Cyrus pushed the door open a handbreadth, minimizing the squeaking of the hinges, and peered inside.
Zarathan sniffed the air. From the kitchen, he caught the scents of freshly baked bread and roasted goat, but there was something else. The acrid odor of urine. He whispered, “Whatâ”
Cyrus slapped a hand over his mouth so hard the blow nearly knocked Zarathan off his feet. He gaped at his brother in horror.
Cyrus leaned down until his nose almost pressed against Zarathan's and mouthed the words,
Do not make a sound.
With tears in his eyes, Zarathan nodded.
Cyrus pushed the door open wide enough to slide through. Zarathan followed close behind.
Had Cyrus not just warned him, the sight would have made him scream.
Monks slumped over the dinner table with chunks of food in their hands, or lay sprawled on the floor in impossible positions. Pools of urine spread around their bodies.
Zarathan's heart thundered. His entire body might have been on fire. He reached out and tugged Cyrus' sleeve. Cyrus looked at him, seemed to understand that Zarathan wanted to run, and shook his head.
Cyrus moved around the overturned benches, avoiding the shattered plates and cups that covered the stone floor. Zarathan followed on trembling legs.
A man sprawled facedown at the head of the table, his hand outstretched as though he'd been trying to reach for the leaf of parchment that rested just beyond his fingers.
Cyrus gently turned him over.
Brother Jonas!
A wrenching pain twisted Zarathan's heart. He desperately longed to ask Cyrus what had happened, but the cold, fierce look on his brother's face kept Zarathan mute. Not only that, his throat had constricted so tightly he was having trouble breathing.
Cyrus picked up the leaf of parchment and read it. It seemed to take forever before he handed it to Zarathan and whispered, “The list of forbidden books.”
Zarathan didn't even look at it. He just crumpled it in his fist and followed Cyrus as he stealthily moved out of the kitchen and into the hallway that led to the rectory. No lamps burned in the monastery, and as night deepened, it became more and more difficult to see. Cyrus moved methodically down the hall, opening doors, closing them, and resolutely moving on, like Sisyphus with his stone, condemned to forever repeat the same hideous act.
Bodies were usually sprawled on floors, other times slumped over tables. In two cases, they found men hanging out their cell windows, as though at the last instant they'd tried to jump.
What madness is this?
A plate of food rested near every corpse, usually knocked over, with the bread and meat thrown across the floor.
And each man had a bluish face.
When they'd made it to the far end of the monastery, and stood in a square of moonlight streaming through the window, Zarathan could stand it no longer. He whispered, “Cyrus, please tell meâ”
“Cyanide, probably in the meat, but it's possible the murderers added it to the water and bread, too. Don't touch anything.”
“But ⦠why would someone do this? We are just monks!”
Cyrus stared at him unblinkingly. Despite the silver gleam, it was hard to see him. His black hair and beard obscured his face. Only his green eyes were clearly visible, because they reflected the moonlight like polished mirrors.
“At first, after Pappas Meridias' questions, I thought they'd come for me,” Cyrus explained. “But that doesn't make any sense. If they'd wanted me, centurions could have marched in and simply taken me.”
“Why would they want you?”
Cyrus looked away, his gaze scanning the darkness for the hundredth time. Rather than answering, he said, “They obviously did not come for me. They came to destroy some evidence that's here, in the monastery.”
Zarathan wrung his hands like an anxious child. “What evidence? Why couldn't they just order us to turn it over? They could have taken whatever they wanted.”
“Because, my brother, you can't take what is in men's hearts. You have to kill them.”
Cyrus touched a leaf of parchment that rested on the dead monk's table. When he tipped it up to the moonlight, Zarathan saw the large letters that proclaimed it the Gospel of Thomas, a text written by the Lord's twin brother, and revered since the earliest years of Christianity. Probably the monk had been pondering a particular passage.
Cyrus whispered, “The Gospel of Thomas is on that list we found in the kitchen.”
Shocked, Zarathan said, “They have forbidden us to read
Thomas!
But that's absurd. Christians have been reading that book since the beginning! It is my own mother's favorite gospel.”
“No longer, I'm afraid. Not if she wishes to continue breathing.”
Cyrus eased over to the side of the window and studied the monastery grounds and the desert beyond. In the moon glow, the palm trees gleamed as though sheathed in silver dust.
“They're out there,” Cyrus said.
Fear prickled Zarathan's belly. “Who? What are you talking about?”
“The men who are supposed to make certain we are all dead. They'll be coming. Soon. If they were willing to do this to protect themselves, they can't leave anything to chance.”
“You mean like two monks who were not at dinner?” Zarathan felt like he was going to throw up.
Cyrus abruptly turned to look at him. “Do you recall Brother Jonas saying that Barnabas never assigned a punishment that he himself did not follow?”
“Yes, why?”
Cyrus' white robe flapped around his long legs as he swiftly strode out of the room and down the hall.
Zarathan whispered, “Where are you going? If they are coming, shouldn't we get out? While we still can?”
Cyrus didn't even slow down. He went directly to Brother Barnabas' cell and called, “Brother? Brother, are you awake?”
When no answer came, he opened the door and looked inside. After a few moments, he closed the door. “He's not there. Where else might he be?”
“Still in the library, perhaps?”
Cyrus nodded and headed for the basilica, following the path they had taken only that afternoon to see Brother Barnabas.
The echoing passage of their footfalls had an eerie, surreal quality, as though somehow not human.
As they hurried through the dark corridors, Zarathan pleaded, “Cyrus, how long do we have before they come looking? Shouldn't we run?”
“That, brother, is the last thing we should do. The first person who flees the monastery will be cut down in a heartbeat. We need to wait until it's too dark for them to see us leave.”
“How long will that be?”
“Perhaps another half hour before the moon sets.”
“We could be dead by then!”
They walked back through the grisly kitchen and out into the oratory, where Cyrus stopped dead in his tracks.
The trapdoor to the library crypt was open. The amber glow of an oil lamp created a halo over the entry and illuminated the oratory.
Cyrus said, “Who else has a key to the crypt?”
“How would I know?” Zarathan hissed. His heart was beating so hard it felt like it might jump out of his chest. “Please, Cyrus, let's run!”
Cyrus said, “Wait for me here. Do not move unless I tell you to. Do you understand?”
“Y-yes.”
Cyrus moved across the floor like a lion on a hunt, one cautious step at a time. When he neared the crypt, he got down on his belly and slid forward until he could see over the edge.
“Brother,” Cyrus called softly, “what are you doing?”
“Hmm?” Brother Barnabas' frail, confused voice responded. “Oh, IâI wanted to see these books. One last time. I thought I might spend the night reading them, trying to memorize their words. I have memorized many, but not all of them.”
Cyrus rose and hurried down the steps into the crypt, disappearing from Zarathan's view, leaving him absolutely terrified. He scurried across the room, breathing hard, and called into the crypt, “Let's go! Hurry!”
Cyrus didn't even look up at him. He had taken the two gazelle leather bags and was stuffing them full of every book that would fit, while Brother Barnabas watched in utter bewilderment.
“Cyrus, what are you doing?” Barnabas asked.
“Saving as many as I can. Brother Barnabas, do you realize what's happened here tonight?”
As Barnabas tilted his gray head, his long hooked nose cast a shadow across his cheek. “What do you mean?”
“Everyone else is dead. They were poisoned tonight at dinner.”
Barnabas' elderly brow furrowed, as though in anger. “Cyrus, that is not amusing. I don't know what would possess you to sayâ”
“Brother?” Cyrus glanced up at Zarathan and said, “Please show Barnabas the kitchen.”
“Me?” Zarathan asked in horror. “But Iâ”
“Do it!” Cyrus ordered in a voice that sent a shiver down Zarathan's spine.
Zarathan began shaking violently. He had never been brave. Since childhood, he'd hated lightning storms and banging cartwheels. Fisticuffs appalled him. Even loud, angry voices made him shriek and hide. “Brother,” he whined, “please, don't make me go back in there!”
“If I have to climb out of this crypt and drag you, brother, you'll regretâ”
“Wait.” Barnabas gave Cyrus a frightened glance, and climbed the stairs. When he stepped into the oratory, he said, “Show me, Zarathan.”
Zarathan scurried for the door to the kitchen, pushed it aside, and held it open for Brother Barnabas to peer through. The odor of urine now overpowered that of the bread.
Barnabas froze in the doorway, his throat working. He kept swallowing convulsively, and his long, narrow face had gone as white as the moonlight. His gaze fixed on each dead face, studying it in disbelief. “Who ⦔
Zarathan answered, “We don't know. But Cyrus said they're desperate and can't leave anything to chance. Which means that soon someone will be coming into the monastery to make certain we are all dead. We have to go, brother.”
Tears traced silver lines down Barnabas' wrinkled cheeks. He wiped them on his white sleeve and whispered, “Is it the books?”
“I don't know, brother.”
When he didn't move, Zarathan took him by the sleeve and gently tugged him away from the kitchen and back toward the trapdoor over the library crypt.
Cyrus trotted up the stairs with two hugely overstuffed bags and gave one to Barnabas. “Can you take care of this, brother?”
Barnabas took the bag and ran his hand over the beautiful leather as though it contained something more precious to him than life itself. “Yes.”
Cyrus fairly threw the other bag at Zarathan, saying, “If my suspicions are right, what's in that bag is worth the lives of one hundred monks. Keep it safe.”
“But why do I have to carry it?” Zarathan complained. “I don't even want to touch heretical books!”
Cyrus ignored him, trotted across the oratory, then silently eased up alongside the open door that led to the garden. With great care, he looked outside. It seemed to take forever before he waved for Zarathan and Barnabas to join him.
Their heavy bags clutched to their breasts, they sprinted across the floor.
Cyrus whispered, “We have to wait for the right moment.”
“When will that be?” Zarathan demanded. “We should go now! If we don't escape, they'll find us and capture us, andâ”
“Zarathan,” Brother Barnabas said in his deepest, calmest voice. “Fear not, stand still, and see.”
He extended a finger to the darkness beyond the garden, and Zarathan saw black shapes moving against the sand. Four of them. They were creeping toward the monastery, bent over, as silent as ghosts. Something, probably weapons, glinted in their hands. They must have had their faces blacked with charcoal because the moonlight did not reflect from them.
As it will ours â¦
Cyrus hissed, “They're splitting up. One man is going to come through this door. Both of you hide in the kitchen until I call you.”
Zarathan was already on his way at a run when he heard Brother Barnabas say, “Cyrus, please. Don't do this. I would rather die than see you return to your former life of sin. Your soulâ”
“There's no time to discuss this, brother. Someone must save the words of our Lord.” Cyrus gestured to the books, probably realizing it was the only argument that would persuade the old monk.
Barnabas clutched the gazelle leather bag to his chest, murmured, “Yes, IâI ⦠will,” and reluctantly turned away to follow Zarathan to the kitchen.