Again she prayed. Not merely for wisdom, but for submission. Would she ever be ready-and willing-to let God work out the details of her future? Even if it was with ... But she shook her head and pushed herself to her feet. She would not let herself even think about it. Help me trust you, Lord, she prayed, her lips moving silently as she limped back home.
C H A P T E R
THIRTEEN
GAMALIEL WAS WAVING HIS ARMS over his head. "Those people are impossible!"
Ezra, seated in a carved chair set within the chamber's shadows, felt the wind against his face. He watched the breeze push the curtains back and forth, casting occasional blades of sunlight across his sandaled feet. The heat was enough for him to shift his chair back from the sun. "You are speaking of the dead prophet's followers, yes?"
"The Sanhedrin released them on the condition they not speak the name of this dead prophet in public. And what do they do? They turn the Temple forecourt into a teaching platform for their heretical ideas! They were back there this morning, proclaiming that this Jesus of Nazareth is the Messiah! The Messiah!"
Gamaliel was normally a placid man who showed the world a gentle smile. Now, however, he stormed about the chamber, arms in the air. One of his students hovered in the background, a slender man with a thin, dark beard. Gamaliel was a popular teacher, with a way of encouraging his students to excel beyond their own expectations. Today, however, the student looked rather frightened.
Gamaliel pointed at the young man and ordered, "Tell him what you saw, Titus."
"It is as the teacher says," he began hurriedly. "I was going to the Council on an errand, and there they were. They had taken over Solomon's Porch."
Ezra grimaced. King Solomon had erected a structure in the Temple forecourt from which he could say his prayers, situated as close as anyone who was not a priest could come to the Holy of Holies. But Solomon's Temple had been totally destroyed by the Babylonians, and the returning exiles built a replacement that was rather modest in comparison to the original. Herod the Great commissioned an expansion and restoration project which included a new Solomon's Porch, located on the east side of the Temple. The cedar roof was supported by a high, three-aisled colonnade. This shaded area was perhaps ten paces wide and four times as long. Teaching at the Temple was only on a strict order of hierarchy. Solomon's Porch was limited to pronouncements by the Sanhedrin or one of their appointed scribes.
Ezra asked, "By whose authority did they address the crowd from the Porch?"
"They claim not to need earthly authority," Gamaliel replied grimly. "Why should they, when they declare the dead prophet is Israel's long-awaited Redeemer?"
At a sign from Gamaliel, the student went on, "The one called Peter was preaching. The crowd was enormous. Peter told of the beggar's healing. He claimed that such power was at work within all believers. That all could be healed and made to rise up and stand before the Lord their God."
"If it was the beggar at all," Gamaliel muttered. "If he was indeed healed."
"It was the beggar, and he was healed."
Gamaliel spun about to face Ezra. "How can you be so certain?"
"It was the same man we have passed by since our youth," Ezra said. "And I know he was healed because ... I watched him dance."
Gamaliel tugged hard on his beard, his fingers clenched tight, his hand pulling his face down into a deep scowl. "You saw this?"
"A few nights ago."
"Why did you not inform me?"
"Because I am not ready to make my full report." Which was only partly the truth. "I am to meet with one of their senior leaders tomorrow. After the meal that ends the Sabbath. An apostle, he is called."
Gamaliel continued to tug upon his beard. "Do you know how many they have added to their ranks since we last spoke? Thousands. They are spreading faster than we can count. How do we know this? Because they carry on the same absurd practice as that other dead prophet, the one they called the Baptizer."
Ezra shifted in his chair. This was new.
"Our spies have seen them gather at the Pool of Siloam before morning prayers. There are hundreds of them standing and waiting to be immersed. We hear the same thing is happening at the river Jordan. And more still along the Sea of Galilee. Every morning it is like this."
The student, Titus, added, "They enter the Temple still dripping from their immersion."
"Sacrilege!" Gamaliel muttered.
Ezra decided nothing was to be gained by pointing out that the Pharisees liked to enter the Temple with their beards still dripping wet from the ritual baths, an outward show of their piety. Such public demonstrations, and the way many of them looked down on those whom they considered not to be pious enough, was one reason why Ezra was glad he had never become a priest.
"I had heard they share everything," Ezra said. "I went expecting to find that many joined only for the free food."
"And?"
"It was nothing of the sort. They share with each other and with all who come to them. But there was no sign of people gathering merely because such things were on offer. You understand what I mean, yes?"
"I understand."
"They were preparing the evening meal when I arrived, so this would have been the perfect moment to see the hordes descend for a handout. It was not so. They moved together as one. It reminded me.. ."
"Yes, go on."
"I mean no offense by this. But I was reminded of our time as students. The way we were enveloped by our teacher's household. Surely you remember how we were all considered part of his family."
Gamaliel said nothing.
"The calm was ... Well, it sounds strange, but a genuine force. The sharing was real. This is fact. You and I may not like it. But I tell you this is so."
Gamaliel was quiet for a long time. "I must admit I believe you," he finally said. "There are others I have spoken with. They all describe it similarly as you have. As a living force."
"When the beggar arrived and began to dance, there was excitement, yes," Ezra recalled. "But there was also the calm of people who had witnessed many such wonders. Those with whom I spoke did not claim these powers for themselves. There was none ... Forgive me, old friend, I do not mean to offend. But you know how I view some of the Sanhedrin, their manner of putting their religiousness on public display. As the beggar danced, one of the followers invited me to join their community. He claimed that the Holy One's own Spirit would be breathed into my heart as well, and his power would reside within me."
"This is why I asked you to go and observe," Gamaliel said. "You speak the truth, even when it is precisely what I did not want to hear."
"Whether it is the truth or not, I cannot say. But it is what I saw, and what I felt."
Titus cautioned, "Master, the hour."
Gamaliel glanced at the evening shadows, and Ezra also looked out the window. The trumpet announcing the Sabbath's commencement would soon sound. Gamaliel asked, "You meet with their leader when, precisely?"
"After sunset tomorrow." Ezra felt his entire body resonate with the prospect. His sister Sapphira had received formal confirmation that Abigail was both unwed and not yet betrothed, which was a clan's way of saying that he might make a formal request. Which he intended to do at this meeting. But such news could not be shared with Gamaliel. Not when the priest was in a position to issue an injunction.
The young woman's face and form shimmered before Ezra's eyes once more. The only way he could suppress his anticipation was to clench his jaw.
But Gamaliel obviously was far too concerned to notice. "I have a very bad feeling about all this. You must inform me of everything you learn, do you hear? And without delay."
How was he supposed to explain this twist and turn of fate, Linux wondered, even to himself? He was walking a rutted lane leading to the valley beyond the Jerusalem boundary, led by a silent Judean. Linux wore a commoner's garment. His only weapon was the traditional knife at his belt. His sandals were of untreated leather. His hair was oiled and tied at the nap
e of his neck in a simple leather thong. His brother would find his appearance mildly amusing. Linux, the man who lusted after the family's power and wealth, walking through the night like a peasant.
The one who guided him carried a torch, as a servant might. But there was no air of servitude about him. He walked with a shepherd's ease, moving lightly over the uneven terrain. The road they followed seemed more a trail, rocky and twisted. Twilight cast the route in shadows. The sky glowed a soft rose over to the west, while overhead the first stars appeared. The trail turned steep once they entered the valley below the Mount of Olives. On the next hill, the coliseum, a massive monument to Roman power, caught the sun's final ray. As though the empire mocked him and his motives for his journey this night.
The man spoke for the first time since meeting Linux outside the Temple gate a few minutes before sunset. "That is our destination up ahead."
Linux responded formally, "I am grateful that you would take such trouble on my account."
"I saw you once before. When you arrived at the wedding celebration of Alban and Leah and gave them your horse when they had to depart suddenly." He brought them up the last steep incline toward a walled enclosure.
"Have you heard exactly when Alban will be arriving in Jerusalem?"
The man hammered on the stout oak door with his free hand. "You might be out of uniform, Roman. And you might be here at Peter's invitation. But Alban is a friend, and I know not your motives. I tell you nothing."
Linux nodded, accepting both the man's words and his own position as seeming interloper. The door was opened by a stout gentleman in the robes of a wealthy Judean. He gave Linux's tall form a single glance and said, "You bring a Roman?"
"At Peter's request."
"He said nothing of this to me."
"Ask him for assurance if you wish."
The man stepped back and motioned the two inside. "If you are certain-"
Linux did not move forward. "I do not wish to enter any home where I am not welcome."
"Then you are truly peculiar, for a Roman," his guide said.
The stout Judean pushed the door open wider. "If Peter wishes it to be, then so it shall be. Welcome, Roman."
"My name is Linux, and I am grateful for your hospitality."
Abigail winced as she set the heavy jar of water on the wooden table. She wondered how much longer she would be able to stay on her feet. Her leg was not healing as she had hoped. That much was apparent. Why? She had been praying. Had been trusting God for healing, and still the open gash oozed putrid discharge and the skin around the wound spread a flame of red in an ever-increasing circle. Ever since last night, the pain had been throbbing to each beat of her heart. She felt flushed, and she could feel the fever when she touched her brow. Tears squeezed from under her closed eyelids as she steadied herself against a nearby wall. Was she wrong to attempt to hide her misery? Should she confide in Martha? But wouldn't that show a lack of faith on her part?
Now her heart was fluttering with another fear. For Jacob had brought the news that this very night, in the evening hours, Peter planned to meet with two men. Both of the men she had come to fear would be together....
She knew they were not seeking counsel from Peter on becoming a follower. No, they would be coming to barter. To haggle over which one would obtain her as his bride. Her recollection of both men was vivid. Their hungry eyes told her all she needed to know. It was not love she saw when each man looked at her. It was not the expression she had seen on Alban's face as he gazed at his new bride, Leah. No, it was desire. Raw. Open. And utterly appalling to her.
And she was helpless.
Or was she?
God knew of her plight, she was sure. Hadn't their Messiah said he knew when a tiny sparrow fell? But she had not received any discernible answers when she had prayed for his help and direction. Why?
If only she understood what this was all about. Until now, marriage had not been a frightening thought. But to one of these two men? Why was her faith being challenged in this way?
The sound of a firm step on the stair drew her head up, and she straightened her shoulders and quickly snatched a corner of her shawl to wipe at tears. But Abigail had not been quick enough in her recovery to hide from Martha's knowing eyes.
"So which is it," the woman asked with directness. "The leg? Or the men?"
Abigail sniffed, then shrugged.
"Both, I take it."
There was no need to agree ... or attempt to argue. Martha understood her too well.
"Sit," said Martha as she lowered herself to a bench and patted the spot beside her. Abigail moved slowly across the room.
"Now-let's see that leg."
Abigail hesitated for a moment before lifting the hem of her robe.
Martha grimaced. "The bandage is soaked through. Remove it."
Abigail leaned forward and began to slowly unwrap the filthy cotton. Even before she finished, she felt Martha stiffen beside her. "This is not good. The redness reaches nearly to your knee."
Martha took over the unwrapping from Abigail's fumbling fingers. "Mercy, child. This is a mess you have here. How long has it been like this?"
"It . . . it just keeps getting worse instead of better."
"Why have you said nothing?"
Abigail shrugged again. What was there to say? She felt dutybound to carry her share of the work load. Plus there was something she was almost afraid to acknowledge to herself, that confessing her worries might reveal her lack of faith. Or, to be truly honest, was she hoping the damaged limb would keep these two undesirable men from seeking marriage with her? In truth, she did not know the answer.
But Martha was already on her feet, pulling Abigail to a standing position. "It's to bed with you. You shouldn't be on that leg at all. No arguments. Why, I can't believe what I am seeing."
Martha continued to explain herself as she led Abigail toward a small room near the kitchen. "There is a time for prayer and a time for action. Right now, action is appropriate. First we tend to this wound. Then we pray. Or in this case we will pray as we work. And while we are at it, we will add a prayer about those two men as well. Actually, I don't think God approves of either one of them any more than I do."
C H A P T E R
FOURTEEN
THE COMPOUND'S OUTER PORTAL opened and a long-familiar face beamed at him. "Shalom, Ezra bin Simon. Shalom. Welcome to my home."
"You are opening your own door these days, Isaac?"
The merchant only smiled more broadly. "Many things are changing, Ezra. We live in an age of ... well, miracles."
Ezra had known the merchant for over a decade. The family had long dealt in incense and wares from the East. Because Isaac's brother was a skilled carpenter, the family enterprise also imported fragrant woods, and had branched out to other locations. Isaac had bought more land and set up workshops around this area where his brother and apprentices fashioned ornately carved chests and inlaid boxes.
Isaac's home stood just outside the city gates in the Kidron Valley. Tradition had it that part of the city's original boundaries had included this land. But when the Judeans returned from their exile five hundred years before, they shrank the borders, holding the city walls to the hilltops. It meant that a merchant like Isaac could own a compound large enough for storage areas as well as his brother's workshops, something that would have been impossible inside the city's walls. Yet according to Temple dictates, he and his clan officially resided within the holy city.
As he was led inside by his good-humored host, Ezra continued to digest the startling news that one of Jerusalem's senior merchants had joined this new sect. Isaac clearly sensed what Ezra was thinking, for he turned and said, "At first I was as you are. Two servants within my home had become followers of Jesus. One was the woman who had raised me after my own mother's death. I would trust her with my life. Of course I went to investigate."
Ezra felt another shiver of anticipation touch his gut, though the sensation had nothing to d
o with what the merchant was saying. Ezra had known this sensation every time his mind turned to the young woman. He asked politely, "How long ago was this?"
"Four months, almost five." The stone path led them around a cluster of date palms, past a shallow pool surrounded by desert flowers, and onto a flagstone patio, where a series of tables had been set beneath torchlight. The area was already rather crowded with other guests.
Isaac asked, "Is your sister not coming tonight?"
"No, her husband is not well." For as long as Ezra had known him, Ananias had suffered from occasional fevers. "Sapphira did not want to leave his side." He did not mention her reluctance to approach the leaders once again.
"We shall pray for his swift and full recovery."
Ezra bowed in formal thanks, but before he could speak the traditional words, he noticed a man seated against the opposite wall. "Who is- What, may I ask, is he doing here?"
Isaac's good humor vanished. "The man was a surprise to me as well."
"You invite Romans into your house?"
"No, Ezra. But I opened my residence to Peter and our clan for this meal to celebrate the Sabbath's close. And Peter invited this man to join us." Isaac lowered his voice. "If you want my opinion, I think he has come with a certain young woman in mind."
Ezra stared at the Roman. Surely not, his mind raced. Yet what man could see Abigail and not desire her? Already he felt jealous. He had no intention of losing her.
He was struck by a sudden thought. Perhaps the Roman had been invited as a ploy, to raise her dowry. Of course. It was a shrewd move. Ezra's respect for these people heightened. Once again he was pressed by logic to withdraw. Here he was, ready to haggle with a Roman over a washerwoman. But he would not willingly concede. What did the cost matter now?
The Hidden Flame Page 10
