Authors: Kathleen O'Neal Gear
The Betrayal (14 page)
Barnabas sat beside Cyrus in the rocking boat, watching the shore pass. As they neared the sea, the vegetation began to change, becoming taller and ever more lush. In many places, trees overhung the water. The green scents of wet leaves and bark suffused the air.
Birdsong filled the air, and Barnabas tried to enjoy the melody. What had once filled him with peace now barely registered. At the edge of his vision, he noticed the thousands of insects, their wings shimmering in the slanting morning sunlight.
Barnabas forced himself to take a breath. Fear rode his shoulders like the angel of death, leaving every tendon in his body humming, strung so tightly he had to work not to tremble.
One by one the faces of his brothers stared out from his memory. From Brother Jonas on down, he forced himself to recall them. He engraved each face in his memory, that at least during his life none of them be forgotten. He recalled the cool, shadowed arches of the monastery, heard his brothers' soft whispers as they assembled for prayer.
Gone. All gone, lost in an orgy of poison and banished by a sordid wall of flame. How could life with its hopes and dreams be so transitory? Were ninety-seven men no more than a soft exhalation in the vastness of time?
A cold shiver traced down Barnabas' back as he glanced over at the delicate fragment of papyrus in Cyrus' hands.
Have they already found it? The most sacred place on earth? Did they destroy it with the same ease that they murdered my brothers?
He bowed his head and silently prayed for the library assistants, many of whom had probably known nothing more than Barnabas' name and the general nature of the discoveryâtiny details they would have gleaned from the notes he'd left in the margins of the original documents. How long had they been forced to suffer?
Guilt ravaged his soul.
Dear Lord, grant them swift entry into heaven. For as you promised, all those who walk in the spirit of the life will wear the garment of honor in the everlasting light. Amen.
As Zarathan and Kalay guided the boat into the shallows, the tree-filtered morning light dappled the ancient papyrus in Cyrus' hands, flashing upon the letters, as though God himself was trying to point something out. The thin parchment appeared incredibly delicate, almost light enough to float out of his fingers.
Cyrus murmured, sounding out the words; then he frowned and studied the papyrus again. The once black ink, made from a mixture of soot, gum, and water, had faded to a handsome rusty-brown, but the letters remained perfectly clear:
MAHANAYIMMEHEBELMAHRAY
MANAHATMAGDIELELSELAH
MASSAMASSAMELEKIELEL
MAGABAEL
MANAHATMAGDIELELSELAH
MASSAMASSAMELEKIELEL
MAGABAEL
Cyrus shook his head in frustration. He seemed to feel it, that enormous pattern just beyond the reach of his understanding.
Barnabas knew the feeling well. For most of his life, the fleeting moments of illumination had alternately tantalized and terrified him. So much so, that while he had hidden several copies of the papyrus in different locations, he had never once carried it with himâexcept in his memory.
“What do you see, Cyrus?”
Cyrus lifted his gaze from the papyrus and looked at Barnabas with clear green eyes. “I see ten proper names, maybe twelve, or I think I do.”
Barnabas nodded in approval. “What are they?”
At the mention of the names, Kalay turned slightly in the bow to hear better.
“Mahanayim, Mehebel, Mahray, Manahat, Magdiel, El, Selah, Massa, Massa, Melekiel, El, Magabael.”
Barnabas studied Cyrus with curious eyes. While a substantial variety of texts about their Lord had, until recently, been available in the monastery, few of the Hebrew Scriptures were available in any Christian monastery. Most monks saw little point in reading them, since their Lord had fulfilled and superceded the Hebrew Scriptures. No one would realize these were names unless he had a knowledge of the Hebrew Scriptures that was both thorough and exacting. Where had Cyrus gained such knowledge? Rome? More likely, Palestine.
“Yes, I, too, think they are names. Do you know the history of those names?” Barnabas watched him closely.
Cyrus shoved damp black curls away from his bearded face. “The first name, Mahanayim, is the place along the Iabbok River where Iakobos and his family encountered the troop of angels.”
Barnabas nodded. “Yes, good. What about the others?”
“Mehebel may be one of the towns conquered by King David.”
“Yes, go on.”
Cyrus' thick black brows lowered as he studied the papyrus again. “Mahray ⦠I'm not certain. It may be the cityâ”
Kalay interrupted with, “Mahray was one of King David's special warriors. His champion. Mahray came from just southwest of the village of Bet Lehem. He was one of the twins born to Yehudah and Tamar.”
The boat went silent. Kalay kept paddling as though such obscure historical facts were common knowledge. As the day warmed, locks of her red hair stuck to her long, slender neck.
Barnabas sat back in the boat. “Forgive me, Kalay, did I hear you say this morning that your grandmother had started reading you the Hebrew Scriptures when you were four?”
“That's right. She thought all the Christian teachings were drivel. She was trying to set me straight.”
Barnabas chuckled. She might be misguided, but she always spoke plainly. He liked that.
Zarathan, who still looked soul-sick, said weakly, “Is it a veiled reference to our Lord's birth in Bathleem?”
Without thinking, Barnabas replied, “He wasn't born in Bathleem. The infancy narratives are a poor attempt to make our Lord appear to be the son of David, which he was not.”
“But Maththaios and Loukas say he was!”
“Yes, well, they're trying to make him fulfill prophecy. In this case Psalms, chapter one hundred thirty-two, verses five and six, and Micah, chapter five, verse two. Didn't it ever strike you as odd that in the seventh chapter of Ioannes many of those listening to our Lord knew that Bathleem was the birthplace of the son of David, but these same people show no knowledge that it is the birthplace of Iesous of Nazaret? More importantly, in the earliest versions of the Gospel of Maththaios, used by the Nazoreans, there is no genealogy of our Lord.
66
He was most likely born in Nazaret.”
66
He was most likely born in Nazaret.”
Stubbornly, Zarathan insisted, “His parents went there for the census! That's why he was born there! Theyâ”
“There was no census, brother. Loukas was wrong about that,” Barnabas quietly corrected. “The only census recorded during our Lord's lifetime was ordered by Quirinius in the year six. Our Lord would have been twelve at the time.”
67
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Zarathan, apparently shocked senseless, just stared at Barnabas. His oar was dragging uselessly in the murky water.
Cyrus softly said, “Brother, perhaps Kalay is the one who should be looking at the papyrus.”
Zarathan found enough voice to angrily blurt, “She can't read. What would she do with it?”
Zarathan's shoulder-length blond hair and the thin fuzz of blond beard that covered his chin glistened with sweat. His startled blue eyes kept darting about as though he couldn't keep them still. In the name of God, the youth was frightened clear down to the marrow of his bones.
“Thank you, brother, for reminding me,” Barnabas replied in a gentle voice. “I'd forgotten. It's terribly unfortunate, though, since we could useâ”
“She doesn't have to read it,” Cyrus said. “If we read it to her, she can still help us to understand it.”
Kalay cast an unpleasant glance over her shoulder. “Instead of discussing it amongst yourselves, try asking me.”
Barnabas blinked. “My apologies, Kalay. Would you be willing to advise us on the proper meaning of these Hebrew names? We would value your help very much.”
She dipped her head. “I would be happy to help, Brother Barnabas. What's the next word?”
Cyrus read, “Manahat. Wasn't that the place where the clan of Benjamin was exiled to?”
“Yes,” Barnabas said, nodding. “I've often wonderedâ”
“Not necessarily,” Kalay interrupted.
Barnabas closed his mouth and stared at the back of her red head. “No?”
“No. Manahat was the grandson of Seir, the Horite. He was an Edomite.”
A gust of wind thrashed the trees on the banks and a shower of leaves fell into the water around them.
Barnabas cocked his head. To Cyrus, he said, “She may be right, though the form of the name is difficult to explain. Which is why I think it's a place, but let's move on. Kalay, what about Magdiel?”
“Another Edomite chief.”
“Yes, perhaps, though my own teacher, Pappas Eusebios, believed it to be the name of a place in the Gebalene. Just asâ”
Kalay said, “Actually that would make more sense.”
Barnabas squinted at her. “Why?”
“Because Selah, the next word, is also a place, an Edomite rock city conquered by Amaziah, king of Judah.”
“Why did you say it made more sense?”
She turned to give him a look that made him feel distinctly inferior. “Place, placeâperson, personâplace, place.”
Barnabas considered it. The first two names had, probably, been places, the second two, names, the third two, places. Would the next two prove to be names? “That's an interesting observation, Kalay, let's seeâ”
Cyrus said, “Forgive me, brother, while I grant that it is possible, let me also suggest that the reference could be to Selah, the place in Moab cited in Isaiah's prophecy, chapter sixteen, verse one.”
Kalay turned halfway around to give Cyrus an admiring look. Her sculpted face was flushed with the effort of rowing and shiny with sweat. “Well done, Cyrus.”
In a complaining voice, Zarathan said, “Why doesn't someone ask me something? I'm not completely ignorant. For example, I noticed that you forgot to translate the word
El
after Magdiel. And it means âGod.'”
El
after Magdiel. And it means âGod.'”
The irritated pride in his voice made Barnabas reach back and pat his knee affectionately. “Forgive me, brother. Thank you for pointing out our error. You are right, it means God. Would you like to comment on the next two words? They are the same: Massa, Massa.”
Zarathan's young face pinched with effort. He shifted his paddle to the other side of the boat and stroked the water. “Is that from Psalms?”
Psalms was one of the few Hebrew textsâtranslated into Greekâthat was available at their monastery, and it pleased Barnabas that Zarathan had read it.
“Possibly.” Barnabas turned back. “Cyrus? What do you think?”
He shook his head. “The son of Ishmael? Or maybe the tribe of Ishmaelites?”
Barnabas looked to the bow. “Kalay? What is your opinion?”
She tilted her head to the side and damp wisps of red hair draped her narrow shoulder. “I'm inclined to agree with the boy that it's from Psalmsâ”
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