The Betrayal (19 page)

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Authors: Kathleen O'Neal Gear

BOOK: The Betrayal
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Pappas Meridias stood beside the long table with his arms crossed. His black robe almost blended with the deep hues of the walnut and stood out in stark contrast to the gray stone walls. All around him, dusty shelves filled with scrolls and codices rose to twice his height—the weight relieved only by tiny windows high up on the walls. The church library in Alexandria was quiet, which seemed to magnify his voice.
“Did you follow our plan?”
Loukas nodded. “You said if we were captured we should tell them you were headed to Caesarea. I did.”
Meridias ran his hand over the table. Though it had recently been polished with oil, dust coated his fingertips. He longed to return to Rome, where cleanliness prevailed. Out here, everything was filthy, all the time. He didn't know how people lived in such squalor. But, of course, they were peasants, common laborers. Perhaps they did not notice.
He wiped his hand on his robe and said, “Do you think they believed you?”
“Yes, Pappas. I heard them talking. The old man, Barnabas, was worried about his friend Eusebios.”
“As we knew he would be. They may not, however, head straight for the library.
“Why not?”
“Pappas Athanasios, the patriarch here, has no love for Eusebios. He tells me that two of Eusebios' former library assistants live between here and Caesarea.”
“And you think Barnabas may try to contact them?”
“It's possible. One lives near Agrippias, the other in Apollonia.”
“Do you wish me to seek out these men?”
“I haven't decided. The man near Agrippias is said to be an old hermit. No one here knows exactly where he might be found. He apparently roams from one cave to another, constantly moving. The other, in Apollonia, would be easier to locate. He's a local hero, a street preacher of some renown.”
Loukas waited for instructions.
Meridias examined him. The man's tan, coarsely woven robe was torn in several places, and his face looked raw. Red and hideously swollen, he might have been caught in a sandstorm far from home and his face scoured to a bloody pulp. He also walked stiffly, and stood as though tender.
“Atinius had a reputation for being able to make men talk.”
Loukas stared dully at Meridias. “Centurion Atinius knows the frailties of men.”
“Yes, I'm sure our many wars taught him well.”
“The woman, she was the worst. She …”
His voice trailed away, and Meridias frowned. “Did you tell them anything else?”
Anger stirred the icy depths of Loukas' eyes, but he calmly answered, “They already know you are behind the attack on their monastery. There was nothing else I could tell them. You have given me no information as to what we are searching for.”
That was, of course, true, at least about the critical information—of which Meridias knew precious little himself. Meridias had been carefully instructed to tell the Militia Templi only what was necessary for them to accomplish their holy missions. Loukas had just demonstrated the wisdom of that.
“I have outlined the new plan. Pappas Athanasios has offered to send some of his best men to accompany you. Do you have any objections?”
“Not if they are truly skilled.”
“Good. I have arranged for transport to Jerusalem. I leave at noon today. Pappas Athanasios has graciously supplied you with clean clothing and
supplies for your journey. I'll have them delivered to your cell. You may go and ready yourself. As to the hermit and the preacher, I'll let you know when I've decided their fates.”
Loukas shifted, clearly wanting to say something.
“What is it?”
“Pappas, when this is over, if you choose to reward me, as you so often and generously do, I would like to own the washerwoman, Kalay.”
Meridias made an airy gesture with his hand. “So long as she remains ignorant of that which we seek, you may do with her as you wish.”
A tiny, frightening smile touched the man's lips.
“What of your wounds, Loukas? Can you ride?”
“I can ride.”
Loukas bowed at the waist, winced, and stiffly headed for the massive door. As he swung it open, a cool breeze blew into the room, fluttering the ancient pages that cluttered the shelves.
Meridias watched the dust swirl up from the table and glitter as it resettled over his shoulders. Irritated, he brushed at it and turned his attention to the library. Heresy was everywhere. One by one, he removed books from the shelves, and placed them on the table.
Before this day was through, each would be burned.
Kalay gazed up at the stars that glittered across the heavens as she dipped a cup of water from the still pool beneath the palms. Though Cyrus, not knowing this part of the country, had advised against stopping, they were all bitterly tired. If the horses didn't rest, the poor beasts would collapse.
Barnabas slept curled on the sand five paces away, his head pillowed on the book bag. To his right, Zarathan looked like nothing more than a knot of bunched cloth. The star gleam had bleached their faces a ghostly white.
Cyrus sat beside the pool with his prayer rope in his hands, his sword within easy reach. He was struggling mightily with himself. She could see it in every tight line of his face, plus he kept knotting and unknotting his prayer rope. In the past hour, he'd filled it with knots ten times, untied them all, and started the process over again. Just now, it rested on his drawn-up knee. He tied a knot, lowered the rope to the sand, grimaced at it, tied another knot. Finally, he gripped the prayer rope in hard fists.
As she walked back, she said, “Planning on using that to hang yourself?”
“Hmm?” He looked up her as though he'd forgotten she was there.
She sat down beside him and pointed to his hands. “I'm talking about the way you're wringing the life out of your prayer rope.”
He relaxed his grip.
“Cyrus, you didn't have any choice. Except you could have quickly
slipped a dagger between the ribs of that worm-ridden, cold-eyed
mamzer,
before we got scared off. In fact, you should have, but you didn't. I don't understand why you're lashing yourself so.”
His shoulder-length black curly hair hung around his handsome face in sweat-soaked locks, tangling with his beard and mustache. “You wouldn't understand.”
In the distance, their horses placidly nipped the grasses at the edge of the pool. The bony beasts needed every scrap of nourishment they could find.
“Try me.”
He tied another knot. “I don't want to talk about it.”
“When a man says that it means he's ashamed of something.”
The desperation in his gaze made her feel as though she were being impaled. “Go away.”
A gust of wind blew through the oasis, tousling the palm fronds and fluttering red hair over her eyes. Kalay caught the strands with one hand and held them until the gust passed on. “Well, if you want my opinion, you're being a fool. You had two choices. You could have let those foul sicarii kill your brothers and me, or you could have killed them first. Do you truly think your God would rather have us dead and Loukas and his boys drinking and whoring?”
The lines at the corners of his eyes deepened. “What worries me”—he paused and tied another knot—“is that I fell back into my old life as easily as though I'd never taken vows, never dedicated my life to following my Lord's teachings.”
“Ah. I see.”
“Do you? My Lord would have preferred that I avoid the situation altogether. That was my failure.”
“So you should have run away?”
“No, I …” He heaved a deep sigh. “I don't know what I should have done. I only know that what I did was wrong.”
It was clear that he keenly felt the weight of the lives he'd taken, despite the fact that he'd saved four in the process. It was unfathomable to her, but she said, “You didn't start this, Cyrus. Your church did. You protected your friends the only way you knew how. And, I might add, did it with remarkable skill.”
He twisted his prayer rope and gazed out at the starlight glimmering from the pool. “You're not helping much.”
“Well, talking a man out of his guilt takes a while. I need more time.”
As he lifted his eyes to the trail they had ridden in on, he said, “I swear I've seen him before.”
“Who?”
“‘Loukas,' if that was his name.”
Kalay frowned. “Where have you seen him?”
“I'm not sure. Maybe in the army.”
“Did you serve with him?”
Cyrus cocked his head, as though trying to recall. “I remember the face of every man in my century, as well as every name. If I did serve with him his appearance is much changed, and he's using a different name.”
“Why would that be?”
He tied his prayer rope to his belt, as though finished for the night. “He may have been very young when I knew him. Or he could be a member of a secret military or religious order that requires such changes. Altering one's appearance and undergoing a name change is symbolic of giving up your old life and accepting your new duties and responsibilities.”
She pondered that for a moment, considering how similar it was to Christian baptism. “What secret military orders?”
He dropped his head into his hands and massaged his temples. “All I can tell you is that there are many, and they share a common belief that paradise lies in the shadow of swords.”
“Do you think Loukas is some sort of grand master?”
His gaze shot in her direction as though even that knowledge was reserved to a select few.
Kalay took a drink of water. It had a clean, earthy taste that pleased her. “Men love to strut and preen when they're attempting to impress a woman, Cyrus. They drink too much. They brag about their importance. Most mistake divulging a secret with intimacy.” She let him digest what that meant and took another drink of the cool water. “Do you think the man in charge is Roman?”
“Almost certainly. There has always been discord between Egypt and Rome, which makes me wonder if this doesn't go all the way to Bishop Silvester of Rome.”
75
“Who is he?”
“The right hand of Emperor Constantine.”
“You mean he's the emperor's lackey?”
“Yes.”
He rose and walked to the pool to fill his water cup. For a big man, he moved with the silence and grace of a leopard. Dust coated his black hair and white robe, and she could see his powerful shoulder muscles flexing beneath the dirty fabric as he lowered his cup to the pool.
Kalay stretched out on her side and propped her head on her hand. Zarathan had started to snore. In response, Barnabas flopped to his opposite side.
Kalay tipped her head toward Barnabas. “I found it curious that the old monk did not try to stop us when we were questioning ‘Loukas.'”
Cyrus walked back and sat down beside her. “As did I. I expected him to intervene.”
“To spare you?” she asked bluntly.
Cyrus closed his eyes as if at a sudden stab of pain. “Did no one ever teach you subtlety?”
She shrugged. “It's easier on people in the long run if you're just frank.”
Cyrus swallowed a gulp of water, before he said, “I wouldn't know. It's something I've never tried.”
“Well, you're probably afraid of hurting other people's feelings. I'm a beast.”
“That hasn't been my impression.”
As they stared at each other, conflicting emotions danced across his face. The longing in his gaze touched her. Irritated with himself, he looked away.
Softly, he said, “Forgive me.”
“For what?”
“I know you don't like to be stared at.”
“It's all right. You can't help it. I'm the most beautiful woman you've ever seen.” She the repeated words she'd heard a thousand times.
The lines at the corners of his eyes crinkled with amusement. “Actually, you're not.”
She pulled back as though shocked and dismayed, then said, “Does that mean I won't have to worry about you creeping into my blankets some night?”
He smiled.
Kalay drained her water cup and set it aside. The more time she and Cyrus spent together, the more the attraction between them grew, though it was a reluctant attraction on his part. As for her part …
As the silence lengthened, Cyrus' smile faded and he frowned down at the chipped clay cup in his hands. “I wish it were that simple. You and I know it's not. May I tell you something? It may make things easier between us.”
“Of course. I can stand rejection.”
It seemed to take a long time before he decided which words to use. “I had a wife once, a long time ago. I still miss her. When I'm truly tormented, she comes to me in my dreams. We talk. We laugh. I cannot tell you how very much I crave the tenderness of her touch.” His jaw clenched. “There are times when I look at you …”
He stopped.
Kalay carefully asked, “What was her name?”
“Spes.”
“Like the Roman goddess?”
“Yes.”
“Is she the woman more beautiful than me?”
Old pain tightened his eyes. “She was.”
The agony in his voice went straight to her heart. “Did she have red hair, like mine?”
He nodded.
She had heard this story many times.
“You remind me of my lost childhood love … my dead wife … the woman I could never have …”
The words always came out in a tormented voice.
Sympathetically, she said, “Then it's natural that I remind you of her. But I'm not her. And no man on earth would describe me as ‘tender,' Cyrus. Now that you realize your heart is just hoping too hard, let it go.”
“I
am
trying.”
“I know you are, and you're a valiant warrior.” She reached over to playfully slap his cheek. “You'll get over me.”
She rose to her feet. “I'm going to bed now. Don't follow me.”
As she walked away, he laughed and shook his head.
Kalay curled up on the sand at the base of a palm tree, and used her
arm as a pillow. The fragrance of the water and sound of the wind rustling the fronds was soothing.
Cyrus sat for a time, staring at the pool, before he got to his feet, picked up his sword, and belted it on. As he walked past her, he halted briefly to say, “That was an unexpected kindness. Thank you.”
“Get some rest, Cyrus.”
“I will. Later.”
He continued up the trail to the top of the dune where he could watch the approaches that led to the oasis. They made dark, sinuous lines through the sand.
When she woke in the middle of the night, he was still standing there like a soldier on duty, staring out at the starlit desert.
Forget it, the last thing you need is a man.
But when she rolled over and closed her eyes again, he was smiling in her dreams.
 
 
 
THE TEACHING ON THE BEAST
 
“All of our lives we tiptoe around him, afraid lest he wake. I tell you now, brother, it is absolutely necessary to awaken the Beast, for it is only when we are crouching in that dark pit of terror, shivering and lost, that we clearly hear God calling and run toward the resurrection.”

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