The Betrayal (4 page)

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Authors: Kathleen O'Neal Gear

BOOK: The Betrayal
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They walked side-by-side toward the library where Brother Barnabas spent the day, every day, translating tiny fragments of ancient documents brought to him by nearby villagers. Sometimes even traders passing through, who knew of his peculiar interests, brought him scraps of papyri.
Zarathan hissed, “Cyrus? What do you think of Brother Barnabas? Do you agree that he is a heretic? I've heard him say, for example, that our Lord did not rise in the flesh, but that it might have been a spiritual resurrection of the soul! The emperor has ruled such utterances heresy. What do you think?”
He gave Cyrus a sidelong glance and saw his brother lift his eyes briefly to heaven, as though begging God to give him patience.
“Cyrus,” he continued, “you know the synod of bishops recently met in Nicea to decide such issues once and for all. Has there been any word as to their decisions?”
When Cyrus kept his green eyes on the massive wooden library door ahead, Zarathan added, “I have truly been eager to learn what day they have decided is Easter. Will it be on the date of the Jewish Passover, as the Gospel of Ioannes says, or the day after as told to us in the Gospels of Markos, Loukas, and Maththaios. Personally, I think the correct date—”
13
Cyrus stopped and gently put his fingers over Zarathan's mouth. He said nothing, but just stared down into Zarathan's eyes.
Grudgingly, Zarathan nodded.
Cyrus continued toward the library door. The iron hinges groaned when Cyrus swung it back, and they stepped into the musty air. The room smelled like moldering books and dust. Candlelight fluttered over the stone walls like amber wings flying toward the high vaulted ceiling above.
Zarathan stood quietly, as he'd been instructed, waiting for Brother Barnabas to speak to him. The old man, at least fifty, sat on a long bench, hunched over a table covered with scraps of papyrus. They resembled dried golden leaves inscribed with black ink and looked very old. He seemed to be arranging them in some kind of order.
Barnabas squinted and exhaled hard. As though having difficulty deciphering the ancient text, he muttered to himself. His gray hair and beard shimmered slightly when he cocked his head. He had a curious face; all of the proportions seemed to be oversized. Though his skull was long and narrow, he had a grotesquely wide mouth, long hooked nose, and brown eyes that were too deeply sunken into his head. Truly, he looked more like a recent corpse than a living man. Like every other monk, he wore a long white robe with a leather belt and prayer rope.
Zarathan heaved a sigh and studied the shelves filled with ancient
parchment books and papyrus scrolls of scripture, most of which he knew to be heretical. He'd once seen Brother Barnabas studying the forbidden Gospel of Maryam.
The faint scent of ink pervaded the air, as though Barnabas had been writing just before they'd entered the library. A calamus—a pointed reed split to form a nib—rested in an inkstand to Barnabas' right. The red ink, made of iron oxide and gum, resembled old blood. An assortment of other writing supplies rested close at hand: a knife for sharpening the pen, a whetstone for sharpening the knife, a chunk of pumice for smoothing the papyrus, a sponge for making erasures, a pair of compasses for making the lines equidistant from each other, and a ruler and a thin lead disk for drawing the lines.
Zarathan scratched beneath his armpit. The linen robes itched. There were times at night when he pulled his robe over his head and found his arms and belly covered with red welts. But he understood; it was part of the price he had to pay for seeking the divine love of his risen Lord.
Brother Barnabas pulled a fragment of papyrus from a distant spot on the table, said, “Ah!” as though he'd made a great discovery, and rearranged the fragments to put it in the proper place. After several moments, his breath seemed to catch, and in a dire voice, he whispered,
“ … buried shamefully.”
He didn't seem to be breathing. Finally, he whispered, “I need more … details … .”
Zarathan cast a look of incomprehension at Cyrus, who softly cleared his throat.
Barnabas whirled and stared at them in surprise, as though they'd sneaked up on him with battle-axes in their fists. A little breathlessly, he said, “Forgive me, brothers, I did not realize you were there. Zarathan, you're not in trouble again, are you?”
Zarathan blushed and shifted his weight to his other foot. Cyrus turned to Zarathan, giving him the opportunity to confess.
In a morose voice, Zarathan said, “I broke another pot, brother.”
“I see.” Barnabas looked at Cyrus. “And your offense, Cyrus?”
“I lied to protect Zarathan from Brother Jonas' wrath. I said that I dropped the pot.”
“Then your offense is worse; you realize that? Even though you meant good by it?”
Cyrus nodded obediently. “Yes, brother.”
Barnabas rose to his feet and the mere motion fluttered the fragments spread over the table. His eyes flew wide, and he eased back to the long bench.
“I'm supposed to prescribe some punishment, I suppose.” He folded his hands in his lap and appeared to be thinking. After a time, he said, “In penance, I want both of you to fast for three days and—and to help me translate a recent library acquisition. Cyrus, I believe you are skilled in the Aramaic language?”
Cyrus nodded. “Yes, brother.”
“Good. I want both of you to go to the library crypt beneath the oratory. There are leaves laid out on the table there. Please translate them into Greek.”
The library crypt was where they kept their most valuable documents. Zarathan had never even seen it. Few of the monks had.
“Greek, brother?” Cyrus asked. “Not Coptic?”
Though they often spoke in Greek—the language of the Gospels—Coptic was the common language of Egyptian Christians. Why would Brother Barnabas want them translated into Greek?
“Yes, Greek. I want the book to have a wider audience. I believe the Gospel of Petros is important—”
“The Gospel of Petros!” Zarathan blurted. “Hasn't that book been banned?”
Barnabas seemed to barely register Zarathan's objection. He said softly, “To the earliest Christians, books like the Gospels of Petros, Philippon, and Maryam
were
the holy books, Zarathan. You need to read them to understand why.”
“But they've been—”
Barnabas lifted a hand to still him. “Do not make the Kingdom of God a desert within you, Zarathan. Read our Lord's words wherever you find them … and be grateful.”
14
Zarathan let out a pained sound.
Cyrus answered, “Yes, brother.”
Barnabas waved his hand, dismissing them, and turned back to his little bits of papyrus. “The key to the crypt rests above the altar to the Magdalen. Please remember to put it back.”
“We will, brother.” Cyrus turned and pushed open the heavy door.
As they walked into the corridor, Zarathan complained, “I am being forced to read
heresy
! The emperor has made it a death sentence!”
Cyrus drily replied, “Emperor Constantine is, fortunately, far away. I suggest you heed Brother Barnabas' advice and read everything before such opportunities vanish.”
“If I'm not executed first. I don't see how you can be so calm about this, when—”
“Brother,” Cyrus interrupted and stopped in the middle of the long quiet hall to peer down at Zarathan. “Earlier you asked why I had taken responsibility for the broken pot.”
“Yes. Why did you?”
Cyrus gave him a serious look. “When I lived in Rome, I was taught never to let a day pass without performing at least one act of mercy. Today, you helped me remember. Now it's your turn. Be merciful—and quiet.”
Cyrus started down the corridor again, taking long, measured steps, much longer than Zarathan's stride, which forced him to run to catch up.
“You lived in Rome?” Zarathan asked in awe. “What did you do there? Were you a soldier as everyone says, or—”
“Mercy, Zarathan. I beg you.”
Two men turned the corner ahead and strode toward them. One, Abba Pachomius, they knew. The white-haired Abba, which meant “father” in Hebrew, was fondly regarded as the founder of Christian monasticism. So far, he'd established four monasteries in Egypt and had several more planned. Usually, Pachomius looked serene, but today, he wore a slightly frightened expression. The other man, dressed in a black robe, had short blond hair and seething eyes. Zarathan had never seen him before.
As they passed, Cyrus bowed his head and said, “The Lord be with you, Abba, brother.”
“And with you, Cyrus and Zarathan,” Abba Pachomius said.
The blond man did not even deign to speak to them. He just marched toward the library like a man on a holy mission.
When they heard the heavy iron hinges squeal, Cyrus frowned and turned to watch. Abba Pachomius entered first. The other man remained standing outside, staring back at Cyrus. Zarathan would have sworn their locked gazes were those of wary lions appraising each other from afar.
Cyrus swiftly turned to walk away, but a harsh voice called:
“Wait.”
Cyrus tensed and turned back. “Yes, brother?”
The blond man's eyes narrowed. He said, “Are you Jairus Claudius Atinius?”
Zarathan saw the muscles in Cyrus' shoulders begin to bulge through his white robe. In a firm voice, he answered, “No, brother, I am not.”
Tendons stood out on the backs of Cyrus' clenched hands, and Zarathan instantly suspected Cyrus had committed yet another sin he would have to confess.
The black-robed man stared hard at Cyrus' face. Romans shaved their faces and kept their hair cut short. Was the black-robed priest trying to see through Cyrus' thick beard and curly shoulder-length hair?
The Roman grunted, said, “Do you know where he is? I heard he was here, though I did not believe it.”
Cyrus answered, “We are given new names when we come to our Lord. I do not know the name of the man you are seeking.”
“No, of course not,” the Roman replied skeptically. For three or four heartbeats, he hesitated, then he stepped into the library, leaving the heavy door ajar.
Zarathan whispered, “Do you know that man?”
“No.” Cyrus shook his head. “But he's a messenger from Rome. You wanted to know about the synod's conclusions in Nicea? I think you are about to have your answers. We had better—”
Voices rose from the library.
Brother Barnabas cried in shock, “It cannot be true. They wouldn't order us to consign them to the fire! They are the words of our Lord.”
15
In a strident voice, the Roman said, “The bishops have ordained twenty-seven books as the New Testament. Another fifty-two books have been declared heretical, a hotbed of manifold perversity. The Council of Nicea orders that they are not only to be forbidden, but
entirely
destroyed. Anyone found reading or copying these books is to be declared a Christian heretic and executed.”
Steps moved across the floor, pounding out authority. “Also, I am to inform you that the doctrine of the resurrection has been ordained. It was a
fleshly
resurrection. Our Lord rose in the body. Is that clear?” After a moment, the blond continued: “In addition, the Council has established that
Miriam was a virgin. They are even considering ordaining that she was a perpetual virgin, that she was a virgin when she gave birth to our Lord, and she remained a virgin for the rest of her life.”
“But … ,” Barnabas said in disbelief. “Our Lord had four brothers: Iakobos, Ioses, Iuda, and Simon. And he had two sisters, Mariam and Salome. What about them?”
16
“The Council has declared that they were not true brothers and sisters. They were stepbrothers and sisters, perhaps even cousins, but
not
real brothers or sisters.”
There was a short pause, and Zarathan heard the Roman ask, “What's that you're reading?”
In a soft, fearful voice, Brother Barnabas said, “I'm not certain, yet. I believe it is a book written by the brother, uh, cousin, of our Lord: Iakobos. It is in Hebrew, so naturally, it's called the Secret Book of Yakob. I've only just begun to translate—”
The Roman ordered, “Burn it! Burn every book in this room that has been judged heretical. I'll provide you with a list, and I want you to give me a list of the monks who have read these books.”
“But,” Abba Pachomius objected, “the entire monastery has read at least parts of these books.”
“Then bring every man before me, tonight at supper. That's two hours away, isn't it? I must make certain the monks understand the Council's declarations.”

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