The Hidden Flame

by Janette Oke;T. Davis Bunn

  "Peace, yes. An interesting word. It is an altogether too rare commodity in this dreadful land, would you not agree?"

  Linux had no idea whether the question was addressed to him and so did not respond. Behind the thrones clustered the prelate's Roman sycophants, their colorful robes fluttering about them. They eyed Linux with the cold joy of an audience awaiting the arena's bloody entertainment.

  Lucius Metellus continued, "I was warned before I arrived that maintaining peace in Judea would require a brutal hand. That no portion of my rule would be free of threat."

  Linux marveled at how he could feel such dread, yet such calm, in the same moment. "I have maintained steadfast allegiance to Rome at all times, sire."

  "Have you? Have you?" The prelate waved at the man seated beside him. "Do tell this officer your news."

  "I have taken action to have you followed." The tribune's voice carried a reedy echo in the oversized chamber. "I know you have attended a gathering of this new sect."

  The prelate asked, "What do they call themselves? I have forgotten."

  "'Followers of the Way,' " the tribune sneered. "Don't bother to deny it, Linux. I have two witnesses waiting outside the chamber."

  "There is nothing to deny, sire."

  "A Roman officer, consorting with some outlaw Judean sect," the tribune said. "It is unbelievable and revolting."

  "Tell me what is going on here," the prelate demanded.

  The answer appeared to Linux so clearly it might as well have been written in the air before his face. "Pontius Pilate was most concerned about them, sire. You yourself heard how they continue to trouble the Sanhedrin-"

  "So you sought to determine whether they are a threat to Rome?" the prelate interrupted. "And are they?"

  "Sire, they are drawn together by dictates of peace and brotherly love. Of that I am most certain."

  The tribune countered, "I hear they are in alliance with the Zealots. And that you have become one of them."

  Linux chose to answer only the first portion. "The Zealots are ruled by vengeance and war. The followers may share the Zealots' yearnings to reclaim Judea as their homeland. But they will not take up arms against Rome."

  The prelate's hand relaxed. The fist stopped tapping the chair's arm. "Here is what I think has happened," he said. His voice had lost its icy edge. "I sought to reward a trusted adviser with chambers inside the fortress. The new tribune arrives and finds a man he assumes is a spy. A man loyal to me above all, and not the tribune. Is that not so, Lucius Metellus?"

  The tribune scowled. "We both serve at the Senate's pleasure."

  "A fitting response. And it was the Senate who ordered us to maintain peace in Judea. Peace at all costs. Which means that you, Linux Aurelius, who are guilty of nothing save loyalty, must pay. It is clear you cannot remain in your present station. I will not have our peace disturbed by further accusations, none of which bear more truth than this. The question is, what shall I do with you?"

  The tribune fidgeted angrily in his chair, the advantage slipping away before his eyes.

  Linux remained silent. But not out of fear. He simply waited. The prelate and the tribune were two very similar men. He did not need to look directly at them to see this. Though immune to the decadent behavior that surrounded them, they were captured by the lure of power. They shared the appearance of ascetics, yet this was merely a disguise. Both were so enraptured by the pleasure of holding raw force in their hands that nothing, no lust that captivated lesser mortals, could tempt them.

  The tribune said, "You may not send him back to Rome. I forbid it. I will not have him spouting lies in the ears of senators and the like."

  The prelate actually laughed. "You? Forbid?"

  Lucius Metellus did not budge. "We both have enemies, Governor Marcellus."

  The chamber seemed to freeze. The only sound was the soft tapping of the prelate's fingernails on the chair.

  Then the answer must have come to him. At that same moment, the prelate turned back and asked, "Linux Aurelius, what is your wish?"

  The tribune scoffed, "You would give this officer a choice in the matter?"

  "I seek the counsel of all whom I trust. Speak, Linux. Tell us. What would you advise us do in this situation?"

  Linux replied, "Assign to me the command of the garrison outside Capernaum."

  The two men, and those watching behind the thrones, all gaped at him.

  "What? Have you taken leave of your senses, Linux?" This from the governor.

  "It would be an honor to serve as the prelate's rear guard. The Golan highlands have become a gathering point for both Parthian bandits and Zealots. They threaten the peaceful communities of that area, and the Damascus Road. This is a vital trade link, and must remain open at all cost."

  Governor Marcellus took his time, his eyes moving up and down in inspection of the man standing rigidly before him. "You seek further action, is that it?"

  "Sire, I seek only to serve."

  "Well, I can think of no reason not to grant this officer his wish. Can you, Lucius?"

  The tribune's scowl only deepened. "I still say he is not to be trusted."

  "On that point, we must continue to disagree. Very well. Linux Aurelius, you are hereby appointed commandant of the Capernaum garrison. Prepare for your departure without delay." The prelate waved his hand. "You are dismissed."

  C H A P T E R

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  WHEN SHE RETURNED to the Antonia Fortress gates, Abigail came face-to-face with another sentry. She quaked under the guard's hard expression. But she had no choice. She forced herself to step closer.

  Before she could speak, the guard demanded, "Who sent for you?"

  His accent was so harsh she had difficulty understanding his words. "No one, sir. I came-"

  "Then you're free to be claimed by whoever wants you, is that it?"

  Abigail felt her cheeks flame. "I seek the officer Linux Aurelius."

  "An officer, is it?"

  "Yes, sir. Do ... do you know him?"

  "Ordinary men not good enough for you, is that it?" He leered.

  Abigail lowered her head, humiliation washing over her. "I seek him as a friend."

  "Sure you do." He laughed crudely. "Heard that one before."

  "Please, sire," begged Abigail. "My business with him is most urgent."

  "Tell you what," he snorted. "I'll go call the man if you just pull away your shawl and let me see who you really are. Wouldn't want this officer fellow called out for some old crone, now would I." He laughed again.

  At her wits' end, she was about to lower her veil when an officer stepped up to the gate. After glancing at the scene, he barked, "What goes here?"

  "This woman says she needs to talk to Linux," said the sentry, backing off a step. "I tried to tell her-"

  "Linux Aurelius is not here," the second man offered. He must have noticed that she was greatly distressed, for his tone gentled. "He is in audience with the governor. Do you wish to leave him a message?"

  "No. No." Abigail backed away. The guard continued to leer at her from behind the officer's back. "I'm afraid ... I'm afraid it will be too late."

  She stumbled away from the entrance, managing to stay on her feet until she had rounded the corner into the confusion of the main thoroughfare. Then everything seemed to be tumbling about her. She lost the battle to stay upright and collapsed against the wall. Pulling her shawl tightly about her, she gave in to the sobs she had tried to hold in check. There was nothing she could do. As much as she wanted to cling to hope, she had the terrible sense that she would never see Stephen again.

  Ezra stood at the back of the chamber, only one of the crowd jamming the Council building and spilling out the doors and down the broad front steps. Those inside kept shouting back through the doors so the mob outside could follow the proceedings.

  Stephen stood before the Council, his hands chained before him. He was flanked by guards, with two more standing between him and the mob. He was being tre
ated like someone considered a threat to the Council members themselves.

  Ezra glanced out the doors to where the mob kept increasing. He turned back in time to hear the shouted accusation, "We heard his blasphemy against the Temple and the Law!"

  When the words were called through the doors, the mob responded with the growl of an untamed beast.

  "He claims that Jesus of Nazareth will destroy this place and abandon the customs handed down by Moses!"

  The Sanhedrin's long table was placed on a dais at the back of the room, so from their throne-like chairs behind the table they could look down upon Stephen and out over the crowd, even out to where the mob continued to grow. Sunlight through the open doors cast their grave expressions into deep furrows. Gamaliel looked like he had aged overnight.

  Stephen, by contrast, stood as if in an eerie light. His face was utterly devoid of worry or fear. To Ezra's mind, the young man did not seem to belong to this earth at all.

  The high priest demanded, "Are these accusations true?"

  Stephen began to speak in a quiet, respectful tone. There was nothing about his manner or his voice to cause alarm. Nor was there the volume required to have gotten the attention of the mob outside. Ezra was certain they could not hear him, and yet, in that first moment when Stephen opened his mouth, the mob fell silent. It was as though all the air was withdrawn from the Council chamber. There was no space for anything save the sound of this man's voice.

  Stephen began by referring to the Sanhedrin and the audience in the most respectful of manners. "Brethren and fathers," he called them. It was the form of address a student might use before Judean rulers or the elders of his tribe. "The God of glory appeared to our father Abraham...."

  Ezra found himself drawn into the man's presentation. Stephen spoke as a rabbi might to a Sabbath congregation, beginning his statement by tying his point to the Scriptures and the Law. In a steady cadence, Stephen walked the listeners through their people's history, moving from Abraham to the patriarchs in Egypt, and from there to God's delivery through Moses. His voice only began to rise as he started to describe how Israel had rebelled against God, casting graven images while Moses went up to receive the Law. Stephen then spoke of the founding of the tabernacle of witness in the wilderness, and then Solomon's building of the first Temple. He concluded, "But the Most High does not dwell in temples made with hands. As the prophet says, `Heaven is my throne, and the earth is my footstool. Where is the house you will build for me?' says the Lord."

  It was at that point that the Council came fully alert. Though Stephen had given no indication of where he intended to go with his speech, they now knew. Attentiveness turned to alarm just before Stephen raised his hands and shouted, "You stiff-necked and uncircumcised in heart and ears! You always resist the Holy Spirit. As your fathers did, so do you!"

  Ezra saw lances of genuine pain stab each of the men seated at the Council table. He felt again the power of his own guilt and regret and distress.

  Stephen finished with, "You now have become the betrayers and murderers, you who have received the law by the direction of angels and have not kept it!"

  Ezra himself felt the unified sense of outrage gripping those at the table. He knew he had been condemned along with the rest. Yet Stephen remained untouched. Instead, the illumination surrounding him strengthened further, as though all light in the chamber was drawn to this one man.

  Stephen lifted his face toward the chamber's ceiling and cried, "Look! I see the heavens opened and the Son of Man standing at the right hand of God!"

  These words unleashed both the Council and the mob. The chamber was filled with shrill cries demanding he be condemned to death.

  Ezra backed himself into one corner as the mob rushed forward to snatch Stephen. The stone chamber reverberated with the force of their cries. He found himself shivering as though fevered.

  His vengeance had finally been granted a fitting voice.

  C H A P T E R

  THIRTY-NINE

  THE SENSE OF FREEDOM Linux carried with him from the palace vanished the instant he arrived at the lane fronting the Antonia Fortress. There was Abigail crouched in the corner, her shoulders heaving. Linux knew in a flash that she had come seeking him, only to have her virtue threatened and humiliated by a rough-speaking sentry. She had then retreated. Yet something kept her there. Something so dire she could not leave. So there she huddled, too close to the main avenue for the guards to trouble her further.

  "Abigail." He crouched down beside her. As soon as her tearstained features came into view, he knew. "Why are you here?"

  A stall holder across the lane called, "I've been over twice to ask what troubles her. She isn't saying. My guess is, one of your soldiers did her wrong."

  Abigail gasped out, "It wasn't soldiers."

  Linux lifted her to her feet. "Tell me what happened."

  "Hey, you." The stall holder bravely shoved his way across the crowded lane. "It isn't right, a soldier handling a Judean lass."

  Linux feared if he released her, she would collapse again. "I mean her no harm."

  "And I'm telling you, she came away from the fortress looking like she'd been struck." The merchant was clearly ready for battle, now drawing hostile attention from passersby.

  "Abigail," Linux insisted. "You must tell me if I am to-"

  "The mob took Stephen to the Temple." It was more a sob than coherent words. "The guards bound him and took him before the Sanhedrin."

  As soon as the man heard the Council was involved, he backed away. But Linux was not having any of it. "You. Stand where you are."

  "I'm not looking for trouble with the Sanhedrin."

  "And most of your trade comes from legionnaires. Do as I tell you. Stand by this woman, or I'll have your stall declared off limits!" Linux turned on his heel and raced back up the lane.

  He flew through the fortress entrance and thundered into the open square used for weapons training. Thankfully, the sergeant on duty was a man whom Linux had helped train new recruits. He gasped, "I need a squad. Immediately."

  The sergeant, a hard-bitten veteran of many years in Judea, said, "Trouble?"

  "Perhaps. Speed is everything."

  "All I've got on hand are these conscripts."

  At least they were armed and wearing the standard enlisted men's leather breastplates. "Choose those you can trust and meet me at the main thoroughfare. Immediately."

  Linux raced to the stables and took the one horse already saddled. When the stable master complained, Linux shouted at him with such vehemence the man retreated into a horse stall and did not reappear.

  Linux emerged as ten men plus the sergeant trooped up the lane to where Abigail stood clinging to the side wall. The stall holder fled as soon as he saw Linux leading his horse up the path.

  Abigail stared at them, uncomprehending. Linux moved in close enough to fill her vision. He addressed her in the stern coldness learned by every officer. "You will listen to me now. The life of your husband depends upon this."

  She blinked, dislodging more tears. "It is too late."

  "Perhaps, perhaps not. The faster we move, the more swiftly we know the truth." He helped her into the saddle, then turned to a soldier and ordered, "Hold fast to the reins."

  "As you will, sire."

  Linux turned to the sergeant. "Place your most trusted man as rear guard. I will lead off with you beside me."

  "Where are we headed?"

  "The Temple. The woman has brought word of a mob."

  The young faces of the recruits stretched taut with alarm. They had all heard warnings of the Judeans' wrath if their Temple was in danger of being disturbed or desecrated.

  The sergeant, however, made of sterner resolve, bellowed, "Form up! Five before the woman's horse, five behind. Ready? We move!"

  Linux still wore the burnished dress uniform for his meeting with the prelate. His breastplate, belt, sword hilt, and leather fringes were all chased in gold. His helmet gleamed as if it were on fire.
He was flanked by a sergeant who bellowed for all ahead of them to give way. The men marched in unison behind them. The horse snorted and pranced, its shoes sending up sparks from the cobblestones, and the people fled to each side before them. The wall from the Antonia Fortress to the main gates of the Temple was over a Roman mile long. They arrived puffing hard but made good time.

  The sergeant's massive voice had alerted the Temple guards well in advance of their arrival. The normal contingent of six guards had been reinforced, and more came running through the gates as Linux and his men halted. Judeans in the area pushed as far away from the Roman soldiers and the gates and the coming confrontation as they possibly could.

  The senior guard gripped his stave so that the wood trembled as violently as his voice. "What's the meaning of this?"

  Linux stamped forward. He knew the sergeant and his men surged with him by how the Temple guards took a unified step back. "I have received word of a mob."

  "Th-there is no trouble here, sire!"

  "That is not the report I received. Of a mob seeking violence and revolt."

  From behind Linux came a ripple of sound from the Judeans. Revolt was the one reason that granted Rome entry into the Temple compound. Despite all the Sanhedrin's protests and entreaties, every Judean governor had renewed the soldiers' authority to enter the compound at the first threat of revolt.

  Linux snarled quietly, "Step aside or be cut down."

  The Temple guard swallowed hard. But he held his ground. "They have g-gone."

  "Gone where."

  "Did not say."

  "But you know." When the man hesitated, Linux bellowed, "Tell me!"

  "T-to the clearing beyond the Dung Gate."

  Linux felt the air freeze in his chest. The Dung Gate led to the Kidron Valley burial grounds.

  "No!" Abigail's wail was so powerful she melted off the horse and would have collapsed upon the stones had the soldier holding the reins not caught her.