by Angela Hunt
“Peter is a good man.”
“Peter wants to work … in Rome.”
I gripped my basket and struggled to control my swirling emotions. “Why would he want to go to such a heathen place?”
“Peter says there are believers in Rome. They need teaching and encouragement.”
“Let someone else encourage them. Rome is not a good place, Hadassah; I wouldn’t send my worst enemy to such a city.”
My worst enemy lives there already.
Hadassah drew a deep breath, then slipped an arm about my shoulder. “I don’t know where we’ll go. We have to finish the work with Barnabas, and John Mark will continue to seek ADONAI’S will. I just wanted you to know what we were thinking.”
I embraced her, though I also resolved to pray that my darling Hadassah would never set foot in my enemy’s pagan city.
* * *
Back in Magdala, when I sold dyed fabrics, a woman once came to my booth and wanted to buy a length of fine wool to make a new tunic for her son’s wedding. I told her the price and she smiled. “I can’t afford that,” she said, “but you will give me the wool as a mitzvah commanded by HaShem.”
I bit down hard on my lower lip and tried to disguise my annoyance. In truth, I might have given her the wool or sold it at a reduced price, but because she told me to give it as an act of obedience to ADONAI, my spirit rebelled.
It is pleasant do a good deed when the urge springs from the heart. It is far less agreeable to do good because you’ve been commanded to do so.
I looked at the woman and her open hands. “Giving my fabric away is not a mitzvah, it is bad business. Now go away and don’t bother me again.”
Did I feel guilty? I might have, but later I saw her offer a fistful of coins to the merchant at the salter’s booth. If she had money for fish, I reasoned, she had money for wool.
In the same way, my heart might have softened toward Atticus Aurelius, but life intervened.
* * *
One afternoon a young couple came to the inn on Crooked Street. They had been among those evicted from Rome and were on their way to Corinth, where they hoped to establish themselves as tentmakers.
We had listened to stories of the eviction with disbelief and sorrow. According to the rumors, Claudius Caesar, who had initially treated our people with respect, began to listen to those who thought us a seditious race. If the emperor had stopped with merely thinking us peculiar, we would be no worse off than usual, but apparently someone alarmed Claudius with a story about a riot instigated by Hebrew followers of one called “Chrestus.” Worried by these inflammatory stories, the emperor ordered all Hebrews out of Rome. Every descendant of Avraham had to abandon his house and business, gather what he could, and move his family elsewhere.
In Jerusalem, Miryam and I anxiously waited for news of John Mark and Hadassah, who had been living in Rome. We sat to eat with Aquila and Priscilla, but I knew Miryam and I were both wishing we were sitting across from our loved ones instead.
We had been making pleasant conversation when Aquila suddenly lowered his cup and gripped the edge of the table. As a visible quiver ran through the man, I braced myself for bad news.
“I don’t know how to say this,” Aquila said. “But I did not come to Jerusalem only to worship at the temple. I also bring word from John Mark.”
Miryam recoiled from his troubled eyes and tried on a trembling smile. “Don’t tell me he’s gone on to Cyprus. I knew he wouldn’t come here, so I’m not too disappointed—”
“He is with Peter in Alexandria. Uriah and Abel are with him as well.”
“And Hadassah?” I spoke calmly, but with that odd sense of detachment that descends with the awareness of impending disaster.
He looked at me and blinked hard. “Hadassah is dead.”
For a moment color ran out of the world and the sounds of the servants faded. I looked at Aquila through a face as frozen as those engraved on Herod’s palace walls, then Miryam clutched my hand.
I didn’t move as Aquila told the story. Apparently a cohort of legionnaires had been sent to drive the last Hebrews from the quarter of the city where they lived. John Mark and Hadassah had not left their house because Hadassah was in labor, struggling to give birth to their third child. When the soldiers approached, John Mark ran out and tried to explain, but in the noise and confusion he couldn’t find the centurion in charge.
As he ran down the road, searching for the officer, one of the legionnaires spied young Uriah in a window. To force the boy out of the house, the soldier shot a flaming arrow onto the thatched roof. Though Uriah was able to rescue his brother from the burning building, he was not able to reach his mother.
By the time John Mark returned, Hadassah and the baby had died.
Miryam covered her face and sobbed as Aquila’s voice dissolved in a thready whisper, but my sense of loss went beyond tears. The old pain in my heart, which had been covered over by my new life, became an aching, fiery gnawing.
I stared at the floor where I had knelt so many times in prayer. “Did he ever find him?” I asked, my voice odd and hollow in my own ears.
Aquila’s brow furrowed. “Who?”
“The centurion. Did John Mark ever find the man?”
Our guest exhaled a heavy breath. “Yes, but too late. The centurion carried Hadassah out of the house.” He rubbed a hand over his beard, then shook his head. “He was a big man, too, and easy to spot—a Roman called Atticus Aurelius.”
* * *
After leaving the temple, instead of turning down the familiar alley that would take me to Crooked Street, I lifted my chin and strode toward the gates of the Fortress Antonia.
I had come to a decision. No longer would I let my grievances fester; I would deal with them. Rome prided itself on discipline and justice, so I would lodge a complaint and be sure it was sent to someone with the authority to crush a centurion.
I only needed to know how to proceed.
I crossed the garrison’s dusty courtyard and walked into a small chamber built into the gate. A pair of guards sat around a game of some sort, and one of them looked up and frowned when he saw me. “What do you need, woman? You shouldn’t be here.”
Despite his rudeness, I forced a smile. “I wanted to inquire about a Roman centurion known as Atticus Aurelius. I believe he serves in Rome.”
A younger man at the back of the room turned. He shot me a sideward look that I didn’t like and couldn’t read, then he grinned. “I know Atticus Aurelius.”
My breath caught in my lungs. “You … know this man?”
The young fellow waited until the gruff guard went back to his game, then he walked toward me and offered a conspiratorial smile: “He’s my father.”
I stiffened. A Roman soldier … with a son? I shouldn’t have been surprised. After all, Romans like their women, and children are a natural result of such liking. I took pains to keep my expression smooth and calm. “Is he here, by chance? In Jerusalem?”
The young man laughed. “He’s in Rome.” The soldier leaned against the wall and narrowed his eyes as he smiled. “How do you know him?”
“We’ve never met. But I have heard of his … exploits.” I held up my hand when I realized I was babbling. “Will you give me a moment? I must think about what to do.”
I turned and pulled my veil forward to shield my face from the young man’s observant eyes. How should I handle this? How could I file a formal complaint with the man’s son? If I wrote a letter, he’d destroy it. If I told him what his father had done, he’d deny the truth. If I asked to speak to his superior officer … no. The gruff men sitting on the bench had not granted me even a token measure of respect.
Nothing to do, then, but take my leave. For the present.
I turned and nodded at the young man. “Thank you for your help, but it’s not likely I’ll be going to Rome any time soon.”
“Is there anything I can do for you?” The young legionnaire tilted his head. “Are you in need of protectio
n? Some kind of assistance?”
Again I smiled. “Thank you, no. I wanted to speak with the centurion about a matter from the past. But what’s done is done.”
Before he could quiz me further, I pulled my veil tight beneath my chin and slipped into the street.
Chapter Fifty-seven
On the first day of the week, I stood with John Mark’s mother on the women’s side of the synagogue and lifted my voice in a tehillim of praise. Even though a shadow of grief hung over us, we were comforted in the presence of other believers.
I nudged Miryam with my elbow as a young soldier edged into the synagogue and stood at the back of the men’s section. “Do you know that one?”
She peered over her shoulder, then shook her head. “Not his name, but he comes almost every week. A handsome youth, don’t you think?”
I bit my lip, unable to believe my eyes. I hadn’t been able to forget meeting the son of Atticus Aurelius; the knowledge of his existence had been gnawing at the edges of my contentment ever since I returned from the Fortress Antonia.
Why did Atticus Aurelius get to enjoy a child after stealing two sons from me? How could the Holy One allow the offspring of a brutal legionnaire to attain maturity while my Binyamin lies in his tomb?
These worrisome thoughts chased themselves through my mind as we sat to hear from James, Yeshua’s brother.
He unfurled a scroll and began to tell us a story from the writings of Samuel. “Scripture tells us,” James said, “that David was Isra’el’s best king, the only one who truly followed God. Though he was a great leader, he took another man’s wife, a woman called Bathsheba, and she conceived a child. In order to hide his sin, David sent her husband to the front lines of battle, where he met his death.
“Nathan the prophet called David to account for his sin, and the king paid a steep price—the baby born to Bathsheba died soon after birth.”
I looked down at my hands and suppressed the urge to roll my eyes. David had lost a baby … yes, a tough loss, but I had lost an entire family, not due to my sin, but someone else’s! Though it felt blasphemous to think so, I was beginning to believe God owed me the freedom to commit a sin or two.
“Most people think the story ends there,” James continued, “but years passed and Absalom, one of David’s sons, rebelled against his father. He employed runners to go before his chariot and praise him to the skies; he sat in the city gate and prejudiced people against his father the king.
“When Absalom was certain of his influence, he went to Hebron and established a throne there. When the people began to support him, David and his loyal followers had to flee for their lives. One man remained in Jerusalem, however—David’s friend Ahithophel. He had been one of the king’s most trusted counselors.
“Grateful for the older man’s experience, Absalom asked David’s counselor for advice. Ahithophel told him to go to the royal palace and sleep with David’s concubines on the roof of the house … so all Isra’el would see what Absalom was doing.
“Why would he advise this?” James let the question echo as his gaze roved over us. “Because Ahithophel had a son named Eliam and Eliam had a daughter named Bathsheba. Ahithophel had burned with fury for years, knowing his granddaughter had been publicly shamed and her husband murdered. But what could he do against a powerful king? Only one thing: wait for the proper time to strike.”
As a murmur rustled through the room, James lifted his hand for emphasis. “You have heard that revenge is a dish best served cold, but Yeshua told us to forgive our enemies.”
The Lord’s brother continued to speak, but the subject of his story flooded my mind. Like Ahithophel, I had been waiting for a proper time to strike at the Romans who destroyed my family. Gaius Cabilenus was beyond my reach and Atticus Aurelius in Rome, but I could exorcise the emotions in my festering heart if I could punish the man who had destroyed my family.
Like Ahithophel, I might not be able to reach the mighty man, but I could reach his son.
* * *
That afternoon, I paced in the hall of the inn and considered my options. After our morning worship, I made subtle inquiries and discovered the young legionnaire’s name: Quintus. He had been a soldier for six years, a talkative woman told me, so he had to be about twenty-four years old.
He’d been born the year my son died.
God might forgive the unfortunate timing of his birth, but I couldn’t.
Forgiveness is a lovely idea … until you have an offense to forgive. Though the Spirit of Christ urged me to move on, the spirit of woundedness paralyzed me. Justice had not been achieved. No one had acted to avenge my family. Herod wouldn’t help, Yeshua had ignored politics, and no one in Jerusalem wanted to remember the awful things that had happened when Pilate governed Judea. I might have been able to release those past sorrows until a heavy Roman arm snatched Hadassah from me, too.
If I had been braver, if I had done something to avenge Yaakov, Rachel, Avram, and Binyamin, would HaShem have spared Hadassah? I didn’t know, but her loss awakened the slumbering voices of my loved ones. They haunted my dreams, reminding me that the family tomb outside Magdala had been filled far too soon.
What was I to do? The Law commanded me to avenge my loved ones; Yeshua had told me to submit to my enemies. I wanted to obey my rabboni, but how would obedience ease my anger and grief and frustration?
If I didn’t act, how was I to find peace?
Peace, I realized, would come at a price.
I would have to strike the son to wound the father.
To take my revenge.
Why should it matter that Quintus was winsome and a believer? My Avram had been handsome and bright, my husband had been a devoted son of Avraham. Rachel had died in the full flower of womanhood; her baby had been wanted and loved. And my precious Binyamin … I had cherished him even more passionately because he needed me more than the others.
I see the look in your eye; I know you think me hard-hearted. Is it surprising to find such an emotion in the breast of one who follows Yeshua? Perhaps.
My rabboni told us to love our enemies, but I could not love a man I could not forgive.
So Quintus Aurelius would have to die.
Chapter Fifty-eight
Once I decided to strike the Roman’s son, relief settled over my shoulders like a warm woolen cloak. My life no longer mattered; I lived for vengeance and knew what it would cost.
Throughout the following week, I went about my work and considered the best way to accomplish my goal. I was no warrior; at sixty-four I lacked the strength to accomplish murder. Yet Jerusalem was a sprawling city, and the Romans had not managed to eradicate every trace of lawlessness. In certain quarters I knew I could find zealots who hated the occupiers; in other areas I might find criminals who could be persuaded to attack a pair of Romans on their nightly patrol.
Arranging the murder would be easy. But how would Atticus feel upon receiving word that his son had been killed? He would mourn, of course, but he wouldn’t receive the correspondence for weeks, perhaps months, depending upon the speed of whatever sailing vessel or caravan carried the news. The blow, though severe, would be muted by time and distance. Atticus Aurelius would not hold his son’s broken body in his hands as I had held Avram; he would not feel his son’s precious blood spilling over his fingers.
More to the point, he would not realize his own rash actions had birthed the fatal blow. The report would say that Quintus had been attacked by brigands or enemies of Rome, so the centurion would have no idea that he’d paid an installment on the debt he assumed one hot night in Magdala.
My initial plan was good, but too indirect. I needed something more personal, more involving.
I needed Atticus Aurelius to come to Jerusalem.
* * *
The next week, as our assembly of believers dispersed, I tugged on the young Roman’s sleeve. He turned, surprise on his face, and smiled when he saw me standing beside John Mark’s mother. “A blessed morning to you! Christ
is risen!”
I would not have been more startled to hear Greek words from the mouth of a toad. Miryam, however, summoned the grace for a proper reply: “Christ is risen indeed.”
I tucked my hands into my sleeves and bowed my head. “We were hoping, sir, that you would come to dinner. Several of the others are joining us for a meal.”
Miryam shot me a look of amazement, then smiled. “At my inn,” she added. “The one on Crooked Street.”
“I know the place.” Something that might have been a smile flitted into his dark eyes, but I couldn’t be sure. “I’d be delighted.”
“Bring a friend, if you like,” Miryam said. “We’ll be eating at about the sixth hour.”
I could not look at him again, but managed to echo, “By all means, bring a friend.” What was one more detestable Roman at the table?”
Miryam nudged me as we walked away. “What happened to your rule?”
“What rule?”
“You said we should never have Romans at the inn, so I never dreamed you’d invite —”
“Times are changing, Miryam.” I led her through the street without haste, but with an urgent purpose.
* * *
Miryam was thrilled and honored when Quintus Aurelius not only came for dinner, but presented her with a freshly filled wineskin.
Atwitter with delight, she led him to a place of honor in the center of the room. I watched in silent horror as the son of my dearest enemy reclined on a couch and ate with the elders of the congregation at Jerusalem. We women wandered in and out, refilling goblets and replenishing plates. Only when our guests have finished did I find the courage to ask the question that had lingered on my lips all afternoon. “Tell us, Quintus, about your father. He is stationed in Rome, is he not?”
His youthful face brightened. “Indeed he is. And I must know, Miryam—how do you know his name?”
I smiled. “Your father makes an impression wherever he travels. His century once came through my village in Galilee—a place called Magdala.”