The Damascus Way

by Janette Oke

  Each morning he presented himself before the commandant’s aide. But Caesarea was the Roman capital of Judea, and the commandant was very sensitive to the political winds. These were uncertain times, and Linux no longer had allies among Judea’s Roman leaders. The commandant risked disfavor by officially recognizing him. So Linux was made to wait.

  He found solace among the community of believers. Linux was again invited to ride out to the home of Cornelius, centurion of the Italian Guard. After another time of prayer and discussion of Scriptures, Cornelius signaled for Linux to remain behind. Once the home had emptied of most other guests, Cornelius led him and Grattus, his escort from before, to the rooftop and motioned him to be seated on a lounge overlooking the sea. Without further preamble, the man declared, “What we do here is not illegal.”

  This centurion from the Italian Guard was a grizzled veteran with a commander’s thousand-furlong stare. Linux guessed that this experienced soldier’s eyes and ears could sweep any situation, no matter how chaotic, and assess its true nature within moments. Linux had felt that gaze come to rest upon him now and again during the evening and knew he was being measured. But he did not mind. In fact, the same sense of overwhelming peace he remembered from the Jerusalem compound filled him now. Let the man look and evaluate and make his conclusions as much as he wished.

  Now the man gazed out over the moonlight grazing the sea’s still waters and said to the night, “I am a loyal soldier of Rome. I serve my country, and my emperor. But I also serve my God. These times are full of questions and uncertainties. I prefer not to have my quest to know God lead my superiors to doubt my loyalty to Rome. Neither do I wish to bring danger to any of my friends or family. To any of the followers. So our meetings are held here in secret, restricted to those we know and trust.”

  The rooftop, like that of many Judean homes, was fashioned into an outdoor chamber, and it caught the night winds drifting off the cold Great Sea, but Linux did not mind. A pair of braziers burned brightly. His lounge was covered with an animal skin for further warmth. But in truth Linux was only vaguely aware of his surroundings and remained captivated by the time of prayer and teaching.

  Cornelius said, “There are events in Rome which touch us even here. This new emperor, Gaius, is erecting a temple in honor of his own divinity. Other emperors have done as much, and it keeps the priestly sect happy. The crowds enjoy such spectacles. But Gaius seems actually to be convinced he is a god, and he now expects the people to burn sacrifices to him.”

  Grattus added, “This new emperor is also known by his childhood nickname, Caligula. It means ‘Little Boots,’ and was given to him when he went out to war as a child with his father, dressed in a small version of battle garb.”

  Linux shifted in his seat. “If you will forgive me, I would prefer not to discuss such things this night. I returned recently from Italy, and while there I heard every manner of rumor. No doubt some are true – perhaps all. But during both of my visits to your home, Cornelius, I have felt the Spirit’s presence. I would ask for time to dwell in it for a moment longer.”

  “Well said.” Cornelius nodded slowly. “But we seek to determine more clearly who you truly are, Linux Aurelius. What has brought you to us? What can you tell us of yourself and your life journey?”

  So Linux began with his friendship with Alban, at that time a Roman soldier like himself, and of the unusual assignment to find the body of a dead Judean prophet. Of the escape of Alban and his bride on Linux’s horse when Herod had issued orders for their deaths. He told them of his quest for Abigail’s hand. Of Alban’s intervention, and the resulting transformation of his life.

  He talked long enough for his throat to dry out. Cornelius rose and served him tea by his own hand. Linux related his journey to Italy, the confession to his brother, his return, and his dismissal by the Jerusalem tribune. By the time he finished, the braziers had burned down to the last flickering embers, and even the night birds had gone silent.

  They sat, three Roman officers wrapped in animal skins, listening to the sound of the waves upon the rocky shore.

  Cornelius’s hands were locked under his chin. “Your story is an inspiration to me, brother. Do you mind if I call you that?”

  “I would consider it an honor.”

  “It is a common enough term among the righteous Judeans, which in Caesarea are few in number. We followers have taken to calling ourselves the same.”

  “We are bound together by our faith in the risen Lord,” Grattus said. “And by the Spirit.”

  Cornelius asked, “Now that you have lost command of the Capernaum garrison, what will you do?”

  Linux was quiet for a moment. “I do not have an answer for you, brother, save to say I am ready and willing to serve the Lord. Whenever and wherever.”

  “I like your words and the man behind them.” The older soldier’s grin flashed in the moonlight. “How would you like to serve under my command?”

  Linux felt his heart leap. “Nothing would give me greater honor. But – ”

  “The tribune will think twice before attacking an officer in the Italian Guard.” Grattus was smiling as well.

  Cornelius studied Linux openly now. “The new consul has given me responsibility for all the garrisons in Samaria. I insist upon regular patrols. You can guess the result.”

  “You are taking losses.”

  “Between the brigands and the Zealots, my patrols are attacked almost daily. To maintain morale, I rotate them regularly. Six months on duty in the field, six months light duty in the Caesarea garrison. I have need of good officers. I can make a very convincing case to the commandant. And it might solve a political problem for him. What say you?”

  Linux fought to hold his voice steady. “Your invitation would seem to be an answer to prayer, sire.”

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  The Megiddo Plains

  Abigail’s days had settled into a busy routine. There was much to do and much to be learned about overseeing a merchant’s stall. Stocking it with goods, determining the price, finding those weavers with the best quality fabrics . . . and on and on.

  Though they had come to visit Helzebah, even Helena and Julia were now working alongside her. And little Dorcas, who made a game of every chore and brightened the day for all who knew her, took delight in being the first to alert her mother when a caravan came in view.

  But no one seemed busier than Zoe. Even though the roles of master and slave were less distinct among the believers, she truly had a servant’s heart and could sense what should be done almost before the need appeared. Abigail marveled as she watched the elderly woman quietly take up any task before her.

  Together with the followers in the village, the women shared a beautiful Sabbath. They met at the neglected synagogue. Their worship included a fervent prayer that the structure would be restored and again filled with worshipers.

  In the days that followed, Martha proved to be an able merchant. She could lift her voice to carry from one end of the market to the other. Dorcas loved sitting among the stacks of fabrics and calling out to every passerby, showing them the fine weavings, loving the colors so much it shone in her face. They came into the stall because of her happiness, and they stayed to buy from Martha. The business was increasing quickly, Abigail noted as she looked around the well-stocked stall.

  Abigail began going from house to house seeking out more sources for the weavings. Yelban had given his word for her, and that was enough for the villagers. As she visited the homes, she often stayed to speak with the women and tell them about the gospel of Jesus. Her natural warmth disarmed even the most skeptical of those who had been cheated by the ones whom Jamal had appointed earlier. At first Abigail wondered if it was proper for her to come to do business, then staying to speak of heaven. But she discovered it was all part of the rich tapestry of life. She was committed to be truthful in all things, to share from the heart, and return trust with trust. Always.

  She soon had p
eople stopping her in the lanes and upon the road. Seeking her out. Asking her to pray with them, telling of their concerns over an illness or heartache or husband or child. The weavings were now given to her with scarcely a word of negotiation on price. Trust was the bond that forged her place in the village. Trust and faith.

  And both of these things brought her into conflict with Simon.

  His was a very subtle discord, for he too attended the synagogue services. He joined the others at Abigail’s home, prayed and listened. He had been baptized by Philip.

  But on the other days of the week he still wore the robes scripted with secret writings. His hair was woven with ritual threads. He made amulets for those who sought favor from unseen forces. And he demanded coins for all he did.

  Simon offered subtle hints, quietly spoken questions, about the power of this Jesus. He voiced misgivings about whether there truly was a need for the villagers to abandon the ways that made them Samaritans. He announced plans for leading a group up to Mount Gerizim in the spring, where they could seek guidance and forge new bonds with the old ways.

  Abigail did not seek out knowledge concerning Simon’s actions and attitudes. She did not need to. The villagers were confused and grew increasingly concerned, for they felt the tugs pulling them in conflicting directions. They asked her about what to do, how to respond. She answered as best she could. As did Martha. But neither of them felt fully satisfied with their efforts.

  Abigail prayed and prayed about the situation. She prayed for Simon. She spoke of the problems with Martha and Helzebah, with Helena and Julia. And still she did not have clear direction.

  The morning arrived when Helena and Julia, with their servant Zoe, would be returning to Tiberias. One of Jamal’s caravans had been encamped nearby for a night and a day and another night. It was headed for Nabataea by way of Tiberias, and this was their opportunity to travel safely home.

  Helzebah planned to leave at that same time, returning to her family. The women said their farewells to Martha and to Dorcas, and then Abigail walked with them to the caravan.

  The caravan master assigned donkeys for the four women, then insisted one of his men serve as their personal guard. This was, after all, his master’s family.

  Helena embraced Abigail and said, “Your example is a beacon that will light my days.”

  “Helena, there is no need – ”

  “No, please. I do not wish to travel the road with these words unspoken.” She took a long breath, then said, “I have learned as much from your example as your words. God has not made your life perfect. Yet in the midst of change and turmoil, you are living proof of his gift of peace. For this reminder, I am ever in your debt.”

  In the face of such praise, Abigail found her greatest doubts surfacing. “I am often beset by worry and fear,” she admitted.

  “Which is why how you live is such a great lesson. You are not removed from trouble. Yet God is there with you – through all of it. I need to learn that. To see that. I have walked with God for only a short time. I have much to learn.”

  Abigail wiped her eyes. “At night I still wake up and long for Jerusalem.”

  “The Jerusalem you knew is no more,” Helzebah said from Abigail’s other side. “You were there. You saw the changes.”

  “I saw,” Abigail admitted. “And yet . . .”

  Helzebah touched Abigail’s arm. “Here you are safe. And they need you. Jerusalem will be a memory, a good one. Remain where you are, Abigail. Love your daughter. Serve your Lord.”

  Saying farewell to Helzebah was harder than Abigail had expected. “You have become a sister,” she said as the two embraced.

  The woman’s features held traces of the life she had left behind. “I do not deserve such gifts.”

  “None is worthy,” Abigail said. “All of us bear the burdens of things we should not have done. Should have done.”

  “Yes,” said Helzebah. “Yes, that is so.”

  As Abigail turned and embraced Julia, the young woman said, “If Jacob should come back this way . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Well . . .” She shook her head and stepped back.

  Abigail looked a question at Helena, whose only response was to observe her daughter with some sorrow.

  Zoe was the last to receive Abigail’s farewell. The woman seemed to have drawn back into her role as servant rather than sister. She stood silently, hands folded in front of her, eyes studying her feet.

  “Zoe, dear one, you have been such a blessing. I thank you for becoming a part of our little community and having eyes that see another’s need. I shall so miss you.”

  Zoe’s eyes reflected her surprise. Then for a moment she seemed to step out of her comfortable role, becoming more like the mother Abigail had lost and still missed with a child’s longing. Zoe reached up and gently tucked back a stray lock of Abigail’s hair, letting her hand run down the younger woman’s cheek as she looked deeply into her eyes. “May God bring happiness back to those beautiful eyes, my daughter,” she said, “and erase the pain I see. There is much of life still ahead for you. Embrace it in his name and for his sake.”

  She leaned forward and placed a kiss on one cheek, then the other.

  Abigail waited while the women mounted their animals. The caravan master shrilled his cry, and the caravan started from the corrals. Abigail called, “Go with God.”

  Helena’s eyes brimmed above her shawl. “When Jamal asks me what I think of his new stall holder, I will say that you are a gift from the Lord.”

  Abigail remained where she was, waving them off. Another farewell, another parting, another bit of her heart lost to time and distance. She waved until there was nothing in the east but a plume of dust.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-NINE

  The Megiddo Plains

  Abigail was busy setting up her wares when Yelban’s son appeared. He jerked his head, indicating he wished to speak with her alone. Once they were outside the stall, he said softly, “There is trouble. You must come.”

  “I should first see to my daughter.”

  “She is with your friends. This cannot wait. The future of our village is at stake.”

  Yelban’s son was named Aboud, a common Samaritan name derived from Abel. He was lean-faced and tall for his fourteen years, with an intelligent eye and a ready smile. Only not this day. His features were drawn and tight with anger as he led Abigail down a side lane and behind a stack of barrels. When she started to ask their destination, he hissed once, a sharp sound. Abigail caught the danger and tensed as a stranger drifted into view. Even when the man was out of sight, she did not draw an easy breath.

  Silently Aboud moved forward, beckoning her to follow. He opened a small slit in the cloth wall of his father’s tavern. Abigail could see yet remain hidden.

  Nine men were Yelban’s current customers, sprawled upon benches and the most comfortable seats. Two more men lounged by the tavern’s entrance, their backs to Abigail. All eleven constantly scouted the front of the tavern with dark gazes. Through the wide opening Abigail saw another two men guarding their horses. Abigail drew the shawl up higher about her face and resisted the urge to flee. Bandits.

  Though she remained hidden, she felt as if the bandits could sense her presence. Like wolves aware of prey, biding their time, ready to attack.

  Yelban’s voice could be heard through the tavern walls, sounding thick with the same apprehension that darkened his son’s features. “What you demand from us is impossible.”

  “Nonsense.” The spokesman looked tall even when seated. He wore a long beard, the end tarred and fitted with a silver spike. He popped an olive into his mouth, slurped loudly from his mug. “You serve excellent fare, my friend.”

  “You demand more than we make in profit.”

  “Then you shall simply have to raise your prices, is that not so?”

  “The caravans will not stop here if – ”

  “Where else are they to go?” The bandit wore two curved bl
ades on his belt, and long knives strapped to his back. Another curved bow lay across his lap. All his men were similarly armed. “Yours is the only market for miles. To the southeast there is nothing between here and Ginae, to the northwest the next place to halt is Nazareth, to the northeast, Tiberias, and southwest there is nothing at all!”

  “The families here will wither and die. The villages – ”

  “The villages will endure. Is that not what Samaritan villages have done for centuries? Endure?” He threw back his head and laughed cruelly.

  Three market watchmen stood stiffly in the sunlight beyond the awning. The bandits ignored them. Abigail could understand why. The bandits were professional fighting men, killers. The guards were simple villagers armed with staves and long knives.

  Yelban glanced at his watchmen, then allowed his gaze to drift further. Beyond the market, out to where the lone hill rose in the far distance.

  The bandit obviously knew what Yelban was thinking. “My friend, the only result of your running to the Romans is that the market would find itself a new headman.”

  Beside her, Aboud tensed and reached for the knife at his belt. Abigail gripped his arm with all her strength. Aboud turned to her, inspected her eyes above the shawl’s edge, and reluctantly nodded. Abigail did not remove her hand until he released the knife’s handle.

  The bandit was saying, “The Romans will come, and they will demand payment for their protection. Perhaps not the silver that I ask. Perhaps only fodder for fifty horses, and meals for fifty men. And supplies for their fortress, for which they will give you script and never pay. Is that not why you have stopped doing business with them? They give you papers promising money, but never redeem it with silver?”

  Yelban chewed on the edge of his moustache and did not respond. His focus remained upon the fortress atop the lone hill.

  “So now you go to the Romans, after refusing to do business with them for months. I have been watching you, you see. I know. And the Romans will demand payment. And they will guard you. But for how long? A week? A month? And then they will leave. Because they are Romans, and you and I, my friend, are nothing to them. Nothing!”