The Betrayal

by W. Michael Gear

  Meridias stood a few paces back. “Do you see anyone?”

  “No, but it’s very dark in there … and the tomb is larger than I would have thought given its unimpressive facade.”

  Meridias went to kneel beside Macarios and look inside. A damp, musty scent breathed from the tomb, which sent a chill up Meridias’ spine. “Let’s see what’s in there.”

  “You’re going in?” Macarios asked in surprise. “What if the thieves are hiding in one of the inner chambers?”

  “Surely we scared them away,” he answered as he got on his hands and knees and crawled into the darkness.

  Once through the opening, the tomb yawned around him, soaring twice his height and spreading ten fathoms across. Despite his brave words, Meridias reached for the long-bladed dagger he kept under his robes. Stairs led downward. He took them one at a time, dagger ready, fingertips tracing the close wall on his left. In ten heartbeats his eyes began to adjust and objects crystallized. There were at least twenty ossuaries resting on stone shelves. He called up, “It’s safe. You can enter.”

  Macarios and Albion crawled in, and climbed down the steps. As their eyes adjusted, Meridias walked to the stone shelf on the left where two ossuaries nestled side-by-side. There were words written on them. He could see them in the faint light that penetrated through the doorway.

  “Macarios, when you can see, come over here. You read Hebrew, don’t you?”

  “Yes.” Macarios walked toward him, blinking his eyes.

  Albion stood as though frozen to the floor, looking around wide-eyed.

  Macarios bent to study the words scratched into the ossuaries. “Hmm. This one says Salome.”

  Meridias dusted off the word on the other ossuary. “And this one?”

  Macarios squinted at it. “It’s not very clear, but it may be Mari, or Mariam.”

  Albion sucked in a sudden breath. His eyes had adjusted, and he lifted a shaking arm to point at something in the rear of the tomb. “It—it’s a skeleton!”

  “Where?” Meridias spun around to look.

  “Back there, lying on that rock shelf.”

  Meridias edged around the broken chunks of ossuaries that had been destroyed by the thieves in their haste, and made his way toward the rear. “Dear God, Albion’s right.”

  A skeleton lay on its back, a burial shroud covering the collapsed ribs, arms, and legs. The fabric had been drawn back to expose the skull. It gleamed as though sculpted of polished brown marble.115

  Macarios came up beside him. “I wonder why his bones were never collected and placed in an ossuary as was customary.”

  “His family must have brought him here, sealed the tomb, and never returned to finish the work,” Meridias suggested. “Maybe he was one of the last ones, left behind when the Temple was destroyed?”

  “That’s possible. According to the ancient texts, a corpse was prepared with oil and spices, then wrapped in white linen and placed on a shelf in a tomb. After which, the tomb was closed up with a blocking stone. In a year or so, the stone was rolled aside and the bones of the dead were collected and placed in a box, usually made of limestone—though those in the Galilaian seem to have been made of clay.”

  “Why didn’t they just bury them and be done with it?” Meridias asked.

  “Some people did, but the Pharisees believed—as we do—in the physical resurrection of the body. The decomposition of the flesh supposedly cleansed the body of sin and left the bones in a pure state, ready for the resurrection.”

  “Then the tradition of ossuaries was strictly a Pharisaic one?”

  “I believe it was primarily practiced by the Pharisees, but that’s all I can say.”

  Meridias cautiously walked toward the skeleton. As he neared the shelf, he noticed a darker patch to his left, and could make out at least two steps. “There’s another chamber,” he said. “It looks like it goes down to a lower level.”

  Albion’s young voice had gone shrill with fear. “We n-need a torch, or a lamp. Perhaps we should return tomorrow with the proper equipment to search the rest of the tomb.”

  “I agree. It’s getting dark outside,” Macarios said. “When we return to the monastery, I’ll dispatch monks to guard this tomb until we can reseal it.”

  “Reseal it?” Meridias said.

  “Well, yes. Out of respect for the dead, we should—”

  “We should probably reseat the blocking stone, and then bury it beneath as much earth as we can,” Meridias said, “or the thieves will certainly return.”

  Macarios tilted his head in reluctant agreement. “That is a good suggestion, brother. I’ll pull some workers off our excavation and send them over here in the morning.”

  Macarios and Albion climbed up the stairs and when their bodies blocked the light, the tomb went utterly black. Meridias stood with his eyes focused on the place where he knew the shrouded skeleton rested. A strange prickling crept up his spine. He sensed or heard something. Probably the wind outside. It grew louder, and sounded oddly like a soft, mournful voice. In mere moments it seemed to fill the chamber.

  Meridias backed toward the steps. A fear like nothing he had ever known rose inside him. He was certain now that it was a man’s voice.

  Finally, both Albion and Macarios crawled out, and light once again streamed into the chamber.

  The sound vanished.

  Meridias forced a deep breath into his lungs. With the light restored, the tomb was, once again, utterly quiet.

  “Are you coming, Pappas Meridias?” Macarios called.

  “Yes.”

  As he made his way out into the dusk, he silently cursed himself for being a fool and strode bravely for the city gate.

  FORTY ~ TWO

  Loukas sat his horse atop a hill; his remaining men slouched on their mounts just behind him. On the road below, Atinius, the woman, and the other two monks made their way toward Jerusalem. His eyes focused on the woman.

  I’m coming for you, beauty.

  “Why are we waiting?” Elicius asked. “They’re too far ahead. We should be going.”

  “In a moment,” Loukas answered without looking at the old man.

  The holy city draped like a cluttered blanket over a rounded mountaintop. In the distance the massive stone walls gleamed faintly blue with the falling of night. Broken in many places by former sieges, the wall was no longer a defensive structure. Rather, it had become an ancient artifact of toppled stones, interspersed with remnants of standing walls—more a monument to Roman superiority than to the engineering skills of the Ioudaiosoi.

  Just outside the Damascus Gate, Loukas could see the massive, partially completed monastery. Meridias should be there. Was he watching, even as Atinius and his companions rode past?

  “I thought they would have headed for Apollonia, or perhaps Caesarea. I’m stunned that they came here,” Elicius said with a shake of his gray head. “Pappas Meridias was right about spooking them.”

  The old man had a doglike face with a long snout and fierce brown eyes. After a week on the trail his once-shaven face had again sprouted gray hair. It covered his cheeks and chin, making him seem old beyond belief. Alexander, the second men, sat his horse a few paces away, silent.

  Loukas kept his eyes on the prey. Atinius had almost reached the northern gate that led into the city, the Damascus Gate. As part of his training, the Militia Templi had required that he study the holy city. After the death of Iesous Christos, it had been transformed from an earthly city into a celestial one: the heavenly Jerusalem. His gaze took in the legendary Temple Mount and the ruins of what had once been the most extraordinary sacred space on earth, then drifted to the still standing towers of the Citadel to the west, which had served as the royal palace of King Herod. He could see the vast excavation ordered by Emperor Constantine, and the dust pall that trailed off to the east, carried by the breeze.

  Jerusalem! Reverence filled him. He was a soldier of the Faith, sworn to protect it, and this place, this broken city, was its heart.
Whatever monstrous thing Atinius and his allies were after, he had to stop them from finding it. Or if they did, he was bound to destroy it before anyone knew it had existed.

  Loukas remained, squinting in the darkness as Atinius finally passed through the gate, followed by the other horse and riders.

  “Are you sure we can find them in there?” Elicius asked.

  “Quite sure.” Loukas kicked his horse into a trot, and continued his pursuit.

  As night deepened, the scent of tilled soil wafted on the breeze, along with the musky odor of animal dung. Tawdry little huts dotted the hillsides leading to the holy city, and he could make out corrals filled with one or two cows, maybe a few sheep or goats. As they passed, hidden horses, lodged in barns, whinnied and their own horses pranced and answered.

  Just before they began the final steep climb to the city, Elicius rode up beside him. “Should we find Pappas Meridias and report before we continue our pursuit?”

  Loukas gave him a withering look. “We stick as close to our prey as possible. Meridias can wait.”

  FORTY ~ THREE

  Barnabas guided his horse beneath the massive gray stone arch of the Damascus Gate. Despite his exhaustion and fear, he felt Jerusalem’s influence as powerfully now as he had when he’d first visited here thirty years ago. The air was cool and still between the tumbled walls, and a divine loneliness seemed to seep from the very earth itself, as though the city grieved a loss that human beings would never be able to comprehend. Even in the growing darkness, he could make out the ruins on the Temple Mount and the dust rising from the massive excavation they’d noticed as they’d ridden in. The slight breeze had stretched the haze over the city like a gauzy burial shroud, accentuating the smell of ancient destruction.

  Cyrus straightened. He raised an arm to point. “Is that the Square of the Column?”

  “Yes,” Barnabas replied.

  As they rode forward, lamps glittered to life behind the small windows. People passed, most dressed in white robes. The smells of evening fires, burning oil, old urine, and cooking food carried on the air.

  Barnabas reined his horse to a stop at the base of the Square of the Column. Tall and round, it stood in the middle of a central plaza where the streets branched. Upper Market Street ran off to his right and Lower Market Street to his left.

  For a time, Barnabas just stared at the column. He was vaguely aware that Cyrus had tilted his head back to stare up at the square cap on top of the column.

  Yes, this is the place. If a man studied it carefully, he could see the symbol of the tekton. He had only to turn it into a two-dimensional figure. Cut that square base in half and it appeared to be an inverted V tented over a circle: the round column.

  Kalay asked, “Which street are we taking?”

  “Lower Market Street. We’re heading for the Temple Mount. There are a number of pools and fountains there.”

  Barnabas’ horse lifted its nose, sniffed the air, and let out a low whinny, as though scenting other horses, or perhaps a barn with fresh hay. The poor animals were hungry after the past two days when they’d only been able to nibble grass along the road.

  As they plodded up the flagstoned street, the painfully sweet strains of reed pipes rose and fell, eddying on the wind. Someone was baking bread, and the smell of boiling spelt sent a quiver through Barnabas’ empty stomach.

  They passed four monks in brown robes walking back toward the gate. Their hoods were up, so Barnabas never saw their faces, but the monk who walked in front called, “May the Lord’s peace be with you.”

  “And with you, brothers,” Barnabas, Cyrus, and Zarathan answered in unison.

  They’d ridden by what appeared to be a monastery being constructed north of the Damascus Gate. Perhaps that’s the place these monks were headed.

  Flat-topped homes crowded together on both sides of the road, their shared gardens adorned by palm and fig trees that swayed in the night breeze.

  Several people were still out, walking up and down the street. Barnabas and his friends received quick glances, but little more.

  As they continued south, the majesty of the Temple Mount became apparent. The stone retaining walls that supported the Temple platform were still mostly intact and stood eight to ten times the height of a man.

  “I’ve always thought it must have been unbelievable before the revolt in the year 66,” Cyrus said in awe.

  “It was.” Kalay gazed up at the top of the Western Wall and the few stars visible beyond. “The Temple was covered with gold. You could see it shining, like a beacon, from a half day’s walk away.”

  “Yes, it was one of the great wonders of the world, and the house where God’s presence resided,” Barnabas added. In his mind he could see the massive arches and endless rows of columns, the vaulted ceilings, underground passageways, and ingenious aqueducts—all the things he’d seen or read about. “I suspect no other building in the world has heard as many prayers, or seen as many pilgrimages. Or, perhaps, witnessed as much suffering.”

  As they neared the Beautiful Gate, Barnabas said, “There’s a pool just inside where we can water our horses.”

  “Yes,” Kalay said. “I remember that from when I was here before.”

  “As do I.” Cyrus led his horse through the gate and stopped, his eyes warily on the empty street behind them, as if expecting to see furtive movement. Kalay slid off and winced.

  “You may dismount, brother,” Barnabas said, aware that Zarathan was staring unabashedly at Kalay as she arched her tired back and her dress pulled tight across her chest.

  Zarathan jumped down and stood awkwardly, his gaze darting from one shadow to the next, trying to look in any direction that wasn’t toward Kalay. “What are we doing here? Why couldn’t we have asked for food and lodging at the monastery outside the city? That’s what that was, wasn’t it? A monastery?”

  “I wasn’t sure, brother. I thought it better not to take chances.”

  Barnabas dismounted, took the reins, and led his horse to the rocked-in pool. Their horse was sucking up water as fast as it could, long swallows running up its neck like mice. Barnabas sat wearily on the edge of the pool while his horse drank, and heaved a heavy sigh. He could feel every muscle in his body. His bones might have been stone, so heavy did they feel.

  Have I ever been this fatigued?

  Narrow streets radiated off from this plaza, but to the east a broad stone staircase led up to the top of the Temple Mount. The last time he was here, the ruins were little more than massive piles of stones too big to be carted off. Over the centuries, everything that could be taken and sold had been. But not the largest stones. They remained as mute testaments to the extraordinary engineers who’d cut and laid them.

  “We’re going up to the ruins of the Temple?” Kalay asked between dipping handfuls of water and drinking them.

  “Yes.”

  She dried her fingers on her dirty tan dress. “Why?”

  Hesitantly, he answered, “I need to test one of Libni’s hypotheses, but please don’t ask me to explain it. It’s far-fetched.”

  Kalay exchanged a concerned glance with Cyrus, who said, “I’m willing to help you test whatever you wish, brother; but let us be quick about it. This place stinks of a trap.”

  Zarathan eagerly added, “For once, I agree. I think the only safe place is the monastery just outside the city. We should go back there and ask for lodging and food.”

  “You’re an imbecile. That monastery is about as safe as your monastery in Egypt was,” Kalay said.

  Zarathan glowered at her. “You have a poison tongue. Do you know that?”

  “At least mine is still in my head. I’m afraid yours is going to end up ripped out of your mouth by one of Meridias’ fanatical followers and left lying on a table.”

  The full moon edged above the Mount and sent a pale flood over the sky. The horses temporarily stopped drinking to look up, then lowered their heads again.

  “Why would someone torture me?” Zarathan
asked. “I don’t know anything.”

  “The problem is they don’t know you’re completely ignorant. They probably think you’ve read a papyrus or two. Even the papyrus. And once they find out you have read it they have ways to make sure you never tell anyone about it.” She stuck out her tongue and made a sawing motion with her finger.

  Zarathan winced and drew back.

  Barnabas rose and tugged his horse toward the hitching rail that abutted one of the dark walls near the Beautiful Gate. “Brother,” Barnabas said to Zarathan as he tied his horse to it. “Could you help me lift the book bags down?”

  “Why?” Zarathan demanded as though greatly aggrieved by the request. “You’re not planning on hauling those around with us all night, are you? Why don’t we leave them here? I’ll be happy to stay with the horses and guard them.”

  Cyrus said, “No. We stay together.” He tied his horse to the rail, and shouldered past Zarathan to get to Barnabas. Together, they lifted the precious bags off, and gently rested them on the ground.

  “But I want to stay with the horses!” Zarathan pleaded with such persistence that Barnabas wondered if he might be planning on taking one and riding back to the monastery in search of food.

  Cyrus ominously said, “It’s too dangerous, brother. This is Jerusalem. From now on, we should never be out of each other’s sight.”

  Zarathan’s face twisted into a pout. “But where are we going to sleep? I’m tired!”

  As Barnabas separated the two bags, untying them to make them easier to carry, he said, “We’ll decide after we’ve finished our task on the Temple Mount.”

  Kalay started off in that direction, and Cyrus said, “Brothers, go ahead of me. I’ll bring up the rear.”

  “Thank you, Cyrus.”

  Barnabas and Zarathan each picked up a book bag and marched after Kalay. As they climbed the stairs, Zarathan started making small, tormented sounds, as though the weight of the bag was far too much for him to carry—or at least for him to carry on an empty stomach. Barnabas decided not to ask; he knew the answer.