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Authors: Kathleen O'Neal Gear

BOOK: The Betrayal
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Kalay asked, “Why? What happened to bastard children?”
Zarathan flinched at the term.
But Barnabas seemed unaffected. “Terrible things. Being called a
mamzer
was the worst insult. Such children were considered the ‘excrement of the community.' Both the mother and the child would have been social outcasts. In fact, the Wisdom of Solomon, in chapter three, verses sixteen through nineteen, and chapter four, verses three through six, says that such children should be held ‘of no account,' and even in their old age should be without honor. They were denied entry to the Kingdom of
God after their deaths. Deuteronomy, in chapter twenty-three, verse three makes it clear that ‘No
mamzer
will enter the assembly of God even to the tenth generation.'”
“I don't care about after death.” Red wisps of hair blew around Kalay's face. “What about during his life? Would he have been punished?”
Zarathan wiped his sweating palms on his robe and licked his lips. His throat had gone dust dry.
“Iesous would have been punished in every way possible.
Mamzerim
couldn't hold public office, and if they took part in court cases, the decision was invalidated. They could not legally marry any other legitimate Israelites. If they did have children, there was a good chance those children would be killed. The Wisdom of Solomon says that ‘The offspring of such an unlawful union will perish … by the violence of the winds they will be uprooted.'”
“Is that why our Lord never married?” Cyrus asked. “He couldn't?”
“Possibly, though it is also possible he chose to be celibate, which is what I believe. There were many religious groups who taught that the Kingdom was coming very soon, and so there was no point to marriage. That is, for example, what the Essenes taught in Palestine, and the Theraputae in Egypt. If our Lord was a member of either of those ascetic groups, his inability to marry and have children would have been irrelevant.”
“Do you think he was a member of one of those groups?” Cyrus asked.
My Lord a bastard child? I don't believe it. This is heresy!
The sublime, mystical stories of the virgin birth were some of Zarathan's favorites. The most powerful moments in his nighttime prayer vigils came when he was contemplating the virgin birth.
Barnabas said, “I think it likely that our Lord studied healing and magic with the Theraputae in Egypt and then returned to pursue his education with the Essenes in Palestine. And the Platonist philosopher Celsus wrote in his book
True Doctrine
that Iesous went to Egypt to study magic. Both groups were reputed to have great medical knowledge, the best of their day.”
Nonchalantly, Kalay the pagan said, “That's probably how he did his ‘miracles.' He could heal because he was a master of the medical arts.”
Zarathan gaped. “His miracles came through the power of
God
! How do you explain that he could raise the dead?”
Kalay opened her mouth to say something unpleasant, but Brother Barnabas softly interrupted, “I've always believed it was the Iesous ointment.”
Kalay frowned at him. “He invented an ointment that raised the dead?”
Zarathan cried, “That's ridiculous!”
Barnabas propped the stick on which his fish was skewered across his lap and pulled off a flaky piece of meat. As he chewed, he said, “The
Marham-i-Isa,
the ointment of Iesous, is referred to in many ancient medical treatises. Apparently it could heal wounds with stunning rapidity, and even raise the dead, or at least those who appeared to be dead.”
59
While Zarathan was staring at Barnabas in shock, Cyrus said, “Brother, who is ‘the headless demon whom the winds obey'?”
Zarathan's gaze jerked back to Cyrus. In the holy name of God, why didn't Cyrus reach over and slap some sense into the old man?
Barnabas replied, “Anyone who has read Psalms knows whom the winds and seas obey. God. But the Egyptian Magical Papyri specifically state that the headless demon is ‘the Lord of the world, this is he whom the winds fear.'
60
He's a powerful figure in ancient magic. Why do you ask?”
As though terrified someone might be listening, Cyrus cast a glance over his shoulder, then scanned the river and desert, before saying, “When Brother Zarathan and I were in the library crypt we found Papias' book
The Exposition of the Lord's Logia.
There was a reference—”
“Ah, yes, in division four.” Barnabas' thick gray brows lowered. He gave Cyrus a serious appraisal. “Could you read it, brother?”
Embarrassed, Cyrus said, “Well, no, not all of it. The passage was clearly written in cipher, but I understood the part about Pantera, and the headless demon, and the reference to the Pearl.”
Barnabas nodded approvingly. “That is a great deal more than most monks would have gleaned from that passage—even after years of study. Have you had experience with ciphers?”
Cyrus hesitated a long time before saying, “When I was in the army, I was required to decipher coded messages for the generals. I'm not very good at it, but that particular passage was clearly a substitution cipher using Hebrew, Aramaic, and Greek letters.”
“Only a man who knew all three languages would realize that, Cyrus. I didn't know you read Hebrew?”
“I read it poorly, brother. Hebrew is close enough to Aramaic that I can get a general idea of what is being written, but I'm not skilled at translating Hebrew.”
Kalay drew up her knees and propped her forearms on them, revealing her bare legs. “I can translate it. My grandmother was Jewish. She started reading me the Hebrew Scriptures when I was four. I don't read Hebrew, but I understand it, which means I can also get along understanding Aramaic—though I wouldn't have Cyrus' talent.”
Zarathan madly bit into his second fish. He was feeling a little dizzy. Chewing and swallowing seemed to help his constricted breathing.
Barnabas still had his gaze fixed on Cyrus, and the expression on his face suggested he was seeing Cyrus in a different light. “Cyrus, perhaps Zarathan and Kalay could row us to the next village while you sit beside me in the boat. There are some things I would like to show you. You may understand them better than me.”
“Of course, brother.”
Zarathan tossed the fish bones into the fire and loudly challenged, “You said there were many records that document that our Lord was a
mamzer.
The ones you've named are Jewish. They're all lies meant to hurt our Lord. You can't believe—”
Barnabas gently interrupted, “There are other records, Zarathan. Some of them you know very well.”
Zarathan blinked, trying to clear his reeling head. “I do?”
“Do you recall these words: ‘He who knows the father and the mother will be called the son of a whore'?”
“Of course. Our Lord says that in verse one-oh-five of the Gospel of Thomas, but he meant—”
“I think he meant what he said, brother. We even have clues in the approved gospels, though not the versions written after the year 200. By that time, the gospels had been edited by so many writers with points to prove that you can't believe them. They—”
“You're possessed by demons! No wonder the Church sent people to burn our monastery! Maybe I should have helped them!”
Cyrus, who had closed his eyes at the term “whore,” ignored Zarathan, asking, “Barnabas, where in the approved gospels does it speak of these things?”
“Oh, Cyrus,” the old man said gently, “think about Markos' story. In the temple in Nazaret the people call our Lord the ‘son of Miriam.' The Jewish people didn't trace descent through the female until after the destruction of the Temple in the year 70. At the time our Lord was in Nazaret, descent was traced through the male. To refer to a man as being the son of his mother was gravely offensive. It meant that his paternity was uncertain. Gospels written twenty or thirty years after Markos' gospel, like the gospels of Maththaios, Loukas, and Ioannes, go to great efforts to eliminate this reference. So, for example, Maththaios, chapter twelve, verse fifty-five, replaces Miriam with Ioses, as does Ioannes in chapter six, verse forty-two. Later editors changed Markos' words to read things like ‘the son of the carpenter.' The Gospel of Markos was often ‘corrected' by later writers to echo the glosses of Maththaios and Ioannes. Such things are a disgrace. The original documents should be allowed to speak for themselves.” He shook his head. “Then there is the fact that the Gospel of Ioannes never mentions the name of Yeshua's mother. Nor do the epistles of Paul. She was an outcast whose name was to be forgotten.”
Zarathan simply could not speak.
Barnabas looked out at the dawn. As the sun rose in a huge orange orb, a golden flood of light swept across the desert. The horizon became a vast, shimmering plain, as though earth was melting into sky.
Barnabas added, “And there are many other documents from the second century that relate the story, like the works of Celsus, who was writing sometime between the years of 150 and 178. He also knew and reported the story of Yeshua ben Pantera.”
Zarathan glanced at Cyrus. He looked as though he'd been hit in the head with a rock. Stunned, his mouth was hanging open.
Cyrus said, “But, brother, where does the story about Iesous' father, Ioses, come from?”
“By the year 85, the Temple had been destroyed, Judaism and Christianity had split, and Iesous' followers were desperate to make sure he fulfilled every Hebrew prophecy about the coming messiah. For example, think of Micah, chapter five, verse two, and Isaiah, chapter seven, verse fourteen. As well, the crucifixion story is strikingly similar to Psalms, twenty-two. With regard to his father, the passages were Zechariah, chapter six, verses eleven through thirteen.”
Cyrus seemed to be running verses through his head. “You mean the Hebrew verse that says, ‘Take the silver and gold and make crowns and set them upon the head of Yehoshua, the son of Yosadaq.'”
Zarathan shouted, “That's about the prophet Ioshua, not our Lord, Iesous Christos!”
Cyrus clasped his hands around one knee and softly replied, “
Yehoshua is
our Lord's name, Zarathan. Iesous is the Greek form of the Hebrew name, Yeshua, and Yeshua in formal Hebrew is Yehoshua. So, Yosadaq?”
Barnabas nodded. “The shortened form in Greek is Iose or Ioses, and in Hebrew—”
Kalay finished for him, “Yosef.”
61
Cyrus placed hands on either side of his head and squeezed. “Forgive me, but this is too much to hear all at once.”
“That's because it's blasphemy!” Zarathan insisted. “Ioses was our Lord's adopted father. That's a fact! You're all going to be struck by lightning and then cast into flames that burn forever!”
Kalay said drily, “Well, that will certainly make me think twice.”
Barnabas ignored them, reached out, and placed a hand on Cyrus' curly black hair. “You are not the first to be troubled by these things, Cyrus. My own teacher, Pappas Eusebios, at the library in Caesarea, had difficulty with these ideas. That's why he believed in religious tolerance and pluralism, and opposed all persecution of pagans or heretics in the Roman Empire. He maintained that through discussion ultimately the purity of the gospel truth would be revealed.”
Kalay smoothed windblown hair away from her blue eyes. “I heard he's had some problems with his library assistants,” she said offhandedly, and gazed out at the palm trees swaying over the distant oasis.
Barnabas took a big bite out of his fish and chewed. Around the lump, he asked, “What problems?”
“They keep disappearing.”
Barnabas swallowed his mouthful of fish. “What do you mean, ‘disappearing'?”
“You monks never get into the city. It was big news a year ago. Then just six months ago another of his assistants up and disappeared. They found his body shortly thereafter. He had his heart in his hand and his balls and cock in his mouth.”
Zarathan gasped. “He'd been tortured?”
Barnabas' elderly face slackened as though with terrible knowledge. His fish fell from his numb fingers and rolled across the sand.
Cyrus leaped to his side. “Brother? Are you well?”
Barnabas was staring wide-eyed at nothing. In a deathly quiet voice, he said, “Dear God. They're hunting us down.”
“Us?”
Zarathan cried. Terror fired his veins. He stumbled to his feet, careened off into the reeds, and while bitter tears leaked from his eyes, his stomach pumped.
Mahray
 
 
 
Yosef dozed on the back of the horse as the animal plodded down the trail that led toward the city of Gophna. Last night they'd made it to an Essene community where his wound had been properly cleaned and bandaged; his pain had diminished somewhat, though he could still smell the odors of pus and torn flesh.
Three youths rode horses in front of him, all Dawn Bathers who had eschewed their traditional white robes for something less distinctive: brown sackcloth. Yosef himself had traded for a modest red Roman toga. If necessary, since he spoke both Greek and Latin, he could pass as a Roman citizen traveling with his three slaves.
Truly exhausted, he was trying to sleep, but the horse kept breaking into a trot, which ripped open his wound and the pain woke him long enough to see the passing vineyards and farmers who waved at them. Cedar, acacia, and box trees fringed the fields. Often blackberry brambles filled the spaces between the trees, creating a very effective, thorny fence. The bleating of goats and braying of camels carried on the fragrant wind.
Yosef let his head fall forward, and closed his eyes. Behind his lids images flitted, faces of people now dead interspersed with strange flashes of
ephod
cloth. Made from a mixture of fine linen and gold leaf, with blue, purple, and scarlet threads,
ephod
cloth was the apparel of the high priest.
As he drifted deeper into sleep, he wondered why the flashes of
ephod
cloth kept appearing? Was his soul trying to reveal some secret?
A voice, deep and melodic, twined through the flashes, growing louder, more distinct … .
 
“I knew you'd come, Yosef.”
I walk up behind him and prop my hands on my hips. Twilight has settled over the Kidron valley in a smoky veil. All around me, limestone cliffs, filled with tombs, thrust up, and the massive stone wall constructed by Herod to encircle the City of David has turned the color of charcoal. Oil lamps from nearby homes cast a fluttering halo over the hills, and their sweet fragrance rides the breeze.
Yeshua kneels on the ground five paces away, carving a stone. He has not looked at me, but is patiently, expertly chipping the limestone away with a hammer and chisel, forming a symbol that is not yet clear. He wears a white robe and sandals. His black hair and beard shine, as though freshly washed.
“Maryam told me you would be here, Rab. She's worried about you.”
He bows his head for a moment and stares at the base of the limestone outcrop where a large stone blocks the entry to the underground tomb. “I needed some time alone. Today was … difficult.”
I expel a breath. “Your actions have enraged the Council. You should have lodged a formal complaint and asked for the proper actions to be taken.”
“The Council doesn't care that the Temple has become a den of thieves where the vendors rob the poor, or they would put a stop to it.”
“Of course the Council cares. The vendors carried their merchandise and sacrificial animals beneath one of the Temple porches. They entered the Temple in a state of impurity. Entry is forbidden even with dusty feet. The Council understands that what you did was natural and lawful, but it was not done properly. You started a riot.” I take a deep breath, and say through a long exhalation, “
Rome
noticed. After you left, they had to send in soldiers to quell the uproar. Three Roman soldiers were killed and several Zealots were arrested.”
Yeshua hesitates an instant. Then he heaves a breath and expertly uses his tools to remove a stubborn bit of stone. Finally, he wipes away the dust and examines his work.
“Rab, try to understand the situation from the Council's perspective. Rumors are flying. The crowds are ready for anyone who will stir things up against the Romans and their supporters. People are crying ‘Hosanna to the son of David' and ‘Blessed is the Kingdom of our father David that is coming.' The crowds believe you are of David's lineage and
—
”
“I have
never
claimed that, Yosef.”
“I know, Master, but you did say: ‘Seek and you shall find; knock and it shall be opened to you.' These people are seeking the
mashiah
with all their hearts. They are knocking as loudly as
—
”
Almost angrily, he cries, “Away with the person who is seeking where he never finds, for he seeks where nothing can be found! Away with him who is always knocking, because it will never be opened to him, for he knocks where there is no one to open.”
“Rab, they are just asking
—
”
“And
especially
away with those who are always asking, because they will never be heard, for they ask of one who does not hear!”
His words silence me.
The scene in the Temple was disgraceful. He knows this. As Pesach nears, people devoted to fulfilling God's commandments arrive from all over the world. The vendors help them to fulfill their ritual obligations. Men over twenty must donate a half-shekel of silver, as Moses commanded in the Book of Exodus. This offering, due once a year by Pesach, necessitates that special “money-changing” tables be set up three weeks before to handle the huge crowds that come to Yerushalaim for the festival. It is also required that people make a sacrifice to God. The wealthy will sacrifice over two hundred thousand lambs on the day of Pesach alone. The poor will substitute doves. This means that animals acceptable for sacrifice must be sold. As well, because the Council charges fees of the vendors, such sales are stunningly profitable for the Temple. No one wants to see the Temple desecrated, but sometimes it happens purely by accident. There are proper steps to punish the guilty. He chose not to follow them.
I spread my hands in a gesture of futility. “Master, I don't know what to say to you.”
His gaze softens. He turns away and uses his tools to fashion what is becoming clear as the symbol of the
tekton,
62
the stoneworker. For many generations his family has made its way as stoneworkers. Is that what this is? The tomb of a lost friend, another
tekton
?
Yeshua uses his finger to trace a small crack, then pets the stone as though it is alive and can feel his touch. “This stone would never have been set by a builder. But it's beautiful, isn't it? Flawed, but beautiful. All things have a purpose.”
He seems to be absorbed by the stone. His gaze focuses on it to the exclusion of everything else. I say, “I think, Master, that perhaps your mind is on other things.”
“My mind,” he says stiffly, “was on three things today, and three only: Zechariah, Isaiah, and Jeremiah.”
I shift uneasily.
Zechariah had prophesied a time when “there will no longer be traders in the house of Yahweh,” and Jeremiah had gone into the Yahweh's Temple and declared, “Has this house, called by my name, become a den of robbers in your sight?” Finally, Isaiah had foreseen a time when the Temple would be a “house of prayer for all nations.”
I understand that his actions were a prophetic protest meant to herald the overthrow of the corrupt Temple system by the arrival of the Kingdom of God. But understanding this does not help me.
I say simply, “Master, the crowds cheered you today. People died. You gave the Romans the reason they need to arrest you.”
His hammer hesitates over the stone before it comes down hard. “We will spend the night in Bet Ani, Yosef. Tell the Seventy-one that I am not with the crowds stirring them up. Tomorrow I will go to the Temple and speak with the priests, or anyone else who wishes to speak with me, including the praefectus himself.”
In panic, I say, “Please, please, do not go to the Temple! I beg you. People will flock to hear you, as they did today. Your enemies will be frightened of another riot and the intervention of Roman forces that will be necessary to quell it. You must stay out of the city until after the holy days are over.”
This year, since Pesach falls on Friday, Nisan the 15th, and the usual Sabbath day is Saturday, two Sabbaths will occur back-to-back.
63
He turns to me. “I will be in the Temple tomorrow morning. Whoever wishes to question me should come and do so. If the crowds are truly as great as you imagine, the Romans will be afraid to arrest me, because that surely will cause a riot.”
“Oh, Rab,” I say in exasperation, “they will just wait until a more opportune time, at night, when you are alone and vulnerable.”
“And after my death? What are their plans?”
I lower my arms and stare at him. He speaks of his death as if it has already occurred. My heart is breaking, and he looks perfectly calm.
I answer, “The Council is terrified that if they kill you, your disciples will steal your body and proclaim that you were resurrected in accord with prophecy. They've already planned for that possibility. They
—
”
“Yosef,” he interrupts in a voice that makes my soul quake, “flesh and blood shall not inherit the Kingdom of God. I have told you this. Those who say they will die first and then rise in the flesh are in error. Have I not pounded it into you over and over that it is necessary to find the resurrection while you live?”
64
“You have told me, Master, but I do not understand.” I flap my arms helplessly. “I know you teach that we must be reborn into the divine light while yet we live, but I have never grasped what that means.”
His bright, hopeful eyes go dark, as though I've disappointed him. “If you do not understand,” he whispers, “does anyone? Or are all my words just the fearful wind?”
He exhales a long, difficult breath and returns to the image he's carving, giving it a few final taps, then he fills his lungs, blows the symbol clean, and brushes at it with his hand. The symbol of the
tekton
has two elements: a builder's square for truing a foundation, and a circle, showing the point at which the master stoneworker strikes to shape the stone.
With tears in my voice, I proclaim, “They'll kill you, Rab.”
He rises to his feet and looks at me with those centuries-deep eyes. Softly, he responds, “God is a man-eater, Yosef.
65
Our sacrifices give him life.”
He pulls up his himation to hide his face and walks away, carrying his hammer and chisel.
“You should not move through the streets alone tonight, Master! Let me escort you to Bet Ani.” I run to catch up, and he
—
 
The horse leaped forward, broke into a trot, and the pain in Yosef's shoulder jolted him from his dreams. He grabbed for the reins with a gasp. The other riders didn't even turn. He'd fallen far behind. He kicked his mount
and rode to catch up with them. Dust puffed from his horse's hooves and lifted into the sky like ghosts ascending toward heaven.
As he thundered past the other conspirators, their horses shied and whinnied. Yosef was suddenly desperate to find Titus, to see if he was still alive and had accomplished their sacred task, or if everything they'd risked had been for nothing.

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