The Betrayal

by W. Michael Gear

  She opened her mouth to blurt something unpleasant, but his tormented expression stopped her. He had lifted his eyes and was gazing at her as though for reassurance. Perhaps he just wanted a few kind words? Someone to tell him she believed in him and was grateful for all he’d done to protect them?

  Instead, she said, “That’s the problem with your Lord. He’s always forcing people to give up everything they know, everything they are, and for what? Nothing.”

  He straightened at her hard tone. “I wouldn’t call salvation ‘nothing.’ I’d much rather be saved than eternally damned.”

  “Is that what you fear? Damnation? Well, stop it. Your tradition teaches you that no matter what you do your Lord will forgive you, doesn’t it?”

  “No, there are certain sins that God cannot forgive, but—”

  “I trust you’re not planning on committing any of those, are you?”

  He regarded her suspiciously. “No.”

  “Then what are you worried about? When all this is done, your Lord will forgive you your trespasses, and you can go back to following His teachings as though nothing happened.”

  He squinted at her. “You have a truly unbalanced way of looking at things.”

  She grinned. “That sounded like a backhanded compliment. Are you trying to be romantic?”

  His mouth opened, but he couldn’t seem to find the correct response.

  “Good,” she said, taking his arm. “Now that you’re speechless, let’s talk of more important things.”

  “What could possibly be more important than the salvation of my immortal soul?”

  She guided him away from the boulders toward the beach. “You told Libni we’d be gone before dawn. Where are we going?”

  “I haven’t the slightest idea. I assume that Libni and Barnabas will work out our route tonight.”

  “But we’ve only two choices, haven’t we? Mount Gerizim or Jerusalem.”

  “Jerusalem,” he said softly, as though feeling the names on his tongue. “It’s so strange to call it that. For almost two hundred years it has been called by the name Emperor Hadrian gave it in the year 130: Aelia Capitolina. All my life, that’s what I’ve called it.”

  “Well, Emperor Constantine just changed it back. It may be the one good thing he’s done in his entire reign. Though Jews are still banned from entering the city, except on the ninth of the Hebrew month of Av.”

  “The ninth of Av? Why?”

  She sucked in a breath, stunned by his ignorance. “That’s the anniversary of the destruction of the Temple in the year 70. Jews are allowed to return to mourn the loss, and are tormented by Christians who circulate through the mourners berating them for continuing to weep and wait for the messiah. They shout that he’s already come … that all the prophecies have been fulfilled, and Jews are just too stubborn to admit it.”92

  Cyrus’ face tensed at the angry tone in her voice. “Have you visited Jerusalem on the ninth of Av?”

  “My grandmother took me to the anniversary commemoration when I was five years old. I’ll never forget how I felt. My parents were Christians, but I cannot tell you how very much I hated Christians that day.”

  Softly, Cyrus said, “I’m sorry.”

  Like most devout Christians, Cyrus believed Iesous was the messiah, and the destruction of the Temple was irrefutable proof that Iesous’ prophecies had come true. It was enough to make her feel slightly ill.

  She took a breath and let it out in a rush. “If we go there, we’ll be riding into the lion’s den, won’t we?”

  “Almost certainly. Bishop Macarios of Jerusalem is a close ally of Bishop Silvester’s.”

  “Emperor Constantine’s lackey?” she recalled. “Do you think he might be handing out daggers to our sicarii?”

  “I think it’s possible.”

  “Then I’d best get used to this fear that’s been eating my belly for days.”

  As she released his arm and started to walk out onto the beach, he said, “Kalay?”

  Even pitched low, his deep voice carried on the wind. She turned to find him gazing at her with pained eyes.

  “Despite my beliefs, I will do everything I can to make certain we do not come to harm.” He had his fists clenched at his sides, as though fighting the overwhelming urge to touch her.

  “I’ve never doubted that, Cyrus.”

  “I know that you think I—” Cyrus went suddenly still and his gaze fastened on the sand at their feet. He cocked his head, as though listening.

  After several moments of holding her breath, she whispered, “What is it?”

  He pointed. The constant sea breezes had nearly covered them, but the dark spots of shadow that marred the sand could only be tracks.

  She knelt to examine them, trying to decide if they’d been made by men or animals. “They’re badly washed out, Cyrus.”

  She started to walk along them, and he reached out and took her hand with an unthinking intimacy. She flinched at his touch, as though her soul were warning her to run.

  “No, don’t follow them,” he ordered.

  The warmth of his flesh against her cold fingers made her shiver. “Why not?”

  “They’re hoofprints.”

  “So? Libni told you, this coast is a thoroughfare. Fishermen, traders, merchants, even whole caravans move up and down the length of it.”

  “This was one man on a horse, riding very close to the surf, as close as he could.”

  “A scout hoping his tracks would be washed away quickly?”

  “Maybe.”

  Looking across the sand, Kalay saw how the tracks curved with the line of the water, veering around a narrow spit of land, and disappearing into the unknown night beyond.

  “Do you think it’s one of our pursuers?” she asked.

  Cyrus propped his hand on the hilt of his belted sword and his fingers tightened around the grip, as if ready to draw it against things unseen. “I always assume the worst. If it doesn’t come about, I’m pleasantly surprised.”

  “You and I have learned the same lessons.”

  He turned to survey the white ribbon of foam that marked the waves. “I swear I—” He stopped and clamped his jaw.

  A strange undercurrent filtered through the words. She reached up and turned his face to look into his eyes. They were overflowing with guilt. He was holding something back, drowning in secrets that were eating him alive. “There’s something you haven’t told me, isn’t there? Something you haven’t told anyone. What is it?”

  “I—I can’t tell you.”

  She let her hand drop. “Is it about Loukas?”

  He just stared at her. “You’re too perceptive for your own good.”

  “I’ve been told that before. Best to tell me now, Cyrus.”

  He braced his feet. As though the words were being ripped from his chest by a hook, he croaked, “I—I remember where I’ve seen him.”

  “Where?”

  “The day my wife died.”

  He spun around to walk away, but Kalay grabbed his hand and jerked him back. Agony lined his face. As though he was expecting the question, his fingers crushed hers.

  “When was that?”

  He seemed to be struggling with himself, deciding which words to use.

  “It was right after the Milvian Bridge battle. I—I just couldn’t stand the hypocrisy.” A hushed violence strained the words. “I deserted the army. The emperor sent men to bring me back—or maybe to kill me. They broke into my home in the middle of the night. I told Spes to run while I fought them off … .” His shoulders hunched and he seemed to fold in upon himself. “They killed her first.”

  “Right in front of you? You saw it?” His expression told her everything. She exhaled hard and nodded. For a brief moment, the mist parted and she saw the horses galloping along the beach in the moonlight, their manes and tails flying. Playful whinnies carried on the wind. “Was it Loukas who killed her?”

  “No. He was the reason I got away.”

  “I don�
��t understand.”

  He gripped his sword again, as though to comfort himself. “He was young. Inexperienced. I surprised and overpowered him, then ran. I doubt he ever completely lived down the humiliation. He was supposed to be guarding my door.”

  Kalay shivered and started back toward the caves. Cyrus walked behind her. Every so often she caught the jangle of the weapons on his belt, or heard his soft footsteps.

  Just before they reached the entry cave, she turned. “Cyrus, what did you mean by ‘the hypocrisy’? Not that I’m an admirer of Rome or the emperor, but you don’t seem like the sort who would desert.”

  He stood perfectly still. The wind blew his curly black hair straight back, showing the smooth curves of his cheekbones and brow. “I was there that day.”

  “What day?”

  “The day. The day before the battle.”

  She searched her memory, trying to figure out what he meant. “The day the emperor saw the cross in the sky?”

  He snorted in disgust. “He’d been sitting in his tent all morning drinking wine. He called me in just after noon. I was his trusted adviser, and he needed my advice. He told me he had decided how to motivate our men to attack the bridge. The only part he couldn’t decide was the exact form the myth should take.”

  “The myth?”

  “Oh, yes. He was a master mythmaker. He knew exactly what he was doing. But he couldn’t decide if he should see a cross of light or the letters chi-rho. You know, a kind of divine monogram? Or maybe he should simply hear angels singing ‘By this conquer.’93 He asked me which I liked better. I said I thought it was a foolish idea that would alienate many of our devoted Roman soldiers.”

  “And how did the emperor respond?”

  “He threw me out of his tent.”

  The fog shifted, swirling around them in the glittering haze, and the shadows turned slippery and liquid.

  “I think that’s when it began to worry him.”

  “That you knew it was not a miraculous vision but a political ploy?”

  “Yes.”

  Kalay folded her arms tightly over her chest. “I can’t believe you’re still alive.”

  “Nor can I.”

  “Have the Romans hunted you ever since?”

  He rubbed his scabbard, as though smoothing away the drops of moisture that glistened on the leather. “I don’t know.”

  She slowly lowered her arms. “I think that’s the first lie you’ve told me.”

  He squeezed his eyes closed for a long moment, before saying, “They probably have. I do not know for certain, but I’ve often feared it.”

  Kalay put a hand on his broad shoulder. It was a friendly gesture, nothing more, but he uncertainly reached up, took her hand, and pulled her toward him. His arms shook as he wrapped them around her. “Don’t say anything. Just let me hold you for a few moments.”

  Stunned, she just stood there. A strange sensation of relief possessed her. Not desire, not love, just … relief. Which was totally foolish. They were being stalked by dedicated killers who might be watching them at this very instant. Though to see through this fog, they would have to be very close by.

  Tenderly, she said, “I’m starting to hope you’re right.”

  “About what?”

  “About there being angels watching over us.”

  His grip relaxed slightly. He looked down at her. Something about the softness in his eyes touched her, building a warmth in her heart.

  “Why?” he asked.

  “Because both our guards are down. If I were a murderer, this is the moment I would strike.”

  He backed away and his gaze quickly searched the beach and the cliff. “You’re right. Let’s get back inside. If God is very good to us, tonight we’ll get some sleep.”

  She let him walk past her, and followed a pace behind.

  A half hour later, Kalay pulled the worn softness of the blanket up around her throat and stared at the dark ceiling high above. Cyrus and Zarathan were sound asleep. She’d been trying, but thoughts of Cyrus kept waking her. A sharp ache invaded her chest. She couldn’t shake the sensation of his arms around her … . It was as powerful as a polished golden calf in the searing deserts of old.

  THE TEACHING ON THE SHADOW

  “Are you still there, brother?”

  You roll over at his whisper and inhale a breath of the warm night air. Stars glisten overhead, and the breeze is redolent with the scents of damp earth and trees. He lies rolled in his blanket two cubits away with his head propped on his laced hands, staring up at the darkness. Every time he blinks, his eyes catch the starlight and hold it for an instant.

  “Of course I’m still here. Where else would I be?”

  “I can’t find you.”

  You prop yourself up on one elbow. “I’m right here. Turn and look at me.”

  You see his mouth curl in a smile. “I’ve been looking at you for months. I still can’t find you.”

  Ah, now, you understand. He’s being profound. You say, “Well, it’s not my fault that you won’t open your eyes. I’m so close to you that I could be your shadow, yet you are blind to me.”

  His smile fades as though it never existed. For several instants he does not speak. Finally, he says, “Shadows need light to live. They die in the darkness. I fear that’s where you are, and why I can’t find you.”

  You study his silhouette … . He’s the one who is the shadow tonight. The shadow of the darkness itself. “Yeshu, I am not in the dark. I am a shadow in love with the sun who hides out of self-preservation. That’s why you can’t find me.”

  He somberly turns to me. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean I know what you’re planning, and when the sun dies, all of the shadows it casts die just as completely. How can you be so heartless, so careless of those who love you?”

  He takes a breath and exhales very slowly, as though cherishing the sensation of air moving in his lungs. “Are you afraid?”

  You stare up at the stars again, at the way they silver the heavenly vault.

  “Yes,” you say. “I am afraid.”

  In a voice almost too soft to hear, he answers, “Then perhaps I have finally found you.”

  THIRTY

  In the depths of the night, when only one candle continued to burn in Libni’s library, Barnabas gently shoved the map aside and reached for a slice of goat cheese. As he took a bite, the rich flavor filled his mouth. They had been tossing ideas back and forth since he’d arrived, just as they used to at the library in Caesarea. Both of them were happy.

  Libni broke off a piece of bread and, as he ate, his gaze filled with faraway places, memories that Barnabas could only guess at. After a long while, he reverently touched the corner of the papyrus. “Have you ever figured out why there is a large cross at the bottom of the papyrus, surrounded by three small crosses?”

  “I’m not sure they are crosses.”

  “The central feature is a cross. It just has other symbols attached to it.”

  “Which means it may not be a Christian symbol at all. And if it is, it was almost certainly added decades later, probably by some pious monk. Not only that, the small crosses were definitely written in a different ink.”

  Prior to Constantine’s vision, the cross had been viewed as the instrument of Iesous’ execution, of his shame. As Saint Paul noted, it was a huge “stumbling block” to conversion. The cross was not revered in and of itself, nor were Iesous and the cross seen as identical. One did not signify the other. There were many symbols revered by early Christians: the palm branch, the olive branch, the dove and the lamb, the anchor, the baptismal waters, the blood of Christ, the fish, or ichthys—because it was an acrostic of Iesous Christos, Son of God, Savior. But not the cross.

  Then, thirteen years ago, Constantine’s vision had changed all that. The cross had become the black blossom of the Church’s imagination. It was painted on armor, shields, military standards, weapons of every variety, even gallows and prisons. It had become a symbol th
at Barnabas strongly suspected the savior himself would have abhorred. To Iesous and his disciples, the cross had not represented salvation, but absolute injustice and humiliation.

  “I think you’re right on both counts,” Libni agreed. “It is not a Christian cross, and it was added by a very pious man: Ioses of Arimathaia, a devout Jew. The cross does not symbolize the crucifixion; it symbolizes something else. As do the small crosses.”

  Barnabas took another bite of the exquisitely aromatic cheese. “It sounds like you have an idea what that might be?”

  Libni’s mouth curled into a faint smile. He reached out, gripped the corner of the oldest, most frail map, and carefully dragged it across the table. His movements made the candle splutter. He positioned the map between them, then lifted and let his finger hover over a specific area. “Do you recall what’s located here?”

  Barnabas leaned forward to study the brown lines that indicated the old walled city of Jerusalem. “What’s the date of this map?”

  “As best I can determine, somewhere between the years zero and seventy. At any rate, before the destruction of the Temple.” His finger was still hovering.

  Barnabas said, “You have a big finger. Is it over the Garden Tomb, or the Damascus Gate?”

  Libni’s smile widened. “The gate.”

  Frustrated, Barnabas said, “I’m tired of guessing. Just tell me.”

  Libni’s gaze scanned the shadows before he murmured, “The Square of the Column.”

  Barnabas blinked. Just inside the Damascus Gate there had been a broad plaza. In the middle of that plaza had stood a tall column that served as a reference point for the measurement of road distances.94 Many groups of laborers had devised plays on that column. The one that particularly interested Libni was the form used by the stoneworkers, the tektons, which appeared as a builder’s square tented over a circle, or column.

  “And how,” Barnabas inquired, “does the Square of the Column relate to …” His voice faded as the answer became obvious, and a hollow floating sensation of elation possessed him.