The Betrayal

by W. Michael Gear

Kalay’s mouth quirked when she saw him. She walked over and said, “You look like you ate a horse apple.”

  “As you well know, I haven’t eaten anything for two days, let alone a horse apple.”

  “Why don’t you try to be helpful and find a rock to tie the horses to? It will make you forget your hunger, and,” she stressed the word, “would be good for your soul.”

  Tartly, he replied, “How would you know? You’re an unchaste, pagan demon-worshipper.”

  Kalay propped her hands on her hips. “I’ve been demoted to just a demon-worshipper? I liked it better when I was a full demon.” She gave him an evil look, hitched up her dress, and tramped away after Cyrus and Barnabas.

  Zarathan took a quick look around, and rapidly followed her. The last thing he wanted was to be left alone out here.

  Just after they’d exited the Dung Gate, Barnabas had wanted to turn right, to follow the short leg of the map that branched off to the west of the long straight leg, but they’d seen two men standing in that direction, and decided it would be best to follow out the long leg instead.

  “This will do,” Barnabas said.

  Cyrus tied the horses’ lead ropes to an eroded pinnacle of rock that stood as tall as Barnabas, then he turned and said, “What now?”

  “We have to find a way down into the gorge.”

  Barnabas started untying the book bags from the horse, and Cyrus said, “Brother, I suspect that any trails out here are going to be narrow and covered with slippery sand and gravel. Perhaps it is wiser to leave the books tied to the horse.”

  Barnabas leaned heavily against the bag. “I am tired. Perhaps … just this once …”

  Barnabas hesitantly turned away from the books, and picked his way along the edge of the precipice. After several moments, he said, “There. Is that a trail cut into the side of the gorge?”

  Kalay said, “Looks like several trails to me. They seem to crisscross the cliff face. Let’s find out if they’re passable.”

  She strode ahead, followed the trail over the rim, and disappeared into the gorge. In less than ten heartbeats the sound of cascading rocks erupted.

  “Kalay!” Cyrus called, and hurried over the edge.

  Barnabas and Zarathan rushed after Cyrus. When they’d scrambled down the first treacherous gravel-slick incline, the trail leveled out and they saw Kalay and Cyrus ten paces ahead. Kalay was pointing to something on the wall of the gorge.

  Barnabas turned to the stone wall beside him. “Oh,” he said softly. “Look, Zarathan.”

  Zarathan walked forward and his mouth dropped open. The entire cliff face was one tomb after another. Some were so old their entries were barely visible. It was as though over time the blocking stones had melded with the limestone cliff, becoming one. Other tombs appeared to be brand-new.

  “That’s why this trail is here,” Barnabas said. “The bottom of the gorge must have been used up first, and people had to start carving their family tombs higher and higher on the cliff.”

  “How old are these?” Zarathan asked in awe.

  “Such tombs only date to the first century, or perhaps a few decades earlier.”

  “You mean, to around the time of our Lord?”

  “Yes.” Barnabas smoothed his hand over an elaborate carving that adorned the facade of a small tomb. “This is the Ben Hinnom family tomb.”

  “Hinnom? Like the valley?”

  “I suspect it’s the very same, or at least a relative.”

  Zarathan edged forward to look at the inscription. The moonlight was strong enough that he could see the letters perfectly.

  Kalay and Cyrus had started walking down the trail again, and Barnabas said, “Let’s not fall behind, brother.”

  The footing was so uneven that Zarathan often had to grab for one of Barnabas’ flailing arms after he’d tripped.

  “Forgive me, brother,” Barnabas said on the fourth stumble. “My eyes are particularly bad at night.”

  “Just don’t fall. It’s a long way down.”

  Barnabas peered over the edge, nodded, and braced a hand against the cliff to steady himself as he slowly continued down the trail.

  It took another half hour to reach the bottom of the gorge. In that time, they must have passed hundreds of tombs. The smallest were barely the length of Zarathan’s forearm and he suspected they had been carved for children.

  They walked up beside Cyrus and Kalay, and Barnabas said, “Surely there’s no one after us at this time of night. Why don’t we split up and see what we find down here.”

  “No,” Cyrus ordered sharply. He had his fingers around the hilt of his sword, as though ready at any instant to draw it. “We stay together. Pick a direction and we’ll all follow you.”

  Barnabas flapped his arms helplessly. “Very well, south.”

  “Zarathan?” Cyrus said. “I’ll lead. You bring up the rear.”

  “Oh, for the sake of the Goddess Mother, let me do it!” Kalay said. “I’m much better with a knife than the bo—than Zarathan.”

  It intrigued Zarathan that she’d stopped short of calling him a boy. I should have saved her life sooner.

  Cyrus paused, considering, then pulled a fine silver-handled knife from his belt and held it out to Zarathan, saying, “He’ll be all right. Take this, brother.”

  Zarathan backpedaled. “Didn’t that belong to one of the dead sicarii?”

  Cyrus stretched his hand out farther. “It doesn’t matter who it belonged to, you may need it.”

  Zarathan plucked it from Cyrus’ palm with two fingers and gingerly tucked it into his belt. It looked very strange resting right beside his prayer rope.

  Cyrus gave him a soldierly nod and turned around to head south. Barnabas followed behind him. As Kalay passed Zarathan, she gave him an incredulous look, grabbed a handful of her skirt, and held it up as she followed Barnabas down the winding path that led deeper into the gorge.

  Seven hours later, when the full moon had traveled all the way across the sky and perched just above the western horizon, Kalay finally grew tired of listening to Zarathan’s excessive yawning. He’d been alternately yawning, stumbling, and grumbling since midnight.

  She swung around, glared at him, and jerked the knife from his belt. “Walk in front of me,” she commanded. “I’m bringing up the rear now.”

  “That’s my knife. Give it back!”

  “You’re barely awake. You couldn’t guard your own backside. Now, go on, walk in front of me.”

  Cyrus turned at the commotion, saw Kalay with the knife, and looked genuinely relieved. He called, “Brother, could you take Barnabas’ arm? I think he’s as tired as you are. I don’t want him to fall and hurt himself.”

  Zarathan tramped forward, roughly gripped Barnabas’ arm, and said, “Come along. We’ll hold each other up.”

  “Thank you, brother. I admit I can barely seem to put one foot in front of the other. I—”

  Barnabas stopped suddenly, looked up, then lunged for the cliff so fast he almost jerked Zarathan off his feet.

  “Dear Lord,” Zarathan gasped. “Why did you do that?”

  Barnabas was panting, his gaze roving the tomb facade. “Cyrus! Please come … come and tell me what you see? My eyes … I’m n-not certain I—”

  “I’m right here,” Cyrus said as he strode to Barnabas’ side and intently stared at the facade.

  Barnabas turned to search Cyrus’ face. “Is it? Is—is it what I think it is?”

  Cyrus used his finger to trace out the symbol for all to see. “It’s an inverted V tented over a circle.”

  Barnabas’ knees started shaking. He staggered forward and propped his hands against the cliff to keep standing. Zarathan and Kalay both rushed up to make certain he was all right.

  “Brother?” Zarathan examined his face. “Can I help you?”

  “You’re exhausted. Why don’t you sit for a time,” Kalay suggested, taking his arm to help steady him.

  Barnabas did not even look at them. His eyes were riv
eted to the tomb. “It’s the symbol of the tekton. The symbol that’s on the map, marking the place where the Square of the Column stands.”

  A gust of wind swept the gorge and tousled Cyrus’ curly black hair around his face. “Does it mean something?”

  Barnabas straightened, pulled away from Zarathan and Kalay, and edged closer to the symbol. “It may mean … everything.”

  He gently caressed the lines of the symbol, as though trying to memorize every detail.

  Cyrus watched him for a time, before asking, “What do you want me to do?”

  “Open it. Hurry, before it gets light and someone can stop us.”

  Cyrus waved to Zarathan. “Brother, we’ll both need to put our shoulders against the blocking stone and push.”

  Barnabas dropped to his knees to the left of the blocking stone and clasped his hands in prayer, murmuring while Zarathan and Cyrus pushed.

  Kalay stood back.

  It didn’t take long. The blocking stone grated and scraped, and a musty rush of air escaped from the tomb. It sounded like the last breath of a dying man, and smelled similar.

  Cyrus said, “It’s open, brother. The moonlight is filling it up.”

  Barnabas struggled to his feet and hobbled forward to look inside. “We’re lucky we didn’t find it earlier. The moon would have been in a different position, and we’d never have seen the symbol of the tekton, let alone have light streaming into the tomb.” Without another word, he ducked through the entry and disappeared inside.

  Cyrus’ gaze sought out Kalay. “I’ll stand guard by the entrance. You go with my brothers. If there are inscriptions, they may need you to help translate the Hebrew.”

  Zarathan backed away. “Brother, I’d rather stay out here with you. I don’t—”

  “Zarathan,” Cyrus said in a stern voice. “Barnabas is frail and tired. He doesn’t see well in the dark. If he stumbles and falls, I doubt Kalay has the strength to get him on his feet again. He needs you in there.”

  Zarathan gulped a swallow, seemed to be mustering his courage, then resolutely walked forward and ducked into the tomb.

  A loud gasp sounded, followed by Zarathan’s frightened voice: “There are skulls on the floor in here!”

  “Well, don’t break them!” Kalay called back.

  She remained outside for a time, staring at Cyrus. His hair was blowing around his face. Even in the moonlight, his emerald eyes glittered when he looked at her. Softly, she said, “We are probably not alone out here. You know that, don’t you? They almost certainly followed us.”

  A slow, radiant smile turned his lips—the smile of a man who’s already given himself up for dead. “Yes. I know.”

  Annoyed, she snapped, “Get that martyr’s smile off your face. You’re not going to die unless you start taking reckless chances.”

  His smile widened. “This entire trip is one big reckless chance.”

  “Yes, well, there is that, but I order you to call out immediately if you hear or see anything suspicious.”

  He nodded obediently. “I will. Kalay, can you …” He hesitated. “If you find anything important, will you come out and tell me?”

  He obviously longed to be one of the chosen to enter the tomb, to see what it contained for himself. But he trusted no one else to protect them from the evils that might lurk in the night.

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “If we find something inscribed with the words THE PEARL, I’ll bring it right out to you.”

  He gave her a mildly irritated look. “Thank you.”

  She grinned and ducked into the tomb.

  FORTY ~ EIGHT

  Loukas, on his belly, slid back from the precipice, and whispered to Elicius, “Pappas Meridias is probably staying in the new monastery being built north of the city. Find him. Tell him we believe they have found it, and he should bring at least ten men to surround the tomb. Twenty would be better.”

  “Yes,” Elicius said, and tossed windblown gray hair out of his eyes. “Just the sight of twenty armed men will take the fight out of Atinius.”

  When Elicius kept lying there, smiling, Loukas said, “Now. Go now. And pick up those two men we saw guarding that open tomb. We’ll need every man.”

  Elicius’ mouth pursed, but he got to his feet and silently trotted away into the darkness.

  Alexander glared at Loukas, as though he didn’t much like the way he treated his friend Elicius.

  Loukas slid forward to the edge of the precipice again, and watched Atinius standing guard in front of the tomb. The gorge was deep and narrow, the rocky footing treacherous. The fool. With one well-placed arrow, an archer could kill him, then block the tomb and trap his friends inside. Even if they escaped, no one could run far or fast in these eroded limestone outcrops. They could be easily hunted down and killed. What was Atinius thinking?

  But he’s surprised me before.

  Loukas turned to Alexander. “Stay here. Signal the soldiers when they come. I’m going to take my horse, go around, and block the mouth of the gorge below, so they can’t possibly escape.”

  FORTY ~ NINE

  NISAN THE 18TH, THE YEAR 3771

  I see her the instant we ride to the edge of the gorge. In the moonlight, the pale limestone cliffs have a liquid silver shine. She sits far below, in front of the tekton’ s tomb. Her himation is pulled over her head, and she is rocking back and forth. The breeze carries the faint sound of her mourning cries.

  “Leave the horses to graze,” I tell Titus. “Come with me.”

  We dismount and carefully make our way down the narrow trail that leads to the bottom of the gorge. Along the way, I touch the tombs of people I have known and loved. People I miss.

  We reach the trail in the gorge bottom where the footing is better, though still precarious, and I quicken my pace. Ahead, the symbol of the tekton, carved only a few days ago by Yeshua, reflects the moonlight, glowing as though lit from behind.

  She looks up when we stop before her. Long black hair fringes the edges of her himation, and frames her swollen, ravaged face. In her eyes, I do not see surprise, but utter despair.

  I crouch beside her. “Maryam,” I softly say. “You did well. I spoke to Lazaros. He told me—”

  “You don’t know the whole truth, Yosef,” she says in a grief-stricken voice. “Forgive me, I—I deceived you.”

  I reach out to touch her hand. “I know part of it. We were ambushed by Roman soldiers at dusk tonight, just outside of Emmaus. They cut the burial shroud open. We saw the man we carried.”

  Her wet eyes widen, and tears trace lines down her cheeks. “You saw him?”

  “Dysmas, yes.”

  “Did you”—she wipes her cheeks with the corner of her himation—“did you take care of him?”

  It was so like her to worry as much about the soul of a crucified murderer as she would the soul of a saint.

  I gently say, “If you love them that love you, what reward have you?”

  Her mouth quivers.

  I smile. “We did the best we could for him. We buried him in a beautiful pomegranate orchard. I prayed for his soul. The rest is in God’s hands.”

  In a tender, almost lover-like gesture, she reaches out and clasps my hand. “He would be grateful, Yosef, as I am.”

  I know she means Yeshua, not Dysmas, and her words bring tears to my eyes.

  “Yosef, please try to understand. You helped us so much, helped … him … so much. I couldn’t take the chance that if they caught you, you would bear the brunt of the praefectus’ wrath. So, I …” She lowers her gaze, as though ashamed of her deception.

  “You alone took the risk.” I expel a breath, and close my eyes for several long moments, letting her bravery sink into my heart before I say, “Maryam, truly, you are the greatest of his disciples. You made his teachings a part of you. He would be very proud.”

  A sob lodges in her throat. She closes her eyes, trying not to make a sound.

  I give her some time. Then I ask, “What will you do now? Yo
u mustn’t stay in Jerusalem. It’s too dangerous.”

  She swallows hard. “I’m going to the Galil. A friend told me that’s where Kepha has gone. I must face him. Yosef, I’m sure he’s the one who—”

  “As I am.” Anger stirs the ashes of my grief. “Do you want me to go with you?”

  She shakes her head. “No, I must do it alone. And you must leave, Yosef. Tonight. The Council is looking for you, and the praefectus—”

  “Yes, Lazaros told me. If I stay, I fully expect to be arrested.”117

  A cloud passes across the face of the moon, and the gorge is shrouded in utter darkness.

  “Master,” Titus says. His curly brown hair looks gray tonight, making him seem older. “I know you could not tell me the whole truth when this began, but now—”

  “Yes.” I exhale the word. “Now it’s time you understood. You deserve the truth more than anyone.”

  He waits, watching me. Occasionally, he glances at Maryam.

  “Gamliel … he said it would take something monumental to stop the revolt, something so stunning that the shocked crowds would forget their anger and lay down their arms to embrace each other.”

  Titus appears to be thinking about that, his mind working through the maze of information. A cool breeze blows up the Kidron valley and flattens his robe against his chest. “You mean it had to be the fulfillment of prophecy?”

  I glance at Maryam. When she says nothing, I add, “We knew that many people would think he’d escaped, and many more that his body had been stolen, but the faithful, those looking for the coming of the messiah …”

  In an awed whisper, Titus says, “They would believe.”

  Maryam breathes, “With all their hearts.”

  I wait for him to ask more. When he does not, I rise to my feet and look at the tomb.

  Maryam begins rocking again, back and forth.

  “Is he in there?” I ask. “Is that where you put him?”

  Why else would she be here?

  She closes her eyes, and her shoulders heave. When she gains control, she says, “It is his family tomb. He carved the facade just days before … .” Her hoarse voice trails away.