree. The next day they went into battle on the wings of angels, fighting with all their hearts. They’d won, of course. As a result, the emperor had become a Christian, as had much of his army.
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