An Echo in the Darkness

by Francine Rivers

  The words hit Ezra like a blow to his stomach. He knew instantly of what his father spoke.

  “Answer him! Tell him yes,” his mother pleaded. “Give him peace.”

  But Ezra couldn’t.

  Amni had spoken instead, vehemently. “You did the right thing, Father. The Law must be preserved.”

  And still Ezra’s father looked at him. “What if it was true?”

  Ezra had felt something near panic stir within him. He wanted to speak. He wanted to say, “I believed him, Father,” but Amni stared at him coldly, as if compelling him to answer the same way he had. His mother stared at him, too, waiting, frightened, unsure. He couldn’t even breathe, let alone speak.

  And then it was too late to say anything at all.

  “It is over,” his mother said softly, almost relieved. She leaned down and closed his father’s eyes. His brother left the room without a word. A few minutes later, the paid mourners began to wail and scream outside.

  In the years that followed, with the hardship of making a living for himself and his wife and children, Ezra forgot what he had felt at his father’s bedside. He forgot in the intensity and demands of his work. He forgot in his love of being among his friends in the synagogue. He forgot in the safe boundaries of his existence.

  And still . . . the question remained. And so he pushed it far back in his mind where it couldn’t intrude or complicate his life. Only infrequently did it return to him—in his dreams.

  “Who do you say I am, Ezra Barjachin?” a soft voice would say, and Ezra would find himself facing a man with nail scars in his hands and feet. “Who am I to you?”

  And now, that strange sensation he had felt so long ago returned, powerful, compelling, stirring something within him he was afraid to contemplate, terrified to face. His heart raced, like wings beating within his breast. He felt as though he was on a precipice, about to fall over—or be caught up.

  O Lord God. Help me.

  What if it was true?

  19

  Taphatha blushed when Marcus looked at her. His dark brown eyes had an intensity that made her stomach tighten and her pulse race. Several days before, he had asked her if he frightened her. She denied it, but later she wondered if fear wasn’t part of what she felt, fear of her growing fascination with a Gentile—a Roman, no less.

  Marcus Lucianus Valerian was unlike any man she had ever known. Though he was gentle, she sensed he could be cruel. At times she would hear him say things to her father that were alarmingly cold and cynical. Yet, she sensed about him a terrible vulnerability. He was like a man driven before a wind, striving against forces impossible to comprehend, challenging them nevertheless, tempting his own destruction, almost eager for it.

  Once she had overheard Marcus speak to her father of a woman he had known who had loved God. Taphatha knew intuitively it was love for that woman that still consumed Marcus’ thinking. Whatever he was seeking had to do with her.

  What would it be like to be loved so obsessively by a man like Marcus Valerian? He had said the woman died, and yet he hadn’t given her up. She was with him every moment, even moments like now, when he looked at Taphatha so intently.

  Taphatha wondered what he was thinking. Often these days she found herself wishing he would forget the woman he had loved and lost, and love her instead. Sometimes she struggled against a hunger to be with him on the rooftop, to hear his voice, to look into his eyes. She wondered now what it would be like to have Marcus Valerian reach out to her . . . and these feelings did frighten her.

  Marcus was forbidden. From the time she could remember, her father had taught her that disaster came from disobeying the Lord, and the Lord clearly forbade intermarriage with Gentiles. It was true, many Gentiles had become proselytes, were circumcised, and became Jews, but this would never happen with Marcus. He said he was searching for God, but there was an edge to his questions. The wall around his heart was almost palpable.

  What was he really hoping to find?

  Her father didn’t want her spending too much time with Marcus. She understood why, yet circumstances had thrown her together with him, for her mother would not even go onto the roof. “I will serve no Roman,” she said on the first day Marcus had been brought into the house. And so, during the days that followed, when her father was at his writing table, Marcus’ care fell to Taphatha.

  And each time she came up onto the rooftop, she felt more drawn to him and thus, more vulnerable.

  His steady gaze made her body warm.

  “You’re very quiet today,” Marcus said and smiled at her as he took the bread from her hands. His fingers brushed hers lightly and sent a rush of heat through her. She knew the touch was an accident but couldn’t help but catch her breath softly. She lowered her eyes, embarrassed by her reaction to him. “What’s wrong, little one?” His question merely made her heart beat faster.

  “There’s nothing wrong, my lord,” she said, striving for normalcy, dismayed by the nervous tremor in her voice.

  “Then why won’t you look at me?”

  She lifted her head and forced herself to study him. The swelling on his face was gone, but the flesh around both eyes was deep purple and streaked with yellow. As soon as he had been well enough to get up and move about the roof, she had noted his proud bearing and his strength. And she had felt sure that his handsome features had probably turned the heads of many women before her. Now he smiled again—a slow curve of his lips that made her stomach drop.

  Realizing she was staring at his mouth, she blushed and lowered her eyes. What would he think of her?

  Marcus leaned his hip back against the roof wall. “You remind me of someone I once knew.” Hadassah had been embarrassed by the least of his attentions, just as this young girl was.

  Taphatha raised her head again and saw the pained expression on his face. “Was she very beautiful?”

  “No,” he said with a sad smile. “She was plain.” Marcus gently reached out and tipped her chin. “Little Taphatha, you are very beautiful. You’d have all the men of Rome groveling at your feet for a single smile. The women would pine with jealousy.”

  Taphatha felt a strange sense of pride in the way he assessed her. She knew she wasn’t plain, nor was she blind to the way men looked at her when she walked to the well. Sometimes she wished to be plain so men wouldn’t look at her as Adonijah had. Yet, it pleased her that Marcus thought she was beautiful.

  Marcus touched the smooth, flawless skin of Taphatha’s cheek. How long had it been since he had touched a woman or was even aware of one as he was aware now? His fingers glided down over the rapid pulse in her throat. He took his hand away. “Hadassah was not beautiful in the way the world sees beauty,” he said. “It is your innocence and gentleness that reminds me of her.”

  His face became shadowed again, and, though he looked at her, she knew he was thinking of someone else. She spoke quietly. “You must have loved her very much, my lord.”

  “I still love her,” he said heavily and looked away. A muscle jerked in his jaw. “I’ll never stop loving her until I take my last breath.”

  His words saddened her more than she wanted to admit. “Did she love you that much, Marcus Lucianus Valerian?”

  His mouth curved bitterly. He looked down at the girl again. Hadassah had been about Taphatha’s age when he had realized he was falling in love with her. He remembered how Hadassah’s dark eyes had seemed to hold all the mysteries of the universe in them. Just as Taphatha’s now did. Watching her, he noticed other things as well. Her cheeks were flushed. Her brown eyes held a soft glow. It would be easy, too easy, to take advantage of her.

  “You and I will never talk of love, little Taphatha. It’s a subject best left alone between a Roman and a Jew.”

  Mortified with embarrassment, Taphatha was too ashamed to speak. She had thought her feelings for him were secret and hidden, but now it was clear she had made a complete fool of herself. Marcus read her as easily as her father read the Scriptures and he felt nothin
g for her. Cheeks on fire, tears burning her eyes, she turned to flee the roof and him.

  Marcus caught hold of her shoulders. “The last thing I want to do is hurt you,” he said roughly. He felt her trembling, and his hands tightened. She was far too enticing for a man’s peace of mind. He turned her around. Seeing her tears, tears he knew he had caused, he wanted to hold and comfort her. And that was the last thing he could allow himself to do.

  He was too conscious of her awareness of him. She was awakening physically, like a flower bud opening, succulent and sweet. He had once enjoyed taking advantage of moments such as these, fulfilling his baser needs for pleasure. But Taphatha, daughter of Ezra Barjachin, was not Arria or a women such as she. She was like Hadassah.

  Too much like Hadassah.

  Marcus took his hands from her. “Another day or two and I’ll be leaving.”

  Taphatha caught her breath and looked up at him, forgetting her embarrassment in her desire to have him stay. “You won’t be ready to travel that soon, my lord. Your ribs must heal. Your strength hasn’t fully returned.”

  “Nevertheless,” he said, his mouth firm. He was more worried about her heart than his ribs. “It’s too comfortable here on this rooftop.” It was too heady a feeling having a beautiful young girl look at him the way she did now, tempting him to fall in love again. Loving Taphatha would be as hopeless as loving Hadassah had been.

  “Father will dissuade you.”

  His smile was rueful. “I think not.”

  Ezra came up to the roof as evening fell. Marcus saw he wore his phylacteries and knew he had come to pray. Marcus went on with his exercises, slow movements designed to stretch and strengthen unused muscles. Surreptitiously, he watched Ezra walk about the roof, his lips moving, his hands lifting now and then. Sometimes he would stop and raise his head as though seeking the warmth of the setting sun. Then he would begin to walk again, speaking silently to his god. Ezra didn’t prostrate himself or kneel as Hadassah had done in the villa garden in Rome. Yet Marcus sensed his love for his god was as deep as hers.

  Tired and in pain, Marcus eased himself down onto the bed beneath the canopy. He poured himself some water and drank.

  Ezra stopped at the wall nearest the booth where the Roman reclined. He looked at the brilliant reds and oranges of the sunset. “Taphatha told me you intend to leave within a few days.”

  “I’d leave tomorrow if I could arrange it,” Marcus said grimly. “I’ve caused your family enough grief without prolonging the situation unduly.”

  “Do you speak of my wife or my daughter?”

  Marcus glanced up sharply and hesitated. “Both,” he said after a moment. “Your wife has confined herself below while I’m on your roof, and Taphatha . . .” Ezra turned his head slightly. Marcus felt the impact of his eyes. His mouth flattened. “Your daughter is very beautiful, Ezra. And very, very young.”

  Ezra said nothing for a long moment. He stared up at the stars. “Until you’re fully recovered, you are welcome to stay.”

  Marcus’ mouth curved sardonically. “Are you sure that’s wise?”

  Ezra turned and looked at him squarely. “Because my daughter is beautiful, and for the first time in her life she has looked upon a man with favor?”

  Marcus hadn’t expected such calm frankness. His admiration of Ezra deepened. “There is that,” he said with equal bluntness. “It would be better if she didn’t come up on the roof. I’m a Roman, remember?” His smile was full of self-deprecation. “A raving beast, by Jewish standards.” His smile fell away. “Besides, my presence in your household has undoubtedly caused you no end of trouble with your people, not to mention your own wife. You would have been wise to leave me in that wadi.”

  “Better to have trouble with man than trouble with God.”

  Marcus gave a soft laugh of derision. “God,” he said under his breath, and a sharp pain shot up his side. He had overtaxed himself. “You’re a good man, Ezra, but a fool.” He leaned back slowly and stared bleakly at the canopy. “You should have dumped me at an inn.”

  “No one would take you.”

  Marcus began to laugh and then sucked in his breath as the pain licked across his ribs. Gritting his teeth, he tried to think of something besides the pain.

  Ezra sat down on the roof. He untied the phylacteries and held them in the palms of his hands. “All men are fools in some way,” Ezra said. “Men want what they can’t have.”

  Wincing, Marcus pushed himself until he was sitting upright. He studied the deepening lines around Ezra’s eyes. “What can’t you have, old man?” Whatever it was, he would give it to him at the first opportunity—a better house, animals, luxuries. He could give Ezra Barjachin anything he wanted. Why shouldn’t he? If not for Ezra, he’d be dead. His body would be rotting away in that foul wadi.

  Ezra clutched the phylacteries tighter. “I cannot be like Enoch.” With a rueful smile, he looked at Marcus Valerian and wondered why he was sharing such deep feelings with an unbeliever, and a Roman at that.

  “Who is Enoch?”

  “Enoch walked with God as a man would walk with a friend. Others saw God. Adam. Moses. But only Enoch had a heart that so pleased God that he was caught up into heaven without ever tasting death.” He looked at the velvety deep blue of the evening sky. “That is what I pray for.”

  “Not to taste death?”

  “No. All men taste death. It’s a natural part of life. I long for a heart that pleases the Lord.”

  Marcus’ face became rigid. “Hadassah wanted to please God and look what it got her, old man. Death.” His eyes darkened. “What does this God of yours want from you other than every drop of your blood?”

  “Obedience.”

  “Obedience!” Marcus spat the word. “At what cost?”

  “Whatever the cost.”

  Yanking back the overhang of the canopy, Marcus stood abruptly. A sound of pain hissed from his lips, and he gripped his side. He uttered a short, foul expletive and went down on one knee, light-headed. He swore again, even more vilely than the first time.

  Ezra watched him with a strange swelling of pity.

  Marcus raised his head, his face ravaged by pain. “Your god and hers sound one and the same. Obedience to his will no matter what the cost.” His pain incensed him. “What manner of god killed a girl who loved him more than anything else in the world, even her own life? What manner of god sends his own son to die upon a cross as a sacrifice for mistakes of others?”

  Ezra was pierced by his words. “You speak of Jesus.”

  “Yes. Jesus.” He said the name like a curse.

  “Tell me what you’ve been told about him,” Ezra said. “Only do so quietly.”

  Marcus poured out the story Satyros had told him on the voyage. Ezra had heard his father speak of Saul of Tarsus, at first in glowing terms and then in fury and derision.

  “If this Christ had the power to do miracles, why does he let his believers die?” Marcus said. “First his disciples, and now hordes of others. I’ve seen them burned alive in Rome. I’ve seen them cut down by gladiators. I’ve seen them eaten by lions. . . .” He shook his head, wanting to shake the memories out of his mind.

  “What else did this Satyros tell you about Jesus?”

  Marcus raked his fingers through his hair. “Why do you want to know this now? You said yourself he was a false prophet.”

  “How do we fight what we don’t understand?”

  What Ezra said was true. Marcus needed to know and understand his adversary.

  “All right. I was told this Jesus was betrayed by a friend for thirty pieces of silver. He was deserted by his own disciples before his trial for crimes he hadn’t committed. He was hit, spit upon, wounded, and beaten. Does that sound like the son of a god to you? He was crucified between two thieves while people hurled insults at him and the guards cast lots for his clothing. And while he was dying, he prayed for them. Prayed that his father would forgive them. Tell me what kind of a god would allow all that to h
appen to him or his son, and even worse to come on those who followed after.”

  Ezra didn’t respond. He could not. He was filled with a numbing chill that struck to his very core. He stood and went to the roof wall, clasping it. After a moment, he looked at the heavens. The Roman’s words had brought the prophecies of Zechariah and Isaiah ringing in his ears. Closing his eyes tightly, Ezra prayed.

  Deliver me from my doubts! Show me the truth! What came was a conviction so swift and startling, he swayed.

  “So they weighed out for my wages thirty pieces of silver . . . ‘Throw it to the potter’—that princely price they set on me.”

  His fingers pressed into the plaster as he remembered the old prophecy. And then another came.

  “He was oppressed and He was afflicted, yet He opened not His mouth; He was led as a lamb to the slaughter. . . .”

  Ezra could see words he himself had copied onto the scrolls, counting each letter, rechecking over and over for accuracy. Every jot and tittle had to be exact.

  “And they made His grave with the wicked—but with the rich at His death. . . .”

  Ezra’s mind cried out in anguish. But, Lord, wasn’t the Messiah supposed to be like King David, a warrior sent to save his people from the oppression of Rome?

  The answer came swiftly. “He poured out His soul unto death, and He was numbered with the transgressors, and He bore the sin of many, and made intercession for the transgressors.”

  Ezra lowered his head and closed his eyes tightly, his heart breaking. He didn’t want to remember those Scriptures, for they had never made sense to him. He tried not to remember them now, but suddenly, inexplicably, they came like trumpets. Words rushed and swelled, pouring over him like a flood, until he could hardly breathe beneath the onslaught.

  “He was wounded for our transgressions, He was bruised for our iniquities; the chastisement for our peace was upon Him, and by His stripes we are healed. All we like sheep have gone astray. . . .”