The Damascus Way

by Janette Oke

  Jacob’s seat was on the outside of the curtains as was befitting a servant, and Zoe rode in the rear seat, as suited her station. The carriage was of a design mostly strange to Judea but common to the Romans. It was in fact a cart topped by a covering held aloft by four posts. The walls were heavy tapestries that could be rolled up or down, depending on the weather. The tapestries’ exterior was simple and earthen colored. But as Jacob had helped the two women inside, he had seen the tapestries facing inward revealed bright displays of birds and gardens. On days like this, with a wintry edge to the wind, the interior was no doubt quite comfortable.

  From time to time, hands parted the front drapes and a face appeared. Jacob was repeatedly drawn to the sight of Julia. She had removed her shawl, which made her appear rather bold, particularly for a Judean woman. It seemed to Jacob that the dark eyes held questions for which there were no answers. When the face disappeared again, he found himself still held by the memory of those eyes, like finely polished onyx. Jacob repeatedly told himself there was no future in such yearnings. But mental warnings held hardly more force than the call of a thrush from the thorn bush.

  Once the Tiberian hills were behind them, the caravan came to a halt in the early afternoon. An abandoned Roman fortress brooded upon a hill to the north of the road. When the well had gone dry, the garrison had moved further north to the Samaritan plains. A few ragged market stalls still maintained a presence for travelers. Jacob withdrew coins from the bag Jamal had given him for the care of the women and went to purchase something for their refreshment. He was glad to find freshly picked pomegranates.

  While the caravan’s beasts rested and ate, the women remained just outside the carriage, walking around it to stretch cramped legs. Jacob hovered within calling distance, assuming the pose he had often seen house servants take – hands clasping opposing wrists, arms banded just below his ribs, eyes staring blankly. A pair of guards found sport in lingering where he could see them and snickering their disdain. Jacob ignored them. His masquerade was solid. Plus, there were worse duties than inconspicuously observing Julia.

  The carriage was pulled by two matched steeds. By the time they again halted at sunset, the strain of pulling the heavy wagon had left the horses lathered and weary. Zoe prepared an evening meal at a small campfire while Jacob took his time grooming the horses. He gave them a small drink and a pair of oat handfuls, and then went back to grooming. He was so absorbed in his task that he did not notice Julia’s approach until she spoke.

  “Why do you not feed them a proper meal?”

  “Mistress Julia – ” He scrambled up awkwardly.

  Julia pointed to where the horses nosed about their empty feed bags. “They have labored hard all day. Why do you leave them hungry?”

  “If you give horses a full meal while they remain overheated, their innards will inflate and the animal will be in pain all night long.” He went back to stroking the animal’s side with the combing brush. “I’ll let them cool awhile longer, then water and feed them once more.”

  Though he forced his concentration on the animals, he could feel Julia’s gaze upon him. Finally she said, “My mother has retired, and Zoe and I are about to begin our evening prayers. We are wondering if you would like to join us.”

  Jacob turned to her, the comb dangling at his side. He swallowed, then said, “I would be honored, mistress.”

  He followed her back to the carriage. Two small stools had been set out by the rear portal near the fire. Jacob remained standing on its opposite side while Julia sat down beside Zoe. He had seen such scenes any number of times among believing Judeans, where servants were invited to join the family in times of prayer and worship. Jacob watched as the two draped traditional Judean shawls over their heads. He bowed his head as Zoe began reciting a Psalm from memory. “ ‘The Lord is my shepherd’ ” came the familiar words. Jacob found that he was able to ignore Julia’s presence as he listened. Heads bent toward each other, one woman murmured her prayer, then the other. Finally he added his own petitions, for their safety upon the trip, for a quiet night, for Alban’s recovery. And for Latif, wherever he was this night.

  When they had completed the time of worship, Jacob remained as he was, waiting to be dismissed. Instead Julia said, “This Alban you speak of, he is the one who serves as my father’s chief guard?”

  “Yes, mistress.”

  “Did you indicate previously that he is your guardian?”

  “That is correct, mistress.” He hesitated, conscious again how wide the gap was between himself and this young woman. But he knew he must be truthful. “Alban was once the centurion leading the Capernaum garrison. I was his servant.”

  Both women registered surprise. “My father employs a Roman officer as a guard?”

  “He could not have chosen better,” Jacob replied. “Alban is from Gaul and trained in all the skills of a warrior. He served Pontius Pilate in the consul’s final days, just after the death of our Lord. When he came to faith in Jesus, he was pressured to resign his commission.”

  He realized neither woman was satisfied with his half-told tale, so he went on. “When I was a child, my family’s caravan was attacked by bandits on the Damascus Road. Alban rescued me. My sister escaped, though I did not know of it at the time. We were reunited only a few years back. In Jerusalem at a compound where the believers first gathered.”

  He knew with certainty how they viewed him now. An orphan who had been raised in service to a Roman. Granted a shred of independence, now in service to Jamal.

  But Zoe’s tone carried no disdain. “So much tragedy,” she said softly. “Your family, they were Syrian?”

  “No, they were Judean.”

  “Ah.” Zoe nodded and sighed again.

  Julia and Zoe rose and climbed the steps Jacob had set for them into the carriage. As Jacob handed up the two stools, Julia said, “My father is fortunate to have Alban – and you – to trust.”

  In the torchlight, her face held equal measures of sorrow and strength. He inclined his head. “Thank you, mistress.”

  CHAPTER

  SEVENTEEN

  Caesarea

  As Linux approached the hills ringing Caesarea, he spied a new well that had been dug in the shadow of the guard tower. A simple enough affair, it was a broad pit ringed in stone and sprouting three rough troughs for animals. Several tawdry stalls, little more than rags supported by sticks, provided traveling foot soldiers and drovers a crude meal for a few coins. The city was only two hours away, and such a public well might seem unnecessary. But to Linux it was a symbol of how lawless Judea was becoming. Caravans departing the Roman capital of the country could stop here and water their animals a final time, in case there was no safe haven beyond this point.

  As the hills rose to either side and the road snaked through its final turns, Linux felt the old sentiments well up within him. When the city came into view, he rode straighter, his bearing that of a Roman officer entering a Roman city. Guards patrolling the arena’s perimeter came to attention and saluted as he passed. Though Linux wore no uniform, they were alert to the scent of power and privilege.

  But now, for the first time since entering military service, Linux felt uncomfortable with it all.

  The highest hills flanked the beach. Caesarea anchored the end of the Plain of Sharon, which ran along the shore northward from Joppa and Apollonia. The hilltops of Caesarea all were crowned, some with clusters of palaces, others with temples. Jupiter shared the highest point with Saturn, of course. Those two sets of priests squabbled and bickered in every corner of the empire. Linux passed the consul’s palace and the hippodrome, then halted by the newly completed garrison. The structure had been begun by Pontius Pilate, but work had continued only in fits and starts, requiring many years to finish. The barracks made up two sides of the compound, with stables lining the northern flank, baths and officers’ quarters the south. Linux gave his mount to a stable hand and reported to the officer on duty. Assigned temporary quarters, he dumped
his meager belongings and headed for the baths.

  Entering the bath’s main hall, the calderium, was a return to everything Linux had once known. A group of officers threw dice upon the stones, roaring laughter and crude comments as they gambled. In an alcove by the entrance, an oil lamp burned beneath a statue. Many passing soldiers dropped a coin into an adjoining bowl, another gamble for good fortune. Linux refused a slave’s offer of assistance, but sent him for a clean uniform. After shaving himself, he bathed away the worst of the road, dressed, and then moved to the table in the last alcove, where a cold supper was laid out for the bathers.

  As he selected fruit and bread for his plate, a man approached the table’s other side. “You are Linux Aurelius, are you not?”

  “I am.” Linux studied him a moment. “Do we know each other?”

  “I served under the Legate Bruno Aetius. You were pointed out to me once.”

  “I thought Aetius took all his officers with him to Damascus.”

  The Roman hesitated, then dipped a knife into a cup of wine. “Some of us requested the opportunity to remain. A few. Not many.”

  As the officer was speaking, he traced a curving line upon the tablecloth, the wine forming a crude symbol. As soon as he was done, the officer spilled a bit more wine on the image, then slid a platter over the stain. And waited.

  Linux had seen such drawings with increasing frequency. The sign had started appearing after the Temple priests had begun their persecutions. A modest symbol, easily mistaken for something else. The curving line was drawn to a point, then reversed to dip down before crossing over near the start, forming the outline of a fish.

  For believers, the meaning was as powerful as it was clear. The sign of the fish signified the last Sabbath meal between the Messiah and his disciples. It was a symbol of peace. Of safety. Of a fellow believer.

  Linux said softly, “You are an answer to prayer.”

  The officer nodded and murmured, “The stable yards. Tomorrow at this hour.”

  Linux blinked, and the man was gone.

  Late the next afternoon, Linux wandered over as instructed to the stables where six men stood admiring a new stallion. Though young, the horse was clearly bred for battle, with a fiery eye and an impatient stamp as an officer swung himself into the saddle. “I am Grattus,” he said to Linux. “The unwashed lad holding the reins of your mount there is the scourge of my existence, Octavius.”

  The mounted young man bore himself with an aristocrat’s languor, but his gaze was fierce, and his grip on Linux’s hand hard as stone. “My commanding officer would be in dire straits without me, and he knows it.”

  “Linux Aurelius at your service.”

  “We’re off to check the road north, and perhaps dine with an old friend.”

  The young deputy added, “Who does not expect our arrival.”

  “He is a Roman centurion. He should expect bandits at any moment.”

  Grattus did not bother to introduce the others, customary for an officer leading a patrol of common soldiers. Linux swung up onto his obviously well-fed and rested horse, and they left the garrison and followed the road along the shore, past the port and the main markets, then up to the first line of hills, where they halted.

  Grattus pointed out several landmarks while his young officer surveyed the road behind and the foot soldiers trotted at their rear. Ahead of them lay the fishing villages of Dora, Bucolon, and finally Sycaminum at the point where Mount Carmel met the sea. The Mediterranean waters sparkled with a coppery hue beneath the descending sun. A fishing vessel plied its way south, its sail a burnished shield in the western glow. For once, there were neither clouds nor any hint of storm.

  Grattus asked, “What say you, Octavius?”

  “All is clear, sire.”

  “Very well.” He touched the horse’s flanks with his heels and led them down the hillside trail. The road wove its way back and forth before arriving at a small cove. The rocky shoreline was arrayed with half a dozen Roman villas. Grattus glanced around, then motioned for one of the foot soldiers to pound upon the outer portal of the nearest dwelling. As they waited, Grattus said quietly, “We are registered with the guard captain as traveling to this destination. Your name was included.”

  A servant opened the gate, clearly expecting them, and bowed them inside. More servants emerged to care for their mounts. Inside the main door of the villa the three were greeted in the formal Roman fashion, with bowls to clean their hands and fresh towels. The foot soldiers arranged themselves in the courtyard to wait. Eventually they were led into a central court, where their host rose to greet them.

  Grattus introduced the older gentleman as Cornelius, senior centurion within the Italian Guard, the preeminent brigade in Judea. The vast majority of soldiers stationed in Judea and Syria were conscripts drawn from Rome’s outermost regions. In contrast, the Italian Guard was staffed by Rome’s elite. There were rarely more than two hundred of these guardsmen in all of Judea. Their senior centurion would rank only a trifle below that of the Jerusalem commandant. Linux had once been assigned to their ranks, before becoming an officer on Pilate’s personal staff.

  As Linux responded to the formal greetings, acknowledging in turn the centurion’s wife and sons, he gradually realized why Grattus had been so careful during their journey and arrival.

  The house servants and the centurion’s personal troops now also entered the center court, along with the foot soldiers who had accompanied Grattus. And several Judeans, whom Cornelius identified as neighbors and friends. The Judeans were all dressed in the Hellenized manner, with flowing robes and oiled hair.

  But it was not their mere presence that required secrecy. When all were gathered and silence descended over the throng, Grattus said, “I greet you in the name of the Most High God, his Son Jesus Christ, and the Holy Spirit.”

  And all the gathering, men and women, officers and common foot soldiers, master and servants, Romans and Judeans, responded in one voice, “Amen.”

  “He is risen,” Cornelius declared.

  “He is risen indeed!” rang back from the crowd.

  CHAPTER

  EIGHTEEN

  The Megiddo Plains

  The much-reduced group turned northwest, Abigail noted. As the elders had assured Linux before he left, the small entourage was escorted by a host of villagers, mostly men, but a few women who refused to end the lessons just yet. Dorcas’s mouth turned down at the corners when she remembered Linux’s departure. As they prepared to set off upon the road, the little girl asked once more when Abigail thought Linux would be coming back. And her mother repeated that she did not know, but it “likely would be soon.”

  Dorcas rode upon the donkey, cuddling in the soft blanket, woven in a pattern of alternating squares, that she used when sleeping. Even at midday Abigail was glad for her winter cloak. The winds had subsided, though the weather remained unseasonably cold. When the sun and the trek finally warmed them, Dorcas turned and stared at the empty road behind them, then wondered aloud how Linux would find them again.

  Despite the late season, this central region of Samaria remained lush and green. Abigail noted that the road was sheltered by groves of olive trees. Grapevines climbed the slopes rising to the north, and fields of winter wheat flickered silver and gold in the gentle breeze. As they approached the village of Ginae just after midday, the air was filled with the rich fragrance of autumn fruit.

  That afternoon and on into the evening, Philip spoke yet again to a large group. Abigail recognized faces among the women, for whole families had traveled along for the opportunity to meet with them once again. Most of their questions were no longer about whether Jesus was the Messiah, but how to deepen their faith, how to live, how to know their Lord better. The band of believers that traveled with Philip shared a sense of meaning that carried into their nighttime prayers, a common passion to be used by God to further his will.

  All but three of the families that had left from Jerusalem had now departed to start
new lives with friends or relations in the villages they had visited. The remaining found shelter for the night with one family, who moved into their front room, giving the other one to the women travelers and sheltering the men up on their roof. After evening prayers, Abigail settled Dorcas onto her pallet, then joined Alban and Martha outside the front door. Like many Samaritan dwellings, the house was fronted by a long covered portico, which in better weather served as an additional open-sided room. The cooking fire burned in a clay stove in one corner, granting them a bit of warmth against the night chill.

  They talked in the easy manner of friends who knew much about one another. There were long periods of silence, for all were tired from the journey and the evening’s teaching and prayers for healing. But none wished to say good-bye to the day and succumb to sleep. They spoke of the crowds and their spiritual hunger. They spoke of Linux and what awaited him in Caesarea. Alban suggested they pray for their friend. As they bowed their heads once again and spoke the words, Abigail felt her eyes burning with tears she could not explain away.

  Alban was clearly improved, which Martha must have found amusing. “You find healing through travel, I see. Which is odd, since you became ill on just such a journey.”

  “The two nights of rest in Jerusalem went a long way toward improvement,” Alban said with a smile. “And the pace we have set is far gentler than the distance a caravan covers. Not to mention how I am hovered over by friends and carry no great responsibilities.”

  “Other than to get well,” Martha put in firmly.

  Abigail asked, “When will you return to Galilee? I’m sure Leah must miss you terribly.”

  “And your little one,” Martha agreed.

  “First I will see you settled,” Alban said. “Leah knows she is married to a caravan guard captain. She dislikes our times apart, as do I, but she has learned to accept them as a necessary part of our life now.”