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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.”
    â€œI see.” Barnabas looked at Cyrus. “And your offense, Cyrus?”
    â€œI lied to protect Zarathan from Brother Jonas’ wrath. I said that I dropped the pot.”
    â€œThen 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.
    â€œI’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