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Authors: Kathleen O'Neal Gear

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BOOK: The Betrayal
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“We
must
cast off the yoke of Rome and get our nation back! The holy books say that the
mashiah
will conquer the enemies of Yisrael and restore our nation. Are you the promised redeemer or not?”
Yeshu hesitated.
Maryam's eyes jerked to him. He had never said it. At least, not aloud.
Gestas, for the first time, spoke up: “Magician, we have five thousand men ready to attack. With you as our leader, the general populace will flock behind our soldiers with whatever weapons they can grab from their fields
or labors. God is sure to see our hearts and rush to our aid. Not even the Romans can withstand—”
“Who is your leader?”
Dysmas and Gestas exchanged a glance, then Dysmas replied, “He calls himself the ‘Son of the Father,'
9
in much the same way you call yourself the ‘Son of Man.' You are both God's prophets who, if you work together, will conquer our enemies and lead Yisrael back to its glory.”
Yeshu took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He must have been thinking, as Maryam was, that they had gotten down to their true reasons for the meeting much more quickly than he'd thought they would.
“Brothers, are you not afraid that such a move will provoke the Romans to destroy both our city and our nation?”
“Oh, they'll try; but if we join forces, our nation will, as one, stand up and fight. They cannot kill us all.”
Maryam made a small, frightened sound and protectively folded her arms across her chest. Just above a whisper, she urged, “Do not listen to them, Master. The Romans can and
will
kill us all. They have proven it many times.”
Dysmas glared at her. To Yeshu, he said, “What do women know of battle? Nothing. Less than nothing.”
“And you, Dysmas, have you seen battle? What about you, Gestas?”
Both men straightened, as though offended.
Dysmas replied, “We served as part of the Temple police. While we've never been in war, we've seen our share of fighting. We've also seen the bribery, fraud, and vice that go on in the Temple in the name of religion. Why, High Priest Kaiaphas is the handmaiden of the praefectus! You know it as well as we do. The fool laps the milk of life from a Roman bowl. And it costs us all a pretty sum!”
The “sum” he referred to was the fee that high priests had to pay to remain in office. High priests were Roman nominees, responsible to Roman authority, and removable by the Romans if they did not pay what the praefectus demanded. The sum provided a lucrative source of private income for anyone who served as praefectus. This fact did not make high priests particularly popular with the average person, especially since they charged “temple fees” to help cover the costs.
10
Yeshu squinted at the rocky hillside. Somewhere in the distance a dog
barked, and it stirred every other dog in hearing to yip and howl, serenading the night with a melodious chorus.
In his deep, teaching voice, he said, “Dysmas, I have heard with my own ears the trumpets blare and the noise of rebellion. I have seen with my own eyes the great turmoil that results. I beg you not to do this. Listen to me, and you will be clothed in light and a chariot will bear you aloft. Ignore my words, and this world will pass away before you are prepared.”
“We didn't come here to be preached at, Magician! We came to learn your Pesach plans. Will you challenge the Seventy-one, or not?”
Maryam's belly muscles went tight. She looked straight at him, waiting for him to say “no,” as he must. Yeshu had subtly been challenging the Council for many months, openly healing on Shabbat, taking food and drink with sinners. But to lead a revolt against them, and by extension Rome, as Yudah of the Galil had done? Horrifying images of gaunt, crucified men with their dead faces twisted in agony filled her thoughts. Maryam rose to her feet, and said, “They need a sacrificial lamb, Master. That's why they're here. They're too cowardly to do it themselves. Let's go.”
Rage contorted Dysmas' face. “Best tell your whore to keep her mouth shut, Magician. She's very close to—”
“To me,” Yeshu interrupted. “She's very close to me. As I wish you were.” He extended one hand to Dysmas and the other to Gestas. “Now, this instant, I challenge you to take my hands and follow me into the light that is to come.”
Gestas vented an ugly laugh, and said, “You constantly speak about salvation. How is it possible you do not know that chasing the Romans from our land is the only way to truly save our people?”
Yeshu left his hands out while he mildly said, “I warn you, brothers, resistance can only lead to social and military disaster for our people. Do not take this path. Very soon, God Almighty will renew his covenant with Yisrael and we will all—”
“I told you not to preach at us!” Dysmas shouted and it echoed over the rolling hills. The dogs started barking again.
Yeshu slowly pulled his hands back. Dysmas and Gestas had their jaws clenched.
Maryam moved closer to his side. If they attacked him, she would tear them apart with her bare hands.
Yeshu softly said, “You Zealots remind me of the rich merchant who discovered a beautiful pearl and sold everything he owned to buy it. He clutched that pearl to his chest, forsaking all other things, even food and drink, even his family. Too late did he discover that his treasure brought him only pain and death.”
Both men shifted, fists balled in anger. Maryam wondered if they understood that their dream of conquering Rome was the pearl.
“So,” Dysmas said, “you will not join forces with us?”
“I am already joined with you in the divine light, brothers. Let that be enough.”
“I told you so,” Gestas said. “He's a Roman stooge just like the high priest. That's why he told us to pay their taxes. Give unto Caesar! I spit upon Caesar!”
Dysmas fixed Yeshu with a hard eye. “I ask you one last time to tell us plainly if you are with us or against us.”
The night breeze tousled the old grass on the hillside and created a soft hissing sound.
“I am against no man, Dysmas. We are all One in the Kingdom. I will pray for you.”
“We're wasting our time,” Gestas said, raising his hands in frustration. “Let's go and tell the Son of the Father that the Magician refuses to help us.”
Dysmas lowered his hand to his belted dagger. “He will be very displeased. Perhaps you should think this over.”
Yeshu shook his head. “No, I don't need to.”
“Then you are a coward!” Dysmas viciously spat at Yeshu, and both Zealots turned and tramped away down the hill.
He watched them until they disappeared into the dark shadows of the olive trees.
“The fools,” Maryam said in a shaking voice. “Why do they persecute you? This world is about to end! They should be tending to their own souls, not rousing the people to fight Rome.”
“Don't hate them, Maryam. They are blind in their hearts. For the
moment they are intoxicated, but they will leave this earth empty men. If you do not wish to suffer the same fate, you must become a passerby.”
11
“A passerby? Don't joke. After tonight, they'll be working against us, maybe even plotting to kill us. I'm angry. You should be, too.”
“Perhaps.” He smiled at her. “But only a calm pond reflects the light of the Kingdom.”
Her enraged expression slackened. She closed her eyes. He had taught them that sinners only came to them for baptism when the light of the Kingdom shone in their eyes and on their faces.
She said, “Forgive me, Master. I seem to forget your teachings at the moments I need them most. I am ashamed of myself.”
“Don't be. You are tired, as I am. Let's …”
Down in the olive trees, voices rose. Only then did she realize that a Zealot camp hid there. Maryam's eyes jerked wide and riveted on the spot.
“Blessed God, that's why Dysmas chose this meeting place,” she hissed. “How many men do you think he brought with him? All five thousand?”
Yeshu's brows drew together. “I don't know, but let's go.” He put a hand on her shoulder. “It's not wise to dally here. Besides, I'm sure the others are awake and longing to hear what happened.”
They started down the trail that led back to her family's home in Bet Ani, but she could not help glancing over her shoulder often to make certain they were not being followed.
They walked the entire way in silence. He seemed lost in his thoughts, but Maryam was listening for footsteps behind them. Around every bend, she expected to be ambushed by an angry horde.
When they finally reached her home, her nerves were strung so tight, she said, “You go in, Master. I—I need to remain out here in the cool air for a while.”
He touched her hair gently, said, “Don't be long,” and walked to the door. When it closed behind him and she heard the voices of the other disciples rise, bombarding him with questions, Maryam could stand it no longer.
She staggered to the side of the road and vomited until there was nothing left to heave, until her belly shredded and caught in her throat, and the only thing coming up was blood.
For a long time, she just listened to her own breathing.
It took a quarter hour, but when she could, she wiped her mouth on the corner of her himation, and straightened her clothing.
He needed her now more than he had ever needed her in his life. She sucked in a deep, fortifying breath, and strode for the house to stand at his shoulder.
THE 325TH YEAR AFTER THE DEATH OF OUR LORD
The smell of the spiced nightingale tongues mixed sickeningly with the scent of wood smoke, making Pappas Silvester feel slightly ill. He straightened the sleeves of his black robe and let out a shaky breath. His closely shaven head and long nose felt as cold as ice.
The emperor sat in an ornate chair behind a table heaped with colorful platters of meat and fruits. He wore a glittering purple robe, gold-studded jerkin, and sword belt. Constantine was a big man, tall and muscular, with broad shoulders. He didn't even seem to be breathing, just staring unblinkingly at Silvester.
Silvester said, “You summoned me, Excellency?”
The emperor plucked a grape from a platter and crushed it between his teeth. The entire time, his gaze never left Silvester.
Silvester swallowed hard. He was fairly certain why he'd been summoned, but was hoping it was something else. Anything else.
The crackling fire in the hearth threw monstrous shadows over the elaborately painted walls, the great rounded arches, and magnificently vaulted ceiling. There were few pieces of furniture, but each was intricately carved and polished until it gleamed.
Warmth climbed up through his boots, and Silvester glanced down at
the mosaic floor. Below, in the subterranean caverns, he could imagine the slaves laboring at the boilers to heat the tiles he stood upon. Ordinarily their warmth would have been a balm, but not tonight. Tonight it was a reminder of the dangerous ground upon which he stood.
“My informants tell me that this afternoon's session was more like a brawl than a sacred council meeting,” the emperor said.
“There were many disagreements, Excellency. The heresy of Arius caused much concern. Both sides have strong opinions about whether or not Iesous should be subordinated to God. Our side maintains that our Lord's eternal essence, the Word, is God, while the Arians stress that he was indisputably ‘begotten,' though only-begotten, and therefore his creaturely dependence upon the Father's will makes it clear Iesous is less than the Father. This whole ‘only-begotten' thing is complicated, of course, by Psalms chapter two, verse seven. Even worse, Pappas Eusebios of Caesarea agrees with Arius! At heart, it's all a discussion of how our Lord could have suffered and saved if he was not human, but wholly God. We will fight it out, I assure you.”
A glitter entered the emperor's eyes, and Silvester fought to control his breathing. The emperor obviously considered Silvester's lengthy answer to be a delaying tactic—even subterfuge. He gave the emperor a weak smile.
The emperor smiled back—the effect like a knife at Silvester's throat. “I understand that Pappas Eusebios is, on many issues, our most vociferous opponent. He clearly believes he has some hidden leverage over us.”
“Yes, well, the old man is a nuisance,” Silvester agreed. His knees had started to quake.
The emperor tilted his head. In a curiously inhuman voice, he asked, “Have you failed me, Silvester?”
A cold wave of fear rolled through him. “No, Excellency, I—I require more time. We've persuaded many of his assistants to tell us what they know of the Pearl, but their knowledge appears very limited.”
Silvester shot a nervous glare at Pappas Meridias, who stood just outside the door, waiting for instructions. In the gloom beyond the aura of firelight, the man appeared little more than a tall black silhouette. Fact was, his mere presence sent a cold draft down Silvester's spine.
“Then you didn't use all of the means of persuasion at your disposal. Do better.”
“I assure you, Emperor, leniency is not the problem. My people are very thorough.”
Meridias sniffed at the affront, but did not enter the chamber. No one who knew him would call Meridias “lenient”—monster, bastard, animal, yes. But never lenient.
“The problem, Excellency, is that Eusebios has spent forty years dispersing his best library assistants to distant parts of the world where we can't find them.”
Constantine reached for a pinch of nightingale tongues, tilted his head back, and dropped them into his mouth. As he chewed, he asked, “Are they still part of the True Church?”
“Some of them may be monks. Others have either become hermits or have simply vanished.”
“You should be able to locate the monks.”
Silvester flapped his arms in frustration. “Men receive new names when they enter monasteries. It makes it difficult to track individuals, especially if they do not wish to be tracked. They can simply move from one monastery to another, taking a new name each time.”
The emperor rose from his chair and straightened to his full height. He stepped purposely around the table; the metal of his jerkin, sword belt, and boot tops flashed in the firelight. The man always stood ready to defend himself from hidden murderers, which was prudent, given the number of attempts that had been made on his life.
“As you see it, what is the greatest danger?” Constantine asked as he stopped before Silvester and propped his hands on his hips. He towered over Silvester, his dark eyes like embers. The powerful fragrances of wood smoke and roasted meat rose from his clothing.
Silvester had to tilt his head back to look up at him. “The danger is that they know the location.”
“Then it may be gone.”
“Perhaps, but I think it more likely that it was covered over around two hundred years ago—as were so many holy sites—by Emperor Hadrian in his zeal to destroy the Jews and everything they cherished. Do not forget that it was Hadrian who changed the name of Jerusalem to Colonia Aelia Capitolina, and as part of the construction of the city turned the
Kraniou Topon,
“Place of the Skull,” into a vast landfill upon which he built a
Temple to Aphrodite.
12
“Or”—he waved a hand—“it might have been obliterated in the year 303 when Emperor Diocletian ordered the destruction of all Christian churches and texts.”
“Then you believe it's buried?”
“We can't know for certain, but must proceed as though it is.” He swallowed hard. “Because if it exists, Excellency, our doctrines will be cast aside like rotted cloth.”
The emperor seemed to be considering that. Finally, he took a breath and ordered, “I want the Temple to Aphrodite torn down and the landfill removed. Immediately. If the Pearl is there, I want to know before anyone else does.”
“Yes, Excellency. Of course.”
Constantine's hard eyes narrowed. “And what of Jairus? Have you located him?”
“We may have, Excellency. At one of the Pachomius' monasteries in Egypt. But again, I need more time to verify the rumors. A few months, that's all.”
The jewels Constantine wore flashed and glittered as the emperor turned and walked back toward his chair. Silvester dared to take a breath of relief.
Over his shoulder, Constantine said, “Begin the excavations on the landfill, then find Jairus. After that, find all the men who ever assisted Pappas Eusebios at the library in Caesarea. I want to know where the Pearl is hidden. Our very survival depends upon it. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Excellency.” Silvester turned and strode for the door.
Just before he stepped out into the hallway, the emperor called, “And Pappas?”
Silvester turned to face Constantine.
“Do not come back to me until you've accomplished the goals I just set forth.”
Terror fired Silvester's veins. The meaning was clear:
You won't live through it.
Silvester bowed deeply. “Yes, Excellency, I won't fail you.”
Silvester stepped out into the brazier-lit hallway. The high-arched corridor was lined on either side with imperial guards. Firelight flickered on immaculately polished armor and gave a deep tone to their red capes. Not one of the ten guards so much as looked at him.
Silvester swallowed hard and locked his knees. The massive gray stone walls seemed to be leaning toward him, as though they were demons bending down to suck away his soul. Try as he might, he could not shake the feeling that a brooding presence stood right at his shoulder.
“Pappas?” Meridias asked, stepping forward and extending a hand, as if for support.
Silvester motioned for Meridias to follow him. Meridias' blond hair and cold eyes shone in the dim light.
As they marched down the hall side-by-side, passing the soldiers, Silvester hissed, “My personal boat is waiting on the dock at Ephesus. Take it to Egypt. Keep me apprised.”
 
 
 
THE TEACHING ON THE SWORD
 
Rain clouds drift through the sky, but there is no rain today, only heat and more heat. You are irritable as you walk down the road toward Yerushalaim. Your brothers and sisters walk ahead of you. You lag, swatting at flies, grumbling to yourself because you want nothing more than to go and sleep in the shade of an olive tree until night comes. But
he
will not allow it. You have finally escaped the crowds, and he says you must rush on. You hear his voice, teaching, as always … but can't make out most of the words until he calls:
“Did you hear that, brother?” Yeshu stops and turns around to look straight at you.
You squint against the glare to see him. His black hair haloes his face in tight, sweat-drenched curls. The sun beats down upon your head like a fiery hammer.
“No. I'm too far behind. What did you say?”
“We were talking about the art of the sword. I said that it was, for the most part, the art of being truly present with God.”
The disciples gather around him in a milling circle, listening. They can tell by his tone of voice that this is another lesson, and they want to hear it.
Unlike you. You just want to get to a cold drink of water.
As he needs you to, you say, “That sounds ridiculous. Am I not always present with God? How could I be otherwise, for you have told us that God is everywhere, all the time.”
He suppresses a smile. It's his way of thanking you for asking the questions no one else will. You are his acknowledged adversary, and he both resents and cherishes it.
Yeshu says, “I think, in fact, that people are almost never present with God. They are thinking about the past or the future, worried about what their enemies are doing, or worse, what their friends are plotting. But rarely do they live truly Now. And that is where God lives.”
You flap your arms in exasperation. “Very fascinating, but I don't see what that has to do with the art of the sword.”
He cuts the air with his hand, as though swinging an invisible sword. “The sword has a living heart. It beats. It listens. It strikes. But the blow is only lethal when the swordsman acts in an instant of utter awareness of the cause of life and death.”
You glance around at the disciples. They look as mystified as you do. Poor Matya, his young face is screwed up in total confusion.
“Truly,” you say, “I hate your parables. They are utter nonsense. I wish you would speak straightly.”
He tilts his head, and smiles. “I mean that it is only when you are fully present with another that you can know him, or love him.”
“Or ‘it' in the case of a sword.”
“Yes. Very good, brother. I knew you would understand.”
He smiles broadly, turns, and heads up the road again.
The disciples fall into line behind him, their sandals kicking up puffs of tan dust. You, alone, remain standing, grimacing at his back.
It takes several moments before you realize he means “ … or in the case of God.”
You shake your head, annoyed that it was meant specifically for you, and run to catch up.
BOOK: The Betrayal
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