The merchant gave no indication he had noticed Ezra's calculating squint. "Every time a woman appears from the house, the Roman turns. When it is not her, he goes back to waiting. He speaks to no one."
Ezra could not keep the jealous ire from his voice. "Who is he?"
"The name is Linux. He is one of the tribune's officers. Abigail's guardian is his friend."
"Another Roman." The news from Jacob that Abigail's fate was held in the hands of a Roman married to a Judean from Italy had not been welcome. And now this. "You admit Romans into your ranks?"
"Alban is counted as a God-fearer."
"And this one?"
"Peter asked that I admit him. He is here. I know nothing more."
Ezra's glare burned with such intensity that the Roman must have felt it. He turned in his seat, facing Ezra and his challenging expression straight on.
Isaac touched his arm. "Come. Let me introduce you to Peter."
From his position at the far wall, Linux watched their host lead a Judean around the various groups of visitors and across the courtyard. He was undoubtedly a Judean merchant prince. The man might live under the full weight of Rome's occupying army, but Linux was certain he was a leader among his tribe. The newcomer, tall and strong, followed their host across the courtyard with a stately bearing. The man had wrapped one length of his formal robes about his right arm, as a visiting dignitary might when approaching a king. He was led to a group of the clan leaders speaking intensely with one another. Linux, on the other hand, had been left on a lone bench set alongside the wall. He noted that the other man's approach caused something of a stir. Conversations halted and eyes tracked the man's progress. The Judean might have been aware of the attention but gave no sign, undoubtedly accustomed to it.
The man reminded Linux of a slighter version of his own brother. Haughty, born to power and the subservience of others, accustomed to getting whatever it was he craved.
So this is the other man seeking Abigail's hand. Of that Linux had no doubt.
Further, Linux sensed the man had seen him and knew he was there on the same quest. The Judean stopped and looked at Linux once again as the two men approached the people gathered near the far table. The man's obvious stare was not because Linux was the lone Roman among this Judean gathering. The man saw Linux as a rival.
The expression could have been taken straight from his brother's face. This man might be leaner, his face covered with a neatly cropped beard, with some grey in the jet-black hair, and his eyes might be as dark as onyx while his brother's were a flat brown. But the expression was identical. Lofty, superior, brutally cold. Linux knew it well. He should. He had been seeing it all his life, whether in person or in his dreams.
When the man turned away to follow their host, Linux sipped from a cup someone had set before him on the table. No one was seated on either side of him. Linux was as isolated as he could possibly be, yet surrounded by this intense gathering. The guests talked quietly among themselves and ignored him entirely.
He stared at the newcomer as he bowed toward a young man who had risen from his place at a table not far from the main one. The merchant spoke in a low voice, no doubt making his case for Abigail. Linux sipped again from the cup. He might be a Roman officer, but in this case he was utterly defenseless. The Judean merchant had every reason to dismiss him and his common suit for Abigail's hand with one contemptuous glare. Just like his brother.
Linux turned away and quickly searched the throng for a single glimpse of Abigail, even though he knew she would not be appearing. In his heart of hearts he also knew he should not have come.
He could almost hear his brother laughing at him.
The evening was not going as Ezra had expected. To begin with, he was not speaking with Peter at all.
Instead, he was directed to a table slightly apart from where the big man was now seated with his associates. This alone would have been enough of an affront to have Ezra objecting. His place had been at every head table since he had taken his father's position as leader of their merchant clan. He was known in the marketplace, he was known to the Romans, he was known in the Temple. Yet here he was, seated in the shadows off to the left of the head table, waiting his turn.
The man now serving as his host was the same young man who had spoken with him in the followers' courtyard several days back. His name was Stephen, and he carried himself with a quiet fervor that left Ezra even more unsettled than he already was. Once the man had acknowledged Ezra and motioned to a place beside him, Stephen had returned to a spirited conversation with others seated with them. Now and then Ezra picked up words and phrases that came directly from the Torah, but the full sentences were lost among his own uneasy thoughts and the stirrings about him. Ezra had known Pharisees who spent their entire lifetime arguing over a single passage of Scripture. To anyone but their select group, the issue was meaningless. To the dedicated, it was as vital as life itself.
It was not Stephen's quiet passion that disturbed him, but the contrast between him and most of the religious Judeans he had known.
For the Pharisees and their followers, these arguments over Scriptures held the same power and importance as the way they dressed, the rituals they followed for prayer and for eating. All of this was intended to divide. To separate them from the rest. Either a person was part of their exclusive group or he was an outcast. Others might call themselves Judeans. They might consider themselves the Chosen, the followers of the One True God. But if politics or habits or interpretation of the Holy Book did not follow that of the Pharisees, they were doomed.
Stephen could not have been more different than they.
When he once more turned back, Ezra took the opportunity to ask, "Are you perhaps a member of the Sadducees?"
The younger man gave Ezra his full attention. "Not now, not ever," he answered with a slight shake of his head. "I believe in the afterlife and the union with the risen Lord. As do all followers of the Way."
Which was why the Sadducees in particular were so infuriated with this sect, Ezra realized. The Sadducees were convinced the afterlife did not exist at all. Man lived, man died. The candle was snuffed out. Finished. A very Greek philosophy, it was one that found favor only with the highly educated, the rich, the well traveled. The average Judean despised the Sadducees for this and for how they had allied themselves with the Romans.
Ezra said, "I meant no offense."
"None taken, my friend."
"It is your name. Stephen is very Greek."
"It was given to me by my master."
Ezra leaned back and surveyed the man more carefully.
"I was born a slave," Stephen explained. "I received my freedom as a gift when my master died. He passed away a believer also, praise to the Lord above."
Ezra said slowly, "You brought your master into the clan of this prophet Jesus, and in return he granted you freedom."
"I am sorry, but you do not understand." Stephen pointed to where Peter's head was bent in close to a cluster of people, all craning forward and listening intently. "Peter is saying the very same thing to these new believers. It is not within my power to bring anyone to faith in Jesus. Only the Holy Spirit can do this. All I can do is introduce the concept and suggest that if indeed what I am saying is true, then they should pray to Jesus and ask that he enter into their lives and reside in their hearts and minds."
Ezra said, "Peter is speaking to new believers?"
"Yes. This takes precedence over everything." Stephen waved a hand around. "Everyone here knows how important you are. But these require instruction."
"Of course." But Ezra's matter-of-fact response belied his awe at what he was hearing. Peter did not look like a man intent upon drawing wealth or power from his new allies. Ezra now said, "I have heard that Peter told the Sanhedrin the power of miracles was not his at all."
Stephen nodded and smiled as though Ezra had finally realized a crucial point. "It is vital for these new believers to understand that this is not a cu
lt following any man. We seek the risen Lord. Our allegiance is to him alone. All power derives from Jesus and resides in him."
Ezra studied the young man seated next to him. "Yet Peter performed the miracles."
"No, my friend. No. I am sorry, but the truth is this. Peter opened his heart and mind to the Spirit's movement and acted as he was directed. Nothing more. We are merely hands and feet for the Spirit's use."
Ezra tugged at his beard, then stopped when he realized he was duplicating Gamaliel's actions during their last discussion. Ezra knew his Scriptures. He knew that everything the young man was saying came straight from the prophets. Which only unsettled him more.
Stephen said, "Our meal is delayed. It is often thus when new believers are being instructed. Will you take tea, perhaps?"
"Tea, yes. Thank you. It was a long walk here."
"One moment."
After the young man departed, Ezra allowed his gaze to roam over the crowded patio. At his position on the opposite wall, the Roman remained alone. A torch burned in a tall iron stand rising to his left, but an overhanging branch cast the Roman's face in shadows. Ezra was certain, though, that the man watched him. He turned away. The Roman was isolated, and this was Ezra's home ground. The sect might be new, and the woman's fate might be controlled by men whose interpretation of Scripture differed from his own. But these were his people just the same. They were here for their Sabbath's end meal together. And he was a Judean of wealth and power.
The Roman did not stand a chance.
C H A P T E R
FIFTEEN
AFTER MARTHA HAD CLEANSED THE WOUND with water and spread the healing balm and new strips of cloth over it, she eased Abigail to a pallet on the floor and covered her with a light cotton wrap. "Now," she exclaimed, straightening and wiping her hands on the sides of her outer tunic, "now we take time to pray."
She knelt beside Abigail, her bones creaking in protest, and folded her hands. "Lord," she began, "we come to you in the name of the dear Savior, our Lord, asking for healing for this your child. You see our need clearly. We have nothing to offer but ourselves. You have asked us to pray in faith, knowing and believing that you do all things well. Reveal to us your purpose. Work out your will. Help us to accept what you desire to give. In the name of our Lord Jesus we pray. Amen."
Abigail murmured her own amen.
Martha pushed herself to a standing position, again brushing her hands on her plain tunic. But she wasn't done. "Now-this problem of the two suitors."
Abigail sensed that the older woman wanted her to speak. But what was she to say? Could she voice her fears?
Martha lowered herself to a stool. She finally said, "I know how I would feel were I you. In the first place, I don't care for either one of them. One is wealthy and successful, and thinks he can have anything he wants because he always has. The second man sees himself as a prince whom any maiden would desire. But just because he looks handsome and holds Roman power does not make him an acceptable match.
"Secondly, neither of them follow our faith. Though it is true that God can use a godly wife to bring a wayward husband to faith, it is my opinion that our Lord would prefer they start yoked equally as followers. You can better serve in other ways, to my thinking."
Abigail whispered, "But I have asked and prayed ever since ... well, ever since I have known. I still cannot see his will for me."
"Perhaps there is something here we are missing," Martha mused. "I cannot advise you in this. Only God knows the plan he has for you. We must continue to pray for his will to be done. He has promised to answer, and he keeps his promises. So answer he will-in his own time and way. Whatever your future holds, this I know. He will not desert you. Your duty, my dear, is to seek his will and to walk in his way."
Abigail was well aware of the tears on her cheeks and dripping on the pillow placed under her head. Of course it was as simple as Martha had expressed. And yet so complex. So frightening. Why could she not hold to a stronger faith, and trust God to lead her?
Martha placed her hands on her knees and pushed herself up from the stool. "So that is what we pray for. That God will give you the wisdom and the faith to look beyond this moment. To know that whatever lies ahead, he has prepared the way. And he will have you ready for it as long as you are faithfully following him."
As Martha began another prayer, standing beside the pallet, for the first time in weeks Abigail felt a stirring of hope.
The silence surrounded Linux like an unseen force.
He found it strange to use silence to describe how he was feeling in a courtyard full of commotion and conversation. To Linux it seemed as though the noisier the various table groupings became, the more profound the stillness.
He wanted to leave. And yet there was something at work here. Something that invited him, drew him to remain-almost against his will.
Linux leaned back against the wall and shut his eyes. Instantly his head was filled with painful images. All of them centered upon Castor, his older brother.
Castor had always been the lesser son in terms of abilities, natural gifts. Linux was stronger, more handsome, more competitive, skilled with a sword. Linux had always led the hunt, had beaten his brother at every game. Linux had even won the greater share of attention from their father. But when it came down to it, all that was to no avail. Castor, the elder brother, was the prince, the one born to rule. Everyone knew that and sought to remain in his good graces. Even their parents.
Linux learned to hide behind a sardonic twist of humor. Laughing away the acid flames of fury. Pretending that everything was fine, he could handle all such matters and still come up laughing. That proved to be the finest weapon against Castor. Linux played the fool, and gradually his brother began to ignore him.
When he first met Alban, Linux was astonished to find within the fierce Gaul the heart of a true brother. Alban's own brother had conspired to kill him, and Alban wore his rage like a badge of honor. Until, that is, Alban had come to follow this Judean prophet. And started using words that had struck Linux like fists. Forgiveness. Salvation. Messiah.
Linux lifted both hands to rub his face. He found himself trapped and abandoned to a fate that mocked his laughter, that ridiculed him with bitter spite. Never before were the mental images so clear, the motives behind them so vivid. Because here, in this crowded courtyard where the internal silence was so powerful he could not even hear the tumult surrounding him, Linux recognized a bitter truth.
This hatred of his brother ruled his life.
He was dominated by the futility of life's unfairness. Castor was not merely flesh and blood. He was the barrier to everything that Linux deserved. It was Linux who was born to rule. He was, in truth, the family's prince and heir. He should be the one seeking favor in Rome. He could rise, he could ascend, he could become ...
Oh yes, he hated his brother with every fiber of his being.
Only now, in this Judean night, did Linux realize how helpless his position truly was. Beneath the crackling torch that cast shadows upon his closed eyelids, Linux saw that he was chained to his wrath. It imprisoned him, and he had no chance of ever finding fulfillment, another way to move forward. Everything he did, all that he might achieve, would remain as ashes because of this fiery rage. Even the woman he wanted to claim as his own, the reason he was here this night, would likely be consumed by it.
Linux felt a hand come to rest upon his shoulder. He opened his eyes to find a smiling young man who said, "Peter will speak with you now."
Even when Ezra had been invited to join the senior apostle, it did not proceed as he wished. For as he was ushered to the head table, the young man he had been speaking with, Stephen, went over and brought the Roman forward as well.
Ezra had endured such exchanges before, and he loathed them. Two merchants brought together and forced to sit across from one another. The buyer then could sit and smile and observe the pair struggle over who would win the business. Ezra felt his position within the market and
the Judean culture should grant him a greater degree of respect and deference. Especially under these circumstances.
Then he noticed the Roman's face. Though he wore a commoner's clothing, the man had served in the military, perhaps still did. That much was clear from his angular form, his evident strength and bearing. Yet he approached the head table seemingly mired in deep confusion.
Peter was in the process of rising to greet Ezra when his eye also must have been caught by the Roman. The apostle, in the process of stretching out his hands to Ezra, stopped and walked around the table. He drew the Roman down onto the bench across from where he had been sitting. By his own hand. A Judean seating an oppressor. And smiling as he did so. And laying his hand on the Roman's shoulder before returning to his place. Only then did he offer Ezra the traditional greeting, all the while his gaze resting upon the Roman.
Nothing could have prepared Ezra for what happened next.
When the three were seated, Peter waved Stephen down next to the Roman. He asked, "Your name?"
"Linux."
"I am Peter and this is Stephen." He spoke with the rough edge of the country born. Yet his manner was just as Gamaliel had described when Peter had stood before the Sanhedrin. His bearing held none of the subservience such a person would be expected to show his visitors, a senior merchant and a Roman officer. "May I ask, are you a God-fearer, Linux?"
The legionnaire wiped his face with a trembling hand. "I remember hearing the same being asked of a friend of mine. In my mind, I mocked him for taking the question seriously."
Peter seemed to accept the words without reproach. "Do you wish to be free from your chains, Roman?"
Ezra felt his mouth drop open in astonishment. For a Judean to speak thus to a Roman officer was unimaginable. Such an offense could result in Peter's death.
The Hidden Flame Page 11