The Betrayal by Kathleen O’Neal Gear

enough that he wishes to seek God, and help us usher in the Kingdom. To discover a monk’s former name requires a great deal of effort.” He held Cyrus’ gaze. “Pappas Meridias was hoping to find Jairus Claudius Atinius in our monastery. Why?”
    Cyrus stared at the river as though seeking hidden enemies, expecting them to arrive soon. Perhaps the fire had been burning for too long.
    Cyrus pulled the lid from the big pot and held it near the flames, turning it to melt the wax all around. “If I knew the answer to that, brother, I might be able to solve part of the puzzle about the attack on our monastery. But I don’t.”
    â€œAre you certain you have no idea—”
    â€œI swear to you on my baptism, brother. I do not know why a bishop would wish to find me.”

    Barnabas shivered and stared into the flames. It was a small fire, no more than a clutter of burning twigs, but it felt good. “Cyrus, how old are you?”
    Cyrus wet his lips, as though worried Barnabas might put something together. “I am thirty-four, brother.”
    Barnabas did not take his eyes from the flames, but his mind was running calculations. “You have been a monk with us for almost a year. Were you a monk anywhere else first?”
    â€œIn Rome, for one year. Another year in Milan. I spent eight years moving through monasteries in Asia Minor, then I spent a little over a year in Palestine.”
    â€œIs it possible that men from the highest levels of our Church have been searching monasteries for years trying to locate you?” When Cyrus hesitated for an unusually long time, Barnabas said, “If you don’t wish to tell me, Cyrus, it’s all right.”
    â€œTruly, brother, I can’t imagine why they would.”
    There was something in his voice that told Barnabas he wasn’t telling the whole truth, but he said, “Well, keep thinking about it. Perhaps you will come up with a reason. In the meantime, hand me that lid. I’ll reseal the pot, then we’ll quickly bury it, and be on our way. I know you’re frightened for us, as I am.”
    Cyrus handed him the warm jar lid and Barnabas pressed it down hard on the pot rim, sealing it. As Cyrus kicked sand over the fire, Barnabas began shoving sand over the top of the pot.
    It didn’t take long. By the time the night wind had done its job, the pot and its hiding place would again be invisible.
    Barnabas struggled to his feet and found Cyrus standing awkwardly, his fists clenched at his sides. “What is it, Cyrus?”
    â€œBrother, I would like to ask you a question now.”
    Barnabas’ heart skipped. There was only one question that could be plaguing Cyrus.
    The river-scented breeze blew Cyrus’ black hair around his face, tangling it with his beard.
    Barnabas sighed. “I cannot tell you, Cyrus. If I did, it would be dangerous for you. For all of us. That said, I must ask for your help. I cannot do this alone.”

    â€œWhat is it you wish to do?”
    â€œI must undertake a mission that I should have undertaken twenty-five years ago, when I first discovered the papyrus. Please, don’t ask me anything else.”
    Cyrus propped his hands on his hips and his broad shoulders strained against the linen fabric of his white robe. “Brother, I will do anything you ask of me, because I trust you, but will you at least tell me what the Church is afraid of? It would help me to know that.”
    The night air had grown cool. Barnabas stared up at the wealth of stars in the heavens, wondering what he could say that would be true, but not the Truth.
    â€œCyrus,” he began in a low, confidential voice, “they err who say, ‘The Lord first died and then he arose.’ For first he arose, and then he died. That is what they fear.” 30
    Just before he turned for the boat, Barnabas caught the sudden glint of fear in Cyrus’ eyes … and it cut him to the