The Master's Quilt

by Michael J. Webb

  The silence in the room was thick, almost suffocating.

  Esther stared out the window, a blank look on her face. Her body was so rigid that Deucalion immediately thought of a Shit’tah tree, standing resolute in the midst of a raging wind. Realizing she was not going to respond to what he said, he continued. “Before I spoke with him, your father knew nothing of the incident at the woodworker’s shop. That surprised me; I thought for sure Caiaphas would have informed him immediately, if for no other reason than to gloat.”

  Esther’s head snapped around. “Why do you say that?”

  “Because it was the High Priest who had you followed.”

  “How do you know?”

  Deucalion told her.

  When he finished she said, “So it’s true, then. My father is conspiring with Herod Antipas to unseat Caiaphas as High Priest.”

  Deucalion nodded. “The two of them have been subtly manipulating the Sanhedrin for some time. The crucifixion of the Nazarene gave them the perfect opportunity to make their move. Your father was supposed to garner enough support from the Pharisees and dissident Sadducees to unseat Caiaphas and wrest control of the Sanhedrin from Annas. Three weeks ago he openly challenged Caiaphas in a special meeting of the Sanhedrin. But he failed.”

  “And how is it you know what happened in the Sanhedrin?”

  Deucalion remained silent.

  Esther raised her hand to her mouth, unbelief registering in her eyes. “You were there?” she exclaimed, stunned. “No gentile has ever been present at a meeting of the Council. But yes, I can see the truth in your eyes—”

  “I disguised myself as a Jewish merchant and hid inside the Hall of Hewn Stones. Had I been discovered and caught—”

  “You would have been killed on the spot,” she interrupted, astounded at his accomplishment. “The inner Temple Square, around the sanctuary itself, is a consecrated area. It’s holy ground.”

  Deucalion shrugged. The incredible feat seemed unimportant now, in light of recent events. “It was something I had to do. I needed first-hand information.”

  “But how did you understand—?” Esther stopped. “Of course! The night you rescued me. I spoke Hebrew and you answered me in my own language!” She stared at him intently a look of concern on her face. “There’s something I must tell you,” she whispered, “something I tried to tell you that night in the meadow, but couldn’t—because I was afraid.”

  “Of me?”

  “No. I was afraid of what you might think. But now . . .” She paused. “Doras is not my father!”

  Deucalion frowned.

  “That is, he’s not my real father. . .” she continued rapidly.

  • • •

  “How could you be so stupid?” Antipas bellowed at Doras, like a cobra spitting venom.

  “Your own daughter a believer—infected with the damnable blasphemy that is spreading like a plague among our people.”

  Doras stood mute before Antipas’ rage, seeking refuge in silence. His face was drawn and haggard, and his whole body was on the verge of shaking uncontrollably. Oh, how bitter the sweet water has turned, he thought, fighting nausea. Curse the day that Persian Bedouin, with his ebony eyes of fire, came into my life.

  “This is just the sort of thing that Caiaphas needs to solidify the support of the Pharisees,” continued the Tetrarch as he gathered his robes about him and paced nervously. Even though it was the middle of the afternoon, the room was dark and foreboding, like the lair of a wild animal. After several minutes, he stopped abruptly and whispered in a trembling voice, “The sins of the father. . .”

  “What?”

  Antipas turned and glared at Doras. There were dark circles beneath his sunken eyes.

  “Just before my father died, rumors circulated that he in fact was already dead. Believing the rumors to be true, two Pharisee teachers of the Law incited a group of their students to climb to the Temple roof in the middle of the day, and remove a large, solid gold eagle that had been affixed to the front entrance.

  “My father had commissioned the huge bird, representing the Imperial Roman Eagle, as a political gesture to Augustus, his benefactor. However, the extremists among the Pharisees decided that the Temple had been desecrated. They claimed that the eagle, being an image of a living creature, violated the second commandment forbidding graven images.”

  “But that’s foolishness,” interrupted Doras. “The commandment only forbids the worship of graven images. Even Solomon’s Temple was adorned with figures of bulls, lions and eagles.”

  “Of course, you idiot, but my father was extremely disliked and offense was easily taken, whether it was justified or not,” Antipas said as he walked over to a small table upon which sat a flagon of wine and two leaded goblets. He filled one of the goblets to the top and drank half of it down. Some of the wine spilled onto his robe, staining it red above his heart.

  “What happened?”

  “The fools hacked the eagle to pieces, while a crowd on the street below cheered them on. My father demanded that the perpetrators present themselves before him. The two teachers and their students, along with a group of notables from the community, appeared before his sickbed.”

  At this point, Antipas did something unexpected: he assumed the role of his dying father, speaking with the voice of a demented, bitter, arrogant old man. “You ungrateful cowards! Not only did I rebuild the magnificence of Solomon’s Temple for you, adding to its splendor by reconstructing it as it was in the time of Zerrubbabel, but I also kept the Romans off your backs in the process. I’ve done more for you in a few short years than the Hasmonans did in a century. And this is how you repay my diligence? What have you to say in your defense?”

  Doras was mesmerized, and unnerved, by the performance.

  Antipas altered his voice and assumed the role of the two accused teachers. “We agree your majesty. The culprits should be punished, severely. However, it was not us who committed this act of sacrilege against God. It was the students.”

  The Tetrarch paused and moved close to Doras, then cackled. “Can you guess what happened?” he asked.

  Doras shook his head.

  “He had them all burned alive. Then he dismissed the High Priest. A few days later he died. But it didn’t end there. You see, my father had a grander plan—one that was truly worthy of his madness—one that was almost as brilliant as when he ordered the slaughter of every child under the age of two, because of a Magi’s innocuous inquiry.

  “On the eve of his death, he commanded the most important men of the entire Jewish nation to come before him. Then he sealed them up in the hippodrome and ordered them executed after his death, saying, ‘The death of so many important men commensurate with my own passing shall at least afford an honorable mourning at my funeral.’ It’s no wonder Augustus said of my father, “It is better to be Herod’s hog, than his son’.”

  Doras’ face was white with loathing, and his knees were trembling so much he could barely stand. Reaching the limit of his endurance, he vomited all over the polished marble floor.

  Antipas laughed derisively, then retreated to the far corner of the suddenly chilled room.

  Doras wiped his mouth and staggered to the table. He poured himself a goblet of wine and drank half of it greedily. “Go ahead and laugh, you wretched excuse for a Jew,” he said setting the half empty goblet down. “You think I don’t know what you are?”

  Antipas glared at him, glassy eyed.

  “You’re a demon from the pit of Gehenna, trapped in a man’s body. You cut off the Baptist’s head, because he dared speak the truth—because you were drunk with passion. You are as vile as your father was, and no amount of circumcision will cleanse you of the poison that rots your soul. How could I have been so blind to think that you were sincere in your concern for the well being of our nation? I see now that you harbor an insatiable lust for that which you cannot have. You have given your soul over to darkness; you are beyond any hope of salvation.”

  “Wha
t about you, my power-hungry protégé? Did you not seek me out? Did you not prevail upon me to join with you in ‘restoring the bite to the toothless Council?’” Antipas pointed a plump finger at Doras and taunted him. “You fool. I was the man who stopped the slaughter my father ordered to elevate his funeral arrangements to a level of worship!” Antipas stumbled around the room, waving his arms as he talked, as if he were fending off an unseen tormentor.

  The man is completely mad, thought Doras. He’s talking to the walls. He refilled his goblet and took several gulps and prayed the wine would help stop his hands from shaking.

  Abruptly, Antipas stopped shouting.

  The sudden quiet was unnerving. Simultaneously, the chill in the room deepened, as though it were night and the middle of winter, not day and the height of an unusually hot summer.

  Doras shuddered as a sudden, sharp pain racked his chest. His knees buckled and he crumpled to the floor, with his back resting against one leg of the table. The half-filled goblet tumbled from his hand, forgotten in the midst of a sudden realization. He was on the edge of the abyss; he had waited too long before trying to secure the door to his own soul.

  Antipas walked over to him and stood over him, gloating.

  Doras whimpered when he looked up and saw twin ruby-red eyes, like two fiery coals from the white-hot center of a blacksmith’s furnace, staring at him. He cried out in agony as something ancient, something horrendously evil, forced its way into his mind. He gagged as he choked on the stench that filled his nostrils. A stench that was worse than the putrefying odor that rose up from the Valley of Hinnom on days there was no breeze to carry off the smell of burning refuse.

  Antipas’ words reached his ears as if from a distance. They were like the dry wind that is the harbinger of a Syrian sirocco. “A Jew ruined my marriage. A Jew ruined my relationship with Rome. And by all the gods, a Jew shall restore to me what has been stolen. You will help me or you will die, as the two before you have died—alone and without God answering your plea for mercy. Do you hear what I am saying?”

  At this point, Doras was willing to say anything to get whatever it was that had entered His mind, out of it. He nodded, not trusting speech.

  Antipas stepped back and, as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred, said, “Now, where were we in our planning?”

  • • •

  Esther took a deep breath and plunged into her story. “I always felt there was something special about me, but I never realized what it was until the night before my twelfth birthday.” She smiled wistfully and played with several strands of her hair. “Doras sat me down and reminded me that if I were a boy I would be but one year away from my bar mitzvah—one year away from becoming fully responsible for my behavior under the Law.”

  “He seemed nervous, and that surprised me, because he had always been in total control of his emotions—except when my mother died. I asked him if something was wrong. He smiled and hugged me, something he didn’t do very often, and said, ‘No, precious one, there is nothing wrong. I’m just having difficulty explaining to you that you must be more aware of yourself now—you must be careful how you behave in public.’”

  “I can understand why,” interrupted Deucalion. “You’re a very beautiful woman.” He reached out and cupped her chin, then added, “And those eyes of yours—I’ve never seen eyes so crystal-green before. They sometimes seem to glow.”

  Esther’s face colored. “I must have gotten them from my mother—my real mother—because Doras told me that my real father’s eyes were ebony with specks of gold.” She pulled away, then continued her story. “I told Doras he had nothing to worry about; I had no intention of doing anything to make him ashamed of me. I believed God had something special for me to do, and I couldn’t let Him down.

  “The next day, for my birthday, he took me to Tiberias, where we sat for hours in a private hot water bath.”

  Deucalion’s mind raced. He knew that the city was situated atop the cemetery of the ancient town of Hammath. Strict Jews did not go there.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” she said, seeing the shocked look on his face, “but Antipas built the city and, as you know, the Tetrarch and Doras are close friends. It was also before Doras was appointed to the Sanhedrin. Once my father became a member of the Great Council, he became more circumspect in his private life.

  “As we sat in the bath, Doras told me how I came to be his daughter. I was given the name Esther because I came to be their daughter during the festival of Purim, on the 13th of Adar, the Fast of Esther. Doras and Rachel had been married for many years, but had remained childless, although not of their choice. Finally, in desperation, Rachel dedicated herself to fasting before God, and asked Him to bless her with a child. She began praying in earnest during the Feast of Weeks.”

  “When is that?”

  “Seven weeks after Pesach, Passover.”

  “Ah, Pentecost. You Jews call it Shevuot.”

  “You know it?”

  “Only by name. But I am fascinated by the Hebrew preoccupation with ritual. Tell me about it.”

  “According to custom, Doras adorned his home with flowers and herbs. He also purified himself by immersing his body in the baths at the Temple and confessing his sins before God. After the evening prayer, he and Rachel went to the synagogue, where the canter blessed them. Later, when they returned home, they prayed further and Doras read from the Holy Scriptures throughout the night. The following morning the two of them recited the great Hallel and Doras read the lesson from the Law—the Maphtir—from Exodus, and the lesson of the prophets from Ezekiel. They repeated the same process again on the second day.

  “After the Musaph Ritual, just about twilight, Rachel told Doras that she had heard from God. . .and that He had promised them a child. They were both overjoyed, and even though they didn’t know how or when, they believed and waited patiently for God to fulfill His Word.

  “It wasn’t until autumn that Rachel announced she was with child. Doras was so certain it was a boy that he decided to name the child Samuel and dedicate him to the service of God, as Hannah had done with her son.”

  “Why was he so anxious for a son?”

  “The firstborn son of a Jew is the priest for the whole family. Also, because of the preservation of the firstborn of Israel, and the death of the firstborn of Egypt, all the firstborn of Israel, both man and animal, belong to Jehovah.”

  Esther paused, thinking. She remembered something she heard at the meeting the night Deucalion rescued her from Saul. The speaker had called Jesus “the firstborn of many.” The insight hit her with great impact.

  “Go on,” prodded Deucalion, returning her into the present.

  “Doras purchased an ephod for his son to be, and Rachel set about weaving him a mantle. The Feast of Tabernacles was an especially joyful time for them. It is a time of celebration, of haq ha’succoth, the Festival of Tents. Jews give thanks to God in remembrance of the fatherly care and protection of Jehovah, while Israel was journeying from Egypt to Canaan. It is also haq ha’osif, the Feast of Ingathering; the collecting of the threshed flour and the product of the wine press that are symbolic of the labor of the field and the fruit of the earth. Doras and Rachel thanked God for their harvest, but their joy was short-lived.”

  “What happened?”

  “Rachel became very sick. She lost the baby in the sixth month of her pregnancy.”

  “So far along?”

  Esther nodded. “They were devastated, Rachel more so than Doras. She stopped eating and lost a great deal of weight. Finally, fearful for her life, Doras fasted for eleven days and begged God for help.”

  “Did God answer?”

  “Not immediately. Rachel began to eat again, but she never fully regained her strength. Doras decided they needed to leave the city for a while and they went to Caesarea. That’s where they met the Bedouin.”

  “The Bedouin?”

  “My real father. He was a nomad, and his wife—my real mother—ha
d died giving birth to me. It’s an extraordinary story—”

  “Wait!” Deucalion interrupted as he looked out the window. “Someone’s coming.” In the distance he saw a woman approaching the house.

  Esther moved beside him and smiled. “It’s only Abigail.”

  “Your friend?”

  She nodded.

  Instead of entering the house immediately, the woman went over to her garden and began working in it. Deucalion watched her as she deftly used a hoe to clear away the weeds from her vegetables. As she went about her tasks, selecting fresh cucumbers, leaks, and onions from the garden for dinner, Deucalion said, “Tell me about her, Esther.”

  “I met Abigail one day when I went to hear Jesus speak. She was standing at the edge of the crowd, with her hands and face covered. I felt drawn to her and decided to introduce myself. As I approached her, I realized why she had been hanging back. Her body was completely covered with huge white lesions. She was a leper.”

  Deucalion was stunned. He glanced out the window and stared at Abigail. “But that’s impossible! Her skin is like that of a baby’s.”

  “That’s true.”

  “But how—?”

  “Let me finish. Although she was in no physical pain, she was emotionally ravaged; the ostracism from her family and from other people had brought her to the point of total despair. I convinced her that I wasn’t afraid of her, wondering all the time why I wasn’t fearful of catching her disease. When she finally allowed me to hold her hand, she wept deeply. Between sobs, she told me that no one, not even other lepers, had touched her in five years! I bought her food and, as she ate ravenously, she told me that she believed Jesus would heal her. That’s why she had come to see Him.”

  Deucalion grew pensive at the mention of the Nazarene. He turned from the window and asked, “And was it the Nazerene who healed her?”

  Esther nodded. “With merely a touch. Not long after that, He was crucified. I helped Abigail find this house and I have been paying the rent from money Doras gives me to buy clothes.”