Thunder rumbled in the distance, like an approaching army.
She wet her cracked lips, tasting blood and dust. Even if she could pray, what words would express her sorrow? A song of the Tehillim, words she’d cried out as a child, came back to her like a long-forgotten melody. One small prayer—one crack in the dam she’d built around her heart—whispered from her dry throat. “Forsake me not, O Lord. My God, be not far from me.”
The wind blew harder and colder, snatching the plea from her mouth. Lightning flickered over the city walls. But a trickle of strength flowed through her, like water on parched earth. Her voice grew stronger. “Come quickly to help me, my Lord and my salvation.”
She stood, raising her face to the sky. Her throat loosened and her prayer flowed forth like a rushing stream. “Have mercy on me, God, in your goodness.”
Tears welled in her eyes, and for the first time since she was a child, she let them fall. Years of unshed tears flowed from her eyes like a libation. A song of supplication fell from her lips and soothed her heart like balm. “Wash away all my guilt; from my sin cleanse me.”
A drop of water fell on her forehead; another mingled with the tears on her cheek. Her heart lifted as a third drop fell on her parched lips. “Wash away all my guilt; from my sin cleanse me.”
She lifted her face to the sky. “Wash me, O my God, make me whiter than snow.” Thunder rumbled, the sky opened, and the rain came down.
NISSA WOKE TO the golden light of morning. Her eyes were filled with grit, and her tongue clung to the roof of her mouth. Her body was sore. She felt every bone and joint, but her heart felt as light as the wisps of clouds above her, as clean as the raindrops sparkling on the branches of the cedar trees.
In the deep of the night, as she had poured out her sins to the Lord, the rain had soaked her, poured over her, washed away blood and dirt. When the rain stopped, a warm wind scented with mint and cloves wrapped around her, like a father’s loving arms around his child. She had slept curled against the trunk of the cedar.
The dark voice was silent now. She searched for it, but it was gone. Nissa was free. Free of fear and despair. Free of the lies.
She gathered more stones and buried Gestas. With each stone, she prayed for him. Lord, have mercy. She bowed her head over the two stone cairns. It wasn’t a proper burial for a Jew or a Greek, but it was all she could do. She touched the top stone on Dismas’s cairn. Good-bye, my friend.
The Lord had never abandoned her. She had abandoned him. All those years, she had turned her back on him. Refused to trust him. As her sins had increased, the dark voice had grown strong, poisoning her mind and blinding her to God’s mercy.
Now, her eyes had been opened. Dismas’s death would not be in vain. He had set her free. And now that she was free, she had the courage to do what was right.
Chapter 35
NISSA PUSHED THROUGH the gate and into the empty courtyard. “Cedron?”
Firewood lay scattered; shards of a water jar littered the ground. Her cedar chest lay in pieces near the fire, its meager contents crushed under the imprints of hobnailed sandals. She hurried to the door of the house. Sleeping mats trampled and no sign of Cedron.
She had to find Longinus and had hoped that Cedron would be able to help, but the Romans had been here first. Had the Zealots risen up against the soldiers? Was Cedron in trouble, or were they looking for her? As she dashed back into the street, turning toward the synagogue where Cedron and the Zealots met, she barreled into a wide chest covered in linen.
“Nissa. Where are you going so fast on the Passover?” Gilad’s hands closed over her bare arms. He glanced into the courtyard. “And who did that? One of your customers?”
Nissa wrenched her arms from his grip. I don’t have time for this. “I need to find Cedron.”
Gilad smoothed his hand over his beard. “Pay me the rent, or I’ll find Cedron for you.” His hand lashed out and caught her wrist, squeezing hard enough to make her gasp. “You are looking rather pretty today, Nissa. Perhaps you’d like to pay me in trade?”
Nissa’s blood heated. She had no time for his snide insinuations. “I’m warning you, Gilad. Let me go.”
He captured her other wrist, and his grip tightened. “Or what? Your centurion isn’t here today.” He smirked. “And I don’t think he’d mind sharing.”
How could she ever have dreamed of him as a husband? Longinus was ten times the man Gilad was. Nissa jerked her hands up, then down, breaking his grip on one wrist just as Longinus had taught her. With the other hand, she pulled him forward, then thrust her palm up, slamming it into his nose. Gilad bent double, his hands over his face and blood spurting over his fine tunic.
Satisfaction surged through her as she sprinted down the street toward the synagogue. Longinus would have been impressed. She reached the synagogue and burst through the doors. Inside, men jumped, some of them grabbing swords or pulling their daggers. When they saw Nissa, they relaxed.
“Where is Cedron?” she panted.
“Nissa, where have you been?” Cedron moved out of the dim recesses of the synagogue. His head was uncovered, and his tunic wrinkled and stained with sweat. “Nissa, do you know? The earth quaked, the curtain over the Holy of Holies tore in two, the sky—”
“I know, I know.” She grabbed his hands and pulled him into the light. “Why are you here? Are you hurt? Did you fight?”
His shoulders slumped, and he motioned toward the men huddled in the back of the synagogue. “No. We hid here. The Pharisees are searching the city for anyone who believes in Jesus.”
Nissa peered through the murky light. Some men wore makeshift armor; all had swords and daggers.
Cedron sank down on a bench. “We were ready for a revolution. Judas said it was coming. Then he—”
“Judas?” Her stomach twisted at the memory of the man hanging from the rope. “You were waiting for Judas?”
A young man with a wispy beard stood. “We were ready to fight with Jesus.”
Cedron put his head in his hands. “I’ve been wrong about everything. I was so sure there would be a revolution, so sure that Jesus was the one.”
Nissa sat down beside him. She wrapped her arms around his waist and laid her cheek on his chest. Cedron had been wrong about the revolution. But he had been right about so much else. Trust in the Lord, he had said. Now she would. “Cedron, I have to find Longinus.”
He pulled back and looked at her face. “Why, Nissa? I thought—”
“I heard about the centurion Longinus,” the youth broke in.
Nissa turned to him. “Heard what?”
“One of the other centurions brought him in yesterday. He’s charged with treason.”
Nissa’s pulse sped up. “What did they do to him?”
The young man shook his head. “I don’t know.”
It was already midday. What if she was too late? She jumped up and moved toward the door, but Cedron stopped her with a hand on her arm. “Nissa, what are you doing? We need to get out of Jerusalem, together.”
She looked at Cedron. She wouldn’t leave Longinus, not now. She reached up and ran a hand over his eyes, the eyes that Jesus had opened. “I have to help him.”
“A Roman?”
A man who believes in Jesus, too. “A man. A good man.”
“Nissa, how can you—”
“He helped us. Remember?” She looked into his shadowed eyes. “He saved me, even when he knew who I was. And he believes in Jesus, too.”
Cedron’s brow furrowed. “Jesus wasn’t our messiah. Nissa, he’s dead. Everything we thought is wrong.”
She lifted his hand and kissed it. “I’m not sure that you were.” She wasn’t sure of anything anymore. Except about what to do next. “I’m going to find him.”
Cedron swallowed hard and straightened his back. “If you must go, I’ll go with you.”
“No.” This was her risk to take for the man who had risked all for her. “I don’t want you taken by the Pharisees. Don’t
worry. I have trusted in thy mercy; my heart shall rejoice in thy salvation.” She gave him a last squeeze and hurried out of the synagogue.
She skirted the Hippodrome and climbed the sloping streets toward the temple. The sun was already high in the sky. Passover songs of praise and thanksgiving carried over the breeze—no doubt especially loud and joyful because of the life-giving rain that had finally come. Would Pilate already have condemned Longinus? Was she too late?
Scores of soldiers lined the roads and stood guard at the street corners. At least a hundred stood sentry at the temple gates. She zigzagged through the crowds, just a dutiful Jewish woman hurrying home on the Passover. If the soldiers noticed her at all, that’s what they’d see—just what she wanted them to see.
As she reached the agora outside of Herod’s palace, her pulse quickened. Two sentries stood at the arched entrance to the barracks. She sidled close to the opening and peeked in. The camp was teeming with soldiers. Outside the squat building where she had been brought as Mouse, a line of sentries stood guard.
Relief eased her pounding heart. Surely they wouldn’t have that many guards if Longinus had already been executed. He was there, and she had to see him. After that, she didn’t know what she could do. She slipped into a crack beside the gate where she could watch and listen. My Lord, do not forsake me now. Be my help.
After what seemed like hours, the horns blew, announcing the end of Passover. Long shadows stretched over the streets and empty marketplace outside the barracks. The soldiers on duty at the gate were joined by two replacements. Nissa strained to hear them and make out the unfamiliar Greek words.
“Is he dead yet?” one of the sentries asked.
His replacement shook his head. “Not yet. But it won’t be long.”
The other replacement spoke fast, and Nissa could only make out the words “Silvanus” and “Pilate.”
The sentry gave up his place and turned toward the barracks. “. . . dead by morning, either way.” The first two marched away, and the new sentries took their places.
Nissa pushed herself into the narrow recess of her hiding place. She had to get to him soon, before Silvanus killed him. The Lord is my strength and my shield; my heart trusts in him and I am helped . . . Please, O God, show me what to do.
Across the marketplace, from the direction of the palace, came a familiar Roman face. Marcellus, the soldier who had taken her from the cell, who had warned her to leave Jerusalem after Longinus was arrested. Thank you, Lord. Surely he would help.
She darted out of her hiding place and met him halfway across the agora. “Please, I beg you. Help me get to Longinus.”
He grabbed her by the arm and dragged her into the shadows of the wall. “What are you doing here? I told you to leave the city.”
She straightened, looking him in the eye. “I’m not leaving him. I have to help him.”
“Not leaving—” He looked behind her at the entrance to the camp. “He’s in the carcer because of you, woman. He might be dead already. What more do you think you can do for him?”
She leaned against the cold wall. He was right. What could she do after all she’d done wrong? Get him out. Save him. “I know you can get me to him. I’ll do the rest.”
Marcellus snorted. “Escape?” He looked at the line of sentries. “Impossible. His best chance is to see Pilate. I’ve been trying to get to him since yesterday, but he won’t see anyone. He’s been at the shrine since the earthquake, making sacrifices to Mars.” He rubbed his hand over his face. “And Silvanus almost killed Longinus already. I don’t know how much longer I can keep him from finishing the job.”
Escape might be impossible, but she had to try. “Just get me in.” She clutched his armor-clad arm. “Please.”
He blew out a long breath. “Be at the gate at the changing of the guard. When the horn blows. I’ll get you in, but I can’t guarantee anything else.”
Nissa’s heart lightened. That’s all I need for now.
“Watch for my signal, and be quick.”
She nodded.
Marcellus brushed past her but turned back. “And Nissa?” His mouth turned down, and his eyes were sad. “Don’t expect much help. He’s in bad shape.”
LONGINUS LAY IN the corner of the cell, clutching his ribs as pain cut off his breath. At least a few were broken. His head throbbed from a lump the size of a fig, and one eye was swollen shut. His mouth tasted of blood, and he could feel a space in the back where he’d lost a tooth when Silvanus had worked him over.
He opened his good eye. The sun filtered through the window. How long had he been here? He remembered the long night after Jesus had died, Silvanus coming at him with his fists and vitis until he knew nothing but pain. Then Marcellus. He’d stopped Silvanus, assured Longinus that Nissa had left the city, and brought water. When he’d left, he’d locked the carcer door. Not so that Longinus couldn’t get out but so that Silvanus couldn’t get in.
The pain came in waves, ebbing and flowing for what seemed like a lifetime. He drifted into darkness. Suddenly, he saw himself in battle, men and boys falling around him. He reached for his sword, but it wasn’t there. They called out to him for help, but he was powerless. The battle faded, and he was alone in a vast green forest, the breath of dawn breaking through the trees and peace filling him. There was Nissa, coming to him. Mist swirled, and she disappeared from his sight.
He opened his eyes to the damp cell, moonlight filtering through the high window. Why was he still here? When would Silvanus come to finish the job or to bring him to Pilate? Or would he just be left here to die? If he went to Pilate, at least his sentence would be swift. Longinus had no defense. He had released Nissa, just as he’d freed Stephen and would have freed Jesus if Silvanus hadn’t stopped him. He was a traitor to Rome, and he knew his fate.
He bowed his head. Your will, Abba, not mine.
Jesus had washed him clean. Finally he understood the peace he’d seen in Stephen, who had spent months in this cell. Longinus no longer feared death, but he did fear for Nissa. Please, Abba, keep her safe.
The lock on the door rattled, and Longinus tensed. This was it. The end—either from Silvanus or Pilate. The door opened, and a torch blazed, blinding him. A wave of nausea swept over him as hands pulled him up and propped him against the damp wall. But it wasn’t Silvanus’s ugly face or even Marcellus he saw as his sight returned. I’m dreaming again, and I don’t want to wake up.
Nissa ran a soft hand down his battered face. He flinched. For a dream, that hurts.
“Longinus, can you hear me?” Her voice cracked with a soft sob. “Can you walk?”
He reached for her, but she seemed far away. In the torchlight, tears shone on her cheeks. Now I know I’m dreaming. His Nissa didn’t cry. Not even when Dismas died.
She put her face close to his, and her warm breath brushed his ear. “I’m going to get you out of here. You need to help me.” She set the torch on the floor, slipped her hands under his arms, and tugged.
Hot shards of pain ripped through his ribs. He groaned. “Don’t do that.” He pulled her closer until her head rested under his chin and buried his hands in her soft hair. Might as well enjoy the dream before it disappears.
“We have to go, before Silvanus comes back.” She pulled at him again.
This time the pain was very real. He smelled the damp mustiness of the cell and the burning tallow of the torch. No. This can’t be. “Nissa. Get out.” The words scraped his throat.
“Get up. Come on, Marcellus is—”
He pushed her away, crawling up the wall until he half leaned, half stood, to look down on her. She was real, she was here, and she was in great danger. “I told you”—the room swam around him—“to get out of Jerusalem.”
She glared up at him. “I don’t follow orders very well, or had you forgotten?” She propped her shoulder under one of his arms and bore up, taking his weight. “Now, come quickly. We don’t have much—”
The cell door slammed open.
> Silvanus stepped in, his eyes gleaming in the torchlight. “What have we here, eh? Two for the price of one?” He advanced on them. “The gods have smiled on me today.”
Longinus pushed Nissa away just before Silvanus kicked him in the gut. He crashed to the floor, the room spinning around him.
Silvanus’s meaty hands closed around Nissa’s loose hair. He threw her to the ground in front of Longinus. “I was looking forward to killing you. Now I’ll let you live to see me kill your little thief.” He kicked the door shut. “But I won’t kill her just yet.”
Nissa scuttled as far away from Silvanus as she could, into the farthest corner of the cell. Longinus pushed himself up and staggered into the middle of the room, blocking her from Silvanus. He had to stop him; he knew what Silvanus would do to her. “Don’t touch her.”
Silvanus let out a low laugh. “Who will stop me, Jew lover? You?”
Longinus lunged for the sword—his sword—that hung at Silvanus’s side. Silvanus dodged him and swept out an arm, knocking Longinus to his knees. A curtain of pain dimmed his vision. Shouts sounded, and when his sight cleared, he saw Marcellus, his sword drawn, standing over a prone Silvanus.
“You take orders from me, legionary,” Silvanus barked, pushing himself onto his knees.
Marcellus circled around Silvanus until he stood in front of Longinus and Nissa. “You are the primus pilus, but I’m the optio ad carcerem.”
Silvanus’s jaw snapped shut, and his eyes narrowed.
“This is my domain, centurion. Even Pilate will tell you that.”
“So you’ll let these two go?” Silvanus stood, and his hand went to his dagger. “I’ll have you executed for treason within a day.”
Marcellus glanced over his shoulder to Longinus, his face indecisive.
“No.” Longinus stood up straighter. “He’ll take me to Pilate. I’ll take my punishment. But this girl goes free.”
Nissa darted to his side. “I’m going with you.”
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