The Betrayal

by W. Michael Gear

  She finished washing her face and sat back on the sand. They’d pulled the boat ashore just a quarter hour ago. All of them were exhausted, but especially Brother Cyrus. Since the slaughter at the monastery last night, he hadn’t closed his eyes for a heartbeat.

  As she tied her wavy red hair back with the leather cord, she looked at the three brothers ten paces to her left. The young blond one with the perpetually stunned expression was asleep. He lay curled up on the bank next to Brother Barnabas, who had his nose pressed against that scrap of papyrus they’d retrieved from the pot last night. Only Brother Cyrus was doing anything truly practical. He’d found a dessicated goat carcass on the shore and pulled out several of the bones. He was rubbing each on a stone, grinding it to a sharp point to fashion it into a stiletto.

  Now there’s a man worth a woman’s respect.

  When he noticed her attention, Cyrus tucked the four stilettos into his belt, rose, and walked down the shore toward her.

  She let her gaze roam across his broad shoulders to his trim waist and finally down the length of his long legs. If she’d had any longing for a handsome man, he would have stirred the dead embers of her passions.

  He knelt in front of her, and looked straight into her eyes. A deed few men had the courage to do. “Kalay, I have a question for you.”

  “First, ask me if I’m well. If I’m hungry. Or maybe what I think of the sunlight on the river.”

  Cyrus frowned in confusion, then a smile slowly came to his lips. Perhaps he realized that monks never treated women as human beings, but merely as objects to be dealt with as little as possible. That had been the most difficult part of working at the monastery. The loneliness. Except for the mute Sophia, she’d had no real human contact. Just orders from monks who refused to look her in the eyes. Men were such frail creatures, so susceptible to the attentions of beautiful women—though, if Cyrus was, he was doing a valiant job of not showing it.

  “I’m sorry,” Cyrus said. “Are you well, Kalay?”

  “Yes, for the most part, thank you. I appreciate you letting me sleep some in the boat last night. I think everyone got to rest a bit, except you.”

  His dark brows drew together and he looked out at the river.

  She asked, “Are you calculating how far they are behind us?”

  “Actually, I’m worried they may not be on the river.”

  She stared at him a moment. “Ah. I understand. If they travel overland, they can avoid the water’s twists and turns. So you’re afraid there will be an ambush waiting for us somewhere ahead.” She arched an eyebrow. “Alexandria? Or Leontopolis?”

  “I’m betting they’ll race us to Alexandria. It’s the smartest bet. The city is huge, with lots of places to hide. They’ll assume that Barnabas has connections there, men who will aid him.”

  “And that’s the best place to hire passage on a ship,” she added.

  “All the more reason why we shouldn’t go there.” His black curly hair blew around his handsome face. “But that means purchasing passage, either by camel or wagon, to continue our journey.” He let the implication sink in.

  She laughed softly. “Cyrus, I didn’t have time to gather my meager shekels, if that’s what you’re asking. I can’t pay for my own passage, let alone yours.”

  “Would you consider selling your boat?”

  She tilted her head. “Well, there’s a thought. It’s not going to be of much use to me if I’m on camelback. Besides, I stole it, so it never cost me a coin. Of course I’ll sell it”—she tucked a lock of windblown hair behind her ear—“if you’ll tell me where we’re going.”

  Cyrus turned to look over his shoulder at Brother Barnabas. When he turned back, he said, “My brother tells me that we must head north, but that’s all I know.”

  “‘North’ is not much of a destination.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “Do you trust him that much? That you’ll just go where he says to?”

  “I trust him with my life.”

  Kalay shifted to peer at Barnabas. The gray-haired old man had not moved since it had grown light enough to read. “He’s had his nose pressed on that scrap of papyrus all morning. What’s it say?”

  Cyrus gave her a faint smile. “He won’t let me read it, so I don’t know.” “What language is it? I couldn’t tell.”

  “It’s Latin, I think.”

  “Is it truly dangerous?”

  An agonized expression tightened his face. He frowned at the river again, his gaze searching the water and shorelines, lingering on the shadows cast by the trees. “Ninety-seven of my brothers died last night and Barnabas is certain they were killed over that ‘scrap,’ as you call it. I’d say it’s very dangerous.”

  She grunted and watched a camel loping across a hilltop in the distance, while she considered her curious position. She couldn’t return to Phoou. They might be looking for here there. She had no relatives. But what future did she have with three monks of questionable sanity?

  “Cyrus, what did you do in the army?”

  He gave her an evaluative sidelong glance. “What makes you think I was in the army?”

  “No man kills as cleanly as you did without being trained to do it. Were you some general’s personal cutthroat?”

  “It would be more accurate to say I was some general’s personal guard.”

  “But you’ve seen fighting. I can tell it in the way you carry yourself.”

  She’d always found it interesting the way people revealed their pasts in the motions of their bodies. A tilt of the head, a wave of the hand, told her immediately whether a woman was noble born, or a courtesan. Men were the same. A clumsy tread and he was a merchant. A lion’s stealthy gait, he was a soldier.

  Through a long exhalation, Cyrus said, “Yes. Too much fighting. Most of it senseless. Emperors are passionate about vainglorying.”

  Emperors? He was the personal guard to an emperor?

  They were quiet for a time.

  Finally, he asked, “And what about you? How does a simple washerwoman develop the instinct and skill to slit a man’s throat to the bone like that?”

  “I worked in a”—she smiled—“a butcher shop. And one pig’s throat is pretty much like another’s.”

  He stared at her. “And how did a butcher’s assistant, not to mention a pagan goddess worshipper from Palestine, come to be a washerwoman for a Christian monastery in Egypt?”

  “Let’s just say I believed no one would come looking for me there. Nor did I have to worry about the good brothers coming to visit after dark.” She paused. “And … I was a Christian once, a long time ago.”

  “Really?” He clearly wanted to ask her why she’d left the faith, but instead asked, “Were your parents Christians?”

  She drew up her knees and propped her elbows on them. The morning air was luminous with sunlit dust. She could smell the musk of the silt-laden Nile in the air. Cyrus had an interesting face, she decided. His eyes most of all. Heavily lidded, they were the color of dark emeralds, and had the same mysterious sparkle. No matter how hard she looked, she couldn’t quite see him in there. He’d had practice at putting up shields, too.

  “Yes, my family was Christian,” she answered. “I was six when the Great Persecution came roaring down upon us. After eight years of running and hiding, my family was cornered by Roman soldiers on the outskirts of the city of Emmaus. I watched both of my parents tortured to death. My little brother was carried off as a slave.” She hesitated, before adding, “The only thing I ever wanted was family, Cyrus. The Church took even my hope of a family away from me.”

  Cyrus betrayed no emotion. “When did you become a pagan?”

  “As soon as I could.”

  Surely he knew why. Even if he did not know the history of the persecution in Palestine, he would have seen it in Rome. It had been a horrific time. Christian churches and houses where Christian scriptures were found were ordered to be destroyed and the scriptures burned. Christian worship was forbi
dden. Christian clergy were arrested. Those who persisted in proclaiming themselves Christians lost all rights as members of the Roman Empire, even the right to bring actions in court—which meant they were totally vulnerable to anyone who wanted to do anything to them. Many, many people were simply murdered for their faith.56

  The corners of her mouth turned up. “It’s curious, don’t you think? Twenty-two years ago, it was the Romans who were burning Christian books. Now it’s Christians burning Christian books. Where does it end, Cyrus? What can be so dangerous about a few black squiggles on parchment?”

  “Sometimes,” Cyrus said, “black squiggles are the most fearsome weapons in the world.”

  She found it interesting that he hadn’t asked for more details about her life before she came to the monastery. Perhaps he didn’t want to know. Men rarely did. Such ugliness seemed to wound the good ones deep down.

  “I don’t know why you monks don’t just take to worshipping Satan,” she said.

  “What?”

  “He constantly proves he’s more powerful than God. If I were going to be a Christian, that’s who I’d be begging for help.”

  Cyrus smiled, apparently thinking she was joking, and pointed out, “You didn’t answer my question. How did you get to Egypt?”

  “Well, it’s a long story, Cyrus.” She made an airy gesture with her hand. “It began with a wealthy spice merchant who had an unhealthy passion for ropes. One night his vital signs mysteriously stopped in my presence. He had friends who either took it personally, or wanted to try the same rope tricks. After that, one thing led to another.”

  For a few moments she feared he might adopt the “crucifixion look,” that morally tormented expression that so many of his brothers plastered on when faced with the unsavory details of life, but he caught himself. His expression relaxed and he calmly held her gaze. “And now?”

  “I think you need my help.”

  “We do.” He nodded, rose to his feet, and asked, “Are you hungry? Why don’t you help me catch some fish? We’ll roast them quickly, and be on our way.”

  She got up and walked at his side down the shore. “You’re not going to preach at me, are you?”

  “No.” He shook his head. “I am no longer worthy to speak my Lord’s words … if I ever was.”

  TWELVE

  A dusty radiance filled the morning air, turning the sky into a shimmering blanket of pure amber.

  Zarathan knelt beside the small fire, watching the fish skins turn brown and peel. Watching fish was much easier than watching Kalay cook. The woman had skewered the fish on sticks of driftwood, then stuck them in the sand and leaned them over the small blaze. At his age, the strangest things caused overpowering lust. As she moved about adding twigs to the fire, wisps of her long red hair danced around her tanned face. He occasionally caught glimpses of her breasts as she leaned down to turn the fish so they wouldn’t burn. It was agonizing.

  Cyrus and Barnabas sat ten paces away, talking quietly. He only caught pieces of what they were saying, but the expression on Cyrus’ face was dire.

  “What are they talking about?” Kalay asked, jerking her head in Cyrus and Barnabas’ direction.

  To say her eyes were blue would have been like describing the most magnificent amber as yellow—words could not convey the sparkling unearthly depth and richness.

  “Something about the city of Leontopolis.”

  “So that’s our final destination?”

  “I don’t know, but Barnabas says he knows a man, an old hermit, who lives in a cave a few days’ hard ride north of the city, on the coast.”

  “Are we going to the hermit’s cave?”

  Annoyed, Zarathan replied, “Does it look like I’ve been included in the planning? I’m guessing, just like you are.”

  Kalay propped her hands on her hips and her full lips quirked. “Zarathan, did it ever occur to you the cat comment might have been inspired by that yowling tone of voice you so often affect?”

  His cheeks reddened. “You are so infuriating! You prove beyond question that Saint Petros was right. Women are not worthy of life.”

  “Did he say that?”

  “Yes. In the now forbidden Gospel of Thomas. It’s one of my favorite books.”

  “I see why.”

  She bent down to turn the fish again, and he squeezed his eyes closed until he heard her straighten up. When he opened one eye to peek at her, she glared at him.

  His stomach growled, loudly, and knotted up.

  Kalay said, “You’re not eating this morning, are you?”

  “Of course, I’m eating. Why?”

  “Well, it’s none of my concern, of course, but yesterday afternoon I heard some of the monks say that you and Cyrus had been ordered to fast for three days, because of a broken pot, or some such.”

  Zarathan could feel the blood drain from his face. He felt faint. “Surely, Brother Barnabas isn’t going to—”

  “You can ask him. Here he comes.” She extended a hand.

  He swiveled around and saw his brothers walking toward the fire. Cyrus’ white robe was filthy and blood-spattered from rolling around the oratory floor. Then their time on the river had added to the patina. It contrasted sharply with the pure white of Barnabas’ robe.

  Zarathan tried to interpret his brothers’ expressions: Both men had a tightness about their eyes, and mouths.

  Kalay pulled the four sticks with the roasted fish from the sand and began handing them out. Zarathan eagerly took his and bit into it before anyone could tell him otherwise. Then he winced in horror when Barnabas and Cyrus got on their knees and bowed their heads.

  Barnabas softly murmured the Creed established by Hippolytus in the year 215: “Do you believe in God the Father all-governing? Do you believe in Iesous Christos, the Son of God, who was begotten by the Holy Spirit from the Virgin Miriam? Who was crucified under Pontios Pilatos, and died, and was buried, and rose on the third day living from the dead, and ascended into the heavens, and sat down on the right hand of the Father, and will come to judge the living and the dead? Do you believe in the Holy Spirit, in the holy church, and in the resurrection of the body?”

  Cyrus reverently whispered, “I do.”

  Around a mouthful of fish, Zarathan slurred, “I do.”

  Kalay said, “What a lot of twaddle that was,” and bit into her fish.

  While she chewed, the brothers stared at her.

  Cyrus rose, walked around the fire, and handed his fish to Zarathan. “You need this more than I do, brother. Please, take it.”

  Zarathan took the stick and propped it across his lap. “Thank you, brother.”

  Zarathan wondered if Cyrus was still keeping his fast, or if giving away the fish was his “one single act of mercy” for the day. Both, perhaps. In either case, Zarathan’s squealing belly was grateful.

  Barnabas ate his fish distractedly, his faraway gaze fixed on the flickering fire.

  “You don’t really believe all that drivel, do you?” Kalay asked between bites.

  “Of course, we believe it,” Zarathan snapped. “What a silly question. Do you think we’d say the words if we didn’t—”

  Almost inaudibly, Barnabas said, “Mostly, yes, except for the part about the resurrection and, of course, he was a mamzer.”

  Kalay’s eyes flew wide and Cyrus froze as though he’d just been slapped.

  The word seemed to tremble in the desert-scented air, inviting swift and terrible divine retribution.

  Zarathan swallowed and asked, “What’s a mamzer?”

  Kalay answered, “It’s Hebrew for bas—”

  Cyrus interrupted, “The Aramaic term, which is similar, refers to an illegitimate child.”

  Zarathan’s gaze went from one person to the next, trying to fathom what they were talking about. No one seemed to want to tell him. “Who’s an illegitimate child?”

  Barnabas, who seemed totally oblivious to the shocked faces, took another bite of his fish, and replied, “Our Lord, Iesous
.”

  Zarathan blurted, “That’s blasphemy!”

  Cyrus and Kalay sat in stunned silence, their eyes riveted on the old man.

  Barnabas chewed his fish and swallowed. Distractedly, he said, “Didn’t you ever notice that in the earliest Christian documents, he’s never referred to as the ‘son of a virgin’?”

  “He isn’t?” Zarathan tried to recall.

  “No.” Barnabas shook his head. “Outside of the gospels, we have records that tell us Iesous’ father was a man named Pantera. Our Lord is often referred to as Yeshua ben Pantera, that is, ‘Iesous, son of Pantera,’ though there are variations on the man’s name. Sometimes it’s ‘Panthera,’ or ‘Pan-tiri, ’ ‘Pandora,’ or even ‘Pandera.’”57

  In an awestruck voice, Cyrus said, “Pantera.”

  And Zarathan remembered the passage Cyrus had read to him from Papias’ book. It had mentioned the “son of Pantera,” and something about ‘a headless demon.’ His gaze was involuntarily drawn to the gazelle leather bag that Barnabas kept beside him at all times. He had the uncomfortable feeling that voices whispered inside that bag, just beyond his range of hearing.

  Cyrus asked, “Where is this information about Pantera recorded, brother?”

  “Oh, in many documents, both Roman and Hebrew. The scandal was well known at the time our Lord walked Palestine. One of the earliest rabbinic references dates to around the year seventy, or forty years after our Lord’s death, which is also when the earliest gospel, the Gospel of Markos, was being written—and you will notice that Markos does not mention the name of Iesous’ father at all.”

  Zarathan narrowed an eye. Surely it had just been a simple omission on Markos’ part.

  Cyrus leaned closer, his gaze fixed on Barnabas. “What does the rabbinic document say?”

  “It’s a story about a rabbi, Eliezer, who was arrested and charged as being a Christian because he had listened to an heretical teaching ‘in the name of Yeshua ben Pantera,’ which violated the rabbinic ordinance prohibiting any intercourse with heretics. We have the record because his case was submitted to the Roman governor.”