The Damascus Way

by Janette Oke

  Jacob nodded and slipped the packet inside his cloak. Julia took the satchel and tucked it away.

  When he turned to leave, Julia realized how tall he was. How solidly built. No wonder her father had hired him for one of his guards.

  He turned back to say, “It is an honor – and a burden – to have been selected for this work.” He looked at her evenly. She wondered if she saw a twinkle of humor in his eyes. “And to have this opportunity for a better meeting than our first one.”

  “My name is Julia,” she said, just loud enough for him to hear as he moved away.

  The following day Julia observed Jacob from the concealment of a large desert cedar tree, her favorite place in the market square. She had often played in its shade as a child, when the servants would let her tag along as they did their shopping. They had been charmed by her spritely spirit, one that not even her mother’s uncertain status could diminish. Julia had known even at that early age that things were not quite as they should be in the household. Her mother had carried a secret shadow with her, close as a winter cloak. She bore this sorrow with a queen’s dignity, though, putting on no airs, and thus endearing herself to all the household staff.

  Only now could Julia truly understand her mother’s remarkable strength of character. There were numerous households about the city with two wives, or a wife and consort, and they mostly were filled with strife. The first wife would lord it over the lesser woman, who would act in a haughty manner, commanding a respect her position did not justify. It was an impossible situation, for being the household’s “other woman” meant she was neither servant nor mistress, but occupied some nebulous position in between. Helena could easily have demanded a stronger role, especially as Jamal’s true wife was six days’ hard journey to the north. But Helena expected nothing, asked for nothing. She carried herself with tragic poise, and would have played the servant herself had others within the household allowed it. The more Julia understood, the more she admired her mother.

  And now her father was arranging Julia’s marriage, and every morning she awoke with the knowledge that she was another day closer to that dreaded departure. She would be leaving the only home she had ever known. Here was safety. Here were friends, old and new. Here was her community of believers. Here was her beloved mother.

  Her father could not fathom why Julia was not more excited at the prospect of marrying into a powerful Baghdad family. And Julia understood her father’s frustration. After all, he was elevating her position significantly. No longer would she be merely the daughter of a consort, little more than a slave. Instead she would have the position her mother had yearned for, yet knew she could never claim.

  But Julia did not want to wed a stranger, particularly one who did not share her faith. And what would become of her mother? What would the groom’s family think of a mere consort’s daughter? How would she be treated? And what recourse would she have, utterly isolated, trapped in some distant city?

  Julia wiped a hand across her face, trying to rid her mind of such thoughts much as she would a cloud of flies. There were more pressing issues than her own status should the truth ever be discovered.

  Julia watched Jacob casually walk down to the stones that rimmed the small fishing port. Nets dried upon makeshift racks to either side of three overturned vessels. Jacob leaned against one of the boats that had not gone out that day, and turned to survey the shore. His gaze drifted across her and continued on. Julia watched as he picked up a rock and sent it skimming out over the water. The lake was the color of washed slate this day, and the clouds brooded low and heavy.

  When Jacob turned and started toward the synagogue wall, Julia concluded the day’s weather suited her mood perfectly.

  Jacob saw Julia leave the tree’s shade and walk toward him. He had seen her when he started down the cobblestones to the upturned boats. Concern lurked in the back of his mind about the possibility of sharing Latif’s fate with these message exchanges, but he also found himself caught by the lure of Julia’s flashing dark eyes and graceful motion. She also possessed her father’s aura of barely repressed energy. But in her it emerged as a magnetic fire. Even on such a gloomy day, she seemed to catch the light so it followed her across the square.

  Unlike most who called Tiberias home, Julia wore the traditional garb seen in a conservative Judean household. This was especially remarkable for the daughter of a Syrian trader, one who took great pride in letting it be known he bowed the knee to no god. It was no surprise that Jacob had mistaken her for a servant girl the first time they met. Julia’s only adornments this day were the bracelets her father had given her. Both her shawl and outer robe were of fine quality wool, yet so frequently washed as to appear more cloud grey than the original sky blue.

  But what struck Jacob was the fact that though she was not angry this time, even looked at peace, her eyes held a deep sorrow.

  When she hesitated by the synagogue’s outer gate, the first words he spoke surprised him. “I was not responsible for Latif’s capture.”

  She looked a question at him, then offered a brief dip of her head. Jacob noted the elderly servant who followed at a discreet distance. He nodded his acknowledgment of her, receiving only an obvious inspection in response.

  Besides its position on a major north-south trade route, the fact that Tiberias was primarily a Greek city was no doubt another reason Jamal had chosen it for his second home. Though the ancient burial grounds lay beyond the central town’s boundaries, many observant Judeans considered the entire region unclean. As a result, the synagogue was a somewhat derelict affair, and also quite small for a city of this size and commercial power. Herod likely had no interest in its condition, feeling himself above the religious masses that cared about such things.

  Julia stood next to the synagogue’s perimeter wall, facing in toward the main building. “I stopped by my father’s tent last night before leaving the encampment,” she said without looking at him. “He has received confirmation from his trading partner in Jerusalem that the drover Latif is still being held by the Temple priests.”

  Jacob wondered if she realized that Latif was also the messenger. “I would give anything to have him standing here, safe and away from danger.”

  “Tiberias is not safe either.”

  “Anywhere is safer for us than Jerusalem.” Jacob risked a quick look around. No one was even glancing at them since they stood an appropriate distance apart, the trusted servant nearby. “I did not know you were a follower.”

  “You know nothing about me.”

  He nodded agreement, both at the truth of her words and the underlying message. That he was a simple caravan guard, and she the daughter of a powerful trader. “I would like . . .” He started over. “I want to apologize.”

  Julia turned her head toward him. Only now Jacob could not bring himself to meet her eyes. “The way I spoke with you at the caravan site . . .” He shook his head. “It was very wrong of me. I expected that . . . Well, even so I should not have addressed anyone – man or woman – in such a manner. This is not what our Lord taught. It is all rather new to me. And then the courier assignment, and I had no idea what or who to expect. I understand now their wisdom in choosing a . . . a woman.”

  She drew circular patterns aimlessly in the dust with her sandal. “My father often says that to admit a mistake is a sign of great character.”

  “Your father is a very wise man.”

  Julia took her time responding. “My father is indeed wise, but he is not a believer.” She took a breath and squared her shoulders, again facing toward the wall of the synagogue. “I have another message for you. They say it is very important.” She hesitated for only a moment. “But first they want to meet you. They were expecting the satchel to be delivered by another. They fear the chain has been disrupted.”

  “Who do you mean?”

  “I cannot say. I have been instructed that we are not to know anyone beyond our own messenger. It is too dangerous. We cannot leave an easy p
ath that our enemies might follow.”

  “I am new. Quite by accident, really. Before Latif was taken, he suspected he was being watched and asked for my help.”

  “Latif was a courier?” She seemed surprised.

  “I wondered if you knew.”

  “I know almost nothing. Yesterday was my first . . . my first encounter also.”

  He smiled. “It did not go too well, did it?”

  She smiled too, feeling a bit rueful. “I am aware Latif was one of my father’s drovers. Nothing more. I had no idea he was a follower or served in this way. Does my father . . . ?”

  Jacob weighed the question carefully. “Perhaps not. No, I would think not. We must be careful to give nothing away. Does he know that you are one of us?”

  “Oh no. He must not. He would never allow . . . Never.”

  Jacob nodded. So there was much more to this young woman than her flashing eyes, her fiery temperament. He wondered what other secrets she carried.

  But she was already moving away toward her servant woman. But she turned back again, her cheeks flushed. “I forgot to tell you,” she whispered. “You are to go at once to the cypress tree by the old village well. They are awaiting you there.”

  He nodded, watching as she walked away. The distance increasing between them, though, was not nearly as wide as that between the fact that she was Jamal’s daughter and he was Jamal’s lowly caravan guard.

  CHAPTER

  FOURTEEN

  The Samaritan Plains

  After their visit to Neapolis, Abigail and the other refugees from Jerusalem traveled a relatively short distance, less than seven Roman miles, from Neapolis to Sebaste. They were accompanied by several whom Philip had baptized, while the woman named Helzebah and three of her extended family rode ahead to alert the village. The group of believers was welcomed into the town by nearly all its citizens, some waving palm leaves. As they approached the central square, the first drops of rain began to fall along with distant rumbles of thunder.

  They all hurried into the inn, where the entire main floor was one large room. Helzebah, the woman who some years previous had met Jesus by Sychar’s well, already had organized the townsfolk to shift tables aside, and she now instructed on the care of the animals, begging everyone within calling distance for food and blankets and fodder. The children were fed and led upstairs, where pallets were laid out upon the rough-plank floor. The fire’s heat and the warm food and the press of many bodies soon dispelled the storm’s damp chill.

  Philip rose and spoke once again. He answered their questions in his thoughtful, careful manner. He spoke of the times Jesus had discussed his death, showing he had willingly given his life so all might receive the gift of eternal life. He invited those gathered to pray, to accept the risen Lord as their Messiah and Savior.

  Abigail watched the woman from Sychar, how she drank in Philip’s words with almost breathless eagerness. Abigail realized that such ardor had drifted away from her own life. She knew that here and now the woman held as great a lesson for her personally as anything she might hear from the Lord’s own disciple.

  And then a villager stood from among the women listeners gathered in the back, a small, limp form in her arms, and made her way through the crowd to the front, where Philip stood. She knelt before him and held out her baby, murmuring something Abigail could not hear. Philip motioned for Alban to join him, and they each placed a hand on the child and began to pray. The believers immediately understood what was happening and joined in the prayer, their voices rising in a cadence both familiar and beautiful.

  “The fever is gone!” the woman suddenly called out over the sounds of prayer. “I have my baby back! Oh, thank you, thank you,” and then Abigail heard Philip telling her to give thanks to God. The group stood as one, arms raised along with their voices, now praising God for this miracle. Others pressed forward to ask for their own miracles of healing or deliverance.

  Once more Abigail joined her prayer with the others, only this time the petition rose from deep inside her heart. Asking for the fire of the Holy Spirit to be kindled anew. And for her to reach toward God with that hunger, that yearning, that desire to know and serve and love in His name. All around her shouts of wonder and joy rang out as others received the touch they had requested in their bodies and souls.

  It was very late that night when the villagers finally dispersed to their own homes and the Jerusalem travelers settled down for the night. Abigail climbed the steps, candle in hand, to find Dorcas. She lay down beside her little daughter and stretched her arm across the sleeping form, weary but full of thankfulness for what she had seen and heard. And what she had experienced herself. “Thank you, Jesus . . .” was all she could remember whispering.

  The next morning they traveled north to Bemesilis, and the day after to Yishub and Gitta. At each community, another Jerusalem family found relatives and friends to welcome them and help them establish a new place for themselves. Many from each succeeding village traveled along with them, asking questions about this Jesus along the way.

  By the time they reached Narbata, people from the previous villages had swelled their ranks. Their group was now larger than when they had left Jerusalem. They ate another communal meal, Philip spoke, and more were baptized.

  Abigail was with Martha on a bench surrounded by local women sitting on reed mats. They were asking questions about Jesus’ teachings, about how the Master had fulfilled the prophecies of old. Abigail usually waited for Martha to respond, but she would draw Abigail into the discussion in ways that gave her confidence.

  Dorcas was the first to notice Linux standing beneath a massive creosote tree. Abigail watched her daughter run across the square and hold her arms up to him. Linux lifted her up while all the women turned to stare at him. He stepped toward them and said, “I beg your forgiveness for my interruption, sisters.”

  One close to Abigail’s bench murmured, “That I would ever live to see the day when a Roman officer would call me sister.”

  Linux said, “Abigail, when you are finished, may I have a word?”

  She realized the women would not continue to listen so long as Linux hovered nearby. She excused herself, rose from the bench, and drew him away.

  “I did not mean to disrupt your lesson,” Linux said, placing Dorcas back on the ground.

  “Martha can teach them far better than I.”

  “I doubt that most sincerely. She gives them the facts. You sweeten the lesson with your heart and your joy.”

  Abigail was about to contradict him when Dorcas said, “Mama is happy.”

  “Indeed?”

  Dorcas nodded, her curls bouncing with the movement of her head.

  “I cannot see how anyone could be near you for very long, Dorcas, and not be happy,” Linux said.

  Dorcas smiled. “You are happy too, Uncle Linux?”

  He did not answer but led the two of them to the stone wall marking the village boundary. He settled Dorcas down on its edge, and said to them both, “I must depart tomorrow – ”

  “No!” Dorcas called out, with a child’s ability to leap from one emotion to the next. Her face showed very real distress.

  “I must go.” Linux addressed his words to the little girl, but Abigail knew he spoke to her. “Caesarea is a bit over a day’s journey to the north and west. Tonight you all will rest here, then your band is turning eastward and heading to Ginae. The day after, you will arrive at Nain, your own destination.”

  “But . . .” Dorcas was gripping his tunic with both small fists. “No, uncle, you must come with us.”

  “You have the gift of making friends wherever you go,” he said gently. And once again, Abigail was certain he was speaking to her as much as to the child. “I have talked with the elders. The remaining travelers are well escorted and protected. And Alban – ”

  “No, please,” Dorcas continued her protest. “Come with us.”

  “I would like nothing better,” Linux replied, laying his hand on her head
. “But I am ordered to report to the commandant at Caesarea.”

  Dorcas looked like she was going to cry. “After that?”

  Linux tipped up the little face with a finger. “Dear child. I will come back.”

  “When?”

  “The very instant I am allowed to rejoin you, I shall.” For the first time, he glanced at Abigail. “That is, if your mother will permit me to visit.”

  Dorcas looked at her mother.

  “Linux must do his duty, as must we all,” Abigail said simply but firmly. “But we will miss his company, won’t we?”

  Dorcas clung to his arm, looking from one to the other with her eyes full of questions and sorrow.

  Abigail studied the two of them as from a great distance. The gentle soldier, even his countenance remade by his growing faith. The change in Linux might be more subtle than the healing of Abigail’s injured leg, back in Jerusalem during those early days after the Messiah’s return to his Father. Even so, the transformation was no less miraculous. Gone was the sardonic humor masking a bitter rage over fate and his brother’s brutal hand. Gone too the need to force Abigail to be his own. In its place resided a kind spirit, a caring nature, and a hunger to grow in faith.

  Dorcas now fell to weeping at the prospect of losing her new friend.

  Abigail gathered the child into her arms, and Dorcas buried her face on her mother’s shoulder.

  “I must be on my way.” Linux reached out to stroke her curls. “I will leave before the sun is up tomorrow.”

  Abigail said into Dorcas’s ear, “Be a brave girl, and let us bid our friend farewell with a smile.”

  Dorcas simply shook her head.

  “It is so much better if he carries your happiness with him when he leaves.”

  The little girl’s head moved back and forth more vigorously. “I am not happy, Mama. I miss him already.”