Read The Betrayal Online

Authors: Kathleen O'Neal Gear

The Betrayal (32 page)

Zarathan helped Cyrus adjust the book bags over the horse's withers, while he cast occasional glances at Kalay. The woman knelt by the dead assassin, going through his pockets. She'd rinsed her bloody face and hair in the sea, but there were still dark splotches on her dress.
Solemnly, Cyrus said, “Kalay told me you saved her life. Thank you, brother. I know it was a hard thing to do.”
Zarathan's gaze pulled back, and he anxiously toyed with the ropes on the bags. What could he say? His wrists ached from the panicked strength of the blow he'd wielded, but it was nothing compared to the pain that seemed to live and breathe in his heart.
Despite what Kalay said, I killed him. Without my blow, he would be alive.
In a soft, confidential voice, Cyrus asked, “Are you all right?”
He had never known why, but he found it difficult to share grief, even with his family.
Cautiously, he said, “Cyrus, you—you're a soldier. You probably think I'm a weak fool. And I—I am.” He hated the frail timbre of the words. “But I've never been in a fight before, not even with my fists. Every time I got into a situation that looked like it might turn ugly, I walked away—as I believe my Lord wants me to do.”
“I believe he does, too, brother.” Cyrus adjusted the bags for a final time, and the smell of the sea seemed to grow sharper, more intense.
Zarathan wiped his nose on his wet sleeve. “I acted like a coward. I didn't even fight the man face-to-face. I sneaked up on him and clubbed him from behind!”
Cyrus rested his arms across the horse's back. His thick black brows drew down over his straight nose. “Zarathan, these men are trying to kill us. Always, whenever possible, attack from behind. The goal is for you to come out alive. Use whatever tactics you must to accomplish that.”
“Including acting like a coward?”
Cyrus considered him. “Had you called him out, faced him man-toman, what would have happened?”
“He … would have killed me.”
“That's right. He was skilled in arms, you are not. He would have lopped your head off with one stroke, and then turned and finished Kalay. You would both be dead, and he would have been there to turn the odds against me and in our attackers' favor. Which means that Brother Barnabas, Libni, Tiras, and I would be dead, too. And, at this moment, the papyrus and all the books would be burning.”
“But …” He suppressed a sob. “If what I did was right, why do I feel so horrible?”
A bitter smile turned Cyrus' lips. “I executed my first man when I was your age, Zarathan. Sixteen. They called it ‘military training.' My commander brought me an enemy soldier who'd been taken prisoner in battle. He was a barbarian, filthy—and he was trussed up like a hog ready for roasting. It certainly wasn't a fair fight.”
Zarathan managed to get a shaky breath into his lungs. “What did you do?”
“I was ordered to slice off his head, and I really tried to obey. I lifted my sword several times. But each time I looked into his pleading eyes, and I couldn't do it. When I broke down in tears, my commander ordered the other recruits to beat me until I either begged to go home to my mother, or until I begged to kill the prisoner.”
There was a long silence while Cyrus patted the horse's mane; his eyes were lost in distant memories. Barnabas ducked out of the cave, and walked toward them with his head bowed, as though beneath a great weight.
“Did you kill the prisoner?” Zarathan asked.
“Oh, yes.”
“And af-afterward? Did you feel weak all over? As though your muscles had been boiled until they felt like they would fall apart?”
“I still feel that way when I kill a man. I don't think good soldiers ever get over it. Killing is wrong. We all know it. I don't know God's reason for it, but there are times, my brother, when it simply cannot be avoided. Like today.”
Zarathan chewed his lip while he looked out at the frothy surf.
Cyrus softly said, “You weren't a coward tonight. You were braver than I was when I first killed a man. You knew what you had to do, and did it without thinking, without hesitating. From now on, I know I can rely upon you when the time comes.”
Several hollow thuds echoed down the beach, and they both turned to see Kalay level yet another brutal kick at the dead man's privates.
Baffled and annoyed, Zarathan said, “I still think she's a demon.”
Cyrus studied Kalay. “Don't forget that our Lord sent her into the dining hall that night at the monastery. Then he placed her in the boat with us. And tonight he had you pick up that piece of driftwood to save her life.” His eyes softened. “There must be a reason.”
Massa
 
 
 
NISAN THE 17TH, THE YEAR 3771
Yosef slipped the bit into his horse's mouth and patted the animal's silken neck as he secured the bridle. The horse blew and looked at him with big, trusting eyes.
“Just two more days, Adolphus,” he said gently. “Then you'll be able to spend the rest of your life grazing in fields of green grass. I promise.”
All around him, the Essenes were busy, packing their horses, cleaning up camp, speaking in low voices. He looked out across the silent, dove-colored hills to the highlands in the distance. As sunlight broke over the horizon, a tawny gleam haloed the place where the holy city of Yerushalaim nestled. He thought of his home, the home he suspected he could never again return to, and a pained yearning struck his heart. He so wanted to sleep in his own bed, and to see his ailing father one last time. Perhaps, if Petronius …
No, you can't let yourself believe that. It will weaken your resolve. You have one duty left to perform, then you must flee.
He patted the horse again, gripped the reins, and led Adolphus toward
the other horses; his hooves clip-clopped across the stone in a slow, patient rhythm.
Mattias called, “We're ready if you are.”
“Good. Let's ride.”
Either they would find Titus waiting for them tonight at the prearranged place, or they would not, which meant he'd been captured and the Pearl stolen.
Regardless, someone would be waiting for them.
He prayed it wasn't an entire Roman century.
Melekiel
 
 
 
NISAN THE 18TH, FIRST HOUR OF NIGHT
By the time they neared the city of Emmaus,
107
the sun had long ago dipped below the western horizon, and the brightest stars glittered to life.
Yosef galloped his horse in the lead, following the twisting path through the fruit orchard. The fragrance of green leaves and last year's rotting pomegranates carried on the breeze.
When he saw the dilapidated house ahead, his heart ached, for he did not see Titus.
Mattias galloped up beside him and hissed, “Where is he?” Sweat-soaked black hair clung to his cheeks.
“I don't know, but I pray he's alive. Where are your brothers?”
“They're watching the main road.”
Yosef said, “Stay here. I'm going in alone.”
“But why? You may need me.”
“If this is a trap, someone must ride back and warn your brothers, or they too will be caught and executed.”
Mattias stared at him, then nodded. “You're right. I'll wait here.”
Yosef reined his horse to within twenty paces of the house and cautiously dismounted. “Titus?” he called. Then a little more loudly, “Titus? Are you here?”
The only sound was the breeze whistling through the gaps in the collapsed roof.
He impatiently tied Adolphus to an overgrown bush, and walked toward the dark house. From the smell, the building had recently been used as a barn. The scents of manure and moldering hay were strong.
As he peered in one of the windows, his nerves stretched to the breaking point. He couldn't keep his hands still.
He walked to the door. Inside, he could see fallen roof beams, broken pots, and piles of windblown debris. “Titus?”
Wind shoved a loose board, and when it creaked mournfully, Yosef jerked his knife from the sheath and froze. Along the wall to his right, tiny, glistening eyes flashed as mice scurried for cover.
He listened for any other sound.
Then he stepped into the house, edged around a pile of sheep manure, and tiptoed toward the closed door in the rear. “Titus?”
He pushed the door open and entered. Blackness. When he and Titus had last been here three years ago, this had been a storage room. The faint fragrances of dried fruits and herbs temporarily overpowered that of the manure and mildew.
As Yosef groped along the wall to his left, he bumped against an old crate. Then his hand touched another wall and he felt his way toward the wall niche he remembered—the curtained niche where the farmer had stored his family's most precious items. When his hand brushed a rotted piece of cloth, then sank into the wall, he knew he'd found it.
For five rapid heartbeats, he just stood there, praying. Then he stuck his hand deeper into the niche and felt around. Nothing. Just thick dust and spiderwebs.
Yosef pulled his hand out and sank against the wall. There was no message. Titus had not been here. At least not yet, and if he hadn't already arrived, there was a good chance he never would. Though Titus must have been forced to hide out for hours or even a day, he would not have lingered anywhere, knowing as he did that time was of the essence.
Yosef's despair was so overpowering, he barely noticed the tiny creak in the outer room. As the night cooled, wood contracted and the small animals began to emerge from their hiding places in search of food … .
The next time he heard it, he looked up and focused on the ajar door.
The third time, he crouched down behind a toppled cupboard and gripped his knife in a hard fist.
Just above a whisper, a man called, “Master?”
“Titus!”
Yosef lunged for the door, threw it open, and ran straight into the arms of four Roman soldiers. Dressed in common brown robes, they had clean-shaven faces and carried the
gladii,
the short swords, of the Legion. Two of them held Titus by the arms. He was filthy and sweating profusely. His face and brown curly hair were covered with dust and streaks of soot.
“Throw down your knife!” the tall blond man said and aimed his sword at Yosef. He had an almost feminine oval face with long lashes, but the muscles that bulged through his robe spoke of many battles.
Yosef tossed the knife to the floor and held up his hands.
“Forgive me, Master,” Titus said in a shaking voice. “I arrived only moments before you and found them waiting for me.”
“Then …”
Neither of them had to say it.
They have the Pearl.
Titus' chest heaved with silent sobs.
The officer said, “I am Centurion Lutatius Crassus, here by order of Praefectus Pontios Pilatos. You are under arrest.”
“On what charge?” Yosef asked.
“Come with us.” The officer led the way out the door and the men holding Titus forced him to follow. The remaining soldier used his sword to gesture for Yosef to follow Titus.
With his hands up, he stepped out into the dusk, where four more soldiers stood guard.
The surrounding orchards had turned dark and foreboding, but the sky continued to gleam with a faint purplish hue.
Centurion Crassus strode out into the trees and, as Yosef fell into line behind Titus, he saw eight horses grazing placidly amid the fruit trees … and
the packhorse tied to a low branch with the linen-wrapped bundle still on its back; it looked intact.
Hope rose up to choke him.
Perhaps, if one of them could create a diversion, the other could …
The centurion walked straight to the horse, used his knife to cut the straps, and shoved the heavy linen bundle to the ground. Yosef let out a small cry of shock, and tried to run forward, but his guard shouted, “Stop or I'll kill you!”
Yosef's steps faltered. He stood trembling as tears filled his eyes.
“What is this?” the officer asked pointing at the bundle with his sword.
Titus and Yosef glanced at each other, but neither answered.
Grumbling, the officer bent down and ripped at the linen with his sword, shredding it. He ripped again, only to stop when a human arm flopped out. The sword had cut a wide gash across the wrist. Bloodless, it gaped open like a ragged violet mouth.
For a moment, Yosef was so stunned, he couldn't speak. He could clearly see the man's right hand. What had happened to his ring? His grandfather's ring? He'd placed it on the index finger himself, he knew for certain … .
“Are you aware,” the centurion said, “that it is a crime to steal the body of a crucified criminal?”
Yosef's eyes blurred. The world took on a blinding shimmer.
The centurion kicked the bundle over and tugged hard to unwrap the linen. When the body rolled out, Yosef couldn't help it, a sob choked him and tears traced warm lines down his cheeks. If he lived to be a thousand, he would never forget this terrible, wrenching moment. He felt like his heart had been ripped out.
The centurion stared down, then straightened. “You”—he gestured to Yosef—“come forward and identify this man.”
Guards escorted Yosef to the body. He looked down, and his knees went weak.
In stunned confusion, he stammered, “It—it's Dysmas. D-Dysmas the Zealot.”
“That's what I thought. I was sent to arrest you for the theft of the body of the criminal known as Yeshua ben Pantera, but this is not his body.”
Yosef glanced at Titus, silently asking what he'd done, but Titus violently shook his head.
The centurion appeared perturbed. “Where is the body of ben Pantera?”
Yosef shrugged. “I do not know, Centurion. That's the truth.”
The officer scowled at Titus. “Where is the body?”
“I don't know what you're talking about! We promised that when the holy days were over, we would get Dysmas' body to his family in Ioppe. My master received a special permit from the praefectus himself to bury this man! Now …” He swallowed his tears and waved to the body. “Now, his body has been violated, mutilated! I can't face his mother.”
Yosef longed to kiss him.
Crassus sheathed his sword and propped his hands on his hips as he glared at Yosef. “You are Ioses of Arimathaia, yes?”
“I am.”
“High Priest Kaiaphas told the praefectus that after you'd placed ben Pantera's body in your tomb, he'd had you imprisoned to prevent you from doing something foolish, like stealing the body and proclaiming your friend had fulfilled Jewish prophecies. Were you imprisoned?”
It was against the law for Romans to interfere in the actions of the Council of Seventy-one, unless the Council requested their assistance. Yosef was praying it had not.
Yosef wiped his eyes on his sleeve. “I was not imprisoned by Roman order, Centurion, therefore you have no jurisdiction over my escape. Do you? Are you here to enforce the orders of the Council of Seventy-one?”
Crassus' mouth pursed disdainfully. “I do not enforce Jewish orders.”
“Then we'll be on our way. Good evening to you.” Yosef started to walk away.
“Wait.” Crassus frowned angrily. “How did you escape?”
“I have
good
friends.”
Crassus did not need to know that Gamliel, who routinely used Kaiaphas' key to visit prisoners in the dungeon cells, had secretly released him.
Yosef sucked in a halting breath and shifted his weight, waiting for the final hammer's fall.
The centurion said, “My orders are to arrest you for stealing the body of ben Pantera, and to return the body to the praefectus, but—”
“But we do not have the body. There is also no evidence that we are guilty of the theft of his body. Were you ordered to arrest us without evidence?”
If Pilatos had followed his own procedures, the body would have been the condemning evidence required to justify the arrest. Without it …
The centurion gazed at him with stony eyes. As night deepened, the horses began to wander into the shadows. Two of the soldiers went in search of them, and Yosef heard reins jingling as the men gathered the animals and led them back.
Upset, the centurion ordered, “We have no proof that any crime has been committed. Let's return to Jerusalem and report our findings to the praefectus.”
A little resentfully, Yosef said, “Please give Lucius Pontios my regards.”
The centurion glared at him, then waved his men forward. They mounted their horses and galloped up the twisting trail toward the main road. A gossamer haze of dust rose in their wake.
When they'd ridden out of sight, Yosef's legs failed him. He sat down hard. Titus knelt in front of him, his eyes wide and filled with questions that Yosef did not know how to answer.
Yosef said, “The soldiers were waiting for you here?”
“Yes.”
“How is that possible?”
Titus shifted uneasily. “I'm not sure. But … Master, on the way here, just outside of Emmaus, I passed two of the Rab's followers.”
108
“Which two?”
“Cleopas and Kepha.”
109
Yosef's gaze drifted over the dark orchard, the packhorse tied to the tree, and the body on the ground. “Did you see them speaking with the Romans?”
“No, but why else would they be out here?”
Yosef concentrated on his heartbeat, which continued to slam against his ribs as though unaware that the danger had passed. “I don't know,” he murmured.

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