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rested just beyond his fingers.
    Cyrus gently turned him over.
    Brother Jonas! A wrenching pain twisted Zarathan’s heart. He desperately longed to ask Cyrus what had happened, but the cold, fierce look on his brother’s face kept Zarathan mute. Not only that, his throat had constricted so tightly he was having trouble breathing.
    Cyrus picked up the leaf of parchment and read it. It seemed to take forever before he handed it to Zarathan and whispered, “The list of forbidden books.”
    Zarathan didn’t even look at it. He just crumpled it in his fist and followed Cyrus as he stealthily moved out of the kitchen and into the hallway that led to the rectory. No lamps burned in the monastery, and as night deepened, it became more and more difficult to see. Cyrus moved methodically down the hall, opening doors, closing them, and resolutely moving on, like Sisyphus with his stone, condemned to forever repeat the same hideous act.
    Bodies were usually sprawled on floors, other times slumped over tables. In two cases, they found men hanging out their cell windows, as though at the last instant they’d tried to jump.

    What madness is this?
    A plate of food rested near every corpse, usually knocked over, with the bread and meat thrown across the floor.
    And each man had a bluish face.
    When they’d made it to the far end of the monastery, and stood in a square of moonlight streaming through the window, Zarathan could stand it no longer. He whispered, “Cyrus, please tell me—”
    â€œCyanide, probably in the meat, but it’s possible the murderers added it to the water and bread, too. Don’t touch anything.”
    â€œBut … why would someone do this? We are just monks!”
    Cyrus stared at him unblinkingly. Despite the silver gleam, it was hard to see him. His black hair and beard obscured his face. Only his green eyes were clearly visible, because they reflected the moonlight like polished mirrors.
    â€œAt first, after Pappas Meridias’ questions, I thought they’d come for me,” Cyrus explained. “But that doesn’t make any sense. If they’d wanted me, centurions could have marched in and simply taken me.”
    â€œWhy would they want you?”
    Cyrus looked away, his gaze scanning the darkness for the hundredth time. Rather than answering, he said, “They obviously did not come for me. They came to destroy some evidence that’s here, in the monastery.”
    Zarathan wrung his hands like an anxious child. “What evidence? Why couldn’t they just order us to turn it over? They could have taken whatever they wanted.”
    â€œBecause, my brother, you can’t take what is in men’s hearts. You have to kill them.”
    Cyrus touched a leaf of parchment that rested on the dead monk’s table. When he tipped it up to the moonlight, Zarathan saw the large letters that proclaimed it the Gospel of Thomas, a text written by the Lord’s twin brother, and revered since the earliest years of Christianity. Probably the monk had been pondering a particular passage.
    Cyrus whispered, “The Gospel of Thomas is on that list we found in the kitchen.”
    Shocked, Zarathan said, “They have forbidden us to read Thomas! But that’s absurd. Christians have been reading that book since the beginning! It is my own mother’s favorite gospel.”

    â€œNo longer, I’m afraid. Not if she wishes to continue breathing.”
    Cyrus eased over to the side of the window and studied the monastery grounds and the desert beyond. In the moon glow, the palm trees gleamed as though sheathed in silver dust.
    â€œThey’re out there,” Cyrus said.
    Fear prickled Zarathan’s belly. “Who? What are you talking about?”
    â€œThe men who are supposed to make certain we are all dead. They’ll be coming. Soon. If they were willing to do this to protect themselves, they can’t leave anything to