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language?”
    Cyrus nodded. “Yes, brother.”
    â€œGood. 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.
    â€œGreek, 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?
    â€œYes, Greek. I want the book to have a wider audience. I believe the Gospel of Petros is important—”
    â€œThe 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.”
    â€œBut 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.”

    â€œWe 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.”
    â€œIf I’m not executed first. I don’t see how you can be so calm about this, when—”
    â€œBrother,” 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.”
    â€œYes. 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.
    â€œYou lived in Rome?” Zarathan asked in awe. “What did you do there? Were you a soldier as everyone says, or—”
    â€œMercy, 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.”
    â€œAnd 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: