The Betrayal

by W. Michael Gear

  As night descended, the wind became a soft purl, and she could smell the ocean again.

  Zarathan glared at Kalay. “You are so hateful! At every opportunity you demean our religion. Why is that?”

  Kalay’s brows arched. “Because it’s a well-known fact that he whom the gods wish to destroy they first make Believers.”

  “What?” Zarathan glanced at his brothers, hoping they would explain the comment.

  Instead, Barnabas said, “We’re all tired. Let’s get to Gaza.”

  It took another half hour before they reached the pool that Barnabas had recalled. It turned out to be inside the city walls. As they rode their horses through the gate, they smelled the sweet fragrances of boiled goat and fresh bread. The spring had been rocked in, creating a tank of crystal-clear water.

  They dismounted and let their horses drink while they dipped up water with their cupped hands. Drinking his fill, Barnabas sighed and patted his book bag, as if the gazelle leather were the cherished hide of an old friend.

  The sounds of the city carried: dogs barking, supper dishes clacking and rattling. Somewhere a man let out a big, throaty laugh and, when a baby cried, a woman scolded him.

  Kalay sat on the lip of the tank and let her gaze drift over the softly lit flat-topped houses. At some point, probably soon, she imagined they would close the city gates, but for now, people seemed occupied with feeding their families.

  “They were thirsty,” Barnabas noted as he watched the horses drinking. “But we shouldn’t stay long. It’s too risky.”

  “We’ll find food first, though, won’t we?” Zarathan’s voice was a whine. He looked from man to man.

  Kalay studied them. Their faces had changed dramatically since that deadly night in the monastery. All of the serenity and faith that had softened their features were gone. Barnabas’ wrinkles had frozen into determined lines, as though he’d been given a sacred mission and would not fail to accomplish it. Zarathan’s eyes darted about like a scared cat’s. If he’d had a tail it would be switching as he ran for cover. And Cyrus … Cyrus was simply the man in charge. Their safety depended upon him and he knew it, and would do whatever was necessary to keep them from harm. They had, she supposed, returned to their former selves, before their lives in the monastery.

  “Brothers?” Zarathan pressed. “We are going to eat here, aren’t we?”

  “There’s no time,” Cyrus said. “Just get your fill of water so that we can leave.”

  Zarathan let out a pained groan and cupped another handful of water.

  “Don’t worry,” Barnabas said. “I’m sure Libni will feed us when we arrive. He was always very generous—if a bit odd.”

  “What do you mean, “odd”?” Zarathan asked suspiciously.

  “Oh, he’s a very spiritual man … not often in contact with this world, that’s all.”

  Kalay took the opportunity to wash her face and throat. The horses were still drinking, but their eyes were half closed, as though in relief. The pungent smell of the animals’ sweat comforted her, bringing back memories of her childhood and her family’s barn. Memories of a happiness that seemed unreal now.

  “Are you finished?” Cyrus said, rushing them. His eyes had narrowed as they scanned the dirt streets, moving from house to house, lingering on every unusual shadow.

  “Yes,” Barnabas said with a deep sigh. “I just—”

  A man came out a doorway with a jug and headed for the well. He had a mass of curly brown hair and a full beard that obscured most of his face. But his eyes crinkled at the corners, as though he were contemplating something pleasant or amusing. He didn’t even look startled when he saw them, just dipped his jug into the water, and said, “May the peace of Iesous be with you.”

  Barnabas replied, “And with you, also.”

  The man turned and started back for his house, but stopped when Barnabas called, “Forgive me, sir. We could use your help.”

  Water splashed from his jug when he turned to face Barnabas. “What is it you require?”

  Zarathan hissed, “Ask about food.”

  Barnabas pulled a rolled scroll from his book bag and walked forward. “I have a letter that I must get to Jerusalem. Would you mind giving it to someone who is headed there? Perhaps a caravan? This is very important.”

  The man took the scroll, read the name written on it, and said, “They’ll want payment.”

  “Forgive me, I have no money. We—”

  “Here’s a tetradrachma,” Kalay said as she pulled the coin from the purse tied to her belt and tossed it to him. He caught it awkwardly in the same hand that held the scroll.

  The man nodded. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “We’re deeply grateful,” Barnabas said. “Also, if you have a moment more, we’re looking for an old friend of ours. He’s a wandering hermit who lives somewhere near here. His name is Libni and he—”

  “Ah, Old Scary. Yes, I know of him. Is he in some kind of trouble? You’re the second person today who’s asked where he lives.”

  Barnabas stiffened. His head trembled on the stem of his neck, but he forced strength into his voice. “No, no trouble. We’re just worried about him. I heard he was ill. Do you know where he lives these days? He roams about, I know, but—”

  “He used to roam about, but not any longer.” The man hesitated, and his gaze went over each of them, as though evaluating whether or not he believed them. Apparently three travel-grubby monks and a woman were no threat, for he said, “He lives two or three hours south of here, depending upon how fast you want to ride. There’s a pillar of rock and two humps of stone nearby. A most male-appearing formation, if you catch my meaning. You’ll know them when you see them. His caves are obvious.”

  The man turned back for his house, and Barnabas called, “Thank you, sir. May our Lord’s blessings fall upon you.”

  The man lifted a hand, opened his door, and disappeared into a warm yellow glow and the laughter of children.

  “What was in that scroll?” Zarathan asked.

  “A pleasantry to an old friend. Never mind. We must hurry.” Barnabas threw the book bag up and tugged on his horse’s lead rope. “If we’re the second people today to ask about him, he may be in danger.” Barnabas tugged again, trying to pull his horse away from the well, but the animal lingered a time longer, getting in a few more gulps, before it surrendered.

  Cyrus took his horse and followed Barnabas out the gate. Zarathan rushed out on his heels.

  Kalay took one last look at the brightly lit houses, and tried to remember what it was like to be part of a family. From a locked chamber deep inside her, she heard her little brother’s voice, and her mother’s laughter … .

  “Kalay?” Cyrus called. “We’re leaving.”

  “Yes,” she said as she got to her feet. “I’m coming.”

  TWENTY ~ FIVE

  Magdiel

  “Master? Master, forgive me, you must wake.”

  I feel the hand on my shoulder and groggily open my eyes to see Titus. There is a brief moment of elation … .

  I’m dreaming. I must be dreaming.

  “What’s wrong?” I throw off my blankets and get to my feet, breathing hard.

  “A messenger arrived moments ago. High Priest Kaiaphas summons you to his house for an emergency meeting of the Council of Seventy-one.”

  Only one other such emergency meeting has ever been held. One hundred years ago, High Priest Shimon ben Shetah held an emergency meeting that resulted in the hangings of eighty witches in a single day. That meeting had been a matter of national urgency and convened only to save the people of Yisrael.78

  “Why? What happened?”

  “The Rab has been arrested.”

  As I pull my sleeping shirt over my head and hurry to tug on my finest blue linen robe, I’m panting, on the verge of trembling. “Who arrested Yeshua? The Council or the Romans?”

  “The Romans. Apparently the Rab sent Yudah Sicarius to tell the praefectus where to find him. The pr
aefectus then dispatched a tribune with a decuria to arrest the Rab for treason, but before—”

  “Treason!” I shout in disbelief. “That’s impossible. Sedition, yes, but not treason.”

  “The charge is treason, Master. Kaiaphas was notified of the warrant just before the soldiers left, and begged the praefectus to allow several members of the Temple police to accompany the Romans. The messenger said Kaiaphas also gained permission to bring the Rab back to his house for the night. I don’t know why Pilatos agreed.”

  “The praefectus prefers for us to hold our own prisoners overnight to avoid the many dietary and other complications of looking after Jewish prisoners. Has the praefectus set the trial time?”

  “The first hour of the morning.”

  As I’m shoving my feet into my sandals, Titus calmly walks to pull my himation from its peg by the doorway to my bedchamber, and holds it open for me.

  I tie my sandal laces, and say, “Was anyone else arrested? Maryam?”

  If Yeshua was arrested because he was accused of treason, surely his disciples, his confessed followers, had also been arrested on the same charge. The praefectus would never allow such men to go free to continue conspiring against Rome.

  Titus shakes his head. “There were no warrants for anyone else. But the arrest was not without complications.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Apparently, Kepha panicked when a member of the Temple police tried to lay a hand upon the Rab, and he used his sword to cut off the man’s ear.”

  “So they arrested Kepha.” I hurry across the room and slip my himation over my shoulders.

  “No. He was not arrested.”

  I shake my head as though I didn’t hear him right. “Your information must be wrong. He assaulted an officer in the conduct of his official Temple duties. They must have arrested him.”

  “The messenger said the police and the decuria were both under strict orders to arrest no one but the Rab. They let Kepha go free.”

  “They didn’t even detain him for questioning?”

  “No.”

  This astounds me. If they truly fear Yeshua is plotting against Rome, nothing can be accomplished by arresting him alone. His disciples have been instructed to continue his teachings even if—especially if—Yeshua dies.

  “Then …” I stare at Titus dumbly, still half asleep. “It is Yeshua alone who will stand trial before the praefectus in the morning?”

  “That’s what the messenger told me.”

  “It doesn’t make any sense,” I whisper as I rush past Titus to grab my brush and attempt to make myself presentable. “Saddle my horse. I’ll be right out.”

  Titus bows and leaves.

  By the time I have splashed water on my face, and brushed my hair, I am shaking. The charge of treason is totally unexpected. Rome may have seen the Rab’s recent activities as stirring up dissent, but then the charge would be sedition. What evidence could the praefectus possibly have that would support a charge of treason? Not only that, it had to be new information. The Romans could have arrested Yeshua at any time in the past few days when he was openly preaching in the Temple. They didn’t. Something else is going on, something I don’t understand.

  I run through my house and out my door to my horse.79

  TWENTY ~ SIX

  El

  NISAN THE 14TH, THE YEAR 3771

  My home is all the way across the city from the high priest’s grand palace on Mount Zion. I have to ride hard through the twisting streets of Yerushalaim to get there. As I round the last bend, I see the fine bastions and heavy stonework. The entire palace is aglow. There must be hundreds of oil lamps burning.

  I slow Lightning to a trot and ride through the gate into the vast, cobblestoned courtyard where I dismount in a flurry, tie my horse to the hitching rail beside dozens of other horses, and stride for the massive front doors of the palace.

  Ahead of me, several men sit around a fire in the middle of the courtyard, talking, laughing. All wear the uniforms of the Temple police, except one very tall man.

  I stumble when I recognize Kepha sitting with the police as though nothing at all has happened this terrible night. 80

  I do not stop to speak with him, nor does he glance my way as I run up the steps toward the massive oak doors where two guards stand beneath flaring torches.

  But I wonder.

  Less than one hour ago, Kepha sliced off the ear of one of the officers sent to arrest Yeshua, but here he sits, totally unafraid of retribution, smiling, talking with the man’s fellows.

  I hurry by a servant girl carrying a jug of water and lift my hand to the guard standing outside the doors.

  “Councilor,” the man greets, “please enter.”

  “Thank you, Alexander,” I say as I walk through the doors into the palace.

  One of Kaiaphas’ servants—I don’t know his name—an elderly man of regal bearing, immediately intercepts my path. He wears a pale green linen tunic belted at the waist with a braided leather cord. “They are in the Council chamber, sir. Please, this way.”

  I allow myself to be led, though I know the way as well as any other member of the Seventy-one. The opulence of the palace always stuns me. Everywhere I look there are smaller versions of the artworks that fill the Temple: stunning mosaics depicting endless flowing patterns interspersed with extensive series of faunal and floral motifs: lions, oxen, cherubim, palm trees, and wreaths. At regular intervals stand costly carved wooden panels, jewel-inlaid, and ten cubits tall, bearing the names of the twelve tribes of Yisrael, and beside them cluster olive-wood lamp stands overlaid with pure gold. The lamp stands glitter with a fiery intensity when the lamps flicker. Just outside the Council door, on the southeast corner of the chamber, stands an enormous basin called the “molten sea.” It is filled with water. The basin rests upon four sets of bronze oxen, each facing a different direction.

  I kneel before the basin, and softly recite, “Shema Yisrael, the Lord our God, the Lord is One, and I love the Lord my God with all my heart, and with all my soul, and with all my mind, and with all my strength,” then I dip my hands and wash them before I rise and pick up one of the towels to dry them.

  The slave bows at the waist and backs away.

  When I open the door to the Council chamber, dozens of voices flood over me. Men turn to look, then go back to their conversations. I pull my himation up over my head and enter the chamber.

  This chamber is thirty cubits square. Four rows of stepped benches line three walls, facing the center. The benches are filled with men, though many still stand. They, too, look as though they hastily rose from their beds and hurried here. Eyes are puffy with sleep. Many yawn. There are five massive lamp stands on the north side of the chamber and five on the south, each filled with multispouted oil lamps. The fragrance of myrrh is intoxicating.

  As I work my way through the crowd toward my seat I glimpse the raised altar to the east upon which the sacred golden table sits. Resting on the table is the “bread of the Presence of God.” I start when I see a man dressed in white kneeling before the table. His himation is pulled over his head, as is proper and respectful, so I can’t see his face, but I know it is Yeshua. Four guards surround him.

  “Councilmen,” I say as I take my seat between the esteemed Pharisaic scholar, Gamliel, and the brash Sadducean merchant, Shimon ben Yehudah.

  Gamliel responds, “You are the last man we require, I believe. We can begin as soon as Kaiaphas receives the count.”

  I jerk a nod. “Yes, good.”

  Gamliel is forty-two, but his gray hair and thick beard make him look older. His dark eyes are always serious, thoughtful. The man rarely smiles. He is regarded by all as one of the greatest scholars of the Law who has ever lived. Not only that, he is a kind man. He frequently visits criminals in the prison cells below this palace, just to make certain they are well fed and being treated properly. There are those, myself among them, who firmly believe that when Gamliel dies the glory of the Law and the p
urity of the Way will die with him.

  I turn to nod at Shimon. He yawns and nods back.

  Shimon is barely thirty, very wealthy, and so ignorant of the Torah that I suspect he got his position by buying it. Not only that, he is extremely handsome, with a sculpted face, large blue eyes, and wavy brown hair. No matter where he goes, women’s eyes follow him.

  My gaze focuses on Yeshua, and the ache in my heart grows suffocating. What is he thinking? What is he feeling? He knew his arrest was likely, surely he prepared himself for this hour, but I cannot imagine how.

  Shimon leans back so he can see Gamliel, and says, “This is highly irregular, eh, Gamliel? We’re supposed to start our sessions in the morning and determine them before sunset. Kaiaphas had better have a good reason for pulling me away from family on the eve of a feast day.” 81

  With his eyes on Yeshua, Gamliel replies, “I’m sure he has.”

  “Are you? I’ve heard rumors that we are about to hold a secret trial to—”

  Gamliel interrupts, “It is unlawful for us to try a man at night, or on the eve of a feast day. This cannot be a krima. We cannot hold court. This can only be a sumboulion, a Council session. That’s all.”

  Shimon looks irritated. “Yes, well, I hope you’re right, but if so, who are they?” He points to two people who stand almost hidden behind guards across the room.

  Gamliel answers, “The Law requires that there be at least two witnesses who can give evidence of a man’s guilt or innocence.”

  “Then it is a trial.”

  “A man may give evidence outside a trial, Shimon.”

  “Really? We’re just going to interrogate them out of curiosity?”

  Gamliel’s gray brows draw down over his hooked nose. He turns to look at Shimon, and Shimon’s smirk instantly dissolves. “Perhaps you should save your conjecture until you have facts. It would seem a better use of your time.”

  Shimon flips his hand arrogantly. “Oh, admit it, Gamliel, this is just as much a quandary for you as for me. According to our laws, we cannot interrogate the accused until we’ve questioned the witnesses, and there is actual evidence against him. On the other hand, according to Roman law it is a crime to question witnesses before the accused has been interrogated. Of course, the Romans hope they can beat a confession out of the accused, which renders witnesses unnecessary. So, if we interrogate these witnesses tonight, can their testimony be used in Yeshua ben Pantera’s trial before the praefectus in the morning? Or are we wasting hours we could be spending with our families?”82