Read The Betrayal Online

Authors: Kathleen O'Neal Gear

The Betrayal (8 page)

Zarathan rushed ahead, swung the door open, and almost fainted when someone moved in the rear. “Oh, dear God, what are
you
doing here?”
Kalay straightened from where she'd been sniffing Brother Jonas' cup of water. She carefully placed it back on the table. Wearing a black cape with the hood pulled up, she would have blended with the darkness were it not for the wisps of red hair that glinted in the faint light. “I knew something was wrong. It was too quiet. I came to look.”
“Well, run! We're in danger!” Zarathan urged.
The hem of her cape brushed the floor as Kalay came around the table to stare at them. “What's happening?”
“There are men, killers, coming into the monastery!”
“To make sure the job was properly done?”
He nodded, trying to say as few words to her as possible.
She swept around the table and peered out the ajar kitchen door. “Is Brother Cyrus going to try to protect you?”
Zarathan gestured with the heavy bag in his hands. In an insistent whisper, he said, “I don't know what he's doing. Now please run away!”
Barnabas put cool fingers on Zarathan's shoulder. The mop of gray hair that surrounded his cadaverous face made it look even more skeletal. His cheekbones protruded as though ready to burst through the thin veneer of skin. “God has cast her lot with ours, Zarathan. She must remain until our fates have been decided. One way or the other.”
The iron hinges on the oratory door groaned as someone pushed the door back, opening it wider. Kalay's mouth tightened.
Zarathan felt as though his chest was about to burst. He flattened himself against the wall, and fought to see, but Kalay's head blocked his view. She was too tall for a decent woman!
“What's happening?” He breathed the words. “Can you see—”
He heard a gasp and a groan, a body toppling to the stone floor, then the sounds of two men struggling.
Like lightning, Kalay shot through the open door and dashed across the oratory with her cape flying.
Zarathan remained frozen, watching with his mouth open. Cyrus had grabbed the killer around the throat. They were both rolling across the floor. Though Cyrus' muscular arm was clamped over the man's throat to mute his cries, ragged squeals still escaped; the man kept ripping at Cyrus' robe, trying to pull Cyrus off him.
“Brother!” Kalay called as she ran headlong for Cyrus. “Move your arm!”
He looked up in time to see her pull one of the kitchen knives from her belt. Cyrus jerked his arm aside, and Kalay lashed out with the blade, neatly slitting the man's throat. A brief shriek erupted, followed by an awful gurgling sound.
Cyrus let the man drop to the floor, took the knife from Kalay's hand, and plunged it into the killer's chest.
“Brothers, hurry!” Cyrus called.
Zarathan sprinted for Cyrus and heard Barnabas padding behind him. Kalay said to Cyrus, “Have you a plan for escaping?”
“No, but I thought—”
“Quiet your tongue and follow me. I have a boat stashed on the river below my washing hut.”
Kalay slipped out the door and ran headlong across the garden. Her black hood fell back and her hair streamed around her like flames straight out of Hades.
Cyrus followed her, though Zarathan had no idea why. With no other viable choice, he ran after Cyrus, and Barnabas followed. They passed through the garden gate, four dark figures taking the path that led past the washhouse. Within moments, Zarathan was panting, his feet hammering the hard-packed trail. The heavy bag of books was like a block of stone in his arms. His first thought was to drop the load, but Brother Barnabas was clinging to his as through his life depended upon it. To save face, he had to keep hold of his own bag.
Zarathan kept shooting frightened glances over his shoulder, sure that they were being pursued. His imagination filled the dark with sinister figures, each about to sink a dagger into Zarathan's back.
When they lunged down the bank toward the dark, glistening waters of the Nile, Zarathan saw only the thick reeds that lined the shallows. Kalay darted into the reeds, the stalks whispering against her clothing.
Zarathan followed the others, the smell of mud, vegetation, and the river thick in his nose. Insects hummed about his head. He batted at the ones that landed on his face.
The boat wasn't the sort of thing Zarathan would have expected of a washerwoman. It was of plank construction, perhaps fifteen cubits in length. The high bow was tethered to the bank with a rope. Three bench seats could be seen inside, and several oars were propped on the seat.
“Where is Sophia?” Cyrus asked, knowing that she and Kalay often worked late into the night.
“Back in the city. She's safe.” Kalay was already picking at the knot on the bow rope.
Even as she spoke, Zarathan could hear shouts in the darkness behind them. He swallowed hard, expecting assailants to leap out of the reeds at any moment.
Cyrus shoved the boat into the water and held it while the others got in. Zarathan, panting for breath, felt the thing rock under his weight, and quickly sat, the book bag pressed to his heaving chest.
Cyrus pushed off, wading out from the bank, then clambered into the rear and reached for a paddle. Kalay already sat in the bow with her own paddle and was propelling them out into the current. Barnabas and Zarathan, with their overstuffed leather bags, sat in the middle.
By the time Cyrus and Kalay had paddled to the middle of the river, a gaudy glare lit the sky. Through the trees that lined the shore, Zarathan glimpsed flames shooting from the basilica's windows. The crashing of wood and stone thundered over the river.
Zarathan whispered, “Dear God, what did we do to deserve this? Are we being punished? Where is our Lord?”
From the darkness beside him, Barnabas softly answered. “Split a piece of wood and he is there. Lift up a stone and you will find him.”
28
Scared and on the verge of tears, Zarathan said, “It's dangerous to quote from the Gospel of Thomas, brother. It's not one of the twenty-seven approved books. What if someone were to hear you? You could be charged with heresy and executed! We all could!”
“I will continue quoting Thomas, brother, and the gospels of Petros, Philippon, and Maryam. Their words are the light. I refuse to live in darkness, even when ordered to do so by my own church.” Barnabas heaved a sigh and, as though coming to a difficult decision, called, “Cyrus? Please stay close to the shore. I wish to stop at a place near the cliff of Gebel et-Tarif.”
“Yes, brother, but we mustn't remain long. We will be in danger until we are far from here.”
“I understand.”
Zarathan propped his arms on his bundle and let the rocking of the boat soothe him.
Barnabas said, “Zarathan, please give me your bag.”
Zarathan handed it to Barnabas, and the elderly monk began sorting through it, pulling out some books and setting them aside, leaving others
inside. He did the same with his own bag until he had two distinct piles, then he refilled the bags.
“Why is Brother Barnabas so worried about those books?” Kalay turned to ask Zarathan.
“A synod of bishops recently met in Nicea, a city in Asia Minor. They declared that many of the holy books we cherish are heretical, and that anyone caught reading or copying them will be charged with treason and put to death.”
Kalay turned back and dipped her paddle again. “Well, if they had orders to kill only those that could read and write, I guess I was safe, since I can't do neither.”
“You were safe,” Cyrus said from the rear, “until you helped us. Now you're in as much danger as we are.”
“You think they'll be looking for you? Coming after you?”
“Oh, yes,” Cyrus said.
For a long time, no one spoke. They just stared at the silver waves that rolled away from the boat.
In a faint voice, Brother Barnabas said, “Yes, they must come after us. They have no choice. They're afraid we know where it is.”
A camel brayed somewhere to the south.
Cyrus asked, “Where
what
is?”
Barnabas did not answer. He clasped his hands over the bag of books, and closed his eyes in prayer.
 
 
 
THE TEACHING ON FORGIVENESS
 
The summer day is bright and warm. To your right, Lake Kennaret shimmers as though strewn with fine fragments of jade. The scent of roasting lamb fills the air, and down the shore you see children playing around the cook fire, where the lamb drips fat onto the flames.
“But it makes no sense, Yeshu,” you object. “Why should we forgive evil people like the Romans? If God were truly just, he would pluck them up and cast them straight into the pit to rid us of their scourge.”
Yeshu's tanned face is damp with sweat, his dark eyes tired. He adjusts the white himation over his head to shield his brow from the scorching sun. “I, too, have struggled to understand why evil people deserve forgiveness … or perhaps why anyone does. We are all thoughtless and cruel, concerned only with ourselves and our own needs. That is, I suspect, the point.”
You shake a fist in the hot air. “The point? What is the point? That forgiveness has no reason? That it is simply a moment of God's grace?”
The lines around his mouth tighten. “No. Ultimately, I think forgiveness is a hard-fought, relentless battle to give of one's self until there is nothing left, and to do it only for another's sake.”
Anger tingles your breast. “Tell me you are not suggesting that we forgive the Romans for what they have done to us? They have murdered our people by the thousands. Are you saying that I should give all of myself, everything that I am, so that God might release them from the punishment they deserve?”
He stares at me with longing in his eyes. When he answers, his voice is soft, but rich and melodic. “Yes. Of course. I am. Because to truly forgive is to feel the presence of Sinai in your heartbeat. Can you feel it, brother?”
You just stare at him with your lips pressed into a white, bloodless line.
Yeshu continues. “Can you hear the echo of God's voice in your own breathing? It's there. It's been there all along, but until you can hear and feel the presence of the divine you will not be able to forgive either the Romans or yourself.”
You fold your arms arrogantly. “I think perhaps, Yeshu, you have gotten lost amid the leaves of the lesson-tree while digging for its roots.”
He smiles and bows his head. “Yes, perhaps. If so, I must work harder and hope that God finds me.”
They'd been paddling for an hour when Barnabas suddenly said, “There, Cyrus. Put ashore near that gap in the reeds.”
As the reeds slid along the side of the boat, Zarathan, who'd been vomiting over the side, lifted his head, and watched Cyrus and Kalay guide the boat to the shore. The starlight reflected from the sand with such brilliance, it appeared to be a shimmering blanket of diamonds.
“Why are we stopping?” Zarathan asked as he wiped his mouth on his sleeve. The awful taste of bile made him long to retch again.
“We won't be long,” Barnabas said.
“We shouldn't stop!” Zarathan said, but no one seemed to be listening. They all continued exactly as they had before he'd opened his mouth. What was the matter with them? The images of his dead brothers' faces seemed to be carved into the back of his eyelids. He couldn't even blink without seeing them, and Barnabas wanted to stop! “We have to keep going,” he cried. “We can't stop! If we stop, they'll find us and kill us!”
“Zarathan, please calm down. Everything is well,” Barnabas said and patted his shoulder gently.
As though the pat had triggered it, the acrid scents of urine and blood filled his nostrils. He lurched to the side of the boat and vomited again. When his stomach stopped heaving, he propped his chin on the edge of the
boat and stared blindly at the stars that reflected in the smooth surface of the river. He felt like he was burning up with fever.
The massive cliff, Gebel et-Tarif, fifty times the height of a man, almost seemed to lean over the water here. Zarathan sucked a breath of cool air into his hot lungs and studied it. The stone wall was filled with holes and cut by starlit ledges, upon which owls perched. He could see their eyes shining.
Cyrus jumped into the water and dragged the boat up onto the beach.
Wet to his knees, he went to the bow to help the others out.
Zarathan stumbled out first. When he turned, he saw Barnabas pick up Zarathan's book bag and waddle forward, his feet slapping a clumsy rhythm on the sand. He looked like a drunken, overweight ibis. What could he want with that bag out here in the darkness? Surely he wasn't thinking of lighting a fire to read by? The old fool. That would end their flight quickly and lethally.
“Let me help with that bag, brother.” Cyrus took it from Barnabas' protective arms.
“Thank you, brother.”
Barnabas stepped onto the sand, immediately took the bag back, and walked straight for the cliff. His head trembled on the slender stem of his neck, as though he could barely put one foot in front of the other.
Zarathan glanced at Cyrus. “Where's Barnabas going? We shouldn't get too far from the boat.”
Before Cyrus could answer, Kalay leaped to the sand in front of Cyrus and said, “You've had some practice at killing, haven't you?”
Cyrus' eyes tightened. “Some, yes.”
She propped her hands on her shapely hips. “I think a lot more than ‘some.' You're just being modest.”
Cyrus gave her an evaluative look. “You saved my life back there. Saved our lives. I haven't properly thanked you. I'm grateful.”
She tossed her head, and her hair shook out into glorious waves. “There's no need. Even though I think you're all mad, I wouldn't see you harmed, especially not by brutes from Rome.”
Cyrus paused. “How do you know they were from Rome?”
“I was in Phoou this morning, buying soap, and saw that blond bishop
when he got off the boat. He had four men with him. One of them was the man we killed. Why'd they come after you?”
Cyrus' eyes remained on Kalay, apparently deciding whether or not to answer her, and she seemed to feel his gaze like a hand upon her body. She drew her black cloak up over her shoulders and tucked a stray tendril of her tumbled hair behind her ear. The action was perfectly natural, almost instinctive, feminine, alluring.
Zarathan felt as though he'd been bludgeoned. A choking sound seeped from his lips before he caught himself.
Kalay turned to him. “Aren't you the one they call Zarathan?”
“I'm not telling you my name! It's common knowledge that if a demon knows your name, it can control you.” He glared at her.
Kalay pulled up her skirt, revealing a bare leg, and scratched her ankle. “You must be Zarathan. I see the resemblance to a circumcised cat.”
Zarathan's mouth fell open and he shot a mortified glance at Cyrus.
But Cyrus had already turned and begun walking across the sand after Brother Barnabas.
“Don't worry,” Kalay whispered almost in his face, “you're safe with me. Your puny soul isn't worth the effort.”
She had the audacity to wink at Zarathan just before she lifted her skirts even higher and tramped after Cyrus.
Zarathan stood as if planted. He didn't want to be anywhere near those bare legs. He cupped a hand to his mouth and called, “I'll stay and guard the boat!”
Brother Barnabas had set the bag down, and now walked along the base of the cliff with one hand on the cool stone. In the starlight, his gray hair and beard shimmered as though coated with frost. Cyrus and Kalay silently plodded along behind him.
Finally, Barnabas stopped, and said, “I think this is it.”
Barnabas knelt and began scooping away sand. Both Cyrus and Kalay fell to their knees to help him.
In no time they'd heaped up a mighty mound and still found nothing.
Zarathan wandered toward them, casting glances over his shoulder, expecting to see a boat filled with black-robed killers paddling around the
wide river's bend. “We should be going. This is taking too long.”
No one answered him, and despair wrung his soul. By now his parents would know about the monastery fire. People in the city would have seen the flames almost immediately and begun running out to see what had happened. His poor mother. He could imagine her searching the charred remains for his corpse while his father carried the torch to light the way. She would be weeping. He suddenly longed to go home so badly he could barely stand it. If only he had the courage, he would … .
“Brother,” Cyrus said, “I think I've uncovered the lid of a jar.”
“Let me see!” Barnabas crawled over, out of breath from his labors, and felt the object. “Yes, let's continue until we have enough space to twist off the lid.”
Zarathan watched them uncover the shoulder of the pot. It looked big.
Curious, Zarathan moved as close as he dared. The demon woman was still giving him occasional glances.
Cyrus said, “What's in the jar, brother?”
Barnabas wiped his hands on his dirty white robe. “I believe it may be …” He paused. “It may be what they're looking for. Can you open it? The lid is sealed with wax.”
Cyrus twisted and the aged wax cracked loose. As he lifted the lid, Kalay bent forward to look inside, then frowned at Barnabas.
“More old books?” She sighed. “Aren't you in enough trouble?”
Zarathan shook his head. If the jar had been standing on the sand, he suspected it would have been nearly as tall as Cyrus.
As though reaching for a precious child, Barnabas slipped his hand deep inside, and drew out a brittle leather pouch. “Cyrus, could you retrieve the bag of books I carried from the boat?”
“Yes, brother.” Cyrus trotted across the sand and brought it back.
Barnabas pointed a gnarled finger to the jar. “Put it in there, with the other books.”
29
Cautiously, Cyrus slid the gazelle leather bag into the jar.
“Now,” Barnabas said. “We must make a fire to heat the wax so that we can reseal the jar, and bury it again.”
Cyrus ran a hand through his curly black hair. “Brother, I don't think that's wise. What if they're pursuing us? They will see the blaze.”
“Yes, yes, I … I'm sure you're right, but—” His voice faded. As
though too exhausted to argue, Barnabas clutched his precious leather pouch to his heart and unsteadily walked away. He slumped to the sand like an old rag doll.
Kalay glanced at Zarathan, saw him flinch, and walked straight toward him. He considered running, but didn't want to appear to be afraid of a mere woman.
“What do you want?” he asked sharply.
She stopped in front of him. “You really hate it when women get close enough to see the whites of your eyes, don't you?”
“It's not women. It's
you,
” he said.
Her brows arched. She tipped her head toward Barnabas. “What's in the pouch?”
“I don't know! I've spent my whole life avoiding heretical books.”
“You mean until recently.”
“Well, it's not my fault the bishops declared one of my favorite books to be heresy. I had nothing to do with it.”
Kalay grunted, and then said, “How did the old man know where that pot was?”
“Go ask him. I'm just running for my life.”
Cyrus went to kneel before Brother Barnabas, who had removed a palm-sized fragment of papyrus from the pouch and gazed at it with tears in his eyes.
Cyrus' white sleeves blew in the faint wind that swept the Nile. Gently, he asked, “Are you well, brother? Do you need a drink of water? I'll have Zarathan fetch you some from the river.”
Barnabas' eyes glistened. “I—I have not always been so faithful, Cyrus,” the old man confessed. “All my life people have brought me books, or tiny fragments of books. I knew some of them contained information that the church would find frightening. Especially … this one.”
Cyrus patiently waited for more. When it didn't come, he said, “So you buried them to protect them?”
Shamefully, Barnabas nodded. “I didn't trust our church.”
From the corner of her mouth, Kalay said, “Well, that proved your salvation.”
“That's blasphemy!” Zarathan scolded. “Salvation only comes through our Lord, Iesous Christos.”
“Really?” she said with a canny tilt of her head. “Tonight, it looked to me as though it came through Brother Cyrus' skill with a carving knife. Not to mention
mine.
”
“Why are you talking to me?” Zarathan demanded to know. “Are you trying to tempt me?”
Kalay looked him over the way she would an annoying insect. “Are you truly so stupid? Or are you just pretending?”
Zarathan couldn't think of an answer.
Cyrus gently said, “Brother Barnabas, please sit here and rest. I'll make a small fire to heat the wax so that we can reseal the pot.”
Barnabas nodded. “Thank you, brother.”
Cyrus walked back across the sand to where Zarathan and Kalay stood. “Brother, please watch Barnabas. He's frail and heartbroken. I'll return soon.”
Zarathan said, “Of course, brother.”
Cyrus turned to Kalay. “Sister, would you like to help me gather driftwood?”
“I will if you'll stop calling me “sister.” I don't believe in that crucified criminal you call a savior. I'm a pagan. I worship the Goddess, and my name is Kalay.” She pronounced it
Kuh-lay.
Cyrus inclined his head agreeably. “I would appreciate some help gathering wood, Kalay, if you would not mind.”
“I wouldn't, Cyrus.”
They walked down to the water and drifted through the starlit reeds like pale ghosts, bending, picking up sticks, talking softly.
Zarathan walked over to Barnabas and found the old man shivering. “Brother? Are you all right?”
“Just cold.”
Zarathan sank to the sand beside him and wrapped his arm around Barnabas' shoulders, trying to warm him. He might be a heretic, but he was his brother. “Barnabas, you mustn't worry so much. You'll wear yourself out.”

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