The Hidden Flame

by Janette Oke;T. Davis Bunn

  Yet the Roman nodded slowly, as though he had almost expected the question. "My friend asked me the very same thing."

  "This is the God-fearer who once was a centurion and now is Abigail's guardian, yes?"

  Ezra stiffened. Everything became clear in a flash. The Roman was cunning, he had to give him that. Since this Linux could not beat Ezra on normal Judean terms, he was appealing to Peter as an ally of the sect. Very wily indeed.

  But Peter was asking, "Do your chains have a name, Linux?"

  The Roman's gaze dropped to the table. "Castor. My brother."

  "And what did your Roman friend, this Alban, ask you about your brother?"

  "He said ..." The officer's swallow was audible. "He asked me what I would say if I was granted the power to ..."

  "To what?"

  Another swallow. "Forgive."

  "And your answer?"

  "What he asked was impossible."

  Peter turned his head and exchanged a long glance with the young man seated across from him. He then addressed Ezra. "And you, good sir. You too have come with motives of your own."

  These people continued to astonish him. Ezra had never heard such a comment as an opening gambit to a negotiation. And Peter's piercing look gave him the feeling that the man knew what he was going to say before he spoke. He searched hard and fast for something else, another response than the one he had planned, which was to suggest the man name his own price for the young woman's hand. An absolutely outlandish proposal for a washerwoman and an orphan. But with the Roman clearly having captured the center position, what choice did he have but to put his desire clearly on the table? Ezra replied, "I seek the hand of Abigail in honorable marriage. Tell me the amount you require."

  He could tell the Roman's head had swiveled toward him. Ezra resisted the urge to turn and meet the man's challenge, keeping his eyes fastened on Peter. A moment later, Ezra sensed that Linux had dropped his focus back to the table before him. And he heard the man's sigh.

  Ezra wanted to shout his triumph. Something about the Roman's abject state had him certain that he had already won.

  Peter held Ezra's attention a moment longer, then asked quietly, "Is there no other reason why you came?"

  It was Ezra's turn to nod slowly. The man was observant indeed. "I was sent by Gamaliel, the Pharisee. He wishes to know if you and your ... group ... if you are a threat to the Sanhedrin, and the good order of the Temple."

  "'The good order,' " Peter repeated softly. He waited a moment longer, then asked more quietly still, "Is there no other reason why you are here this night?"

  Ezra leaned back. "What other ... ?"

  Then it struck him. It was as though his entire world was canted slightly, pulled a fraction off its normal course.

  Ezra looked at the Roman. The man remained locked in some internal discourse, his features cast in tragic shadows.

  Ezra realized it was not about the woman at all. Not anymore. This gathering, this night, this discussion. He was being asked to join the sect. Not only that, this senior apostle was speaking to the Roman about the very same thing.

  Ezra knew a few Roman God-fearers, of course. Most had been in the country all their lives. A few others had been raised by a Judean servant and had adopted the Judean God in deference to a woman loved and revered since infancy. The laws governing such people were very clear. The Scriptures included numerous calls from the prophets and even the Lord himself for Judean to be a witness to all the nations.

  But this ...

  He was stunned by everything he had gotten so wrong. This meeting had nothing to do with what he had expected. He had come as a merchant, prepared to negotiate. He wanted something they had. He discovered he was willing to pay as much as was required, though he had not yet told Peter that. This was a new sect. They were growing by leaps and bounds. They needed money. They needed access. They needed ...

  Peter seemed to find in Ezra's face the information he had been seeking.

  He turned away. And shut his eyes.

  To Ezra, it seemed as though the entire night caught its breath. He had no idea how long the moment lasted. Perhaps a few seconds, perhaps an hour. Then Peter opened his eyes and said, "We shall meet again tomorrow evening. Come to our compound in the Old City after Temple prayers."

  C H A P T E R

  SIXTEEN

  THE NEXT EVENING, Martha arrived in the small room bearing a tray of food and drink. She set it down beside Abigail's pallet and lowered herself onto the stool. She reached out to smooth back the damp tresses from Abigail's face. "Try and eat a little," she said. "You must keep up your strength."

  Abigail barely nodded. In truth, she had no appetite. "I ... I still don't know. I know what I want, but I still don't know what the Lord wants for me."

  "And you need not," Martha said with certainty. "Not yet. You simply need to trust, take each next step by faith. You will know what is right when the time comes."

  Abigail nodded, tears starting again. She could feel Martha's worn hand smoothing her hot cheek. Martha's eyes held a promise that she would be there for as long as Abigail needed her.

  At the sound of footsteps and a voice calling, Martha rose to her feet. Abigail could not see the visitor, but she recognized the voice as Stephen's. His words were unclear, but she saw Martha's back stiffen.

  "But she can't," Abigail heard Martha exclaim firmly from the doorway. "It's impossible."

  Stephen asked, "So what am I to tell Peter?"

  "Tell him she is very ill."

  "He may still insist-"

  "Then I will tell him myself."

  Abigail could see Martha push past Stephen and move out of sight.

  Abigail stirred uneasily. She should have gone. She should have responded to the apostle's request. Now Martha ... But she had no need to worry about Martha. She was no more intimidated by Peter than she was by anyone else. Still, Abigail wished no difficulties. Not for anyone in their community. But all she could do was to lie there and endure the pain-and wait.

  Linux arrived at the torchlit compound where he had last seen Alban. He was directed to a long table where the Judean merchant was already seated. Linux had assumed he would again face his rival's hostility but seated himself and did his best to ignore the Judean's glare. Thankfully, none of the others milling about the compound seemed to share the merchant's antagonism, at least not tonight. Linux consoled himself that his desire to wed a Judean lass was not unique. Alban had accomplished that very thing. Why could Linux not do the same? So he had returned that evening with the intention of presenting himself and asking what they would have of him.

  Instead, he found himself wracked by what felt like a lifetime of mistakes. Linux stared at the table before him. But what he saw was the vivid image of being trapped inside an olive press, the huge stone bearing down, squeezing out all the elements he so successfully hid from everyone, including himself.

  Even in his withdrawn state, Linux noticed heads turning toward the doorway at the side of the compound. He had expected to see the man called Stephen returning with Abigail, but instead it was an older woman with stalwart demeanor and a determined look in her eyes who was quickly approaching. Peter rose slowly to his feet, his face concerned. "Martha. Is there some difficulty?"

  "You asked for Abigail," she replied. "She is unable to come. She is ill."

  "Seriously?"

  "I fear so."

  Linux felt his gut wrench. He sensed the man Ezra stir, but he did not look toward him.

  Peter moved forward, deep lines creasing his face. "A fever?"

  "Her leg. She injured it once again in the storm. It worsens with each passing day."

  "Where is she?"

  "Here. I insisted she remain nearby, where I can care for her."

  Peter said, "Bring her to us, sister. It is not I who asks for her, but our Lord."

  Martha hesitated a moment, gave an abrupt nod, and turned to leave.

  Peter motioned to the group of men to find sea
ts around the tables. Peter bowed his head. Linux had the impression that Peter was addressing his God. His lips moved, though no words could be heard.

  Linux glanced at the merchant seated across from him. Ezra's eyes were wide with wonder-or alarm. The muscles of his jaw and neck were taut.

  The wait might have been minutes or an hour, Linux could not have said. He watched as others bowed their heads and prayed as Peter did. Martha and Stephen led Abigail into the courtyard. Her eyes revealed intense pain. One leg curled loosely, refusing to bear her weight.

  Peter did not wait for her to come to him. He moved quickly, and Linux could hear his murmurs of concern as he crossed the courtyard.

  The entire gathering was held by a tension that erased all conversation. The only sounds were the sputtering of torches. Then a quiet murmur filled the air. Linux realized many were again praying.

  At Peter's direction, two men shifted a bench forward. Abigail was gently lowered onto it, but even so she cried out as her leg bent to her seated position.

  Peter reached out a hand to her shoulder. "Forgive me, daughter, for not knowing of your plight. I had no idea how serious this had become."

  Abigail's only response was to raise her own hand to grip his. Peter lifted his eyes heavenward, and his voice rose to a commanding level that all in the courtyard could hear. Linux heard him say, "Father, behold the suffering of your daughter, our sister Abigail. Touch her in your mercy, Lord. Release her from her pain. Bring healing in the name of your son, our Lord and Savior, Jesus of Nazareth. Amen."

  Peter opened his eyes and gazed full and intently on Abigail as his free hand came to rest lightly upon her head.

  "Be healed!"

  The words were spoken quietly but with such authority that to Linux they rang throughout the courtyard. Amens echoed from many lips.

  In the time it might have taken a lightning bolt to flash across the sky, Abigail's expression changed. First confusion, followed by a flash of wonder. No longer were her eyes filled with anguish. Her countenance relaxed. Her shoulders straightened.

  "Look," she said in wonderment to Martha. "Even the scars are gone." Abigail's hand was moving up and down her leg.

  Then she lifted her face toward the sky and tears overflowed her eyes. But it was clear these were no longer tears of pain but of joy. Her arms raised in gratitude and acknowledgment as she stood, unassisted. There was no need to explain what had happened. It was clear to everyone.

  The crowd began to move-faces beaming in gratitude and wonder, arms waving their praise to God, voices crying out in thanksgiving.

  Linux felt his chest unlock, and he breathed for the first time in what seemed like hours. So this is a healing! This was what they claimed to be the power of God. A shiver went through his frame. He wasn't sure whether to run from the place or fall on his knees.

  Abigail was on her feet, arms lifted and her body moving freely in a beautiful dance of rejoicing. Her eyes glowed with an ethereal light, making her even more beautiful, though Linux would have thought that impossible a few moments before.

  Ezra stood and pulled his elaborate robes more closely to his body, as though to wrap himself away from what had just happened. Linux wondered if he was about to rush out.

  Linux turned his eyes back to the beautiful girl as she continued to express her praise.

  "Healed. I'm healed," he heard her say over and over. The believers clapped and shouted their praise along with her.

  Linux saw that Peter was back at the table. Though the man's face shone with thanksgiving, he neither seemed relieved nor surprised. Merely accepting.

  He turned and looked directly at the two men, one seated and the other standing. Linux felt his soul had been laid bare.

  The dark eyes flashed, yet in some unexplainable fashion, Linux also saw compassion.

  But when Peter spoke again his voice was both strong and direct. Linux understood that here was a man of true authority. An authority outweighing the power of Rome.

  "I know you both came seeking the hand of this young woman. That is not mine to give. She belongs to God. We shall pray. And we shall consult her guardian. And we shall seek to know her own desires. Until such time as we hear from them-from God, from Alban, and from her-no decision will be made." His steely eyes locked with first one, then the other. "And the decision will be influenced neither by wealth nor by power."

  The moon was high overhead before Abigail could calm herself enough to sleep. The marvel of it all! The wonderful freedom from pain. The realization that her leg was now totally whole. Not only were the seeping sore and the red streaks gone, but so also was the weakened flesh, the taut, tissue-thin skin and the scars. She could walk now without the limp. Without the embarrassment of unwelcome attention. She was well. Whole!

  She would no longer be concerned about a confrontation with Temple priests over a pronouncement of "unclean" at the Temple gates. She would have free and open access to the Court of Women. To worship with other believers. To join in prayers of thanksgiving or petition. It was as if she had been given a fresh start to become the woman God wanted her to be.

  And with startling clarity came another thought. Her divine purpose was not limited by her appearance, the beauty her mother had warned her about. God could do anything with her life he desired. Her future would not be governed by her face or form. What difference did it make? God had worked a miracle. A miracle of healing for a reason. His reason. She no longer needed the injured leg to protect her from unwanted advances. No, God was directing her future. He would decide if she was to wed-and to whom. She was free. Free. The word was so glorious Abigail could scarcely contain the joy it brought with it.

  Over and over again she poured out her emotions, her gratitude, in prayer. Thanks was not enough. Humbly and wholeheartedly, with pure and complete faith, Abigail placed who she was and all that she could ever become into the hands of God.

  C H A P T E R

  SEVENTEEN

  "THE NEW PRELATE HAS ARRIVED," Gamaliel declared. "Marcellus has taken over Herod's entire palace for himself. Apparently he intends to spend a great deal of time in Jerusalem. The Council is faced with dire threats on every side. It is the worst possible time to remain annoyed by a dead prophet and his rabble!"

  Ezra nodded his thanks to Miriam, the priest's wife, who had brought him a mug of hot, sweet tea. "You are correct that these followers are spreading like an army of locusts."

  "We thought it was over and done with when we demanded the prelate kill that so-called prophet, Jesus of Nazareth. But it has only grown worse. Far worse."

  Gamaliel was in midsentence when a young man entered the room followed by Ezra's son, who had come with him on this visit.

  Ezra disliked such talk in front of the boy, who was six and retained everything he read or heard like a sponge. He motioned to his son, who lingered by the outer portal beside Gamaliel's senior aide. His son glanced up at the slender young man in the black robes of a Pharisee scribe. Only when the young man nodded did the boy step forward and come to his father. Which was as it should be, for his son recently had begun his studies in this household, and he was now under the direction of this senior aide of GamalielTitus, was it?

  Ezra stroked the boy's cheek and said, "What did you study today?"

  "We have started studying the psalms, Papa," the boy replied.

  "Yes, most interesting. And can you remember anything you have learned today?"

  "Of course!"

  "So tell me what you liked best."

  The young voice rang clear and high like chimes. "'Why do the nations rage, and the people plot a vain thing? The kings of the earth set themselves, and the rulers take counsel together, against the Lord and against His Anointed..... "

  Gamaliel visibly shuddered. His wife said, "Husband, are you-?"

  "Leave us, please."

  Ezra gestured for his son to depart with the scribe and Miriam. "I shall join you shortly."

  When they were alone in the room, howeve
r, Gamaliel did not speak. In the distance, Ezra heard the cry of a water seller. The plaintive call through the afternoon heat seemed to make the silence even more oppressive.

  Finally Gamaliel asked, "You went to their dinner marking the end of the Sabbath?"

  "I did. I also met with them again last night."

  "And yet I had to send Titus to find you."

  "My apologies, old friend. I was ..."

  "Yes? Go on."

  Ezra sighed. "It is complicated."

  "I am listening."

  He swallowed hard. "I ... There is a woman."

  Gamaliel turned from the window. "A follower of this dead prophet ?"

  "Yes. She ... that is ..."

  Without taking his eyes off Ezra, Gamaliel moved behind the table piled high with scrolls and documents and seated himself.

  Ezra realized there was no way to make this easy. "I want her for my wife."

  "You have made a formal offer for her hand?"

  "Through Sapphira."

  "Do I know her family?"

  "She is an orphan."

  To Ezra's surprise, Gamaliel did not offer the objections Ezra would have himself offered a friend in similar circumstances. After all, he was a man of substantial wealth and position. Marriage was to be considered a contract to strengthen his position. Certainly no orphan, no serving woman, could possibly ... All objections Ezra already had made to himself-to no avail.

  Instead, Gamaliel asked, "She is a maiden of purity and modesty?"

  "I am certain of it."

  "She observes the Law?"

  "As devout a woman as I have ever seen."

  "You are already a man of great affluence and power. There will certainly be those who scorn you for making such a decision. But you have always charted your own course. And Miriam has been saying for months that you need to take yourself a wife. So I don't understand the problem. Your sister arranges the bride price with the girl's guardians and-"