Zarathan studied it from where he huddled in the shadow of the broken-down barn with his hands clasped over his ears, trying not to hear what was happening inside. Hours ago, when Cyrus and Kalay had first taken the Roman inside, the sound of blows and grunts had filled the air. Zarathan had quaked at Cyrus’ demands that the killer tell him why he’d had to murder everyone in the monastery. Who had given the order? The pain in Cyrus’ voice had been more agonizing than the groans of the killer. Now there were no sounds except soft voices, and horses chewing hay. “We should leave,” Zarathan said. “Isn’t it dangerous to stay here so long? Eventually, someone will hear us, or come to check on the horses.” Barnabas, who knelt in prayer five cubits away, his book bag by his side, did not respond. He’d been praying unceasingly since they’d arrived. In the amber glow of the city, Barnabas’ long, narrow face seemed carved of alabaster. Though his deeply sunken eyes remained in shadow, his short gray hair and beard had a faint yellow hue.
