and prime ministers. Too bad he’d have nothing intelligent to say.
“So, as you can see,” Father Bessarion continued, gesturing expansively, “we have several beautiful gardens, a library with more than seventeen hundred handwritten manuscripts, a mill, a bakery, five historic churches . . .”
“Everything here looks pretty historic,” remarked Paul, earning an eye-roll from Ava. Although appreciative of the private tour, she was anxious to leave the monastery as soon as possible. They’d be found eventually. If Gabe could track Paul’s location, so could Simon DeMaj.
“Egypt’s monasteries are the oldest in the world,” the monk said. “It began with the Essenes, pious hermits who withdrew from society to pursue a contemplative life. You may know of them from the Dead Sea Scrolls. Many believe the Essenes influenced the development of early Christian monasteries in Egypt.”
“Really?” asked Ava, momentarily intrigued. “I thought the monasteries were built to escape—”
“Roman oppression?” Bessarion finished her question. “Yes, that’s also true.” Turning to Paul, he explained: “Julian the Apostate revoked the religious freedom granted by Emperor Constantine. The Romans began persecuting Egyptian Christians, seizing their homes and land.”
“ Cujus regio, ejus religio, ” Ava observed.
“Exactly . ‘Whose rule, his religion,’” Bessarion said, looking at her with approval. “Many believers fled to monasteries for protection. That’s why most resemble fortresses. As you can see, ours was surrounded by a fortified wall. We still have a defensive tower.”
Ava studied the protective structures. She imagined the monestary under siege in ancient times.
“How long have you been here?” Paul asked.
“This monastery was founded by St. Anthony the Great in AD 356. In fact, his sacred tomb is very near here.”
“Awesome. You mean the St. Anthony?” asked Paul.
“Yes. You know of him?”
“I do,” Paul said, much to Ava’s surprise.
“Excellent,” said Father Bessarion. “Perhaps then you know that he founded monasticism, and that he was born here in Egypt, near Heracleopolis, in 251. He lived to be a hundred and five years old, perhaps even older.”
“We should all be so lucky,” Paul said.
“Be careful what you ask for. He was tormented his entire life by temptations from the devil,” replied the kindly monk, glancing at Ava meaningfully.
Paul smiled. “You know, it’s an odd coincidence. My mother taught me to pray to St. Anthony whenever something was lost. And now, just a few kilometers away from his grave, we found the lost—”
“Thank you, Father, for an interesting tour,” interrupted Ava, glaring daggers at Paul. “I know you have many responsibilities, and we wouldn’t want to monopolize your valuable time.”
“Don’t think of it, my child,” the monk said. “I’m happy to explain the history of this beautiful, holy site. And Paul, the St. Anthony your mother petitions when she’s lost something is a different St. Anthony, St. Anthony of Padua. Nevertheless,” he said, “I’m glad he helped you find what you needed.”
Simon had difficulty breathing under the desert sun. Blood flowed from his wounds. It dripped off his body and stained the ancient sand. DeMaj knew a lung was punctured. Delirious, he teetered on the brink of death. An hour passed. As he slipped into unconsciousness, shadows flickered across his field of vision. He saw his mother’s face, beautiful and young, before the years of poverty and hashish took their toll. In the distance a gentle voice spoke a language he almost recognized. Someone touched his hand. An angel? Beyond pain, Simon managed a small smile. “Who would have guessed,” he wondered, “that I would go to heaven?”
“Paul,” Ava said, “don’t mention the jars to anyone. You said yourself that DeMaj bribed the police. We don’t know who else he may have
“So, as you can see,” Father Bessarion continued, gesturing expansively, “we have several beautiful gardens, a library with more than seventeen hundred handwritten manuscripts, a mill, a bakery, five historic churches . . .”
“Everything here looks pretty historic,” remarked Paul, earning an eye-roll from Ava. Although appreciative of the private tour, she was anxious to leave the monastery as soon as possible. They’d be found eventually. If Gabe could track Paul’s location, so could Simon DeMaj.
“Egypt’s monasteries are the oldest in the world,” the monk said. “It began with the Essenes, pious hermits who withdrew from society to pursue a contemplative life. You may know of them from the Dead Sea Scrolls. Many believe the Essenes influenced the development of early Christian monasteries in Egypt.”
“Really?” asked Ava, momentarily intrigued. “I thought the monasteries were built to escape—”
“Roman oppression?” Bessarion finished her question. “Yes, that’s also true.” Turning to Paul, he explained: “Julian the Apostate revoked the religious freedom granted by Emperor Constantine. The Romans began persecuting Egyptian Christians, seizing their homes and land.”
“ Cujus regio, ejus religio, ” Ava observed.
“Exactly . ‘Whose rule, his religion,’” Bessarion said, looking at her with approval. “Many believers fled to monasteries for protection. That’s why most resemble fortresses. As you can see, ours was surrounded by a fortified wall. We still have a defensive tower.”
Ava studied the protective structures. She imagined the monestary under siege in ancient times.
“How long have you been here?” Paul asked.
“This monastery was founded by St. Anthony the Great in AD 356. In fact, his sacred tomb is very near here.”
“Awesome. You mean the St. Anthony?” asked Paul.
“Yes. You know of him?”
“I do,” Paul said, much to Ava’s surprise.
“Excellent,” said Father Bessarion. “Perhaps then you know that he founded monasticism, and that he was born here in Egypt, near Heracleopolis, in 251. He lived to be a hundred and five years old, perhaps even older.”
“We should all be so lucky,” Paul said.
“Be careful what you ask for. He was tormented his entire life by temptations from the devil,” replied the kindly monk, glancing at Ava meaningfully.
Paul smiled. “You know, it’s an odd coincidence. My mother taught me to pray to St. Anthony whenever something was lost. And now, just a few kilometers away from his grave, we found the lost—”
“Thank you, Father, for an interesting tour,” interrupted Ava, glaring daggers at Paul. “I know you have many responsibilities, and we wouldn’t want to monopolize your valuable time.”
“Don’t think of it, my child,” the monk said. “I’m happy to explain the history of this beautiful, holy site. And Paul, the St. Anthony your mother petitions when she’s lost something is a different St. Anthony, St. Anthony of Padua. Nevertheless,” he said, “I’m glad he helped you find what you needed.”
Simon had difficulty breathing under the desert sun. Blood flowed from his wounds. It dripped off his body and stained the ancient sand. DeMaj knew a lung was punctured. Delirious, he teetered on the brink of death. An hour passed. As he slipped into unconsciousness, shadows flickered across his field of vision. He saw his mother’s face, beautiful and young, before the years of poverty and hashish took their toll. In the distance a gentle voice spoke a language he almost recognized. Someone touched his hand. An angel? Beyond pain, Simon managed a small smile. “Who would have guessed,” he wondered, “that I would go to heaven?”
“Paul,” Ava said, “don’t mention the jars to anyone. You said yourself that DeMaj bribed the police. We don’t know who else he may have
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