“Really, I don’t. Please continue,” he said, flustered. “I like listening to the sound of your voice. It reminds me of the sound a young bird makes singing in the trees.”
Esther seemed flattered by his compliments. He wondered if she thought he was toying with her and hoped she didn’t.
“Perhaps my voice sounds like a bird singing because the proper Hebrew form of my name, Hadassah, means “myrtle;” birds are drawn to the starry, white flowers of the bush.”
“How interesting.”
“That’s not all. The Persian rendition is derived from the name of the great Babylonian goddess, Ishtar.”
Unable to resist showing off, Deucalion interrupted her again. “In Greek your name means ‘star’ from the word for Venus.”
“How nice to be compared to a star,” she said as she smiled appreciatively, then looked up and admired the star studded night. “There’s nothing more beautiful than twinkling stars,” she added with a sigh. “They shine forth against the black canvas of the heavens, reminding me that no matter how dark it is, love can blossom—and sometimes live.”
Deucalion loved the poetry of her words. He was suddenly lightheaded, like the night he had consumed too much dandelion wine at Doras’ house. He did not want to break the spell she had cast over him, but certain matters must be dealt with immediately. “Your master will be concerned if you don’t return soon,” he said, pushing all other thoughts from his mind. “We had better get you cleaned up and back to Doras’ house.”
“What about Saul?” she asked, her voice trembling. “I’ve heard my father speak of him. He won’t rest until he identifies and deals with all who were at the meeting tonight.”
“I thought you didn’t have parents—that you were a slave.”
“Is that what Doras told you? That I’m his slave?”
Deucalion flinched. “Is he your husband?” he asked, fearing the answer.
Esther began to weep, and her whole body shuddered. Between sobs she managed to speak. “I am—not—a—slave. And I—am—not—married.”
Deucalion wanted to comfort her, but didn’t know how. It was an awkward moment.
After several minutes, Esther regained control. “I’m sorry,” she said, wiping the pink-stained tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand.
Seeing the bleeding cut on her cheek for the first time, Deucalion tore off another piece of his tunic. He stood up and gently wiped the bloodstained tears from her face. “If I have to do this much more this evening, I won’t have a tunic left,” he said, trying to make light of the situation.
Esther managed a smile.
“There. I hope I didn’t hurt you. The cut isn’t deep. In a few days you won’t even know it was there.” When he finished, he let his hand linger on her shoulder for a moment.
Her body trembled under his hand. She looked up into his smiling face and shivered.
Deucalion thought she might be getting cold. “It’s time we got you home,” he said softly as he glanced at the eastern horizon.
“I can’t go home,” she whispered. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”
“I don’t understand,” said Deucalion, realizing for the first time that her eyes were a magnificent jade green color, with variegated specks of blue, like an agate.
“Doras is my father,” she replied softly, running the words together. “I can’t disgrace him, no matter what might happen to me.”
Moved by her plight, Deucalion grasped her by the shoulders and stared deep into her eyes. He was immediately lost in the jade-green ocean of her doubt.
“In spite of his love for me he won’t be able to forgive me this transgression,” she continued. “His faith is all he’s ever really possessed.”
“But he’s your father. Surely he’ll understand.”
Esther said nothing.
Deucalion’s mind raced. The fact that this woman was a Jew, and he a Roman, was of no consequence to him; he never allowed himself to slip into the rhetoric of bigotry, much less the hypocrisy of self worship. And even though she had ventured into extremely dangerous waters by associating with the disciples of a man whom both Rome and the Jews feared, the difficulty, if handled properly, could be overcome. But the fact that she was the daughter of Doras was something else all together.
“I knew you’d hate me if I told you the truth,” she whispered, pulling away, and turning her back on him.
“I don’t hate you, Esther. I barely know you,” he replied.
She turned around when she heard his soft words. “Then why are you so quiet all of a sudden?”
“I’m thinking.”
“About what?”
He smiled crookedly. “Why do women always do that?”
“Do what?”
“Demand to know what a man’s thinking?”
“Because we’re not as unintelligent as men seem to believe and we often have some very good solutions to problems that men assume only they can figure out.”
“Oh?”
“Have you ever heard of a woman named Rahab?”
He shook his head.
“But you have heard of Joshua?”
“He was the guy who led the army that defeated Jericho. You Jews believe he caused the sun to stand still for a whole day.”
“No,” Esther corrected, “we believe God made the sun to stand still for a whole day; Joshua simply heard and obeyed God.”
“So what does this woman have to do with Joshua?”
“See, I’m already proving my point. Rahab was a harlot who lived in Jericho at the time the Israelites entered Canaan, and she was responsible for saving the men Joshua sent to spy on the great city. She hid them among flax stalks on her roof and then told the officers sent to find the spies that they’d left the city before the great gates were closed.”
“The rest is history, as they say.”
“Please, I’m trying to make a point.”
“Sorry. Go on.”
“The story is important to Jews because it illustrates that when confronted with the choice of submitting to the king of Jericho or obeying God, Rahab, a woman who was looked down upon by all in her city, chose to serve God. Because of her faith, she became part of the genealogy of the Christos.”
Deucalion flinched. “Who?”
“Christos. It means ‘the Anointed One’ in Greek.”
“I know what it means, but who was this ‘Anointed One’?”
Esther swallowed hard and answered, “Jesus of Nazareth. The man you Romans crucified two months ago—”
Deucalion staggered backwards, as if he had been struck. What was going on here?
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Nothing—” He couldn’t believe how both of the conversations he’d had tonight ended with the mention of the Galilean. Earlier with Saul, and now with Esther. It had to be more than coincidence. There was no way either of them could know what he had done—the horrible truth behind his nightmares.
Esther stared at him intently and he sensed she knew he wasn’t telling her everything. She also seemed to have shed her earlier fear.
“Listen to me,” he finally whispered. “If I tell you something, will you promise never to reveal it to anyone? It could mean both our deaths.”
“I—I don’t know,” she stammered.
“Please. . .I need to talk to someone about it. But there’s no one I can trust.”
“I’ll listen—”
Deucalion paced and wrestled with his conscience. He was trapped, hemmed in. He had to be certain he could trust this woman; there was too much at stake. “We don’t have much time,” he muttered, more to himself than her. “It’ll be daylight soon.” Should he tell her about what happened at Golgotha, and later at the tomb? Would she believe him?
Suddenly he stopped pacing. It would be safer, for now, to stay out of those murky waters. “Did you know that your father has been conspiring with Herod Antipas to remove Joseph ben Caiaphas from his position as High Pr
iest?” he asked, pushing the other painful thoughts out of his mind.
“Not exactly,” she replied. “I mean—yes, I know he desires, more than anything else, to be High Priest; that’s all he’s spoken about for some time. But I wasn’t aware that he was conspiring, as you put it, with anyone. I thought he was merely making himself available for the position,” she finished softly, hoping he would believe her.
Joseph moaned.
Deucalion had to make another important decision— immediately. And he had precious little time to weigh the consequences of his choice. “Is there someone you can trust—someone with whom you can stay until I can sort this mess out?” he asked abruptly.
Esther pulled at the strands of her long, dark hair nervously. “I have a friend—a Jew who, like me, is a believer. She lives alone, just east of the city, off the road to Bethany. I might be able to stay with her.”
“Help me get Joseph to his feet. I’ll take both of you there.”
“What about you? Your men will surely want to know what has happened to you. You told the centurion you were taking us to the garrison for questioning.”
“I’ll worry about that later; right now I need to get you and your friend someplace where you’ll both be safe.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Pontius Pilate held Deucalion’s sword in his left hand and gestured vehemently at Antonius with his right. “What do you mean no one knows where he is? He’s the Commander of the Garrison. Praetorians do not simply vanish into the night, never to be heard from again!” he yelled, furious with his cowering servant.
Antonius stepped backward, out of the reach of Pilate’s shaking fist. “He hasn’t been seen since he left the woodworker’s shop,” replied the servant. “One of his men spoke to him during the melee and he told the centurion that he was taking two prisoners to the garrison for questioning. He never arrived.”
“Prisoners? What kind of prisoners?”
“An injured man and a woman.”
“Jews?”
“The centurion didn’t say, master. He only indicated that they disappeared into the night.”
Pilate’s initial rage began to subside as he considered the possibilities.
“Disappeared, you say?”
Antonius remained silent and shrugged his shoulders in reply. “Find Malkus immediately and tell him to report to me at once,” said the Procurator, walking over to the balcony and staring down at the Royal Bridge.
Antonius did not move, alerting Pilate that he had a further message for his master.
Without turning around, Pilate asked, “What else?”
“I would remind you that you have an appointment with the High Priest this morning. He’ll be here shortly.”
Under his breath, Pilate cursed. He had completely forgotten about Caiaphas.
He had gone to great lengths to arrange a surreptitious meeting with the High Priest. His predecessors had set precedent by dealing directly with Antipas, letting him be responsible for the conduct of the members of the Sanhedrin. He grudgingly acceded to that precedent, although not out of any sense of loyalty or duty. Antipas’ weakness was his lust for power and it was precisely because of that lust that he was able to control the Tetrarch.
The meeting he had arranged for today, however, was an additional safeguard. He considered the irony of the situation. Not only was he using Antipas to subjugate the priesthood, but he was also using the priesthood to insure that even if Antipas failed, Pilate would have a scapegoat. Rome is not going to crucify me as it did the rabbi from Nazareth, he thought. I’ve ruled this cursed mote of dust and death for seven years and what have I to show for it? Nothing but nightmares. It’s time these Jews return some of the blood they have leeched from me.
He stared morosely at the soft haze that cloaked the distant mountains. The thick, gray-white mist reminded him of the vapors that rise up from the surface of a stilled lake as the chill of dawn caresses the warm, languid water. His gaze kept straying, however, and he had to force himself not to look at the bridge. He feared the madness he found within himself whenever he remembered what had happened there.
Nevertheless, the memory flooded his mind unbidden, as it had done repeatedly for the past two months. In his mind’s eye he could see the blood that flowed unceasing from the Nazarene’s wounds. The ruby-red river had permanently stained the white marble stones that made up the long walkway over which Jesus had been paraded before the jeering mass of people. His face battered beyond recognition, his back flayed by the scourge, the Nazarene had struggled mutely under the back-bending weight of the heavy wooden cross.
Even now, the Procurator imagined he could hear the blood of the Rabbi calling out to him from the ground. Strangely, the voice was not one of retribution, but one of forgiveness.
But in his heart he did not want forgiveness. He wanted to be in Rome, living as a Roman, preferably as a retired General—not here in Judea, living as a tortured shadow of the soldier his father had raised him to be.
“Thank you, Antonius,” he said finally with uncharacteristic politeness. “Inform me when the High Priest arrives, but don’t send him in immediately.” The glaze of hardness in his eyes stood in marked contrast to the soft, controlled timber of his voice as he added brusquely, “I want him to squirm.”
“You want whom to squirm?” asked Deucalion, his voice tired and fractured with resignation.
Pilate turned and gasped. “What in the name of Caesar happened to you?”
“What happened may have been ordered in the name of the Emperor, but it’s not something a Roman soldier can be proud of,” replied the younger man wearily, sitting down at the marble table Pilate used for his desk. His tunic was torn and shredded in places, as if he had been attacked by some sort of wild beast, and there were copper colored stains smudged with sawdust and dirt, remnants of the spattered blood of dying believers.
“It was a bloodbath, Pontius. Saul is mad! He slaughtered helpless men and women—people who had done nothing more than gather to worship their God.”
“Get hold of yourself, Deucalion,” Pilate snapped. “You’re babbling.” He studied his commander briefly, knowing there was something he was holding back. “Where have you been since you left your men last night? And why am I in possession of this?” he asked angrily, holding up Deucalion’s sword.
Deucalion watched Pilate’s rage kindle with a detachment he would not have thought himself capable of two months ago. Normally, he would have made a concerted effort to calm his superior, perhaps even to interject a joke to lighten Pilate’s intensity.
Today he was too tired—more fatigued than he could ever remember being. The sight of his sword, its sharp edged luster dulled by the coating of dried blood smeared along its length, made him sick to his stomach. What is happening to me?
“What is all this talk of madness and slaughter?” berated the Procurator. “I expected you to report to me early this morning, but not in this condition,” he continued, gesturing futilely at Deucalion. “I sent Antonius to find Malkus; I thought the Jews had murdered you!”
As if he just became aware of the fact that he must indeed look horrible, Deucalion stood up and examined himself. He grimaced, then walked over to a table next to the arch leading to the balcony and poured some fresh water from the alabaster pitcher into a gold-rimmed basin. As he washed his face and hands, the clear, tepid water turned a deep rust brown color.
Pilate stood silent and waited for Deucalion to make himself presentable.
The Praetorian finished washing as best he could with the limited facilities, then turned and walked past Pilate wordlessly. He stood on the balcony and looked down at the Temple, wondering how men who professed to serve God could engage in the kind of brutality he had witnessed last night.
“I have served Rome faithfully for fifteen years—since the age of twelve,” he said absently. “I’ve traveled wherever she wished and fought whomever she declared to be her enemy and never concerned myself with politics.” He
shook his head wearily. “I chose to develop my skills as a soldier, instead, leaving politics for Caesar, the Senate, and the Generals. Yet, never have I been a party to such cowardice and such bloodthirsty hatred as I was almost forced into participating in last night.”
“What do you mean, almost?”
“I’ve seen women and children killed in the course of battle and I’ve wept over their corpses,” he continued, ignoring the question. “But last night, I could not weep. Had I loosed my true emotions, I would have killed Saul, and perhaps even turned upon my own men.” He turned from the window and added, “I am not sure why I’m explaining this to you, Pontius, or even if I’m making any sense; but it’s something I must say.
“It was almost as if once we entered the woodworker’s shop, a blackness that was deeper and darker than the night descended upon Saul. I was standing beside him and I felt him change. We had been talking civilly to one another as we walked and I thought I was beginning to understand what it was that drove him so.” He stared into Pilate’s sullen eyes. Without condemnation, but with the realization of one who has probed the hearts and souls of two seemingly dissimilar men and found a common scarlet thread binding them to madness, he said, “He has the same passionate, narrow-minded love for Hebrew law that you have for Roman jurisprudence.
“But I was totally unprepared for what happened when we arrived at our destination. Saul became a man possessed. He ripped the door leading to the back of the shop from its hinges with one blow. My men and I were stunned. He exhibited the strength of several men.
“Once inside the room, he harangued the small group of people unmercifully, attempting to antagonize them into a foolish act so that he could justify what he had planned to do from the start. The fact that they did not respond as he intended seemed to cut loose the last tie binding him to reason. That’s when the slaughter began. And that’s when I lost my sword.”
Pilate listened without expression and without comment. It was evident that Deucalion’s attitude had changed dramatically in the last few days. The Procurator now realized that by refusing to acknowledge the chasm growing between them, even as he refused to accept the implications of his actions of which the bridge over the Tyropoeon Valley reminded him of daily, he had doomed their friendship.
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