The Betrayal Read Online Free PDF

grimaced. “I am not meant for the world of pot washing, brother. Mine is a higher calling. I came here because everyone said Abba Pachomius allowed monks to spend their time doing spiritual exercises.”
    Cyrus’ green eyes twinkled. “Planting is a spiritual exercise, brother, though I see you’ve been brooding too much to realize it.” He gestured to the prayer rope that hung from Zarathan’s leather belt.
    Zarathan looked down. They were ordered to carry their prayer rope, a woolen cord, with them at all times. Each time they said the Iesous Prayer, “Lord Iesous Christos, son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner,” they were supposed to tie a knot in the rope. The knots recorded how many times during the day they’d said the prayer. Zarathan’s rope had two knots. He glanced at Cyrus’ rope. There were too many knots to count.
    He said, “Cyrus, I wish to ‘pray without ceasing,’ as Saint Paulus instructed, but I wish to do it correctly, on my knees in my cell. Standing out here in the hot sun washing pots prevents me from pursuing my holy calling.”
    Cyrus burst out laughing, and Zarathan gave him an askance look, at a loss to understand what his brother found comical.
    From the rear of the monastery, on the south side that faced the Nile River, Kalay, the washerwoman, emerged, along with her young assistant, Sophia. While Sophia was a dark-haired imp from the city who spent afternoons helping Kalay, Kalay was tall and lithe with long wavy red hair and a face that rivaled the legendary beauty of the Magdalen’s.
    Zarathan looked at her and made a gulping sound. “I don’t know why Abba Pachomius lets her live here,” he whispered. “She’s a harlot. Maybe even a demon.”
    Cyrus’ dark brows plunged down. “She’s a washerwoman. Would you
rather wash your clothing yourself? I thought you needed every moment to pray without ceasing?”
    Zarathan watched Kalay walk down to the river with her tan dress dancing about her long legs. “She truly scares me, Cyrus.”
    â€œShe scares all of us, brother. But that is not her failing. It is ours.”
    Fortunately, she was never allowed to interact with the monks. She lived in a hut by herself, ate by herself, and was forbidden to speak to anyone other than Brother Jonas, who delivered and retrieved the wash.
    With his eyes still glued to Kalay, Zarathan picked up another pot. When it slipped from his wet fingers, he cried, “Oh!” just before it crashed to the ground and shattered. Shards cartwheeled in every direction.
    Jonas must have heard. He straightened in the field, stretched his back muscles, and plodded across the soft earth toward Zarathan.
    â€œI’ll be washing pots for the rest of my life now,” Zarathan said. “That’s the third pot I’ve broken this week.”
    â€œYou just need to learn to focus, brother. When you begin using your prayer rope, you’ll find it helps.”
    Jonas walked into the shade beneath the palm tree and dipped himself a ladle of water before he said, “I see a broken pot.” He drank the ladle to the last drop and hung it back on the water jar without so much as glancing at Zarathan.
    Cyrus said, “I dropped the pot, brother. Forgive me. It was sheer carelessness. I should have dried my hands before I reached for it.” He bowed his dark head in apparent shame.
    Zarathan stared wide-eyed at Cyrus.
    Jonas looked from Cyrus to Zarathan and back again. His mouth quirked. He could not in good conscience ask Zarathan if it were true, because that might force Zarathan to lie, which would mean Jonas was culpable in the sinful act.
    Cyrus, his head still bowed, said, “I will accept any penance you give me, brother. I vow to be more careful in the future.”
    Jonas contemplatively stroked his scraggly brown beard. “It is not my place to punish you. I will refer the matter to