The Betrayal

by Kathleen O'Neal Gear

  “They call you Rab, do they not?” Pilatos asks.97

  Yeshua closes his eyes again and his lips move with a silent prayer.

  “Shall I call you that? Rab?” Pilatos presses. “Are you a teacher? A great chief? A wise man?”

  Yeshua whispers, “Everyone that is of the Truth hears my voice.”

  Pilatos glances at me, and hisses, “His voice, not the emperor’s.” He turns back to Yeshua. “I have heard many of the Ioudaiosoi say that you are the son of David. Are you a king? The king of the Jews?”

  Almost forlornly Yeshua exhales the words, “You say so.”

  “Is that a yes or a no? And take care in answering me, for pretending to be a king is treasonable under the Lex Julia, the Laws of Rome.”

  Perhaps suspecting he’s walking into a trap, Yeshua wisely says nothing.

  Pilatos heaves an annoyed breath. “Let me clarify so that I am sure you understand the charge. It is a capital offense known as crimen laesae maies-tatis to claim to be the king of a province under Roman rule, unless the emperor has nominated you as the king of that province, as the emperor did for your King Herod. But I do not believe you have been so nominated. Have you?”

  Yeshua replies, “My kingdom is not of this world. If it were, wouldn’t my followers be fighting for my release right now? I came into this world to bear witness to the Truth.”

  “I didn’t ask about the bravery of your so-called followers, I asked if you were a king. I assume if you have a kingdom—wherever it is—then you claim to be a king. Is that correct?”

  Yeshua stays silent.

  Pilatos’ dark brows plunge down. “Perhaps I have misunderstood your answer. Are you telling me that you are not a king in a political sense, but rather in a theological, moral sense?”

  Yeshua’s mouth tightens.98

  Pilatos turns to me. “Ioses, surely you see that pretensions such as this make his offense all the more grave. He claims that his kingdom is not comprised of this puny little remote province, but is divine and universal. He has set himself and his kingdom up against the divinity of the emperor and Rome. Only the kingdom of the immortal Tiberias Caesar is divine and universal.”

  This sends a flood of red, hot blood surging through my veins. Now I understand why he left the curtain open. I am his witness. He wants me to report what I have seen to the Council.

  I open my mouth to object, despite the consequences, but Pilatos says, “Ioses, even if I did not have the testimonies of the Zealots regarding his treasonous words, I could not allow such contempt of the emperor to go unpunished. Surely you see that.” He rises to his feet and passes sentence: “Yeshua ben Pantera, in accordance with Roman law, I find you guilty of treason against the holy Roman Empire. I sentence you to be crucified on this day, along with your conspirators Dysmas and Gestas.”

  Then he turns to me and smiles as he says, “Decurion, take him to his cell, and as a favor to my good friend Ioses of Arimathaia, I order you to scourge ben Pantera until he’s half dead. That should hasten his death on the cross. He won’t suffer so long. I’m a generous man, aren’t I, Ioses?”99

  The decurion waves his soldiers forward and they surround Yeshua and march him away.100

  A stinging sensation filters through my body. I feel light-headed. Somewhere deep inside me a voice keeps saying, no,no,no …

  Pilatos glances at me and starts to walk away.

  “Praefectus, please give me a few moments to speak with you.”

  “You are my friend, Ioses. Of course.”

  I can barely stand, and he smiles as though the morning has been a trifling matter.

  “By Jewish law and custom, we must bury our dead before nightfall on a feast day. I humbly request the right to take down and bury each man who dies today.”

  The God of Yisrael demands that I show the same generosity of spirit for the other two criminals that I do for Yeshua. And Yeshua … Yeshua would expect that what I do for the man whom I love, I also do for the strangers whom I know not.101

  “But Ioses, you know it is Roman law that a crucified man may not be buried. Such bodies are to be left on the cross until beasts and birds of prey devour them. We even post guards to make certain that friends or family members cannot take down a corpse. In fact, unauthorized burial of a crucified criminal is a crime.”102

  “Yes, I—I know that. But we both also know that the emperor or his officers may grant special authorization to bury such a convict. You yourself have given such permission on occasion. I’m asking that you, once again, grant a special dispensation to allow me to bury them.”

  An expression of annoyance creases his lean, dark face. “If these Zealots had been convicted by the Council of Seventy-one, what would happen to their corpses?”

  I wonder why he’s asking. He couldn’t care less what happens to Jews. “It is against the law for any person to bury or mourn a criminal executed by a Jewish court. Such convicts are buried by the court in the court’s graveyard, outside the city walls.”103

  Pilatos frowns, as though thinking. “Then if I grant you a special burial permit, I will appear particularly generous, won’t I?”

  “Oh, yes, very generous. And I assure you the Council will be deeply grateful.”

  Pilatos signals to his dark-haired clerk and as the young man rushes across the room, he says, “Write out a burial permit for Ioses of Arimathaia.”104

  “For all three convicts?” the clerk asks.

  “Yes, all three, providing they die today. But—,” Pilatos adds, “bring me the nails.”

  “Yes, Praefectus.”

  Pilatos gives him a cold smile, says, “Valete, Ioses,” then turns and walks away.

  The clerk says, “If you will wait a few moments—”

  “I’ll wait.”

  The clerk leaves.

  My thoughts are disjointed, flashing from one image to the next, as though I’ve been struck in the head and can no longer piece together even the simplest of puzzles.

  There is only one thing I know for certain: Pilatos has no idea what he’s about to do. A holy man who perishes at the hands of the oppressors of Yisrael will join the ranks of heroes who, throughout history, have sacrificed their lives for the faith and paved the way for the ultimate liberation of Yisrael. He’s about to turn Yeshua into a holy martyr, a man whose name other men will fight and die for. A man who, by the end of the day, every Zealot in the city will be ready to die for.

  I suddenly go numb.

  A breath of cool wind eddies through the hall, and causes the lamps to waver and spit. Yellow light flutters over the walls.

  Dear God.

  A riot is just the excuse he needs to attack the Zealot camp and wipe out every last man. With the streets clear because people must remain in their houses, his legions will be able to move unheeded, to slaughter at will.

  And, for the first time, I know Gamliel is right.105

  THIRTY ~ THREE

  Loukas flattened his body against the shadowed cliff, and watched the horses on the beach. They walked with their heads down, as though too tired to place one hoof in front of the other. He’d watched as Atinius and Kalay had disappeared into the cave, leaving the two inexperienced youths to guard the entrance. He’d been working his way from shadow to shadow since that time, and the young monks had not even glanced his way. Now and then they spoke to each other, but he couldn’t understand their words.

  He let his gaze wander to the boulders that lined the shore. From this vantage, they resembled a curving mouth filled with broken, rotting teeth.

  It had taken meager effort to find this place, ten well-placed questions in the local villages. Everyone knew of Libni the Hermit, or Old Scary, though only a few knew the exact location of his caves.

  Loukas motioned to his accomplices. The four men slid forward, and one by one, ghosted past him. Loukas watched with narrowed eyes. Why on earth Pappas Athanasios had chosen these men from all of the defenders of the faith stationed in Alexandria, Loukas did not kno
w. They were too old to be given such responsibilities. Gray shot through their short hair and eyebrows, glinting in the moonlight. And, despite their muscular frames, Loukas doubted they had the agility to respond to a well-timed assault. At least they wore black togas that blended with the darkness. That would give them a small edge.

  Not that it mattered. They had one purpose here tonight. To Loukas it seemed ludicrous. All the more so since his second humiliation at the hands of Atinius in Leontopolis. He needed but reach down to remind himself of the wound to his manhood and pride.

  I just hope this new plan of yours works, Meridias.

  For a long time, Loukas’ world consisted of standing with his back pressed against the damp, cold stone, watching the Egyptians’ slow advance, and straining to hear.

  Despite his desperate need to watch Atinius bleed, and to wring terror from that she-devil of a woman, he would follow orders.

  He always had.

  THIRTY ~ FOUR

  It was still the middle of the night when Kalay awoke, stirred, and combed tangled hair out of her eyes. For a blank moment, she couldn’t remember where she was; this was not her washing hut. Where the dank, muddy odor of the Nile should have been, the scent of the sea confused her … then a flurry of hushed voices sent her scrambling for her knife. In a flash, she’d thrown off her blanket and rolled against the wall, Loukas’ long, curving blade clutched in her fist.

  The unearthly glow of starlight through thick fog turned the world murky, and she saw the dark shapes of three men near the cave mouth. The tallest, Cyrus, was little more than a black ghost, moving along the wall toward the entrance. One of the shapes—Tiras, she thought—edged into the tunnel that led to the library and vanished.

  Near the entrance, there was the startled snort of a horse, and a flurry of pounding hooves.

  Kalay felt her insides shrivel. She pulled herself to a squat and held her breath.

  She could no longer see Cyrus. He had blended into the darkness. Was he by the entrance?

  From somewhere outside a man said, “Centurion? You can’t escape. Give up now. Surrender the papyrus, and you’ll save the lives of your companions. Trying to stand against us is useless. I have a full garrison out here.”

  Not Loukas. Nonetheless, a thousand years from now, her moldering bones would recognize that cold, insidious voice.

  A black shadow wavered near the entrance.

  Cyrus said, “I don’t think so. If you did, twenty men would have already rushed this cave and dragged us out. Since they didn’t, I assume you’re either alone, or have but a few men with you.”

  Turning her head slightly, she looked across the room and made out Zarathan, still fast asleep.

  Dear Iesous Christos, the stupidest killer in the world could creep up on him and crush his skull.

  The man outside moved … and she saw him. He stood with his back pressed against the stone just beyond the lip of the cave. There was another man behind him, shorter, with a wealth of gray hair that glimmered in the starlight.

  Kalay gestured to Cyrus, held up two fingers, then pointed to where they stood. She had no idea if he could see her or not, but his black shadow moved another step closer to the entrance. He slid his hand into the light, lifted one finger, and pointed to her side of the entrance.

  The fear pumping in her veins almost made her sick. She rose to a crouch and moved into position.

  From this perspective, she could see the men clearly. Both were dressed in black, but their swords glinted wetly, appearing and disappearing in the windblown shreds of fog.

  The cave suddenly felt stifling; fear sweat matted her dress to her body. Fighting to keep her breathing even, she leaned her shoulder against the stone wall.

  “I have been authorized to make you an offer,” the tall man called.

  “What offer?”

  “The Church is willing to pardon all of you. You need only surrender the papyrus and take vows of silence.”

  She saw Cyrus shake his head as though incredulous and heard his low laugh. “Tell Pappas Meridias that there is no ‘papyrus.’ And of what use is such a guarantee? On the Church’s orders, Meridias murdered an entire monastery … almost one hundred monks who had devoted their lives to God. What are seven more lives?”

  The men skulked closer, close enough that Kalay could see their pale faces.

  “Centurion, we know that you are the only one in there with fighting skills. If you don’t surrender, all of your friends will die because of you. Is that what you want?”

  Despite her best efforts, her breathing had gone low and ragged, hissing through her nostrils.

  On the far side of the cave, three quiet shadows emerged from the tunnel and took up positions around the walls. The sound of their footsteps was barely audible. They might have been soldiers rather than monks.

  Kalay heard fabric grate on stone outside, and knew they were moving in for the kill.

  She gripped her knife in her right hand and held it low, ready to lunge and rip upward. By the age of fifteen she’d learned you never raised a knife over your head. A man could grab your wrist, twist, and take it away from you with little effort. It was harder to block a knife if it was held low and close. Problem was, if they came in with swords swinging, she’d lose her hands long before she had a chance to attack.

  Cyrus looked directly at Kalay. He mouthed the word, “Ready?”

  She jerked a nod.

  Just as Cyrus lifted his sword …

  A wild, inhuman shriek rose from the rear of the cave, congealing the blood in Kalay’s veins. Before she could force her shaking legs to move, a mountainous vision of fluttering brown rags rushed past her and out into the thick fog.

  Barnabas cried, “Libni, no!”

  After a heartbeat’s hesitation, Cyrus, Barnabas, Tiras, and Uzziah charged out behind Libni. The metallic clashings of swords erupted … along with screams.

  Kalay girded herself and eased out into the moonlit mist, trying to see what was happening. She glimpsed swirling figures, flashes of swords, and saw that the battle was moving south, down the beach.

  She took two running steps to follow …

  A big black-gloved hand thrust out of the mist, caught her sleeve, and wrenched her off her feet. She hit the ground hard, kicking and flailing, roaring in anger, until she saw the sword blade drop through the fog and stop just above her heart.

  “Move and you’re dead,” the harsh voice ordered. She could hear the tension, nearly panic, behind it.

  Kalay subtly tucked her knife beneath her skirt and stared up at him.

  “Lie still, you little scorta, or I’ll forego my orders and cut you in half.” The man was muscular, stalky, with gray-streaked black hair.

  “What do you want with me? I don’t know anything!”

  A shout rose down the shore and he glanced in that direction, smiled, and boldly knelt beside her. His gaze traveled over her throat and the swell of her breasts. With one swift jerk he undid her belt. Ripping away the bronze dagger and purse, he tossed them aside. Then he grabbed her jaw in his gloved hand and wrenched her face to look at it. “Now I see why he wants you alive. You’re a pretty thing.”

  “Who? Who wants me?” A fiery rush flushed her veins.

  If he would just drop his guard for a moment … .

  “Get on your feet, and let’s go. He’s waiting for you.” He stood up and loomed over her, his sword clutched in both hands.

  Shaking and terrified, she did her best to conceal the knife as she struggled to stand up, but he must have seen a glint of silver, for he shouted, “Throw it down!” and sprang at her. His mistake was raising his sword for a strike.

  In one smooth motion, Kalay stepped inside the reach of his sword, and slashed with all her strength. Her blade cut a diagonal across his chest. His tunic parted under the keen edge and she watched his flesh part in the blade’s wake, could feel it vibrating across bone.

  The man jerked back, bellowed in rage, and stared down at the blood w
elling on his chest. When he glanced up, a dazed disbelief filled his eyes. He began to circle; his sword gleamed with an unnatural fire as, bleeding badly, he raised it to strike her. She tried to fling herself aside, but didn’t have time … .

  A hollow thunk rang out, and the killer staggered, stared at her in surprise, then toppled to the sand in a black heap. Rolling on the ground, his arms flailing, he managed to get to his hands and knees, almost stood, and dropped back to all fours.

  Kalay leaped, grasped his hair, and drew her blade across his throat. His frantic exhalation blew a spray of night-dark blood across the churned sand.

  The entire time, Zarathan stood shaking, clutching a driftwood club in his hand. His chalky face was sweat-drenched. When the killer finally stopped spasming and lay still, Zarathan’s legs failed him. He crumpled.

  “Zarathan? Are you all right?”

  He hunched over and held his belly, while he rocked back and forth, sobbing like a child. “I—I didn’t know wh-what else to do.”

  The assailant kicked one last time. Kalay glanced at him, watched for a moment, then looked back at Zarathan. “Stop crying,” she said unsympathetically. “You should be happy. You just accomplished the impossible.”

  Confused, he looked up at her with huge tear-filled eyes. “What are you talking about? I just killed a man!”

  “Yes, and because of that, no one will ever again say that you resemble a circumcised cat.” She paused to wipe her face on her sleeve. “And, actually, I killed him, but you certainly stunned him. You’re braver than I thought. I’m grateful. You saved my life.”

  “Brave?” he wailed. “I’m a coward! I sneaked up and struck him from behind! And now I—I can’t stop crying!”

  “Yes, well, the first time I killed a man, I couldn’t stop throwing up.”

  He buried his face in his hands and made sounds like he was suffocating.

  To give him time to collect himself, Kalay walked over and retrieved her belt, knotted it back around her waist, and went about picking up the Roman purse and bronze dagger. Finally, she lifted the dead man’s sword. When Zarathan still hadn’t stopped crying, Kalay marched over, grabbed him by the arm, forcibly dragged him to the ocean, and flung him face-first into the surf.