Linux demanded, "Did they have the one known as Stephen with them?"
"I know not any name."
"One of the followers! Did they take a follower with them?"
Something in Linux's eyes caused the man to quail. "P-Perhaps. Yes, I believe so."
"How long have they been gone!"
"An hour, per-perhaps more."
The silence was pierced with a single cry from Abigail.
Linux turned to the wide-eyed sergeant, uncertain what to say. A thousand eyes watched his utter defeat, the woman's broken weeping, the soldiers' indecision.
Then a woman cried, "Abigail!"
Abigail tore herself from the recruit and collapsed into the arms of an older woman Linux vaguely recognized. He heard Abigail say, "Take me to him."
"Child, the mob-"
"Take me!"
Ezra did not follow the mob. He led it.
Somewhere in the middle of the throng was Stephen, though not visible to Ezra. The crowd was simply too large. The people who surrounded the man waved their hands in the air and shouted their imprecations to the heavens as with one voice. From where Ezra marched, he felt they hollered in order to maintain their rage. As though if they were silent for a moment, the realization of what they were about to do might sink in and slow them down. For Ezra, however, no such drive was needed. The further he walked from the Temple compound, the greater grew his rage. As though all his frustration and all his fury and all his distress were finally ready to consume him.
They left the city by the Dung Gate and entered the Valley of Death. The sun was so fierce that it seemed as though the day reflected their rage. Either that or the heavens were casting fierce judgment upon their actions. If the latter, Ezra no longer cared. He felt the still, small voice call to him from somewhere deep inside, as though that tiny part of him, the compassionate corner of his soul, had not been entirely stifled. But all around him roared the voice of rage, of vengeance. Ezra was so enthralled by the crowd's presence and power that he could acknowledge the small voice and yet not care what it said.
Elders assigned by the Council to witness the event clustered together by a grove of desert pines. At their fore was Saul of Tarsus. The young man's face was aflame with the same fiery vengeance that filled Ezra's heart. The elders dropped their cloaks of office by Saul's feet and moved forward as the crowd unfolded. That was how it seemed to Ezra. They were a human fist, cloaked not in their robes but in rage, and they flexed their fingers in preparation of doing away with the man who dared offend the Sanhedrin.
Stephen stumbled as he was shoved out into the breathless heat. The crowd bent to snatch up rocks, some in both hands.
Ezra felt his heart cry out, as though it were branded by the stone he now held.
Then he roared against the tide of regret and anguish that suddenly filled him, a piercing grief for he knew not what.
Ezra cast the first stone.
Stephen was struck hard. But he straightened, lifted his eyes and his voice to heaven, and cried, "Lord Jesus, receive my spirit."
The stones rained down upon him even as his face was lifted to the heavens, shining with that same light as in the Council chamber.
The last words Ezra heard him speak were, "Lord, do not charge them with this sin."
When they were done, the stones lay heaped upon the still form. The crowd dispersed like crows flying from empty bones. The elders picked up their robes and walked away. The mob was now silent. No one met the gaze of his neighbor. They drifted away, until only Ezra stood at one side, Saul on the other.
Strange, Ezra thought, he felt no satisfaction. Only disturbance. The glow on the young man's face as he breathed his last haunted him. Almost as though, instead of inflicting intended pain, they had done him a kindness.
Strange. Strange and most unsettling.
The young man in his black robes walked over and stood staring down at what could be seen of the body. Ezra hoped the man would not voice regret, for the black wings of remorse hovered just beyond his own scarred vision.
But the young man only muttered, "And so it begins."
C H A P T E R
FORTY
ALL THE WORLD LOOKED YELLOW. The sun was a mere handsbreadth from the western slopes, hanging relentlessly in a sky spreading from gold to pale blue to a darker shade. The rocks and cliffs and even the stunted pines were all coated in the same summer dust. Even the people he saw up ahead bore the same unyielding color. By the time Linux arrived, the only sign of where Stephen had been murdered was a dark stain among the rocks. He could see the followers carefully, sorrowfully, moving his body toward an open burial cave.
Linux remained apart from those grieving by the cave's opening. His eyes were dry, yet his heart felt wrenched by tears only he could sense. Or perhaps not, for a pair of men approached, one of them the rugged apostle called Peter. "A tragic day, and a glorious day," the man said softly.
Linux did not understand the man's comment. And yet he felt it resonate within his breast. A gift of inexplicable hope in a moment so dark not even the summer sun could brighten it. "They are not done, I'm afraid."
The man standing next to Peter was another bearded apostle. Linux had seen him at the head table and heard him speak and pray, but did not know his name. The second man said, "Not for an instant do I doubt it."
"I have heard the soldiers speak of it. Rumors swirl about the streets and marketplaces. The Sanhedrin-"
"The Council is forbidden from taking human life," the second apostle said. "And so they send their minions."
"You should leave Jerusalem," Linux said.
He expected argument. Peter said softly, "I am called to stay."
The second apostle turned and said to Peter, "As am I."
Peter asked, "God has spoken to you as well?"
"As clearly as ever I have known his guidance."
Peter nodded. "So be it."
Linux realized there was nothing to be gained by disagreeing. In fact, he did not feel any need to do so. These men were being directed by the same God to whom he had now given his life. Linux had never felt this more strongly. "What of the others?"
Peter continued to nod, rocking his upper body in the stiff motion of a Judean in prayer. "We shall seek the Lord's guidance on this also."
Linux said quietly, "Perhaps your God has already spoken."
Peter looked at him, his eyes an unworldly combination of grief and peace. He corrected quietly, "Our God."
"Our God," Linux agreed, and told them of what had transpired at the governor's palace, and his appointment to the Capernaum garrison.
Both apostles studied him with the grave expressions of men taking his words in deep. "We shall pray long and hard upon this," Peter said solemnly.
Linux replied, "As shall I."
Linux dreaded the visit he needed to make to the compound. He could only imagine what Abigail would be going through so soon after her excruciating loss. She deserved solitude in her time of grief. But the time and circumstances would not allow him that courtesy. Who knew what would happen next in this fever-driven city? Besides, he had made a promise to Stephen. A promise he planned to keep.
He was pleased that Martha was the one who first greeted him as he entered the courtyard. She looked drawn and somehow older. He had the strange impulse to embrace her and hold her close until she cried out all of her confusion and grief, as he would long to do if his own departed mother stood bereaved before him. But he restrained himself, not knowing how the woman would receive his condolences shown in such a manner. Instead he asked for Abigail.
Martha shook her head. "She is in seclusion."
"I understand that. And I respect it. But it is of utmost importance that I speak with her briefly. Could I ask you to convey that message to her, please?"
Martha hesitated, but at length nodded and with a deep sigh moved toward the stairway that led up to the rooms above.
She returned some minutes later. She came alone, and Linux fea
red that Abigail had refused to see him.
"She will see you in the kitchen. Come."
Linux thanked her and followed her.
He did not know exactly what he had thought to find, but Abigail looked far more composed than he would have expected. She was pale and her eyes were red-rimmed, but she motioned him in and indicated a bench not far from where she sat. He could see Martha hovering nearby.
"My deep sorrow for your loss," he began and saw her eyes water. "I know this is untimely. I dislike disturbing you in this time of grief, but I have made a promise, and I pray you will allow me to keep it."
He hesitated, wondering if she was following his words. She looked so distracted.
But she nodded, indicating he should continue.
"The other day ... Stephen came to me. He asked one thing. And I agreed. He ... he said that if anything should happen to him, I was to take you to Galilee, to Alban and Leah."
Her head came up and her eyes met his. The tears now slid down her cheeks.
"He knew?"
"Perhaps. Perhaps he wondered-"
"And he went to minister as he always did. That is so like him. Like Stephen." She wrapped her arms about herself and lowered her head. He allowed her that time of fresh grief.
When she was able to look his way again, he went on, "I have just received orders that I am to leave Jerusalem. I have been granted charge over the Capernaum garrison. I need to depart in two or three days."
He waited for her response. Did she understand what he was saying?
"Two or three days?" she repeated. Then she shook her head. "I will not be ready to leave that soon."
"I understand."
Linux was trying to figure out how many days the tribune and prelate would give him before demanding he leave the city. Would it be enough?
"When would you think ... ?" He let the question hang in the air.
She shook her head as though to clear her thoughts. "I ... I do not know. I just know that I need time. Here. I cannot leave yet. I need to find a way through this among the ones I know.... I need to have time to say farewell. To be with these people who love me and encourage me with their prayers and strengthen my faith. I ... I need them very much right now."
"I understand," he said again.
"It's not that I do not want to go to Leah. And Jacob. I do. And I will, God willing. But now is too soon. Too soon. Please."
She was almost pleading for his understanding. There was no way he could insist that she come with him now. "Of course," he said.
He stood. "I expect to leave two days hence. Three at the most. Should ... should anything change, please get word to me."
"Thank you."
"And when you do feel ready, send word. I will come back for you. I made a promise. One I will keep."
She only nodded.
He didn't know what else to say. He could try some of the encouraging words he had heard others of the community say to offer comfort, but he wondered if they might sound empty. False. There was no way to say what he really felt. Her sorrow touched him deeply.
"I wish you God's peace," he did say, meaning it from the bottom of his heart.
She brushed back a curl that had escaped her covering. She nodded. "It will come. I know it will. Martha says it will take time."
He studied her one last time. She looked so pale. So small and alone. So sad. But there was nothing that he could do for her but pray. He knew as he turned to go that he would carry her forlorn image in his heart all the way to Capernaum.
He had stepped to the door when she said, "Linux."
He turned, hoping she had changed her mind.
"Thank you. Thank you for being a friend. To Stephen-and to me. And, Linux, tell them ... tell them I am not afraid to die, if that is God's will."
He would have said something in reply but the words would not come. His mouth seemed too dry, his throat too tight. He nodded and went back out into the night.
It was not Abigail's deep grief that surprised her. She had lost a wonderful man. They had shared only a few weeks together as husband and wife. She was a widow now. A widow like many of those she served daily. Unclaimed. Broken. Destined for a life of solitude and perhaps a life of poverty. But even those thoughts did not devastate her. Abigail felt only the loss of the man whom she had come to respect so deeply. To love with all her heart. Her future looked so dark that it all seemed an indistinct blur.
The entire community had been so kind, so careful of her. Martha took charge, releasing her from her duties, coming often for times of prayer. Others sent messages of encouragement. With promises to pray. Abigail was given space and time.
No, it was not her grief that shook her world. She had expected and accepted this time of mourning as being hers to endure. It was after her few days of solitude when she again returned to her community for evening prayers that she felt the difference.
A dense pall of fear hung over the entire group. Previously they had sensed that persecution might come. They had tried to prepare for it. Now it was real-raw and terrifying. If their enemies could do this to a man like Stephen, who sought only to serve his community and anyone in need, every one of them was in danger. All of them!
Little groups huddled in whispered conversation. Mothers stayed home from evening prayer to shelter children. Men moved furtively, casting glances to each side as they hastened through the streets. The whole community was wrapped in a shroud of tension and uneasiness.
Abigail had also noticed upon her return that quite a number of followers were missing. Were they in hiding?
She posed the question to Martha. The older woman shook her head, and for the first time in her life, Abigail saw tears on her cheeks.
"There is great fear," the woman said. "There has been much talk. A number of our group have left Jerusalem. Many more talk of leaving. Stephen ... If they stay, will they be next? How can they protect their families?"
Abigail was not surprised by his message when Peter addressed the situation at evening prayer. "Brothers and sisters, we have been struck a crippling blow. One of our own, one whom we loved and deeply appreciated, has been cruelly taken from us. One who served his God and us with his whole heart. We miss him deeply.
"But let us not despair. Our Lord himself told us to expect to be hated even as he was hated. But we cannot let this distract us from our purpose. Our world still needs the Good News. Those who pose as our enemies still need the light. The light that can only come through Jesus Christ our Lord.
"The task is still before us and we must press on. We cannot let Satan defeat us because of fear. Our Lord would not want this. Stephen would not want this.
"Our brothers and sisters, may I remind you that Stephenour Stephen-not only showed us how to live, but how to die. He died with forgiveness on his lips. He died praising God. He was ushered into the very presence of our Savior. Do we begrudge him this blessing? Do we mourn that he has received his reward while we still labor? I think not. We grieve because of our great loss. But now we must strengthen our hands and lift up our voices and carry on the task we have been given to do. May God keep us faithful until such time as we meet our Messiah once again.
"Let us pray."
C H A P T E R
FORTY-ONE
ABIGAIL COULD SCARCELY BELIEVE that two months had already passed. Two long, difficult months. Time during which she had found a measure of comfort by keeping both her hands and her thoughts busy with the care of others. They had lost some fellow believers, but others had come to join them. The Word was still being preached. There were still those who, in spite of the growing unrest and persecution, quietly and with deep faith joined the followers.
There had been incidents meant to remind them that they were being watched. Yet there had also been more arrests and darker threats and cruel floggings. The religious authorities had no intention of letting the group continue unchallenged. When any possible reason for an offense could be generated, they took full advantage.
Word slowly trickled back from Cyprus, Cyrene, and even Antioch regarding those who had left the city in search of safety. The previous day a letter had arrived from Damascus and was read by James, the brother of the Lord-welcome news of growing groups of disciples in that area. Their members had not cowered in defeat when they had left Jerusalem, but immediately they began to share their faith in the new locations.
These days, Abigail found great consolation in the community of believers. She tried hard not to think upon Stephen's death. It always brought tears and questions for which she had no answers. How long did he suffer? was the heart cry that was the most difficult to put aside.
But today, as she sat in her room following prayer, she reflected on how their numbers had grown in a way they could not have if they had all remained in Jerusalem.
This time Abigail allowed herself to give silent voice to her deepest questions.
Was this why, Lord? Was Stephen the seed that, when planted in the ground, bore fruit? Did you use his death to scatter us for your purposes?
Certainly Stephen had been faithful. Abigail had heard the full account of his triumphant entrance into heaven in spite of the hail of stones. He had died victorious, welcomed by Christ himself. His prayer had been answered. He had not denied his Lord.
What better could one hope for? What more was there to life than victorious death? Over and over Abigail came back to these truths.
With these thoughts came release from the veil of fear and doubt that had wound itself around her, threatening to stifle her faith. And now, in this instant, she found herself able to release Stephen. She would not wish him back, not when he resided in a far greater place. Not even now, as she faced an uncertain future alone, surrounded by worrisome news and fearful times. She found peace in the assurance that they had both served as the Lord wished.
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