The Betrayal

  Libni leaned back in his chair and chuckled.

  In a hushed voice, Barnabas said, “The Square of the Column marked the crossroads of the sacred city, so you think …” He paused to consider before he finished. “You think the cross on the papyrus might refer to the Crossroads?”

  Libni made an airy gesture with his hand. “It explains the extra ‘arms’ on the basic symbol: they’re roads. And it’s as good a hypothesis as anything else I’ve come up with over the years, and not nearly as wild as some of my ideas.”

  For the first time in months, Barnabas saw a tiny pinprick of light shining through the dark veil of the papyrus, and he could feel his soul take another silent, measured step into the dark Chamber of Hewn Stone.

  He leaned forward, slapped Libni’s shoulders, and laughed, “Oh, my dear friend, how I’ve missed you.”

  THIRTY ~ ONE

  Kalay jerked awake in the darkness, and glimpsed Tiras and Uzziah standing guard just inside the rounded cave entry. Their presence, however, did little to soothe her. They didn’t have any weapons. What were they supposed to do if attacked? Scream? She gripped the long, curved knife in her hand all the more tightly.

  The wind had dwindled to a distant whimper and the night air was thick with the smell of the sea. She inhaled deeply, but the waves of shakiness wrought by the nightmares did not go away. She couldn’t shove the frightening images from her mind. Finally, she looked over at Cyrus.

  He lay within reach, flat on his back, his hand on his sword. His chest rose and fell in the deep rhythms of sleep, and she was glad for him. Across the room, Zarathan slept like a child, with his straggly blond hair hanging in his eyes. His snores resembled the troubled breathing of an infant. He appeared to be in a cocoon, so tightly was he rolled in his blanket.

  Kalay shook her head. If they had to rise quickly, he would still be wallowing on the floor trying to disentangle himself from his blanket when the killer cut his throat with one clean stroke. Didn’t he ever think of such things?

  She pondered that, and decided the answer was “probably not.” He’d led a soft, warm life with caring parents, always safe and well fed. A life she envied with all her heart.

  As she closed her eyes and tried to force herself to sleep, a queer dread filtered through her. Once again, she found herself back in Caesarea—her parents freshly dead, fighting for garbage against fierce stray dogs whose eyes were as hungry as her own, dodging cart wheels as wagons thundered down the dirty streets, running from the smiles of men … and looking, always looking, for her brother. No matter where she went in the city, she expected to see him walking around a corner with his new family. Or maybe he’d escaped and was hiding as she was, struggling to eat. If only she could find him, they could be a family again, and—

  She jerked awake when a gentle hand touched her hair.

  “Are you all right?” Cyrus whispered.

  “I was asleep. Why did you wake me?” she asked, her heart pounding in her throat.

  He stared at her with kind eyes. “You were crying. I thought you might be having a bad dream.”

  Kalay blinked and discovered that tears had wet her cheeks. She hastily wiped them away. “I’m fine.”

  “What were you dreaming?”

  “Nothing. I—I don’t recall.”

  He softly said, “Sleep, Kalay. Uzziah and Tiras will warn us if anything is amiss. We must sleep.”

  “I know.”

  She laid her head down and discovered that he had not moved his hand; it still rested comfortingly against her hair. She didn’t roll away, just focused on the moon-silvered edge of his sword where it rested between them. With a light touch, Cyrus stroked her hair.

  And she longed for nothing more than to lie in his arms and sleep for a month.

  Her fear was more than just the nightmares, more than the utter terror of their situation, of being on the run, chased by a man who might capture and keep her alive for months or years, or until she managed to hang herself. She had begun to fear solving the riddle of the papyrus.

  In a bare whisper, she asked, “Cyrus, are you afraid of what we’ll find when we reach the end of this journey?”

  His hand went still.

  Tiras turned to look at them with wide, unblinking eyes, as though he’d heard and was as interested in the answer as she was.

  Cyrus murmured, “No. But I fear what we will have to do afterward.”

  Kalay stared at the dark ceiling.

  Afterward?

  The very idea struck her as strange beyond belief. Cyrus was worried about what they would say and do after they recovered the Pearl … or failed to recover it. For her, only one question mattered: Would they live or die?

  She tucked her knife beneath the edge of her blanket and listened to the night. Outside, waves washed the shore, as they had since the beginning of time, totally unconcerned with the fears of men.

  THIRTY ~ TWO

  Massa

  NISAN THE 14TH, THE ELEVENTH HOUR OF NIGHT

  I wait in the dark courtyard just outside the high priest’s palace. Less than a half hour ago, Kaiaphas summoned me and charged me with relaying the Council’s decisions to the praefectus. I feel sick to my stomach. More than anything, I long to rush into the palace, free Yeshua, and make a mad dash to escape.

  Laughter rises, and I glance to my right where the Roman decuria stands. It will escort Yeshua to the Praetorium where he will stand before Praefectus Pontios Pilatos. The ten soldiers talk and smile, apparently oblivious to the danger of the duty they are about to perform. To them he is just another Ioudaios, just another Jew.

  My gaze drifts to the thirty Temple police officers who are stationed aro und the courtyard. Kaiaphas, clearly, is taking no chances.

  The sound of feet upon stone echoes from inside the palace.

  The massive doors swing open and two guards bring Yeshua out. He has his hands bound in front of him. Dark curly hair sticks out around the edges of the white himation pulled over his head. His eyes resemble black bonfires.

  I start to go to him, but the Roman decurion, in charge of his decuria, shouts in Greek, “Stay back. No one is allowed to speak with the prisoner.”

  I back up, and Yeshua sucks in a breath as though to fortify himself for what is ahead.

  The soldiers surround him and the decurion orders, “March to the Praetorium.”

  I follow along behind, escorted by two officers of the Temple police.

  Pilatos’ Praetorium is a magnificent structure situated on the crest of the western hill in the upper city. From the rooftop, he has a view of the sacrificial altar in the Temple compound. This pleases him. He takes every opportunity to remind the priests that he literally has his eye on them. As well, he loves the fact that one hundred years ago, his Praetorium served as the ancient royal palace for the Jewish Hasmonean kings.95

  As I walk due east along the road, I can see the Praetorium. Built in a huge square with a massive tower at each corner, it resembles nothing so much as a luxurious fortress.

  The soldiers have gone quiet, but the sound of their boots on the cobblestones echoes from the low, flat-topped houses of the poor that line the road. Here and there dogs sleep before doors. Some growl or bark at us as we pass. People are just beginning to rise, and the scent of wood smoke from breakfast fires rides the wind. Lamps gleam in many windows. Often, I see a face staring out at us.

  As we climb the western hill, my breathing grows deeper. Seven years ago, because of my language skills, the Council appointed me as liaison with the praefectus. That means I have known Lucius Pontios Pilatos since he was first appointed as praefectus of Judea, three years ago. He calls me his friend, and insists we address each other by our first names. I think it amuses him. But I know him for what he is: a brutal, shrewd man, capable of extreme cruelty. He can smell weakness and eats weak men alive. And he has contempt for all Jews. No matter what I’m feeling, I must appear to be strong.

  We climb the steps to the gate and the Praetorian
Guards gesture for the decuria to enter the courtyard. Broad and filled with palms and olive trees, it is a beautiful and fragrant place, especially at this tranquil hour of night.

  The decuria continues walking, but my legs freeze when I see men moving in nearly every lamp-lit window. And there are more soldiers standing in the shadows against the walls of the courtyard. Panic seizes me. If I had to guess, I’d say that there are five hundred men or more here—an entire Roman cohort. There are already three cohorts stationed around the city. Did Pilatos call in this additional cohort because he feared rioting over the holy days? Why wasn’t the Council informed?

  I hurry to catch up with the decuria as it continues across the courtyard to the hall of judgment where two soldiers stand guard outside the door.

  Before we enter, I say to the Temple officers, “Remain outside in case I have reports I wish you to carry back to the high priest.”

  “Yes, Councilor.”

  I follow the decurion through the doors and into the hall of judgment. Despite the gleam of dozens of lamps, it is a stark place, very white, filled with white limestone, white marble, and white plastered porticos. Even Lucius Pontios Pilatos is dressed in a white toga. He stands near the Secretarium, the secret chamber where hearings and trials are held. Two of his apparitores, clerks, stand nearby. Pilatos is tall, muscular, with a swarthy complexion and hard black eyes. His closely trimmed black hair makes his clean-shaven face seem severely triangular. He has a cup of wine in one hand, and a report of some kind in the other. He’s reading.

  “Salve, Praefectus,” I greet and bow.

  “Ioses of Arimathaia, a pleasant morning to you,” he says without taking his eyes from the scroll. “Are you well?”

  I straighten. “Well enough. Do you know why I am here?”

  He lowers the scroll and looks at me. “Yes. I was surprised when Kaiaphas sent word that you would relay the Council’s decisions. Knowing, as they must, that you are a devoted follower of the accused.” He holds out a hand to Yeshua.

  For a moment, I cannot speak or even move. While the Council does not know it, I should not be surprised that Pilatos does.

  I say, “You pay your spies far too much, Lucius. Surely they have better things to do than follow me around.”

  Lucius smiles. “You? Why would I follow you? My spies follow subversives and malcontents. You’re not one of those, are you?”

  I gruffly fold my arms. “What if I am? Would it scare you very much?”

  He laughs. “Only if I see you riding into the city tomorrow on an ugly little ass with a filthy, screaming throng behind you. Then, yes, of course, that would tremble the very foundations of Rome.” He gives me a mock tremble for effect. He’s enjoying himself.

  I return to the issue at hand. “Lucius, being his follower does not, I believe, disqualify me from relaying the Council’s decisions.”

  “No, of course not. I didn’t mean to suggest that it did, only that they must trust you very much. Were I in their situation, I would fear that you might not relay my words accurately. Would you like a cup of wine?”

  “You’re very gracious, but no.”

  “Water, perhaps?”

  “I am fine for the moment.”

  Pilatos shrugs and sips his wine. The cup is a work of art. Around the lip is a row of red Roman soldiers carrying shields and wearing bronze helmets. The detail is stunning. I can see the individual designs on each of the shields.

  Pilatos casually asks, “It is true, is it not, that your people are forbidden to leave their houses beginning at sundown tonight?”

  “When two witnesses have counted three stars, yes, Praefectus.”

  “And it is a grave crime if they disobey this law?”

  “It is.”

  Pilatos smiles deprecatingly. “Then surely all will be quiet tonight. After the excessive noise, and all the shoving and pushing in the markets, I shall look forward to that.”

  He stares at me, smiles, then signals for his clerk to refill his cup of wine. As the clerk obliges, I wonder what he’s up to. He never asks a question idly, and he knows Jewish laws for Pesach almost as well as I do. He’s been here for three Pesach feasts.

  Suspiciously, I say, “It will be quiet. Unless you are planning to stir up trouble. Is that why you have an entire cohort living in your palace?”

  “Me? Cause trouble? You mean by executing your pathetic little bastard friend over there? Would that cause a riot? Or should I say, another riot?”

  The guards have backed away, leaving Yeshua standing alone in the amber gleam of lamplight. He seems to be staring into some faraway kingdom, and not much liking what he sees.

  My stomach muscles clench. “Yeshua ben Pantera is greatly beloved by almost everyone, as was evidenced by his rapturous welcome a few days ago when he rode into the city on his, as you say, ‘ugly little ass.’ And Rome, as you know, is hated by almost everyone. Surely you don’t want to risk provoking a revolt.”

  “And surely you are not suggesting that I ignore treason.”

  I lift my chin. “Praefectus, the Council of Seventy-one met for most of the night. We interrogated Yeshua ben Pantera and examined witnesses. We found no evidence of treason. In fact, the witnesses agreed on almost nothing. If you have other evidence, we would very much appreciate the chance to review it.”

  Straightforwardly, Pilatos says, “I have two witnesses who, in separate interrogations, implicated him in acts of treason against Rome.”

  “Honorable men?”

  “Despicable men. Zealots. They killed three of my soldiers earlier this week in the riot that occurred near the Temple. I condemned them to death, of course, but during their lengthy floggings they named ben Pantera as one of their supporters. Indeed, I suspect he caused the disturbance to provide a distraction that allowed the Zealots to attack my men.”

  I am stunned by this accusation. “What are the names of these Zealots?”

  “Dysmas and Gestas. Both are from the Galilaian … as I believe your friend is.”

  I do not even blink. “Being from the same region is hardly a crime, Lucius. Did these Zealots say that Yeshua ben Pantera was a member of their movement, or that he agreed to help them—”

  “Am I mistaken that one of his disciples is called ‘Shimon the Zealot’? My sources tell me that’s his name. But perhaps that’s inaccurate.” He waits for me to answer, knowing what I must say.

  “You are not mistaken, Praefectus, but—”

  “And what about the one called Yudah Sicarius? Is he not called by that name because he is a member of the dagger-wielding group known as the sicarii?”

  My heart is thundering, but I lift my brows in exaggerated surprise. “You’ve become quite a scholar, Lucius. What’s your point?”

  He grins. “My point is that ben Pantera openly welcomes the enemies of Rome into his ranks.”

  “That says very little. He also welcomes lepers, tax collectors, and women. It doesn’t matter who they are or what they believe so long as—”

  “Ioses, did you know there is a large Zealot camp hiding out in the Kidron valley, only a few steps from where your friend ben Pantera has been living with his pitiful disciples? You might as well say they’ve been living together.”

  Blood drains from my face and I feel suddenly cold. Naturally, I know. The Council makes a point of knowing such things. “I heard something, yes. Why?”

  “I just found it interesting. But I’m sure that despite their loud cries for the overthrow of Rome, the Zealots are only here to celebrate the holy days, or you, my good friend, would have warned me.” He sips his wine, watching me over the rim of his cup.

  The soldiers around the room whisper to each other and stare hard at me. Several lower their hands to their belted daggers.

  I say, “Do you have information that they plan an attack?”

  He thrusts his scroll out for his clerk to take, then exhales hard. “You asked what evidence I have of ben Pantera’s treason. During their floggings, the t
wo Zealots told me that ben Pantera likened conquering Rome to a very valuable ‘Pearl,’ and said they should forsake even their families to obtain it. He told them he would welcome their help.” Pilatos makes an airy gesture with his wine. “I call that treason. What do you call it?”

  Faint tendrils of understanding are twining around my heart, crushing it. Pilatos is a clever politician. Surely he has been considering for some time the best way to be rid of the Zealots.

  “I call it lies.”

  Pilatos’ smile fades. “You admire him. I know that, but try to see this through my eyes. When a man stands so accused, three courses of action are open to me: I can find him guilty and sentence him, I can find him not guilty and acquit him, or I can decide the case has not been proven and ask that further evidence be produced. Of course, if the accused confesses, that solves the matter. So, let us proceed and see which way these proceedings go. Decurion, bring Yeshua ben Pantera into the Secretarium.”

  “Yes, Praefectus.”

  Pilatos turns his back to me and strides into the small, curtained room where hearings and trials are conducted. I see him sit upon his sella, his seat of judgment. His white toga falls in sculpted folds around his sandaled feet. When Yeshua is brought forward into the Secretarium, the clerks pull the curtain closed for privacy and station themselves outside. The decurion backs away, and to my surprise, Pilatos’ hand appears and shoves the curtain open, so that I can see him—or perhaps so he can see me.

  This mystifies me. I know the rules. Once these proceedings begin, no one outside the Secretarium is allowed to speak. It’s called a Secretarium because the proceedings are supposed to be secret. Surely he can’t be planning on carrying on a conversation with me. Roman law is clear: vanae voces populi non sunt audiendae, the vain voices of the people may not be listened to.96

  “Come forward,” he orders Yeshua.

  Yeshua kneels at Pilatos’ feet.

  Pilatos’ brows lift, as though he suspects the gesture is an obsequious appeal for leniency. I know it is not, since I’ve seen Yeshua kneel before his own disciples, as well as the lame, the sick.