The Betrayal

by W. Michael Gear

  Yeshua lifts his head, gazes around the chamber at each Councilor, then returns his eyes to Kaiaphas and replies, “You say that I am, but I tell you now that you will see the Ben Adam coming in the clouds of heaven.”89

  “He dares to quote the passage in Daniel about the mashiah!” Hanan cries. “There is no longer any possibility of saving him!” As a sign of his utter despair he takes hold of his robe and rips it.

  A hush falls over the chamber. Every man stares at Yeshua as though struck mute by his words.

  Kaiaphas straightens, peers out at the gathering, and says, “If ben Pantera will not openly deny that he is the mashiah … we may all be doomed.”

  Shimon stands up. “Please, High Priest. Ben Pantera may be doomed, but we can still save ourselves. If there is a revolt, we must suppress it before the Romans do. How does this Council plan to accomplish that?”

  Several men stand at once and begin calling out in loud voices: Shimon wants to organize the general populace to put down the revolt; Hanan says the Temple police will be enough; Yohanan says we should work with the Zealots to make certain it doesn’t happen in the first place … .

  In the chaos, Gamliel suddenly straightens and his brows draw together over his hooked nose, as though he’s just thought of something.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  The elderly scholar leans toward me and softly says, “I may know how to prevent the violence.”

  “How?”

  “Speak with me later, outside the Council. If we do this, it must not be seen as a conciliar decision.”

  I stare at him. “Do you mean you want me to take the blame if it goes poorly?”

  “You have sympathies for his movement. Everyone knows it. If you agree to do this, they will arrest you to protect the Council.”

  As a hollow sensation begins to expand in my chest, I sit back on the bench, and try to imagine what he could possibly be considering. I know only that it might leave me in prison.

  Gamliel gives me one last look, rises, and quietly walks across the chamber. Few people seem to notice when he walks out the door and disappears.

  My heart is racing. I long to stay, to see what conclusions the Council arrives at, perhaps to speak with Yeshua, but I rise, shoulder through the throng, and unobtrusively follow Gamliel.

  TWENTY ~ SEVEN

  As they rode over the last hill, the dark moonlit ocean came into view, and Zarathan heaved a sigh of relief. Seagulls squealed and soared on the cool sea breezes.

  “How far now?” he asked.

  Barnabas pulled up on the reins and came to a stop. “I’m not certain. None of this looks familiar.”

  “But we’re about the right distance from Agrippias, aren’t we?”

  “Yes, but I don’t see the pillar of rock and two humps of stone that the man spoke of, do you?”

  Zarathan scanned the terrain. The outlines of the hills were clearly visible. Unfortunately, the vista resembled a vast plain of camelbacks dissected by rocky wadis. The line of white surf divided the worlds of land and water. Wave-washed beach gleamed in the evening light, but off to the east, behind the sullen line of cliffs, ridge after rocky ridge, each limned by crescent dunes, marched off into infinity.

  “Perhaps we should camp on the beach and look in the morning when it’s light,” Barnabas suggested.

  “Yes, good idea,” Zarathan agreed. “If nothing else, we can dig clams and eat them raw.”

  Cyrus and Kalay rode up beside them. Cyrus had his curly black hair tucked behind his ears, which made his bearded face seem all the more hard and dangerous. He said, “Camping on the beach in the open makes me uneasy. Let’s search for a better place.”

  Barnabas nodded. “Very well. You lead, Cyrus.”

  Cyrus kicked his horse into a slow walk and Barnabas and Zarathan plodded up the trail behind.

  Occasional farmers and fishermen passed them, going home to Agrippias after a long day of labor. Some made the sign against evil in the dusk as they hurried by.

  Zarathan didn’t know what to make of it. “Why do they do that?”

  “They are simple, uneducated people, Zarathan. Perhaps they believe that three monks in filthy robes are apostates.”

  “Three monks in filthy robes, traveling with a woman,” he said in a low voice. “That’s our problem.”

  Barnabas didn’t respond, but surely he knew that Kalay’s presence didn’t help matters. What would a decent woman be doing traveling with three monks in good standing? The more Zarathan thought about it, they did resemble a band of outcasts, even brigands. If he’d had the strength, he would have scowled at her, for all the good it would have done. She’d probably just give him another of her licentious winks, and then he’d be suffering in more than just his belly.

  “It’s chilly tonight.” Barnabas shivered, and let out a shaky breath.

  Zarathan frowned. It was a cool night, but not that cool. For days, they’d been sleeping out beneath the stars in just their thin robes. Had a chill settled in the old man’s bones? It wouldn’t be surprising. Every time he’d awakened in the past few days, he’d seen Cyrus standing guard and Barnabas kneeling in prayer. The only one who seemed to sleep truly well was Kalay, but then she had her long black cape to comfort her.

  “Why did that man at the village call Libni ‘Old Scary’?” Zarathan asked.

  “Very holy people are always scary, Zarathan. The light of God shines from their eyes like fiery pokers. Ordinary people find it unsettling,” Barnabas replied, looking at the empty ocean. The water stretched westward, flowing to the edges of the earth, and the monsters that inhabited the eternal depths.

  “I’ve always thought hermits were an odd lot,” Zarathan said. “I can’t imagine living most or all of my life without other people close by. What’s Libni like?”

  Barnabas turned and, in the blue-gray darkness, Zarathan saw the old monk’s gray brows pull down. He stared at the seagulls for a long time, before he whispered, “When I knew him he was a laughing youth, always tripping over his own feet, but very studious and devoted to the words of our Lord. Of course, that was before the murder of his wife.”

  “His wife was murdered?”

  Zarathan’s voice had risen and attracted Cyrus’ attention. He slowed his horse to ride alongside them. “Whose wife was murdered?”

  “Libni’s,” Barnabas said. “It was an ugly crime. He was never the same after that. At least, that’s what I heard. I left Caesarea right after it happened.”

  Kalay asked, “Did they ever catch the murderer?”

  “Oh, yes. We found him. He’d fled to the church and was hiding there.”

  They rode past a wave-smoothed boulder and out onto a plain of glimmering seashells that crunched beneath their horses’ hooves. Far ahead, a wall of starlit cliffs glowed.

  Fascinated, Zarathan said, “What did you do?”

  “I and the other library assistants surrounded the church. We whispered our prayers into the stones, begging God to reveal him to us. Then we fashioned talismans with the sign of the dove and the lamb, and carried them before us into the dark nave. He laughed at us, threw things. We captured him in the bell tower. From there, he was dragged to his death.”

  “You killed him?” Zarathan blurted, astonished. “You killed a man?”

  “No, I didn’t,” Barnabas said softly. “Libni did. He dragged him out of the church and beat him to death with his bare hands. Though we tried, there was nothing we could do to stop him.”

  Zarathan exchanged a grave look with Cyrus, but before either of them could speak, Kalay commented with her usual aplomb, “He sounds like my sort. I like him already.”

  Zarathan looked at her as if she were a half-wit, but the she-demon didn’t seem to notice.

  A breath of wind blew in off the ocean, whispered across the sand at the level of the horses’ hooves, and brought the watery scents of fish and seaweed.

  “Brothers, do you see that?” Cyrus asked and pointed. “There. Is that the pil
lar?”

  Zarathan leaned sideways to peer around Barnabas. Standing between two humps of rock, the pillar resembled a finger lifted in warning.

  “I’ve seen that before,” Kalay mused. “Men usually greet me that way.”

  Zarathan cringed in shocked humiliation. “You are so vile! They’re just rocks!”

  She nonchalantly lifted a shoulder. “A rock by any other name—”

  Barnabas called, “Look! Perhaps those are Libni’s caves!”

  As they rode closer to the black holes that pocked the surface of the cliffs, Zarathan kept shooting disgruntled glances at Kalay, but she was ignoring him. It was infuriating.

  Cyrus said, “There must be hundreds of them. How will we find Libni’s?”

  “We’ll search every one, if necessary.”

  “But that could take forever, and we’re almost certainly being followed. If we don’t find him quickly, shouldn’t we just move on?” When Barnabas didn’t answer, Zarathan turned to Cyrus. “Brother, surely you see the wisdom of losing ourselves in a city where it’s more difficult to track us?”

  Cyrus was examining the rimrock and the tumbled boulders that clustered at the base of the cliffs. Without so much as glancing at Zarathan, he said, “We can hide in a cave as easily as a city. If, as Barnabas believes, Libni can help us understand the papyrus, it’s worth the risk.”

  “Zarathan, our brothers died because of it,” Barnabas said with reverence. “We owe it to them to find out why.”

  As they rode closer to the cliff, a tiny thread of light glinted in one of the caves, then vanished as though it had never been.

  Cyrus said, “Did you—”

  “I saw it,” Barnabas answered, and kicked the horse into a shambling trot. “Let’s find out.”

  TWENTY ~ EIGHT

  A young man, perhaps sixteen, met them at the cave entrance. He was short and ugly, with black, vulnerable eyes. His head had been shaved, probably in penance for some affront. As he stepped toward them, the coarse fabric of his brown robe molded to each hard muscle.

  He said, “I am Tiras, assistant to the blessed hermit. How may I help you?”

  Barnabas carefully took hold of his book bag, dismounted, and handed the reins to Zarathan. A tattered curtain covered the cave entrance. Through the rips, warm golden light streamed. “I am Brother Barnabas, here to see my old friend Libni, if this is where he lives.”

  The youth’s eyes flew wide. “Oh! He said you were coming!” He swiftly ducked beneath the curtain and a golden glow of firelight flashed across the sand. Soft voices rose inside.

  Barnabas turned to the others and said, “You may dismount. All is well.”

  “Really?” Kalay said suspiciously. “How did he know you were coming?”

  “Libni probably foresaw it. He’s always had visions.”

  In the early days, Barnabas had been jealous, wondering why God had chosen to reveal himself to Libni and not to him. Barnabas had studied harder, prayed harder, and worked harder. But over the decade they’d been together, his jealousy had mutated into deep reverence. Libni had been chosen, and he was grateful to know a man favored by God.

  “That’s not a very good answer, brother.” Kalay’s mouth quirked. “Especially not after what we heard in the last village … that someone else had been asking about Libni. I’d say it’s likely the sicarii got here before we did and are waiting to greet us.”

  Barnabas turned in irritation. “Kalay, if that were the case, don’t you think Libni would have ordered his assistants to warn us?”

  “Not if a dagger is poised over Libni’s heart.”

  “You have so little faith. Please, trust me. All is well. You may dismount.” His clutched his bag to his chest.

  Despite her misgivings, Kalay dismounted, followed by Zarathan, leaving Cyrus alone on his horse.

  “Cyrus,” Barnabas said. “Come, join us.”

  His horse tossed its head and the reins clinked. “I need to scout the area. I’ll leave as soon as I know that you are safe here.”

  “Very well.” Barnabas sighed, realizing that arguing would be fruitless. “I’ll send Kalay back as soon as we’ve met Libni.”

  “Good.”

  Tiras ducked beneath the door curtain again, followed by another young man, perhaps thirteen, with wavy red hair, green eyes, and freckles. Clearly of Celtic descent.

  Tiras said, “My master bids you enter,” and thrust out a hand to the entrance.

  Barnabas shoved aside the curtain and ducked inside. Tiras and the other youth followed him.

  The interior, lit by distant candlelight, was much larger than he’d suspected. The roof of this particular cave rose twenty cubits over his head, but there were tunnels going off in every direction from this main chamber. The faint warmth penetrated his thin robe and made Barnabas shiver in relief.

  Zarathan and Kalay entered and stood behind him.

  Kalay adjusted her weapons belt and asked, “Where’s the murderer? Out on a jaunt?”

  Tiras frowned at her as though mystified by the comment, but vaguely aware that he ought to be insulted by it.

  Barnabas turned. “I’ve seen no one since I entered. Perhaps he’s in another chamber.”

  He took two steps forward, but Tiras said, “No, not that way, brother. Please, follow me.” He held out a hand to the tunnel on the right, showing them the way.

  As Barnabas and Kalay followed the two young monks into the dark tunnel, Zarathan called shrilly, “I’ll stay here to keep watch!”

  Kalay turned and acidly said, “Cyrus will feel so much better with you at his back.”

  At the end of the passageway was a large, smoky chamber. The candles on the long table cast a flickering gleam over the stone wall. Over thirty cubits across, the rounded chamber rose another ten cubits over their heads. Holes of every size and shape honeycombed the walls, and each was stuffed with books, scrolls, writing instruments, and ink.

  Barnabas smiled. Even in the middle of the desert, a librarian could not survive without books. He set his precious book bag on the table and turned to Kalay. “Please go and tell Cyrus that all is well.”

  Kalay’s thin red brows lifted. “You’re a gullible soul, Barnabas. I’ve seen nothing to suggest safety, let alone—”

  The curtain on the far side of the chamber was thrown back and Libni—older, more grizzled—rushed into the chamber in a whirl of threadbare brown rags that fluttered around him like an ancient shroud.

  “Tiras! Uzziah! Fetch us down some wine and food,” Libni ordered, passing between the startled youths. Libni almost flew across the floor and embraced Barnabas in a bear hug that nearly cracked his ribs. “Barnabas, my dear old friend! How good of you to come see me! It’s been what, twenty years? Twenty-one? Did you ever find the village of Asthemo?”

  He was a massive man, tall, with the meaty shoulders of an ox, and hands twice the size of Barnabas’. A loose mane of graying brown hair framed his bearded face.

  Barnabas pulled away from his strong arms and laughed. “Not yet. I’m still looking.”

  “I always thought it was in the region of Eleutheropolis.”

  “As I do. I just haven’t found any evidence to support that suspicion.” He held out a hand to Kalay, and introduced her. “Libni, this is my friend Kalay.”

  At some point in the past twenty heartbeats, Kalay had drawn her knife and fallen into a she-wolf’s crouch.

  Libni turned and went still, looking at her with wide gray eyes. In a tender voice, he said, “At first I thought you were an angel. Now I am genuinely delighted to discover you are flesh and blood. Please, both of you be seated. My brothers will arrive shortly with refreshments.”

  Kalay nonchalantly kept her knife at the ready. “I’ll stand.”

  “But you must be tired, please sit.”

  “No.”

  Libni frowned. “You’re going to stand all night, after you’ve been riding hard for days?”

  “Possibly.”

  Libni’s
mad eyes flared a little wider. “You don’t say much, do you?”

  Kalay tilted her head. “Well, if you leave out all the pig shit in life, you don’t need many words.”

  A slow smile came to Libni’s lips, and he let out a belly laugh that boomed from the cave walls. “A beautiful woman with a sense of humor! I’ve been blessed by God.”

  Kalay squinted at him, straightened, and shoved her dagger into its sheath. “You’ve a curious way of looking at things, brother.”

  “Yes, but don’t let that worry you. I’m harmless.”

  Under her breath, she said, “That’s not what I’ve heard.” Then louder, added, “Forgive me, but I must go tell my companions that it’s safe.”

  “Well, of course, it’s safe,” Libni said, a bit indignantly.

  Kalay gave him an incredulous glance, and left.

  Libni watched her duck into the tunnel, and affection melted his face. “Her eyes remind me of Sousanna’s. Do you remember how blue they were? Like pieces of the sky fallen to earth.”

  “I do remember. I think it is Kalay’s misfortune that she reminds every man of a woman he’s lost.”

  A pained smile turned Libni’s lips. “Yes,” he replied softly, “I can see how that might lead a girl’s soul astray. How does she come to be in your company?”

  “She was the washerwoman at the monastery.”

  Libni arched an eyebrow. “What did you do to make our Lord so eager to test the chastity of your monks?”

  Barnabas suppressed a smile. “Nothing I’m aware of.”

  Libni thoughtfully smoothed a hand over his unkempt beard. “And before she was a washerwoman? What did she do?”

  “I don’t know how she earned her way in life. None of that matters to me.”

  A sad reverie filled Libni’s eyes. “Has she repented?”

  “No, and I wouldn’t bring it up if I were you. I overheard her say that most of her family was killed during the Persecution. She blames the Church.” Barnabas remembered the conversation he’d inadvertently overheard between Cyrus and Kalay that morning on the shore of the Nile. He had wondered then if he shouldn’t speak with her, but had decided to wait.