by Angela Hunt
“Yet you saved one of their babies.”
Her voice had softened, and when he turned, he saw tenderness in her eyes.
“I don’t think Gaius meant us to harm a child.”
“You give him too much credit, Atticus. I know your centurion; I’ve heard other women speak of him. He can be a brutal man.”
Atticus said nothing as the clomp of the donkey’s hooves and the boy’s drawn-out gurgle echoed over the empty road.
For a time they rode without speaking. Atticus kept the donkey at a steady pace and realized how pleasant it was to spend time with Cyrilla and Quintus away from the palace. The few minutes he’d been able to snatch with them in the garden paled in comparison to the pleasure of simple companionship.
When they stopped to eat in the shade of an oak, Quinn toddled over the grass, picking up leaves, trying to eat bark, and pointing at all sorts of curiosities he found on the ground.
“He walks well,” Atticus remarked.
Cyrilla propped her head on her hand and smiled. “He does. He runs all over the house—at least until the governor comes in. Then Lady Procula makes me take Quinn to the servants’ quarters, lest the governor be offended.”
She waited while Atticus removed a piece of bark from Quinn’s mouth and tossed it out of reach. The boy watched the bark fly away, a woebegone look on his face. Atticus pulled a piece of dried beef from his scrip and gave that to Quinn instead.
“I think she really wanted children,” Cyrilla said, her voice soft. “And her husband is too proud to admit that their marriage isn’t perfect. So Pilate pretends his wife is happy, and Procula watches Quinn with tears in her eyes. But she won’t pick him up. She won’t get too close.”
Atticus shifted his gaze to the road, where a publican and his eagle-emblazoned collection box had just come into view. Another man, probably a Syrian, hurried by and shouted insults at the tax collector, but Quinn did not even glance toward the noisy pair.
“I could almost envy the boy,” Atticus said, reclining in the shade. “Not hearing, I mean. We hear so much ugliness—the clash of swords, the cries of battle, the screams of men in pain.”
Cyrilla laughed. “You have lived an odd life, soldier. The world is also filled with the sounds of women singing, children laughing, birds warbling in the trees.” She looked up and pointed at a sparrow that hopped from branch to branch. Quinn saw her gesture and followed her gaze, then dropped his jaw. Atticus grinned, convinced the child wasn’t missing as much as Cyrilla thought, then the bird began to sing … and the sweetly piercing sound snatched Atticus’s breath away.
How long had it been since he’d had an hour to sit and listen to birdsong? Far too long. And unless the Jewish healer could help, Quinn would never experience this exquisitely simple pleasure.
He stood and scooped up the curious baby, then handed Quinn to Cyrilla so he could gather the remnants of their meal. “We’d best be off. The day is fading fast.”
Chapter Twenty-six
After sunset, as Atticus tended to the donkey in the courtyard of a house that served as the Nazareth inn, a group of newcomers came through the courtyard gate and gathered around the fire. The three men wore the beards and fringed shawls common to the Jews, and though they conversed in Aramaic, Atticus understood enough to realize that they were talking about a rabbi who’d been teaching on a hillside outside Capernaum.
Atticus pretended to fuss with the donkey’s harness while he listened. He did not speak, afraid his accent would arouse their suspicions, but the travelers were so involved in their conversation they seemed not to notice him.
“This rabbi is different,” a gray-bearded man said, holding his hands toward the fire. “Unlike the other teachers who’ll give you a dozen different answers when you ask a question, he speaks as one who has authority.”
“I hear he is from Natzeret,” a thin man said, his eyes filled with doubt. “Can anything good come from this starving village?”
“Ask his mother.” Gray Beard jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “His family lives not far from here.”
The tallest man snorted. “His family thinks he is crazy. And if a rabbi’s family does not support him, why should anyone else?”
“I heard—” the thin man stepped closer to the fire as he lowered his voice—“he went to the Jordan River to be immersed by the prophet Yochanan. When he came out of the water, some say they heard a voice from heaven! Some say a dove came to rest on his head.”
Gray Beard shook his head. “Bah! I was there and I heard no voice. Yes, he was immersed and the heavens thundered. That’s all. Not so uncommon a thing.”
The thin man frowned. “And Yochanan? What has become of that prophet?” The three drew closer together. Atticus hated to be so bold in his eavesdropping, but since no one had questioned him, he soothed the donkey and moved toward the strangers.
“Yochanan has been arrested.” The tall man lifted his brows. “On account of what he said about Herod taking his brother’s wife.”
Thin Man snickered. “I knew he’d get into trouble. The Immerser does not mince words.”
“Surely Herod knows better than to harm him.” Gray Beard looked around the circle. “He is safe in Herod’s house, no?”
“Is anyone safe with Herod?”
The group fell silent as the fire cackled before them.
Taking advantage of the quiet, Atticus approached the group, his head bent in a submissive posture. “Peace to you, friends,” he said, addressing them in Greek. “I have come to this territory in search of the prophet who heals. Do you know where I might find him?”
The thin man lifted a brow. “You have need of healing?”
“Not me—my child.”
The tight line of the man’s mouth relaxed. “They are coming from everywhere, some from as far as Syria. The man you seek is called Yeshua; he teaches in the open fields around the lake. Set out tomorrow and head north on the main roads. Where you see the crowds, you’ll find Yeshua.”
Atticus thanked him with a smile. “A good night’s rest to you all.”
“And to you,” they murmured.
As he crept into the communal room and lay down next to a stranger who smelled of sweat and horses, he overheard another fragment of the men’s firelight conversation.
“A big one, that.”
“Not from Galil, obviously.”
“Syrian?”
“Too tall.”
“Roman?”
“Too polite.”
“Will Yeshua see him, do you think?”
“Hard to say. The prophet says he has come to the lost sheep of Isra’el.”
“He calls us lost sheep? How can he forget we’ve been chosen from all the nations?”
“Chosen for this? What does HaShem have against us?”
They laughed.
* * *
The next morning, Atticus turned his wagon toward the Sea of Tiberias. By midday he expected to reach Herod’s city and from there he could head toward any of several Jewish settlements that circled the sea, among them Magdala, Gennesaret, Capernaum, Chorazin, and Bethsaida. He planned to visit each one, if necessary, until he found the healing prophet.
Cyrilla and Quinn sat quietly in the wagon, both of them drowsy from a restless night’s sleep. Atticus sat behind the donkey’s fuzzy rump and listened to the jolt and creak of the wooden wheels. Pedestrians and other conveyances crowded the road on this first day of the week, and they would not move aside for an anonymous merchant’s donkey-drawn wagon.
Oblivious to his master’s impatience, the donkey plodded forward, his head bouncing to the rhythm of his feet. When Cyrilla began to sing, Atticus glanced behind him—little Quinn watched her intently, focusing on her mouth. Though he joined her with a tuneless “auuuuuuu,” Quinn gave no indication of hearing the lilting melody.
Atticus pressed his lips together and turned away. What would they do if this healer refused to help? Atticus supposed he could threaten the man with physical
harm, but a true prophet would not be likely to use his power on behalf of a stranger who had bullied him.
They had passed Magdala and were nearing Gennesaret when Atticus noticed a marked increase in traffic. A throng clogged the road ahead, and they weren’t all Jews. Among the crowd Atticus glimpsed several shaven faces and a pair of Roman uniforms.
“I think we’ve found him.”
As Cyrilla cleaned the baby’s face, Atticus urged the donkey off the pavement. After hobbling the animal and leaving him to graze in a grassy spot, Atticus lifted Quinn into his arms and led Cyrilla into the jostling crowd. They followed a footpath to a rocky knoll at the edge of the sea. Like the others, Atticus and Cyrilla sat in the grass and waited for the prophet’s arrival.
While they waited, Atticus played with Quinn and strained to listen to the conversations around him. More than a few skeptics had come from Magdala, Gennesaret, and the Ten Towns, but several spoke of the prophet with reverent conviction.
During his service in Judea, Atticus had learned that though the Jews sprang from a common ancestor, they were far from unified. In this place, oddly enough, he saw Pharisees in their broad phylacteries and fringed shawls, Essenes in white tunics and trailing beards, and even a few priests in embroidered tunics and showy turbans. Beggars, children, women, cripples, and outcasts mingled freely among the religious experts on the hillside, temporarily joined by curiosity about the prophet.
At length a middle-aged man walked to the knoll and stood facing the crowd. Like every other Jewish man in sight, he wore a beard and a fringed prayer shawl. He also wore the plain tunic, robe, and girdle of a typical Galilean.
After murmuring to some men behind him, the prophet—if that’s what he was—held up his hands. When the crowd grew quiet, the one they called Yeshua spoke in an authoritative voice that echoed over the rocks.
“Shema Yisra’el, ADONAI Eloheinu, ADONAI Echad! Hear, O Isra’el, the Lord our God, the Lord is one!”
Atticus flinched as the crowd around him responded by repeating the same words. Was it a prayer?
He had no time to wonder, for the prophet immediately launched into his lesson:
“Are you poor today? Hungry? Are you grieving?” A glow rose in his face, as though he contained a lamp that had just been lit. “ADONAI blesses you who are poor, for the Kingdom of God is given to you. ADONAI blesses you who are hungry, for you will be satisfied. ADONAI blesses you who weep, for the time will come when you will laugh with joy. ADONAI blesses you who are hated and excluded and mocked and cursed because you are identified with me, the Son of Man.
“When that happens, rejoice! Yes, leap for joy! For a great reward awaits you in heaven. And remember, the ancient prophets were also treated that way by your ancestors.”
The prophet’s dark eyes swept over the gathering, then trained in on the children playing in the grass at his feet. “Do you see these little ones? The Kingdom of God belongs to such as these. Yes, I tell you, whoever does not receive the Kingdom of God like a child will not enter it.”
Atticus turned to Cyrilla, who was watching the scene with wide eyes. “Does any of this make sense to you?”
A smile played at the corners of her mouth. “Not really. I understand one thing, though—look over there.”
She pointed to the grass beneath the knoll where the prophet stood. When Atticus followed her finger, he first saw a group of Jews who had separated themselves with men on one side; women on another. But Cyrilla had gestured to the children who toddled and ran and rolled in the grass at the prophet’s feet. The listening men seemed oblivious to the little ones, though several of the women had stood to keep an eye on their offspring.
Yeshua stepped forward, his voice dropping to a lower tone as it increased in intensity. “If you are willing to listen, I say, love your enemies. Do good to those who hate you. Pray for the happiness of those who curse you. Pray for those who hurt you. If someone slaps you on one cheek, offer the other cheek as well. If a soldier forces you to carry his pack for one mile, carry it for two!”
Atticus nearly laughed aloud. Roman law allowed a legionnaire to enlist any civilian he encountered to help carry a burden from one mile marker to the next. And since a soldier on the march had to carry a lance, a shield, a saw and basket, a bucket and axe, a leather strap, a sickle, a chain, and rations for three days, rarely did a civilian obey without making a fuss.
Though many in his unit took advantage of the law, Atticus had stopped asking long ago. His shoulders were strong enough to bear what the army required; he would not ask another man to carry his burden. Especially not one of these resentful Jews.
Yet this rabbi wanted his people to volunteer for service to Rome? Unthinkable. Incredible. Impossible. Atticus felt his mouth twist in a grim smile when he saw signs of disbelief on other listeners’ faces.
But not everyone responded with derision. Wonder lit more than a few expressions; confusion clouded others. Here and there Atticus spotted eyes that gleamed with yearning. What were they hoping for?
Surely … no. Gaius had told him that the most zealous Jews believed their God would soon send them a deliverer, a messiah, who would lead them to overthrow Rome.
But this rabbi was no military commander. Though the slender prophet looked fit enough, touches of humor lined his mouth and eyes, and the set of his jaw suggested a stubborn streak. He smiled too often at the gamboling children and spoke in too gentle a voice to command men.
If Yeshua dared challenge the emperor’s authority, Rome would break him in an afternoon.
* * *
When the rabbi had finished speaking, the crowd stood and stretched. Frustrated mothers released their captive children, women gathered in conversational clusters, and men grouped themselves according to their station.
Atticus observed the social shifting with a tight smile, then felt a tug at his sleeve. Cyrilla, who’d stuck to him like a shadow until this moment, now stood an arm’s length away, as if she’d suddenly become self-conscious in this segregated society.
“Quintus,” she said, reminding him of why they’d come. “You must take the boy to the teacher.”
Atticus looked toward the prophet. Yeshua had stepped behind a rock, forcing those who wished to see him to approach in a single line. The rabbi’s disciples, a handful of ruddy, bearded Jews, struggled to bring order to the surging chaos.
“I’ll take him.” Atticus swung Quinn into his arms and strode forward, easily outpacing several others. When he reached the end of a snaking line, he hesitated—as a Roman legionnaire, he had every right to move to the front, but he was not wearing his uniform … and he was deep in Jewish territory.
Better to wait patiently.
So he stood, listening to the babble of Greek and Aramaic around him, while Quinn tapped at his chin and drooled on his tunic. Sound came from the child’s throat, a toneless, continuous uhhhhhhhh that might forever mark him as a simpleton and cause him to be treated as an outcast, unworthy of love or attention …
The first Quintus had talked, too, at about this age. But he had said “ba” and “da” and “ma”—until a fever intervened and he stopped speaking altogether.
Atticus stepped forward as the line moved. Ahead of him, close to the rabbi, an old woman danced with her hands lifted to the sky. A younger woman stood beside her, tears streaming down her cheeks while her bearded husband smiled in approval.
What were the limits of this healer’s power?
Atticus watched, fascinated, as people left the prophet in groups of two and three. He saw a cripple stand erect and walk away without his crutch. A blind woman who’d been led forward by her daughter now walked independently, her eyes wide with wonder. A man who’d been weakened by fever and brought to the prophet on a stretcher left with the glow of health; a child who’d been covered with pox ran toward his father with unblemished skin.
“You.” One of the disciples, a slender man with deeply tanned skin, nodded at Atticus. “Why do you wish to see the
rabbi?”
Atticus shifted the child in his arms. “The boy … he is deaf.”
The man frowned and tugged at his beard. “You are not Jewish.”
“No.”
“Well …” The disciple glanced behind him, as if seeking permission.
Atticus’s breath burned in his throat. “Does this healer care only for Jews?”
The disciple blinked. “He came to us, the children of Avraham.”
Atticus wavered, wondering if he should confess that Quintus was Jewish. If he announced the truth in this place, would he be allowed to walk away with the child he’d come to consider his own?
He frowned and met the disciple’s gaze. “Does the healer not care for other children, too?”
Another fellow with short, curly hair, stepped forward, tugged on the first disciple’s sleeve, and jerked his head toward the prophet. “He wants to see all the children.”
The second man smiled when his gaze crossed Atticus’s. “A handsome boy.” As the stranger peered at him, Quinn wormed his head into the crook between Atticus’s neck and shoulder. “And a shy little thing.”
Atticus smoothed the boy’s long tunic. “He is.”
“All right, then.” The first disciple motioned to Atticus. “Come forward.”
Atticus stepped up, then looked to his left, where dozens of people milled about, some congratulating the recently healed, others questioning the results with concerned looks and emphatic hand-waving. Cyrilla stood alone, not mingling with the Jews or the Syrians, but keeping a careful eye on Atticus. He nodded in acknowledgement of their bond, then moved closer to the rabbi.
Another disciple, a meaty man with a sparse beard, stopped him with an uplifted hand. “You’ll have to wait. The master needs a moment to himself.”
Atticus sighed heavily. The rabbi, only a few feet away, was saying farewell to a man and his aged mother. At a word from the disciple who’d stopped Atticus, Yeshua turned toward a thick stand of brush behind the rocks, seeking privacy.
Atticus looked away as understanding dawned. The rabbi had been standing before these people for hours without a break—no wonder he needed a moment.
