The Betrayal

by W. Michael Gear

  EIGHTEEN

  At dark, the oil lamps of Leontopolis glittered to life and a pale, fluttering gleam danced over the surface of the river.

  Zarathan studied it from where he huddled in the shadow of the broken-down barn with his hands clasped over his ears, trying not to hear what was happening inside. Hours ago, when Cyrus and Kalay had first taken the Roman inside, the sound of blows and grunts had filled the air. Zarathan had quaked at Cyrus’ demands that the killer tell him why he’d had to murder everyone in the monastery. Who had given the order? The pain in Cyrus’ voice had been more agonizing than the groans of the killer. Now there were no sounds except soft voices, and horses chewing hay.

  “We should leave,” Zarathan said. “Isn’t it dangerous to stay here so long? Eventually, someone will hear us, or come to check on the horses.”

  Barnabas, who knelt in prayer five cubits away, his book bag by his side, did not respond. He’d been praying unceasingly since they’d arrived. In the amber glow of the city, Barnabas’ long, narrow face seemed carved of alabaster. Though his deeply sunken eyes remained in shadow, his short gray hair and beard had a faint yellow hue.

  Several times, Zarathan would have sworn the old man was weeping. And why wouldn’t he? All of this was madness.

  Zarathan rose to his feet and walked away. In the distance he could see the empty merchant booths and the dock that jutted out into the water. People still milled around the boats, probably fishermen coming in late from their labors.

  A gust of wind blew across the river and flapped the hem of his white robe. He barely noticed. He felt empty. Like a gutted fish, his insides were raw and bleeding. This whole monk idea had been a mistake. He longed for nothing more than to go home and hide in his room. If God would let him do that, he would spend all day, every day on his knees in prayer.

  They wouldn’t have hurt my parents, would they? Surely they didn’t burn our home?

  His teachers at the monastery had always taught him that the Lord put people in places where they could learn the things necessary to help usher in the Kingdom of God. But what was he supposed to learn from this? Or from the senseless slaughter of his brothers?

  He whispered, “Blessed Iesous Christos, why are you punishing me? What have I done?”

  Across the garden, near the church, a dog barked and began to howl. Other dogs joined in, filling the night with an eerie chorus.

  Tears rose in Zarathan’s eyes. The golden dome of the church shone as though drenched in liquid amber. “We should have gone in. Someone there would have protected us. If Barnabas hadn’t listened to that woman, we’d be far away by now.”

  He folded his arms and hugged himself. The massive stones of the church were perfectly hewn and beautifully laid. Zarathan’s father had been a tekton, a stoneworker, just like his Lord, Iesous Christos, so he knew quality work when he saw it.

  Zarathan missed his family more than he’d ever thought possible. He had the overwhelming urge to run all the way home and throw himself into his father’s arms. If he could only lie down knowing that his father stood by the door with a setting mallet in his hand, perhaps he could sleep for days. Then he would wake to find that all this had been a terrible nightmare. He yearned to—

  “What?” Barnabas said.

  Zarathan turned and saw Cyrus and Kalay exiting the barn leading two skinny horses. The poor animals’ ribs stuck out like thin iron bars.

  He tramped back across the soft garden soil. Barnabas had risen to his feet and was staring up at Cyrus like a lost soul. “What else did he tell you?”

  “He told us that Pappas Meridias is on his way to Caesarea in Palestine,” Cyrus said and wiped his right hand on his robe.

  Though Zarathan couldn’t be certain in the darkness, the stain that coated Cyrus’ white linen robe looked like fresh blood. Kalay stood beside him with her red hair tied back and her enticing face gleaming in the moonlight. One of the horses shook its head and it reins clinked.

  In a panicked voice, Barnabas asked, “Did he tell you why? Are they going after Pappas Eusebios?”

  “I know only that Meridias is desperately trying to find something called the Gate of Yeshua. Do you know what that is?”

  Barnabas tilted his head as though reluctant to answer, but whispered, “Yes, I—I’ve heard of it.”

  “What is it?”

  Barnabas swallowed hard and lowered his voice even further. “It was a question asked of our Lord’s brother, Yakob, just before they killed him. But I—I don’t know what it is,” he said and gestured to the barn, as though saying, Please, let’s speak no more here.

  Zarathan said, “I don’t understand how you got the killer to talk. When I looked into his eyes, I got the impression he would rather die than—”

  “Oh, you’d be surprised what a man will do”—Kalay tucked the silver dagger into her belt—“when you slit open his sack and start shaving off thin slices of his testicle in front of his eyes.”

  Zarathan felt light-headed.

  Cyrus opened his mouth to say something, then closed it, nodded, and pointed to the horses. “Let’s go.”

  Cyrus literally lifted Barnabas onto the back of the horse. He looked at Zarathan. “Brother, there are only two horses. You will need to ride behind Barnabas. I’ll carry Kalay behind me.”

  Zarathan weakly asked, “Are we stealing horses as well as torturing human beings?”

  Cyrus gave him a look that froze Zarathan’s heart. He had the feeling that in another place and time, Cyrus would have cut out his heart for that comment.

  “I left the farmer half the drachmas we received from the sale of the boat,” Cyrus answered. “It should be more than enough to pay for these miserable beasts.”

  “Then why don’t we leave more drachmas and take four, one for each of us?” Zarathan asked.

  It was Barnabas who answered. “We may need the rest of that money, and with two horses the farmer can still work his field. Brother Cyrus made the right choice: half the money for two horses. Now, climb up behind me. We need to leave here.”

  Zarathan handed up the book bag and took three tries to climb up behind Barnabas. The horse tramped and tossed its head in irritation.

  “What about the killer?” Barnabas asked.

  Cyrus said, “I’ll take care of him.”

  But as he turned back to the dilapidated barn, shouts rang out: “Stop! Horse thieves! Stop them!”

  Rounding the house, three men—probably the farmer and his sons—were racing across the field toward them.

  Kalay said, “Cyrus, get inside and take care of him, or—”

  “There’s no time.” Cyrus mounted the horse and extended a hand to help her climb on behind him. The animal almost buckled under their weight.

  As Kalay slipped her arms around his waist, she said, “This is a mistake. If you let him live, he’ll—”

  “Come on!” Zarathan cried. “They’re coming fast!”

  Cyrus kicked the horse into a fast trot, and Barnabas and Zarathan, bouncing like sacks of wheat, followed.

  NINETEEN

  The crowing of a cock woke Loukas.

  I’m alive … .

  He opened his eyes and blinked at the dilapidated barn. Through the gaps in the sagging roof, stars gleamed against an ebony background.

  His naked body felt as though it were on fire. Some day, when he had the luxury of time, he would use that torture method on one of his victims. It was singularly excruciating. On the floor around him bloody handfuls of oat straw lay. Atinius had first beaten him into submission with his fists, then he’d walked to the straw bunk and pulled out a handful of the long, golden stems. When he walked back, he’d slapped Loukas across the face with the straw. It hadn’t hurt at first. But after an hour the chaff in his eyes had felt like crushed glass, and the minute irregularities in the straw had left thousands of tiny cuts. Two hours later he’d felt as though he’d been flayed alive. His face hurt the worst. He’d been forced to keep his eyes closed to protec
t them, and his eyelids, the object of constant abuse, had swollen to twice their normal size. Every breath of wind that blew across the bloody pulp was agony.

  Through it all, the magnificent woman had smiled at him. Toward the end, she’d been the interrogator. Atinius had told her what to ask, and she’d done it in a cooing voice, like a cat’s purr just before it leaps for your throat. Over and over again, the same questions: “Where is Pappas Meridias? What’s he looking for? Who’s giving the orders?”

  He’d refused to speak despite the agony. In the end, the woman had smiled seductively at him, and drawn his own knife from her belt. She’d waved it in front of his eyes with the same flair as a courtesan sensually waving a recently removed piece of clothing.

  At the touch of the blade to his scrotum, he’d shrieked into his gag until his throat had gone raw.

  Wait until I get my hands on you, beauty.

  Just before he’d passed out, he’d seen the farmer charge into the barn, find the money Atinius had left for him, then calmly go about forking more hay to the remaining horses. The man hadn’t seen Loukas lying curled in the dark corner … but when morning came, he would.

  Loukas tested the ropes that bound his hands and feet. Centurion Atinius was a master of knots.

  As the night moved toward dawn, the sky brightened, becoming more blue than black, and Loukas saw the glint of iron on the wall near the horses.

  He clenched his teeth as he dragged himself across the floor toward the stalls. The big black horse watched Loukas with jet eyes, not sure what to make of him. The smaller bay, more concerned with filling his belly, paid him no attention at all, choosing instead to eat hay.

  When he reached the wall, Loukas sagged against it for a few moments, resting, before he awkwardly levered himself to his feet and hopped toward the tool hanging on a peg above the bay’s shoulder. The horse shied away from him, prancing in his stall and flaring his nostrils at the scent of Loukas’ blood.

  Using his head, Loukas shoved the rusty sickle off the wall onto the dirt floor, then he sank down beside it. The bay went back to eating, but his gaze kept darting to Loukas.

  Loukas twisted around and placed the ropes against the metal blade. Despite the discomfort, he began patiently sawing.

  Then I’ll be off to Alexandria.

  He’d revealed more than he should have, and loathed himself for it. A shiver wracked him when he remembered the sight of that cold metal slicing through his soft pink tissue. The Gate of Yeshua. I told them about it … .

  Loukas had first heard the phrase whispered in the deepest circles of the Militia Templi. No one knew what it meant, but it carried a strange ring of Truth. Like the “Kingdom of God,” anyone who heard “the Gate of Yeshua” stopped for a moment. He could not say why, but the words seemed to resonate in the chambers of the heart, as though the soul heard and understood them, even if the mind did not.

  The first strand of rope broke with a dull pop. Loukas shifted to reposition his bound hands.

  He would be late for his prearranged meeting with Pappas Meridias, but Meridias depended upon him. The man could not proceed without first hearing Loukas’ report.

  Loukas inhaled around his gag as best he could and went back to work. While he sawed, he let his thoughts drift, but they always returned to the magnificent woman. Her ethereally beautiful face had carved its own shrine inside him.

  Kalay. Her name is Kalay. Oh, you shall pay for what you did to me, beauty.

  TWENTY

  In the moonlight, the endless desert sands glimmered as though alive. But looks deceived. This was a sere land, wind-scoured and bitter. Outcrops of rock that had once jutted defiantly against the sky were now rounded, veined and ridged from the blowing sand. Here and there dunes lay in hollow crescents on the stony, deflated soil. Above it all, the pewter sky bore down with a relentless weight.

  They followed an old caravan trail that headed north toward the city of Bersabe in Idumea. The horses’ hooves cracked and popped on the desert pavement. Along the route, decaying bits of old wagons and broken harnesses lay strewn, as well as the refuse of many camps: charcoal, broken pot sherds, torn baskets, fragments of oil lamps. They’d even found three mostly whole clay cups.

  Travel, however, was slow. The thin horses, half starved and stable-weak, struggled to carry double. Cyrus had been the first to drop off and start leading his animal, leaving only Kalay in the saddle. Next, Barnabas had dismounted. As he walked, Zarathan bobbed, half asleep, on the horse’s back, the book bag cradled like a pillow in his arms.

  Walking helped to clear Barnabas’ head, though not the overwhelming guilt that tormented his soul. The dead faces of his brothers kept haunting him. And now others were dead at their hands. He had knelt, head bent in prayer, as a man was gruesomely tortured within earshot—and done nothing to stop it.

  Dear Lord, forgive me.

  Cyrus matched his pace with Barnabas. “I’d like to hear about the Gate of Yeshua now, brother.”

  Barnabas shot him a sidelong glance. Cyrus’ voice had changed since that terrible night in the monastery. It was drifting back to a soldier’s voice, growing harder, more demanding. Even his eyes had changed. They were no longer happy and half amused. They’d become green fireballs that burned anyone they gazed at.

  Barnabas was deathly tired. His old body just didn’t have the strength it had once had. He feared he wouldn’t be able to relate the details in a coherent fashion, but he drew in a breath and began. “Around one hundred years after the death of our Lord, a church historian named Hegesippus began writing a history of the True Church. In his book, he recorded the details of the horrible death of Iakobos, or Yakob in Hebrew, the brother of Yeshua.”

  Zarathan murmured groggily, “He was killed in the year 62, wasn’t he?”

  Barnabas shifted to look back at the youth. Zarathan’s blond hair and wispy beard had a silver sheen. “Yes. Very good, brother.”

  “What does Yakob’s martyrdom have to do with the Gate of Yeshua?” Cyrus asked.

  “This is a complicated story,” Barnabas sighed, “bear with me through the first part.”

  “Of course, brother.”

  Barnabas rubbed his eyes. They felt as though they’d been blasted by dust storms for days. “There had always been a dangerous rivalry between the family of High Priest Annas, or Hanan in Hebrew, and the family of Yeshua. Many books report that it was Annas who discovered Miriam was pregnant and ran back to the Temple to report that she had committed a great sin.”68

  “Annas was high priest during our Lord’s trial, too, wasn’t he?” Zarathan, proud of his knowledge, asked and lifted his head.

  “No, though you are correct that there are references in the gospels to his being high priest during the trial, but those references are not correct. Annas was appointed high priest by Praefectus Quirinius in the year 6, and removed from his office by the order of Valerius Gratus in the year 15. However, he remained a powerful adviser to Kaiaphas, and was still referred to as ‘High Priest,’ though the title was clearly honorary. What I mean is that Annas remained very influential. In fact, all of his five sons served as high priest after Kaiaphas.”

  Impatiently, Kalay said, “I want to hear about the Gate of Yeshua. What is it?”

  “I’m getting there, Kalay,” Barnabas replied. “Ioannes reports that Yeshua was taken to the high priest’s home by Roman and Jewish forces and interrogated. Also, the third and fourth chapters of Acts describe Annas’ participation in the interrogation, a decade later, of Petros and Ioannes, who were arrested for healing a lame man at the Beautiful Gate of the Temple.”

  When Kalay started to interrupt, Barnabas hurried to add, “Here’s where the Gate of Yeshua comes into the story. It is Annas’ son, also named Annas, who ordered the arrest of our Lord’s brother, Yakob. The younger Annas had been high priest for only three months. One of the puzzling elements of Hegesippus’ history is his assertion that Annas kept demanding that Yakob tell him what is the Gate of Yes
hua.’”

  Cyrus seemed to be thinking about that. He cocked his head, and his eyes reflected the moonlight. “Did Yakob respond?”

  “Yakob said, ‘Why do you ask me concerning the Son of Man? He will come in the clouds of heaven.’”

  Zarathan blurted, “That doesn’t make any sense! Annas asked him what the ‘Gate’ was and Iakobos answered that the ‘Son of Man would come in the clouds of heaven’?”

  “It makes sense,” Barnabas said, “if you recall that our Lord told Kaiaphas practically the same thing just before his crucifixion: ‘You will see the Son of Man sitting on the right hand of power and coming with the clouds of heaven.’”

  “But our Lord was quoting from the Book of Daniel. How does that answer the question about the Gate?”

  Cyrus shifted the horse’s reins to his other hand and frowned at Barnabas. “You mean that by quoting his brother, Yakob was refusing to answer the question. Just as his brother had refused to answer Kaiaphas’ questions?”

  “Yes, I think Yakob was, in effect, saying ‘I will no more answer your questions than my brother did.’” Barnabas paused. “They killed him for it.”

  “If that’s what he meant,” Kalay said.

  “Yes, of course, we can’t be certain, but that’s my best guess,” Barnabas replied. “And I truly—”

  “I have another guess,” Kalay said.

  The men turned to stare at her.

  She continued. “Iesous’ name in Hebrew was Yeshua, and the Hebrew word for salvation is yeshuah. They’re pronounced slightly different, but they might look similar when written down. Maybe Hegesippus couldn’t tell the difference.”

  Barnabas stroked his gray beard thoughtfully. “Then you think it’s possible High Priest Annas was asking Yakob about the gate of salvation? Perhaps, though I find it hard to believe a Jewish high priest would ask such a thing. Surely, he believed he knew the path to salvation—and it did not involve Yakob’s brother Yeshua.”

  “Surely,” Kalay replied, “but I don’t find it hard to believe that later Christians would put such words into a Jewish high priest’s mouth.”