“What?”
“He was heavily scented, almost to the point of making me gag; like he just stepped out of the baths.”
“Go on.”
“He called me by name and that surprised me more than his sneaking up on me, because I had no idea who he was. When I asked how he knew me, he told me it didn’t matter. What was important, he said, was that there were certain matters that remained unresolved in the case of Jesus of Nazareth. I told him the case was closed. That’s when he told me that he knew about Deucalion’s refusal to cooperate with the Tribunal. He also knew about Deucalion’s refusal to accept the money the rest of us had taken.”
“He knew Deucalion’s name?”
“Yes.”
“Did he tell you how he knew so much?”
“No. I pressed him, but he refused to answer.”
The frown on Pilate’s face deepened.
“When I threatened to take him to the garrison and question him further, with the help of some centurions, he just laughed. That’s when he told me that he had a solution—one he said, that even the Syrian governor would be most pleased with. One that had been approved by the highest authority. I thought he was referring to you.”
“How do you know he was a Jew?”
“Because I followed him to the Temple and watched him disappear inside.”
“What does all this have to do with our problem?”
“A week later I received instructions to select two of my best men and meet a fourth centurion near Antipas’ residence, just before sunset.”
“Who gave that order?”
Malkus looked shocked. “I thought you did.”
“What?”
“But the scroll—”
“Was it signed?”
“No, but it had your seal on it.”
“By all the gods, this smells of Annas,” snapped Pilate. “What happened when you met this anonymous centurion?”
Malkus’ legs trembled as he told the Procurator about the ambush.
“You fool!” bellowed Pilate. “Deucalion acted on my orders. He went to that house to gather important information on Caiaphas and the Sanhedrin. The Jew who lived there gave Deucalion valuable information on the High Priest’s plans to disrupt our administration of Judea,” he shouted, then realized by the look on Malkus’ face he had said too much.
Angry with himself for losing control and entrusting his secret to a man he barely knew, he walked over to the marble table and poured himself a goblet of wine, hoping it would dull his throbbing headache. He took several gulps, then walked over to the balcony and stood, looking out beyond the Royal Bridge, straining to see the distant mountains through the blue-gray haze.
Invariably his gaze was drawn to the Temple. “It has to be Annas,” he muttered. “No one else would have the audacity to meddle in my affairs so brazenly. He is the only one who could possibly have known about Doras and have the ear of Vitellius.”
Pilate turned and faced Malkus. His eyes were cold points of steel. “You will never discuss this matter again—with anyone—on pain of death. Is that clear?”
Malkus nodded obediently and averted his eyes.
“I want you to find Deucalion,” continued the Procurator. “You know his habits—how he thinks. And when you do, make sure his death is swift and, above all, quiet. I want no evidence, no curious spectators. Is that clear?”
“Perfectly clear—”
“Whatever else he may be, Deucalion is first and foremost a Praetorian. As such, he deserves to die with dignity.” The harshness suddenly left Pilate’s voice. “Be careful, Malkus. Deucalion is a formidable enemy, especially when he believes in something.” He paused and sighed, then whispered, “And he passionately believes in what he saw and heard that morning at the Nazarene’s tomb.”
“Is that all?”
“Not quite. I want you to go back to that same house you followed Deucalion to and arrest the man who lives there. His name is Doras.”
“What about the girl?”
Pilate glared at him and replied in a voice as void of emotion as when he had been speaking about the moon, “When you find them, kill her as well.
• • •
The summer was barely half over and already it had indelibly etched itself into Deucalion’s memory. In the space of four short months his life had changed forever. There were moments when he imagined that if he were to meet himself in the streets of Jerusalem, he would not recognize himself. The old me is no more and the new life within me grows steadily stronger, he thought, then stood up from the table, and walked over to the window.
He stared at Abigail’s garden, deep in thought.
He had been up all night reading the parchments, occasionally stopping to stare at the waning moon. Now it was early afternoon and the sun reigned unchallenged in the heavens.
Abigail had gone shopping in the city and Esther had gone to see her father. “I can’t just leave without telling him how I feel,” she said just before dawn. He agreed, and told her to be careful, then added, “Be sure you are back before twilight. We have to leave here tonight. Pilate has many spies. If he doesn’t already know about this house, he soon will.”
The door opened behind him.
“I’m leaving for Joppa,” said Barnabas as he entered the small home. “Before I go, you must tell me your plans.”
Deucalion turned and replied, “You’re right about the parchments. They are incredible. But I don’t understand why you’ve given them to me.”
“Who knows whether you have come to the kingdom for such a time as this?”
“What?”
Barnabas smiled and sat down at the table. “It’s a quote from the book of Esther. She lived during the time of King Ahasuerus.”
“I’ve studied about him. The Greeks call him Xerxes. He was a Persian monarch whose kingdom extended from Media to Ethiopia.”
Barnabas nodded. “Ahasuerus was married to Queen Vashti, an extraordinarily beautiful woman. However, Vashti failed to honor her husband and rebelled against him. Consequently, Ahasuerus ordered his advisors to seek out a virgin to be his new queen.
“A Benjamite by the name of Mordecai had been carried away from Jerusalem by Nebuchadnezzar, king of Babylon, and taken to Shushan, the capital of Persia. Mordecai had raised Esther, because her father and mother were dead. When the king’s decree was published, Esther was among the virgins brought before Ahaseurus.”
“What does all this have to do with me?”
“Patience, my friend. Esther so impressed the king that he made her his wife and queen. Not long after, Haman, one of the king’s trusted advisors, and man who had nothing but scorn for Jews, conceived a plan to destroy all the Jews in Ahaseurus’ kingdom. Mordecai informed Esther of Haman’s plan, but she was reluctant to go to the king because she was fearful. Mordecai pointed out to her that if Haman’s plot were successful, not only would her people be destroyed, but she also, because she was a Jew. He also prophesied to her that if she failed to speak out, God would provide another to deliver the nation of Israel, but if that happened, she and her father’s house would be destroyed.”
“And her decision?”
“She prayed and fasted, and God gave her a solution. The Jews were saved from extermination, and Haman and his ten sons were hung. A yearly feast was instituted to commemorate our deliverance under queen Esther.”
“The Feast of Purim,” muttered Deucalion, overwhelmed by the magnitude of God’s sudden revelation to him.
“You know it?”
Deucalion shook his head. “No, but Esther told me about it the night I rescued you two from Saul.”
“It seems a great deal happened that night.”
“More than you know, Barnabas.”
Barnabas stood and walked to the door. “It’s time I left for Joppa.”
“I still haven’t answered your question.”
“Maybe not in words, Deucalion. But I can see the answer in your eyes. . .and I believe God knows your
heart. That is all I need.”
Deucalion stuck out his hand. “Goodbye, Barnabas. The Lord be with you.”
Barnabas turned and grasped Deucalion’s hand. “One last thing before I go,” he said. “I lived for a time in a cave, at the edge of the Great Salt Sea. You and Esther can hide there until you decide what to do. No one will bother you. The only people who frequent the area are the Essenes, and they keep to themselves, shunning all contact with the world.”
“How far is it?”
“Two days walk. I’ll tell you how to find it.”
“We’ll need food and water.”
“Water is no problem; there’s a small, hidden spring. Food you’ll have to acquire along the way. I take it you have some money?”
Deucalion smiled and reached inside his tunic. “How fitting that the Tribunal shall finance this adventure,” he said, lifting the small bag of money from his belt.
• • •
“Hello father,” Esther said as she walked out onto the veranda.
Doras had been gazing intently at the city below and he turned at the sound of his daughter’s voice. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to say goodbye. Deucalion and I are leaving the city.”
“You’ve been with him the last two weeks?”
“No, Father. I’ve been living with another outcast.”
“You look healthy.” He didn’t add, for one who is an outcast.
“We’ve managed. . .and the Lord is faithful.”
Doras flinched. “Where will you go?”
“It’s best you don’t know.” Esther stared at her father, surprised that he wasn’t angry. She’d expected him to yell at her, at the very least. But he seemed distant, as though his thoughts were far away. Her heart went out to him. “I’m sorry I failed you,” she said, searching for the right words to express what she was feeling.
Her father sighed heavily. “It is not you who has failed me, my little hadassah. It is I who have failed. The Sanhedrin. . .you. . .and most of all, God.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Sit,” he said and motioned for her to take one of the cushions, then sat down across from her.
“Where are the servants? They should be preparing dinner.”
“Gone—”
“Where?”
“It’s not important now. What is important, however, is something I should have told you a long time ago.”
“Father—”
Doras raised his hand and said, “Please, let me finish. I have wanted to share this with you since your twelfth birthday, but because of my selfishness, I never found the time. It’s about your real father—and how you came to be my daughter.”
“You never lied to me, did you, about my being adopted?”
“No, Esther, I never lied to you—I just didn’t tell you the whole story. For that I am truly sorry.”
“Oh, Father, I wish we had had this conversation sooner. So much has happened in the past few months. I’ve grown up in ways I never thought possible.”
“And we have grown. . .apart.”
“It doesn’t have to be that way anymore. Deucalion and I don’t have to leave. We can—”
Doras shook his head. “It’s too late, Esther.”
“What do you mean it’s too late?”
“As always, you ask too many difficult questions. Let me tell you what I haven’t had the courage to tell you about your father.”
“All right, but then you must explain to me why you’re behaving so strangely.”
“I’ve told you many times how Rachel became sick in the sixth month of her pregnancy and lost our child. And that we traveled to Caesarea Phillipi where we met your father—a Bedouin.”
Gabriella nodded.
Doras continued as if it had happened yesterday.
He and Rachel walked down one of the side streets of the city situated near the base of Mount Hermon. It was late afternoon, just before twilight, and they were on their way back to their lodgings, when he noticed the tall, broad-shouldered man with dark, almost black skin staring at them.
Oddly, Doras wasn’t afraid, even though he carried a large amount of money hidden inside his robe. The stranger reminded him of a very old olive tree. One that had borne much fruit in its time and was near the end of its productive life.
The man approached them boldly, his hands stretched forth in greeting, as if he’d just encountered a pair of long lost friends. When he was only a few feet away, Doras noticed a long scar that ran from his left ear, along his jaw line, and ended at the top of his adam’s apple. It was jagged and wide, and obviously very old, because there was virtually no discoloration between it and the rest of his wind-burned face.
“I’ve watched you closely these past three days,” the stranger said, addressing Doras in broken Hebrew. His voice was clear and crisp, almost melodious. “And it seems that your wife is most unhappy. I come from the desert, and I am also acquainted with the kind of grief your wife harbors inside her belly.”
“What do you know of our grief?” replied Doras, speaking in Aramaic.
“Thank you,” said the stranger, positioning himself between Doras and Rachel and taking each of their arms in one of his. “It is much easier if we converse in Aramaic. I know so very little Hebrew.”
They continued walking, arm in arm, and Doras was too astounded to be afraid. He glanced at Rachel and saw that the man equally mesmerized her.
“My wife died a few days ago,” continued the stranger as if he were sharing sad news with old friends. “But, God be praised, in her death she left me life—a daughter.”
“Why have you come to us this way? And why are you telling us all this?” Doras asked, starting to feel foolish.
The stranger stopped walking. “I’ve seen your wife staring at the children in the streets,” he replied, then sighed heavily. “You, like my wife, are Jewish and God spoke to me and told me to give you my daughter.”
“You’re mad!” said Doras, grabbing Rachel by the arm. They started to leave and the stranger stopped them with his words.
“God also told me that the ones I seek prayed for a child and conceived, but lost the baby in the sixth month. He instructed me to bring my infant daughter here to Caesarea and seek out a man and woman of your description.”
Rachel gasped, as if she had been struck. Doras was about to rebuke the man sternly when his wife asked, “How do you know it was God who spoke?”
The stranger stared at them for several moments. That’s when they both realized how unusual the man’s eyes were. His eyes were dark brown, almost ebony, with specks of gold, shimmering with an odd kind of light that seemed to reach out and envelope them. Both had the sense that they were standing next to a brightly burning fire, fueled by coals of the purest power they had ever experienced.
“There is no other voice like the Voice of God,” the man replied. His words were soothing, like a cool balm applied to a throbbing, burning wound. “I was praying to Him for guidance, asking him what to do with the girl-child after my wife died, when suddenly my tent was filled with smoke—but there was no fire.
“Then a warm, soft wind shook the canvas, and I thought at first that it was the beginnings of a sirocco. Yet when I looked out the flap, the sand was still—not a grain had been displaced.
“There was also a strange kind of light. A light that was soft and penetrating at the same time. And I heard singing! Out of the light, a man’s voice spoke: ‘I am the Beginning and the End. I have always been and shall always be. You have been faithful with little and so you shall be given much. Go and find what you seek in Caesarea.’”
“Never, in all the years of my life, nor in all the years of my father’s life, and his father’s, and his before him, has God ever spoken to a Bedouin in such fashion. That is how I know it was the Voice of God.”
Doras started to say something, but Rachel cut him short. “We will take the child. Where is she?”
Doras paused and stared
at his daughter.
Esther tingled all over. It was as if she had become immersed in a pool of warm, scented oil. She thought she smelled frankincense. “I. . .I don’t know what to say. It’s all so incredible. But what does it mean?”
“When your father, wild-eyed, uncircumcised Bedouin that he was, appeared to us in the streets of Caesarea and told us that story, Rachel and I knew that God had indeed spoken—He had answered our prayers.”
“How did you know?”
Doras stood up and stared at the city once again, as if he were seeing it for the last time. “You see, it was the month of Adar, and the particular day we met your father was the fifteenth—The Feast of Purim—The Fast of Esther. Three months after Rachel lost the baby.”
“Why is that so special?”
“Because it had been nine months, to the day, that Rachel had heard from God during the previous Pentecost.”
The sudden silence was deafening.
Esther began to weep.
Suddenly, there was a knock at the front door. The insistent banging startled both Esther and Doras.
“Who can that be, at this hour?” mumbled Doras as he headed for the door.
It was Abigail, and she was terrified. “We have to go!” she pleaded as Doras brought her to Esther.
“What’s wrong, Abigail?” Esther asked, wiping the tears from her cheeks.
“Pilate has a new Commander of the Garrison. He’s on his way here now!”
“Malkus. . .” muttered Doras.
“But why would—”
“Esther, you must leave immediately,” interrupted her father. “Do as your friend says.”
“I, I don’t understand—”
“There’s no time to explain. Just go.”
Esther stared at her father and was frightened by what she saw in his eyes. She hugged him and whispered in his ear, “I love you, Father. . .I will always love you.”
Doras pushed her away and said, “Go now, before Malkus arrives and finds you here.”
“Hurry, Esther,” Abigail said and grabbed her by the arm. “You promised Deucalion to be back before twilight.”
The Master's Quilt Page 18