by Janette Oke
“There had better be a good reason for this!”
Jacob turned at the sound of the familiar voice. “There is, master.”
The large-framed merchant sauntered closer. “Do I know you?”
“I am Jacob, sire.”
“Alban’s charge? My guard?” Jamal stepped closer still. “Can it truly be you under all that filth?”
Jacob merely nodded.
“Where is my caravan?” He looked at the two dust-covered donkeys, then back at their equally dusty drover.
“They should be leaving Caesarea either today or tomorrow, headed for Tyre.”
“And why are you here?”
Jacob lowered his voice. “Latif was taken.”
The merchant’s face went as pale as old bones. “What do you mean, ‘taken’?”
“They were waiting for him. The morning we left Jerusalem, they pounced.” Jacob leaned closer and spoke softly, so the curious ears hovering about the perimeter could hear nothing. “They seized his camels, spread out all his goods beneath the eye of the Roman tax agent, and searched everything.”
The man’s towering strength seemed to melt away in the space of one breath. Jacob gripped his arm and helped him sit down at the side of the fountain. “They knew . . .” the man moaned.
Jacob whispered, “Perhaps. Perhaps not. It could have been a ruse. It is not uncommon for honest folk to be falsely accused. Especially in Jerusalem. The Temple priests were there as well, watching it all like hawks.”
Jamal’s face had not regained its color. He raised his voice and his arm. “All of you, clear away. I must be alone.”
They began to scurry away at his roar. It was followed by another. “Syrus!” The querulous old man emerged from the shadows. “Yes, sire?”
Jamal asked Jacob, “Have you eaten?”
“Nothing but the road’s dust.”
“Tell the cook to make a plate of something hot. And fresh tea. For us both.”
Jacob felt his stomach tremble with sudden hunger. “And pomegranate juice. I have dreamed of the taste.”
“You heard the man.” When the servant did not move fast enough, Jamal barked, “Go!”
When they were alone, Jacob said, “All is not lost, sire.”
“What’s that?”
“Before he was taken, Latif charged me with his secret.”
Jamal’s head rose gradually. “But you said – ”
“Latif separated three of his camels. They only searched the six that Latif kept close to himself.” Jacob went over to retrieve the sacks, which he placed at Jamal’s feet. “It’s all here, sire. Every last bit.”
Jamal bent down far enough to breathe in the heady aroma of spices and frankincense. He lifted one sack into his arms like a child. “You know what you carry?”
“I opened one of the wax-sealed packs.”
Jamal’s eyes glazed over. His hands trembled slightly as he resettled the sack upon the flagstones. “The year’s entire profits are contained within these bags.”
Jacob said nothing, for the servant chose that moment to return bearing a tray.
“Serve my honored guest,” Jamal instructed, his bark sounding loud to Jacob’s ears.
Jacob could see the old servant would rather have dropped the tray on the ground. But he did as he was told, arranging the plate of food and drink on the edge of the fountain and motioning for Jacob to partake. The man’s tone was filled with apprehension as he offered his master a second mug. “Are you – Do you need anything further, sire?”
“We are all most well cared for, all my household – and you – thanks to the bravery of this young man. Now leave us, and make sure we are not disturbed.” Jamal gestured the servant away and nodded to the platter. “Eat your fill, Jacob.”
As Jacob ate, he related his experiences. Watching Latif kneeling in the dust, Yussuf not yet rejoining the caravan when they made their first stop for the night, Jacob having to take charge of the caravan, Hamman’s surprising allegiance, the decision required at the split in the road, the seaside village’s response to their arrival, inspecting the containers of cinnamon and cloves. As Jacob talked, he found himself reliving the adventure of it all. Jamal too had become so caught up in the tale he began eating from the same plate. Every now and then he plied more fruit or tea on Jacob, but otherwise the man did not speak. Not until Jacob described his mad dash down the Tiberias road, with the unseen horsemen hot on his back.
“This is true, all you have told me?” He leaned back to search Jacob’s face.
Jacob nodded, wiping his fingers and his chin with the end of his head scarf. “Every word.”
Jamal stroked his greying beard. “Did they ever tell you why they searched?”
“As soon as Yussuf told this Ezra that the camels were yours, they backed down. They did say they were inspecting the goods for contraband.”
“Contraband, is it?” Jamal tugged his beard.
“But why pick Latif’s camels?” Jacob wondered.
“Do you think they knew what Latif carried?”
“Or thought they did,” Jacob nodded. “But as I said, perhaps it was just a ruse.”
“Who talked, I wonder.”
“Not Latif. It was more than his life was worth.”
“So they are aware,” mused Jamal further, looking upward to the sky. “At least they know of the possibility. We will need to devise . . .” But he shook his head and said instead, “Send riders out to Jerusalem. Have them carry gold. See if they will release Latif in exchange for payment.”
“I hear and obey,” Jacob replied, repeating words he had often heard Alban use. “Only, sire, I do not have gold.”
“You will, my man. You will. Your reward will come. And more besides. For now . . . Syrus!”
The old man appeared with the speed of one who had trained himself to lurk on the other side of pillars. “Sire?”
“This man is to be an honored guest at my inn. You will show him to the finest of our chambers and clothe him as you would a prince. See that he has everything that he needs.”
“A bath,” Jacob murmured. “And the best care for the beasts that have saved my life . . . and your wealth.”
Jamal’s laugh boomed through the courtyard. “They are not donkeys but princes as well! Syrus, see that these three princes want for nothing!”
Jacob descended from Jamal’s inn, located near the Tiberias waterfront. Tiberias was actually two cities. Observant Judeans refused to set foot in the portion of town originally established by Herod, which had been erected upon ancient burial grounds. The inn, along with the main market and the harbor area, were clearly separated from the more Hellenized portion intended to serve the king’s palace. Jacob headed toward the familiar caravan encampment. As he walked, he did his best to revel in his newfound independence.
Jamal had insisted that Jacob enjoy the hospitality of his inn as an honored guest. Before, Jacob would never have dared enter such fine accommodations. What was more, the Syrian merchant had insisted upon giving Jacob a purse of gold, and promised more besides. Then, even more of a surprise, Jamal had made a gift of his own ceremonial dagger. Everyone in Tiberias knew the knife. It was the length of Jacob’s forearm and possessed a hilt of solid gold. Two emeralds adorned the scabbard, which was silver gilt and curved like the blade it held. Jamal had shown Jacob how to wear it in the traditional style, giving him a belt of woven silk, light as a feather and strong as iron, and threaded the scabbard’s ring through the belt so that it dangled loosely, yet could not fall away. Jacob had stammered his thanks, but Jamal had shrugged the words away.
Jacob knew he should be pleased with his sudden elevation in status. But a long-past conversation with Alban remained etched in his memory. Occasionally his guardian would speak about his life as a centurion. Not often. Usually such moments came over campfires, late at night, when all the caravan slept except the guards. The stars overhead and the moon created a silver sea, and even the wind seemed to sleep. Such moments
were made for secrets, of which Alban had more than his share.
Alban had once told Jacob of his first meeting with Linux, about how he had envied the Roman officer for the ease with which he had moved through the corridors of Roman power. At that time, Alban’s burning ambition was to rise further and higher than any lowly Gaul had ever achieved. General, perhaps. Senator. Or even Consul . . .
But during the time he had served Pontius Pilate, Alban had learned a vital lesson: The closer one came to the center of power, the greater the risks. A consul could destroy a man on a whim. The result was that most people sought safety through various deceits. They molded themselves around the prevailing forces, until their spines and their spirits both were permanently warped. They no longer recognized themselves, or remembered why they had sought power in the first place. And they lived in constant fear. No alliance was lasting, no friend true.
Jacob pondered these things as he walked the road leading down to the Tiberias harbor on Galilee, then followed the shore until the road cut away, leaving the town behind and leading on to the open area where the caravans gathered. Deep in troubling thought, he recalled how Alban’s face had seemed to age with the telling. He heard Alban’s final words echo with each footstep: A man of power is a prize bargainer. Whatever he offers you, he will take more in return. Your challenge is to know yourself. Give only what you can, while remaining steadfast to your own truths.
Julia had traveled the path to the caravanserai so often she could not tally the trips, but never had her mind been in the state it was today. Two things lay heavy upon her heart. She still had not worked through her emotions about her father. The man who had kept silent about the true circumstances of her mother, of her. She found it difficult to resume her little ruse of the loving daughter. Respectful? Yes, she could manage that. Obedient? Yes. She would not have thought to question him . . . although the idea of an arranged marriage further weighed down her spirit. There were so many uncertainties, unknowns. Would there be any place for love – the kind of love her parents portrayed, even with the bitter truth her mother had quietly carried all these years?
Besides that heavy burden, today she carried another. The packet resided in a secret pocket of her shawl, carefully sewn by Zoe. Whose hand would be reaching out to accept the covert message? Would she know him when the time came?
Again she rehearsed the sentence. The rains have come to Jerusalem, the words she must listen for.
He was to be wearing a red band on his forehead and carrying a basket of healing potions for the animals. Surely that should be enough for her to positively identify the next courier.
In her state of anxiety she didn’t know whether to hasten her steps or to drag her feet. But as she neared the compound and heard the noise of the complaining camels, her pace quickened. She had not heard plans of a caravan’s departure. It must be a very small entourage or her father would have mentioned it. She must get the message passed on in time.
But first she must go to her father’s tent and deliver these provisions. She was to act normal. Perform the same routine she always did. Draw no attention to herself or to what would occur.
Thankfully her father was in the tent, not out surveying his next caravan. A chill breeze was blowing, and Julia was glad to step inside to the relative comfort of the tent’s sturdy walls.
Her father’s head came up at the sound of the flap being lifted. “Ah – you have brought my tea. Is there any chance that it might still hold some warmth?”
“Zoe wrapped it carefully in many towels,” she answered, lowering her basket. “Let us see.”
The tea was not hot, but certainly had warmth. She poured a cup and passed it to her father. After his first sip he smiled again. “Perhaps it will thaw my stiff body. I cannot manage the cold like I used to. It comes with getting older, I am told.”
Julia forced a smile. Her mind could not turn from the duty still ahead. “Will you have a cake?”
In answer he reached out a hand. “I have little time to visit today. I must go through these final documents I am sending off with a servant.”
“I understand.” In truth Julia was thankful that she did not need to tarry long. Her nervousness demanded that she get her task accomplished as quickly as possible. “I hear one of the camels has just calved. I will choose a name and come back later to pick up the basket.”
He smiled, but his eyes had already turned back to the parchment he held. “You are my blessing.”
The very words made Julia’s heart skip a beat, but her father did not notice her discomfort. Would he think she was his blessing if he knew what she was about to do?
She pushed at the tent flap and stepped out into the raw air. She drew a few ragged breaths to quiet her nerves, then crossed to where the camels groaned and quarreled. In the corner a cow stood crosswise, protectively guarding her newborn. Julia recognized her as Zadu, one of the older females. The animal had given them many fine offspring over her years. Julia crossed to her, rubbing a trembling hand up and down the shaggy neck.
“Are you as anxious as I am?” she whispered to the grumbling beast. “Look at your beautiful baby. No wonder you worry about him. Or is it her? I cannot tell as it sleeps. You are a good mother, and your babe will be fine. Stop your worrying. Just . . .”
She was about to say more when she became aware of another’s presence moving up to the other side of the animal. A hand carrying a basket appeared on the other side of Zadu, matching what Julia had been told. Then over the camel’s neck she saw some unruly dark hair spilling over a red band tied across the forehead.
A low, masculine voice said, “The rain came to Jerusalem.”
For one sickening moment she forgot what she was to do next. And then it came to her – she was to draw the sign of the fish. Julia reached out and with the walking stick she held in a shaking hand drew a fish in the sand.
The dark hair disappeared as its owner knelt on the camel’s other side. Julia saw a hand withdraw a jar of ointment from the basket and begin to remove the cork at its neck. Then one finger reached down and drew a fish in the dust.
“Look as if you are studying the newborn’s limbs,” she heard him caution quietly.
Julia went to her knees in the sand. It was only then that their eyes met beneath the camel standing above them. She couldn’t stop her gasp of disbelief.
He was the first to respond. “Is this some jest?” he hissed. “Someone’s poor idea of a hoax?”
Julia did not know if the flash from the dark eyes was from surprise – or anger. She felt her cheeks burn. “If it is,” she replied in kind, “it is not of my doing.”
She rose quickly to her feet, anger and humiliation filling every part of her being.
How could this be? How could they have sent her to meet this – this rude young ruffian who had spoken to her so callously back when he assumed that she, Jamal’s daughter, was a mere servant or slave. “Water the camels,” he had ordered as though he had some right to tell her what to do. She shook out her robe and turned on her heel.
But he had circled the camel, and his quick hand now stopped her. “Wait.”
The one word only served to anger her further. “If you do not release me, I will scream and my father’s guards will – ”
“I am Jacob, one of your father’s guards.”
“Then you know who I am. Why are you treating me like . . . ?” But she was so angry she could not complete the thought.
He released his hold, but he seemed prepared to grasp her again if she tried to leave.
“Please give me a moment to recover,” he said, taking a long breath. “I was not expecting the daughter of Jamal. I had no idea that he had any association with . . . with believers.”
“My father chooses his own path,” she spat out. “I have chosen another.”
“Of course,” he murmured, lowering his voice, no doubt a caution to her also.
She did control her tone but the words still held a sting. “And I did not ex
pect them to ask me to take a message to a caravan guard,” she hissed. “Someone trained to maim and kill, with no regard for life, seems an unlikely candidate for passing messages of peace and hope.” The last words were flung at him like barbs from a thorn bush, and even in her emotional turmoil she recognized the incongruity.
His own eyes flashed. “Other guards take the path of strife. It does not mean that I do.”
Julia took a deep breath, forcing her clenched fists to open at her sides. All she wanted to do was to escape.
He went on, sounding courteous but firm. “I believe you came to deliver and receive a message.”
She nodded and tried hard to rein in her whirling thoughts.
“It is important that we not allow our . . . our differences to endanger the lives of others,” he continued quietly, running a skilled hand along the newborn’s flank.
Of course he was right. She reached up to pull her shawl more closely around her against the wind’s icy fingers.
He spoke again, his voice low and controlled. “Shall we begin again?”
She merely nodded.
“The rain came to Jerusalem.”
“You said it incorrectly. It is to be stated, ‘The rains have come to Jerusalem.’ ”
They looked at one another, and he gave a crooked grin, then shrugged. “I think I have practiced too many times. But I have often thought of the meaning of those words since first hearing them. They contain a truth concerning our Messiah.”
Julia had failed to catch any underlying significance in the phrase, but suddenly it came very clear. Yes, of course. The rains brought hope and life for the thirsty land just as the Messiah had brought hope and life for the people. She again met the gaze of the young man, this time with what could have been respect.
Jacob withdrew the leather satchel. Before accepting it Julia drew the packet from her hidden pocket and said, “This is for you. Your instructions for delivery are included under the outer flap.”