The Betrayal

by W. Michael Gear

  He came up spluttering, looking like a drowned weasel, and cried, “Are you insane? Why did you do that?”

  “I thought another good baptism would clear your head. You …”

  Twenty paces down the shoreline she thought she glimpsed a figure, a shape moving silently in the bottomless fog. Her heart almost leaped out of her chest.

  “Zarathan, stand up!” she ordered as she tested the sword’s balance. “Come on!”

  He got to his feet and staggered out of the water with his saturated robe clinging to his skinny frame. “What’s wrong?”

  The ominous figure had vanished in the fog, but she could feel him, slipping closer. The hair on her neck began to prickle.

  “Quickly. Grab your club, we—”

  From near the cliff, Cyrus shouted, “Kalay? Zarathan?”

  “Here! We’re over here!”

  Footsteps pounded the sand. Kalay turned back, scanning the fog, the tip of the sword swinging in small circles as she prepared to defend herself.

  But the figure was gone.

  If he’d ever really been there.

  Cyrus appeared out of the mist, covered in blood, hauling Libni with one hand and carrying his dripping sword with the other. “Libni is wounded. Hurry!”

  THIRTY ~ FIVE

  “Find candles,” Barnabas ordered Tiras. “Bring them to the library immediately.”

  “Yes, brother.”

  Tiras ran ahead of them through the dark tunnel.

  Barnabas trailed along behind Cyrus. The warrior monk was virtually carrying Libni, though his old friend was making an effort to put one foot in front of the other. When they entered the library cave, Tiras had one candle lit and was placing it on the far end of the table.

  Cyrus propped his sword against the wall, and bodily lifted Libni onto the tabletop.

  A long sword gash sliced diagonally from his collarbone to the base of his ribs. The amount of blood was disconcerting; it ran from the gaping flesh, soaked his clothing, and pooled on the table. Spatters had patterned Libni’s face and throat.

  Tiras, as though totally disoriented, gaped in shock, swallowing and licking his lips.

  “Tiras, bring the candle down here, please?”

  The dazed youth blinked, picked up the candle, and brought it to Barnabas, who took it from his shivering hand. The boy had just seen his best friend, Uzziah, killed, and was watching his mentor bleed to death in front of him.

  “Tiras,” Barnabas said gently. “Fetch a jug of water and bandages. Oh, and I will need a needle and heavy thread. I assume you have these things?”

  “Yes, b-brother.” Tiras turned and shouldered between Zarathan and Kalay, who’d just entered the chamber.

  “Oh, dear God.” Zarathan’s voice was a thin wail. He put a hand to his mouth and stared wide-eyed at Libni’s unstaunched blood.

  Cyrus didn’t waste a moment. “I must go and guard the entrance. Kalay, can you gather our horses and bring them here?”

  “Of course.” She vanished down the tunnel at a run.

  “Our horses?” Barnabas said, “Cyrus, you’re not planning on leaving? Libni needs our help!”

  “I know that, brother, but as soon as we’ve done what we can, we have to go.”

  “But—”

  “Brother Barnabas! We killed two of our attackers. At least two ran, and it is prudent to believe that the leader was watching from a distance. Someone must carry the tale back to his superiors. By dawn, they will be on their way back here in force. We can’t stay.” He gestured to the gazelle leather bag sitting almost invisible on the floor in the rear of the cave. “Unless you want the papyrus to fall into the Church’s hands.”

  “No, of course not, but—”

  Libni reached out and gripped Barnabas’ sleeve. “He’s right. You have to go. Tiras will care for me.”

  “Libni, you and Tiras must come with us. It’s not safe here.”

  Libni smiled and through a long, pained exhalation, he replied, “There are … many other caves. Near here. Very difficult to negotiate. No one knows the maze but me. We will hide there.”

  “No, Libni, please. You must leave. You don’t know these men, they’ll—”

  “We will trust our fate to God and our Lord Iesous Christos. But …” He winced as he sucked in a breath. “Promise me that if you succeed you will return and tell me what you saw?” Libni’s eyes shone with hope.

  Barnabas took his hand in a hard grip. “You know I will.”

  Tiras rushed back into the cave with an armload of bandages, herbs, and a jug of water, which he deposited on the table beside Barnabas. Then he laid out a long iron needle and a ball of dark brown thread.

  Cyrus collected his blood-darkened sword, adding, “Call out if you need me.”

  Zarathan, sodden, stood with his shoulders hunched and a puddle forming at his feet. Wet blond hair straggled around his face. Zarathan … half drowned? Barnabas didn’t have time to ask.

  “Zarathan,” Barnabas said, “please hold the candle for me while Tiras and I tend to the wound.”

  Zarathan, looking as if about to faint, took the candle and held it close. Barnabas carefully peeled back the blood-slick fabric. Without realizing it, his eyes tightened, and Libni said, “Am I dying? Finally?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. God still needs you. If for no other reason than to irritate me with guessing games.” Turning just slightly, he said, “Tiras, hand me the needle and thread. Once we get the bleeding stopped, I will need to sew the cut closed.”

  “Yes, brother.”

  Zarathan swallowed hard. “How do we stop the bleeding?”

  “Set the candle down and press both your hands on the wound, here and here,” he pointed. “Press the cut edges together. Don’t let up on the pressure until I tell you to.” Barnabas unwound the thread and slipped it through the eye of the needle. “Tiras, help him.”

  Zarathan did as instructed and Tiras pressed his hands on the other most critical gaps. Libni gritted his teeth in pain, but barely a moan escaped his lips.

  It seemed to take an eternity before the blood flow began to ebb. Cautiously, Barnabas drove the needle into Libni’s flesh. Not even the years of tailoring his own clothing had prepared him for this. Stitch by stitch he closed the wound. “Let go now, Zarathan, and move down some. We’ll wash it after we sew it closed.”

  Libni uttered a rasping groan.

  “Forgive me.” Barnabas continued to sew, attempting to copy the neat stitches he’d seen Roman surgeons make.

  Libni vented a low laugh. His bloody face appeared ghoulish in the candlelight, especially surrounded by that mop of gore-clotted hair. “Barnabas?”

  “What is it?”

  Libni’s voice changed. “I have a favor to ask. Can you take some of my books with you? I know they’re cumbersome, but Tiras and I, we’ll have to leave quickly. I don’t think we’ll have time to carry all of them to our hiding place.”

  “Yes, of course. But just the most important documents, Libni. One bag full. I’ll tie it as a counterweight to the gazelle leather bag.”

  “Thank you, thank you …” Libni winced at a sudden stab of pain and focused on the arching cave ceiling where candlelit shadows danced. Tears were leaking down the side of his blood-spattered face. “I have … have copies of the gospels of Markos, Thomas, and Maththaios in Hebrew and Aramaic. Very rare. The only copies I’ve ever seen.”

  “The only copies I’ve ever heard of,” Barnabas said in awe. Dear God, the implications. Softly, he asked, “Does Markos have the longer ending?”

  “No, of course not. It ends at chapter sixteen, verse eight. As it should.”

  Barnabas glanced up at Zarathan and Tiras. Both were obviously running verses through their minds, trying to decipher the meaning.

  Libni followed his gaze, saw their expressions, and said, “The oldest versions of the Gospel of Markos end at chapter sixteen, verse seven or eight. There is no resurrection.”

  “But,” Zarathan said,
“don’t both Irenaeus and Hippolytus mention verse nine? They lived in the second and third centuries. Surely that proves—”

  “It proves that even then men were using their pens to mutilate the original gospels,” Libni said gruffly. “Mythmaking at the cost of history. It’s disgraceful. My Hebrew and Aramaic gospels date to the latter half of the first century. They were written only a few decades after our Lord was crucified. And my Hebrew Gospel of Thomas dates to around the year 40, maybe 50 at the latest. I think it was written before the letters of Paulos. Take them with you, Barnabas. Don’t let the Church editors get their grubby nibs near them.”

  “I won’t. I swear it.” But he wondered how, if they were captured, he would be able to keep that promise.

  As he worked his way across the wound, the blood ceased to flow, but he could see Libni’s face going more and more pale, probably a combination of shock and loss of blood. He took his last stitch, tied it off, and said, “Tiras, find every blanket here. We need to keep Libni warm while he sleeps.”

  Tiras hurried from the room.

  “But aren’t we leaving soon?” Zarathan asked hopefully.

  Barnabas smiled down into Libni’s pained eyes. “As soon as we’ve gathered whatever books Libni tells us to.”

  Libni gave him a weak smile, sealing a bargain that the protection of the original gospels was passing from one trusted friend to another. What was at stake was no more, and no less, than the Truth.

  Libni lifted a shaking hand and pointed to the small hole in the wall on the right side of the cave. “Thomas is there, and Markos …” His finger moved through the air to a large, squarish hole. “Markos and Maththaios are there. But there are others. An early version of Hebrews and the second volume of Papias’ Logia …”

  Tiras returned and began piling blankets atop Libni while he continued with his list.

  For nearly an hour, Barnabas and Zarathan collected and carefully packed the ancient papyri, scrolls, and codices into a cracked leather bag Tiras had found.

  Finally, Libni allowed himself to fall into a deep, exhausted sleep.

  Barnabas backed away from the table and motioned for Tiras to follow them out.

  When they stood on the sand, Barnabas said, “Zarathan, please take both bags to our horse and tie them over the withers.”

  “Yes, brother.”

  Barnabas turned to Tiras. The youth gazed up at him with terrified eyes, as though he longed for nothing more than to run away and hide from all this.

  “Tiras, remember that ‘there is light within a man of light, and he lights the whole world. If that man does not shine, he is the darkness,’106 and he will not find the Kingdom.” He put his hand on the youth’s shoulder. “Shine, Tiras. Be a man of light, as he taught you.”

  Tears welled in Tiras’ eyes. He nodded and reverently said, “I will try, brother. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of him.”

  “I know you will.”

  Barnabas turned and strode for the horses.

  THIRTY ~ SIX

  Zarathan helped Cyrus adjust the book bags over the horse’s withers, while he cast occasional glances at Kalay. The woman knelt by the dead assassin, going through his pockets. She’d rinsed her bloody face and hair in the sea, but there were still dark splotches on her dress.

  Solemnly, Cyrus said, “Kalay told me you saved her life. Thank you, brother. I know it was a hard thing to do.”

  Zarathan’s gaze pulled back, and he anxiously toyed with the ropes on the bags. What could he say? His wrists ached from the panicked strength of the blow he’d wielded, but it was nothing compared to the pain that seemed to live and breathe in his heart.

  Despite what Kalay said, I killed him. Without my blow, he would be alive.

  In a soft, confidential voice, Cyrus asked, “Are you all right?”

  He had never known why, but he found it difficult to share grief, even with his family.

  Cautiously, he said, “Cyrus, you—you’re a soldier. You probably think I’m a weak fool. And I—I am.” He hated the frail timbre of the words. “But I’ve never been in a fight before, not even with my fists. Every time I got into a situation that looked like it might turn ugly, I walked away—as I believe my Lord wants me to do.”

  “I believe he does, too, brother.” Cyrus adjusted the bags for a final time, and the smell of the sea seemed to grow sharper, more intense.

  Zarathan wiped his nose on his wet sleeve. “I acted like a coward. I didn’t even fight the man face-to-face. I sneaked up on him and clubbed him from behind!”

  Cyrus rested his arms across the horse’s back. His thick black brows drew down over his straight nose. “Zarathan, these men are trying to kill us. Always, whenever possible, attack from behind. The goal is for you to come out alive. Use whatever tactics you must to accomplish that.”

  “Including acting like a coward?”

  Cyrus considered him. “Had you called him out, faced him man-toman, what would have happened?”

  “He … would have killed me.”

  “That’s right. He was skilled in arms, you are not. He would have lopped your head off with one stroke, and then turned and finished Kalay. You would both be dead, and he would have been there to turn the odds against me and in our attackers’ favor. Which means that Brother Barnabas, Libni, Tiras, and I would be dead, too. And, at this moment, the papyrus and all the books would be burning.”

  “But …” He suppressed a sob. “If what I did was right, why do I feel so horrible?”

  A bitter smile turned Cyrus’ lips. “I executed my first man when I was your age, Zarathan. Sixteen. They called it ‘military training.’ My commander brought me an enemy soldier who’d been taken prisoner in battle. He was a barbarian, filthy—and he was trussed up like a hog ready for roasting. It certainly wasn’t a fair fight.”

  Zarathan managed to get a shaky breath into his lungs. “What did you do?”

  “I was ordered to slice off his head, and I really tried to obey. I lifted my sword several times. But each time I looked into his pleading eyes, and I couldn’t do it. When I broke down in tears, my commander ordered the other recruits to beat me until I either begged to go home to my mother, or until I begged to kill the prisoner.”

  There was a long silence while Cyrus patted the horse’s mane; his eyes were lost in distant memories. Barnabas ducked out of the cave, and walked toward them with his head bowed, as though beneath a great weight.

  “Did you kill the prisoner?” Zarathan asked.

  “Oh, yes.”

  “And af-afterward? Did you feel weak all over? As though your muscles had been boiled until they felt like they would fall apart?”

  “I still feel that way when I kill a man. I don’t think good soldiers ever get over it. Killing is wrong. We all know it. I don’t know God’s reason for it, but there are times, my brother, when it simply cannot be avoided. Like today.”

  Zarathan chewed his lip while he looked out at the frothy surf.

  Cyrus softly said, “You weren’t a coward tonight. You were braver than I was when I first killed a man. You knew what you had to do, and did it without thinking, without hesitating. From now on, I know I can rely upon you when the time comes.”

  Several hollow thuds echoed down the beach, and they both turned to see Kalay level yet another brutal kick at the dead man’s privates.

  Baffled and annoyed, Zarathan said, “I still think she’s a demon.”

  Cyrus studied Kalay. “Don’t forget that our Lord sent her into the dining hall that night at the monastery. Then he placed her in the boat with us. And tonight he had you pick up that piece of driftwood to save her life.” His eyes softened. “There must be a reason.”

  THIRTY ~ SEVEN

  Massa

  NISAN THE 17TH, THE YEAR 3771

  Yosef slipped the bit into his horse’s mouth and patted the animal’s silken neck as he secured the bridle. The horse blew and looked at him with big, trusting eyes.

  “Just two more days, Adolp
hus,” he said gently. “Then you’ll be able to spend the rest of your life grazing in fields of green grass. I promise.”

  All around him, the Essenes were busy, packing their horses, cleaning up camp, speaking in low voices. He looked out across the silent, dove-colored hills to the highlands in the distance. As sunlight broke over the horizon, a tawny gleam haloed the place where the holy city of Yerushalaim nestled. He thought of his home, the home he suspected he could never again return to, and a pained yearning struck his heart. He so wanted to sleep in his own bed, and to see his ailing father one last time. Perhaps, if Petronius …

  No, you can’t let yourself believe that. It will weaken your resolve. You have one duty left to perform, then you must flee.

  He patted the horse again, gripped the reins, and led Adolphus toward the other horses; his hooves clip-clopped across the stone in a slow, patient rhythm.

  Mattias called, “We’re ready if you are.”

  “Good. Let’s ride.”

  Either they would find Titus waiting for them tonight at the prearranged place, or they would not, which meant he’d been captured and the Pearl stolen.

  Regardless, someone would be waiting for them.

  He prayed it wasn’t an entire Roman century.

  THIRTY ~ EIGHT

  Melekiel

  NISAN THE 18TH, FIRST HOUR OF NIGHT

  By the time they neared the city of Emmaus,107 the sun had long ago dipped below the western horizon, and the brightest stars glittered to life.

  Yosef galloped his horse in the lead, following the twisting path through the fruit orchard. The fragrance of green leaves and last year’s rotting pomegranates carried on the breeze.

  When he saw the dilapidated house ahead, his heart ached, for he did not see Titus.

  Mattias galloped up beside him and hissed, “Where is he?” Sweat-soaked black hair clung to his cheeks.