Barnabas nodded. “Thank you, brother.”
Cyrus walked back across the sand to where Zarathan and Kalay stood. “Brother, please watch Barnabas. He’s frail and heartbroken. I’ll return soon.”
Zarathan said, “Of course, brother.”
Cyrus turned to Kalay. “Sister, would you like to help me gather driftwood?”
“I will if you’ll stop calling me “sister.” I don’t believe in that crucified criminal you call a savior. I’m a pagan. I worship the Goddess, and my name is Kalay.” She pronounced it Kuh-lay.
Cyrus inclined his head agreeably. “I would appreciate some help gathering wood, Kalay, if you would not mind.”
“I wouldn’t, Cyrus.”
They walked down to the water and drifted through the starlit reeds like pale ghosts, bending, picking up sticks, talking softly.
Zarathan walked over to Barnabas and found the old man shivering. “Brother? Are you all right?”
“Just cold.”
Zarathan sank to the sand beside him and wrapped his arm around Barnabas’ shoulders, trying to warm him. He might be a heretic, but he was his brother. “Barnabas, you mustn’t worry so much. You’ll wear yourself out.”
Barnabas shook his gray head. “I keep seeing the faces of our dead brothers. I can’t believe someone would kill them for this.” He tucked the papyrus fragment back into the leather pouch and tied it to his belt.
“What is that? And why do you think they were killed because of it?” Zarathan’s eyes moved to where Kalay and Cyrus walked down the shore.
Barnabas followed his gaze. Instead of answering his question, Barnabas said, “Are you concerned about the woman, Zarathan?”
“No! Well, not exactly. At least I wouldn’t be if I were sure she was human. I fear she may be a demon.”
“Be of good courage, Zarathan, for the Son of Man is within you. Follow after him, and all will be well.”
“That’s from the Gospel of Maryam!” he said in terror. “Stop that!”
“I thought you didn’t read ‘heretical’ books?”
“Well …” Zarathan sheepishly lifted his shoulders. “There were so many copies lying around the monastery. It was hard not to see a few passages.”
Barnabas smiled and bowed his head. “What I meant is that the only one who can violate your vow of chastity is you, Zarathan. That bit of knowledge should comfort you.”
“It should?” He couldn’t imagine why.
Cyrus and Kalay walked up the sand together, talking. She smiled at something Cyrus said. A short time later, a tiny blaze flickered to life near the pot.
Barnabas got on his knees and clasped his hands in prayer. His lips moved with soundless words. When he opened his eyes again, they fixed on Cyrus with such intensity that Zarathan said, “What’s wrong? You look like you just saw Beelzebub himself.”
“I’m afraid for Brother Cyrus.”
Astonished, Zarathan said, “He’s the last person you should worry about. He can take care of himself.”
Barnabas’ eyes tightened. “Can he? Perhaps you see a less tormented soul than I do.”
The old man rose and walked unsteadily across the sand toward the fire.
SEVEN
When Cyrus saw Barnabas coming, he immediately rose and took Barnabas’ arm, helping him to the fire. “Are you cold, brother? Why don’t you warm yourself while I melt the wax.”
Barnabas sank down and extended his icy fingers to the tiny flame. “Kalay? Would you allow me a few moments alone to speak with Brother Cyrus?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Plotting again, are you?”
Barnabas smiled. “Yes.”
She got to her feet and headed for Zarathan, who threw up his hands in exasperation and backpedaled across the sand.
Kalay called, “Stand still. You’re vexing me.”
When Barnabas and Cyrus were alone, Cyrus stopped adding twigs to the flames, and lifted his gaze to stare into Barnabas’ eyes. Barnabas saw the fear that lived there. Before he could speak, Cyrus bowed his head.
“I also am worried about my immortal soul, Brother Barnabas. I just …” Cyrus toyed with a twig and then tossed it into the fire. “I could not see any other way at the time.”
Barnabas reached out and put a hand on Cyrus’ bowed head. “I fear that I am the one responsible for your sins tonight, Cyrus. Were it not for my literary obsession, I doubt you and Kalay would have needed to—to do what you did.”
Cyrus looked up. Sternly, he said, “That was not your fault, brother. No more than—”
Barnabas softly interrupted. “We can both worry about forgiveness at another time, and probably for the rest of our lives. Actually, I wanted to speak with you about something else.”
Cyrus’ thick black brows drew together. “Yes?”
Barnabas cast a glance over his shoulder, making certain that Zarathan and Kalay could not overhear. Then he whispered, “Please try to answer me honestly.”
“Of course, brother.”
“How did Pappas Meridias know you?”
For several moments Cyrus didn’t seem to be breathing. Barnabas studied him. He must have been considered a handsome man when he was in the world. The curly black hair that hung to his shoulders framed his oval face, accenting his straight nose and green eyes.
Cyrus replied, “I don’t think he knew me, that is, recognized me, but he probably knew my reputation—”
“How did he know you were in our monastery?”
Cyrus lifted his shoulders in a confused shrug. “Truly, I don’t know.”
After more than thirty years of working with monks, Barnabas could assess truth and falsehood with fair ease. He saw no guile in Cyrus’ face.
“I am concerned,” Barnabas explained, “because when a man enters our monastery, we do not ask about his former life, or name. It is enough that he wishes to seek God, and help us usher in the Kingdom. To discover a monk’s former name requires a great deal of effort.” He held Cyrus’ gaze. “Pappas Meridias was hoping to find Jairus Claudius Atinius in our monastery. Why?”
Cyrus stared at the river as though seeking hidden enemies, expecting them to arrive soon. Perhaps the fire had been burning for too long.
Cyrus pulled the lid from the big pot and held it near the flames, turning it to melt the wax all around. “If I knew the answer to that, brother, I might be able to solve part of the puzzle about the attack on our monastery. But I don’t.”
“Are you certain you have no idea—”
“I swear to you on my baptism, brother. I do not know why a bishop would wish to find me.”
Barnabas shivered and stared into the flames. It was a small fire, no more than a clutter of burning twigs, but it felt good. “Cyrus, how old are you?”
Cyrus wet his lips, as though worried Barnabas might put something together. “I am thirty-four, brother.”
Barnabas did not take his eyes from the flames, but his mind was running calculations. “You have been a monk with us for almost a year. Were you a monk anywhere else first?”
“In Rome, for one year. Another year in Milan. I spent eight years moving through monasteries in Asia Minor, then I spent a little over a year in Palestine.”
“Is it possible that men from the highest levels of our Church have been searching monasteries for years trying to locate you?” When Cyrus hesitated for an unusually long time, Barnabas said, “If you don’t wish to tell me, Cyrus, it’s all right.”
“Truly, brother, I can’t imagine why they would.”
There was something in his voice that told Barnabas he wasn’t telling the whole truth, but he said, “Well, keep thinking about it. Perhaps you will come up with a reason. In the meantime, hand me that lid. I’ll reseal the pot, then we’ll quickly bury it, and be on our way. I know you’re frightened for us, as I am.”
Cyrus handed him the warm jar lid and Barnabas pressed it down hard on the pot rim, sealing it. As Cyrus kicked sand over the fire, Barnabas began shoving sand over the to
p of the pot.
It didn’t take long. By the time the night wind had done its job, the pot and its hiding place would again be invisible.
Barnabas struggled to his feet and found Cyrus standing awkwardly, his fists clenched at his sides. “What is it, Cyrus?”
“Brother, I would like to ask you a question now.”
Barnabas’ heart skipped. There was only one question that could be plaguing Cyrus.
The river-scented breeze blew Cyrus’ black hair around his face, tangling it with his beard.
Barnabas sighed. “I cannot tell you, Cyrus. If I did, it would be dangerous for you. For all of us. That said, I must ask for your help. I cannot do this alone.”
“What is it you wish to do?”
“I must undertake a mission that I should have undertaken twenty-five years ago, when I first discovered the papyrus. Please, don’t ask me anything else.”
Cyrus propped his hands on his hips and his broad shoulders strained against the linen fabric of his white robe. “Brother, I will do anything you ask of me, because I trust you, but will you at least tell me what the Church is afraid of? It would help me to know that.”
The night air had grown cool. Barnabas stared up at the wealth of stars in the heavens, wondering what he could say that would be true, but not the Truth.
“Cyrus,” he began in a low, confidential voice, “they err who say, ‘The Lord first died and then he arose.’ For first he arose, and then he died. That is what they fear.”30
Just before he turned for the boat, Barnabas caught the sudden glint of fear in Cyrus’ eyes … and it cut him to the heart.
EIGHT
Mehebel
NISAN THE 15TH, THE YEAR 3771, MORNING
Wind rustled the boughs of the fig trees and fluttered Yosef’s cape where he’d drawn it tightly about his legs. The intense darkness on the mountainside made it difficult to see anything clearly, but at least he did not hear horses, or men moving through the trees. In the distance, the lamplit homes of the farmers who cultivated the land gleamed. Both the broad fertile valley bottom, and the terraced hillsides between mounts Ebal and Gerizim were farmed. Vineyards and orchards flourished on the slopes.
Titus, I pray to God you are safe.
He rolled over and had to grit his teeth to keep from crying out. The pain in his wounded shoulder was staggering. After they’d taken refuge in this orchard, he’d barely slept. All night long, he’d worried about Titus, and gone over every possible person who might have betrayed them, remembered every argument.
The traitor must have been one of the inner circle. No one else knew of their plan. But who could have so hated them he would betray even their final act of devotion?
The scents of damp earth and blossoms blew through the orchard. He inhaled deeply, and closed his eyes, trying to force himself to sleep. Bone-numbing pain throbbed in his shoulder with each beat of his heart.
As his breathing dropped to the deep rhythms of sleep, voices whispered to him, and faces drifted before his eyes … .
I lean against the doorway of my house just outside the walled city of Yerushalaim and casually watch the passersby.
The purple gleam of dawn streams through the grapevines that cover the white limestone cliff behind my house, and casts dappled shadows across the road twenty paces away. Titus kneels near the road, apparently mending a leather harness. His job today is to watch for Roman soldiers. As a member of the Council of Seventy-one, I know my house is occasionally under surveillance. The occupiers rightly fear that I have sympathy for radicals.
In the room behind me, three such men talk in low voices: Yakob and Yohanan, the sons of Zebedaios, and Kepha, the Rock, who is also known as the skandaion, the stumbling block,31 because of the constant gloom he seems to inflict upon everyone.
A wagon filled with large clay jars bangs down the road, the wares jostling in the back. I watch it pass. Many people walk the road today, carrying goods for sale in the city. Others are just travelers coming for the Pesach celebration. By the end of the week more than two million people will have arrived from all over the world.32
My gaze moves over the nearby houses. Most are carved into the limestone cliff, or built against it so that the cliff makes up one wall. My house is larger than most, but not ostentatiously large. I have six rooms. The recently hewn tomb in my garden resembles a dark hole. I built it out of fear that my ailing father will soon require it. He’s been dying for a month, but soon, I pray, his misery will be over.
Titus stands and whispers, “The Two are coming, Master.”
I turn and softly call to the men inside my house, “They’re coming.”
Behind me, I hear robes rustling, sandals scuffing the stone floor.
I straighten and smooth the wrinkles from the front of my yellow himation. Beneath it, I wear a simple blue linen tunic and sandals.
Titus dips his head politely as Yeshua and Maryam walk onto the path. Both wear white tunics tied over their left shoulders, with the other shoulder bare, and white himatia draped over their heads to hide their identities, lest the crowds should follow them here. Maryam has her wealth of black hair pulled back and tied with a leather cord. The style highlights her perfect face, but also accentuates her worried expression. She keeps glancing fearfully at Yeshua, though he doesn’t seem to notice. He has his gaze fixed on me. He is a slender man, of medium height,33 but his eyes capture the hearts and souls of men and women alike. There is a serenity there, centuries deep, that makes me long to stare into those dark eyes forever.
I step forward. “Rab, welcome. Please go inside quickly.”
Maryam gently touches my shoulder as she passes and enters my house.
Yeshua stands for a moment longer, just staring at me. His long curly black hair and beard blow in the wind that gusts down over the cliff. “Thank you, Yosef. For everything. I know we place you in great danger. You are a true friend.”
“Yes, well, that won’t matter if we’re caught. Please hide yourself.”
Yeshua nods.
As he passes, my gaze lingers on the strange tattoos that cover his arms. His flesh bears the marks of many powerful magical spells. There are those who claim to have been healed just by touching those marks.34
I take one last look around—see Titus shake his head, telling me there is no sign of pursuit—then duck inside and close my door.
After the rich colors of dawn, it requires time for my eyes to adjust to the darkness.
The five exchange holy kisses, then Yeshua extends a hand to the floor mats. “Please, sit. We haven’t much time.”
Maryam kneels between Yakob and Yohanan, but Kepha remains standing, facing Yeshua. Tall with sandy hair and a thick beard, he always looks angry. He is known for being hot-tempered.35
Yeshua smiles at Kepha. “Brother, please sit down. We have much to discuss.”
Kepha’s eyes narrow at Maryam. The rivalry between the two has been growing for some time. They clearly dislike each other.36 Kepha thrusts out a hand to Maryam. “Master, please, let Maryam leave us, for women are not worthy of life.” 37
In the Jewish tradition, women are not allowed to become disciples of prominent religious teachers, much less be a part of a wandering ministry. Such behavior is scandalous. Kepha is voicing what many men in their religion believe, but it is not what Yeshua believes. Yeshua has always accepted men as well as women as his disciples and traveling companions. Radical ideas like these are what get him in trouble. Temple authorities see his teachings as threats to the very fabric of Jewish social life.38
Maryam’s jaw clenches. She starts to stand, and Yeshua softly says, “No, Maryam, stay.” To Kepha, he gently adds, “Brother, the heavens and earth will be rolled up in your presence, 39 why are you troubled by Maryam?”
“Because,” Kepha gestures his frustration, “she always dominates the conversation, displacing the rightful words of your true apostles.” 40
“Master,” Maryam says, starting to rise again. “I will go
so that my voice does not hinder Kepha.”
Yeshua lifts a hand to stop her. In a tender voice he says, “I tell you truly that for the rest of time you will be known as my most beloved apostle and praised as the woman who knew the All. Please, sit down.”41
He kisses her again on the mouth, and she sinks back to the mat.
Kepha clenches his fists. “Lord, do you love her more than us? You kiss her often.” 42
Yeshua sighs. “I love equally all those who walk in the spirit of the life. Here, Kepha, sit by my side and let us speak of more important things.”
Kepha grumbles, but he sits on a mat opposite Maryam, as far from her as he can get.
“Now,” Yeshua says, “let us get to the business at hand. Yosef? The Council recently met?”
I walk forward. “Yes. They’re very worried about you. Your movement is attracting increasing numbers, and the Council fears that during the Pesach feast there may be a riot. Many of the uneducated are already shouting that you are the messiah, the ‘annointed king’ who will overthrow the Romans and restore the Jewish State.”
“I have never said that, Yosef.”
“I know, but it’s difficult to control such feelings of Jewish nationalism. The people are looking for a savior, and their hatred for Rome is like a smoldering torch, ready to ignite. The Council fears that over the holy days people might rally around you.”
“All of the Council, or just certain members?”
I shrug. “Not all, but the most powerful members. High Priest Kaiaphas says that if we let you go on like this, the people will revolt and the Romans will come and destroy both our Temple and our nation.” 43
“And Councilor Hanan?44 What is he saying?”
Hanan is the former high priest of the Council, and a wealthy businessman. His family sells the lambs and doves necessary for ritual sacrifices. I don’t know all the details, only that there is a blood feud, generations old, between Hanan’s family and Yeshua’s.
“Hanan says you are a Zealot, maybe even one of the secret leaders of the movement. He says that’s why you call yourself the Son of Man, just as the other secret leader calls himself the Son of the Father. He says the Zealots are trying to fulfill the prophecies of the Essenes regarding the coming of two mashiahims, the Mashiah of Yisrael, and the Mashiah of Aaron.” 45