The Betrayal
Page 35
Kalay said, “Where’s Meridias? Did you kill him?”
Zarathan wildly shook his head. “No, he—he fled. I killed another man who was standing guard outside. Meridias darted past me and blindly ran for the city.”
Cyrus coughed up gouts of blood, steadied himself by bracing one hand on the floor, and whispered, “Thank you … brother.”
“Cyrus, don’t try to speak!” Kalay ordered, but Cyrus wrapped one arm around her and crushed her against him, holding her close, his bloody lips pressed against her red hair. “I love you. I … I needed to tell … you.”
Through the gray haze that was filling the chamber he saw Barnabas and Macarios on their knees, praying … Zarathan weeping.
His heart started fluttering as fast as a bird’s, pattering against his ribs, and he couldn’t seem onto get air into his lungs. He slumped to the floor and rolled onto his back.
His last glimpse was of Kalay. Damp curls of red hair streamed around her beautiful face as she leaned over him. Her cheeks were flushed, and she had a soft, luminous love in her eyes. He kept his gaze on her, fixing on the love … if he could just see her … her love would keep him safe … warm … he wouldn’t …
FIFTY ~ EIGHT
The sound of the waves brushing the shore filled the cave.
Barnabas toyed with his chipped wine cup, aimlessly moving it around the table. In the candlelight, the crimson liquid appeared to be alive with golden sparks. His gaze drifted over the codices, scrolls, and papyri in the wall niches, then came back to Libni’s face. Graying brown hair straggled around his dark, tear-filled eyes.
Libni whispered, “Was it the essen?”
Barnabas heaved a sigh and nodded. “Yes, I think so.”
Libni closed his eyes. Tears ran down his cheeks and dripped onto the table where they shone like perfect diamonds. “Are you sure it was him?”
Barnabas sighed. “Many things are possible. I only know that it felt like him.”
Libni nodded and opened his eyes. As he wiped his face on his sleeve, he said, “It’s far more likely that it was a former high priest of the Council, or—”
“Yes, it is.”
But as they gazed at each other, Barnabas knew that neither one of them believed that.
Libni leaned forward, his eyes aglow. “Barnabas, do you think that he—”
Voices rose from the tunnel.
Barnabas looked up when Kalay ducked into the chamber. She’d left her long red hair loose; it fell about her shoulders in lustrous waves, highlighting her high cheekbones and full lips. He would always remember her as a blue glowing angel standing beside the long-dead body.
“What is it, Kalay?”
“I just wanted you to know that Zarathan’s finally sleeping. Tiras is with him.”
Barnabas exhaled a relieved breath. “Thank you.”
After they’d fled Jerusalem, Zarathan had taken over Cyrus’ role, riding out front, scouting the roads, making certain every place they stopped was safe before they dismounted. He hadn’t slept in two days. It was a strange, eerie transformation that Barnabas did not yet understand.
And Kalay … she had barely spoken since Cyrus’ death. She, too, had changed. As if the sacred feminine had somehow filled her with its power. She was stronger, more a fortress than any man he had ever known.
“Kalay,” Barnabas said, “come and sit down with us. Have a cup of wine.”
She ran a hand through her hair, glanced back down the tunnel, then came over and sat at the table.
Libni poured and handed her a cup of wine. “Are you hungry, my dear? I can have Tiras bring food.”
She shook her head. “I’m not hungry.”
Libni studied her for a long moment with kind eyes, then returned his gaze to Barnabas. “I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t heard the story from your own lips. I still can’t imagine how you had the courage.”
Barnabas swirled the wine in his cup, watching the candlelit reflections. “I didn’t have any courage. It was Cyrus, Zarathan, and Kalay who were heroic. I just followed the path God set before me.”
“Did you hear his voice, as Kalay and Cyrus did?”
He gazed into Libni’s wet eyes. “No. If you’d been there, I’m sure you would have heard it. But I did not.”
Kalay took a long drink of wine and said, “If it was his voice.”
Libni smiled his love at her, indulging her disbelief. “What will you do now? Where will you go?”
Barnabas inhaled a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Back to Egypt. There are many rare books there that I buried twenty years ago. It’s time I made copies of them and buried them in a variety of places to make sure they survive.”
After a time, Libni asked, “And what of Meridias?”
“I assume he lived and returned to Rome, though I have no way of knowing for certain.”
“Then Pappas Silvester may know about the Pearl. I assume you took precautions?”
Barnabas wiped his damp palm on his dirty robe. It seemed as though it had been an eternity since he’d bathed or changed clothes. “Meridias never looked into the lower chamber. I don’t think he had the slightest idea what was causing the unearthly glow.”
Libni stared at Barnabas. “But you know, as well as I, that he’ll be back. He’ll see it, realize what it is, and destroy—”
“No, he won’t,” Kalay said. “Nor will he find the books we were carrying with us.”
Libni’s bushy gray brows drew together. “Then you did take precautions? You know what the existence of his body means to Constantine’s church?”
“I do. They murdered the monks of my monastery to keep the Truth hidden.” Barnabas finished his wine and set his empty cup on the table with a thud. The chips around the rim were sharp and ugly. “Libni … at the Last Supper he told his disciples he would go before them into the Galilaian.”122
Libni frowned. “Yes, in Markos. I remember.”
For a long while, they just gazed into each other’s eyes, and a silent communication passed between them, as powerful as it had been in the old days at the library in Caesarea.
Barnabas tapped the side of his cup with a hard fingernail. “Unlike the Church, I respected his wishes.”
Libni smiled. Then he chuckled. “Don’t tell me,” he said as he wiped his tears on his sleeve. “I don’t want to know where it is.”
Kalay drew her feet up into her chair and propped her wine cup atop her knees. In a soft voice, she asked, “Did you tell Libni about the scroll?”
Libni’s head jerked around. “What scroll?”
Barnabas gave Kalay a sour look, and hesitated. “Are you sure you want to become involved?”
Ignoring Barnabas’ stern expression, Kalay said, “I found it in the hand of the skeleton, as though he’d been clutching it when he died.”
“More likely,” Barnabas corrected, “it had been tucked into his dead hand after his body had been prepared.”
Libni blinked and straightened in his chair. In a breathless voice, he said, “You found a scroll in his hand?”
EPILOGUE
As Pappas Silvester strode down the brazier-lit palace hall, he nervously tugged at his collar; his neck felt swollen, his collar too tight. His fingers came back slick with sweat. He passed several soldiers on guard. Not one looked at him. He might have been a distant insect to them, barely visible.
The deeper he went into the palace, the more the endless columns below the high-arched vaults resembled cold stalagmites. He swore he felt the touch of evil. He had always felt it here, in Constantine’s palace. The air grew cold and sinisterly damp. Behind every shadow there lurked a presence, like a living thing, whispering to itself in the darkness.
Or it could have simply been his own fear. At the moment it was slithering around his belly, making him ill.
He rounded a corner, and stopped. At the end of the hall, in front of Constantine’s chamber, stood four centurions. That was … odd. There were always sentries, but he almos
t never saw men of this rank, or at least, not this many, gathered just outside the emperor’s door.
As he walked toward them, the centurions turned.
“A pleasant evening to you, Centurion Felix.” Silvester dipped his head. “And Pionius, how are you?” The other two officers, he did not know.
Pionius, a tall, dark-haired man with burly shoulders, answered, “I am well, Pappas. He’s waiting for you. Been waiting for you. For some time.”
In a faintly shrill voice, he cried, “I was only just informed he’d requested me! I hope he’s not annoyed.”
Pionius extended a hand to the door. “See for yourself.”
Pionius and the other officers walked away down the hall, talking in low voices.
Silvester squared his shoulders and, in a small voice, called, “Your Excellency? It’s Silvester.”
“Enter.”
The word carried no hint of anger, which relieved Silvester. He pushed open the heavy door and walked into the chamber.
The emperor sat behind his table, heaped with maps, reading some missive. His brow was furrowed distastefully. He wore a dark blue cape—threaded through with silver and gold—over a scarlet robe. His sword belt lay across the back of a nearby chair. Easily within reach.
Silvester patiently waited to be recognized. The fire in the hearth cast a flickering amber gleam over the ornately carved furniture and the vaulted ceiling.
Without looking up, Constantine inquired, “Did they find it?”
“Well … er, no. Not exactly.”
Constantine’s gaze slowly lifted. His eyes were like oiled metal, shiny and hard, capable of ringing eternal darkness. “Answer me.”
Silvester flapped his arms against his sides. “Pappas Meridias informed me that they did find a tomb with an ossuary marked Yeshua bar Yosef, but—”
“And, as I instructed, it was destroyed.”
Silvester ran his fingers around his collar again. It was strangling him. “No.” He rushed to add, “Because we could not be certain it was the ossuary. Pappas Macarios claimed to have two more such ossuaries in his office! Apparently the name was extremely common during the time our Lord lived. So, you see, the tomb is no threat to us. We can’t prove it is his burial, but no one else can prove it either.”
Constantine toyed with the missive on his desk, then tossed it aside and stood up. He reached for his sword belt and strapped it on. As he came around the table, Silvester’s soul shriveled to nothingness. He had always known that death awaited him here, in this chamber.
Constantine stopped before him, propped his hands on his hips, and said, “I still want the tomb covered over with earth. Bury it deep.”
“Yes, Excellency. I’ll send word to Pappas Macarios immediately.”
Constantine swayed slightly on his feet, as though he’d drunk too much wine while conferring with his centurions.
But when he looked down, there was no hint of drunkenness. The eyes that burned into Silvester were the eyes of an emperor who was at heart also a beast. They were not quite human.
“Silvester, I have spoken with my strategoi, my generals, and they agree with me that Christianity, as we have created it, may be the most powerful imperial tool in the history of the empire.”
Silvester blinked his confusion. “Excellency?”
“The religion is spreading like a raging forest fire.”
“Oh, well, yes, Excellency!” Silvester replied, suddenly excited. “Of course, it is! The Truth is like a rare pearl—”
“If we are careful to control and direct the Faith, it will be very useful.” He swayed on his feet again, perhaps from exhaustion. “That shouldn’t be too difficult now, should it? Without a body, the resurrection is safe.”123
“Well … we still have enemies. Pappas Eusebios is an advocate of tolerance. He will never willingly submit to our hard-line dogmas. And Pappas Macarios in Jerusalem almost certainly helped the Heretic and his band of thieves. He—”
“There will always be those who oppose us. But when we are finished, only our version of the Truth will remain. And, Silvester, I guarantee you, in the end, there will be only one pappas of the Church, and he will be in Rome.”
The veiled promise that Silvester would one day lead all of Christendom sent a heady rush through him. “But why Rome, Excellency? The other bishops will not be happy.”
Constantine turned his back on Silvester and returned to his chair. As he sat down, he extended his hand, palm up, then suddenly closed it to a crushing grip, and hissed, “The Church will be mine.”
GLOSSARY
With one exception, Jerusalem, we use the correct historical names for biblical places and characters like Jesus, Mary, Joseph, and John—which means we use the names they would actually have been called by at the time. Many of the names are obvious. For example, Markos and Loukas were clearly the figures we know as “Mark” and “Luke.” Bet Lehem and Bet Ani are “Bethlehem” and “Bethany.” Other proper names, however, are not so obvious. Hopefully, this glossary will alleviate some of the confusion associated with the more unfamiliar names.
Please keep in mind that though scholars suspect some of the original gospels may have been written in Hebrew or Aramaic, the extant New Testament documents were written in the Greek language, which means the original Hebrew or Aramaic names of people like Yeshua (Jesus) and Yakob (James) were translated into Greek as Iesous and Iakobos.
Lastly, in Greek there is no sh sound, and in Hebrew and Aramaic there is no j sound. As well, Hebrew and Aramaic are written almost entirely without vowels. These unique features of the languages have led to many spelling variations over time, as can be seen in the following.
Galilee
In Hebrew it was referred to as the Galil. In the original Greek New Testament it was called the Galilaian.
James
In Hebrew and Aramaic his name was Ya’akov, or Yakob (Jacob). In Greek it was Iakobos, and in Latin, Iacomus, which when translated into the Germanic spelling became Jacomus, then in Spanish Jaime. Finally, because the King James version translated it as James in 1611, it has remained James ever since in English translations.
Jerusalem
Hebrew: Yerushalaim. Greek: Ierosoluma. We mention the Greek here only for the sake of historicity. From this point on, in the chapters set in the fourth century, you will read “Jerusalem.” We have made this concession because we think the English name helps to better anchor English readers to the place and time.
Jesus
His name was Yeshua in Hebrew, or in more formal situations—for example, in the Jerusalem Temple—Yehoshua. However, because the first-century dialect of Galilee dropped the final letter (ayin), Yeshua’s Galilean friends, or those who were very close to him, probably called him by the name Yeshu. As well, early rabbinic sources largely use Yeshu for “Jesus of Nazareth,” and the Talmud only uses Yeshu for “Jesus of Nazareth.”
In Greek his name was Iesous, or Iesous Christos, which we translate into English as “Jesus” or “Jesus Christ.”
Jews
Hebrew: Yehudim. Greek: Ioudaiosoi.
John
The Hebrew is Yohanan. Greek: Ioannes.
Joseph
Hebrew: Yosep, Yosef, or in more formal situations, Yehosef. In the Greek manuscripts there is a great deal of variance: Ioses, Iose, Iosetos, Ioseph. Many scholars believe that the form Ioses follows the Galilean pronunciation of the Hebrew Yosep.
Mary
Miriam in Hebrew. In Aramaic it became Maryam, and in Coptic it was Mariham. The New Testament Greek gospels call her Maria or Mariam.
Matthew
In Hebrew it is Matthias, Mattiyahu, or Matya. The Greek is Maththaios.
BY W. MICHAEL GEAR AND KATHLEEN O’NEAL GEAR FROM TOM DOHERTY ASSOCIATES
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NOTES
1 The gospels contained in our modern New Testament were written decades after the events they describe. The Gospel of Mark, probably written in Rome, is the earliest gospel, dating to around 68–70 C.E. Matthew and Luke clearly relied upon Mark’s gospel, incorporating it into their own gospels without substantial changes. Matthew was likely composed in Antioch, the capital of Syria, and dates to around the year 80. The writings of Luke, who authored not only the Gospel of Luke and the Acts of the Apostles, but probably the Pastoral Letters attributed to Paul, date to 80–85. The Gospel of John was the latest to be written, dated to around 100–110 C.E., though some scholars argue for an earlier date, 90–95.