Authors: Kathleen O'Neal Gear
The Betrayal (11 page)
“Lord Iesous Christos, son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.” Cyrus tied a knot into his woolen prayer rope, and scanned the water. Dark reeds and rushes whiskered the bank where he crouched. A dozen men could be hiding in there, waiting their chances.
“Lord Iesous Christos, son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.”
The night air was cool and sweet with the scent of the Nile, underlain by the faint metallic tang of the blood that clung to his robe.
“Lord Iesous Christos, son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.”
He shifted the rope from his right hand, which had begun to ache from the tight holding of it, to his left. The river flowed lazily by, and was so still that the stars reflected from the surface with almost perfect clarity.
“You're out there,” he whispered to their unseen pursuers. “I know you are.”
The dedication of the killers who'd attacked the monastery spoke of a professionalism he understood. They had carefully planned and executed the assault, then cleaned up afterward. They had been soldiers, not hired murderers. And if they were being pursued by Roman soldiers, Emperor Constantine was behind it. Despite what he'd told Barnabas, Cyrus feared he
did
know why their friends had been killed. And it was more than the papyrus.
did
know why their friends had been killed. And it was more than the papyrus.
“Lord Iesous Christos, son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.”
As he knotted the rope, a strange series of images flashed before his eyes, the dead, stricken faces of men he'd lovedâinnocent men whose only crime had been heir devotion to seeking Godâinterspersed with brief, garishly intense images of the death of his wife.
As though it had seeped from a locked door buried deep inside him, he heard her cry,
“Cyrus!”
“Cyrus!”
It was so vivid that, for a moment, he actually thought he'd heard it. His muscles bunched in preparation for leaping to his feet, for doing battle.
“No,” he soothed himself. “She's been gone for twelve years. She's gone.”
He glanced to where Barnabas and Zarathan slept on the sand, then to Kalay, and tried not to let his eyes rest too long on her starlit face. They were all in mortal danger. He could not afford the luxury of dreams.
“Lord Iesous Christos, son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.”
He tied a knot, expelled a breath, and hung his head.
Even after they'd slit his wife's throat and hurled her to the floor, she'd twisted around to look at him, as though she knew if she could just see him, she would be safe, she wouldn't die.
A sensation, like insects crawling over his skin, tormented him. “My fault ⦠all my fault.”
Guilt was eating him alive. Terrible, wrenching guilt.
The man he'd killed at the monastery formed in his mind and looked at him with dark, glistening eyes ⦠.
I was already dead. Why did you have to take the knife from Kalay and plunge it into my heart?
I was already dead. Why did you have to take the knife from Kalay and plunge it into my heart?
Cyrus clutched his prayer rope as though it were a raft in a hurricane-swept ocean.
Because a good soldier never takes chances. You would have done the same.
“Lord Iesous Christos, son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.”
Try as he might, he could not suppress the memories of his wife's dead eyes ⦠.
The morning breeze still wore the thin chill of night.
Kalay rubbed her arms, and gazed across the wide, muddy Nile River to the distant eastern horizon. The sun had not yet risen, but a halo of sun fire gleamed on the hills, and cast long shadows across the sand. In the distance, clusters of palm trees swayed. Each marked an oasis. Here and there, she could see the dim walls of villages.
She finished washing her face and sat back on the sand. They'd pulled the boat ashore just a quarter hour ago. All of them were exhausted, but especially Brother Cyrus. Since the slaughter at the monastery last night, he hadn't closed his eyes for a heartbeat.
As she tied her wavy red hair back with the leather cord, she looked at the three brothers ten paces to her left. The young blond one with the perpetually stunned expression was asleep. He lay curled up on the bank next to Brother Barnabas, who had his nose pressed against that scrap of papyrus they'd retrieved from the pot last night. Only Brother Cyrus was doing anything truly practical. He'd found a dessicated goat carcass on the shore and pulled out several of the bones. He was rubbing each on a stone, grinding it to a sharp point to fashion it into a stiletto.
Now there's a man worth a woman's respect.
When he noticed her attention, Cyrus tucked the four stilettos into his belt, rose, and walked down the shore toward her.
She let her gaze roam across his broad shoulders to his trim waist and finally down the length of his long legs. If she'd had any longing for a handsome man, he would have stirred the dead embers of her passions.
He knelt in front of her, and looked straight into her eyes. A deed few men had the courage to do. “Kalay, I have a question for you.”
“First, ask me if I'm well. If I'm hungry. Or maybe what I think of the sunlight on the river.”
Cyrus frowned in confusion, then a smile slowly came to his lips. Perhaps he realized that monks never treated women as human beings, but merely as objects to be dealt with as little as possible. That had been the most difficult part of working at the monastery. The loneliness. Except for the mute Sophia, she'd had no real human contact. Just orders from monks who refused to look her in the eyes. Men were such frail creatures, so susceptible to the attentions of beautiful womenâthough, if Cyrus was, he was doing a valiant job of not showing it.
“I'm sorry,” Cyrus said. “Are you well, Kalay?”
“Yes, for the most part, thank you. I appreciate you letting me sleep some in the boat last night. I think everyone got to rest a bit, except you.”
His dark brows drew together and he looked out at the river.
She asked, “Are you calculating how far they are behind us?”
“Actually, I'm worried they may not be on the river.”
She stared at him a moment. “Ah. I understand. If they travel overland, they can avoid the water's twists and turns. So you're afraid there will be an ambush waiting for us somewhere ahead.” She arched an eyebrow. “Alexandria? Or Leontopolis?”
“I'm betting they'll race us to Alexandria. It's the smartest bet. The city is huge, with lots of places to hide. They'll assume that Barnabas has connections there, men who will aid him.”
“And that's the best place to hire passage on a ship,” she added.
“All the more reason why we shouldn't go there.” His black curly hair blew around his handsome face. “But that means purchasing passage, either by camel or wagon, to continue our journey.” He let the implication sink in.
She laughed softly. “Cyrus, I didn't have time to gather my meager shekels, if that's what you're asking. I can't pay for my own passage, let alone yours.”
“Would you consider selling your boat?”
She tilted her head. “Well, there's a thought. It's not going to be of much use to me if I'm on camelback. Besides, I stole it, so it never cost me a coin. Of course I'll sell it”âshe tucked a lock of windblown hair behind her earâ“if you'll tell me where we're going.”
Cyrus turned to look over his shoulder at Brother Barnabas. When he turned back, he said, “My brother tells me that we must head north, but that's all I know.”
“âNorth' is not much of a destination.”
“I know. I'm sorry.”
“Do you trust him that much? That you'll just go where he says to?”
“I trust him with my life.”
Kalay shifted to peer at Barnabas. The gray-haired old man had not moved since it had grown light enough to read. “He's had his nose pressed on that scrap of papyrus all morning. What's it say?”
Cyrus gave her a faint smile. “He won't let me read it, so I don't know.” “What language is it? I couldn't tell.”
“It's Latin, I think.”
“Is it truly dangerous?”
An agonized expression tightened his face. He frowned at the river again, his gaze searching the water and shorelines, lingering on the shadows cast by the trees. “Ninety-seven of my brothers died last night and Barnabas is certain they were killed over that âscrap,' as you call it. I'd say it's very dangerous.”
She grunted and watched a camel loping across a hilltop in the distance, while she considered her curious position. She couldn't return to Phoou. They might be looking for here there. She had no relatives. But what future did she have with three monks of questionable sanity?
“Cyrus, what did you do in the army?”
He gave her an evaluative sidelong glance. “What makes you think I was in the army?”
“No man kills as cleanly as you did without being trained to do it. Were you some general's personal cutthroat?”
“It would be more accurate to say I was some general's personal guard.”
“But you've seen fighting. I can tell it in the way you carry yourself.”
She'd always found it interesting the way people revealed their pasts in
the motions of their bodies. A tilt of the head, a wave of the hand, told her immediately whether a woman was noble born, or a courtesan. Men were the same. A clumsy tread and he was a merchant. A lion's stealthy gait, he was a soldier.
the motions of their bodies. A tilt of the head, a wave of the hand, told her immediately whether a woman was noble born, or a courtesan. Men were the same. A clumsy tread and he was a merchant. A lion's stealthy gait, he was a soldier.
Through a long exhalation, Cyrus said, “Yes. Too much fighting. Most of it senseless. Emperors are passionate about vainglorying.”
Emperors? He was the personal guard to an emperor?
They were quiet for a time.
Finally, he asked, “And what about you? How does a simple washerwoman develop the instinct and skill to slit a man's throat to the bone like that?”
“I worked in a”âshe smiledâ“a butcher shop. And one pig's throat is pretty much like another's.”
He stared at her. “And how did a butcher's assistant, not to mention a pagan goddess worshipper from Palestine, come to be a washerwoman for a Christian monastery in Egypt?”
“Let's just say I believed no one would come looking for me there. Nor did I have to worry about the good brothers coming to visit after dark.” She paused. “And ⦠I was a Christian once, a long time ago.”
“Really?” He clearly wanted to ask her why she'd left the faith, but instead asked, “Were your parents Christians?”
She drew up her knees and propped her elbows on them. The morning air was luminous with sunlit dust. She could smell the musk of the silt-laden Nile in the air. Cyrus had an interesting face, she decided. His eyes most of all. Heavily lidded, they were the color of dark emeralds, and had the same mysterious sparkle. No matter how hard she looked, she couldn't quite see him in there. He'd had practice at putting up shields, too.
“Yes, my family was Christian,” she answered. “I was six when the Great Persecution came roaring down upon us. After eight years of running and hiding, my family was cornered by Roman soldiers on the outskirts of the city of Emmaus. I watched both of my parents tortured to death. My little brother was carried off as a slave.” She hesitated, before adding, “The only thing I ever wanted was family, Cyrus. The Church took even my hope of a family away from me.”
Cyrus betrayed no emotion. “When did you become a pagan?”
“As soon as I could.”
Surely he knew why. Even if he did not know the history of the persecution in Palestine, he would have seen it in Rome. It had been a horrific time. Christian churches and houses where Christian scriptures were found were ordered to be destroyed and the scriptures burned. Christian worship was forbidden. Christian clergy were arrested. Those who persisted in proclaiming themselves Christians lost all rights as members of the Roman Empire, even the right to bring actions in courtâwhich meant they were totally vulnerable to
anyone
who wanted to do
anything
to them. Many, many people were simply murdered for their faith.
56
anyone
who wanted to do
anything
to them. Many, many people were simply murdered for their faith.
56
The corners of her mouth turned up. “It's curious, don't you think? Twenty-two years ago, it was the Romans who were burning Christian books. Now it's Christians burning Christian books. Where does it end, Cyrus? What can be so dangerous about a few black squiggles on parchment?”
“Sometimes,” Cyrus said, “black squiggles are the most fearsome weapons in the world.”
She found it interesting that he hadn't asked for more details about her life before she came to the monastery. Perhaps he didn't want to know. Men rarely did. Such ugliness seemed to wound the good ones deep down.
“I don't know why you monks don't just take to worshipping Satan,” she said.
“What?”
“He constantly proves he's more powerful than God. If I were going to be a Christian, that's who I'd be begging for help.”
Cyrus smiled, apparently thinking she was joking, and pointed out, “You didn't answer my question. How did you get to Egypt?”
“Well, it's a long story, Cyrus.” She made an airy gesture with her hand. “It began with a wealthy spice merchant who had an unhealthy passion for ropes. One night his vital signs mysteriously stopped in my presence. He had friends who either took it personally, or wanted to try the same rope tricks. After that, one thing led to another.”
For a few moments she feared he might adopt the “crucifixion look,” that morally tormented expression that so many of his brothers plastered on when faced with the unsavory details of life, but he caught himself. His expression relaxed and he calmly held her gaze. “And now?”
“I think you need my help.”
“We do.” He nodded, rose to his feet, and asked, “Are you hungry?
Why don't you help me catch some fish? We'll roast them quickly, and be on our way.”
Why don't you help me catch some fish? We'll roast them quickly, and be on our way.”
She got up and walked at his side down the shore. “You're not going to preach at me, are you?”
“No.” He shook his head. “I am no longer worthy to speak my Lord's words ⦠if I ever was.”
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