The Betrayal

by W. Michael Gear

  Yeshua kneels on the ground five paces away, carving a stone. He has not looked at me, but is patiently, expertly chipping the limestone away with a hammer and chisel, forming a symbol that is not yet clear. He wears a white robe and sandals. His black hair and beard shine, as though freshly washed.

  “Maryam told me you would be here, Rab. She’s worried about you.”

  He bows his head for a moment and stares at the base of the limestone outcrop where a large stone blocks the entry to the underground tomb. “I needed some time alone. Today was … difficult.”

  I expel a breath. “Your actions have enraged the Council. You should have lodged a formal complaint and asked for the proper actions to be taken.”

  “The Council doesn’t care that the Temple has become a den of thieves where the vendors rob the poor, or they would put a stop to it.”

  “Of course the Council cares. The vendors carried their merchandise and sacrificial animals beneath one of the Temple porches. They entered the Temple in a state of impurity. Entry is forbidden even with dusty feet. The Council understands that what you did was natural and lawful, but it was not done properly. You started a riot.” I take a deep breath, and say through a long exhalation, “Rome noticed. After you left, they had to send in soldiers to quell the uproar. Three Roman soldiers were killed and several Zealots were arrested.”

  Yeshua hesitates an instant. Then he heaves a breath and expertly uses his tools to remove a stubborn bit of stone. Finally, he wipes away the dust and examines his work.

  “Rab, try to understand the situation from the Council’s perspective. Rumors are flying. The crowds are ready for anyone who will stir things up against the Romans and their supporters. People are crying ‘Hosanna to the son of David’ and ‘Blessed is the Kingdom of our father David that is coming.’ The crowds believe you are of David’s lineage and—”

  “I have never claimed that, Yosef.”

  “I know, Master, but you did say: ‘Seek and you shall find; knock and it shall be opened to you.’ These people are seeking the mashiah with all their hearts. They are knocking as loudly as—”

  Almost angrily, he cries, “Away with the person who is seeking where he never finds, for he seeks where nothing can be found! Away with him who is always knocking, because it will never be opened to him, for he knocks where there is no one to open.”

  “Rab, they are just asking—”

  “And especially away with those who are always asking, because they will never be heard, for they ask of one who does not hear!”

  His words silence me.

  The scene in the Temple was disgraceful. He knows this. As Pesach nears, people devoted to fulfilling God’s commandments arrive from all over the world. The vendors help them to fulfill their ritual obligations. Men over twenty must donate a half-shekel of silver, as Moses commanded in the Book of Exodus. This offering, due once a year by Pesach, necessitates that special “money-changing” tables be set up three weeks before to handle the huge crowds that come to Yerushalaim for the festival. It is also required that people make a sacrifice to God. The wealthy will sacrifice over two hundred thousand lambs on the day of Pesach alone. The poor will substitute doves. This means that animals acceptable for sacrifice must be sold. As well, because the Council charges fees of the vendors, such sales are stunningly profitable for the Temple. No one wants to see the Temple desecrated, but sometimes it happens purely by accident. There are proper steps to punish the guilty. He chose not to follow them.

  I spread my hands in a gesture of futility. “Master, I don’t know what to say to you.”

  His gaze softens. He turns away and uses his tools to fashion what is becoming clear as the symbol of the tekton,62 the stoneworker. For many generations his family has made its way as stoneworkers. Is that what this is? The tomb of a lost friend, another tekton?

  Yeshua uses his finger to trace a small crack, then pets the stone as though it is alive and can feel his touch. “This stone would never have been set by a builder. But it’s beautiful, isn’t it? Flawed, but beautiful. All things have a purpose.”

  He seems to be absorbed by the stone. His gaze focuses on it to the exclusion of everything else. I say, “I think, Master, that perhaps your mind is on other things.”

  “My mind,” he says stiffly, “was on three things today, and three only: Zechariah, Isaiah, and Jeremiah.”

  I shift uneasily.

  Zechariah had prophesied a time when “there will no longer be traders in the house of Yahweh,” and Jeremiah had gone into the Yahweh’s Temple and declared, “Has this house, called by my name, become a den of robbers in your sight?” Finally, Isaiah had foreseen a time when the Temple would be a “house of prayer for all nations.”

  I understand that his actions were a prophetic protest meant to herald the overthrow of the corrupt Temple system by the arrival of the Kingdom of God. But understanding this does not help me.

  I say simply, “Master, the crowds cheered you today. People died. You gave the Romans the reason they need to arrest you.”

  His hammer hesitates over the stone before it comes down hard. “We will spend the night in Bet Ani, Yosef. Tell the Seventy-one that I am not with the crowds stirring them up. Tomorrow I will go to the Temple and speak with the priests, or anyone else who wishes to speak with me, including the praefectus himself.”

  In panic, I say, “Please, please, do not go to the Temple! I beg you. People will flock to hear you, as they did today. Your enemies will be frightened of another riot and the intervention of Roman forces that will be necessary to quell it. You must stay out of the city until after the holy days are over.”

  This year, since Pesach falls on Friday, Nisan the 15th, and the usual Sabbath day is Saturday, two Sabbaths will occur back-to-back.63

  He turns to me. “I will be in the Temple tomorrow morning. Whoever wishes to question me should come and do so. If the crowds are truly as great as you imagine, the Romans will be afraid to arrest me, because that surely will cause a riot.”

  “Oh, Rab,” I say in exasperation, “they will just wait until a more opportune time, at night, when you are alone and vulnerable.”

  “And after my death? What are their plans?”

  I lower my arms and stare at him. He speaks of his death as if it has already occurred. My heart is breaking, and he looks perfectly calm.

  I answer, “The Council is terrified that if they kill you, your disciples will steal your body and proclaim that you were resurrected in accord with prophecy. They’ve already planned for that possibility. They—”

  “Yosef,” he interrupts in a voice that makes my soul quake, “flesh and blood shall not inherit the Kingdom of God. I have told you this. Those who say they will die first and then rise in the flesh are in error. Have I not pounded it into you over and over that it is necessary to find the resurrection while you live?”64

  “You have told me, Master, but I do not understand.” I flap my arms helplessly. “I know you teach that we must be reborn into the divine light while yet we live, but I have never grasped what that means.”

  His bright, hopeful eyes go dark, as though I’ve disappointed him. “If you do not understand,” he whispers, “does anyone? Or are all my words just the fearful wind?”

  He exhales a long, difficult breath and returns to the image he’s carving, giving it a few final taps, then he fills his lungs, blows the symbol clean, and brushes at it with his hand. The symbol of the tekton has two elements: a builder’s square for truing a foundation, and a circle, showing the point at which the master stoneworker strikes to shape the stone.

  With tears in my voice, I proclaim, “They’ll kill you, Rab.”

  He rises to his feet and looks at me with those centuries-deep eyes. Softly, he responds, “God is a man-eater, Yosef.65 Our sacrifices give him life.”

  He pulls up his himation to hide his face and walks away, carrying his hammer and chisel.

  “You should not move through the streets alone tonig
ht, Master! Let me escort you to Bet Ani.” I run to catch up, and he—

  The horse leaped forward, broke into a trot, and the pain in Yosef’s shoulder jolted him from his dreams. He grabbed for the reins with a gasp. The other riders didn’t even turn. He’d fallen far behind. He kicked his mount and rode to catch up with them. Dust puffed from his horse’s hooves and lifted into the sky like ghosts ascending toward heaven.

  As he thundered past the other conspirators, their horses shied and whinnied. Yosef was suddenly desperate to find Titus, to see if he was still alive and had accomplished their sacred task, or if everything they’d risked had been for nothing.

  FOURTEEN

  Barnabas sat beside Cyrus in the rocking boat, watching the shore pass. As they neared the sea, the vegetation began to change, becoming taller and ever more lush. In many places, trees overhung the water. The green scents of wet leaves and bark suffused the air.

  Birdsong filled the air, and Barnabas tried to enjoy the melody. What had once filled him with peace now barely registered. At the edge of his vision, he noticed the thousands of insects, their wings shimmering in the slanting morning sunlight.

  Barnabas forced himself to take a breath. Fear rode his shoulders like the angel of death, leaving every tendon in his body humming, strung so tightly he had to work not to tremble.

  One by one the faces of his brothers stared out from his memory. From Brother Jonas on down, he forced himself to recall them. He engraved each face in his memory, that at least during his life none of them be forgotten. He recalled the cool, shadowed arches of the monastery, heard his brothers’ soft whispers as they assembled for prayer.

  Gone. All gone, lost in an orgy of poison and banished by a sordid wall of flame. How could life with its hopes and dreams be so transitory? Were ninety-seven men no more than a soft exhalation in the vastness of time?

  A cold shiver traced down Barnabas’ back as he glanced over at the delicate fragment of papyrus in Cyrus’ hands.

  Have they already found it? The most sacred place on earth? Did they destroy it with the same ease that they murdered my brothers?

  He bowed his head and silently prayed for the library assistants, many of whom had probably known nothing more than Barnabas’ name and the general nature of the discovery—tiny details they would have gleaned from the notes he’d left in the margins of the original documents. How long had they been forced to suffer?

  Guilt ravaged his soul.

  Dear Lord, grant them swift entry into heaven. For as you promised, all those who walk in the spirit of the life will wear the garment of honor in the everlasting light. Amen.

  As Zarathan and Kalay guided the boat into the shallows, the tree-filtered morning light dappled the ancient papyrus in Cyrus’ hands, flashing upon the letters, as though God himself was trying to point something out. The thin parchment appeared incredibly delicate, almost light enough to float out of his fingers.

  Cyrus murmured, sounding out the words; then he frowned and studied the papyrus again. The once black ink, made from a mixture of soot, gum, and water, had faded to a handsome rusty-brown, but the letters remained perfectly clear:

  MAHANAYIMMEHEBELMAHRAY

  MANAHATMAGDIELELSELAH

  MASSAMASSAMELEKIELEL

  MAGABAEL

  Cyrus shook his head in frustration. He seemed to feel it, that enormous pattern just beyond the reach of his understanding.

  Barnabas knew the feeling well. For most of his life, the fleeting moments of illumination had alternately tantalized and terrified him. So much so, that while he had hidden several copies of the papyrus in different locations, he had never once carried it with him—except in his memory.

  “What do you see, Cyrus?”

  Cyrus lifted his gaze from the papyrus and looked at Barnabas with clear green eyes. “I see ten proper names, maybe twelve, or I think I do.”

  Barnabas nodded in approval. “What are they?”

  At the mention of the names, Kalay turned slightly in the bow to hear better.

  “Mahanayim, Mehebel, Mahray, Manahat, Magdiel, El, Selah, Massa, Massa, Melekiel, El, Magabael.”

  Barnabas studied Cyrus with curious eyes. While a substantial variety of texts about their Lord had, until recently, been available in the monastery, few of the Hebrew Scriptures were available in any Christian monastery. Most monks saw little point in reading them, since their Lord had fulfilled and superceded the Hebrew Scriptures. No one would realize these were names unless he had a knowledge of the Hebrew Scriptures that was both thorough and exacting. Where had Cyrus gained such knowledge? Rome? More likely, Palestine.

  “Yes, I, too, think they are names. Do you know the history of those names?” Barnabas watched him closely.

  Cyrus shoved damp black curls away from his bearded face. “The first name, Mahanayim, is the place along the Iabbok River where Iakobos and his family encountered the troop of angels.”

  Barnabas nodded. “Yes, good. What about the others?”

  “Mehebel may be one of the towns conquered by King David.”

  “Yes, go on.”

  Cyrus’ thick black brows lowered as he studied the papyrus again. “Mahray … I’m not certain. It may be the city—”

  Kalay interrupted with, “Mahray was one of King David’s special warriors. His champion. Mahray came from just southwest of the village of Bet Lehem. He was one of the twins born to Yehudah and Tamar.”

  The boat went silent. Kalay kept paddling as though such obscure historical facts were common knowledge. As the day warmed, locks of her red hair stuck to her long, slender neck.

  Barnabas sat back in the boat. “Forgive me, Kalay, did I hear you say this morning that your grandmother had started reading you the Hebrew Scriptures when you were four?”

  “That’s right. She thought all the Christian teachings were drivel. She was trying to set me straight.”

  Barnabas chuckled. She might be misguided, but she always spoke plainly. He liked that.

  Zarathan, who still looked soul-sick, said weakly, “Is it a veiled reference to our Lord’s birth in Bathleem?”

  Without thinking, Barnabas replied, “He wasn’t born in Bathleem. The infancy narratives are a poor attempt to make our Lord appear to be the son of David, which he was not.”

  “But Maththaios and Loukas say he was!”

  “Yes, well, they’re trying to make him fulfill prophecy. In this case Psalms, chapter one hundred thirty-two, verses five and six, and Micah, chapter five, verse two. Didn’t it ever strike you as odd that in the seventh chapter of Ioannes many of those listening to our Lord knew that Bathleem was the birthplace of the son of David, but these same people show no knowledge that it is the birthplace of Iesous of Nazaret? More importantly, in the earliest versions of the Gospel of Maththaios, used by the Nazoreans, there is no genealogy of our Lord.66 He was most likely born in Nazaret.”

  Stubbornly, Zarathan insisted, “His parents went there for the census! That’s why he was born there! They—”

  “There was no census, brother. Loukas was wrong about that,” Barnabas quietly corrected. “The only census recorded during our Lord’s lifetime was ordered by Quirinius in the year six. Our Lord would have been twelve at the time.”67

  Zarathan, apparently shocked senseless, just stared at Barnabas. His oar was dragging uselessly in the murky water.

  Cyrus softly said, “Brother, perhaps Kalay is the one who should be looking at the papyrus.”

  Zarathan found enough voice to angrily blurt, “She can’t read. What would she do with it?”

  Zarathan’s shoulder-length blond hair and the thin fuzz of blond beard that covered his chin glistened with sweat. His startled blue eyes kept darting about as though he couldn’t keep them still. In the name of God, the youth was frightened clear down to the marrow of his bones.

  “Thank you, brother, for reminding me,” Barnabas replied in a gentle voice. “I’d forgotten. It’s terribly unfortunate, though, since we could use—”
>
  “She doesn’t have to read it,” Cyrus said. “If we read it to her, she can still help us to understand it.”

  Kalay cast an unpleasant glance over her shoulder. “Instead of discussing it amongst yourselves, try asking me.”

  Barnabas blinked. “My apologies, Kalay. Would you be willing to advise us on the proper meaning of these Hebrew names? We would value your help very much.”

  She dipped her head. “I would be happy to help, Brother Barnabas. What’s the next word?”

  Cyrus read, “Manahat. Wasn’t that the place where the clan of Benjamin was exiled to?”

  “Yes,” Barnabas said, nodding. “I’ve often wondered—”

  “Not necessarily,” Kalay interrupted.

  Barnabas closed his mouth and stared at the back of her red head. “No?”

  “No. Manahat was the grandson of Seir, the Horite. He was an Edomite.”

  A gust of wind thrashed the trees on the banks and a shower of leaves fell into the water around them.

  Barnabas cocked his head. To Cyrus, he said, “She may be right, though the form of the name is difficult to explain. Which is why I think it’s a place, but let’s move on. Kalay, what about Magdiel?”

  “Another Edomite chief.”

  “Yes, perhaps, though my own teacher, Pappas Eusebios, believed it to be the name of a place in the Gebalene. Just as—”

  Kalay said, “Actually that would make more sense.”

  Barnabas squinted at her. “Why?”

  “Because Selah, the next word, is also a place, an Edomite rock city conquered by Amaziah, king of Judah.”

  “Why did you say it made more sense?”

  She turned to give him a look that made him feel distinctly inferior. “Place, place—person, person—place, place.”

  Barnabas considered it. The first two names had, probably, been places, the second two, names, the third two, places. Would the next two prove to be names? “That’s an interesting observation, Kalay, let’s see—”