Miriam and Ezra's late wife had been best friends. Miriam and Gamaliel's two children were almost the exact same age as his own, four and six. Yet their home was complete and full of the constancy of love. While his own had been torn to shreds.
Two years earlier, his beloved young wife had slipped on a wet tile floor and fallen. It had seemed like nothing-a bruise on her elbow, another above her temple. A bit of pain, but not so much as to cause alarm. That night, however, she had said she had a headache, felt a bit dizzy.
By morning, she was gone.
Ezra's inner agony had lessened over time. He had found some healing for the deep sorrow as he turned to the needs of his two small children. But his heart still ached for all that he had lost. And he felt it nowhere as keenly as here. In the peaceful home of his oldest friend.
The children were brought in, their excited questions answered, and his heart felt the loss more keenly still. Finally Miriam left with them and the maids, and Gamaliel ordered the other servants to leave and shut the doors. The room was enclosed in shadows as thick as the priest's sudden scowl. "There is trouble."
"The Zealots?" Ezra asked.
"No. Well, yes. Them too."
"I have heard their attacks have grown impossibly daring."
"The attacks-yes, they are a scourge. But what is worse is their popularity among the common folk."
"I heard songs about them around the caravanserai campfires," Ezra recalled. "One was very appealing, in a simple fashion. Something about a new Judean David fighting the Roman Goliath. My son has taken to singing it as he plays."
"The people are oppressed, and they seek heroes," Gamaliel said. "It is a natural enough reaction."
This was one of the man's most remarkable traits. Ezra knew that most men, as they rose to positions of genuine power, became increasingly rigid in their opinions. Their ability to question themselves or see another's point of view became lost. Gamaliel, however, was a mediator. He calmed the waters by truly seeking to understand what motivated another. It was a gift, this skill of listening and studying and respecting someone else's perspective.
Ezra, however, held no such illusions. "They are a threat to us and our position within the community. The Zealots will destroy everything we hold dear. The Romans will win in the end, and they will crush us along with the Zealots."
"Are you suggesting we help the Romans?" Gamaliel's voice was low, but his meaning clear.
"I am tempted. But I, for one, cannot condone that step."
"Quite. Judeans aiding Romans to kill Judeans. It is an appalling prospect."
"The Sanhedrin have done it before." Ezra's eyebrows arched pointedly.
Gamaliel was silent.
"I am speaking of the crucified prophet, the one they call Jesus of Nazareth."
"I know of whom you speak." Gamaliel rose and crossed to the window. "They have adopted a new name."
"Who?"
"The dead prophet's disciples. They call themselves followers of the Way."
The window's heavy drapes cast his friend's features in soft desert pastels. But Ezra could see he was very worried indeed. "What difference does it make to us, the name a handful of Galilean rabble take for themselves?"
"They are no longer a handful, and they are not just from Galilee. Some put their numbers at three thousand, others at five-or more.
"Impossible!" Ezra rose to his feet.
"Perhaps. But I trust my source." He named a senior priest at the Freedmen's Synagogue, a gathering place for many freed slaves, especially Judeans from outlying regions of the empire where Greek was still the predominant language. "He says they are spreading like wildfire, most especially among the Jerusalem poor."
"Just like the Essenes," Ezra murmured, sitting once again.
"Yes and no. The Essene movement has certainly gathered momentum over the past ten years. It is said there are somewhere around fifty communities spread throughout Judea. Some number a few dozen members, others as many as a thousand. One of the largest lies east of the Mount of Olives, another on the Dead Sea's western shore. Some are celibate and restricted to men, others populated by entire clans. They are united in their loathing of the Sanhedrin and the Temple priesthood, which they consider corrupt. But they've been a peaceful lot, electing to remove themselves entirely from the general population, waiting for the Messiah to come and rescue their nation. But in the current political and religious upheaval-"
"I don't understand," Ezra cut in. "You think even the Essenes might now preach violence?"
"No. At least not yet. They claim many astonishing things," Gamaliel replied, still facing the window. "But violence is not among them."
"Have these-these new disciples of the dead prophet joined with the Zealots?"
"No. They too speak of peace." The priest gave a shudder. "If they changed ... What an appalling thought."
"I still don't-"
"No, nor I." Gamaliel strode back over to his chair. "All I can tell you for certain is that these followers of Jesus are growing faster than any sect we have ever faced. And the stories I hear grow with them. They still claim the prophet Jesus rose from the dead, walked among them, and then went up into the heavens. They claim he is the true Messiah. They claim ..."
"Yes?"
"Miracles," Gamaliel said. "Signs and wonders. Things which enflame the passions of everyone within reach. Either the listeners join, or they become enemies. Talk of them is everywhere. If anything sways them-diverts them-I fear a storm of such force that everything might soon be swept up. And away ..."
Ezra shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Were this anyone else speaking, I would cast it aside as nonsense."
"But it is I who talk with you, old friend, and this is not nonsense. How long were you gone, four months?"
"Almost five."
"So in five months the followers have grown into a force that must be reckoned with."
"I would think the Sanhedrin would be very disturbed by all this. What does it propose to do?"
"The Sanhedrin members are pulling their beards, looking down at the floor. They thought with the prophet dead, the rabble would soon disperse. They are only beginning to accept that this is something new. And many more are coming to believe that this dead prophet is in fact the long-awaited Messiah. It is growing into a powerful force within the community. One that must be confronted."
Ezra caught the new tone. "You have an idea, do you not?"
"Think of it. They have no allies in the power structure. I want you to go speak with their leaders."
Ezra couldn't believe what he was hearing. "You cannot be serious. I'm just a merchant-"
"Precisely. They have nothing to fear from you." Gamaliel picked up a parchment from the table. "Here are the names of their leaders we have managed to identify. Apostles, they are called. The street names are where local followers have opened their homes to the group. Some have given land which has now been set aside for their encampments outside the city gates. Go and meet with them. They are clearly poor. Build for us an ally. Offer them Temple gold if need be. See if they can be trusted. Find out their intentions. And report back to me, old friend, and no one else."
Ezra was a man of many talents. Son of a merchant from Tyre, he had traveled to Jerusalem at age twelve to study with a Pharisee scholar. Some said this man had been the finest living teacher of Torah anywhere in the world. At the time of Ezra's arrival, Gamaliel had been studying with the same teacher for almost two years. Gamaliel took young Ezra under his wing and helped him adjust to the alien worlds of the Temple, the city of Jerusalem, and applied study. Ezra soon became aware that the Jerusalem scholars were already speaking of Gamaliel in awe, for the young man's mind absorbed verses and commentaries like a sea sponge. Gamaliel could either read or hear a text one time, then recite it back perfectly. They were already calling him a tzaddick, a man apart, one set aside by God for special purposes.
Ezra had never possessed a scholar's mind such as Gamaliel's. Nor did he much car
e. The eldest son, he had come for this time of study because it was a family tradition. His father had done so, as had his father's father, and on back through the seven generations since the Maccabees had redeemed the Temple and the scholars had returned to Jerusalem. Before sending Ezra south, his father had set two tasks before him. Of course he was to study the Talmud, and obey his teacher, and bring honor to the family name. But there was something more besides. Ezra was also to establish allies within the Temple hierarchy and the city of Jerusalem. His father assured him that such friendships, forged early and strong, would bear great fruit, even beyond financial ones, in the years to come.
Ezra had eventually expanded the family empire. He had sent his younger brothers to establish new centers in Cyprus and Tarsus and Damascus. His sisters had wed, and through these marriages Ezra had forged further powerful alliances. He had recently renewed contact with far-flung relatives, extending the family's trading reach as far as Spanish Gaul to the west, and now to Alexandria to the south.
His father had been correct, of course. The friendship with Gamaliel had borne great fruit. Ezra for some years had been the priest's largest benefactor. As Gamaliel had risen through the ranks to finally become one of the Sanhedrin, Ezra's power had risen with his. But there was more. Ezra possessed far-flung alliances forged in secrecy and maintained through utmost discretion.
These were perilous times. The Roman empire was in foment, especially here in the east. The Zealots were growing in power, their reach extending much farther and faster than even Gamaliel realized, for the priest had not left Jerusalem for years. In the provinces, talk of the Zealots was everywhere. More and more young men, infuriated by the foot of Rome upon their necks, were dropping their shepherd's crooks and their tools and leather aprons to slip away from farms and shops and forges, taking up the swords and the cause of the Zealots. Their families said kaddish for them, the prayer of the dead, because it was an accepted fact that they would never hear from their loved ones again. Once a man entered the Zealots, his only possibility for opting out was through death-in battle or by a Zealot's sword as a traitor.
Several young servants and workers of Ezra had already followed the call of adventure and glory and duty. Early on, he had realized that trying to stop them was futile. So he had let it be known that he wished contact with the leaders. Not to negotiate. Simply to offer assistance. He became one of the first merchants to grant the Zealots a tribute. As a result, his caravans were never touched, and he was often the first to receive news of any development. As with his other astute business decisions, he profited greatly.
Now with this new group, these followers of the dead prophet Jesus, Ezra's plans were simple. If they were growing as fast as Gamaliel suggested, he needed to forge another alliance. Yes, of course, he would assist Gamaliel with news and such. But what harm was there in some gain for himself? He was, after all, the son and grandson and great-grandson of successful merchants.
So he tucked away the names that Gamaliel had offered him, and did as he had done so often in the past. He let it be known through his employees and his allies that he sought an audience with the leaders of this group. He assured them that he was curious. Nothing more. He sought to gain, to learn, to give assistance. He came in peace.
What was the harm in that?
C H A P T E R
FOUR
THE DAY WAS ALREADY TOO HOT, even though the glow from the sun was barely visible above its eastern bed. Abigail brushed at the persistent fly disturbing her sleep, hoping to sink back into the blissful comfort of slumber. She fanned the air above her, both to get some movement into the stillness and to scare away the pest.
Her simple motion served to pull her further into the morning and into the responsibilities and challenges facing her. She stirred. What would this day hold? Simply another round of toil? Further revelations about their Messiah to one or another of the group leaders? Longed-for news from Alban and Leah? Threats from those who did not accept the truth? Or maybe even Messiah's return?
Abigail rolled from her pallet, now totally awake. After Leah and Alban's harrowing escape over two years previous, she and Jacob had returned from their overnight hideout to her quarters among the followers. Later they had moved to the small lean-to at the back of the fishmonger's shop, and Jacob had settled into his Hebrew studies with varying degrees of cooperation, depending on the opportunities for adventure that day, while she continued her duties among the women.
She heard no movement from the tiny loft above the room they called home. Jacob was either still asleep or had already left without her. They met each morning with a group of the followers for a time of thanksgiving and supplication, a practice maintained by members of their group throughout Jerusalem.
Abigail rolled up her pallet and pushed it to the side of the small room. "Jacob, I fear we are late. Didn't the rooster crow?" she called.
She had always depended on their neighbor's fowl to rouse her from her bed. "Jacob!"
The muffled reply drifting down from above brought an unconscious sigh. Jacob had truly accepted neither the reality nor the reasons for Alban's sudden departure without him. Though Jacob did not speak of it, she could feel his sorrow, his discontent. She knew Alban's leaving had left an enormous hole in her brother's life. She also knew he did not enjoy his work assignment among the carpenters since his bar mitzvah. She had observed him sitting at the end of the day, saying nothing, just staring at his roughened and blistered hands. Abigail was sure she could read his expression. These are not made to be handling rough wood, gathering splinters, forming callouses. No, they were made to clutch a sword. To signal an order to those under my command. If only Alban ... Some days Abigail felt she was losing her brother, one day at a time. He was becoming more silent, more withdrawn, and there seemed to be nothing she could do or say to bring him back.
As many times before, she whispered a prayer as she prepared herself for the day. "Dear Father, may this be the day we hear from Alban. And keep Jacob . . . "
She heard shuffling steps as Jacob slowly descended the ladder from the small loft over her head. His hair was tousled, his jaw set in a grim line. He said nothing. Not even a morning greeting.
"Did you sleep well?" she asked cheerily.
He merely nodded.
"We must hurry. I overslept. I didn't hear the rooster-"
"Maybe we've been blessed and it died."
Abigail cast a quick glance his way. His expression had not changed.
They soon left together, Jacob lingering a step behind. Already the streets were crowded, though the merchants and stall owners were not yet displaying their wares for barter or sale. In the half light, no Roman soldiers paraded prancing horses over the cobblestones. A slight wind shook the leaves of the palm branches overhead, offering a breath of refreshing air that Abigail knew would soon become stifling with the day's heat.
"I wonder who will lead prayers this morning," she mused aloud, hoping to engage her brother. "I believe Peter and John are both away.
"Where are they this time?" grumbled Jacob.
Abigail turned toward him, new sorrow and regret filling her heart. A desire to protect this beloved brother welled within her. He was still young in her estimation-not yet fifteen, and already doing a man's work, though this certainly fit with their traditions. Day in and day out he carried and sawed and shaped and planed heavy pieces of olive or cedar or pine. From dawn till dusk, he toiled at work that brought him no personal reward. Abigail knew there were men who loved the feel of the wood as they ran their calloused hands over the intricate grain. They understood just what it was as God had formed it, envisioned what it could become under skillful shaping and building. And also what it had been in the Carpenter's hands. Not Jacob. To him it was merely a task. Tedious and unrelenting.
She replied, "Visiting some of the brethren, I've heard."
He merely shrugged.
The walk to their meeting place was enough to cause her leg to throb with pain
once more. She tried not to limp as Jacob's stride brought him abreast and then steps ahead of her. Her accidental burn from the scalding wash water had healed over, but the skin across the wound remained tight and sensitive to any stress or bump or bruise. And her days were often filled with such incidents. As she hoisted heavy clay jars or worked with other women in the close quarters of the kitchen, she often moved or stretched in a way that bumped against objects, causing a bruise or small tear in the scar. Normally she said nothing, simply waiting for the new injury to heal itself. She had never been one for complaining. In fact, she would much rather sing, even on the worst days. But there were times when she could not hide her limp or conceal the discomfort that no doubt showed on her face.
Jacob looked back at her, then slowed his pace.
The simple act brought tears to Abigail's eyes. In spite of his moodiness, he still sought to assist her. To protect her. He always seemed to sense when her injury was causing her pain.
They caught up to fellow worshipers heading to the courtyard. With brief greetings they joined step, their voices hushed as they moved forward. It would not do to draw attention to the growing numbers that gathered each day.
A familiar shiver of excitement ran through Abigail. Will this be the day?
When first the Lord had departed with the promise of his return, they had begun every day with that question on their hearts and lips. Later they greeted one another with the unspoken question in their eyes. Gradually they steeled themselves to accept that the Messiah might have other plans or there might be some unknown reason why he was delayed. Certainly their numbers were expanding daily. They had been charged with spreading the Word, to bring in others, to be his witnesses there in Jerusalem, in Samaria, and throughout the world. Was that not sufficient reason for him to prolong his coming?
The Hidden Flame Page 3
