The Hidden Flame

by Janette Oke;T. Davis Bunn

  Abigail felt the warmth of tears tracing their way down her cheeks. She could not speak. Her heart was too full. She turned her face so it rested upon his shoulder. God had blessed her with a wonderful man. A husband she would never truly deserve.

  I love you, her heart cried. I love you so.

  And as soon as she wiped away her tears and was able to speak, she would find the words to tell him so.

  C H A P T E R

  THIRTY-SIX

  EZRA STOOD OUTSIDE the Freedmen's Synagogue. He was distantly aware of the sun beating on his head and shoulders and of the sweat trickling down his neck and spine. He knew there was shade beneath awnings to either side of where he stood. But in the most active portion of his thoughts, he was pleased with the discomfort. It suited the moment. It fit with his internal rage. He would have vengeance, the retribution his sister deserved.

  "For Sapphira," he muttered. He ignored the nagging voice that told him these were true followers of the Law, that they had not caused her death, but in the divine unknown she had disobeyed God. And that the events he had set in motion were wrong-as wrong as Sapphira's lie.

  Ezra pushed the thoughts aside. He was becoming adept at that, stifling such arguments before they could grasp his full awareness. Rage had become as constant a part of his life as the sun, the heat, his own ragged breath.

  Saul waited on the square's opposite side, surrounded by a cluster of dark-robed Pharisees. Even from this distance Ezra could see the brooding ire, the tension that dominated this group. Saul caught his eye. Ezra made a swift motion with one hand, signaling the young man to wait.

  "Here they come now," a man beside him muttered.

  "You may address me as sire," Ezra snapped.

  The man stiffened. Ezra turned and looked at him. Whatever the ruffian saw in Ezra's face was enough to smother his comment. He said, "Yes, sire."

  Ezra turned back. "Be ready. Move only on my signal."

  He was surrounded by a dozen handpicked men. Most came from his warehouses and caravans, guards and former soldiers. Ezra suspected one was a spy for the Zealots. Two others worked in his countinghouse. They were all good with their fists, with clubs and daggers and swords. They all took his coin. They would do his bidding.

  "All right. Do as we planned. Disperse among the crowd. Wait for my sign."

  The men moved with the stealth of professional fighters, slipping in among the growing crowd standing in the synagogue's forecourt. Stephen clearly was the reason they had come. The crowd around the man was dense. But Ezra had studied these followers. He was increasingly certain they would put up no struggle. Protest, certainly. But when violence started, they would stand and weep, and they would make no move to protect their man. Just as had happened on Golgotha with their leader. Ezra and his gang should have no problem. And if they did, well, his men had weapons hidden beneath cloaks and lashed to their thighs.

  Ezra searched through the crowd as he moved forward and saw no one bearing arms. His men knew what to do.

  The Freedmen's Synagogue had been erected by Hellenized Judeans on pilgrimage to the Holy Land. Many had started life as slaves, while others had such heritage in their past. The synagogue was not far from the Damascus Gate and the stables used by the caravan masters. A marble structure built in an almost Grecian style, with a pillared portico similar to that of Solomon's Porch, had four broad stone stairs welcoming those who spilled out of the synagogue's forecourt. Stephen stood on the top step. A second crowd of women, most wearing head shawls, assembled on the side away from where Ezra stood. He wondered if Abigail might be among them, and his bitterness deepened.

  But his resolve was shaken by what he saw next.

  The man known as Stephen did not immediately address the throng. Instead, he knelt beside one pallet after another, laying hands upon ailing folk who had been deposited on the next-to-top stair. A group of other disciples joined him, encircling one after another, praying intensely, then moving on. Time after time the people lying there and others gathered about them shouted aloud in a joy so powerful it sounded almost like a cry. The crowd responded with shouts of their own.

  Finally Stephen rose and began to address the crowd. Ezra found himself refusing to hear what the man was saying. Ezra pushed through the crowd, earning himself a few scowls, but most were too intent on listening to notice.

  Suddenly he saw an image as strong as his ire. A veil had descended between him and the man on the synagogue's top stair. The veil was knit from his lies and his deceit and his rage. For an instant, one moment only, the veil lifted. And in that moment he saw.

  Stephen's features were wreathed in a light so brilliant it turned the day dark. He spoke two words that Ezra could hear clearly. Messiah. Love.

  Then the veil descended once again.

  Ezra faltered. The hesitation was not merely in his thoughts. He felt his very soul was being twisted and torn. He stood upon a divide as strong as the line drawn between those gathered at the synagogue. Once more he was granted a choice....

  But he had come too far. He had too much devoted to his anger and his lust for vengeance. He was, after all, a merchant. He knew what it meant to strike a bargain and move forward, against all the odds that might turn away lesser men.

  He raised a fist over his head. "Blasphemer!"

  He had not meant to shout quite so loudly. The noise of his voice startled even himself. All around him, men drew back as they would from an open flame.

  But his men took this as not merely a sign, but a spur to action. Their voices rose at a pitch and fervor matching his own. The loudest cries came from the dark-robed rabbis surrounding Saul.

  "Seize him!" Ezra shouted. "Take him to the Council!"

  Abigail stood with the other women listening to her husband. She felt a little shiver as the still-unfamiliar yet wonderful term filled her mind. She held her arms around herself as she thought about how much their love had grown in such a short amount of time-betrothed only weeks ago, and now their marriage.... But, she told herself, she wasn't here to think about the wonder of all her recent blessings but to listen to Stephen preach.

  He had begun the afternoon's teaching with an overview of Hebrew history, which she never tired of hearing, especially when he explained how it all pointed to their Messiah. But now he had paused and was looking out over his immediate listeners to a group of men further away. Abigail looked over at them too, and she was immediately alarmed at the expressions on their faces, the tense way they held themselves, as if they were poised ...

  Stephen's voice called out, "I invite you all today to recognize your Messiah, Jesus of Nazareth-"

  Then she heard a voice scream, "Blasphemer!"

  And it was like a rampaging flood, the chaos and terror the single word had unleashed.

  Abigail watched in stunned horror as Stephen was dragged from the Freedmen's court, his arms gripped by angry men on either side, propelling him forward. Others grabbed at his robes, his sash, and even his hair. The crowd pushed and surged like a roiling storm, shouting words she neither understood nor desired to comprehend. Her legs could barely hold her upright. What is happening?

  A boy nearby was backing away from the scene, his eyes wide with fear. He looked like he was going to turn and make a run for safety. Abigail recognized him from the compound.

  She spoke quickly before he could make his dash. "What is happening, Levi? What are they doing?"

  "I don't know!"

  "Did you hear nothing at all?"

  "They said they were taking him to the Council. I don't know why. I didn't ..." And he was gone before finishing.

  "The Council? Why?" But no one took heed of her questions. Abigail frantically searched about. Surely there was someone who could tell her, who could help Stephen! She did recognize some, but now they looked as horror-stricken and full of questions as she was.

  "What has happened? Why Stephen?" she begged, pulling on a sleeve.

  A shrug or shake of the head was all the response
she received.

  "Couldn't you stop them?" she implored when she came to a huddle of men. Their only answer was to turn and walk away, their strides lengthening with each step.

  At the square's other end two Roman soldiers lounged in the shade. For a moment Abigail felt a thrill of hope. She hurried toward them, but before she reached them a man in the dark robes of a Pharisee stepped forward and said something she could not hear. The soldiers looked at one another. Then one spoke to the other and shrugged his shoulders. The Pharisee turned away, and the two soldiers resumed their places, leaning against the stone wall. She could hear their crude laughter. No, they were not likely to help her. She swung around to address a few witnesses of the incident who still remained.

  "What happened? What did he do?" she pleaded, trying to gain some understanding.

  The one closest to her, his eyes still filled with fear, said, "We didn't see him do anything."

  "Then why-?"

  "I cannot say. They surrounded him and just grabbed him. He didn't even try to resist. It looked like they had it all planned."

  Sickness swept through her, and she felt like she would faint. What could she do? Stephen needed help-now. The apostles were at the Temple for midday prayer. She knew they always lingered there afterward to hear Peter speak. The other women here would be as helpless as she herself. What can I do? Lord ...

  Yes, pray. The one word welled up within her. All she could think of was "Please help, God!" Over and over.

  If only Alban ... But of course he was many miles away.

  Linux! Would Linux help them? He and Stephen had formed a friendship. Surely Linux would be willing to come to the aid of a friend. Abigail whirled toward the Antonia Fortress. She had never been there before. Had always been warned to stay well away from Roman soldiers, but she did not stop. She simply pulled her shawl more closely about her, clutched her robe in her hand, and ran.

  She arrived breathless and had difficulty making the soldier at the gate understand her words. "The officer Linux," she panted. "I must see him. Immediately. Please, sire."

  But the fellow smirked and answered gruffly, "Afraid you're too late. He's left on some mission."

  "Where?" pleaded Abigail. "When will he return?"

  "None of my business. Or yours." He smirked again. "I'm not his superior. I ask no questions. Now you'd best be gone. You don't belong here."

  Abigail turned and staggered away. What was she to do now?

  The Temple. The Temple was nearby. She would check there. Perhaps she would find Peter-or John. Anyone who could help Stephen.

  But when she arrived the courtyard was almost empty. The crowd, had there been one, had now dispersed. She looked toward the Council building, but it appeared to be empty. There was no milling crowd, no angry voices to be heard. She spotted a guard. As she approached him, she fought for control of her voice. She did not want him to think her a madwoman.

  "Please. Could you tell me if the Council is meeting?"

  "Haven't seen anyone go in for hours. And I've been here all afternoon."

  Abigail was too distressed to express her thanks. Overwhelming fear gripped her. Where have they taken him? And why?

  Her steps faltered, and she was afraid she would not even be able to make it back to the others. "0 dear God," she sobbed, "may he be there when I arrive." The very thought gave strength to her weakened knees.

  C H A P T E R

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  LINUX PAUSED IN THE VESTIBULE at the end of the palace hall, overwhelmed by disgust. Five doorways opened about him, revealing clusters of people in various stages of drunkenness and debauchery. Governor Marcellus was hosting a party to mark the emperor's birthday. Clearly his guests, many of whom had abandoned all pretense of modesty, had been drinking all day.

  The governor's messenger had made it clear that Linux's invitation was in truth an order. Linux decided he would stay long enough to be noticed, then slip away. He kept his eyes on the marble-tiled floor as he moved through the least crowded room and out the garden doors. He remembered how Ezra and the priest had averted their eyes from the arena scene.... Could that possibly have been only a couple weeks earlier? It seemed like years, like a scene drawn from the memories of another man's life. Linux waved away a servant offering goblets of spiced wine. He took the stairs leading down to the palace gardens. Once the lush growth blocked his view of the palace chambers, his chest finally unlocked, and he breathed easy.

  He stopped at a bench shaded by a trio of date palms. As he seated himself, he recalled a conversation from his childhood. His grandfather had died when Linux was nine. His grandfather had fought for nine years with Germanic legions. Afterward he had served as a Roman senator for thirty-seven years. As long as he was alive, his grandfather had sought to inject a soldier's rough care and instruction into the half-forgotten boy. The old man had taught how the original Roman virtues stressed discipline, simplicity, hard work, and an acceptance of personal responsibility for the greater good. Romans were expected to prepare for a life of politics, military, or both. Linux's grandfather had often gazed at the family residence as he lamented current changes.

  Today, however, the fashionable word in Rome was otium. It was considered the proper way of life for this, the Imperial Age. The word had once meant, simply, a time of ease. Now it stood for self-indulgence, constant idleness, and the immediate satisfaction of every desire, no matter how base.

  From the rooms behind Linux a woman screamed, and a pair of men howled in drunken abandon. Linux leaned over, fists on his knees and his eyes clenched tightly shut. He felt powerless, isolated.

  He had not yet sought to speak with God directly. He had watched and listened as others had prayed over him, around him. Stephen had finished every lesson with a time thus in prayer. But now as he listened to the debauchery inside the palace chambers, Linux recalled how Stephen had responded to the threat of coming danger by reaching out to God. And how Linux had felt during that impossible moment.

  He pressed his fists into his forehead. 0 God, whom I have spent a life denying, whom I do not know well, still do I come and beg for your help. Free me from this. I deserve nothing. Yet still I do ask. Free me from the world that no longer has any place for me, nor I in it.

  "Linux Aurelius!"

  Linux wondered briefly if the voice belonged to one of God's invisible messengers. He lifted his head and blinked and searched the empty path.

  "I seek Linux Aurelius!"

  "Here!"

  A house guard stepped into view and saluted. "The prelate commands you present yourself before him."

  Is this the answer? he wondered as he slowly stood to his feet.

  Abigail had not gone far when she heard angry shouts and tramping feet. Even in her frantic state she realized that a mob was on a rampage through the streets. She pressed herself into a recess between two shops and pulled her shawl across her face. It was as she feared-Stephen! He was in the center of the throng, insults and worse still being hurled at him. His robe was torn so that one side dragged in the dirt as he walked. She thought she saw a bruise on one cheek, but she could not be sure. Maybe it is merely dust....

  It looked like they were heading for the Council chambers. Pharisees haughtily swishing their robes led the way. It was Temple guards who now grasped Stephen's arms, and she saw chains dangling from his wrists as though he were a dangerous criminal. Oh, my Stephen . . . She caught the sob in her throat before it could escape her lips.

  She held on to the walls to keep herself upright and drew further back into the shadows until the mob had passed, then crept out and followed at a distance.

  More and more people seemed to join the throng pushing through the street. Their cries were now so loud, so demanding, that Abigail could hardly think. She knew she was helpless against such irrational rage. What could she do? Where could she go for help?

  Again her thoughts turned to Linux. Somehow she must find him.

  Linux felt a mixture of fear and excitem
ent as he marched alongside the household guard. There was no question in his mind that up ahead lay an answer to his prayer. The timing was too precise. He had witnessed miracle after miracle. Though he had fought against the evidence of his own eyes, the time for resisting, for questioning, was over.

  Did he have the strength to accept whatever lay ahead? Because he knew it came from God. Which meant that if there was danger or risk or even death, it was divinely intended. And this frightened him mightily.

  At the same time, however, there was the sense of God being with him. Linux did not question this either. Not any longer. Here and now, he was certain that he lived in a time of signs and wonders. He was part of this time and these events. God, with his silent voice and in a mysterious swirl of measures beyond his control, was acting in his life. The concept thrilled him.

  The servant bowed and announced, "Linux Aurelius, Excellency."

  "You may approach."

  Linux stepped from sunlight into shadow, and was momentarily blinded in the gloom. He marched forward and saluted. "You wished to see me, sire?"

  "Indeed so. I am hearing reports that disturb me mightily."

  Linux remained at attention, his eyes fastened upon a point against the far wall. But his peripheral vision took in a number of items. The raised dais held not one gilded chair but two. The second was occupied by Lucius Metellus, the new tribune of the Antonia Fortress. Linux replied, "I regret most sincerely that I might have disturbed the governor's peace in any way, Excellency."