The Betrayal

  Barnabas felt as though a huge hand had reached out and squeezed his heart. In a whisper he said, “The horse with the big bags strapped over its withers belongs to Cyrus, the other monk with us.”

  “Just one of the beasts?”

  “Yes, I don’t know the second.”

  Barnabas and Zarathan dismounted and walked to stand beside Macarios near the entry. The tomb was deathly quiet.

  Barnabas turned to Zarathan. “Brother, could you go and retrieve the horses? We may need them in a hurry.”

  “Yes, of course, brother.” Zarathan started down the hill at a trot toward where the horses grazed among the standing stones.

  “Let me go in first,” Barnabas said. “In case Cyrus is hurt. He was once a Roman soldier and sometimes acts on instinct.”

  Macarios nodded, and Barnabas ducked through the entry into the tomb. The floor was covered with broken shards of ossuaries. Barnabas could see the skeleton lying on the shelf in the rear. In the chamber to the left of the skeleton, lamplight fluttered.

  FIFTY~ FOUR

  So as not to spook them, Zarathan cautiously approached the horses. The animals placidly grazed upon the taller grasses growing at the bases of the head-high boulders. The whole slope seemed to be one highly eroded limestone outcrop. He whistled as Cyrus did when he wanted the horse to come, and the big bay lifted his head and pricked his ears. Zarathan whistled again and the horse trotted toward him. The other horse, seeing his friend leaving, let out a short, startled whinny and followed.

  “Good boy,” Zarathan praised as he gripped the lead rope on Cyrus’ horse. It took two tries to catch the rope dangling from the unknown horse’s halter.

  The horse leaped and tossed its head. Zarathan caught a glimpse of the sheathed sword that hung from the saddle. The ivory hilt gleamed in the dawn light.

  “Shh,” he soothed. “You’re all right, boy. Everything’s fine.”

  The horse stopped twisting, but pawed the ground, throwing up a gray haze of dirt.

  As Zarathan turned, he noticed three men as they rode around the southeastern corner of the Temple Mount. When they started down the mountainside, they were silhouetted against the sunrise. They were just dark riders. Zarathan couldn’t make out anything about them, but the way they sat their horses sent a surge of fear through him. They were Romans.

  Had they been hiding up there?

  Zarathan hesitated, uncertain what to do, then led the horses back into the boulders where they’d been grazing.

  The riders were negotiating the steep slope as quickly as they could, and appeared to be heading straight for the Shroud Tomb.

  “D-did they follow us?”

  He glanced at the horsemen, then whirled around to stare to the north, toward the monastery he’d seen being built outside the Damascus Gate. The brothers there must all love Pappas Macarios. Surely he could convince several to ride back with him? But how long would the trip take? How long …

  Don’t be a fool! Go for help! Now!

  Without further consideration, he leaped upon Cyrus’ horse, reined it around, and rode flat out for the monastery.

  FIFTY ~ FIVE

  Barnabas walked toward the lamp-lit chamber just left of the partially shrouded skeleton. As he neared the doorway, a strange, eerie glow overwhelmed the lamplight. The hair on his arms stood on end, as though lightning were about to strike the tomb.

  Just as suddenly, the glow faded.

  He took two more steps, and saw the body on the floor. “Cyrus!”

  He ran to kneel beside the man. In the frail lamplight, he could tell very little. Blood had soaked the corpse’s hair, making it impossible to judge the original color. “It’s not black. It’s … lighter. And shorter.”

  A queer sensation of panic broke inside him. He longed for nothing more than to turn tail and run.

  But he rose and walked deeper into the tomb.

  “Cyrus? Kalay?” he called loudly.

  “Brother Barnabas?” There was a clatter to his right, then a face appeared in a narrow slot near the floor.

  “Cyrus!” Joy flooded Barnabas. “You’re alive!” Had he crawled in there to take sanctuary? As the stinging rush of blood began to subside, Barnabas said, “Please tell me Kalay is with you?”

  “She is, brother.”

  “Praise be to God.”

  “Brother Barnabas?” There was a stunned look in Cyrus’ eyes, and his voice … his voice had a low, haunted timbre.

  “Cyrus, what’s wrong?” Barnabas hurried forward to kneel before the opening. He’d thought at first that it was just another loculus. But now that he could see more clearly, it looked oddly as though it were once a door—a door that had been sealed long ago. The scent that escaped from the chamber was something a man never forgets. The same scent they’d just smelled at the tekton tomb … centuries-old air flavored with a hint of spices and aromatic oils that created a tang at the back of the throat.

  Inside the chamber, blinding light suddenly blazed and Barnabas flung himself backward with a short cry as he covered his eyes. Icy-blue radiance filled the tomb. As he lowered his shaking hands, he whispered, “What is this?”

  As though his words had triggered a silent clap of thunder, another salvo of light burst forth from the opening and dazzling blue fox fire spattered the walls, flickering, dancing, pouring down in glowing serpentine rivulets to puddle on the floor where they pulsed as though alive.

  Barnabas couldn’t feel his body. He felt as though he were numbly floating off the floor.

  “Barnabas?” Cyrus called. “Barnabas, please come over here. Do you know what this is?”

  His voice snapped Barnabas from his trance. He got on his hands and knees and crawled through the fox fire to the narrow opening.

  In the frosty splendor, Cyrus’ bearded face looked unearthly, like an angel’s at the moment of creation, pale and shining.

  Cyrus stepped aside so that Barnabas could see into the glowing chamber. Kalay stood to the right, near the source of the light, her face invisible in the blue blaze.

  “Wait just a moment,” Cyrus said. “The light will die down. Or at least it has since we’ve been here. It seems to come and go at irregular intervals.”

  Barnabas closed his eyes and watched the streamers on the backs of his lids. When they began to fade, he opened them again.

  Kalay came into view, her female figure haloed in glowing blue. Her hair seemed to dance of its own volition.

  Dearest Lord God! She’s been an angel the entire time!

  And then he fixed on the thing resting on the stone table … .

  The sensation of awe that raced through Barnabas could have been no greater if God himself had stepped into the chamber.

  In a hoarse whisper Cyrus asked, “Is this what I think it is?”

  Barnabas got down on his stomach and slid partway through the opening, trying to get a better view. The drop was long. He hesitated to jump down, as they had, for fear that his elderly bones would snap on impact.

  The skeleton on the table two fathoms below was fully dressed. A large golden ring encircled its right index finger. Even after centuries, the ephod cloth was miraculous. The glittering gold leaf that mixed with the blue, purple, and scarlet threads might have been woven yesterday. But it was the ancient high priest’s breastplate—worn over the ephod—that he could not take his eyes from. The twelve translucent stones, rubies, sapphires, opals, and sardonyxes of many colors, each inscribed with the name of a tribe, were the source of the light.121

  In a trembling voice, Barnabas said, “God always signaled victory in battle by shining those stones.”

  Astonished, Cyrus said, “Then it is the essen? The lost, sacred breastplate of the Essenes?”

  “Yes, it must be. Outside of the Ark of the Covenant, this is the most precious sacred artifact in the history of the Ioudaiosoi.” Tears blurred Barnabas’ eyes. The Truth was sinking in, and with it awestruck fear. He added, “And he is ours.”

  Perhaps it wa
s the way Barnabas said he, but Cyrus suddenly jerked his head around and stared at the skeleton. He took a small involuntary step forward, then a tortured sound escaped his throat. A heartbeat later, he fell to his knees and clasped his hands in prayer, choking out the words, “Oh, my Lord, my Lord!”

  Kalay squinted in disbelief. “It doesn’t make sense. Why would Yeshua, an executed criminal, be given the essen to wear?”

  Barnabas said, “Many saw him as the greatest sage of the time, and hoped he would be the military leader promised in the scriptures. Perhaps the Essenes hoped that by giving him the essen, he would return to lead them into battle against Rome and win.”

  “You mean they hoped he was the messiah?”

  “Yes.” Barnabas tipped his chin to the large, golden ring that encircled the skeleton’s finger. “Kalay, is there a symbol on that ring?”

  Kalay, still appearing disgruntled, walked around the table and examined it more closely. “It looks like a pomegranate design.”

  “Yes, that would make sense. The hem of the high priest’s robes was embroidered with pomegranate designs, and they were used as the motif for the capitals of Solomon’s Temple. The calyx of the fruit also served as a pattern for the crowns of the Torah.”

  “The rimonim,” Kalay explained in Hebrew. “Yes, I remem …” Her voice faded, and she frowned.

  “What’s wrong?”

  She gave Barnabas an askance look. “There’s a—a scroll. I think. In his hand.”

  His heart beat louder. “What?”

  Kalay gently tugged it from the curled finger bones of the skeleton’s left hand. It had been rolled into a tube and tied with what looked like a braid of black hair. “There’s something written on the outside of the tube. It’s in Hebrew.”

  Barnabas ordered, “Bring it to me.”

  When Kalay got to within arm’s reach, she handed the narrow papyrus tube up to him.

  Barnabas studied the scroll. It was old, fragile beyond belief. Bits of the hair tie cracked off when he touched them and coated his hand. He squinted at the discolored ink. Most of it was impossible to read. Probably the inside was in much better condition. “I can only make out fragments: Yakob … le … Yos … mati …”

  “From Yakob to Yosef Haramati?” Kalay suggested. “Yeshua’s brother? Are you sure?”

  “No, of course not. I’ll look at it more closely later. Right now I’m more concerned with him.” He gestured to the skeleton.

  “Yes, me, too.” Kalay’s eyes took on a strange, savage glow. “What are you going to do with him? Turn him into a thousand splinters of holy relics? Or respect his beliefs?”

  Taken aback by her tone, Barnabas asked, “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, stop thinking about yourself. What if he really did believe in the physical resurrection of the body? If you start carrying off pieces of him—”

  “Kalay,” Barnabas defended, “what ever made you think that I would—”

  The clacking sounds of feet shuffling through broken fragments of ossuaries came from the next chamber. Barnabas drew his head from the opening and called, “Zarathan? Macarios? Forgive me, I should have gone to fetch you. I—”

  He froze when Macarios entered the lamp-lit chamber with his hands up, followed by Pappas Meridias and his gray-haired henchman.

  Quickly, Barnabas tucked the scroll down the front of his robe.

  FIFTY~ SIX

  The burial chamber went dark. It was as though someone had just blown out a candle—but not before Kalay glimpsed the tall blond bishop she’d first seen in Phoou the morning before the attack on the monastery.

  “What happened to the light?” someone gasped.

  Barnabas responded, “The wind stirred by your entry must have snuffed the oil lamp.”

  “Do you take me for a fool?” a man demanded to know. “Lamplight is yellow, not blue! Where did that glow come from?”

  Barnabas shifted, and Kalay thought he’d sat up with his back against the entry to conceal as much of it as he could. “Pappas Macarios?” Barnabas called. “Are you well?”

  An unknown man answered in a shaky voice, “Yes. They crept up on me outside. I don’t know what they—”

  “Silence!”

  “Pappas Meridias,” Barnabas replied, making an effort to sound calm. “Please, tell us what we may do to help you, and we will do everything in our power—”

  “I knew you were hiding something!” Meridias said. “What’s in here? Is the Pearl here?”

  Kalay quietly eased away from the opening, felt for the corner of the table, and edged along it until Cyrus’ hand touched hers. Barely audible, he said, “How many men entered the chamber?”

  She felt for his face and cupped a hand to his ear to whisper, “I saw three.”

  “Meridias, Macarios, and another man?”

  “Yes, an old man. Gray-headed, but he carried a drawn sword.”

  “Where was Zarathan?”

  She hesitated. He was probably lying dead just outside the tomb. “I didn’t see him.”

  “Kalay, I have to get into that chamber.”

  “If you grab hold of the ledge right behind Barnabas, when the moment is right, I’ll boost you up.”

  Together they silently eased back to the opening, and Kalay lifted his foot and placed it in the basket she’d made of her knitted fingers. He was heavy; it wouldn’t be easy to support his weight. But she had to.

  Without warning, the essen burst to life. The blue flames flashed and grew into a conflagration that consumed the chamber. Kalay couldn’t see anything in that blazing core. Terror emptied her bones, leaving her hollow and frail. As she waited for Cyrus to make his move, she gritted her teeth.

  “Get away from that opening!” someone outside ordered. “I want to see what’s in there!”

  Broken ossuary shards clattered as Barnabas seemed to sit forward, saying, “Give me a moment. I need to brace my hands. I can’t see—”

  “Move or you’ll be dead!”

  Barnabas stood up, and Cyrus hissed, “Now!”

  His weight suddenly depressed her hands, and she heaved with all her might.

  FIFTY~ SEVEN

  As he lurched through the opening, Cyrus shoved Barnabas to the floor, scrambled to his feet, and charged Meridias before the bishop could react. Driving with all the power in his legs, he collided with Meridias, slamming him into the gray-haired guard. The impact toppled both men to the floor.

  “It’s Atinius! Kill him, you fool!” Meridias shouted and madly crawled away.

  Cyrus leaped for the man, grabbed his sword hand, and bashed it into the floor. The man’s grip relaxed, and Cyrus wrenched the sword away, rolled, and came up swinging for Pappas Meridias. The bishop managed to leap back just in time, and careened out into the other chamber.

  Cyrus lunged after him.

  As Cyrus’ sword arced toward him, Meridias threw up an arm to protect himself and screamed, “No! Don’t!”

  The blade gleamed with an edge of pure blue fire as it sliced through Meridias’ forearm, hacking off his hand above the wrist; it thudded on the floor, a dead lump of meat.

  In shock, Meridias bellowed, “Iesous Christos, save me! Save me!” He grabbed the gushing stump and staggered backward toward the sunlit doorway that led outside, crying, “You’ll be damned for eternity for killing me!”

  Cyrus hesitated for less than a heartbeat, but it was too long. He felt the keen bite of the dagger piercing his back, and heard a low laugh behind him. Stumbling forward, he lifted the sword and spun in an old military maneuver, but his movements were awkward, off-balance. The sicarii easily stepped inside, and plunged the dagger into Cyrus’ chest. Stunned by the fire, Cyrus froze in disbelief.

  The hole in his chest sucked air and spewed blood with each breath he took, telling him it had punctured his right lung. Past the sicarii’s head, he saw Barnabas pull Kalay from the hidden doorway, and glimpsed her expression as she charged into the room. Roaring like a lion, she leaped on the kille
r’s back just as he drove the dagger into Cyrus again.

  “Get off me!” the man shouted, and whirled around, trying to throw her off.

  “Cyrus, run!” Kalay clawed her fingers into the killer’s eyes. The man shrieked as blood spurted over his face.

  In panic, the dagger man whipped his knife wildly, trying to strike her in the face. Cyrus mustered his last ounce of strength to bull forward, slamming into the sicarii and knocking both him and Kalay to the floor.

  “Kalay, get out of the way!”

  Cyrus jumped on the man and wrestled him for the dagger. He was growing weak. Blood sprayed in a fine mist from his mouth. His body was failing him.

  The sicarii ripped the dagger from Cyrus’ grip, rolled to his knees, and plunged it once more into Cyrus’ chest. The pain was like a bolt of lightning cutting through him. His back arched and he writhed like a fish out of water.

  A shadow crossed the chamber outside, and Cyrus glimpsed Zarathan. The boy was shaking so badly he could barely lift the heavy sword in his hands. An incoherent cry ripped from Zarathan’s throat as he charged into the chamber.

  The stunned guard jerked around and threw up his arm, as though to stop the sharp blade. Zarathan brought it down with all the insane strength in his terrified arms. The keen edge drove through the bone, severing the lower arm, then it cleft the man’s skull, and lodged midway through his face. Zarathan wrenched the sword loose and the body flopped on the floor, spasmed violently, and gradually went still.

  “Cyrus?” Kalay ran to him. She used her hands in a vain effort to stop the blood spurting from his chest.

  “Oh, dear God, dear God,” Barnabas sobbed. Macarios took the old monk in his arms.

  Blood frothed at Cyrus’ lips as he looked up at Zarathan, and whispered, “Good … good … brother.”

  Zarathan fixed on his stab wounds. “Oh, forgive me, Cyrus! I—I was afraid to enter the tomb. I rode for the monastery to get help, but turned back. Just … not soon enough.”