The Angel and the Cross

by Sigmund Brouwer

  “I cannot tell you what tomorrow brings.” I squatted beside him and, staring into the distance as well, spoke in a low voice. “Quentin, much has been asked of you. The Evil One is desperate to win this battle, desperate to stop the Lord God’s plan from unfolding.”

  “The Evil One?”

  “The fallen angel. Satan.”

  Quentin nearly cried with frustration. “From the beginning, you have kept this secret from me. What is this battle? What is my role in it?”

  I spoke as if Quentin had not interrupted. “The Evil One seduces men to do his work. He lies and deceives and promises rewards he cannot give. The Lord, however, works through men in a different manner. He asks for love freely given, and for service rendered in trust and in faith. That is why I was instructed to let you overhear the Zealots. Now there is no deception in His request for you to remain here. You know what might lie ahead. But if you trust the Lord and remain, the Evil One shall be defeated.”

  Quentin, despite his fears, was fascinated. Military instincts driven into him by his elite training from birth forced his mind to analyze the battle methods. Evil, he realized, would fight in no other manner than that which the angel described. Good, through the Lord God, would fight in no other manner than purity. Even without knowing the battle would unfold or what was at stake, Quentin’s military mind seized upon the one obvious flaw.

  “If I refuse, will your Lord lose the battle?”

  “No, child. It is our Lord. And He will triumph. But the anguish inflicted upon men by the Evil One will be much worse unless you help. The course of history shall change drastically.”

  The horror of Barabbas’s words began to sink in. Quentin knew, without doubt, that his father, Marcus, would kill Jews in retaliation. Then more Jews would begin to fight until the entire land was a bloodbath.

  “Answer me this, Pelagius,” Quentin said. “How does Barabbas intend for my death to gain the Zealots the support of all of Israel?”

  I looked at him steadily.

  “And what, I ask again,” Quentin cried in response to my steady gaze, “is this battle with the Evil One that you refuse to describe? What good am I to your battle if I am sacrificed?”

  I pondered the questions. A hush, peculiar to the depths of a cave, pressed upon us both.

  “My child,” I began, “as I explained, the Evil One seduces and deceives to gain his helpers. Our Father, in contrast, asks only for faith. And that is how you must make your own decision. On faith. Even if I explain every detail of the battle and your role in it, that knowledge won’t help you make a decision based on faith.”

  I held up a hand to silence the protests before Quentin could utter them.

  “For you to know the details now is too much of a burden for any man, too much of a price to pay. Should you refuse to help, you will be haunted with guilt until you die. As it is now, you can still refuse and keep your conscience unblemished. Say yes on faith, or return home unburdened. The choice is yours.”

  “Pelagius,” Quentin pleaded. “How can I have faith unless I know?”

  I smiled gently. “That is a question I have heard men ask for centuries. Answer this. How many miracles have you seen since leaving the palace?”

  Caught before plunging headfirst onto the road. Speaking in a foreign tongue to the guards. The escape, unchecked, in the cart. The sand storm. Surviving the narrow plateau.

  Quentin nodded hesitantly as he recalled those events.

  My smile became even gentler. “With all of that – and Our Father sends angels as messengers to very few – do you still have too little knowledge to make that step of faith?”

  Quentin listened intently as I continued, “Yes, child. Miracles happen around men all the time. The miracle of birth. The gift from the Lord that is the joy of love between a man and a woman. The miracle of others around them discovering faith. Yet even with the daily miracles, there has never been enough knowledge for men to have faith. There has only been enough to make them bitter in their unbelief.”

  “You are telling me,” Quentin said in a low voice, “that this faith must be an act of trust. I must step off a ledge in darkness and hope this Lord of yours will catch me.”

  “You are in darkness because your eyes are closed. Faith will open them. You will see that the Lord has indeed caught you.”

  “How can I believe that?” Quentin asked in anguish. “My own gods only demand sacrifices, not surrender of will.”

  “Take the step, child. Understanding will never give you faith. Yet faith will give you understanding.”

  In his confusion, Quentin felt very small. He tried his final protest. “By asking me to remain among the Zealots, you are asking me to do something for the sake of Israel. Yet I am a citizen of Rome.”

  The echo of faraway footsteps faintly approached.

  “Quentin.” I did not hurry my sober words. “This is much more important than the fate of two peoples. Trust in Our Father and remain here. Or leave with me now, as you are free to choose.”

  Quentin hesitated.

  A dim figure appeared, outlined against the nearest torch, less than a stone’s throw away.

  My voice was grave. “Will you remain?”

  In that moment, Quentin prayed. Hear, O Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is one. He wanted to believe, to surrender his trust to this God of love, yet it was as if he were stepping blindly off a cliff. This God, he knew, would not accept a half-love, a half-devotion. Give me strength, O God of Israel. Let me believe.

  In his heart, Quentin stepped off that ledge into darkness. He did not fall.

  Instead, as he was finishing his prayer, Quentin felt a peace touch him and fill him completely. Those brief moments lasted a lifetime and, although he was still a boy, he knew with certainty that the memory of that flood of love and strength would be with him until he was a very old man.

  He smiled back at me. “I will remain here without fear.”

  I disappeared, leaving Quentin alone to face the man who approached.

  Chapter Twenty

  The old man who had earlier pleaded for Quentin to be spared placed his torch in a leather bracket on the cave wall.

  The flickering light showed a long, lean face with a narrow gray beard that reached down to the old man’s chest. His wrinkles were set with resignation. He cleared his throat several times before he spoke.

  “Shel told me you returned here by your own will. She would not tell me why the son of a legion commander would do so.”

  Quentin felt no inclination to explain, either. The peace that had filled him so completely remained in the back of his thoughts, and it was a private joy. Not even the mention of Shel and the reminder of her betrayal of his trust brought him pain or anger.

  The old man coughed again. “My name is Amram. Until very recently, I was the general of the Zealots here.” He stopped suddenly and stared at the ropes on the cave floor. “You are unbound.”

  “An angel set me free.”

  Amram sighed, obviously thinking the boy was making a joke at his expense. “No matter. I was tempted to untie them myself. But, of course, that is not possible.”

  Quentin, aware at all times of military tactics, could not help his next words.

  “By losing your appeal in the chamber, you lost your position as leader,” he blurted.

  Amram looked at him strangely. “I suppose your angel led you there so that you could overhear everything?”

  Quentin nodded.

  Another sigh from the old man. “Mock me no longer. Your escape attempt and the argument you were unfortunate enough to overhear at least saves me a long explanation. In short, I am here to offer you the only solace I can.”

  He held out a small leather pouch. “Take this tomorrow morning. Or tonight, if the horror ahead of you is too much to bear in the quiet hours tonight.”

  Quentin did not take the offered pouch.

  Amram looked away as he spoke. “Please. There is an herb inside which is a quick poison. Swa
llow it without chewing. You will sleep, then die peacefully. I cannot let you go without betraying my people. But at least I can spare you the agony of the sword.”

  “With your Lord, is there not always hope?” Quentin asked, secure with the peace inside him.

  Amram spun quickly. “Such faith! From a Roman!” He stared at him thoughtfully. “Surely you were jesting about the angel.”

  When Quentin only stared back, Amram put his face in his hands. “To hope is to dare too much.”

  He straightened with great dignity and grasped the torch, as if the sudden show of emotion had never happened. “May our Lord be with you. And with me. And with Israel in the coming months.”

  Quentin had much too ask, much that the angel had not explained. He chose to ask one question. “Please tell me this before you go. Who is Urbal the Wise?”

  Amram nearly dropped the torch. “You’ve heard the name?” he gasped, then recovered quickly by answering his own question. “Yes, you have. In the chamber.”

  Amram did not set the torch down as he spoke. “My son, knowing even his name would mean your death, even if I could change your sentence by morning. It is a name barely known in the most secret circles of the Zealots.”

  “If I am to die,” Quentin said without blinking, “it can do no harm for you to tell me more about him.”

  Amram considered this, then spoke.

  “There is little to tell. I, who have been the Zealot’s general for two decades, know as much as anyone, and that is little more than the sound of his whispering voice. I have never even seen the man.”

  “You have his instructions. The ones you repeated in the chamber concerning me,” Quentin observed.

  “That is true. We met earlier, as is usual, outside the Holy of Holies in the Jerusalem temple. He remained behind a curtain and spoke briefly. It is rumored that he enters the temple in disguise and leaves by disguise, but no one ever sees him. Sometimes, he delivers instructions by messenger or in a rolled parchment.”

  “Jerusalem?”

  Amram nodded, caught up in the telling of a legend. “Jerusalem for me. Other towns across our land for other generals. Urbal the Wise has seemed to be everywhere for as long as I can remember.”

  Quentin was incredulous. “One hidden voice commands all the Zealots across Israel?”

  What news for my father, Quentin thought, should he ever escape alive!

  “Until now.”Amram continued. “This, your death sentence, is the first time his authority has been questioned or doubted. Until now, his knowledge of Roman military plans has always been complete. When raids were planned, we were warned of them by him. When troops were to punish a village, he warned that village, giving it time to empty of nearly all inhabitants. He has always been right. Until now. Barabbas’s words about a new Roman military campaign was a shock to all of us who depend on Urbal the Wise.”

  Quentin spoke more to himself than to Amram. “How did this man, Urbal the Wise, know so much?”

  “When one has a network of spies across a nation – and none of the spies knows the master – one can remain hidden, learn much about the enemy, and survive for many, many years.”

  Amram looked up sharply. “That is enough babbling from an old man. I am sorry you must die.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  At the first light of dawn – although there was no sign of it from deep within the cave – Barabbas sent for Quentin.

  The boy kept his head held high as he walked between two burly Zealots down that dark passageway to his death.

  Barabbas, grim and silent, was there, as was Amram, who leaned against the bare walls of a small room cut into the side of the cave. A large man stood behind them both, a broad sword resting against his leg.

  Quentin did not flinch as he noticed the sword. Rather, he drew upon his dignity as the son of a legion commander and spoke with a calm he did not feel. “Does your Yahweh approve of the slaughter and torture of children?”

  The remark stung Barabbas.

  “What does a Roman know about our Lord?”

  Quentin prayed with dignity. “Hear, O Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is one.” He stared directly into Barabbas’s eyes. “If I am to die, I am at peace.”

  “Enough!” Angered by his own reaction to the boy, Barabbas shoved him roughly to the swordsman. “Ears first. Then hands. Women are waiting outside to bind his wounds.”

  Quentin closed his eyes and clenched his jaw.

  A new voice broke into his private darkness.

  “Not yet, Father.”

  Shel! Quentin did not know what to feel at her voice. Rage. Bitterness. Relief. Lightness. He opened his eyes.

  Her hair was carefully brushed back, and she carried a full wineskin with both hands.

  “This is not a place for you to be,” Barabbas ordered her.

  “I have brought water. If you do to him as threatened with the sword, his pain will be great. I’m sure none of you have given consideration to the thirst that will come with it.”

  In spite of his situation, Quentin grinned. Why did that girl always have to be right? His mouth was as dry as cotton from fear, which not even he had noticed until she spoke.

  “Be done with it, then,” Barabbas growled.

  Shel’s trembling hands brought the wineskin upward. Quentin’s bound hands could not help her as she guided the wineskin to his mouth. Water spilled down his chest as she poured too quickly for him to swallow.

  “Trust me,” she whispered as she leaned forward to mop up the water. “Remember the white pellet and the brown pellet you found among my possessions, and now, finally, trust me.”

  Shel turned to her father. “Quentin must be released.”

  “Ho, ho!” Barabbas said with indulgence. “Now you are overruling the vote of the Zealots?”

  “Release him. He will return to the palace and bring back the sacred goblets.”

  Barabbas’s manner changed abruptly. “Daughter, it is a good thing for you that you are my only child. If anyone else spoke to me like that, I would have them whipped and beaten.”

  Shel ignored her father’s flashing eyes. “Once he returns with the sacred goblets, the people of Israel will rejoice to have the goblets back. They will applaud the Zealots and our wisdom and mercy, and then join with us to help us become united and strong. As well, if we treat Quentin with justice, he will negotiate on our behalf with his father, Marcus. If we are to endure Roman rule, as Quentin grows older, he will ensure it is a benevolent rule.”

  Barabbas shook his head. “Take her away. I will deal with her later.”

  Amram finally spoke. “A moment, please. She speaks with such certainty, I would like to question her.”

  Barabbas waved away the two guards.

  “It is true,” Amram said quietly, “that should we let the boy go and should he return the sacred goblets and should he negotiate on our behalf, much bloodshed will be prevented in this generation and the next.”

  “How do you know he will return? What guarantees do you have that he will negotiate on our behalf?” Barabbas asked. “Once he reaches the palace, he will be safe again. He will have no reason to return to us.”

  Shel brought the wineskin again to Quentin and let him drink. When he had finished, she said, “As to his future kindness towards us as the son of a legion commander – and finally as the legion commander – I have two things to say. If we treat him with mercy now, surely he will consider mercy toward us later. And the second thing is this. Should we not trust in the Lord to guide him and us?”

  “But he will not return,” Barabbas persisted.

  “Will you return?” Shel asked Quentin. “If we release you now, will you go to the palace, take the sacred goblets which are rightfully ours, and bring them back to us?”

  “I would be a fool not to say yes,” Quentin replied evenly. “But I have no guarantees that you will not simply bind me again once you have the goblets.”

  “It comes down to trust,” Amram said. “Do we
trust you? Do you trust us? With trust, we can save thousands of lives.”

  “I can guarantee that he returns,” Shel said. She looked at the ground and hesitated, weighing her next words. “The water I gave him contains a slow-acting poison. If he does not come back for the antidote within twenty-four hours, he will die.”

  Betrayed again!

  “I was fully prepared to return on trust alone!” Quentin roared. “Now I would rather die!”

  When the echoes of his rage subsided, Shel smiled calmly and brought the wineskin to her own mouth.

  Before anyone could react, she drank deeply, her delicate throat bobbing as the water went down. Shel turned the wineskin upside down and emptied the water at her feet. When the gurgling finished, she looked up and said, “If Quentin is not released, I, too, choose to die.”

  Angel Blog

  Death.

  Time and again, death causes many of you humans to raise your fists and shout at Our Father in anger. Or with defiance. Hatred. Perhaps with threats of disbelief.

  How can God be a God of love if He allows the horrible things that kill so many people? some of you demand. Look at what death does, you say. It sometimes takes the young who have so much to live for, devastating those left behind with only memories. It slowly destroys the old.

  Earthquake. Tsunamis. Hurricanes. They all destroy and kill. How can you say God loves humans if He has created a world with tragedies like this?

  If there were no hope beyond death, you would almost be right. It would be very difficult to think that God loved humans, even though it was sin that brought death upon the human race. And according to this injustice against God, death is the price that humans must pay.

  But there is hope beyond death.

  If you could see eternity as angels do, you would realize that death is far from the worst thing that can happen to a human. Losing your soul to the Evil One – being banished from the presence of God forever – is the worst thing that can happen. Yet you can make the choice not to lose your soul to the Evil One. You can make the choice to turn to Our Father through His Son, and that makes death simply a passage. It’s a sad passage for those left behind, but an indescribably incredible new journey for those stepping onto the new path of their eternal life.