Avenger of Blood

by John Hagee

  A look of affection passed between Quintus and Agatha as they spread the fabric on the warehouse floor. It pleased Rebecca that the two of them seemed destined for happiness together. It pleased her, yet it also made her a bit envious. Rebecca had tried putting Antony out of her mind, but she missed him more than she wanted to admit. Now she wondered why she had found his attention so smothering before. Probably because she’d been trying to deny her feelings for him.

  Whenever she thought about Antony, she prayed for him; afterward, she usually felt guilty for praying selfishly. Did she pray for his salvation only because it would then be permissible for her to marry him? Rebecca tried telling herself that wasn’t the reason, yet she knew it was a large part of it. Once she had recognized that she’d fallen in love with Antony, her feelings had been overwhelming.

  Most of the time Rebecca was fine. She had thrown herself into charitable work, and that filled up her days. But at night, when the house was finally quiet, she had trouble falling asleep. No matter how much she told herself not to, she thought of Antony and longed for him.

  She knew she’d done the right thing, but at times she wondered if the hurt would ever go away. With time, she supposed it would.

  In the last six weeks she had seen Antony only once, when she was visiting Helena. Rebecca had been to see her several times. On her good days, Helena was desperate for company and cherished having someone to talk to. On her bad days, she needed comfort, not conversation. And massage. “No one has the same touch as you,” Helena told her. “You always do it exactly right.”

  One day Antony had arrived during Rebecca’s visit. It had been awkward for all of them. Rebecca had caught her breath when she looked up to see him standing in the doorway. He was staring at her, and Rebecca thought for a moment that she had seen affection in his eyes; then his face clouded over and she couldn’t read his expression. But she knew from the way he clenched his jaw that he was not happy to have found her there. He spoke a curt greeting, exchanged a few words with his mother, then quickly left the room.

  Rebecca had fought not to stare at him, and when he left, she had felt abandoned as well as relieved. She had been back to see Helena only once since then; Rebecca didn’t want to risk running into Antony again. It was simply too painful. And too tempting to give up her principles.

  When she heard Quintus rise and greet a visitor, Rebecca shook off her thoughts of lost love and prepared to be sociable. She was stunned to see that it was Antony and Priscilla who had arrived at the warehouse. One look at the tense, haggard expression on his face, and Rebecca knew his mother had taken a turn for the worse.

  “I didn’t know what else to do,” he said simply. “Would you come?”

  “Of course.” Rebecca stood and started to collect her things.

  “Don’t worry about Victor,” Agatha said. “Quintus and I will watch him until you get back.”

  Rebecca nodded her acknowledgment as she fastened her cloak. She was worried about Helena and nervous about being with Antony.

  “Where’s Peter?” Priscilla asked.

  “He’s not here,” Rebecca said. “He’s at home today.”

  “Peter must come too,” the little girl insisted. “If Peter prays for Mother, she will be healed. I know it.”

  Antony drew Priscilla back to his side, reining her in. “We were up all night,” he said, exhaustion evident in his posture and his hoarse voice. “I don’t think Mother can make it through another one . . .”

  Quintus asked, “Do you want me to go get Peter and bring him to your house?”

  Antony shook his head no. “I brought a carriage. We’ll go to the villa first, then home.”

  Rebecca started to object but didn’t know what to say. She didn’t know if Peter could or would come with them. He hadn’t been feeling well himself the last few days, and the cold weather made it difficult for him to get around. She also didn’t know how he would react to Priscilla’s request that he pray for Helena. He wasn’t good in situations like this, and she hated putting her brother in such an awkward position.

  If Peter wouldn’t come, though, Rebecca knew someone else who could offer medical advice as well as prayer. “Perhaps you could find Marcellus and send him,” she told Quintus. “He left the house early this morning to visit John.”

  In the carriage, Priscilla sat next to Rebecca and held her hand. Rebecca didn’t know whether the child needed comfort or was offering it to her, but she was glad Priscilla was there as a buffer between her and Antony. She couldn’t help thinking of the last time they’d ridden in a carriage together, when they had returned from Smyrna with Victor. That was the first time she had felt attracted to Antony; so much had happened since then.

  Antony’s eyes closed several times during the ride. He was not just exhausted, Rebecca thought, he was already grieving the loss of his mother. He must have held on to some hope, though; he’d asked them to come and pray. But perhaps that had been simply to appease Priscilla, who had been so adamant about it.

  Rebecca wanted to reassure Antony that Helena would be all right, that God would indeed heal her. But would He? She had prayed for Helena at every visit. Other people from the church had prayed for Helena, anointing her with oil. Would this time be any different?

  When they arrived at the villa, Priscilla scampered off to find Peter before Rebecca and Antony were even out of the carriage. By the time they caught up with her, she had cornered Peter in the library and was saying, “Please, you have to come. You have to be the one to pray for Mother, so she will be healed.”

  Rebecca had no idea where Priscilla’s sudden faith in Peter’s ability to pray had come from. It was unprecedented. Only recently had her brother even prayed aloud in public for the first time. Was it a childish whim, this feeling of Priscilla’s that if Peter prayed, Helena would be healed? Or was it spiritual insight?

  Peter looked up at Rebecca, and she felt her brother’s unspoken reservation. Her heart went out to him, but she kept silent. She would not try to persuade him one way or the other; it had to be his choice.

  “All right,” he finally told Priscilla. “But I want to get something first.”

  Peter slowly walked from the library into the adjoining bedroom and returned a few minutes later, a small bundle under his arm. “I’m ready,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  24

  AN HOUR LATER THEY WERE WAITING OUTSIDE Helena’s bedroom while Marcellus, who had arrived about the same time, examined her. When the medical officer opened the door and motioned for the others to enter, Rebecca was shaken by the grave look on his face. “I’m sorry,” he said to Antony. “There’s nothing I can do for your mother.”

  Antony nodded grimly. “Thank you for coming,” he said.

  Rebecca struggled to keep her composure when she saw Helena. Her condition, which had been progressive, had worsened dramatically in the two weeks since Rebecca’s last visit. Now her friend clung to life with a fragile hold. Helena’s hands were clamped shut, her fingers curled together like tight claws, and her limbs were rigid. The dark-honey-colored curls hung limply around her sunken face. Her breathing was shallow, and Rebecca noted there were slight pauses between breaths. As she stood by the bedside, she found herself willing the other woman to breathe.

  Priscilla took Peter by the hand and led him forward. “Please pray,” she said in a small voice. “Please.”

  Peter sat down on the edge of Helena’s bed and Priscilla climbed up beside him. Calpurnia, the family’s housekeeper, was on the opposite side. Marcellus was at the foot of the bed, and Rebecca stood between him and Antony, who kept patting his mother’s clamped hand. “Don’t leave us, Mother,” he said, his voice choked with emotion. “Your friends are here to see you.”

  “And pray for you,” Priscilla added.

  Rebecca’s heart ached for Antony and Priscilla. And for Peter. He looked both sad and frightened. She knew he was wondering what he would tell Priscilla if he prayed for her dying mother and she was not he
aled.

  After a moment Peter cleared his throat. “Would you bring some oil for anointing?” he asked Calpurnia. She nodded and left the room, returning quickly with a small container of olive oil.

  Peter unwrapped the bundle he had brought with him from home, drawing out a long piece of white fabric with a blue stripe running along the border. It had fringe along the edges and tassels at the corners.

  “It’s a tallit,” he told Antony. “A prayer shawl. It belonged to my father.”

  Rebecca was surprised. Her father had kept some of the Jewish feast days, and he loved to read the Scriptures in Hebrew, but she had never seen him in the prayer shawl.

  “He wore this sometimes when I was a child,” Peter said. “But he was so hurt by the local synagogue’s rejection of Jewish followers of Christ, he eventually gave up the practice. Anyway, after Father died, I found the tallit in his things and kept it.”

  In just a few words, Peter explained that the fringes on the prayer shawl represented the 613 commandments of the Mosaic Law, and that the tassels spelled out the Hebrew name for God, Y-H-W-H, in the number and sequence of the knots. “So it’s a symbol of the authority and power of God’s name,” he said. Peter paused slightly, then added, “I brought the tallit to help us remember that healing is released by our faith in God’s power.”

  Rebecca felt a surge of tenderness toward Peter and a bit of sisterly pride in his willingness to be the one to pray for Helena’s healing when prayers for his own healing had not been answered. “Many times,” Rebecca told the group, “I’ve heard John tell stories of how Jesus healed everyone who touched the tassels of his prayer shawl. He would have worn a tallit just like this.”

  “John often talks about Jesus as the Great Physician,” Marcellus said. “‘You’re a good doctor’ he’ll tell me. ‘But Jesus is the true Healer.’”

  Antony’s look was a combination of skepticism and desperate hope as Peter carefully spread the prayer shawl across Helena’s body. Antony’s mother was close to death, and the situation did look hopeless. Rebecca knew, however, that nothing was ever completely hopeless with God. She longed to reach out a hand and reassure Antony, but she held back, worried that her touch might offend him.

  Peter glanced up briefly at Rebecca, and she nodded, offering silent encouragement. He took the container of oil from Calpurnia and dipped his finger in it. Then he touched Helena’s forehead, transferring the oil.

  “Put your hands up here,” he told Priscilla, “on your mother.”

  The little girl placed her hands on her mother’s body, then Peter placed his hands over Priscilla’s and began to pray out loud.

  It was a simple prayer, and later Rebecca would not be able to recall a single word of it, but she would never forget the impact.

  After everyone joined Peter in pronouncing the amen, they fell quiet. But the silence around them seemed to hum and vibrate, and the room seemed to grow smaller. A presence—an immensely powerful, peaceful presence—filled the room and overflowed Rebecca’s heart until she thought she would burst. The presence was as sweet and tender as it was powerful, and the beauty of it made her cry.

  She looked around, wondering if the others felt it too. Yes, she decided. Marcellus’s ramrod military bearing was gone; he held on to the foot of the bed with one trembling hand, and with the other he wiped his eyes. Peter’s eyes were closed, but Rebecca had never seen such a glow on his face. Antony had crumpled over the edge of the bed, unable to stand as the divine presence permeated the room and vanquished the specter of impending death.

  Rebecca saw Antony reach for his mother’s hand, then watched as Helena’s fingers slowly relaxd and uncurled. When she squeezed her son’s hand and opened her eyes, Antony began to weep.

  In a fraction of a moment, Helena’s rigid limbs returned to normal. Rebecca noticed there was no swelling or redness. She’d never seen Helena’s hands look so beautiful, so young. Even the knots on her knuckles were gone. How often Rebecca had gently massaged those painfully sore and tender hands. Now they were whole.

  “I knew it!” Priscilla cried. “I knew Jesus would heal Mother if you prayed.” She threw her arms around Peter’s neck, and he broke down and cried then.

  Calpurnia uttered, “Thank you, Jesus!” over and over. Then she raised her hands and started singing a hymn of praise. The others joined the singing, except for Antony, who didn’t know the words. But in a moment, when Helena’s faint voice began to echo the words to the song, he jumped to his feet, raised his hands, and cried, “Thank you, Jesus!”

  Everyone was crying and laughing and rejoicing all at the same time. Antony grabbed Rebecca and hugged her, lifting her off the ground. Then he stepped back, looking embarrassed, and started to apologize.

  “It’s all right,” she said before he could get the words out. She knew it was just an expression of enormous relief. But Antony’s touch had sent her heart soaring and she secretly wished he would hug her again.

  “Calpurnia!” The strength of Helena’s voice got their attention. Everyone turned around, and somehow Rebecca was not surprised to see Helena sitting up in bed.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Calpurnia tried to regain a proper decorum as she answered her employer, but she could not stifle her smile at the sight of Helena sitting upright.

  “Get to the kitchen,” Helena said. “I’m as hungry as a bear.”

  “I’ll get you something to eat right away,” the housekeeper said, then she hurried out of the room.

  Priscilla plumped several pillows against Helena’s back. “You won’t need me to feed you this time, will you?”

  “No, but you can do something else for me, baby.”

  “What is it? Anything, I’ll do anything.” Priscilla bounced off the bed and stood beside her mother.

  “I want you to brush my hair and help me put on a clean tunic.”

  Helena waved a thin arm at the others. “Now, the rest of you get out of here so I can get dressed. Wait for me in the dining room,” she said. “I want to eat a real meal around a real table.”

  “I’ll wait outside,” Antony said. “I’ll carry you to the dining room when you’re ready.”

  “Oh no, you won’t. I don’t need your help.”

  Antony blinked in surprise at his mother’s quick rebuke. Rebecca couldn’t help smiling. Helena’s color had not only returned, but so had her attitude.

  Helena announced, “God has healed me, and I’ll be able to get to the dining room on my own two feet.”

  A half-hour later she did just that, and while the thrown-together meal was meager, those in attendance considered it a great celebration.

  25

  February, A.D. 97

  JACOB WAS SICK OF SNOW. Before he’d arrived in Cappadocia he’d only seen it once or twice. As a novelty, snow held a certain fascination. And even now, as he looked out the window of the room he shared with Gregory, Jacob could admire the pristine beauty of the white-blanketed landscape. Trudging through the snow to work was a different matter, however, and it was time to leave.

  Jacob dressed in the trousers and boots he’d added to his meager wardrobe. Even with his heavy coat and hat, it would be a cold walk. Having lived all his life on the sunny seacoast, he was not acclimated to the more frigid mountain temperatures.

  A month ago he had taken a job in order to finance the purchase of a horse to replace the one that had been stolen. He had ample funds for living, since he’d been furnished a place to stay, but buying a horse would have depleted his purse. Livia had seemed reluctant to intervene on his behalf, so Jacob had finally asked Gregory to introduce him to one of the reputable breeders who supplied the army.

  Pomponius had asked an exorbitant amount for the horse Jacob wanted, and as skillfully as Gregory had wrangled with him, the breeder had ceded little on the price. He knew Jacob was stranded and, therefore, knew how much Jacob needed what he had for sale.

  The horses were, as Livia had said, the most magnificent animals Jacob had ever seen, and
he made up his mind that he just had to have the chestnut filly with the white blaze on her forehead. After an entire afternoon of bargaining, however, Gregory had wanted to call a halt to the proceedings. Still, Jacob hesitated, and before they could leave,

  Pomponius’s two young boys had run through the stable. Once he had corralled them, Pomponius explained that he had not been able to locate a suitable replacement for their schoolmaster, who had recently quit. Within minutes Jacob had sealed a bargain to tutor Pomponius’s sons as part of the purchase price.

  Since then he’d walked the two miles to Pomponius’s house six days a week. Jacob was teaching the boys, who were seven and nine, languages, history, geography, and math. His father’s wealth had provided him with an outstanding education, so Jacob was well prepared to tutor. The lads were progressing nicely with their studies, and as a reward for behaving themselves, Jacob took them riding when the weather permitted.

  Each afternoon when the lessons were finished, Jacob returned to Gregory’s and spent the remaining daylight hours building an enclosure for his new horse; until it was ready, the filly would remain stabled at Pomponius’s. In the evenings, Jacob enjoyed talking to Livia, and then he fell into bed, exhausted. It was a quiet life.

  A rather pleasant life, he thought as he tramped along the icy road this morning. Pleasant, yet unfulfilled. Jacob was no closer to apprehending Damian than he’d been when he arrived in Caesarea over two months ago. The army post was impenetrable, he’d discovered. And besides, he couldn’t exactly try to bring Damian to justice inside a camp full of soldiers.

  Eventually, Jacob had given up his daily visits to the past. There was no way he could watch it continuously, and he didn’t think Damian would try to leave Caesarea until the roads cleared in the spring, so Jacob had figured he might as well make the most of his time.