"What of Abigail?"
"She has gone to visit her brother. Jacob is apprenticed to a carpenter."
He tried to hide behind a merchant's mask. But he could feel the bile twisting his features. "When will she return?"
"No one will say. I doubt they even heard me." Ezra could see that the news of the arrests troubled his sister along with the followers enormously. "Did you hear why they were arrested?"
"Something to do with a healing." It looked like Sapphira's attention was torn between her brother and the distress that swirled about them. "Another miracle."
Ezra bitterly disliked hearing his sister state such drivel so calmly. But Sapphira seemed too preoccupied to notice his grimace. "Perhaps you should mention that I have connections with the Sanhedrin, sister." When Sapphira did not respond, Ezra reached across the table and tapped her elbow. She turned, and he continued, "If they would only respond to my most reasonable request for the hand-"
A shout drew them both around. A group of men was entering through the main portal. At their center a burly man, dressed in a commoner's robes, held himself like a prince. The courtyard's sunlight shone upon him, and this man exuded such a force that for the first time since coming face to face with Abigail, Ezra's attention was fully directed elsewhere.
Sapphira murmured, "That is Peter."
The hand stroking his beard was massive, twice the size of Ezra's. Yet the man contained a gentle demeanor, along with an aura that unsettled Ezra in a way he could not explain. "Go and see what is happening," he instructed. With her penchant for the latest news, Sapphira gladly joined the others.
The courtyard was filling rapidly, excitement clear in the voices. Another man, a spindly character Ezra found vaguely familiar, was skipping about the courtyard, arms waving in excitement. They all watched him with amazement.
Then Ezra realized where he had seen the man before. The recognition drew him up so swiftly that he overturned the bench upon which he had been seated.
Ezra said to no one in particular, "That man dancing. He's the cripple who begs at the Beautiful Gate."
Though the courtyard was full enough that people were pressed in around him, space was made for the dancing man. Ezra righted his bench and stood upon it. Yes. It had to be the same man. Ezra recalled seeing him years ago, when he was still a student. Ezra could recall the man being carried into the area and deposited in his place, probably by clansmen who claimed a few of his coins for their trouble. People were saying the man had been deformed from birth.
The man's chant suddenly rang in Ezra's ears. As to be expected, the man was again asking for alms but using a very special word.
A young man standing beside Ezra said to his neighbor, "Zadaka."
That was it. The word literally meant a righteous gift. It had been the favorite term of Ezra's teacher, an invitation for the listener to do a certain thing, not to help the one asking, but rather to help himself. A zadaka was, in its purest form, an opportunity to bless the doer through a godly act.
Ezra stepped off his bench and demanded, "Were you there?"
"I was," the young man answered.
"Could you tell me what happened?"
Another on the man's opposite side said, "I was just asking the same thing."
"And I will tell you both." His face looked like it possessed the same internal illumination as the man his sister had called Peter. "We were going to the Temple yesterday for the afternoon prayers, as usual."
This in itself immediately told Ezra a great deal about the group. Most observant Judeans were content to pray the morning and the evening services. The teachers often said that the afternoon prayers carried a greater sense of divine connection, because they were the hardest to observe. People could more easily find time to address the Holy One at the beginning and the end of each day, but to stop in the middle of activities and pray, this signified a special calling. Ezra himself rarely took time to pray the afternoon service. He took a merchant's view, telling himself he would pray twice as long at sunset, when he had set down his work for the day. But these men went often enough for afternoon prayers to call it usual.
The young man went on, "The man you see there was as he always was, laid out on his mat by the gate called Beautiful. He called to Peter, asking for the zadaka. This time, Peter stopped. We do not carry money with us, and Peter told the man as much. Then he said to him, `But I will give you from the best that I have. In the name of Jesus the Messiah, rise up and walk!' "
This was the first time Ezra had heard the dead prophet referred to as the Messiah, and he could feel the hair on the back of his neck rise up, as though the command had been directed at him as well. He should perhaps have felt a greater indignation, even fury. Granting this Jesus the title of Messiah went against everything he had ever learned. Yet the story of the dancing beggar left him so shaken he could not utter a sound.
The young man was continuing, "We went on to prayers, and the man you see there came with us, entering the Temple as a whole person for the first time in his life. He danced and he shouted, and the crowd he drew grew to an enormous size. Peter began preaching to them until the guards arrived and took us all before the Sanhedrin."
A group, including Ezra's sister, had gathered. Someone demanded, "What did the Temple priests say, Samuel?"
"They were very angry," he said. "They put us in the hold overnight, then brought us back before them this morning. They ordered Peter not to speak of Jesus again." The young man called Samuel shrugged. "They might as well have ordered him to stop breathing. Peter was direct, as only Peter can be. He told the Sanhedrin that it was they, along with Pilate, who crucified Jesus. Then he recounted what the prophet had said, explaining how everything had happened as the Holy One had ordained, just as had been prophesied in the Holy Scriptures. He invited the Sanhedrin-" he paused for effect-"to join with us in worshiping our Lord as Savior."
Ezra felt himself backing away from the man. Such words were a blasphemy. He could no longer see the joyful beggar, which made it far easier to weigh the young man's words from the perspective of a lifetime of worship and study. To expect the Sanhedrin to accept this dead prophet as the Messiah was insane-and worse.
Samuel was saying, "Peter told the Sanhedrin, did they think this miracle was perhaps the work of his own hands? If so, how did he happen to pass by this very same man repeatedly and only now, this time, work the miracle? The answer was that this was the work of the risen Lord, through his Spirit, which resides in the heart of each believer." The young man must have noticed Ezra's reluctance, because he turned to him and said, "You are new to us. Perhaps you also would join with us in knowing our risen Christ?"
Ezra's reply held a calm he did not feel. "Another time, perhaps. Today I come only ... only to listen and to learn."
The young man started to say something further, but then merely nodded and turned back to the others.
Ezra sought out his sister, who was talking excitedly with several of the other women. The one known as Abigail was nowhere to be seen. He touched his sister's arm and said, "We must go."
His entire being rebelled against what he had just witnessed. Part of being successful in business was having the ability to see beyond veils of deception, the flicker of a cunning eye, a meaningful exchange of glances. But there was none of that in what he had encountered here. Of that he was certain.
Ezra discovered the crowd was now spilling out into the cobblestoned plaza. He passed several discussions, some in debate, others listening avidly as the prophet's followers invited them to join and know the presence of the Holy Spirit for themselves. Ezra lingered for a moment at the edge of one such group, until the speaker looked directly at him and asked if it was time for him to enter through the narrow gate. The merchant motioned abruptly to his sister, and they left the tumult behind.
C H A P T E R
TWELVE
THE NEXT DAY A SUDDEN SQUALL sent the Old City shopkeepers scurrying to protect their wares. In the stalls
surrounding the Lower City gates, sheep and goats bleated their panic as thunder crackled and lightning flashed. Children shrieked in fear and ran to find their mothers. Abigail could not remember a storm sweeping in as quickly or as turbulently. This one would have the locals reminding each other of it for months to come.
The cobblestones turned instantly slippery as the rain pelted down and people rushed for cover, sliding their way across the rain-polished stones.
Abigail, again on market duty with Hannah still sick, was caught in the downpour. Her overloaded basket impeded her progress as she tried to hold her own among the rushing throng. She was almost to the courtyard when two youths knocked into her as they ran past, sending her spinning and reaching for empty air in her effort to stay upright. One of the boys must have noticed and swung back toward her. But it was too late. Abigail crashed against the raw corner of the stone wall, then went down with a little cry while her basket flew from her hand, scattering its contents across the rain-slick street.
At first she was only embarrassed. She was now in a puddle, being further pelted by rain. She felt her clothing cling to her, sodden and mud-splashed. The fall had dislodged her shawl so that one side dragged into the water as well. Tendrils of hair stuck to her face, and the wind caught at her braid, whipping it back and forth.
"I'm so sorry. So sorry," the boy said. "I did not see you in the rain."
He offered a hand, and numbly Abigail took it and got to her feet. It was then she realized her leg was throbbing ... again. Looking down she could see the edge of the puddle was tainted by blood. Her blood. The boy must have noticed it too.
"You're hurt."
"My leg," she managed. Abigail wanted to assure him she would be all right, but she wasn't certain it was indeed the case. "I should be all right. But I'm afraid I will need help getting home."
He nodded. Abigail held her basket as the other boy joined him in gathering up what fruit and vegetables they could. The sloping street rushed with little rivulets, carrying the ever-present dirt and grime.
One of the boys took the water-logged basket from her. "Where do you live?"
"If you could just help me to the courtyard up ahead, I will be able to get someone to assist the rest of the way."
"I am so sorry," the other boy repeated.
Abigail tried for a smile, even if a bit wobbly. "I have a brother about your age," she offered. "I'm sure he would have also run for cover from the storm."
Abigail took the offered arm, leaning heavily on the young lad, and pointed the way to the courtyard.
By the time they made it to the entrance, the wind had abated and the rain slackened to a mere drizzle. The sun would soon be shining again as though the whole incident had never taken place. But Abigail knew the harm had been done. Once again the fragile scar tissue had been broken. She prayed that Martha or one of the Marys would be there to help her cleanse and bind the wound. She was no doubt facing another long recovery.
Two days later, Abigail's leg again throbbed painfully. Martha muttered her dismay as she bent to clean the red and swollen area. Abigail disliked being a burden to this overworked woman. She hid her discomfort from the cleansing as best she could. Jacob hovered close by, his concern obviously pushing aside whatever else had driven them apart. Abigail did not ask questions about where he had been and why, and Jacob volunteered no information.
When the wound was again bandaged, Jacob led her home, quietly scolding that she should have remained where Martha could care for her a few more days. The wound was still open beneath its bandage and needed more time to heal, he told her, sounding more like a man than a boy. Abigail admitted inwardly that he was likely right, but she did not say so.
When they reached their small abode, Jacob insisted that she sit down on the only stool in the room. Abigail did not argue. Her leg burned with pain, and she could tell it had begun to bleed through the bandages once again.
Jacob laid out her pallet and eased her down. She felt exhausted as she mumbled her thanks. Jacob started a fire, and when the pot had boiled made her some tea. Abigail sipped it appreciatively. The warmth soothed her soul if not her body. But it was Jacob's tender concern that brought the most comfort. To have her brother back again was an answer to her prayers.
The walk to the Temple a couple days later was more difficult than Abigail had foreseen. She did her best to conceal her distress and her limp from those with her. Jacob claimed the place by her side. If she so much as looked down at her feet, his steadying hand came out to her arm. She was comforted by all his anxious attention, but she felt she should be caring for him. It was Jacob who had been coming home after a long day of work, gathering sticks for the fire so preparing a simple supper would not cause her undue exertion. They normally had taken their meals at the compound, but now Jacob stopped daily for food supplies provided by Martha. And Jacob made sure Abigail applied the healing ointment and wrapped her leg with fresh cotton each day.
Though not yet able to determine how far she was from full recovery, Abigail had insisted she attempt the walk to the Temple for afternoon prayers. It had been too long since she had joined the other followers for this time of worship and devotion together.
Yet as she walked, Abigail wondered if she was doing the right thing. She knew if her limp was obvious, she would be turned away. But she sorely needed this access to her God among the rest of the believers. She felt useless, a burden. Jacob was carrying most of her responsibilities at home, and the women at the compound were doing her share of the work for the evening meal. The tasks of selecting the fruits and vegetables from the markets already had been given to others. And of course with her re-opened wound, her overseeing duties in answer to Martha's needs had hardly even begun.
She was so busy with her own conflicting thoughts that she had not been listening to Jacob.
"He's a fine man," she heard him say for her ears alone.
Abigail nodded. She was sure Jacob's assessment was correct, though she knew not of whom he was speaking.
"He's nothing like that rich old man. He does care for you. He has told me so."
She nearly stumbled in her shock. "What ... what are you saying, Jacob? What are you talking about?"
"You have not been listening."
Abigail fumbled, "Not ... not totally."
"Linux. I'm speaking of Linux."
"The Roman?"
Jacob stopped midstride. "Why do you say it like that? You make it sound like . . . like a curse."
Abigail flushed. "I had no intent of doing so. I'm sorry."
"He is sincere in his quest," went on Jacob rapidly. "I know he is. I see it in his eyes."
Yes, Abigail too had seen the young officer's intense, bold eyes as they swept over her face. The very thought made her shudder. Though he had the power to draw her attention, she wanted no part of him. It was impossible. And he was an outsider. A pagan. He likely paid court to some Greek or Roman god-or many gods, if he had a religion at all. And he did not believe the truth about Jesus. No. She wanted no part of him whatsoever.
"I will not even speak of it," she said, her voice as firm as she could make it.
She felt Jacob stiffen, but he did not withdraw his supporting hand under her arm. "I think you would do well to at least consider it, Abigail," he was saying now. "You don't want to find yourself in the home of that pompous merchant, no matter how much money he has under his tunic."
Abigail flinched at Jacob's second reference to the possibility of her marrying for the merchant's money. Ezra, wasn't it? She had been told more about the one who sent his sister to plead his case. No, she certainly did not want to find herself in his home, even if his children did need a mother.
Subconsciously her limp now became more pronounced. Surely neither of the men would desire a woman who was crippled. Perhaps, just perhaps, her recent tumble would be her deliverance. God sometimes worked in mysterious ways, didn't their prophets say?
She spoke again to her brother, her voice now ca
lm, placating. "We will discuss this with Alban when he arrives. He will have the solution, don't you think?"
Jacob only nodded, but by his expression Abigail knew his thoughts were elsewhere. Would he still insist that Alban help him to become a legionnaire? Abigail remained hopeful Jacob had given up his burning desire. Had accepted reason and the counsel of their elders.
Making up her mind quite suddenly, Abigail said, "I think I will rest here while you go on. My leg is not as strong as I thought."
Jacob led her to a low wall and brushed away the debris. "Are you sure? I could take you home."
"No, the rest will do me good. I can pray here. I'll return when I am able." She motioned him on with the others, and Jacob turned away.
Up ahead she could see Peter with several of the apostles along with a crowd pressed in around them. Abigail could almost hear his words as he talked with them. He would be telling about the Messiah's coming to earth. He would quote, as he often did, from the ancient prophesies and explain how each one had been fulfilled in Jesus of Nazareth, whom the Jews had crucified. He would invite them to join with the followers for further discussion and instruction. And all the time his deep voice would be challenging, drawing, lovingly leading them toward the kingdom of God.
Those were the very things she herself should be concerned with, but there she sat, her injury her excuse for not joining the group at the Temple. She was worried about being forced into an undesirable marriage. One of her suitors was certainly unwanted. And the other was unthinkable. Could her injury possibly save her from such a fate? She knew her culture well. An unmarried woman had little position or power. But she would gladly forfeit any future as wife and mother and be content as she was.
Please, God, just let me serve, she prayed silently as she sat, hardly aware of the crowd that streamed by, but her words brought no feeling of peace. No sense that he was listening. She couldn't have explained which pained her more-a troubled heart or an injured leg. But even as she struggled, a quiet voice inside whispered that here was a new opportunity for her to trust her Savior.
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