Sapphira was subdued. "We should not have come."
Ezra was tempted to agree with her. Yet a growing curiosity held him. Sapphira was not unintelligent. Nor was she gullible. She enjoyed buying things at the market stalls, and loved to boast of her new perfumes and brightly colored scarves. But she had never been one of those women who let gold drip through their fingers like water. Something clearly had affected her. The sect must have touched her in a significant manner.
Ezra said, "I will address them with respect."
She showed him anxious eyes. "You truly will do that?"
Again he was impressed by how important this was to her. "I give you my word."
"Come, then." As they passed through the open portals, she said, "This was where the Master appeared after his crucifixion."
Ezra opened his mouth to correct her, but caught himself and merely nodded.
"The room at the top of the stairs was where Jesus celebrated the Passover with his apostles. It was the last meal before he died."
"This was before he returned, do I understand what you are saying?" It was very hard not to object to her preposterous assumptions.
"That is right, brother." She spoke with a firmness that unsettled him even further. "He died and he returned, and then he left us again, so that the Spirit might arrive."
"Where did he go?"
She looked at him, seeking assurance that he was not mocking her. "Back to his Father. In heaven."
Unable to think of a suitable reply, Ezra nodded again, more slowly this time.
"He was taken bodily into the sky. The apostles were there. They saw it happen."
Ezra busied himself with a sweeping inspection of the inner courtyard. It held far more activity than the square beyond the high doors. Yet it also carried a remarkable sense of calm. He saw a scene hearkening back to his earliest days in Jerusalem, when he lived with his teacher's household. Under this scholar's tutelage, he had been both student and servant. His family had paid for his studies, of course, but he had also been expected to work hard, and some of his payment had gone to help impoverished young men of intelligence and promise. Gamaliel had been such a young man, full of passion and fire, though from a very poor background. Which helped explain why Gamaliel had grown to appreciate life's finer things-good food and a nice home and grand robes. All this flashed through Ezra's mind as he surveyed the courtyard.
Perhaps two dozen people, mostly women, were busy with any number of chores. He smelled lamb roasting, seasoned with both garlic and thyme, he was sure. Two tables were being laid out in the shade, as would happen in most religious households where women and children were segregated from the men whenever strangers were present. The women he saw all wore the most modest forms of veils, long shawls wrapped about their shoulders and discreetly covering their lower faces. They clearly were not wealthy, yet neither were there signs of extreme poverty.
What impressed Ezra most of all was the calm-a certain peace, the same impression he had found within his teacher's home and maintained through religious study and prayer and worship. Of all the things he might have expected to find within this new sect, the serenity of his early years was certainly not one of them.
He started at a sudden noisy clatter behind him. Ezra turned, and held his breath at the sight.
A young woman had dropped the armful of wooden bowls now scattered across the ground. The end of her traditional veil had fallen away as she bent over to retrieve them. "Forgive me. I am so sorry for my clumsiness."
"Here, let me help-"
"No, no, sir, you mustn't. I will do this."
Ezra had no interest in doing a servant's duties. He wanted a closer inspection of this woman, to see if his initial impression was correct.
She was even lovelier than he had thought. As she restacked the bowls in her arms, a face of astonishing beauty was revealed. A refined loveliness, and beyond that, an inner strength and contentment that he had not seen in such a young woman before.
Ezra's mission in visiting the compound had changed its focus in an instant. Everything he heard and saw was now sifted through his fascination with the young woman. Every time she came back into view, the rest of the world faded into the distance.
Sapphira looked at him for a long moment, then drew him over to the courtyard's main table and seated him in the shade. She said something indistinguishable to him, then left for a moment. When she returned, whatever she said further also fell upon deaf ears.
Then the young woman was before them with a clay goblet. She held it out, saying, "Here is the cool water you asked for, Sapphira."
Sapphira said, "Thank you, Abigail," and motioned toward her brother.
Ezra took the water and smiled but did not speak. A single man would not respond directly to a maiden in conservative households. But who was to say what rules might govern this place? Ezra tasted the woman's name with the water. Abigail. It rested lightly upon the senses. A good name.
He then saw a slight limp as she departed. The businessman's side of his mind noted that the young woman might be genuinely flawed. A physical imperfection serious enough to cause lameness would be grounds for canceling a marriage contract. The Judean laws regarding this were very clear. A visible defect, particularly one that affected either the face or a person's ability to walk, was considered in the same light as ritual uncleanness. Such a person was forbidden to enter the Temple.
Ezra sipped his water and watched the followers go about their business, constantly searching for another glimpse of the young woman. He dismissed his mental appraisal with a shrug. He simply did not care. He wanted this woman. Her beauty of face and form would surely offset the physical deformity if the physicians had been unable to correct it.
He and his sister stayed as long as was polite. Ezra held back from his desire to speak directly to Sapphira of his new aim.
She waited until they were back on the main avenues to ask, "What did you think of them?"
Ezra paused a moment, then began, "I was wrong in my assumptions."
"You thought they were all beggars who came for free food and shelter."
He glanced over, surprised by her observation. She had not usually been so perceptive.
Sapphira went on, "I know because I thought the very same thing. That they wanted me to join because they knew I was from a prosperous family, and they wanted my money."
"And they do," he shot back.
"But they do not ask." She added, "It is not about the money, brother."
He wanted to argue. But he knew now was not the time. So he turned away from that and said, "The young woman, Abigail. You know her, yes?"
He could see she was attempting to hide a smile. "You astound me, brother."
He curbed his impatience. "Tell me about her."
"She is an orphan."
This was unwelcome news. An orphan was almost as low on the social scale as a freed slave. To be an orphan meant there was no clan to claim her. No wealth or position to back her name. "How did she lose her family?"
"I have heard there was an attack on their caravan. Only she and her brother survived. He is apprenticed among the followers as a carpenter. She initially served in a household that came to know the risen Lord. Now she is part of the community here and serves-
"What about her limp?"
"I have heard there was an accident. She was washing clothes, and hot water ..."
Ezra tuned out his sister's voice. The more he learned, the more he knew he should dismiss all thoughts of this Abigail. The very idea of a merchant of his standing seeking to wed a servant girl, a washerwoman, a member of this rabble sect, was absurd. But he was held by the vision of her lovely face.
"Brother?"
Ezra realized his sister was no longer walking beside him. He turned around to discover she stood by the street to their home. "Do you no longer remember where I live, where you have your office?"
He walked back and said, "I wish for you to speak to her clan on my behalf."
"I just told you, Ezra-the girl has no clan."
"She has been adopted in all but name by this ... this group, yes?" He had almost said sect but caught himself in time. "Speak to the leaders for me."
Sapphira studied him, her expression full of amazement. "You truly seek marriage to this woman?"
He felt his whole being burning with desire. "I own two parcels of land. If you will act for me, one of them is yours this very afternoon."
Sapphira's mouth parted and her eyes stared upward into his. Land inside the city wall was as valuable as a field of precious jewels. "You are serious, brother?"
"The other will be yours the day I wed her," Ezra said. "Now tell me if I am serious or not."
C H A P T E R
EIGHT
LINUX AWOKE AT DAWN to a desire that clenched his soul with a force both painful and exquisite. He had no choice but to murmur the woman's name. "Abigail."
A voice from the front room called, "Did you say something, sir?"
As he rolled from the pallet, he searched for the name of his new manservant. "Julian?"
"There's tea and fresh bread, sir. A bit of goat's cheese. Dates."
There were always retired soldiers hovering about any main fortress, looking for work or an ally or simply a connection to the former life they had loved. Linux had met Julian in years past when he had served one of the officers sent home with Pilate. Linux went into the front room to find the manservant bent over the breastplate worn by Roman officers on parade.
"Why, pray tell, are you bothering with that?"
"Word came this morning, sir. The legate will see you." The man was using a mixture of old paraffin and sand to scrape away two years' worth of grime. The breastplate was beginning to gleam like polished silver. "I wanted to let you sleep as long as possible, after your being away until late." He polished more fiercely still. "Alone."
"I was looking for a friend, a former centurion."
He was clearly accustomed to the ways of Roman officers, for he sniffed his disbelief. "No doubt the lady you visited was married."
Linux started to correct him, then decided it would make no difference to the old man. "Have you any word of your former master?"
"Nary a whisper since he left for Rome with Pilate. Which does not bode well." Julian scrubbed vigorously along one edge. "There's rumors enough around the fortress. How every officer is to be sent home in disgrace. Or worse."
Linux thought of the reason behind his request for a meeting with the legate, and stuffed his mouth full of bread and dates.
"Times've changed since you were away," Julian went on darkly. "The legate's ordered all Romans to travel in force whenever they go out after dark."
"What, here in Jerusalem?"
"There've been incidents. Most have been hushed up, on account of how nobody wants to give the locals reason to think we're going soft. But a couple of soldiers went off drinking and never came back. Gotten the lads nervous."
Linux emerged from the stable's shadows wearing a legionnaire's dress uniform. His breastplate, helmet, buckles, and scabbard gleamed from Julian's thorough work. As expected, a young officer awaited him. If the subaltern found anything odd in a senior officer emerging from the fortress stables, he did not let it be known. "Commandant's compliments, sir. He wishes to have a word."
Linux motioned with the scroll he held in his left hand. Even in the lane's perpetual gloom, the imperial eagle glowed with unmistakable intensity. "Lead on."
Antonia Fortress was a functional and charmless place. When the Romans took it over as their garrison headquarters, they buried the courtyard gardens beneath heavy stone tiles. Where flowers once bloomed, soldiers now paraded and trained and gambled. The halls were bare of adornment, the sounds brutal and masculine. Linux followed the young officer up the broad central stairs, nodded in response to the guard's salute, and entered the commandant's quarters.
"So you're back."
He snapped off a parade-ground salute, then bowed low. "Linux Aurelius at your service, Tribune."
Legate Bruno Aetius was just as Linux had recalled, a bull in leather and gold. "When exactly did you arrive?"
"My ship docked a few days ago in Caesarea, Tribune."
"You had some trouble on the way to Jerusalem?"
"Not much, thanks to your men. They handled themselves well."
"They'd better, or I'll show them just how rough I can be on soldiers who don't." Bruno settled into the leather-backed chair behind a massive table. "I suppose you've heard of the new pestilence sweeping the Judean plains."
"I understand they call themselves Zealots."
The tribune nodded as his aide placed a mug of something hot by his left hand. "Will you take tea, Linux?"
"Thank you, sir, but no. I just ate."
"These Zealots are determined that Judea will once again be ruled by Judeans, united under a name from the distant past. `Israel,' they call it. Legends are springing up about them. Songs are being sung in the local taverns."
Linux recalled the hum of death flying out of a desert night. "And you have yet to capture any."
"The Zealots are neither strong enough nor stupid enough to attack my troops head on. They prey upon lone riders and small contingents of soldiers."
"Not local merchants?"
"Not many Judean caravans are hit, which leads me to suspect they pay tribute. Or the Zealots resist attacking their own. But our own merchants and Herod's are suffering losses." The tribune showed a brief glimpse of humor. "I find it hard not to agree when they call Herod their enemy."
Linux gave a sardonic grin in answer, then asked, "Are you suffering casualties?"
"Some. We have not had reason to mention them in official reports. But, yes, we've had some casualties."
Linux heard the unspoken concern. "More than you would like, I'm guessing."
"I dislike losing any men. Speaking of which, whatever happened to that friend of yours, that former centurion-what's his name?"
"Alban, sir. I was hoping you could tell me."
Bruno Aetius turned to his aide, who remained stiffly at attention by the side window. "Do we know?"
"Haven't heard a thing since he resigned his commission, sir."
"Hate losing good men," Bruno Aetius repeated. "From all I heard, he was a fine officer. Wouldn't you agree?"
"One of the best I have ever served with, sir."
"Even if he was a Gaul." Bruno eyed him with a commander's wisdom. "How did you find things in Umbria?"
"Much the same. My brother has grown fat."
"I recall Castor from my days in Rome. Your brother was always on the heavy side."
"Now he is obese. I doubt he can any longer tie his own sandals." He felt a trace of the old bile. His brother had married a girl half his age and a third his weight. She had wept on her wedding day. As had Linux's nieces, who were hoping for a mother. But it would not do to relate such things to the legate. "My days were brightened by the company of my brother's two daughters. They are growing up to be as lovely as their late mother."
Bruno's eyes glimmered with a smile he did not release. "They stole your heart, I wager."
"I would have given anything to have brought them back with me."
"You did well to leave them in Umbria. Judea is suffering through perilous times." The tribune finally deigned to notice the scroll Linux held. "You have brought something for me?"
"Yes, Tribune."
"Can't be good news, the way you're holding it as if it were a viper." He gestured across the table. "Let's be having a look at it, then."
Linux handed over the scroll and resumed his military posture. The tribune broke the seal, unrolled the parchment, and read in silence. He then rose and walked to the side window. His aide risked a single glance, his expression full of concern.
Bruno Aetius announced to the arched opening, "I've been ordered back to Damascus."
Linux said nothing.
"I and my entire officer corps. Sent off a
s if we'd been caught stealing from the emperor." He planted two fists on the windowsill. "I suppose I should be grateful for the chance to leave this pestilent city. But to be sent off like a ..."
Linux remained standing at stiff attention, his eyes upon the wall behind the tribune's desk.
"I assume you met this new prelate."
"I did, sir. In Rome. Just a few weeks after his appointment became public. I went by to present my compliments, as any officer would to a new commander. To my surprise, Marcellus asked to see me."
"What do you make of him?"
Linux replied carefully, "He is most definitely a man of today's Rome."
"Yes, I've heard all I need to know about what is happening at the heart of our empire." Bruno returned to the chair behind his desk. "Sejanus is said to be digging his own grave, fighting with the Senate and demanding to be named consul. What help is he receiving from our Emperor Tiberius?"
Linux hesitated, then confessed, "The emperor rarely emerges from his pleasure gardens on Capri. Sejanus stands alone against the Senate."
"Then I warrant he is not long for this world." He lifted his head to stare into Linux's face. "When does the new prelate arrive?"
"Marcellus was scheduled to leave Rome soon after I did, sir. We were delayed by some vicious storms. If he missed the bad weather, he could be here any day."
The tribune toyed with the scroll unfurled across his desk. "Well, all I can say is, if Marcellus is anything like what I've heard of the people running our empire, Damascus will not be far enough away from Rome for me."
The Temple trumpet sounded just as Linux left the fortress. He had rarely given the Judean rituals any thought when he had been posted there in the past. The city was full of the Judeans' religious fervor. Every Roman officer was certain this intensity was behind much of the antagonism shown toward their Roman masters. Linux returned the salute of the officer awaiting his appearance. "You have the legate's staff?"
The Hidden Flame Page 6
