The Betrayal (28 page)

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Authors: Kathleen O'Neal Gear

BOOK: The Betrayal
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“I—I can't tell you.”
She let her hand drop. “Is it about Loukas?”
He just stared at her. “You're too perceptive for your own good.”
“I've been told that before. Best to tell me now, Cyrus.”
He braced his feet. As though the words were being ripped from his chest by a hook, he croaked, “I—I remember where I've seen him.”
“Where?”
“The day my wife died.”
He spun around to walk away, but Kalay grabbed his hand and jerked him back. Agony lined his face. As though he was expecting the question, his fingers crushed hers.
“When was that?”
He seemed to be struggling with himself, deciding which words to use.
“It was right after the Milvian Bridge battle. I—I just couldn't stand the hypocrisy.” A hushed violence strained the words. “I deserted the army. The emperor sent men to bring me back—or maybe to kill me. They broke into my home in the middle of the night. I told Spes to run while I fought them off … .” His shoulders hunched and he seemed to fold in upon himself. “They killed her first.”
“Right in front of you? You saw it?” His expression told her everything. She exhaled hard and nodded. For a brief moment, the mist parted and she saw the horses galloping along the beach in the moonlight, their manes and tails flying. Playful whinnies carried on the wind. “Was it Loukas who killed her?”
“No. He was the reason I got away.”
“I don't understand.”
He gripped his sword again, as though to comfort himself. “He was young. Inexperienced. I surprised and overpowered him, then ran. I doubt he ever completely lived down the humiliation. He was supposed to be guarding my door.”
Kalay shivered and started back toward the caves. Cyrus walked behind her. Every so often she caught the jangle of the weapons on his belt, or heard his soft footsteps.
Just before they reached the entry cave, she turned. “Cyrus, what did you mean by ‘the hypocrisy'? Not that I'm an admirer of Rome or the emperor, but you don't seem like the sort who would desert.”
He stood perfectly still. The wind blew his curly black hair straight back, showing the smooth curves of his cheekbones and brow. “I was there that day.”
“What day?”
“
The
day. The day before the battle.”
She searched her memory, trying to figure out what he meant. “The day the emperor saw the cross in the sky?”
He snorted in disgust. “He'd been sitting in his tent all morning drinking wine. He called me in just after noon. I was his trusted adviser, and he needed my advice. He told me he had decided how to motivate our men to attack the bridge. The only part he couldn't decide was the exact form the myth should take.”
“The myth?”
“Oh, yes. He was a master mythmaker. He knew exactly what he was doing. But he couldn't decide if he should see a cross of light or the letters
chi-rho
. You know, a kind of divine monogram? Or maybe he should simply hear angels singing ‘By this conquer.'
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He asked me which I liked better. I said I thought it was a foolish idea that would alienate many of our devoted Roman soldiers.”
“And how did the emperor respond?”
“He threw me out of his tent.”
The fog shifted, swirling around them in the glittering haze, and the shadows turned slippery and liquid.
“I think that's when it began to worry him.”
“That you knew it was not a miraculous vision but a political ploy?”
“Yes.”
Kalay folded her arms tightly over her chest. “I can't believe you're still alive.”
“Nor can I.”
“Have the Romans hunted you ever since?”
He rubbed his scabbard, as though smoothing away the drops of moisture that glistened on the leather. “I don't know.”
She slowly lowered her arms. “I think that's the first lie you've told me.”
He squeezed his eyes closed for a long moment, before saying, “They probably have. I do not know for certain, but I've often feared it.”
Kalay put a hand on his broad shoulder. It was a friendly gesture, nothing more, but he uncertainly reached up, took her hand, and pulled her toward him. His arms shook as he wrapped them around her. “Don't say anything. Just let me hold you for a few moments.”
Stunned, she just stood there. A strange sensation of relief possessed her. Not desire, not love, just … relief. Which was totally foolish. They were being stalked by dedicated killers who might be watching them at this very instant. Though to see through this fog, they would have to be very close by.
Tenderly, she said, “I'm starting to hope you're right.”
“About what?”
“About there being angels watching over us.”
His grip relaxed slightly. He looked down at her. Something about the softness in his eyes touched her, building a warmth in her heart.
“Why?” he asked.
“Because both our guards are down. If I were a murderer, this is the moment I would strike.”
He backed away and his gaze quickly searched the beach and the cliff. “You're right. Let's get back inside. If God is very good to us, tonight we'll get some sleep.”
She let him walk past her, and followed a pace behind.
 
A half hour later, Kalay pulled the worn softness of the blanket up around her throat and stared at the dark ceiling high above. Cyrus and Zarathan were sound asleep. She'd been trying, but thoughts of Cyrus kept waking her. A sharp ache invaded her chest. She couldn't shake the sensation of his arms around her … . It was as powerful as a polished golden calf in the searing deserts of old.
 
 
 
THE TEACHING ON THE SHADOW
 
“Are you still there, brother?”
You roll over at his whisper and inhale a breath of the warm night air. Stars glisten overhead, and the breeze is redolent with the scents of damp earth and trees. He lies rolled in his blanket two cubits away with his head propped on his laced hands, staring up at the darkness. Every time he blinks, his eyes catch the starlight and hold it for an instant.
“Of course I'm still here. Where else would I be?”
“I can't find you.”
You prop yourself up on one elbow. “I'm right here. Turn and look at me.”
You see his mouth curl in a smile. “I've been looking at you for months. I still can't find you.”
Ah, now, you understand. He's being profound. You say, “Well, it's not my fault that you won't open your eyes. I'm so close to you that I could be your shadow, yet you are blind to me.”
His smile fades as though it never existed. For several instants he
does not speak. Finally, he says, “Shadows need light to live. They die in the darkness. I fear that's where you are, and why I can't find you.”
You study his silhouette … . He's the one who is the shadow tonight. The shadow of the darkness itself. “Yeshu, I am not in the dark. I am a shadow in love with the sun who hides out of self-preservation. That's why you can't find me.”
He somberly turns to me. “What do you mean?”
“I mean I know what you're planning, and when the sun dies, all of the shadows it casts die just as completely. How can you be so heartless, so careless of those who love you?”
He takes a breath and exhales very slowly, as though cherishing the sensation of air moving in his lungs. “Are you afraid?”
You stare up at the stars again, at the way they silver the heavenly vault.
“Yes,” you say. “I am afraid.”
In a voice almost too soft to hear, he answers, “Then perhaps I have finally found you.”
In the depths of the night, when only one candle continued to burn in Libni's library, Barnabas gently shoved the map aside and reached for a slice of goat cheese. As he took a bite, the rich flavor filled his mouth. They had been tossing ideas back and forth since he'd arrived, just as they used to at the library in Caesarea. Both of them were happy.
Libni broke off a piece of bread and, as he ate, his gaze filled with faraway places, memories that Barnabas could only guess at. After a long while, he reverently touched the corner of the papyrus. “Have you ever figured out why there is a large cross at the bottom of the papyrus, surrounded by three small crosses?”
“I'm not sure they are crosses.”
“The central feature is a cross. It just has other symbols attached to it.”
“Which means it may not be a Christian symbol at all. And if it is, it was almost certainly added decades later, probably by some pious monk. Not only that, the small crosses were definitely written in a different ink.”
Prior to Constantine's vision, the cross had been viewed as the instrument of Iesous' execution, of his shame. As Saint Paul noted, it was a huge “stumbling block” to conversion. The cross was not revered in and of itself, nor were Iesous and the cross seen as identical. One did not signify the other. There were many symbols revered by early Christians: the palm branch, the olive branch, the dove and the lamb, the anchor, the baptismal
waters, the blood of Christ, the fish, or
ichthys
—because it was an acrostic of Iesous Christos, Son of God, Savior
.
But not the cross.
Then, thirteen years ago, Constantine's vision had changed all that. The cross had become the black blossom of the Church's imagination. It was painted on armor, shields, military standards, weapons of every variety, even gallows and prisons. It had become a symbol that Barnabas strongly suspected the savior himself would have abhorred. To Iesous and his disciples, the cross had not represented salvation, but absolute injustice and humiliation.
“I think you're right on both counts,” Libni agreed. “It is not a Christian cross, and it was added by a very pious man: Ioses of Arimathaia, a devout Jew. The cross does not symbolize the crucifixion; it symbolizes something else. As do the small crosses.”
Barnabas took another bite of the exquisitely aromatic cheese. “It sounds like you have an idea what that might be?”
Libni's mouth curled into a faint smile. He reached out, gripped the corner of the oldest, most frail map, and carefully dragged it across the table. His movements made the candle splutter. He positioned the map between them, then lifted and let his finger hover over a specific area. “Do you recall what's located here?”
Barnabas leaned forward to study the brown lines that indicated the old walled city of Jerusalem. “What's the date of this map?”
“As best I can determine, somewhere between the years zero and seventy. At any rate, before the destruction of the Temple.” His finger was still hovering.
Barnabas said, “You have a big finger. Is it over the Garden Tomb, or the Damascus Gate?”
Libni's smile widened. “The gate.”
Frustrated, Barnabas said, “I'm tired of guessing. Just tell me.”
Libni's gaze scanned the shadows before he murmured, “The Square of the Column.”
Barnabas blinked. Just inside the Damascus Gate there had been a broad plaza. In the middle of that plaza had stood a tall column that served as a reference point for the measurement of road distances.
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Many groups of laborers had devised plays on that column. The one that particularly interested Libni was the form used by the stoneworkers, the
tektons,
which appeared as a builder's square tented over a circle, or column.
“And how,” Barnabas inquired, “does the Square of the Column relate to …” His voice faded as the answer became obvious, and a hollow floating sensation of elation possessed him.
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.”

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