by Janette Oke
“It is evident,” Linux said with a nod.
Jacob scanned the faces around the circle. They all knew Linux had sought Abigail’s hand in marriage, and had done so with a Roman warrior’s zeal. He had gone so far as to bribe Jacob, offering the youthful adventurer his dream of becoming a legionnaire if Jacob would appeal on his behalf. When Abigail had become betrothed to Stephen, Linux had threatened to tear their friendships asunder. Yet God had worked his will even in this desolate moment, drawing Linux, a Roman, into the believers’ fold.
Jacob noted how the others studied the soldier. Martha finally said, “My Roman friend, how you have changed.”
“It is our Lord’s doing,” Linux said.
“God can work only within a willing heart,” Martha asserted.
Jacob saw Alban shift on his pallet to cast him a look, but he turned his face away.
Linux’s gaze remained fastened on the mug in his hands. “Twenty-nine months ago, I was ordered home.”
“We received your letter,” Abigail said.
“We have prayed for you ever since,” Martha added.
“There is no question in my mind but that I have been held up before God by your prayers,” Linux replied. “I traveled to Italy because my sister-in-law wrote to say that my brother was desperately ill and perhaps dying. I will not lie. I went home thinking that this might now be my chance. Finally I would gain all that had been refused to me. The titles, the wealth, the power. All mine. It became the waking dream that transported me across the seas. With each day upon the ship, the desires grew stronger still.”
Jacob stared about him, first at the faces of these four glowing in the light cast through the open oven door. A single torch flickered upon the opposite wall. It was a large room, built to handle a dozen apprentices and tradesmen, the ceiling as high as many roofs. A trio of pulleys dangled from the center beam fashioned from the trunk of a massive Lebanese cypress. The master carpenter, Josiah, could build the walls for a new home within this room, then dismantle the frame and cart it piecemeal to the site. The place smelled of fresh timber and the scraps fed to the oven. The far wall held a wealth of tools and measuring instruments. For Jacob, though, the room’s familiarity had been a prison from which he feared he would never escape. And becoming a stall holder in Samaria would be exactly the same in all but the name.
Linux was saying, “When I arrived in Italy, I found a misery that had always been there, but until then I had remained blind to it. My desires for wealth and status and power had fashioned a veil before my eyes. This time, I walked the halls of my brother’s palace, the rich tapestries hanging from the walls, the gold plates upon his table, looked through the high, arched windows at the serfs, the land . . .”
No one spoke. The only sounds were the wind barred from entering their haven and the crackling fire. Jacob again searched each face in turn. Beloved Martha, the stalwart servant of their Lord, whose sister Mary and brother Lazarus were busy tending to the poor in their home village beyond the Mount of Olives. Abigail, his dear sister, who bore the stain of widowhood with a calm dignity that added to her grace and beauty. Alban, the former centurion who had rescued Jacob from slavers and now made room for him at his hearth and in his heart, and provided employment that nearly lived up to his boyhood dreams. And Linux, the Roman officer who had been transformed by their Lord. . . .
“My brother assumed I had come only for his money,” the Roman continued. “He was savage in his attacks, even while prostrate upon his deathbed. I prayed one entire night over this, asking God for guidance. And the next morning it came to me. I went to my brother and told him I wanted nothing. I would accept nothing. All I would ask of him was for him to acknowledge the Lord Jesus as Messiah.”
Someone breathed a soft sigh, perhaps it was Jacob himself. All eyes were fastened now upon the man who leaned over his hands and spoke to a distant place. “My brother scorned me. But it meant nothing. No, that is not right. Of course it meant a great deal.”
“You had served our Lord,” Martha completed for him. “You had done your best. You heard God’s call and responded.”
Linux nodded slowly, his gaze distant. “I told him of my new faith in Jesus, and I also told the rest of his family. His second wife, stepmother to the twin daughters whose mother died some time ago, prayed with me as well as the two girls. Those girls had become very precious to me even though I had only been with them once before.”
“You planted the seed in your brother,” Martha said to Linux. “Pray for his soul, and let the Lord do his good work.”
“But who will see to his family now?” Linux’s concern furrowed his brow. “Who will guide them as I myself have been directed by all of you?”
Finally Martha said, “I shall pray for them, and for the Lord to reveal an answer to this as well.”
Linux seemed to find great peace in those words. His features eased, and he leaned back against the wall. “The same sense of protection stayed with me through my return journey. I spoke of Jesus with my shipmates. Two prayed with me, and most of them at least listened.”
Alban smiled and wiped at a streak tracing the weathered skin above his beard.
Linux said, “Yesterday, when I arrived back in Jerusalem, I presented myself before the tribune at the Antonia Fortress.”
Alban breathed the name Metellus.
“The same.”
“He is no friend to us, the followers of Jesus.”
“Nor to me. You remember how he considered me allied to the former consul, Pilate’s replacement. Metellus sneered that the consul was on his way home now. That I was defenseless. He stripped me of my leadership of the Capernaum garrison. In truth, I had assumed this was lost when I left for Italy, even though I sought his permission prior to my departure. But Metellus found great pleasure in formally ordering me back to Caesarea. I am to report to the garrison commandant and most likely will be sent away. Damascus, Gaul, perhaps even the Germanic frontier. Metellus declared that such banishment was the reward I deserved.”
Yet the dark implications did not seem to touch Linux. He spoke in a tone that was more than merely calm, as if speaking of the weather. “I did not reply. To be honest, I am not certain I could have. The feeling of being sheltered by our beloved Lord had never been stronger than that moment. Stronger even than when I was at my brother’s bedside. As though nothing in this world could touch me.”
Alban coughed, then said, “You truly are one of us, Linux.”
Martha reached over and took Linux’s hand. “Our brother.”
Jacob studied the two of them – the Judean woman, servant to the risen Lord, and the Roman officer, her nation’s sworn enemy. Abigail moved from her seat and knelt upon the stones. She said, “Let us pray for Linux.”
“For all of us,” Martha agreed. “No, Alban, stay as you are.”
Jacob shifted over to kneel beside his sister. He felt her work-roughened hand in his own. He heard the others pray, and he prayed aloud in turn. Yet in his own heart he felt the same words resound that he had prayed silently at dinner. Over and over. Grant me your wisdom, O Lord.
Jacob returned to the caravan site long before the sun rose. He joined in the preparations for departure in the silver light of an unborn day. The clouds had scuttled away with the night, taking with them the wind, and the air was now cold and dry. The animals had complained mightily when they had been roused two hours earlier. But the loading had warmed them, along with a double portion of oats in their bellies. Now the camels stomped their broad, padded feet, impatient to take to the road.
The moon was a sliver in the western sky, growing pale as the sun lit the eastern horizon. The nearest hills, a wintry purple, were as beautiful a sight as Jacob had ever seen. Many of the drovers groaned their way through the departure routine, coming awake more slowly than the beasts. But for Jacob a morning had never seemed more exciting, beckoning him toward whatever their travels might bring. He rode Alban’s horse, a grey stallion with a mane white as
sea foam. The horse caught some of Jacob’s anticipation and snorted impatiently for them to be done with the preparations and depart.
Jacob made a quick circuit of the caravan. The caravan master’s three servants were rolling up the large tents and loading them onto carts to be stored by Jamal’s agent in Jerusalem for the next visit.
From his place by the departure gates, the caravan master whistled twice, his signal for the caravan to move out. The camels recognized the sound and were already shuffling into line before the drovers tapped their legs with their quirts. The caravan master, a Syrian named Yussuf, was a lean whippet of a man who had spent ten years as a legionnaire before losing an eye in battle. Alban knew and trusted him. Yussuf had appointed himself master of the guards in Alban’s absence. Yussuf directed Jacob to guard their rear, a position most guards disliked. It meant eating the caravan’s dust through the long trek. But the ground would be fairly solid from the long rains and the night’s chill. Jacob reckoned his only hardship that day would come from solitude. Unless, of course, the caravan was attacked. In that case, the rear guard played a crucial role. Jacob saluted the caravan master and wheeled his horse around. He had no problem with a bit of dust.
Latif, the drover, called softly as Jacob passed. Jacob reined in his horse and started toward the drover, who hissed, “Stand well away.”
Jacob slipped from the saddle and pretended to inspect a hoof. “What is it?”
“Look to the north of the gates” came the quiet reply.
The Jerusalem encampment was divided by low stone walls into a series of corrals, each large enough to hold a caravan’s animals and tents. The segments held their own wells and drinking troughs. The entire caravanserai was rimmed by a second fence, this one of wooden posts and thorn brush serving as a line of demarcation beyond which the animals and drovers were not permitted to camp. Along the camp’s perimeter were market stalls catering to the caravan trade – blacksmiths, leather workers, feed merchants, and inns. The encampment had just one entrance.
When Jacob lifted his head and peered over the horse’s neck, Yussuf and the first string of animals were moving slowly past this point. Jamal’s caravan was a large one, numbering over seventy camels and half again as many donkeys, but it seemed even longer than usual. Latif’s much smaller string of camels remained kneeling within the corral, waiting their turn to move out.
Jacob noticed that the man’s string contained only six camels. Which meant three of Latif’s animals were missing. Which was impossible. News of an injured or ill camel traveled like the wind through a caravanserai. “Where are your other beasts?”
“With Yussuf. Never mind that now.” Latif motioned with his chin. “See who stands by the gate.”
A customs officer stood by the main entrance, surveying the departing animals as was usual. Such officials were universally loathed. The officer was protected by two Roman soldiers, who leaned upon their spears and watched the caravan with bored indifference.
“I don’t understand,” Jacob said, keeping his face turned away from Latif. “They often check for one reason or another. Any excuse . . . Or contraband? But you aren’t . . . ?”
“It’s not the tax official,” Latif muttered, tightening one of the camel’s loads. “Note the Pharisees.”
Jacob then spotted the two black-robed men standing well back from the entrance, half-hidden by the awning of a market stall. “Who are they?”
“I . . . I am not certain. But I fear the taller one is Saul of Tarsus.”
Jacob felt his blood run cold. “You believe he’s looking for you?”
Latif climbed into the lead camel’s saddle, then clicked his tongue and waved the leather quirt. His camel groaned and belched and clambered to its feet. The remaining animals did the same and began slowly plodding toward the departure gate. Latif said as he moved past Jacob, “As I told you, Jamal has given me a special charge. One that nobody else in the caravan is to know about. If I am taken, I place my camels in your care. They are now with Yussuf. He knows nothing – and is wise enough not to ask.” With one last dark look he went on. “But I do not think that is why Saul is here. The satchel? It is safe?”
Jacob nodded and swung himself into the saddle, his legs trembling enough that his horse sensed the fear and danced sideways. Jacob reined him in, patted the stallion’s neck, and muttered without hardly moving his lips, “How can you be certain they are here for you?”
“I’m not. But why else . . .” Latif might have shaken his head, or perhaps it was merely a nervous shudder. “Never mind. We will know soon enough. I have spoken with Yussuf. He knows you are to guard my camels and report back to Jamal.”
Jacob started to protest further, but Latif waved the quirt and growled, “To be seen with me endangers you and everything else. If I am taken, pray for me. And, Jacob, the satchel is vital. Deliver it as instructed.”
Jacob pretended to survey the rearmost camels as Latif plodded ahead. When he reckoned it was safe enough, Jacob turned around, keeping the last string of beasts between himself and the officers by the gate. The two Pharisees remained little more than ghosts, their black robes merging with the awning’s shadows.
Then he saw one of them move one step forward, and Jacob’s breath caught in his throat.
He recognized the Pharisee instantly as Ezra, the powerful Jerusalem merchant who had sought Abigail’s hand in marriage. Since the death of his sister, Sapphira, Ezra had become a menace to all followers of the Way.
Ezra turned to say something to the other man. Though Jacob did not recognize him, he did not need to. He had heard enough descriptions of Saul of Tarsus. Tall, lean and hard, both in form and expression. His eyes were fierce and dark, a religious version of a bird of prey. They stood together, this pair, Ezra and Saul, their gazes burning with a dangerous light.
Jacob dropped from his saddle and unknotted the long desert kerchief from his neck. He wrapped it about his head and retied it so that it draped about his face in the fashion of a desert tribesman. This practice was adopted by drovers and guards alike, when the sun burned or the wind blew with brutal force. But this day was cool, and the breeze fresh. Even so, Jacob was not the only man who fashioned a protective burnoose.
Heart pounding, Jacob matched his pace to a heavily laden camel and observed the two priests between the camel’s neck and the pile of trade goods. They had identical beards, pointed like spears, only Ezra’s contained a weaving of silver. Their faces were taut with a shared fury.
Jacob saw Ezra lean again toward the younger Pharisee and mutter something. Saul pointed at the approaching drover, Latif. Ezra jerked a nod.
Saul turned and called to someone behind him. Jacob’s heart fluttered more rapidly still as five Temple guards stepped from the market stall’s recesses.
Together the guards and Saul approached Latif. Saul’s words were lost amidst the bellowing camels, but the result was clear enough. The Temple guards dragged Latif from the beast’s back. The man was forced onto his knees in the dust beside the road as his camels were pulled to one side.
Word of the confrontation must have reached the front of the line, because Yussuf’s horse suddenly pounded its way back along the line of beasts and reentered the main gates. Jamal’s caravan master was already shouting his protests before he slipped from the horse’s back. “What is the meaning of this?”
“I am here on Temple business.” Saul’s voice carried the deathly chill of a poised dagger. “You are warned to stand well away.”
“But this man, Latif, is Syrian!”
“He is a Judean from Syria! And thus he falls under Temple law.” Saul’s eyes tightened. “As do you.”
The string of Jamal’s camels plodded past the point where Latif knelt in the dust. Jacob kept his head lowered so his face remained hidden by the folds of his burnoose. Over the thunder of his heart, Jacob heard Yussuf demand, “By whose authority?”
Saul drew a scroll from his robe. “I am here under the direction of the Sanhed
rin. They have ordered this man’s arrest.”
Yussuf, the former legionnaire, had battled his way through bandit attacks and desert storms. But Jacob saw that the sight of that scroll, bearing the Temple seal and the gold standard of authority, left the man subdued. “Latif is a trusted friend,” he said, voice quaking.
“And you should show greater wisdom in selecting your friends, else you share this man’s fate.”
Jacob heard more than a warning directed at the caravan master. He sensed an implacable will in this Saul of Tarsus – everything the rumors had suggested, and more. Here was a man so certain of his authority that he would sentence any man who opposed him to death. Willingly, swiftly, and without a moment’s qualm. Jacob was glad for the camel that hid him from view.
Legs trembling, Jacob led his horse forward beneath the gates’ crossbeam. He heard Yussuf say, his voice now stronger, “Well, and what of the drover’s camels? Are they to be arrested as well?”
This time the second Pharisee spoke. The same voice of the man who had sought his sister’s hand, yet different. It sounded colder now, more stern, carrying the same implacable force as Saul. “We have news that this man is both a follower of the banned sect and a carrier of contraband.”
On this point, Yussuf must have felt he was on firmer ground. “Search his articles, then. But the camels belong to Jamal, my master and his.”
Ezra hesitated. “This would be Jamal, the merchant of Tiberias and Damascus?”
“The very same.”
“Then the animals are not ours to take.” Ezra’s voice had lost some of its strident force.
“And what of these goods? Am I to leave them here in the dust for you to scramble through and take what you will?”
Saul shouted with indignant rage, “We are not common thieves!”
Yussuf remained silent.
Ezra said, “The goods must be inspected. We will do so immediately. If there is nothing amiss, you may take them with you.”
Jacob slowed his forward progress as much as he dared till the last camel was his only shield. He heard Yussuf ask, “And what of Latif?”