The Damascus Way

by Janette Oke

  The bandit rose slowly to his feet. His easygoing manner turned to a venomous snarl. “And when they leave, I will return. And you, my friend, will die. You and your wife and your son.”

  He gestured to his men. They rose as one, departing the tavern and walking toward where their horses waited. The men all wore the black of the Arabian tribes, with long cloaks flowing out behind them like the wings of spectral birds. The bandit leader mounted and reined his horse in beside the tavern entrance to shout, “I will return! I suggest that you be ready.”

  There were no other travelers that day. The villagers gathered in Yelban’s tavern, and their discussions extended well into the afternoon. The sad conclusion was that their prospects were bleak. The bandits’ demands were ruinous. The tribute they wanted would require them all to more than double their prices. There was every possibility the market would vanish into the sands, and their village along with it.

  As the deliberations continued, Abigail felt eyes glancing at her. Even Martha looked her way now and then. Finally Martha rose and suggested they all pray for guidance.

  Yelban chewed upon his moustache. “You are right.”

  The man seated next to him muttered, “Perhaps now is time for Simon to weave his amulets.”

  One of the other villagers snorted. “What good will that do us, save cost us more silver?”

  Another called out, “He is a wizard!”

  Voices rose in a sudden tempest, shouting for and against the wizard’s involvement. Abigail waited and did not speak.

  Yelban let them vent their frustration for a time, then raised his hand for silence. “All I can tell you is this. My wife was ill. Women prayed. The Lord heard. My wife is well.”

  “But they prayed over my child,” another protested, “and the boy is still ill.”

  A woman said, “You remember they promised nothing but that they would make the request to their God. They give to everyone from the heart, and they seek nothing.”

  “When they speak,” another villager said with a nod, “I hear the truth.”

  “And my heart is filled with joy,” someone else agreed. “When has the wizard offered anything save fear? When has he given without demanding more in return?”

  Abigail waited until the only sound was the bleating of sheep from the nearby pen. When she began to speak her voice trembled. “I have never been comfortable standing before people. But the other night it came to me that I should start a women’s group. We can meet together, and speak of the Scriptures, and pray. For our safety, and for our people.”

  The man who had suggested they speak with Simon waved her down. “We speak of crisis for our very livelihood and lives, and all she can say is to have the women pray?”

  “Let her speak!”

  “What good can come of this? Women sit in a circle, while outside the bandits bring torches and swords!”

  Yelban walked over to stand directly in front of the protester. “I did not see you offer help when I stood alone this very day before the bandits.”

  The man muttered something, then went silent under Yelban’s glare.

  Yelban turned back to Abigail. “Speak to us.”

  “I have seen the power of God at work,” she said, her voice sounding stronger in her ears. “In others, and in my life. I do not know what the answer is. I do not know so very many things. But I know that God is great, and that he waits for us to turn to him. Turn, and be steadfast in our turning. We must remain focused upon him, especially when times are hard and our way ahead is uncertain. Because at times like these, when our need is greatest, God offers us his wisdom, his miracles.”

  Martha’s strong voice rang bell-like through the silence. “My sister speaks truth!”

  When there were no more protests, Abigail said, “I would ask that those who hold to Jesus join with me now in prayer.”

  At that very moment, Abigail witnessed the Spirit’s presence. Others would point to one thing or another and contend that it was the miracle coming from the prayers. But Abigail did not agree. For there were people who still wished to argue, and people whose fear was so great they did not even stand in the road alone. Even so, a silence descended that was far stronger than any absence of sound or any argument. Some in and about the tavern’s enclosure rose as though lifted from their chairs, moved from their positions, and propelled outside. No protest, no sound save sandals slapping against the rough-plank flooring.

  Those who remained numbered more than those who had left. But the numbers were far less important than the sense of silent accord. Here were the faithful. Here were those who shared with her the steadfast conviction in the midst of trials.

  Abigail found herself filled with a calm power, one she knew was from far beyond her own self, a strength so great it vanquished her doubts and her hesitations. At least for this moment.

  “Let us join hands and pray,” Abigail said. “Our God waits to deliver us from this difficulty. As he has so often already. He is here with us now. He will remain with us forever.”

  “Travelers! Travelers coming!”

  The village children bore the news as usual with shouts and waves and wild dancing. The news of new arrivals always brought excitement to the market community.

  Abigail lifted her head, expecting to find a caravan approaching, but she could see nothing. Surely not the bandits! She squinted against the noonday sun and tried to determine if the slight haze in the distance was travelers’ dust or simply subtle shadows. She could identify nothing. But the young boys were still running about the market stalls calling out their news.

  Would they be so mischievous as to . . . ? She turned her back on the uproar and began to count the woven baskets hanging from pegs on the wall.

  Yelban’s son, Aboud, now ran up. “Travelers are coming,” he repeated, waving his arms.

  “I do not see them,” she disagreed, again squinting against the brightness.

  “No. Not that way. Over there.” He motioned with his hand.

  It was not a caravan that approached, and fortunately not a mounted group of raiders with dark flowing capes, but a huddle of walkers, some with packs on their backs, some with walking canes. Even over the distance Abigail was sure they looked weary. She watched them for a moment, then turned to the young boy. “Your father will need your help. They will want refreshment.”

  Aboud nodded and ran off toward the family’s tavern.

  As Abigail watched the travelers’ slow but steady approach, she had the strange sense of something familiar about the big man whose stride seemed to set the pace for the others. Who might this be?

  As they drew closer she heard a roar of laughter, and her heart skipped within her chest. The fisherman? Could it possibly be Peter? Abigail strained to look more closely and knew without a doubt that it was he.

  She almost ran out of the stall. She quickly realized it was John walking alongside him. Peter and John! Why . . . ?

  They seemed as surprised to see her as she was to see them. “Abigail, dear one!” Peter’s voice rang through the square. “I cannot believe my eyes. How are you, daughter?”

  He laid strong hands on her shoulders, like a father welcoming his child.

  Abigail felt tears burn behind her eyes. She had never anticipated seeing anyone from Jerusalem. Not here. In Samaria.

  Peter stepped back to look into her face. “We had quite lost track of you. I wondered where you had gone. And dear Martha. Is she with you?”

  “She is,” Abigail managed to say. “And she will be as surprised to see you as I. Please join us for a meal. I will close the shop and take you up to the house. Martha is there caring for my Dorcas. Things are very quiet in the markets at this time.”

  Abigail swiftly counted the little group. Five. She would have no problem finding something to feed them. She greeted the others, then ran to close up her stall. She had scarcely begun putting away the goods when Aboud ran up.

  “They are family?” he asked breathlessly.

  “
They seem like family. But kin, no. Their leader – the largest one – is Peter, a disciple of our Lord. And John. Another of the Lord’s chosen twelve. I have as yet to meet the others, but I am sure that they are followers as well.”

  Aboud nodded. “And what brings them to Samaria?”

  “They have yet to say.”

  “I will close up the shop for you. You go on home with your guests. Father will no doubt want to know if they would speak to a gathering this evening.”

  Abigail smiled. She would love to hear Peter speak once again. “I will make the request.”

  She left her stall in Aboud’s capable hands and led the way up the hill to her simple abode. They laughed and talked all the way. Peter wanted to know what was happening with Alban and Leah and Jacob, and Abigail was happy to give him the reports. She told him of the market stall and house that went with it, how much safer she felt than when in Jerusalem.

  Peter grew solemn. For those of the Way, the persecution had not subsided. The man named Saul of Tarsus relentlessly pursued followers of the Messiah.

  When they reached the house, Abigail led them inside to the main room serving as both kitchen and living quarters. She called upstairs to Martha and Dorcas, “Peter is here! And John, and others from Jerusalem.”

  From then on it was joyful chaos – everyone talking at once. Questions asked and answered – and others left unanswered for the present. Martha insisted on pouring more tea every time a cup emptied. Abigail used her small store of food to serve a light meal. The other members of Peter’s group were introduced, and they exchanged stories of what the Lord had been doing while they were apart.

  When things finally settled to a quieter mood, Abigail put forth the question that no doubt was Martha’s also. “What has brought you here, may I ask?”

  Peter’s dark eyes took on the probing expression she had witnessed many times in the past.

  “We have heard that even the Samaritans are becoming followers. Philip, the evangelist, has told stories of great responses here to the Good News. We came to discover if these converts truly are following the risen Lord. And if they are, to further instruct them in the Way.”

  Abigail smiled. “They are – it is true. They are coming to faith. Many of them.” She wondered if she should add that there were also those who still sought out the sorcerer. But she said instead, “And they would welcome instruction. In fact, Yelban, the master of the markets below, asked if a meeting could be arranged for tonight so people might come and listen to you speak the words of our Lord.”

  Peter nodded, smiled, and turned to his traveling companions. “Our prayers are being answered before we even have settled in.”

  Later that night they gathered in the village square. Abigail could not believe how quickly news had traveled. People arrived even from nearby villages. She could see great interest upon their faces. Peter addressed the crowd, his voice as large as his person, and had no difficulty being heard. It was the message of the Messiah – the risen one. His mission, his death, and the resurrection that provided the way for all to have access to the Father. “Believe on him,” Peter proclaimed in great power. “Believe on him and receive the gift of his Holy Spirit.”

  The next evening an even larger crowd gathered – and there among them Abigail saw the man she had come to fear. Simon, known for his work of omens and bewitchment, had joined the group. She could see his dark eyes following every move that Peter and John made. When the invitation was given to receive the Holy Spirit, many asked for the laying on of the disciples’ hands and prayer. Abigail’s heart sank as she watched the wizard pushing his way through the crowd toward Peter.

  The group was beginning to disband for the night when Simon finally stood in front of Peter, money bag in his hand.

  Abigail was praying with a woman, but she was close enough to hear the words.

  “Impressive! Most impressive.” The man’s swagger was evident in his tone, and Abigail could hear the jingle of coins, no doubt making sure Peter saw the purse. “How much would it cost to obtain this gift you possess? I could use – ”

  “You think you can buy the gift of God?” Peter’s tone was unmistakable, and his eyes blazed in the flickering torchlight that surrounded the square. “Put away your money. What that paltry sack holds could purchase nothing of eternal value! May your money perish with you – and perish you will if you do not repent of such wickedness. You have no part or understanding if you think that we – his followers – seek gold. He gives his gift freely, and his gift is of far greater worth than all the gold in the world. You had best turn away from this great sin while you still have time. Repent and pray that God in his mercy might see fit to forgive you.”

  The man fell to his knees, his hands reaching out to clutch at Peter’s garments. “Please . . . please . . . pray for me. I don’t want God’s wrath to fall upon me. Please. Help me, please.”

  Abigail went to her pallet with many emotions washing over her – happiness for the wonderful visit from the Jerusalem leaders, for the familiar but always fresh message Peter had brought, a bit of sadness she was so far away from her memories of Jerusalem – bittersweet though they might be – and the uncomfortable scene with Peter and the sorcerer. Abigail set aside her fears of the man and prayed once again for him before closing her eyes.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY

  Joppa

  The lone figure carefully made his way down the seaside lane, headed toward the home of a wealthy trader whose family was as ancient as the city, which was ancient indeed. Joppa was a walled city with a stone barricade curving like a quarter moon around the natural port. Along its length, seven watchtowers rose like pillars holding up the sky. The ancient port had long since outgrown its former boundaries, however. More people lived outside the city walls than within.

  The trader’s home where the man was headed stood on a hill less than five hundred paces from the main market street. Unlike that of most towns, Joppa’s market did not occupy the town’s center but ran alongside the ancient port. The harbor road curved to fit the shoreline, broad enough for portable stalls to sell fish and fresh produce. Even now, in the hour before sunrise, the smell of fish and offal was overpowering. The robed figure, hooded so his face could not be seen, shook his head briefly at the stench and hurried on.

  From the opposite direction another man headed toward the same house on the hill. The trader gave his surroundings little attention. He was accompanied by a guard and two sons scarcely old enough to be called men. The guard’s torch cast a flickering gleam over the otherwise empty street. When the little group arrived at the massive portal of the house, the guard stepped forward and hammered upon the wooden doors. The merchant turned a cursory glance on his surroundings while they waited. Eventually a servant unlatched the hinge.

  The trader expressed his displeasure at being made to wait. “I have an appointment with your master, Isaac,” he growled, and the servant cringed as he bowed the man and his sons inside.

  But before the doors could be shut, a wooden stave jammed through the opening and the one holding it called out, “I seek the trader Isaac.”

  The trader was a small man who walked slightly bent over. He was just inside the doors, and his hand moved swiftly to halt his guard before he could unsheathe his blade against the intruder. “Who dares disturb the dawn?” the trader demanded, motioning his guest and sons back.

  “I am sent by a man we both know as a friend.”

  The man called Isaac hesitated, then motioned for the servant to open the portal wide. The guard quietly slithered the blade out as the torch revealed someone totally concealed by a dark cloak.

  Isaac demanded, “Reveal yourself.”

  “I dare not, sire. There are enemies about.” The voice was now lowered for only Isaac’s ears.

  Isaac peered at the figure and said, “Which is why I must see your face. Drop your cloak and name yourself!”

  Instead, the unknown visitor stretched out one hand, open
ing his fist to reveal a letter sealed with red wax. “If you are indeed the man I seek, this is the only name I dare offer.”

  Isaac took a hesitant step forward. He accepted the letter and inspected the wax seal. “Let the man enter.”

  The guard protested, “Sire – ”

  “Be still.” Isaac inspected the seal carefully but did not open the document. “This man and I must have words.”

  The robed figure stepped through the portal. “Alone,” he said.

  Jacob left the trader Isaac’s establishment unseen. Not even Jamal’s partner, this man Isaac, had been permitted to view his face. It was best so. What had not been seen could not be reported.

  Isaac had made short work of his business with the merchant and sons, showing the grumbling man out himself while Jacob waited in another room.

  Now Jacob traversed the main thoroughfare into the city center, halting before the synagogue gates. He saw he was early, so he slipped across the square to the street-side tavern beside the stables where his animals were berthed. As he ate, Jacob recalled the days when he had raced about Jerusalem’s hidden alleys as a youngster, running with the other orphans to gain information for Alban. He reflected upon how far he had journeyed since then, arriving at a point where even his harshest memories now carried something of worth.

  He left coins on the table and joined the stream of people moving toward the synagogue. Many elders and wealthy entered with beards still dripping from the ritual baths. Jacob joined the crowd of servants and village poor who lingered in the synagogue’s dusty courtyard. He prayed the morning service, then settled upon the outer wall and waited while the congregants dispersed. Only then did he approach the elder locking the synagogue gates.