by Angela Hunt
Peter looked down, his lashes hiding his eyes, and hesitated. “Are you sure this is what you should do?”
Something in his voice—something decidedly unPeter—gave me pause. “I’ve come a long way,” I finally answered. “What harm will it do for me to ask a few questions?”
“Go, then,” he said, nodding at someone behind me, so I knew he was already thinking about his meeting with the centurion.
So I left him and walked toward the barracks.
I hesitated outside the wide stone arch that led into the legionnaires’ area, to take a deep breath and wind the raveled fabric of my nerve. A uniformed equestrian walked by, leading a horse whose hooves clomped over the stone pavement in time to the thumping of my heart.
Was I nervous because I’d waited so long for this moment? Or was I afraid because I was a Hebrew woman—alone—among people who didn’t respect women or Hebrews?
Gulping back my fear, I slipped along the passageway like a shadow. When I had traversed the stone entry, I found myself in a paved courtyard surrounded by colonnades on two sides and a single arched entry to my left. Because I could see men moving in the areas behind the roofed porches, I darted toward the entry.
I found myself in a rectangular hall with a wooden ceiling supported by wide beams. Benches ran down the center aisle, facing each other, and a painted image of a large man slitting the throat of an ox stood behind a set of three altars, each of which steamed with live coals—
I cried out as a rough hand gripped my arm. “What are you doing here?”
I grimaced at the soldier who held me, his eyes bright beneath the rim of his helmet. Brass cheek guards covered most of his face, leaving only his nose, eyes, and chin unexposed.
“I am a guest of the centurion Cornelius,” I told him in Greek. “I would like to speak to someone in charge.”
His brows raised at the mention of the centurion’s name, but he did not loosen his grip. “We do not allow women in the temple of Jupiter.”
“I didn’t know this was a temple. Excuse my ignorance, please.”
“You Jews don’t excuse a man’s ignorance.” He glared at me, his eyes hot with resentment. “If a man takes one step out of that Court of the Gentiles in your temple, your guards would strike him dead.”
I gaped at him. “True—but there are warnings posted on the walls. There are no warnings here, nothing at all.”
His expression darkened with unreadable emotions, then he pulled me out of the chamber. “We’re going to see the commander of the garrison. We’ll let him decide what to do with you.”
* * *
My mind raced as the brute led me, half-walking, half-stumbling, toward the marble palace to the north of the barracks. I went along without speaking, my misgivings increasing by the minute.
The soldier thrust me through a door and I stumbled forward, then caught my balance. Two legionnaires sat behind a table, both wearing ornate uniforms. They frowned when they saw me. “Who’s this?”
“Found her snooping around in the barracks temple. She says she’s here to see Cornelius.”
The younger of the two men, a man with thinning brown hair, jerked his head toward the small houses that stood behind the barracks. “Cornelius is in his quarters, and he does have guests.”
“Yes.” I glanced back at the brute who’d found me. “We’re from Joppa.”
He bared his teeth. “You speak like one of those stubborn Galileans.”
“I’m from Magdala. But I’ve come here from Joppa.”
As if that statement confirmed my untrustworthiness, the soldier shoved me forward. “I think she’s a spy. Perhaps you should send her to Syria to stand before the legate.”
A wave of grayness passed over me. “Ask what you will, I’ll tell you what I was doing. But I am no spy.”
“All right, then.” The silver-haired officer, obviously the commander, crossed his arms. “Why were you in the temple?”
“I was looking for someone … who could help me find a pair of Roman soldiers.”
The silver-haired man turned to his companion and lifted a tufted brow. “She’s a little old for that, don’t you think?”
For a moment I didn’t understand, then a blush burned my cheek. “This is not what you imagine! I don’t know these men, I only know of them.”
“Then why do you need them?”
“I want to report them for misconduct.”
The second centurion laughed. “By which law are you defining this misconduct? Jewish or Roman?”
I crossed my arms, too, determined to match their stubbornness. “I’ll not say more until I know whether Gaius Cabilenus and Atticus Aurelius are garrisoned here.”
The names meant something; I could tell. The men at the table looked at each other again, but this time with faces as blank and smooth as sleeping babies’.
“Atticus Aurelius was here,” the commander said. “He has been transferred to Rome.”
“And Gaius Cabilenus?”
“Dead.” His mouth dipped into an even deeper frown. “Broke his neck last year when he was thrown from his horse.”
I studied the officer carefully. Roman soldiers looked out for each other, so this man might well be lying for his brothers-in-treachery. “Have you any proof?”
The commander sighed, then nodded to the younger man, who stood and left the room, returning a moment later with two unfurled scrolls. He laid them on the table, then pointed to a handwritten line on the first parchment.
“Here.” He tapped the writing. “The honorable Gaius Cabilenus, buried on the fourth day of the sixth month, killed in a training accident.” He picked up the second scroll, searched the scrawled lines, then turned the parchment toward me. “There—two centuries of the Cohors Secunda Italica Civum Romanorum escorted Pontius Pilate, procurator of Judea, to Rome. One century commanded by Atticus Aurelius, the other commanded by Flavius Gemellus.” He named the date and the ship they had sailed on, but I scarcely heard him.
I stared at the names on the parchments and realized that HaShem had removed Gaius Cabilenus from my reach … and my only remaining hope of justice had sailed away four years earlier.
* * *
I’d had no success in my quest, but Peter’s meeting with Cornelius went better than anyone expected. The centurion and several of his men not only accepted Peter’s testimony, but the Holy One poured out his gift of the Holy Spirit as Peter was telling the Gentiles about what Yeshua had done.
Peter, Shimon, and the other men from Joppa celebrated that night, praising God and singing as they sat at dinner with the Romans. Shimon’s wife, Susanna, and I kept to ourselves and watched from an alcove. I shared their gladness in the goodness of God, but my heart remained shadowed with the disappointing news I’d received earlier.
Though I would never admit it to my believing brothers and sisters, I couldn’t help but question the Holy One. How could Roman legionnaires be blessed with fullness of spirit while my arms remained empty?
Chapter Fifty
Pesach had taken on new meaning since our Lord’s death, yet during one particular festival, eleven years after Yeshua’s resurrection, we found it difficult to celebrate. I looked around the circle and noticed several missing faces. Were the others mourning … or hiding?
Herod Agrippa, our new king, realized he could win favor with the religious authorities if he silenced the leaders of the Hebrew believers. As the first step in his plan, he sent soldiers to arrest James, John’s brother. Before we could decide how to react, Herod had the son of Zebedee run through with a sword.
The news of James’s execution left us numb with grief and shock. With heavy hearts, we met at John Mark’s inn to observe Pesach. In a gathering that included many of the elders, we stood in the dullness of despair and prayed for comfort. Peter had raised the dead, but God had not willed the resurrection of James. Yeshua had not hurried to Tiberias to restore the Immerser after Yochanan’s beheading, but he had raised Lazarus after four days in
the tomb.
Why did one man deserve a miracle while another man didn’t? I couldn’t see an answer and I didn’t dare voice my question.
But every time I closed my eyes, the backs of my eyelids filled with images of James and John, the loud, laughing brothers who rarely parted from each other. I remembered how they had wanted to call down fire from heaven when a Samaritan village refused to give us shelter for the night, and how, with Peter and John, James had been part of Yeshua’s inner circle. The three of them had been privy to things withheld from the rest of us … and for what? All the things James had witnessed died with him.
Pain squeezed my heart when I recalled how furious the other disciples had been when Zebedee’s Miryam asked Yeshua if her sons could sit at his right and left hand in his kingdom. I hadn’t seen Miryam in months, but I knew this news would break her heart. And John? Of the two men, he was the more sensitive. I couldn’t imagine how he would handle the death of his beloved brother.
We were in the midst of prayer when someone knocked on the door. Rhoda, one of the servants at the inn, answered the summons, then came to tug on my sleeve. “A Roman,” she whispered, her eyes as round and white as a panicked colt’s. “He wishes to speak to a woman called Miryam.”
John Mark’s mother and I looked at each other. Miryam was such a common Hebrew name, the Roman probably had no idea how to differentiate between us.
Both of us went to the door. John Mark’s mother opened it. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see an entire company of armed men at the door, all set upon our extermination. But the fellow before us had barely entered manhood; he was probably no more than fourteen or fifteen. He looked barely old enough to grow a beard. He wore a plain white tunic, bordered at the edge with a scrolled pattern, while a scarlet cloak hung over one shoulder.
Miryam didn’t invite the Roman to enter. Instead we stepped outside and waited for the young man to state his business.
He nodded at us, then lifted a brow. “Miryam?”
“We are both known by that name,” John Mark’s mother said. “And we are like sisters, so anything you have to say to one can safely be said to the other.”
The youth hesitated, then lowered his voice and moved closer—so close, in fact, that I would have retreated had the door not blocked my way.
“I have been sent to warn you,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “Herod has arrested Peter and is holding him at the Fortress Antonia. The king intends to bring Peter out for public trial after the festival, and then to execute him.”
My hostess gasped and clung to my shoulder, but I fastened steely eyes on the unlikely messenger. “Why should we believe you?”
He blinked as if surprised by my question. “Why would I lie?”
I would have smiled at his innocence if the situation weren’t so serious. “Who sent you to us?”
He lifted his hand and took a step back. “That’s all I can say. I have to go.”
“But who sent you?”
He back-stepped again, then looked at me with brown eyes that glowed beneath his curled bangs. “Someone who would ask one other thing—that you pray.”
Without another word, the Roman youth turned and moved into the bustle of the street. I stepped out and watched him thread his way through the boisterous crowd, then turned back to John Mark’s mother, who clung to the doorpost.
A tremor touched her lips. “Do you believe him?”
I tilted my head, then nodded. “I think I do.”
“Then we should tell the others.”
“And we should pray.”
Chapter Fifty-one
Atticus looked up as Quinn entered the barracks and made a beeline for the bench where he and Flavius were playing senet.
As always, his gaze ran over the boy’s form, making sure he had not come to any harm, then he smiled. “Did you find the Miryam who owns the inn?”
Quinn nodded. “I found two Miryams, both at the inn on Crooked Street. I gave them the news.”
Atticus squeezed his son’s arm. “You did well. Here, take a denarius for your trouble.”
Quinn waved the gift away. “I don’t need anything, Father.”
Atticus tucked the coin back into his belt, grateful that the boy had grown into a sense of honor. “Then sit and talk to us. Sometimes I think you spend entirely too much time in the company of women.”
Quinn grinned. “If you’ll excuse me, Father, I think I’d rather go to the stable. The cavalry commander has just accepted delivery of a fine stallion.”
Atticus waved him off. “Go, then.”
Because the Empress Messalina wanted to visit Jerusalem during the spring festivals, Atticus’s and Flavius’s centuries had spent the last three months serving as military escorts. Though he hated to leave Cyrilla in Rome, Atticus had been grateful for an opportunity to revisit the land of Quinn’s birth. Flavius had loathed the thought of returning to Jerusalem, but he had no choice.
Across the bench, he scowled at Atticus. “You take too many chances. What if one of Herod’s men discovers that you have warned those people?”
Atticus shrugged. “I am sworn to serve Rome, not Herod.”
“You seem to have forgotten the terms of the sacramentum. Your actions are to be governed by the rule of your commander, and governor Vitellius has warned us not to offend Herod.”
“I haven’t offended him.”
“Those people offend him.” Flavius leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I hear there are thousands in Jerusalem alone. They say the Nazarene has followers even in Rome.”
“I’m sure of it. I can’t be the only one who realizes that his power came from God.”
Flavius shook his head back and forth, like an ox stunned by the slaughterer’s blow. “You are a fool, Atticus Aurelius. First you lose your heart to a child, then to a woman, then to a Jewish prophet—”
Atticus pulled a coin from the purse strapped inside his belt. He held it between his fingers, displaying the superscription as well as the image of Caesar. “Do you see this?”
Flavius blinked. “What of it?”
“They once asked Yeshua whether it was lawful for a Jew to pay taxes to Rome. He asked for a coin like this one, then he said a man should render unto Caesar what was Caesar’s, and unto God what was God’s.” Atticus grinned and slipped the coin back into his purse. “I will give Rome everything I have promised, and the invisible God whatever he demands. As I learn what he demands, that is. I know so little about him.”
Flavius’s jaw shifted, bristling the whiskers on his cheek. “What if they ask for opposite things?”
Atticus hesitated. “Then I must obey God, I suppose. After all, he has outlived several Caesars.”
Flavius scooped up the game’s throwing sticks. “Before I win your last denarius, I need to know—are you going to do anything else for this Peter? Anything that’s going to earn the entire cohort a scourging?”
“Have no fear.” Atticus shifted on the bench, making room for Flavius to toss the sticks. “I’m going to pray. I don’t think they’ll scourge me for that.”
Chapter Fifty-two
I had not been so frightened since the morning I learned of Yeshua’s arrest. Would Herod come after all of us who believe? How much blood would have to flow before he called off his crusade?
Hadassah and I moved through our usual routine, helping John Mark’s mother care for her guests at the inn, but my stomach churned with anxiety and the urge to flee. Hundreds of people knew where the believers regularly gathered, so how safe were we at the inn?
At one point I suggested that we leave. Miryam might have agreed, but Hadassah stopped and put her hands on our shoulders. “We are not going anywhere.” Her voice was like velvet edged with iron, and as she spoke, she looked up at John Mark, who had entered the hall. “In faith we will pray for Peter and trust God to protect us … if that is his will.”
We were praying in the upstairs room when Rhoda interrupted. “Excuse me,” she said, her
whisper breaking into our anguished entreaties, “but I think Peter is standing outside the door.”
One of the elders looked at her with eyes narrowed in derision. “You’re out of your mind, girl.”
John Mark’s mother pressed her hand to her throat. “You didn’t open the door, did you?”
“I didn’t open it,” Rhoda insisted. “I listened. The man outside sounds just like Peter.”
John Mark’s mother turned to me as terror drained the blood from her face. “Herod has killed him. It must be his angel at the gate.”
Several of the women broke into tears, but I pulled out of the circle and hurried down the stairs. I stopped in the hallway and stared at the door, my heart beating hard enough to be heard an arm’s length away. Rhoda wasn’t crazy; I could hear someone knocking.
Had the Roman boy led Herod’s soldiers straight to us?
John Mark’s mother appeared beside me, then she squeezed my hand. “Soldiers don’t knock,” she said, reading my thoughts. “They batter their way in.”
She opened the door.
I stood in shocked silence. Peter—the flesh-and-blood Peter—stood on the threshold, a look of grateful wonder on his face. We led him upstairs to the others, who immediately broke out in a clamor of confused questions. He told us to calm down, then he said an angel had entered the prison and set him free, going before him to unlock gates and doors.
Peter didn’t linger, but he had a parting word for us: “Tell James, the Lord’s brother, what happened.”
As I watched the darkness swallow him, I wondered if I’d been praying in faith or despair. If I truly believed God would rescue Peter, why had I been so surprised to receive an answer to my prayers?
Chapter Fifty-three
Atticus, too, had spent that night in prayer. He stood at his window and watched as dawn rose in a violent splash of color, spreading streaks and slashes over the sleeping city. In the judgment hall of the palace, Herod would soon be taking his seat and calling for the man known as Simon Peter. A group of Herod’s guards would arrive at the Fortress Antonia and demand the prisoner.