Authors: Kathleen O'Neal Gear

The Betrayal (31 page)

BOOK: The Betrayal

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It was still the middle of the night when Kalay awoke, stirred, and combed tangled hair out of her eyes. For a blank moment, she couldn't remember where she was; this was
not
her washing hut. Where the dank, muddy odor of the Nile should have been, the scent of the sea confused her â¦ then a flurry of hushed voices sent her scrambling for her knife. In a flash, she'd thrown off her blanket and rolled against the wall, Loukas' long, curving blade clutched in her fist.

The unearthly glow of starlight through thick fog turned the world murky, and she saw the dark shapes of three men near the cave mouth. The tallest, Cyrus, was little more than a black ghost, moving along the wall toward the entrance. One of the shapesâTiras, she thoughtâedged into the tunnel that led to the library and vanished.

Near the entrance, there was the startled snort of a horse, and a flurry of pounding hooves.

Kalay felt her insides shrivel. She pulled herself to a squat and held her breath.

She could no longer see Cyrus. He had blended into the darkness. Was he by the entrance?

From somewhere outside a man said, “Centurion? You can't escape. Give up now. Surrender the papyrus, and you'll save the lives of your companions.
Trying to stand against us is useless. I have a full garrison out here.”

Not Loukas.
Nonetheless, a thousand years from now, her moldering bones would recognize that cold, insidious voice.

A black shadow wavered near the entrance.

Cyrus said, “I don't think so. If you did, twenty men would have already rushed this cave and dragged us out. Since they didn't, I assume you're either alone, or have but a few men with you.”

Turning her head slightly, she looked across the room and made out Zarathan, still fast asleep.

Dear Iesous Christos, the stupidest killer in the world could creep up on him and crush his skull.

The man outside moved â¦ and she saw him. He stood with his back pressed against the stone just beyond the lip of the cave. There was another man behind him, shorter, with a wealth of gray hair that glimmered in the starlight.

Kalay gestured to Cyrus, held up two fingers, then pointed to where they stood. She had no idea if he could see her or not, but his black shadow moved another step closer to the entrance. He slid his hand into the light, lifted one finger, and pointed to her side of the entrance.

The fear pumping in her veins almost made her sick. She rose to a crouch and moved into position.

From this perspective, she could see the men clearly. Both were dressed in black, but their swords glinted wetly, appearing and disappearing in the windblown shreds of fog.

The cave suddenly felt stifling; fear sweat matted her dress to her body. Fighting to keep her breathing even, she leaned her shoulder against the stone wall.

“I have been authorized to make you an offer,” the tall man called.

“What offer?”

“The Church is willing to pardon all of you. You need only surrender the papyrus and take vows of silence.”

She saw Cyrus shake his head as though incredulous and heard his low laugh. “Tell Pappas Meridias that there is no âpapyrus.' And of what use is such a guarantee? On the Church's orders, Meridias murdered an entire
monastery â¦ almost one hundred monks who had devoted their lives to God. What are seven more lives?”

The men skulked closer, close enough that Kalay could see their pale faces.

“Centurion, we know that you are the only one in there with fighting skills. If you don't surrender, all of your friends will die because of you. Is that what you want?”

Despite her best efforts, her breathing had gone low and ragged, hissing through her nostrils.

On the far side of the cave, three quiet shadows emerged from the tunnel and took up positions around the walls. The sound of their footsteps was barely audible. They might have been soldiers rather than monks.

Kalay heard fabric grate on stone outside, and knew they were moving in for the kill.

She gripped her knife in her right hand and held it low, ready to lunge and rip upward. By the age of fifteen she'd learned you never raised a knife over your head. A man could grab your wrist, twist, and take it away from you with little effort. It was harder to block a knife if it was held low and close. Problem was, if they came in with swords swinging, she'd lose her hands long before she had a chance to attack.

Cyrus looked directly at Kalay. He mouthed the word, “Ready?”

She jerked a nod.

Just as Cyrus lifted his sword â¦

A wild, inhuman shriek rose from the rear of the cave, congealing the blood in Kalay's veins. Before she could force her shaking legs to move, a mountainous vision of fluttering brown rags rushed past her and out into the thick fog.

Barnabas cried, “Libni, no!”

After a heartbeat's hesitation, Cyrus, Barnabas, Tiras, and Uzziah charged out behind Libni. The metallic clashings of swords erupted â¦ along with screams.

Kalay girded herself and eased out into the moonlit mist, trying to see what was happening. She glimpsed swirling figures, flashes of swords, and saw that the battle was moving south, down the beach.

She took two running steps to follow â¦

A big black-gloved hand thrust out of the mist, caught her sleeve, and
wrenched her off her feet. She hit the ground hard, kicking and flailing, roaring in anger, until she saw the sword blade drop through the fog and stop just above her heart.

“Move and you're dead,” the harsh voice ordered. She could hear the tension, nearly panic, behind it.

Kalay subtly tucked her knife beneath her skirt and stared up at him.

“Lie still, you little
scorta,
or I'll forego my orders and cut you in half.” The man was muscular, stalky, with gray-streaked black hair.

“What do you want with me? I don't know anything!”

A shout rose down the shore and he glanced in that direction, smiled, and boldly knelt beside her. His gaze traveled over her throat and the swell of her breasts. With one swift jerk he undid her belt. Ripping away the bronze dagger and purse, he tossed them aside. Then he grabbed her jaw in his gloved hand and wrenched her face to look at it. “Now I see why he wants you alive. You're a pretty thing.”

“Who? Who wants me?” A fiery rush flushed her veins.

If he would just drop his guard for a moment â¦ .

“Get on your feet, and let's go. He's waiting for you.” He stood up and loomed over her, his sword clutched in both hands.

Shaking and terrified, she did her best to conceal the knife as she struggled to stand up, but he must have seen a glint of silver, for he shouted, “Throw it down!” and sprang at her. His mistake was raising his sword for a strike.

In one smooth motion, Kalay stepped inside the reach of his sword, and slashed with all her strength. Her blade cut a diagonal across his chest. His tunic parted under the keen edge and she watched his flesh part in the blade's wake, could feel it vibrating across bone.

The man jerked back, bellowed in rage, and stared down at the blood welling on his chest. When he glanced up, a dazed disbelief filled his eyes. He began to circle; his sword gleamed with an unnatural fire as, bleeding badly, he raised it to strike her. She tried to fling herself aside, but didn't have time â¦ .

A hollow thunk rang out, and the killer staggered, stared at her in surprise, then toppled to the sand in a black heap. Rolling on the ground, his arms flailing, he managed to get to his hands and knees, almost stood, and dropped back to all fours.

Kalay leaped, grasped his hair, and drew her blade across his throat. His frantic exhalation blew a spray of night-dark blood across the churned sand.

The entire time, Zarathan stood shaking, clutching a driftwood club in his hand. His chalky face was sweat-drenched. When the killer finally stopped spasming and lay still, Zarathan's legs failed him. He crumpled.

“Zarathan? Are you all right?”

He hunched over and held his belly, while he rocked back and forth, sobbing like a child. “IâI didn't know wh-what else to do.”

The assailant kicked one last time. Kalay glanced at him, watched for a moment, then looked back at Zarathan. “Stop crying,” she said unsympathetically. “You should be happy. You just accomplished the impossible.”

Confused, he looked up at her with huge tear-filled eyes. “What are you talking about? I just
killed
a man!”

“Yes, and because of that, no one will ever again say that you resemble a circumcised cat.” She paused to wipe her face on her sleeve. “And, actually, I killed him, but you certainly stunned him. You're braver than I thought. I'm grateful. You saved my life.”

“Brave?” he wailed. “I'm a coward! I sneaked up and struck him from behind! And now IâI can't stop crying!”

“Yes, well, the first time I killed a man, I couldn't stop throwing up.”

He buried his face in his hands and made sounds like he was suffocating.

To give him time to collect himself, Kalay walked over and retrieved her belt, knotted it back around her waist, and went about picking up the Roman purse and bronze dagger. Finally, she lifted the dead man's sword. When Zarathan still hadn't stopped crying, Kalay marched over, grabbed him by the arm, forcibly dragged him to the ocean, and flung him face-first into the surf.

He came up spluttering, looking like a drowned weasel, and cried, “Are you insane? Why did you do that?”

“I thought another good baptism would clear your head. You â¦”

Twenty paces down the shoreline she thought she glimpsed a figure, a shape moving silently in the bottomless fog. Her heart almost leaped out of her chest.

“Zarathan, stand up!” she ordered as she tested the sword's balance. “Come on!”

He got to his feet and staggered out of the water with his saturated robe clinging to his skinny frame. “What's wrong?”

The ominous figure had vanished in the fog, but she could feel him, slipping closer. The hair on her neck began to prickle.

“Quickly. Grab your club, weâ”

From near the cliff, Cyrus shouted, “Kalay? Zarathan?”

“Here! We're over here!”

Footsteps pounded the sand. Kalay turned back, scanning the fog, the tip of the sword swinging in small circles as she prepared to defend herself.

But the figure was gone.

If he'd ever really been there.

Cyrus appeared out of the mist, covered in blood, hauling Libni with one hand and carrying his dripping sword with the other. “Libni is wounded. Hurry!”

THIRTY ~ FIVE

“Find candles,” Barnabas ordered Tiras. “Bring them to the library immediately.”

“Yes, brother.”

Tiras ran ahead of them through the dark tunnel.

Barnabas trailed along behind Cyrus. The warrior monk was virtually carrying Libni, though his old friend was making an effort to put one foot in front of the other. When they entered the library cave, Tiras had one candle lit and was placing it on the far end of the table.

Cyrus propped his sword against the wall, and bodily lifted Libni onto the tabletop.

A long sword gash sliced diagonally from his collarbone to the base of his ribs. The amount of blood was disconcerting; it ran from the gaping flesh, soaked his clothing, and pooled on the table. Spatters had patterned Libni's face and throat.

Tiras, as though totally disoriented, gaped in shock, swallowing and licking his lips.

“Tiras, bring the candle down here, please?”

The dazed youth blinked, picked up the candle, and brought it to Barnabas, who took it from his shivering hand. The boy had just seen his best friend, Uzziah, killed, and was watching his mentor bleed to death in front of him.

“Tiras,” Barnabas said gently. “Fetch a jug of water and bandages. Oh, and I will need a needle and heavy thread. I assume you have these things?”

“Yes, b-brother.” Tiras turned and shouldered between Zarathan and Kalay, who'd just entered the chamber.

“Oh, dear God.” Zarathan's voice was a thin wail. He put a hand to his mouth and stared wide-eyed at Libni's unstaunched blood.

Cyrus didn't waste a moment. “I must go and guard the entrance. Kalay, can you gather our horses and bring them here?”

“Of course.” She vanished down the tunnel at a run.

“Our horses?” Barnabas said, “Cyrus, you're not planning on leaving? Libni needs our help!”

“I know that, brother, but as soon as we've done what we can, we have to go.”

“Butâ”

“Brother Barnabas! We killed two of our attackers. At least two ran, and it is prudent to believe that the leader was watching from a distance. Someone must carry the tale back to his superiors. By dawn, they will be on their way back here in force. We can't stay.” He gestured to the gazelle leather bag sitting almost invisible on the floor in the rear of the cave. “Unless you want the papyrus to fall into the Church's hands.”

“No, of course not, butâ”

Libni reached out and gripped Barnabas' sleeve. “He's right. You have to go. Tiras will care for me.”

“Libni, you and Tiras must come with us. It's not safe here.”

Libni smiled and through a long, pained exhalation, he replied, “There are â¦ many other caves. Near here. Very difficult to negotiate. No one knows the maze but me. We will hide there.”

“No, Libni, please. You must leave. You don't know these men, they'llâ”

“We will trust our fate to God and our Lord Iesous Christos. But â¦” He winced as he sucked in a breath. “Promise me that if you succeed you will return and tell me what you saw?” Libni's eyes shone with hope.

Barnabas took his hand in a hard grip. “You know I will.”

Tiras rushed back into the cave with an armload of bandages, herbs, and a jug of water, which he deposited on the table beside Barnabas. Then he laid out a long iron needle and a ball of dark brown thread.

Cyrus collected his blood-darkened sword, adding, “Call out if you need me.”

Zarathan, sodden, stood with his shoulders hunched and a puddle forming at his feet. Wet blond hair straggled around his face. Zarathan â¦ half drowned? Barnabas didn't have time to ask.

“Zarathan,” Barnabas said, “please hold the candle for me while Tiras and I tend to the wound.”

Zarathan, looking as if about to faint, took the candle and held it close. Barnabas carefully peeled back the blood-slick fabric. Without realizing it, his eyes tightened, and Libni said, “Am I dying? Finally?”

“Don't be ridiculous. God still needs you. If for no other reason than to irritate me with guessing games.” Turning just slightly, he said, “Tiras, hand me the needle and thread. Once we get the bleeding stopped, I will need to sew the cut closed.”

“Yes, brother.”

Zarathan swallowed hard. “How do we stop the bleeding?”

“Set the candle down and press both your hands on the wound, here and here,” he pointed. “Press the cut edges together. Don't let up on the pressure until I tell you to.” Barnabas unwound the thread and slipped it through the eye of the needle. “Tiras, help him.”

Zarathan did as instructed and Tiras pressed his hands on the other most critical gaps. Libni gritted his teeth in pain, but barely a moan escaped his lips.

It seemed to take an eternity before the blood flow began to ebb. Cautiously, Barnabas drove the needle into Libni's flesh. Not even the years of tailoring his own clothing had prepared him for this. Stitch by stitch he closed the wound. “Let go now, Zarathan, and move down some. We'll wash it after we sew it closed.”

Libni uttered a rasping groan.

“Forgive me.” Barnabas continued to sew, attempting to copy the neat stitches he'd seen Roman surgeons make.

Libni vented a low laugh. His bloody face appeared ghoulish in the candlelight, especially surrounded by that mop of gore-clotted hair. “Barnabas?”

“What is it?”

Libni's voice changed. “I have a favor to ask. Can you take some of my
books with you? I know they're cumbersome, but Tiras and I, we'll have to leave quickly. I don't think we'll have time to carry all of them to our hiding place.”

“Yes, of course. But just the most important documents, Libni. One bag full. I'll tie it as a counterweight to the gazelle leather bag.”

“Thank you, thank you â¦” Libni winced at a sudden stab of pain and focused on the arching cave ceiling where candlelit shadows danced. Tears were leaking down the side of his blood-spattered face. “I have â¦ have copies of the gospels of Markos, Thomas, and Maththaios in Hebrew and Aramaic. Very rare. The only copies I've ever seen.”

“The only copies I've ever heard of,” Barnabas said in awe.
Dear God, the implications.
Softly, he asked, “Does Markos have the longer ending?”

“No, of course not. It ends at chapter sixteen, verse eight. As it should.”

Barnabas glanced up at Zarathan and Tiras. Both were obviously running verses through their minds, trying to decipher the meaning.

Libni followed his gaze, saw their expressions, and said, “The oldest versions of the Gospel of Markos end at chapter sixteen, verse seven or eight. There is no resurrection.”

“But,” Zarathan said, “don't both Irenaeus and Hippolytus mention verse nine? They lived in the second and third centuries. Surely that provesâ”

“It proves that even then men were using their pens to mutilate the original gospels,” Libni said gruffly. “Mythmaking at the cost of history. It's disgraceful. My Hebrew and Aramaic gospels date to the latter half of the first century. They were written only a few decades after our Lord was crucified. And my Hebrew Gospel of Thomas dates to around the year 40, maybe 50 at the latest. I think it was written before the letters of Paulos. Take them with you, Barnabas. Don't let the Church editors get their grubby nibs near them.”

“I won't. I swear it.” But he wondered how, if they were captured, he would be able to keep that promise.

As he worked his way across the wound, the blood ceased to flow, but he could see Libni's face going more and more pale, probably a combination of shock and loss of blood. He took his last stitch, tied it off, and said, “Tiras, find every blanket here. We need to keep Libni warm while he sleeps.”

Tiras hurried from the room.

“But aren't we leaving soon?” Zarathan asked hopefully.

Barnabas smiled down into Libni's pained eyes. “As soon as we've gathered whatever books Libni tells us to.”

Libni gave him a weak smile, sealing a bargain that the protection of the original gospels was passing from one trusted friend to another. What was at stake was no more, and no less, than the Truth.

Libni lifted a shaking hand and pointed to the small hole in the wall on the right side of the cave. “Thomas is there, and Markos â¦” His finger moved through the air to a large, squarish hole. “Markos and Maththaios are there. But there are others. An early version of Hebrews and the second volume of Papias'
Logia
â¦”

Tiras returned and began piling blankets atop Libni while he continued with his list.

For nearly an hour, Barnabas and Zarathan collected and carefully packed the ancient papyri, scrolls, and codices into a cracked leather bag Tiras had found.

Finally, Libni allowed himself to fall into a deep, exhausted sleep.

Barnabas backed away from the table and motioned for Tiras to follow them out.

When they stood on the sand, Barnabas said, “Zarathan, please take both bags to our horse and tie them over the withers.”

“Yes, brother.”

Barnabas turned to Tiras. The youth gazed up at him with terrified eyes, as though he longed for nothing more than to run away and hide from all this.

“Tiras, remember that âthere is light within a man of light, and he lights the whole world. If that man does not shine, he is the darkness,'
¹⁰⁶and he will not find the Kingdom.” He put his hand on the youth's shoulder. “Shine, Tiras. Be a man of light, as he taught you.”

Tears welled in Tiras' eyes. He nodded and reverently said, “I will try, brother. Don't worry. I'll take care of him.”

“I know you will.”

Barnabas turned and strode for the horses.

BOOK: The Betrayal

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