“But Zarathan is right, it's gibberish.”
“Everything is gibberish until you understand it, Cyrus.”
She looked out at the oddly shaped boulders that thrust up from the surf. Moonlight streamed between them, bleaching the foamy water a stark silver color, and casting the rocks' inky shadows across the sand. As the fog floated over the dark sand toward them, she had the urge to try and summon the voices of the air and sea, as she'd been taught to do in the ancient
mystery religion she followed. But she feared it might curdle Cyrus' Christian soul.
“What is âGod's gift'? Do you have any ideas?” he asked.
“Life. At least that's how I would answer that question. How would you?”
He gave her an uncertain half-shrug and shake of his head, but she could see the strange, somber expression on his handsome face.
“What's wrong, Cyrus?”
His gaze slid to her, but he paused for several moments before he said, “I think it's the Pearl.”
“Which is ⦠what?”
In the long silence that followed, Kalay heard one of their horses blow softly, and then the faint crunching of sand beneath hooves as the animals meandered along the beach, nipping every edible plant they could find. She kept her eyes on Cyrus. The lines at the corners of his eyes tightened. Finally, he answered, “You've heard us talk about Papias' book?”
“The
Lord's Logia
? Yes, what of it?”
While his gaze moved along the shoreline, he said, “The passage I read went something like this: âThe Son of Panthera will again put on his robe of glory, and call up the headless demon whom the winds obey when the Pearl is in hand.'”
“That's interesting. Or confusing.”
“Yes,” he said softly, “and that could be my fault, because I'm not skilled at Hebrew. I had to guess at many of the words.” As though angry with himself, he slapped the grit from his sleeve.
They had taken refuge in the shadows of a tumbled pile of boulders that had cracked off the cliff some time in the distant past and begun to sprout tiny wind-tortured trees. As the fog moved through, the branches sighed and shook water droplets onto the rocks. The blend of surf and dripping trees calmed her after the long days on the desert trail.
She braced her shoulder against the cliff and faced him. His gaze, however, was not on her, but on the fog, staring at it hard, as though trying to read their dire fortunes in the shifting patterns.
She asked, “What if the map leads nowhere and we're just chasing ghosts?”
“I believe in ghosts. Don't you?”
She hugged herself against the misty chill. “No.”
“No? Really?” He sounded truly astounded. “What about angels and demons?”
“Ah.” She waggled a finger at him. “I believe in demons, yes, I do. But I've seen them walking the streets, looked into their eyes, and seen evil looking back. Trust me, the world is filled with demons. Remember Loukas?”
He paused. “But no angels?”
“I've never seen one. Simple as that. When one appears, I'll reconsider.”
In a deeply reverent voice, Cyrus said, “They exist, Kalay, believe me. They've saved me many times on the battlefield.”
“I've seen you fight, Cyrus. I suspect it's a good deal more likely that you saved yourself. You're handy with a sword and dagger. Not only that, you're smart. You probably made the most of the few pieces of luck that turned your way.” She shrugged. “But if you want to believe that angels whispered in your ears, that's your affair.”
Cyrus smiled. She saw his teeth glint in the moonlight. “Perhaps that is a guardian angel's strength. There's never proof of his handiwork, which means that people must have faith.”
“Faith that they're being watched over?” Her mouth tightened with disbelief. “Seems like a waste of effort to me.”
“But you have faith,” he pointed out. “You told me you're a Goddess worshipper. Surely that requires as much faith as believing in angels.”
She moved away from the cliff, straightened, and let her gaze roam the shadowed boulders. The mist had grown thicker, obscuring the gnarled trees, and she had a curious feeling that all was not as it seemed. She tried to shove the premonition away.
“The Goddess doesn't demand as much in return as your angels do,” she replied. “My Goddess is happy with a prayer now and then, maybe a sacrifice on high holy days. She doesn't demand celibacy, or poverty, or any of the other unnatural things that your God does. The Goddess, as a result, is a whole lot easier to have faith in.”
In a conspiratorial whisper, he said, “I think you're the most devout person I know. You just don't like to show it.”
“And why would that be?”
“Because you're afraid it makes you look weak.” He took a breath, and through a long exhalation said, “And weakness is something you of all people cannot afford.”
Kalay considered him for several moments, watching the moonlight waver over his lips and flash in his eyes, surprised that he understood her so well. “Nor can you, I think. Though I suspect you believe your Lord would prefer it.”
He shifted his back against the damp cliff, and fabric grated against stone. “There is not a night that passes that I don't feel Him seeking me in my dreams, calling to me to put away my sword and pick up His cross.”
“Are you truly so deep a believer, Cyrus? I know you're a monk, but you don't seem to share their cowardly failings. At least, I haven't seen it.”
“Haven't you?” His mouth curled into what could only be called a smile of self-loathing. “I'm afraid that what you see as my strengths I see as cowardice.”
“Really? I'm surprised.”
His gaze lowered, as though he didn't want to look at her when he said, “My Lord taught me to âturn the other cheek,' to seek peace and love my neighbor. I believe those teachings with all my heart.” His voice grew pained. “But I don't have the courage to follow them when people I care about have been murdered and others are in danger. But I should, Kalay, I should have the courage.”
She opened her mouth to blurt something unpleasant, but his tormented expression stopped her. He had lifted his eyes and was gazing at her as though for reassurance. Perhaps he just wanted a few kind words? Someone to tell him she believed in him and was grateful for all he'd done to protect them?
Instead, she said, “That's the problem with your Lord. He's always forcing people to give up everything they know, everything they are, and for what? Nothing.”
He straightened at her hard tone. “I wouldn't call salvation ânothing.' I'd much rather be saved than eternally damned.”
“Is that what you fear? Damnation? Well, stop it. Your tradition teaches you that no matter what you do your Lord will forgive you, doesn't it?”
“No, there are certain sins that God cannot forgive, butâ”
“I trust you're not planning on committing any of those, are you?”
He regarded her suspiciously. “No.”
“Then what are you worried about? When all this is done, your Lord will forgive you your trespasses, and you can go back to following His teachings as though nothing happened.”
He squinted at her. “You have a truly unbalanced way of looking at things.”
She grinned. “That sounded like a backhanded compliment. Are you trying to be romantic?”
His mouth opened, but he couldn't seem to find the correct response.
“Good,” she said, taking his arm. “Now that you're speechless, let's talk of more important things.”
“What could possibly be more important than the salvation of my immortal soul?”
She guided him away from the boulders toward the beach. “You told Libni we'd be gone before dawn. Where are we going?”
“I haven't the slightest idea. I assume that Libni and Barnabas will work out our route tonight.”
“But we've only two choices, haven't we? Mount Gerizim or Jerusalem.”
“Jerusalem,” he said softly, as though feeling the names on his tongue. “It's so strange to call it that. For almost two hundred years it has been called by the name Emperor Hadrian gave it in the year 130: Aelia Capitolina. All my life, that's what I've called it.”
“Well, Emperor Constantine just changed it back. It may be the one good thing he's done in his entire reign. Though Jews are still banned from entering the city, except on the ninth of the Hebrew month of Av.”
“The ninth of Av? Why?”
She sucked in a breath, stunned by his ignorance. “That's the anniversary of the destruction of the Temple in the year 70. Jews are allowed to return to mourn the loss, and are tormented by Christians who circulate through the mourners berating them for continuing to weep and wait for the messiah. They shout that he's already come ⦠that all the prophecies have been fulfilled, and Jews are just too stubborn to admit it.”
92
Cyrus' face tensed at the angry tone in her voice. “Have you visited Jerusalem on the ninth of Av?”
“My grandmother took me to the anniversary commemoration when I was five years old. I'll never forget how I felt. My parents were Christians, but I cannot tell you how very much I hated Christians that day.”
Softly, Cyrus said, “I'm sorry.”
Like most devout Christians, Cyrus believed Iesous was the messiah, and the destruction of the Temple was irrefutable proof that Iesous' prophecies had come true. It was enough to make her feel slightly ill.
She took a breath and let it out in a rush. “If we go there, we'll be riding into the lion's den, won't we?”
“Almost certainly. Bishop Macarios of Jerusalem is a close ally of Bishop Silvester's.”
“Emperor Constantine's lackey?” she recalled. “Do you think he might be handing out daggers to our sicarii?”
“I think it's possible.”
“Then I'd best get used to this fear that's been eating my belly for days.”
As she released his arm and started to walk out onto the beach, he said, “Kalay?”
Even pitched low, his deep voice carried on the wind. She turned to find him gazing at her with pained eyes.
“Despite my beliefs, I will do everything I can to make certain we do not come to harm.” He had his fists clenched at his sides, as though fighting the overwhelming urge to touch her.
“I've never doubted that, Cyrus.”
“I know that you think Iâ” Cyrus went suddenly still and his gaze fastened on the sand at their feet. He cocked his head, as though listening.
After several moments of holding her breath, she whispered, “What is it?”
He pointed. The constant sea breezes had nearly covered them, but the dark spots of shadow that marred the sand could only be tracks.
She knelt to examine them, trying to decide if they'd been made by men or animals. “They're badly washed out, Cyrus.”
She started to walk along them, and he reached out and took her hand with an unthinking intimacy. She flinched at his touch, as though her soul were warning her to run.
“No, don't follow them,” he ordered.
The warmth of his flesh against her cold fingers made her shiver. “Why not?”
“They're hoofprints.”
“So? Libni told you, this coast is a thoroughfare. Fishermen, traders, merchants, even whole caravans move up and down the length of it.”
“This was one man on a horse, riding very close to the surf, as close as he could.”
“A scout hoping his tracks would be washed away quickly?”
“Maybe.”
Looking across the sand, Kalay saw how the tracks curved with the line of the water, veering around a narrow spit of land, and disappearing into the unknown night beyond.
“Do you think it's one of our pursuers?” she asked.
Cyrus propped his hand on the hilt of his belted sword and his fingers tightened around the grip, as if ready to draw it against things unseen. “I always assume the worst. If it doesn't come about, I'm pleasantly surprised.”
“You and I have learned the same lessons.”
He turned to survey the white ribbon of foam that marked the waves. “I swear Iâ” He stopped and clamped his jaw.
A strange undercurrent filtered through the words. She reached up and turned his face to look into his eyes. They were overflowing with guilt. He was holding something back, drowning in secrets that were eating him alive. “There's something you haven't told me, isn't there? Something you haven't told anyone. What is it?”