by Janette Oke
Abigail did not appear to have slept. The eyes above her shawl were shadowed and troubled. Linux noticed that so long as Jerusalem’s walls remained in view, she cast more glances behind than upon the road ahead. Twice Martha kept her from stumbling. Every so often another one of the women would move up alongside Abigail, urging her softly to rest upon a donkey, or offering a sip of water, or simply touching her shoulder, letting her know she did not walk – or grieve – alone.
Linux did not permit himself many glances her way. His affection for Abigail remained as strong as ever, and yet so altered that it did not bear consideration. He accepted she would never be his, that her heart belonged to another. But his own heart’s yearning was not silenced by the mind’s awareness.
“Look, Uncle Linux!”
Abigail chided softly, “You must not address him such, child. It is not fitting.”
“I would count it as a rare honor if you would permit the child to speak with me in this way,” Linux said softly.
Abigail turned away and said no more.
Dorcas watched her mother for a moment, then turned back to ask, “What is this coming our way, uncle?”
“Drovers making their way to market. And behind them come two camels. Surely you have seen camels before.”
“Yes. But not that,” with another pointed finger.
“Those are cages. For chickens, I imagine. Or perhaps geese.” Linux lifted the little one onto a donkey already laden with supplies and pulled it forward toward the front of their little band. “Would you like to move up and see how Uncle Alban is faring?”
Dorcas gripped the gentle beast’s mane with both hands, eyes wide. Linux led the animal forward, glad for an opportunity to further limber up his legs.
Word of their departure had spread with the night. Their group had grown to include sixteen families. When he had awakened at first light, Linux discovered the courtyard filling with clusters of families and goods, silently awaiting the signal to rise and depart. Even more followers had joined the procession as it passed beyond the city gates. Linux did not object to their presence, only their slow pace. He wanted them all well cleared of the Jerusalem hills before the next nightfall. But their progress would be set by the slowest among them.
He approached the front of their group to find Alban deep in discussion. Philip the evangelist had appeared with the dawn as they were departing, asking if he might accompany them. As Linux neared the two, he heard the man saying, “The Judeans and Samaritans have loathed each other for centuries. But surely you know this.”
“I fear your words only reveal my ignorance,” Alban said. He noticed Linux and asked, “What news from the rear?”
“All is well, save that we travel very slowly.”
“There is little we can do about that,” Alban said, shaking his head. “We cannot permit any to fall behind, so we must allow them to dictate our speed.”
“And risk being trapped in the hills tonight?” Linux kept his voice low.
Alban did not answer immediately. Instead he turned and looked back from atop Linux’s horse, which granted him a height at which he could survey the entire group. The cart that had been obtained for Alban now carried eight elderly folk, all of whom were far more infirm than the former centurion. In fact, Alban looked much improved, as though somehow being again upon the road actually increased the speed of his recovery.
Linux knew what Alban saw in that backward glance into the dust. The travelers carried all their worldly goods, and included as many as four generations, from infants to grandparents. None had been willing to leave any of their loved ones behind. Their group stretched back over a considerable distance.
Alban settled back in his saddle with a sigh and said simply, “God will provide.”
Linux started to make his case once more but noticed how Philip nodded silent agreement. He kept his peace.
Some oncoming drovers prodded their sheep and the two camels into a shallow defile, almost a miniature cave, to let the larger group pass. Alban offered them a traveler’s salute, then called, “What news of the road ahead?”
“Wind and more wind,” cried the eldest drover. “And a cold that seeps into one’s very bones.”
Alban coughed his response, then asked hoarsely, “And the trail?”
“An abomination!” The elder eyed him curiously. “You are Roman?”
“I am. And a Gaul. And a God-fearer – a follower of the Way.”
The drover revealed brown-stained teeth with his grin. “To whom do you give allegiance among such a host as that?”
“To God, and our Savior, the risen Messiah, Jesus Christ.”
“Him I have heard of. Folks in our village declare him to be the one we have long awaited.”
“Your fellow villagers are correct in what they say,” Philip put in. “From where do you come, good man?”
“Tephon, straight ahead north as the crow flies. And you?”
“From Galilee, but I have lived with my brethren in Jerusalem since our Lord returned to his heavenly home.”
The road-roughened man lifted his chin. “I am Samaritan, and proud of it. I worship the one true Lord, but find no need to hand my coins to the Temple vultures.”
When Philip did not respond, Alban offered, “The Temple priests are no allies of ours.”
The elderly drover seemed satisfied enough with that. “Where are you headed?”
“Away from Jerusalem,” Alban replied. “And toward safety.”
“We hope,” Philip added. “And pray.”
Linux added a silent amen with another glance to the rear.
The elder pointed a trembling staff at the road north. “We have traveled all day, and have seen no trouble. But rumors fly on this bitter wind – ”
“Look! Little chickens!” Dorcas’s high sweet voice set them all to chuckling as they looked toward the drovers’ cage to which she pointed.
The drover cackled with delight. “Those are not chickens, lass. These are thrush and starling and desert songbirds!”
As though in confirmation, a gold-breasted bird flittered about one of the smaller cages, piercing the air with its music. Dorcas clapped her hands in delight.
The drover signaled to one of his men, who swiftly unlashed the cage and hurried over to her with it. Dorcas watched wide-eyed as he grinned and offered her the hand-woven reed enclosure. She looked a question at Linux, who nodded. “Yes, take it, child.”
“A gift,” the elder drover said. “For the tiny lass with gemstones for eyes.”
“What do you say?” Alban prompted the child.
“Thank you. I like the little chicken songbird!”
The elder laughed again. “And he will like you if you take good care of him.”
Linux handed the donkey’s reins to Alban and walked over to the drover. The elder squinted his question. Was Linux going to insult his gift with offer of payment? Instead, Linux said, “We are in need of sheep for tonight’s meal.”
“Those I have. Healthy and young and tender as any you’ll find in Samaria.”
“Be so good as to select three for me.”
The man made a process of choosing, then named a price. Linux paid without bargaining. The elder eyed him again, this time with a glint of respect. Linux had overpaid for the sheep, and thus both pride and need were met. The old man observed, “You shall not make the plains and the campsites, not at the pace you are setting.”
“There are old among us. And infirm.”
“We use a watering hole that is often dry. But last week’s rains have refilled the spot.” The unsteady hand pointed ahead once more. “A bit more than halfway through the hills, a canyon opens before you, one running east to west, straight as a dagger’s cut. The road takes a sharp left and heads west, hugging the wall. Just after you turn, a narrow breach opens. Keep an eye out, for it is easy to miss. It leads into a culvert that should be the right size – ” The man stretched his neck up to view the rest of the group. “You should be safe
there.”
“Your arrival to cross our path is an answer to prayer,” Linux said fervently. “A holy messenger.”
The drover cackled once more. “And you are as strange a Roman as ever I have had occasion to meet.”
“I am a man remade by Jesus, the risen Christ.”
The elder studied him. “If this Jesus of yours can turn two Romans into guardians of poor Judeans, then he is powerful indeed.”
“I stand as testimony to the truth of your words,” Linux said. “And I shall pray to him tonight for the salvation of your soul, you and all your clan.”
They found the culvert none too soon. Daylight had dimmed so Linux feared they would miss the opening between the rocks. They could not light torches along the trail, both because of bandits and because of the wind. The gloom had descended until the clouds rested upon the higher peaks. The road they’d followed was good enough, fashioned as it was by Roman hands. But the way was narrow, and the drops steep, and many of those in the band of believers were not seasoned travelers. Now and then he heard a wail of fear, one high enough to rise above the wind’s howl.
Linux had returned the child to Abigail’s charge and taken up his station at the rear. He and the master carpenter’s eldest son did their best to encourage the stragglers to greater speed. Alban and the evangelist remained at the head of the procession. Alban’s cough had returned and sounded worse each time Linux made his way to the front. But he was certain his experienced friend would find them a safe haven. If one indeed existed.
Then, in the murkiness of approaching night, a rustle of hope passed back through the group. There was a passage through the rock walls just ahead. Linux noticed one elderly man sag upon his mount’s back and start to slide off. Linux caught him, holding him on the donkey as they moved slowly forward. Rounding the trail’s next turning, Linux felt a tremor pass through the old man’s frame. A glimpse of the cavern ahead of them and toward the left seemed like the maw of a great beast.
Final progress was very slow as the long string of people and animals began to cluster up against the turn into their haven. At the end Linux stood beside the old man and the donkey for what felt like hours. The elder obviously shared his impatience, complaining querulously, “What is keeping them?”
The only answer that came to mind was “Water.”
“What’s that you say?”
“Water!” Linux leaned in closer. “There is said to be a shallow catchment. If there’s water, they will be filling their skins before letting the animals drink from the basin.”
The man faced straight into the wind, glints of wetness streaking down his cheeks. “If I had known it would be like this, I would have ordered them to leave me behind.”
“And have your clan settle in a new home without their revered grandfather? Impossible.”
The old man looked over at Linux from his perch. “You are a strange one.”
“And you, my good man, are the second one to call me such this day.”
“You were an officer?”
“I still am. At least, until they catch up with me and strip me of my rank.” Or worse. But he did not voice the thought.
“They will do that?”
Linux shrugged, but the old man would not have been able to see the motion. “That is in God’s hands.”
“A strange one indeed. If my daughter had told me this morning that tonight I would be held in my saddle by a Roman officer, I would have feared she was suffering from a dread fever and soon to be joining my dear departed wife!” His chuckle sounded incredulous.
Linux was spared the need to respond by the line again starting forward. They were the last to turn into the narrow culvert. Instantly the wind ceased to pummel them. Overhead it howled its frustration, occasionally showering them with grit, but Linux did not mind. He quickly looked around the large grotto, relieved that it could hold them all and provide a place for rest and nourishment. His own fatigue nearly overwhelmed him.
The elder quavered, “Help me down, will you? I need to ease my bones.”
Linux did so, then guided the man as he shuffled toward his family. Already Linux could smell lamb roasting over a fire, hear the laughter of children. He thought he heard Dorcas but could not be sure.
The high-sided bowl-shaped area was perhaps fifty paces across. The early arrivals had joined together family tents, and half the enclosure was now sheltered. A single partition was being erected to form a private sleeping area for the women and children. The ground was covered by a sand as fine as milled flour. A woman rushed over, thanked Linux profusely, hugged the weary old man, and led him away to a place by a fire. Alban beckoned Linux over to another. “There is water for washing, if you don’t mind sharing the pond with our donkeys.”
When Linux returned, Alban offered him a strip of roasted meat hung from a charred stick. “Our plates and utensils are still packed away – ”
“I will miss neither, hungry as I am.” As he ate, Linux watched his friend settle onto his pallet. “How are you doing after our long trek, my friend?”
“I feel like my own grandfather. But I shall rest easy tonight, thanks to your locating this haven.”
“Not I – it was the drover who directed us.”
Philip was sitting with his back against the rock face. “The drover told you because you gained his trust. You, a Roman. I would call that a miracle.”
“As would I.” Alban laced his arms behind his head. “Philip, back on the road, you started to tell us about Samaria and its people.”
Philip turned to Linux and asked, “Do you know anything of the rift between Judeans and Samaritans?”
“All soldiers ever talk about are risk and food and such. Samaria is simply known as a mixture of fertile plains and deserted wastelands. We knew there were disputes between its people and the Temple priests, but it was of no matter. For us . . .” Linux paused as a little figure danced over and halted by his side. “Shouldn’t you be with your mother?”
Dorcas shook her head. “Mama is tired.”
“Come sit here beside me, then. Do you want some lamb?”
She shook her head and patted her stomach. “I’m very full.”
“How did your little bird fare in the storm?”
“Mama gave him water and covered him up. He’s sleepy. I looked.” She mimed tucking her head beneath one wing. She sat down and leaned against Linux, and he put his arm around her.
Alban smiled at them both, then said to Philip, “Tell us about this land we are entering.”
“Judeans have loathed the Samaritans for centuries. The Pharisees go so far as to call them religious deviates, below even the Romans.” Philip grimaced an apology at Linux, then continued, “When a religious Judean travels to Galilee, he heads east from Jerusalem and crosses the Jordan before turning north, just so he won’t set foot in Samaria.”
Philip spoke like an educated man, and his name suggested he came from a Hellenized clan. Because of his passion and dedication, he was known as the evangelist. Linux knew nothing more about him. Philip was a quiet man by nature, a realist who listened long and thought longer before offering an opinion. When he did speak, though, the others paid attention with great care.
Philip went on, “Samaria’s boundaries run from the Jordan River to the coast, from Jericho in the south to the Lebanon hills in the north. Originally this formed the territories given to the tribes of Ephraim and Manasseh. During the reign of Hoshea the Second, the Assyrians conquered Palestine’s Northern Kingdom. The victors captured a large number of Israelites as slaves. Those who remained intermarried with the new Assyrian colonists. When the Greeks conquered our land four hundred years later, they made the city of Samaria their capital. By the time Herod the Great was given rule over this land, these northerners had established their own temple on top of Mount Gerizim and disavowed all connection to Jerusalem.”
Linux felt the little form snuggling closer to his side. Dorcas burrowed beneath his arm to lay her head against his ch
est, the act of a very trusting child. Before long Linux heard her steady breathing and knew she was asleep.
“It is hard for all of us to ignore such a history,” Philip was saying. “And yet the last words the Lord Jesus spoke to us before rising into the sky and departing from us were these: ‘But you shall receive power when the Holy Spirit has come upon you, and you shall be witnesses to me in Jerusalem, and in all Judea, and Samaria, and to the ends of the earth.’ ”
Alban said softly, “But it is not merely our coming to Samaria that concerns the apostles, is it?”
Philip’s gaze turned to the man on his pallet by the fire. “No,” he replied. “It is not.”
“If they are to invite Samaritans to join us,” Alban said, his voice weak but clear, “why not others? Why not Romans?” He and Linux exchanged a meaningful look.
Philip nodded slowly and continued the thought. “And do we recognize the Samaritans who become followers of our Lord as true Judeans? Or should they be considered merely God-fearers, as Gentiles are who convert? So many questions without clear answers.”
Linux recalled something Stephen had told him. “Jesus himself went to Samaria, did he not?”
Philip studied him across the fire. “Several times.”
“I can understand,” Alban said, “why the idea of believers among the Samaritans might trouble the apostles.”
“We have received word that it has already begun,” Philip said. “While still with us in person, our Lord preached in a village called Sychar, and followers who have already settled there have told other Samaritans the good news of Jesus. Many are joining us. This is what I told them in Jerusalem. It is no longer a question of ‘Do we allow this?’ It has happened. I am traveling to Samaria in order to be a witness as our Lord instructed.”
CHAPTER
NINE
Tiberias
In spite of Julia’s entreaties, Helena resisted joining the small group known as the Way for their evening meetings. Julia was so concerned about her mother that she could not stop urging and pleading. Helena’s opposition only grew more firm, and Julia was sure it was because her mother did not wish to displease Jamal. This only served to further broaden the rift that Julia felt growing between her and her father. She tried her best to mask her dis-comfort in his presence, but she feared sooner or later it was bound to come to the fore. How long could she hide her feelings about what she believed was his injustice toward her mother?
