The Betrayal

by W. Michael Gear

  Every gaze fixed on Libni.

  Annoyed at the game, Barnabas said, “There are many possibilities. What do you think it means?”

  Libni smiled his love at Barnabas, which defused some of his frustration. “I think it means ‘two camps.’”

  “Two camps?”

  “Yes. It’s so simple, isn’t it? It’s hard to believe we missed it all these years.”

  There were three or four heartbeats of incomprehension in the room, before Kalay gasped, “Blessed Mother! And “Mehebel” means ‘from the coast’!”

  A tingling rush of heat flushed Barnabas’ veins. “‘Two camps from the coast.’” His hand shook as he reached out to touch Libni’s wrist. “Dear God, then it is a map.”

  TWENTY ~ NINE

  Kalay sat in the high-backed chair with her knees drawn up, sipping wine while she watched the two old men who stood leaning over the ancient maps on the table. Brittle and yellowed, dotted here and there with drips of candle wax, Libni would allow no one but himself and Barnabas to touch the maps. The four other men had to stand back, watching from one or two paces away as their elders pondered the meaning of the faint, archaic symbols.

  “That’s the problem,” Libni murmured, frowning. “We don’t know where to start. There were eight major cities on the coast at the time of our Lord. Which one is the papyrus referring to?”

  Candlelight lay like a thick amber resin on the surface of the tabletop. It seemed to catch in glowing lines on the edges of the maps.

  “If the beginning point is a city at all,” Cyrus countered as he paced behind Libni and Barnabas, his arms folded across his broad chest. “It could be a cove, a standing stone, a ruin, anything. There’s no way to know.”

  Barnabas placed a hand on one curled map corner, carefully flattening it out so that he could read it. “If we are correct that the man who wrote the papyrus was Ioses of Arimathaia, then perhaps we should look at sites closest to Jerusalem.”

  “Why?” Cyrus asked skeptically.

  “No reason really, except that’s where he lived, and it gives us a starting place.”

  Libni’s finger was moving through the air above the parchment. “The choices, in that case, would be Apollonia, Ioppe, and Ashkelon. Pick one.”

  Barnabas waved a hand uncertainly. “The one in the middle.”

  “Ioppe, or do you say Yapo?”

  “Ioppe.”

  They both leaned over the table, staring at the map like scavenger birds waiting for their prey to die.

  Kalay sighed. Though she had traveled much of Palestine and Egypt, she did not believe she had seen any place as desolate as the honeycomb of caves that Libni and his students called home. The chambers were virtually empty, except for a blanket folded in the corner where someone slept, or a prayer rug and a candle sitting in the middle of a swept dirt floor. Elsewhere in the region, people might live in caves, but the chambers had color. The walls were painted or contained colorful objects and bright fabrics, beads or polished stones. Except for the library where she sat, this place was barren, the walls hollowed and smoothed by eons of wind and water. There was little here to break the monotony. Fortunately, the wine was tasty. She took another drink.

  The faint creak of Cyrus’ sword belt broke the silence as he shifted to prop one hand on the hilt. “How many stadia is it from Ioppe to Jerusalem?”

  Libni rubbed his bearded chin. “Perhaps three hundred fifty or a little more. Why?”

  “Because that means Jerusalem is ‘two camps from the coast.’”

  “Not if you’re traveling on foot, it’s at least three camps.”

  Cyrus lifted his chin and Kalay could see the thoughts flashing behind his emerald eyes. “If Ioses of Arimathaia is the writer, he was a powerful and renowned leader of the Temple. He must have had friends all over Palestine, people who would have helped him. I suspect he was on horseback.”

  Libni and Barnabas looked at each other, as though to see what the other thought. Finally Barnabas said, “Let’s assume he’s right.”

  “I agree. Does that mean then that Jerusalem is the place that is ‘two camps from the coast’?”

  “That’s circular logic. That’s where we started from.” Barnabas grimaced. “If we assume that Ioppe is the starting place, it is just as likely that Mount Gerizim is the place ‘two camps from the coast.’”

  Kalay hugged her knees to her chest and said, “Well, if those are the choices, I’m of a mind to agree with Cyrus.”

  Zarathan scowled at her as though upset she’d spoken. He looked from man to man, clearly waiting for someone to reprimand her.

  “Go on,” Libni said. “Why?”

  “Because the next word is mahray. David’s champion was from the hill country of Judah, southwest of Bet Lehem, which is close to Jerusalem.”

  Libni’s bushy gray brows lifted in admiration. “And what of manahat?”

  She sat up straight and lowered her bare feet to the cold floor. “Well, if I’m following you, and going for a literal translation, I’d say it means ‘resting place.’”

  A warm, half-demented grin brightened Libni’s face. “You are such a surprise. Where did you learn Hebrew?”

  “My grandmother was Jewish. She read me the scriptures in Hebrew every night.”

  Libni’s smile widened. “Then you should know what magdi—”

  Zarathan piped up, “Magdiel was an Edomite chief.” He was obviously pleased with himself for remembering. An arrogant smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

  Libni said, “Yes, but not in this case.”

  Zarathan’s smile drooped. “What do you mean? We all agreed that it was an Edomite chief!”

  Libni’s fond gaze fixed on Kalay. “Do you know, my dear?”

  “I know that the translation of the word is God’s gift, or the gift of God.”

  Cyrus’ eyes widened. He propped his hand on the table and murmured, “Two camps from the coast … David’s champion … lay to rest? … God’s gift?”

  Barnabas’ knees seemed to go weak. He gingerly lowered himself to a chair and said, “God’s gift, God.”

  “What does that mean?” Zarathan’s mouth puckered into a pout. “It’s gibberish.”

  Wind whipped around the chamber, fluttering the maps on the table, and Libni carefully reached out to hold down the corners.

  Ignoring Zarathan, Kalay said, “After that, we’ve a problem.”

  “Because selah breaks the pattern,” Zarathan said a little too loudly and thrust out his blond-fuzzed chin.

  It truly amazed Kalay that he had been listening. She’d thought his head filled with nothing but bawdy paintings.

  “Yes, it does,” Libni agreed and the wrinkles in his forehead deepened. “You have all clearly been considering this. What conclusions did you come to regarding selah?”

  Barnabas braced his elbows on the table and answered, “We thought it might refer to the Edomite rock city, or perhaps the place in Moab.”

  “But,” Kalay pointed out, “it literally means ‘rock’.”

  The men shifted, apparently waiting for someone to say something.

  “God’s gift, God, rock?” Zarathan asked, as though annoyed. “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Maybe not.” When Cyrus began pacing again, the flickering candlelight gilded his sword with a heartbeat of fire. “Is it possible that Selah could be a hidden reference to Saint Petros? His name also means ‘rock’.”

  “Yes, and in Hebrew “rock” is kepha,” Kalay said.

  Libni steepled his fingers and propped his chin upon the point. “I hadn’t thought of that one,” he praised. “That’s exactly the sort of twist Ioses of Arimathaia would throw in to confuse the idle reader. What do you think, Barnabas?”

  Barnabas ran a hand through his gray hair. In the muted light his deeply sunken eyes turned glassy. “It is possible, but … it doesn’t feel right.”

  “Well enough,” Libni said, picked up the jug, and poured himself another cup of wine. “Le
t’s move on to massa, massa. Cyrus? Your thoughts?”

  “I thought it might be a reference to the son of Ishmael mentioned in the Book of Genesis.”

  Without being asked, Kalay offered, “I’m fairly sure it’s from the massa umeriba, which literally means ‘proof and strife,’ or maybe ‘testing and contention.’”

  Barnabas said, “It could just as easily refer to the ‘oracle’ taught to King Lemuel. The problem is the papyrus is not written in Hebrew, it’s written in Latin, which was surely designed to lead the reader on a merry chase, for, without the Hebraic letters, we’ve no idea how each word might truly be translated.”

  “Um, yes. Quite correct,” Libni said. “Massa as it appears in Latin may be an exact transliteration from the Hebrew, but in Hebrew the word may have been pronounced massha, or massah, each with a different meaning. Without seeing the context in which the words occur, we cannot pretend to know their exact meaning.”

  Since Kalay had never learned to read, such distinctions had little impact on her, but Zarathan looked truly perplexed.

  His blond brows pinched. “Two camps from the coast, David’s champion lay to rest God’s gift, God, rock, proof, proof? It’s nonsense.”

  “Perhaps if we could decipher selah it would all be perfectly clear.” Barnabas sighed.

  The stone floor was cold. Kalay drew her feet into the chair again and propped her cup of wine on her knees, wondering about selah. It was an Edomite fortress city conquered by Amaziah, King of Judah. Could it refer to a fortress made of stone? If the papyrus was, truly, a clever map, finding the fortress would be essential.

  She leaned her head against the chair’s back and let her gaze drift over the rounded candlelit ceiling. The men had lowered their voices, and begun talking softly among themselves.

  Maybe Zarathan was right. It was all nonsense. She picked up the jug and refilled her cup again. A pleasant warmth was filtering through her veins, making all of this seem somehow less deadly than it was. She liked the few moments of respite.

  In a nasty voice, Zarathan commented, “Soon, you’re going to be slurring your words, then what will we do with you?”

  She deliberately slurred, “I don’t shink I want to answer that quesh-tion. It might give you ideas, and you’ve already got plenty in that young head of yoursh.”

  Red crept into his cheeks. He clamped his jaw, and glowered at her. As though it would upset her, he announced, “I’m leaving. Where am I supposed to sleep?”

  Libni looked up. “Tiras and Uzziah placed blankets in the entry cave for you, and they will be standing guard tonight so that you all can sleep without worry. Please try to rest.”

  Cyrus replied, “That will be a welcome relief. Thank you, brother.”

  Zarathan marched from the chamber, and Libni and Barnabas returned to the map. They whispered and pointed at different squiggly lines, lost in their own private conversation.

  Cyrus gestured to Kalay to get her attention, then tilted his head toward the tunnel, silently asking her join him outside.

  Kalay rose to her feet and followed him.

  In the entry cave, they found Zarathan rolled up in a blanket. Three other blankets lay folded in the rear. As they passed, Zarathan flopped to his opposite side, showing them his back, before they ducked outside.

  Fog spun out of the sea, ghost white in the moonlight. Cyrus walked a few paces down the cliff face, taking them out of earshot of anyone who might be listening.

  She walked along behind him, pondering why he needed to leave the caves to talk to her.

  Finally, he stopped in a pool of cold shadows and leaned back against the cliff. Shreds of mist blew about him.

  “What is your opinion of Libni?”

  Kalay shrugged. “He’s a curious one. I was unsure at first, but I like him.”

  “And his two assistants?”

  “They’re boys, Cyrus. They’re no danger to us.”

  The world shimmered in the mist. His black hair and beard had already picked up an opalescent sheen.

  “Do you believe Libni?” Cyrus cocked his head.

  “If you’re asking if I think the papyrus should be translated literally, it makes more sense than anything else we’ve tried.”

  “But Zarathan is right, it’s gibberish.”

  “Everything is gibberish until you understand it, Cyrus.”

  She looked out at the oddly shaped boulders that thrust up from the surf. Moonlight streamed between them, bleaching the foamy water a stark silver color, and casting the rocks’ inky shadows across the sand. As the fog floated over the dark sand toward them, she had the urge to try and summon the voices of the air and sea, as she’d been taught to do in the ancient mystery religion she followed. But she feared it might curdle Cyrus’ Christian soul.

  “What is ‘God’s gift’? Do you have any ideas?” he asked.

  “Life. At least that’s how I would answer that question. How would you?”

  He gave her an uncertain half-shrug and shake of his head, but she could see the strange, somber expression on his handsome face.

  “What’s wrong, Cyrus?”

  His gaze slid to her, but he paused for several moments before he said, “I think it’s the Pearl.”

  “Which is … what?”

  In the long silence that followed, Kalay heard one of their horses blow softly, and then the faint crunching of sand beneath hooves as the animals meandered along the beach, nipping every edible plant they could find. She kept her eyes on Cyrus. The lines at the corners of his eyes tightened. Finally, he answered, “You’ve heard us talk about Papias’ book?”

  “The Lord’s Logia? Yes, what of it?”

  While his gaze moved along the shoreline, he said, “The passage I read went something like this: ‘The Son of Panthera will again put on his robe of glory, and call up the headless demon whom the winds obey when the Pearl is in hand.’”

  “That’s interesting. Or confusing.”

  “Yes,” he said softly, “and that could be my fault, because I’m not skilled at Hebrew. I had to guess at many of the words.” As though angry with himself, he slapped the grit from his sleeve.

  They had taken refuge in the shadows of a tumbled pile of boulders that had cracked off the cliff some time in the distant past and begun to sprout tiny wind-tortured trees. As the fog moved through, the branches sighed and shook water droplets onto the rocks. The blend of surf and dripping trees calmed her after the long days on the desert trail.

  She braced her shoulder against the cliff and faced him. His gaze, however, was not on her, but on the fog, staring at it hard, as though trying to read their dire fortunes in the shifting patterns.

  She asked, “What if the map leads nowhere and we’re just chasing ghosts?”

  “I believe in ghosts. Don’t you?”

  She hugged herself against the misty chill. “No.”

  “No? Really?” He sounded truly astounded. “What about angels and demons?”

  “Ah.” She waggled a finger at him. “I believe in demons, yes, I do. But I’ve seen them walking the streets, looked into their eyes, and seen evil looking back. Trust me, the world is filled with demons. Remember Loukas?”

  He paused. “But no angels?”

  “I’ve never seen one. Simple as that. When one appears, I’ll reconsider.”

  In a deeply reverent voice, Cyrus said, “They exist, Kalay, believe me. They’ve saved me many times on the battlefield.”

  “I’ve seen you fight, Cyrus. I suspect it’s a good deal more likely that you saved yourself. You’re handy with a sword and dagger. Not only that, you’re smart. You probably made the most of the few pieces of luck that turned your way.” She shrugged. “But if you want to believe that angels whispered in your ears, that’s your affair.”

  Cyrus smiled. She saw his teeth glint in the moonlight. “Perhaps that is a guardian angel’s strength. There’s never proof of his handiwork, which means that people must have faith.”

  “Faith that
they’re being watched over?” Her mouth tightened with disbelief. “Seems like a waste of effort to me.”

  “But you have faith,” he pointed out. “You told me you’re a Goddess worshipper. Surely that requires as much faith as believing in angels.”

  She moved away from the cliff, straightened, and let her gaze roam the shadowed boulders. The mist had grown thicker, obscuring the gnarled trees, and she had a curious feeling that all was not as it seemed. She tried to shove the premonition away.

  “The Goddess doesn’t demand as much in return as your angels do,” she replied. “My Goddess is happy with a prayer now and then, maybe a sacrifice on high holy days. She doesn’t demand celibacy, or poverty, or any of the other unnatural things that your God does. The Goddess, as a result, is a whole lot easier to have faith in.”

  In a conspiratorial whisper, he said, “I think you’re the most devout person I know. You just don’t like to show it.”

  “And why would that be?”

  “Because you’re afraid it makes you look weak.” He took a breath, and through a long exhalation said, “And weakness is something you of all people cannot afford.”

  Kalay considered him for several moments, watching the moonlight waver over his lips and flash in his eyes, surprised that he understood her so well. “Nor can you, I think. Though I suspect you believe your Lord would prefer it.”

  He shifted his back against the damp cliff, and fabric grated against stone. “There is not a night that passes that I don’t feel Him seeking me in my dreams, calling to me to put away my sword and pick up His cross.”

  “Are you truly so deep a believer, Cyrus? I know you’re a monk, but you don’t seem to share their cowardly failings. At least, I haven’t seen it.”

  “Haven’t you?” His mouth curled into what could only be called a smile of self-loathing. “I’m afraid that what you see as my strengths I see as cowardice.”

  “Really? I’m surprised.”

  His gaze lowered, as though he didn’t want to look at her when he said, “My Lord taught me to ‘turn the other cheek,’ to seek peace and love my neighbor. I believe those teachings with all my heart.” His voice grew pained. “But I don’t have the courage to follow them when people I care about have been murdered and others are in danger. But I should, Kalay, I should have the courage.”