by Janette Oke
“I have already told you,” Saul growled. “You should take greater care in your choice of friends.”
“I hear and obey. Only I beg you to make your inspection with haste. This delay will – ”
But an impatient motion of the man’s hand silenced further objections.
Jacob risked a glance back. His heart wrenched at the sight of Latif kneeling in the dirt, his eyes clenched shut, hands clasped to his chest, lips moving, no doubt uttering a fervent prayer. Jacob yearned to turn about, spur his horse, draw his sword, and . . . What then? What could one lone man do against two legionnaires and a cluster of armed Temple guards? Jacob turned his face back to the open road, walking alongside the horse’s head for best concealment.
Yussuf called behind him, “Jacob! Ride forward and pass the word along. Follow the coast road. I will meet you when this inspection is finished.”
Jacob swung onto his saddle and lifted his arm. His mouth tried to form the words I hear and obey, but his throat was too tight to utter a sound. He kicked his horse’s side and galloped ahead.
He had never considered himself a coward until that moment.
CHAPTER
SIX
Jerusalem
Linux slept late and woke feeling groggy, hoping he would soon be able to cast aside his long voyage’s lingering weariness. He looked around the workshop and rolled off his pallet, staggering outside to wash his face as a common soldier would, simply dunking his head in the water barrel behind the building. Josiah and his apprentices chuckled at the sight of the dripping Roman soldier, who had slept beneath a tattered blanket next to their curing oven, so deeply that not even the crank of bellows and the whack of mallets had awakened him. When Linux lifted his dripping head from the barrel, he immediately returned it for a second dunking. This time when he came up for air, he blew a great spout of water at the nearest craftsmen. They scrambled back, laughing louder now.
Josiah tossed him the cloth he had just used to dry his own hands. Linux wiped his face with it, nodded his thanks, and accepted a dipper held by the youngest apprentice. He drank his fill, declined any more, and returned to the workroom. He sat down on the floor beside Alban’s pallet. “Where is our young Jacob?”
“He left before dawn. I would imagine his caravan is already on the road to Caesarea.” Alban showed no emotion with this piece of news. Linux judged his thoughts to be elsewhere.
“Is something troubling you, my friend?” When Alban did not reply, Linux said, “Jacob will do an excellent job.”
“Of that I have no doubt.” Alban hesitated, then said, “He and I . . . well, we have a disagreement.”
“And what is it that furrows your brow?”
Alban related the information about Jamal’s gift of the market stall in Samaria. Linux heard him out, then said doubtfully, “I have difficulty imagining Jacob as a merchant.”
“He would be safe. He would have stability, and the stall would supply him with an excellent income.”
“Jacob has reached how many years now? Twenty? He doesn’t hanker after a safe little place in the middle of the Samaritan plains. He wants a life of adventure.”
“These are most perilous times to go adventuring.”
“You have trained him well. He will no doubt . . .” But Linux could see Alban was ready with further reasons, so he swiftly changed the subject. “You are looking better this morning.”
“How could I not?” Even Alban’s voice sounded stronger. “I am surrounded by friends. Sheltered by faith. Prayed over, cared for, and loved.”
“You speak of a heaven on earth,” Linux said, grinning.
“Yes,” and Alban’s tone turned gentle, “and my two most beloved await me at home – truly at least a piece of heaven on earth.” He stared at the carved wooden cross nailed to the opposite wall, then shook his head. “If only that were so for all the followers.”
Somehow Linux had missed the cross the previous night, the first such carving he had seen. “The situation is dire?”
“Not as bad as it may soon become.” Alban motioned toward the cross. “Josiah awoke suddenly last night, feeling an intense dread for his family and his apprentices. As he prayed, he saw a vision of that cross. He carved it while the rest of his house slept. I watched him nail it into place this morning.”
“I wondered why I had not noticed it before now.” Linux nodded, not so much at Alban’s words, but at his own response. A simple acceptance of the fact that Josiah had approached the Lord on his knees, and the Lord had spoken through an image. It might not have been the answer the carpenter had sought. But the peace Linux felt while staring at that simple cross caused his chest to burn.
To Judeans the cross was perhaps the most hated symbol of Roman rule. The deadly silhouette had scarred too many hilltops, signifying the most ignoble of deaths, a lingering torment that carried shame for all who witnessed it.
And yet here it was, portraying a hope that transcended their worries and fears. Merely looking at this bit of carved wood lifted Linux beyond himself, carried upon a promise as strong as it was eternal.
Linux watched Abigail and Martha, along with little Dorcas, join the group for the midday meal. Josiah’s family, along with several clans related to the apprentices and craftsmen, all gathered for prayer, then ate in silence, as was apparently the custom in this household. Except for Dorcas. Abigail’s daughter, a bright and cheerful four-year-old, ate from her mother’s plate, then played in the shadows beneath the table. She chatted to a little rag doll and sang snippets of hymns, causing Linux to smile and yearn once more for the nieces he had left behind in Italy. By now the clouds had dispersed, and the wind was not so severe. Tables set up in the rear courtyard were flanked by a long row of date palms. The entire area smelled of sawdust, glue, woodsmoke, and honest sweat. Linux would have found himself content, save for the somber expressions surrounding him.
When the meal was finished, Martha brought Alban’s pallet outside and arranged it by the side wall. Alban, certain he was just fine seated at the table, waved her off, but Martha firmly told him, “You will lay yourself right here where the sun can warm your bones.”
“But I am – ”
“Do as she says, my man,” Linux warned good-naturedly.
Alban made a show of further grumbling as he found a comfortable position on the pallet. Josiah approached, his forearms streaked with sawdust. He wiped his hands on the cloth hanging from his belt. “Another of our brethren vanished in the night.” His low voice and his expression told them more than his words.
His wife moved up beside him and handed her husband a ladle of fresh water. “It is the way of Saul’s men. They come in the dark hours and take who they please, waving orders from the Temple at any who protest.”
Josiah shook his head. “I do not know what I would do if they took one of my boys.”
“We are leaving the city,” the woman said, her voice now low also. “Tomorrow at dawn.”
“This has been my family’s home for seven generations,” Josiah said. “The house and the work. My father was a carpenter and his before him. Jerusalem is in my blood.”
“You are not running away,” his wife assured him, no doubt repeating an argument from a previous conversation. “You are saving your family.”
“I have work to complete, and pieces I’ve promised – ”
“You will be taking your tools with you, and you can send back the items when they are ready.”
“It is not the same. I need to be here to find more work.”
“If they take you or your sons, what good will more work do us?” Her words held no anger, and little force. Clearly their discussion followed a well-trod path. She said to Alban and Linux, “We have found an olive farm near Sebaste. There is an old barn where my husband can do his carpentry. There is wood enough. And peace. We leave at dawn.” Her nod was as firm as her tone.
Josiah responded with a seemingly reluctant nod of his own, then turned to the others silently wa
tching. “You may stay here as long as you wish.”
Alban said from his pallet, “You all should leave Jerusalem as soon as possible.”
Martha’s response was to glance at Abigail.
Abigail said quietly, “I cannot leave Jerusalem.”
The master carpenter’s wife sighed but did not speak. Overhead, the wind rattled the palms. It sounded to Linux as though the weather itself argued with Abigail’s declaration.
Abigail said, “I must continue Stephen’s work. I serve the widows and the orphans. They have no one, no place – ”
“There are fewer of them left in Jerusalem with every passing day,” the carpenter’s wife said. But she spoke to her hands, maintaining the same emotionless tone she had used with her husband.
Abigail said, “I feel God is present. He guides and he comforts me. He will keep us.” She lifted her little girl into her arms and held her close until Dorcas squirmed away.
Alban asked her, “Can you not do this work in another place?”
Abigail adjusted her shawl more closely about her. “Being in Jerusalem is important. Somehow I feel Stephen, his blessing, here.”
Alban shifted on his pallet. All eyes but Abigail’s turned toward him, and Linux expected further objections. Instead Alban told them that Jamal the trader had deeded him a coveted market stand at the juncture of the trade routes in the Megiddo Plains of Samaria. A house in a nearby village came with this bequest. Alban reported Jacob’s refusal to take over the stall, insisting on continuing his increasingly dangerous assignments as a caravan guard.
This information was met with silence. Finally Abigail said, “I also must stay for Martha’s sake. She has pains in her joints. Travel will only – ”
“Do not use me as your excuse,” Martha broke in. “I am ready to go today.”
“But you refused to join Mary and Lazarus at your home,” Abigail said.
“How ever could I leave you here alone, my dear one? You’ve heard what is happening. The situation worsens with each passing day. The clouds are looming. The storm approaches.”
“Think of the little one,” the carpenter’s wife said. “What happens to Dorcas if you are taken by Saul and his men?”
“I have thought of little else,” Abigail said just above a whisper, and she used the corner of her shawl to clear her eyes. “But if I leave Jerusalem, I shall lose my last remaining connection to Stephen. . . .” Her voice broke.
Alban said, “Stephen awaits you at the end of life’s road. Of that I am absolutely certain.”
Linux hesitated, then said, “I am not sure how much I should say right now, but in my last conversation with Stephen, he asked me to protect you as best I could. I feel it is my duty to him and to God to tell you that what the others say is very true. I have only been back in this country a few days. And already I know the situation to be far graver than I had heard. The Sanhedrin considers the followers a threat worse than the Zealots. The new consul has granted the Temple Council every authority in the matter. The tribune will not raise a finger to protect you. It all adds up to one certainty. If you stay in this city, you most likely will be arrested . . . and worse.”
Abigail remained silent. Martha asked, “What of Alban’s illness? We cannot leave him here on his own.”
“I could arrange for a cart,” Linux said. “No, old friend, do not argue. Not this time. I will travel with you and see you settled. We will send news back to Leah in Capernaum that you are on your way to health and will be home with her shortly.”
Dorcas must have noticed her mother’s distress. She clambered to her feet, the doll gripped in one hand and the other plucking at her mother’s shawl. “Mama. Mama?”
Abigail again lifted the child into her lap, stroked the small face, and sighed. She gave one short nod.
The carpenter’s wife moved nearer her husband and said, “We all leave at dawn.”
CHAPTER
SEVEN
The Joppa Road
Jacob was fully aware of the two separate routes leading from Jerusalem to Caesarea. They began as one through the hills west of Jerusalem. But once the road descended to the plains, the main Roman road headed north and west, running in an almost straight line to its destination on the coast above the Mediterranean. This road was paved in stones and so was easier on the camels’ foot pads, but it led through a desolate region. Bands of Zealots were increasingly active in this often empty stretch. The safer coastal route dated from the times of King David, or so the legends went. But in places it was little more than a rocky trail.
Yussuf still had not rejoined the group when they reached the main turn. Jacob doubted any of the caravan’s other members had heard Yussuf’s final orders to him, and feared there would be disagreement or resistance to his temporary authority from the drovers, or perhaps from guards who knew him not. Yussuf was a strong and experienced caravan master, appointed by Jamal himself. Jacob was just another guard, especially now that Alban was laid up in Jerusalem. Jacob was certain at least some would question his right to direct them.
As the road took its final curve and descended to the valley floor, Jacob spurred his horse forward from his end position. He half expected to be challenged, either by a drover or one of the guards. Instead, several of the men he passed waved their quirts in a desert salute.
Jacob arrived at the lead position when the road’s split was less than a furlong ahead. He reined in beside the guard at the head of the caravan, a man whose name was lost to him at that moment. “You know the road ahead?” he asked.
“I have never traveled further west than this point.”
“You are from Syria?”
“Nabataea.”
This was news. Nabataea was a small kingdom south of Syria. Some years it was part of the Roman empire, other times it switched allegiance to the Parthians. Nabataea was known as a haven for bandits. And further, the Zealots were said to have paid bribes to Nabataea in order to set up permanent encampments beyond the reach of Roman soldiers.
Jacob’s surprise must have shown, for the guard said, “Yussuf trusts me. As does Jamal.”
“And so do I.” Jacob nodded. “My name is Jacob.”
The guard raised a hand. “Hamman. You are Alban’s son?”
“He is my guardian.” Jacob hesitated, then said, “My family were traders. Their caravan was attacked. I was only a child at the time. I alone was saved from their fate by Roman soldiers led by Alban, the centurion.”
The guard nodded slowly, then said, “And the bandits were most likely either Nabataeans or Parthians allied to my country. You have reason to be surprised, finding me here.”
Jacob did not reply to the comment. Instead he said, “One of us must ride at the back. Our rear is unguarded.”
“You know the coastal road?”
“I have traveled it several times. Jamal has put you on point duty, though,” Jacob added slowly.
“Those who know you say you are as trustworthy as Alban.” Hamman wheeled his horse about. “I will guard our rear.”
Jacob saluted the man in the Arab fashion, the thumb and forefinger traveling from forehead to lips to heart. The guard responded in the same manner, then rode away.
When the first animals arrived at the turn, Jacob did as –Yussuf would have, rising from the stirrups to stand in the saddle. He shrilled a whistle loud enough to be heard far down the line, then swept the arm holding his leather quirt down in a single motion, pointing to the road ahead.
His new vantage point now leading the caravan seemed to magnify the landscape. Everything Jacob saw was now etched with crystal clarity. The plains were laid out like a sea of rock and sand. To his left, south of the road, dark clouds moved in solemn precision, laying down solid columns of rain. Behind him the hills rose in timeless splendor, grey and shaded where the clouds gathered, ocher and gold where the sunlight touched. The caravan stretched out behind for a full Roman mile. Jacob turned his face back to the west and the empty road. He took a long breath
and tried to tell himself it was the same cool dry air he had breathed all morning. But he had never ridden at the head of a caravan before. This was Alban’s position, and Yussuf’s, and Jamal’s. Each breath was spiced with adventure. And just a touch of trepidation.
Yussuf had still not rejoined the caravan when it arrived at the first night’s stopping. A village had sprouted where the road turned south and the smaller northern trail broke off. The caravanserai, rimmed by thorn brush, was located east of the village. A ramshackle fence marked the area set aside for travelers.
As the long procession of camels, horses, carts, and drovers approached, Jacob felt eyes upon him from up and down the caravan’s length. He was the most junior of the guards in age and experience and knew fewer than half of the drovers by name. But when no one else stepped forward, Jacob rode ahead to where the village elders awaited them.
Such caravans were the mainstay of the village economy. Jacob bargained hard, but feared the price he was offered for fodder and water and one night in the camp was too high. So he shrugged, raised his quirt, and pointed the caravan north. It was a device he had seen Yussuf use when he felt he was being overcharged. But this was different. Yussuf was nowhere to be found, and the drovers had every reason to refuse Jacob’s order. They had been traveling since before first light, and the animals were as weary as the men. Still, Jacob felt responsible for the caravan master’s goods and denarii. He whistled Yussuf’s signal for moving on . . . and held his breath.
As one, the drovers began turning their animals toward the ragged northern trail. No grumbling protests against Jacob’s decision or leadership were heard.
Instantly the elders shouted for them to halt, offering a price less than half their previously stated fee.
Jacob whistled a second time, pointing the lead animals toward the camp entrance. He slipped from his horse and stood by the gate as the first string of beasts entered the camp.