Zakai slung his bag over his shoulder and looked up at Isa, expectation lighting those familiar eyes. “Are you running away with me?”
Isa looked down on his boy. “No, Zakai. We’re going back to Martha.”
Zakai’s face fell, and worry flashed over it. “I’ll be scraping out the pigeon coop for a week.”
Isa took Zakai’s hand in his. It was small and warm and sent a jolt of something through his chest. Martha had been afraid, and so had he. He’d been afraid to tell Martha about the demons. Afraid of what she would think of him, that her family would hate him. But now he knew . . . he had a son, a family of his own. And he wasn’t giving them up.
Melech had told him, Do not be afraid. This time, he’d do what Jesus had commanded. He’d tell all of Bethany what the Lord in his pity had done for him.
This time, he wasn’t running away.
Chapter Forty-Seven
MARTHA PACED, HER mind dulled by the sleepless night. As the sun inched above the horizon, the men had come back tired and empty-handed. The women had found no sign of Zakai in Bethany.
Simcha went out again, taking every man to scour the fields and orchards. Penina went to look in the olive groves. Safta prayed in the corner, her eyes closed, her wrinkled lips moving. Martha had sent the rest of the women to Josiah’s house to mourn with her sister. She couldn’t stand the sight of their pity, their worried whispers.
Zakai, where are you?
What was he thinking? Every part of her wanted to run out of the courtyard, to shout his name through the fields and into the valleys. But someone had to wait here, in case he came home. Please, Zakai, come home.
For the tenth time, she stirred the stew of onions and chickpeas. They had plenty of food brought in by the mourners, but she must do something. Anything but think about Zakai bleeding in the wild or taken by bandits.
At the sound of steps and the creak of the courtyard door, her heart jumped. But it wasn’t her son shouldering through the door. Simon swept into the courtyard, followed by his two guards. “Peace be to thee and to thy house,” he announced.
Her shoulders slumped. Not now, Simon. “And to yours.”
He crossed his arms in front of his chest. “I am sorry to hear of the boy. I’ve sent all my servants to look for him.”
His servants, but not the two guards who followed at his heels. “Thank you, Simon—”
“And in doing so,” he interrupted, his face grim, “they saw your friend Jesus and his people on the Jordan road.”
She blinked at him in surprise. Jesus? Why was Jesus here now?
“He sent a message.” Simon’s mouth pursed. “He waits for you, Martha.”
For me? “Why?” The question popped out of her mouth without thought.
Simon raised his brows. “You did send for him, did you not?”
She nodded, not meeting Simon’s eyes. “Yes, but . . . for Lazarus . . .”
Simon blew out a breath. After a long moment, he finally spoke. “Martha. You did what I commanded you not to do. But your brother was dying, and you are just a woman, after all.” His eyes narrowed. “But I won’t suffer your disobedience again.”
Martha bit down on her tongue, reminding herself that he was her betrothed. She was bound to obey him just as she would obey a husband.
“Jesus waits for you. To welcome him into Bethany or . . .” He didn’t have to finish.
Or send him away. No one would blame her if she did.
He stepped closer, his words low and smooth, as if he were talking about a deal on wheat. “We have an agreement, Martha. As my future wife, it is not seemly for you to welcome such a man and his followers into your home.” He put his hand on her shoulder, and his voice brooked no argument. “Go to Jesus and send him away. Before someone sends word to the Sanhedrin.”
Simon’s touch, damp and warm through the thin fabric of her tunic, made her cringe. This was the price she’d agreed to pay. His silence for her obedience. And it would be best—safer—for Jesus to stay away from Bethany. There was nothing else she could do. She opened her mouth to agree, but a sound as precious as gold—as sweet as honey—reached her ears.
Laughter. Zakai’s laughter.
She looked past Simon to the open courtyard gate, and her heart swelled as if it would burst from her chest. Isa ducked through the arched doorway and, riding on his shoulders—with Isa’s kinnor in his hands and a smile as wide as the Jordan—was her son.
“Zakai!” She stumbled past Simon, her arms open wide.
Isa swung Zakai down, and Martha dragged him into her arms, burying her face in his neck. Thank you, thank you. But whether she was thanking Isa or the Lord, she didn’t know. Tears welled, and she couldn’t stop them. Her sobs rent through her chest.
Zakai clung to her. “I’m sorry, Marmar.”
“Don’t you ever do that again.” The words choked through her tears. She pulled him tight against her.
Isa crouched beside them and laid one hand on Zakai’s shoulder.
Martha’s breath stuck in her throat. Isa’s face was no longer full of hurt but shining with something else. Pride. Joy. And determination.
He knows.
She couldn’t help it. Her gaze flew to Simon. He scrutinized Isa, then narrowed his gaze at Zakai, held between them. Anger flared on his face, and he drew a sharp breath.
Martha’s pulse pounded in her ears as fear weakened her limbs.
They both know.
Chapter Forty-Eight
Many are the women of proven worth, but you have excelled them all.
—Proverbs 31:29
MARTHA ROSE ON trembling legs, pressing Zakai against her side.
Simon’s eyes narrowed. “This is the one who defiled you.” It wasn’t a question. His guards closed in on Isa.
Martha looked over her shoulder. Isa rose slowly, but he didn’t look afraid. Why doesn’t he look afraid? “Isa. Go. I told you to go.”
Isa stood tall, his voice strong. “I’m not going anywhere.”
With a patter of sandals and an intake of breath, Penina rushed into the courtyard. She fell before Zakai and took him in her arms, crushing him to her. After a moment, she looked at Martha, then at Simon and his guards. Her brow creased when she saw Isa.
Martha gave Penina a look that said she couldn’t explain now. She wasn’t sure if she ever could. “Take him,” she whispered, nodding her head to Zakai.
Penina watched Martha over her shoulder as she prodded Zakai to the corner of the courtyard. Safta held out her arms to Zakai, and he ran to her.
Simon’s chest heaved; red crept up his neck and into his face. “Now I see why you didn’t admit who fathered the boy. A pagan.” His lips curled in disgust. “How could you defile yourself like that?” He turned his gaze on Isa. “And why did he come back now, so late?”
Martha’s hands curled into fists. Don’t answer, Isa. Don’t mention Jesus.
Isa lifted his chin. He took a deep breath and looked not at Simon but at Martha. “Jesus sent me here.”
Martha’s stomach rolled in fear. Now Simon would have no mercy.
Simon snorted. “A fool—another fool!—who believes in that blasphemer!” He turned on Martha. “They’re just the same. Both cowards, both frauds.” He shook his head. “And both here too late.”
Isa’s gaze flashed to Martha. “Jesus is here?”
Simon answered back, “He’s waiting on the road. She’ll go and send him away if she wants to save him.” He threw a scowl toward Zakai. “And herself.”
Isa stepped toward Martha, his brow furrowed. “You can’t send him away, Martha.”
Martha looked at the ground. Isa didn’t understand. She had to obey Simon now.
Isa touched her chin, raising her face to his. Simon bristled and pulled in a breath, but Isa ignored him. “Martha, Jesus is the Messiah. He sent me back to you.”
Martha let out a shaky breath. How could he still believe that after Jesus let Lazarus die? Where had he found this f
aith? And where had this courage come from, now that he was too late?
Isa’s slate-gray eyes met hers, and there was nothing in them but truth. “Ask me a question, Martha. Anything. I’ll answer you this time.”
Martha’s mouth went dry. A question. She’d asked him where he had been—why he hadn’t returned to her—and he’d refused to answer. But now she had only one question, the question she hadn’t asked Lazarus before he died, that she couldn’t ask Mary. The question she feared no one could answer.
Her throat closed so that she couldn’t speak above a whisper. “How do you know? How do you know that Jesus is the Messiah?”
Martha watched Isa’s face. All else fell away—Simon staring at her, the guards hovering so close. She must know the answer to this question.
Isa’s jaw twitched as if he were in pain; then he let out a heavy breath. “They knew.”
A shiver passed over Martha at the tremble in his voice.
“They?” Simon bit out. “Who are they?”
Isa didn’t even look at Simon. “Martha, for seven years, they tortured me.” His breath became heavy, as if he were drowning in the memory. “They filled me, Martha.” He reached up and loosened the neck of his tunic, pulling it low.
She caught her breath. Countless scars crosshatched his chest. Some long and jagged, others as straight as a knife blade. “Who . . . who did this to you?”
He swallowed. “Demons. A legion of them. They were why I couldn’t come back to you. And they are how I know Jesus is the Holy One of God.”
Simon stumbled back toward the wall, his face stricken.
A cold shiver passed down Martha’s back. Demons? He’d been possessed by demons, like the men she’d heard of who wail and beat their heads against the rocks. My Isa. How he must have suffered. Martha stepped closer, her hand rising of its own accord toward the proof of his words.
He clenched his jaw. “I’m sorry, Martha.” He closed his eyes.
Martha laid her hand over a jagged scar above his heart. Something in her own chest loosened, a shackle that had choked her heart for years. Isa hadn’t been dead. He hadn’t deserted her. He’d been imprisoned.
Isa let out a deep breath and pressed his hand over hers. “Then Jesus came to me, across the water. And they knew him. They called him son of the Most High.” His heart pounded under her palm. “He destroyed them. And then he told me to come here and tell you what he had done.”
Isa’s hand was warm over hers, his face close. “The son of the Most High, Martha,” he whispered. “Your Messiah—and mine—has come.”
Martha stared at Isa, at the scars, trying to understand. Jesus had freed him from demons and sent him home to her.
Could Isa be right? Could Jesus really be the Messiah?
Isa let out a breath as if a weight had lifted from his shoulders. “I should have told you earlier, but I was afraid.” His eyes went to Zakai. “I think we both were.”
Simon staggered forward. “Get your hands off her.” His face was pale, and he stayed far enough away that Isa couldn’t touch him. “He’s an abomination.” At his signal, the guards charged Isa, each grabbing one of his arms in their thick hands.
A sob caught in Martha’s throat. Yes, she had been afraid, so afraid for all of them. And now she had more to fear. Jesus wasn’t here to save Isa this time. Only she could do that.
Martha went to her knees before Simon. She grasped the hem of his cloak in supplication. “Please, Simon. For me, let him go.”
“For you?” Simon bellowed. “I’m doing this for you. He defiled you—a woman he had no right to touch—and ran away like the coward he is.” He threw a disgusted look at Isa. “The Lord blesses the righteous, but his curse is on the head of the wicked. And you were cursed.”
Martha turned to Isa. He could get away; he was strong enough to throw off the guards. “Go, Isa. Run.”
The guards strengthened their hold, but Isa didn’t resist. “I’m not running away again, Martha.”
Simon stepped around Martha and advanced on Isa. “You are a coward, a liar, and a pagan. Coming here with your story of demons, with your belief in a false messiah.” Spit flew from his mouth and landed on Isa’s face.
Isa didn’t blink. “I believe in the God of Abraham and Moses. Jesus is his son, the son of the Most High God.”
Simon’s face turned red. “A blasphemer and a fornicator.” He turned and wrapped one hand around Martha’s arm, jerking her up and against his side. “As this woman’s betrothed, I’d be within my rights to have you punished right here by my own men.”
Martha’s blood pounded in her ears. He was. The men of Bethany wouldn’t object to Simon beating a pagan who had defiled his betrothed. Even if he killed him. Martha looked at Zakai, huddled between Penina and Safta, watching. She couldn’t let Isa die in front of the son he’d just found. “Please, Simon. He didn’t mean it. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”
Simon raised a brow. “He doesn’t? I don’t believe that for a minute. He’s as taken in by this false messiah as your brother was.”
A sob caught in Martha’s throat. “Please, Simon. He’s no one.” She didn’t look at Isa. She couldn’t. “He means nothing to me now. Send him away, and we’ll marry, just as you wanted.”
Simon stared at her, his jaw clamped firmly. He rubbed his neck. “For you, Martha, I’ll give this pathetic excuse of a man a chance to save his skin.”
A chance? Martha tensed.
Simon made a sweeping gesture toward the courtyard gate. “You may leave Bethany, forever . . . if ”—his gaze hardened—“you admit your lies.” Silence fell on the courtyard. Simon raised his brows. “Admit that you lied—that Jesus is a fraud and a liar—and I will let you run away like the cowardly dog you are.”
Martha twisted toward Isa. Do it. Please, Isa.
Isa straightened, and his jaw tensed. His eyes met Martha’s. Her heart dropped as her mind grasped the truth. Isa was no longer the frightened, beaten boy she’d known. He was a man—a strong man who knew what he believed. And he wouldn’t run away, not even to save himself.
Isa looked Simon in the eye as he sealed his fate. “They called him the son of the Most High, and I know this: he is the Messiah.”
Martha’s breath froze in her chest.
Simon let out a snort and flicked a hand at the guards. One jerked Isa close, pulling both his arms behind his back. The other one landed a solid punch in his midsection. Isa doubled over with a groan.
“Isa!” Martha lurched toward him, but Simon’s grip was unbreakable.
Isa straightened, gasping. “Don’t be afraid, Martha. I’m not.” The guard landed a heavy blow to his face, snapping his head back. Blood streamed from his nose.
Martha covered her face with her hands. The guard raised his malletlike fists and landed two quick blows to Isa’s ribs. Isa slumped to the ground and groaned.
Zakai shouted and struggled in Penina’s arms. Martha sent her a look. Don’t let him go. Who knows what Simon would do to Isa’s son?
The first guard held Isa up; the other landed more blows, battering his face.
Anger built up in Martha like a fire. She strained against the hands that held her, but she couldn’t break free. Fight them, Isa. He was strong; at least he could try. But he was letting them beat him. Just like he’d let Zerubabbel hit him when he was a boy.
Isa crumpled to the ground. The guards backed away as if their job was done.
Martha choked out a sob. Isa. Stay down.
But Isa didn’t stay down. He staggered to his feet, swaying drunkenly. Bright red blood flowed from the wound above his ear. “Jesus sent me . . . to my family”—he clutched his side and his expression hardened into resolve—“He is the Messiah.”
The guards looked at each other like they couldn’t believe what they were seeing.
Simon raised his brows. “Finish it.”
They stepped in. One slammed a fist into his face. The other punched him in the gut. He stumb
led and went down. Both guards landed brutal kicks to his back, his side, and his chest until finally, Isa lay unmoving in the dirt. The guards backed away.
Martha wrenched away from Simon and threw herself beside Isa. Her blood pounded in her ears, and her mouth tasted of dust. Was he dead? Because he wouldn’t run? Wouldn’t deny what he believed about Jesus? Please, God of Mercy, don’t let him be dead.
Simon loomed over her. “Look at him, Martha. I think I’ve proven my point.” His lips curled, and he pointed to the courtyard gate. “You know what you have to do. Send Jesus and his people away. Now. And make sure they don’t come back to Bethany.”
Martha shuddered and looked at the face of the man Abba would have chosen for her. The man Lazarus had betrothed her to. How could she bear to be his wife after what he’d done to Isa?
He narrowed his eyes at her hesitation, and his mouth hardened. “Martha, do as I say or I will have no choice but to bring you before the judges. And I don’t have to remind you . . . you have no man to speak in your defense.” Simon signaled for the guards to precede him. “If it comes to that—and I pray for your sake it doesn’t—may the Lord have mercy on you. Because the people of Bethany surely will not.”
Martha watched Simon walk out the door, so sure of his own righteousness. And Isa, lifeless on the dirt, a pagan who had never learned the law but was willing to die for the Messiah.
Simon’s words echoed in her mind. I think I’ve proven my point. Yes, Simon had proven his point. And Isa had proven his.
Chapter Forty-Nine
MARTHA PRESSED A wet cloth to Isa’s broken face. He didn’t flinch. His eyes didn’t flutter. She glanced at Penina. Her friend’s face was drawn in worry. She didn’t need to tell Penina about Isa now. She knew.
Penina nudged her aside and took the cloth from her hand. Go, her hands said. I’ll take care of him.
Martha stepped back. She wanted only to stay with Isa, to wait and pray for his eyes to open. But Jesus waited on the road, and Simon waited for her decision. Obey him and send Jesus away? Or welcome Jesus and condemn herself to the judges of Bethany?
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