Saul smiled. “The answer to that, Praetorian, should be quite obvious. You yourself observed not twenty minutes ago that it is Rome who occupies Judea, and not the reverse. The Legion is responsible for the safety and well being of loyal Roman subjects. Individuals who engage in seditious activities cannot expect to be included in that category. I am merely acting as, shall we say, a concerned citizen who fears not only for the welfare of his own people, but for the welfare of Rome as well. Since we Jews have no military authority, you Romans must assume the burden of cleaning the wound of the poison that rots the souls of the lost. If the infection is not dealt with at its root, then the disease will spread, and Rome will also suffer. No doubt Tiberius Caesar would be most unforgiving should that happen.”
“No doubt . . .” was all Deucalion managed to reply, before they arrived at their destination.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Esther sat quietly upon the dusty floor in the back of a woodworker’s shop and listened to an anonymous speaker telling about the power of love. Gradually, she became aware that tonight, unlike the other nights she had been in this same place, there was an unexpected undercurrent of tension in the room.
Her companion, a man she had known only a few days, suddenly gripped her hand in his, squeezing it hard. Several people around them began to stir, murmuring to one another, but before she could ask the question that had formed in her mind, she was touched by a strange sensation. She felt rather than heard a still, small voice inside her say, “Fear not, for I am the Lord, your God; I am with you always. Trust in Me. I will never forsake you, nor leave you. I Am the Way, the Truth, and the Life; he that believes in Me shall not perish, but shall have everlasting life.”
Instinctively she looked around to see whom it was that had spoken. When her eyes found those of her new friend he was staring at her in amazement.
“What’s happening, Joseph?” she asked, surprised by her lack of fear.
A look of understanding spread across his face as he replied, “The Lord has spoken to us, Esther.”
“All of us?” she asked, looking at the rapt expressions on the faces of the people around her.
“Yes, we must trust in Him. Evil is upon us.”
“But how do you know?”
“Because I’ve heard that same voice before.”
“Here? Tonight?”
“No,” he sighed, his eyes glistening in the subdued light. “It was some time ago.”
The speaker raised his hands and spoke to the group, cutting off their questioning murmurs with his words. “Brethren, the Lord is with us. Do not be afraid. We must pray together that we do not fall prey to the snares of the wicked one.” He scanned their faces unhurriedly, and then began to lead them in prayer. “Our Father, who lives in Heaven—”
At that instant, the wooden door separating the storage area from the rest of the shop burst from its leather hinges. It crashed to the dirt floor with a sickening thud, sending sawdust and splinters of wood flying about the small, windowless enclosure.
Esther coughed repeatedly and rubbed her burning eyes. She was dazed and disoriented, and felt a sharp, stinging sensation on her right check. When she touched the spot, her hand came away stained with blood.
Joseph grabbed her by the arm and pulled her from the center of the room. He dragged her towards the corner, to the right of where the door had been, out of the direct line of sight of the squat, baldheaded man who stood resolutely before them, scowling.
The heat of anger that flamed in the man’s eyes chilled Esther. His flushed face looked like that of a wild, maddened dog.
The room went deathly quiet, but as the dust began to settle, there were intermittent fits of coughing from the small group of believers.
The man addressed the huddled gathering, mockery evident in his voice. “I am Saul of Tarsus. And you are a group of rebels engaged in treasonous activity.”
The speaker, unruffled by all of the commotion, challenged their accuser’s assessment without rancor. “Brother, we conspire against no man or government. Our only desire is to worship God and honor His Son. If fellowshipping with Him who was, is, and always will be is a crime, then we are indeed guilty—”
“So you admit your guilt,” interrupted Saul.
“You didn’t let me finish, brother. I was about to say that if we are guilty, it is only of seeking to deny death the tax he levies upon the unregenerate soul.”
Esther trembled uncontrollably as she watched Saul’s face turn almost purple with rage. She wanted to push herself deeper into the corner, but could not. She stared at the doorway behind Saul and wondered if she could squeeze through without him seeing her.
But in the shadows behind him she saw—
Centurions!
“How dare you lecture me, blasphemer!” yelled Saul, his voice filled with loathing and disgust. “You are indeed mad if you think it is I who am at risk and not yourselves. You speak as if you are drunk with wine. If this is indeed a gathering whose purpose is the worship of Almighty God, why are you not at the Temple? Surely you don’t believe that you can edify God here?”
“Brother,” continued the leader patiently, “it is not necessary that we go to the Temple in order to fellowship with God. We see God in everything that we do and say. It is only by the power of His grace that we live and breathe, and it is through His mercy that we are able to return to Him like lost children to be cleansed when we are fouled by sin. We, who have lived for so long under the sentence of death, are now free. And we gather here tonight to give thanks unto Him who has unlocked the gates holding us captive. We praise the holy name of His son, Jesus of Nazareth, who died that we might live.”
Saul started to interrupt, but Deucalion stepped forward from the shadows and grabbed him by the arm, then said firmly, “Let him finish.”
“He who knew no sin became sin that we might live forever. His sacrifice has restored us to our rightful place as priests and kings unto God. The prophet Isaiah prophesied the shedding of His holy blood upon the cross and His resurrection from the dead. They are the seal of His covenant with us.”
“Stop!” bellowed the man from Tarsus. “This has gone far enough. You are like a rabid dog. Your words infect and inflame. I will listen to no more of this blasphemous talk.” Catlike, he moved toward the front of the room. His robe was held closed by a cord, securing the garment at his waist, and from it hung a scabbard holding a long dagger. As he moved toward the speaker, he reached down and drew forth the blade.
Behind him a woman screamed.
Pandemonium followed on the heels of its dying echo.
Oblivious to Deucalion’s cry for order, Saul rushed forward, raised the dagger over his head, and with a sickening s-w-o-o-o-s-h plunged it deep into the chest of the speaker. Spurting blood from the gaping wound stained both the victim’s and Saul’s white robes with ruby red death.
The old man crumpled to the earthen floor. His body twitched spasmodically in the dust.
Nausea consumed Esther. She was trapped at the bottom of a deep, dark well, and there was no way out. She glanced at Joseph. He must have been struck by a flying piece of wood, because he was slumped over and there was blood on the floor.
Everything unfolded in dreamlike slowness.
When she saw Saul head towards the old man with his dagger raised, she screamed. Immediately, four centurions entered the room with swords drawn. Several members of the gathering rushed towards the door in an attempt to escape. In their haste they impaled themselves upon the swords. Blood splattered everywhere. A thick, musky odor now filled the room.
Other people began to scream and cry out.
The small enclosure had become a slaughterhouse of death.
Abruptly, Saul turned.
He stared at her with a cold, heartless gaze that was darker than the darkest night she’d ever experienced, and then moved purposefully in her direction. She could not move. She was mesmerized by the brutality she witnessed and by the cruel look she saw in Sau
l’s eyes.
Deucalion tried unsuccessfully to restrain his men, but inexplicably they had caught Saul’s contagious madness. More centurions rushed into the small room. In the ensuing chaos, the Praetorian was knocked to the floor from behind.
Fighting against the crush of bodies, he struggled to his knees. It was then that he noticed the raven-haired woman he had seen at Doras’ house cowering in the corner.
“No!” he shouted, shocked to see her trapped in the midst of this madness. Then he saw Saul. The crazed man stood over her, his dagger raised, a malicious, demonic look in his eyes. “Saul, don’t!” he commanded as he desperately attempted o free himself from the mass of broken and bleeding bodies surrounding him.
Joseph sat up, holding one hand over his right eye. Out of his left, he saw a short man with bushy black eyebrows standing over Esther with a bloodied dagger in his right hand. Galvanized into action by Deucalion’s shout, he struck the man as hard as he could in the stomach. The man gave a grunt and staggered backwards.
Joseph stumbled to his feet, grabbed Esther, and pulled her through the crumbling doorway.
Deucalion struggled upright, pushing aside the body of a believer, unconsciously wiping his bloody hands on his tunic. All thoughts of controlling Saul were now replaced by thoughts of how he could help the dark-haired woman escape the carnage. His sword lay on the floor, covered by blood and dust, forgotten as he fought his way to the opening and stepped out of the madness.
At the front of the shop, Joseph leaned in a daze against a large pile of birch. Blood trickled from a gash above his eye. Esther stood by his side, her eyes vacant.
Deucalion rushed forward and grabbed her by the shoulders, then roughly grasped her chin in his right hand and turned her face to his. “You!” he demanded. “What are you doing here?”
She did not reply.
Frustrated, he slapped her. Not hard, but not gently either. Her eyes fluttered and he saw recognition. He tried to get through to her again. “You can’t stay here. I cannot control my men. We must leave now.”
“Where. . .?” came the soft-spoken, hesitant reply.
“We must go outside.”
“My friend. . .Joseph. . .you must help him. . .he’s hurt.”
Deucalion grabbed hold of the wounded man and supported him with his right arm, but did not let go of the woman. “Stay close to me and say nothing when we step into the street,” he whispered in a strained voice.
Outside the shop a crowd was beginning to gather. Many of them had been awakened from slumber by the screams of those being slaughtered inside the woodworker’s shop. Most were Jews and they argued violently with Deucalion’s men. The centurions had their hands full maintaining order as more and more people, Romans and Jews, began to fill the small street.
As Deucalion and his two charges emerged, one of his men approached them hurriedly. “The crowd is becoming unmanageable, Commander,” he said, staring at his superior with consternation. “What in the name of the gods is going on in there?”
“The Jew has gone mad!” Deucalion replied, his body trembling noticeably. “I’m taking two prisoners to the garrison for questioning.”
The centurion stared at Deucalion, covered as he was in blood and dirt, and then at the man and woman he supported. “But—” was all he said before Deucalion’s stern gaze silenced him. He saluted stiffly and said, “Whatever you say, Commander.”
Without looking back, Deucalion moved towards the shadows with Esther and Joseph stumbling along at his side. He pressed through the growing crowd, ignoring their shouts.
Unknown to Deucalion, an expressionless pair of eyes watched the whole scene from the darkness of a doorway a short distance away, making note of his conversation with the centurion. As soon as the Praetorian and his two charges had disappeared into the night, the eyes blinked twice and were gone.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Before they’d gone very far, Joseph moaned. Deucalion, fearful that his groaning would attract attention and not wanting to encounter any of the stray groups of centurions who might be wandering through the city, decided it was best if he found a spot where they could rest. Also, he needed time to think.
There was a small meadow just outside the western gate, on the outskirts of the city. It would be safe there, temporarily at least; the Roman patrols did not venture outside the walls of Jerusalem at night unless there was specific reason. And it would be a good place to question the woman.
He maneuvered them through the darkened streets without incident. When they arrived at the meadow, he gently eased his burden to the ground and then examined the man’s wound. The cut was superficial, but because the wound was just over the eye, it had bled profusely. He tore off a piece of his tunic and wrapped it tightly around Joseph’s head to staunch the flow of blood.
Joseph groaned again, less loudly this time. He would be semiconscious for some time. Deucalion finished tying the makeshift bandage, then turned his attention to the woman. Darkness shrouded the meadow, though the moon did give some illumination. Even though she was standing several feet away, there was just enough light to allow him to see her face clearly.
She was dazed and disoriented, and had a glazed look in her eyes. A look that he had seen many times before in the eyes of soldiers on the battlefield and one that he knew had been in his own eyes on more than one occasion.
His own harsh experience reminded him that the glaze mirrored not only pain, but fear and denial as well. There were some things human eyes were not meant to see.
Sensing this strikingly beautiful woman’s silent agony caused him a moment of almost overwhelming grief. Simultaneously, he had an intense desire to comfort her. “Would you like to talk about it?” he asked. “Sometimes it helps.”
She shook her head and said warily, “You must be a man of some importance in the Legion.”
“How can you tell?”
“Because of the way you spoke to the centurion outside the woodworker’s shop.”
“So you were paying attention. What in the name of the gods were you doing at that meeting?”
She ignored his question and asked one of her own. “Why have you risked your commission, and perhaps your life to save us?”
“You mean because you’re Jews?”
The woman nodded. “We cannot even claim the protection of the Sanhedrin, because—”
“Go on,” he insisted.
“Because we believe that Jesus of Nazareth is the Messiah spoken about in the Holy Scriptures.” She paused and her eyes suddenly cleared. She stood bit straighter at the mention of the name of the Galilean and held her head higher.
Deucalion, caught off guard by the amazing change in her expression, was momentarily speechless.
“Well?” she pressed.
“What are you asking?”
“Why did you rescue us?”
“I’m not ready to answer that question just yet.”
“Why not?”
“You ask too many questions for someone in your predicament.”
“Then at least tell me your name, so I’ll know who my benefactor was—”
Deucalion frowned.
“Before they take you away and put you in prison for treason,” she finished quietly.
In spite of the circumstances, he laughed. “You’re very beautiful when you’re so serious,” he chided as he sat down on a large rock and leaned back on his elbows. “Deucalion Cincinnatus Quinctus, at your service. I doubt I’ll be arrested for treason for merely questioning a slave.”
Esther frowned, then whispered, “What a nice sounding name. Deucalion . . . Cincinnatus. . .Quinctus,” she repeated slowly in a strong, resonant voice, emphasizing the syllables of his name, as if she were testing each upon her tongue.
“Most people, when they first hear it, tell me it’s an odd sounding name.”
“I don’t find anything odd about it at all,” she replied with finality, as if that settled the matter once and for all.
�
�I was named for a Greek god and a Roman hero of the fifth century,” he continued. Why couldn’t they have met under much different circumstances?
“In that order!” she asked, feigning disbelief, a hint of amusement in her tone.
“In that order,” he replied, smiling. At least she was not behaving as he had expected—fearful and timid. He sensed she was stronger than she had initially seemed. “You’re a very entertaining woman when you’re not being chased by a fanatical Jew.”
The barest trace of a smile quivered on her lips.
He asked her name. She told him and said, “Perhaps you’re wondering how someone as plain as I was given such a beautiful name.”
“I don’t think you’re plain at all,” he replied, suddenly sobered by her modesty. He looked at her intently and added, “In fact, I can’t imagine a woman being any more beautiful than you are at this very moment.”
Esther was suddenly silent.
Deucalion had a pretty good idea she believed, like most Jews, that Romans were incapable of any emotion save that of arrogance. He was also surprised at his own outburst—he had never spoken to, or even about, a woman in such a manner before.
Finally, Esther broke the silence. “My name means many things to many people, but to Jews it is a name that signifies loyalty, compassion, strength, and most of all, love. Not of self, mind you, but of others. Esther was one of the Jew’s greatest heroines; the Festival of Purim is dedicated to her.”
“The casting of lots or tabernacle,” said Deucalion knowingly.
“You know Hebrew?” she asked, amazed.
“A bit,” he replied, understating his fluency. The soldier in him prevented him from being entirely candid, but he wanted very much for that not to be the case.
“Tell me, what else do you know about my name?”
Deucalion sat forward and shrugged. “Nothing—”
Esther cast him a doubtful look.
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