“Ah. Very true.” Barnabas nodded agreeably. He had noted many occasions in the ancient texts where that very thing had happened, particularly in relation to the gospels. “Yes, that’s possible.”
Zarathan’s face screwed up as though he found it unconscionable that Barnabas would actually agree with Kalay about something so odious, but he asked, “How did Yakob die?”
As he had many times, Barnabas imagined the scene in his mind. He could hear the screams of Yakob’s followers as they watched from far below the Temple. “The Second Apocalypse of Iakobos69 says that they cast him down from the pinnacle of the Temple and then seized him, clubbed him, and dragged him on the ground. For a time, while they reviled him, they placed a huge stone on his stomach. After that, they forced him to get up, dig a hole, and stand in it while they filled the hole up to his waist. Finally, they stoned him to death. Legend says he was buried in his family tomb somewhere near Jerusalem.”
For a long time, only the sound of the horses’ hooves softly striking stone echoed through the night.
Cyrus asked, “Is that all we know about the Gate? Surely the Occultum Lapidem must have researched this over and over.”
“Oh, yes, many times. But to little avail.”
“The Hebrew word for ‘gate,’ sha’ar, can mean many things other than gate,” Kalay pointed out.
“Yes,” Barnabas replied. “But “gate” seems to fit the best.”
Kalay gave him a disgusted look. “Sha’ar can also mean opening, doorway, entry, enclosure, passage.”
“The Yeshua Passage?” Cyrus whispered.
“Possibly,” Kalay said.
“As in a passage in a book?” Zarathan wondered.
“Or the Doorway to Yeshua,” Barnabas replied through a long exhalation. “It could be a theological reference. But I’ve always wondered if the reference isn’t to one of the gates of the Temple.”
“Like the Beautiful Gate?” Zarathan asked.
Barnabas nodded. “Perhaps the Gate of Yeshua is the gate where our Lord entered the city the day he threw the money changers from the Temple.”
“What gate was that?”
“He entered through the eastern gate, then walked south and approached the Temple Mount through the Hulda Gate. But I know of no tradition that suggests either of those gates ever acquired the name the Gate of Yeshua.”
Donkeys brayed in the distance and they all tensed and looked to the west. The faint outline of trees whiskered the horizon. It was probably an oasis. Sounds carried very far on still desert nights.
Cyrus said, “Why would Pappas Meridias be hunting for this gate?”
“I do not know.” Barnabas rubbed his eyes again. His legs ached. It had been years since he’d been on a horse. “Church scholars have been trying to decipher the meaning for centuries, but have made little sense of it.”
“Yakob was the leader of the Jerusalem Church after the death of Yeshua,” Cyrus said. “After Yakob was murdered, who followed him?”
“The apostles selected Yeshua’s brother Shimon to lead them.”
“That’s curious,” Zarathan murmured from behind Barnabas.
“What is?”
“Petros was still alive when Yakob died. Why wasn’t he selected as the new leader? In the Gospel of Maththaios our Lord says that Petros will be given the ‘keys of the Kingdom,’ and none of the surviving apostles wanted him to lead them?”
“I suspect that our Lord did not mean political power when he said the ‘keys of the Kingdom.’ He meant that Petros would be given the spiritual knowledge to find the Kingdom inside himself. Don’t forget that our Lord says in the Gospel of Thomas, verse three, ‘The Kingdom is inside you and it is outside you. When you learn to know yourselves, then you will be known, and you will understand that you are the sons of the living Father.’”
“So our Lord never intended for Petros to lead the Church?”
Barnabas shrugged. “It is well documented that after Shimon was crucified by Emperor Trajan in the year 106, leadership of the movement passed to the Lord’s last surviving brother, Yudas, who was in his nineties.”
“So, four brothers in succession led the movement?” Cyrus asked.
“Yes, and his sisters, Mariam and Salome, probably played significant roles as well, unless they were hunted down and killed by the highest levels of the Roman government in Palestine, but we have no record of that.”
They continued for a time in silence, but Barnabas could see Cyrus’ lips moving, repeating the words: the Gate of Yeshua, the Gate of Yeshua …
Barnabas said, “If we keep this pace until tomorrow evening, we will reach the village of Gaza. There is a man near there who may be able to help us.”
TWENTY ~ ONE
Manahat
Careful not to wake the man who sleeps beside her, Maryam wraps herself in her worn himation, and takes her time stepping around the dark forms of the others who lie on the floor.
When she pads outside into the cool night air, I follow her, fearing for her safety.
The lamps of Bet Ani glimmer across the rolling hills. The city is so beautiful tonight, I fear it may stop my heart. Flute music, accompanied by the sounds of two different bells, drifts on the cool wind.
As I walk down the hill behind her, the cobblestones feel like smooth ice beneath my feet.
Maryam stares into the windows of the houses, and I suspect she is silently reciting the names of every child and dog, even most of the goats who live here. She has spent her entire life on this street,70 except for a few years spent in Taricheae working as a renowned hairdresser to the wealthy, which is why many people still refer to her as the Megaddela, the hairdresser.71
Maryam turns down another street, and walks with her head down, lost in some inner world.
I follow.
She prospered in Taricheae, but most of her money is gone, poured into supporting Yeshua’s ministry, though I suspect this does not matter to her. Yeshua has told us that the Kingdom is almost upon us. Soon, no one will need money or status. God will return to Zion to vindicate his people, to redeem Yisrael, and renew the creation. The exile will end.
When she stops dead in her tracks, and her shoulders heave, I call, “Maryam?”
She spins around breathlessly, trying to make out my face in the gloom. Tears dot her cheeks. “Yosef Haramati?”72
“Yes. I saw you rise. I was worried.”
She wipes her eyes on her sleeve. “I thought a walk might ease my belly.”
“You shouldn’t be outside alone. Let me escort you.”
I trot to catch up with her, and she says, “Thank you for protecting Yeshu tonight. If someone in the crowds had recognized him, and reported his whereabouts to the Temple, he could have been killed, as he almost was last Chanukah.”
Maryam shivers at the memory.
They’d made a clandestine trip to Yerushalaim so that Yeshua could pray in Herod’s Temple. He’d been caught by Temple authorities in the Portico of Solomon, and they’d demanded that he state plainly whether or not he was the mashiah. It was obviously a plot to arrest him. Had Yeshua said yes, he would have been declaring himself king, and they would have arrested him for sedition. Instead, he’d told them that they couldn’t believe because they were not among his sheep, whereupon they’d picked up rocks to stone him. Yeshua had fled back across the Jordan to their hiding place at Wadi el-Yabis, barely escaping with his life.
We stand for a time, side-by-side, gazing out at the golden city lights.
As night deepens, the lamps in the houses begin to go out and the starlight seems brighter, reflecting from the cobblestone streets, turning them into a tangled necklace of silver beads.
With tears in her voice, she says, “He wasn’t supposed to have to do this alone. All of the prophecies said there would be two. ‘For the Lord will raise up from Levi someone as high priest and from Judah someone as king,’” she quotes from the Testament of the Twelve Patriarchs, and puts a hand to her mouth to still the
cries that climb her throat.
I give her a few moments to gather herself, before saying, “Yes, I know, two ‘sons of oil,’ two mashiahs to usher in the Kingdom.” 73
She whispers, “The murder of Yohanan was so unexpected.” 74
“There is still time,” I remind her. “If the calculations of the Essenes are correct the Kingdom will not arrive for another three years. Perhaps, before then, another mashiah will appear, and there will indeed be ‘two sons of oil’ to bring about the End.”
“I pray it is so,” she murmured. “But what of the next few days, Yosef? Have you heard more?”
I let out a breath and nod. “Kaiaphas has sent word telling every Council member to be prepared to attend a meeting of utmost urgency. I suspect it regards Yeshua, but no one has said this. If it does, I will, of course, try to exert some influence on the course of events. No Council member wants to see him harmed, Maryam. If Rome tries to take action against him, the Council will do everything it can to keep him from disaster. The last thing we need with Pesach approaching is for one of the people’s most beloved teachers to be arrested. If Rome wants a riot, that’s the way to start it.”
She folds her arms tightly across her breast. “I don’t know, Yosef. The Law forbids us to leave our homes on the holy days. If they did try to harm Yeshu on Pesach or on the Sabbath, who among us would be brave enough to violate the Law and go outside to object?”
“I would.”
She gives me a tearful smile. In a shaky voice, she says, “Yosef … can’t you speak with Yeshu? Try to convince him to run away?” Her inner struggle is plain on her face. It makes my heart ache. “Just for a short time, Yosef. Convince him to return to the Galil where he’s safe. Tell him whatever you must … perhaps you have a sick relative there who needs healing? He would run to help, you know he would.” With effort she steadies her voice. “I haven’t much money left, but if there’s someone you need to pay, to pretend to be sick, I can borrow from Yoanna—”
“Maryam.” She lifts her dark eyes to me. “I have already tried. Many times. He refuses to even consider it. He says he must be here. Now.”
“Yes, yes, I know. But I’m just—”
I fill in the rest. “Desperate. I understand, but perhaps he’s right. Have you thought of that? Maybe he does need to be here for this Pesach. He’s very wise. Have confidence in his judgment.”
A sudden chill leaves her trembling. She rubs her cold arms. “He’s trapped, Yosef. Don’t you see that? If he runs away, it proves he is not the Annointed One. His flock will accuse him of being a false mashiah.”
“There are other choices.”
“What choices?” Anxiety lines her face, as if she is haunted by a gnawing dread that will not leave her alone.
“He can stand up to Rome and explain that his kingdom is not of this earth. Rome is only threatened by earthly kings with human armies. He has neither.”
Somewhere a goat bleats, followed by the barking of a dog.
Maryam whispers, “Yosef, there’s something I must discuss with you.”
“What is it?”
“I have one final favor—” Maryam turns sharply.
I jerk around to follow her gaze, and glimpse a man in the shadows to our right. He moves swiftly around the corner of the house and is gone.
“Do you think that was Kepha?” she whispers.
Her fear seems to shiver the very air we breathe.
“He was very tall. That’s all I could tell. It might have been Cleopas, or even a Roman soldier. What makes you think it was Kepha?”
In a whisper, she answers, “Because he’s always spying. Always listening.”
I take her by the arm and start back up the hill, not willing to wait to find out. “Let’s return to our room, Maryam. It’s too dangerous to stand out here alone in the darkness.”
TWENTY ~ TWO
Pappas Meridias stood beside the long table with his arms crossed. His black robe almost blended with the deep hues of the walnut and stood out in stark contrast to the gray stone walls. All around him, dusty shelves filled with scrolls and codices rose to twice his height—the weight relieved only by tiny windows high up on the walls. The church library in Alexandria was quiet, which seemed to magnify his voice.
“Did you follow our plan?”
Loukas nodded. “You said if we were captured we should tell them you were headed to Caesarea. I did.”
Meridias ran his hand over the table. Though it had recently been polished with oil, dust coated his fingertips. He longed to return to Rome, where cleanliness prevailed. Out here, everything was filthy, all the time. He didn’t know how people lived in such squalor. But, of course, they were peasants, common laborers. Perhaps they did not notice.
He wiped his hand on his robe and said, “Do you think they believed you?”
“Yes, Pappas. I heard them talking. The old man, Barnabas, was worried about his friend Eusebios.”
“As we knew he would be. They may not, however, head straight for the library.
“Why not?”
“Pappas Athanasios, the patriarch here, has no love for Eusebios. He tells me that two of Eusebios’ former library assistants live between here and Caesarea.”
“And you think Barnabas may try to contact them?”
“It’s possible. One lives near Agrippias, the other in Apollonia.”
“Do you wish me to seek out these men?”
“I haven’t decided. The man near Agrippias is said to be an old hermit. No one here knows exactly where he might be found. He apparently roams from one cave to another, constantly moving. The other, in Apollonia, would be easier to locate. He’s a local hero, a street preacher of some renown.”
Loukas waited for instructions.
Meridias examined him. The man’s tan, coarsely woven robe was torn in several places, and his face looked raw. Red and hideously swollen, he might have been caught in a sandstorm far from home and his face scoured to a bloody pulp. He also walked stiffly, and stood as though tender.
“Atinius had a reputation for being able to make men talk.”
Loukas stared dully at Meridias. “Centurion Atinius knows the frailties of men.”
“Yes, I’m sure our many wars taught him well.”
“The woman, she was the worst. She …”
His voice trailed away, and Meridias frowned. “Did you tell them anything else?”
Anger stirred the icy depths of Loukas’ eyes, but he calmly answered, “They already know you are behind the attack on their monastery. There was nothing else I could tell them. You have given me no information as to what we are searching for.”
That was, of course, true, at least about the critical information—of which Meridias knew precious little himself. Meridias had been carefully instructed to tell the Militia Templi only what was necessary for them to accomplish their holy missions. Loukas had just demonstrated the wisdom of that.
“I have outlined the new plan. Pappas Athanasios has offered to send some of his best men to accompany you. Do you have any objections?”
“Not if they are truly skilled.”
“Good. I have arranged for transport to Jerusalem. I leave at noon today. Pappas Athanasios has graciously supplied you with clean clothing and supplies for your journey. I’ll have them delivered to your cell. You may go and ready yourself. As to the hermit and the preacher, I’ll let you know when I’ve decided their fates.”
Loukas shifted, clearly wanting to say something.
“What is it?”
“Pappas, when this is over, if you choose to reward me, as you so often and generously do, I would like to own the washerwoman, Kalay.”
Meridias made an airy gesture with his hand. “So long as she remains ignorant of that which we seek, you may do with her as you wish.”
A tiny, frightening smile touched the man’s lips.
“What of your wounds, Loukas? Can you ride?”
“I can ride.”
Loukas bowed at t
he waist, winced, and stiffly headed for the massive door. As he swung it open, a cool breeze blew into the room, fluttering the ancient pages that cluttered the shelves.
Meridias watched the dust swirl up from the table and glitter as it resettled over his shoulders. Irritated, he brushed at it and turned his attention to the library. Heresy was everywhere. One by one, he removed books from the shelves, and placed them on the table.
Before this day was through, each would be burned.
TWENTY ~ THREE
Kalay gazed up at the stars that glittered across the heavens as she dipped a cup of water from the still pool beneath the palms. Though Cyrus, not knowing this part of the country, had advised against stopping, they were all bitterly tired. If the horses didn’t rest, the poor beasts would collapse.
Barnabas slept curled on the sand five paces away, his head pillowed on the book bag. To his right, Zarathan looked like nothing more than a knot of bunched cloth. The star gleam had bleached their faces a ghostly white.
Cyrus sat beside the pool with his prayer rope in his hands, his sword within easy reach. He was struggling mightily with himself. She could see it in every tight line of his face, plus he kept knotting and unknotting his prayer rope. In the past hour, he’d filled it with knots ten times, untied them all, and started the process over again. Just now, it rested on his drawn-up knee. He tied a knot, lowered the rope to the sand, grimaced at it, tied another knot. Finally, he gripped the prayer rope in hard fists.
As she walked back, she said, “Planning on using that to hang yourself?”
“Hmm?” He looked up her as though he’d forgotten she was there.
She sat down beside him and pointed to his hands. “I’m talking about the way you’re wringing the life out of your prayer rope.”
He relaxed his grip.
“Cyrus, you didn’t have any choice. Except you could have quickly slipped a dagger between the ribs of that worm-ridden, cold-eyed mamzer, before we got scared off. In fact, you should have, but you didn’t. I don’t understand why you’re lashing yourself so.”
The Betrayal Page 16
