“Goodbye, Father,” Esther said over her shoulder as she and Abigail scrambled out the door.
“Goodbye, my precious hadassah,” muttered Doras.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The Hebrew way of life during the calendar year is, for the most part, a life filled with an odd mixture of feasting and fasting. August is no exception. It is the month for harvesting grapes, figs, walnuts, and olives in Judea.
The Jews wisely call it ‘ab, meaning “fruitful.”
At the new moon there had been a fast for the death of Aaron, the older brother of Moses and the first High Priest of Israel. And in a few days another fast would be initiated, one that recalled God’s declaration against murmurers entering Canaan. Because of their sin, neither Moses nor Aaron were allowed to enter the Promised Land. Indeed, out of all the people over twenty, only Joshua and Caleb were allowed to enter into Judea.
Esther looked wistfully outward from the mouth of the cave, hidden in the rocks on the eastern shore of the Great Salt Sea, and thought about the way of life she had left behind. It made her sad and she wanted to cry, but didn’t. It was too hot, too dry for tears. The air had remained still for days. The heat was intense. When there was wind, it achieved character by virtue of having blown in from the east, acquiring scent from the Arabah, the Sea of the Plain.
Esther shook her head, clearing it of the melancholy thoughts, replacing them with thoughts of Deucalion. In her mind’s eye she could see the two of them standing side by side at the highest point on the cliff, looking out over the vast panorama of desert below. She asked him what Arabah meant and he patiently explained to her the subtleties of translating words that had many meanings for many people.
“Actually the term is somewhat misapplied,” he replied in a strong, deep-throated voice. “The literal translation is ‘desert.’ In its purest and most proper sense the expression is most often used to indicate the whole valley lying between Mount Hermon and the Red Sea. The Bedouin refer to the area as El Ghor, because there is so much fertility.”
“How do you know so much about this place?”
“I read a great deal and ask a lot of questions.” He paused, then pointed to her left, ““See that line of white cliffs crossing the valley?”
She nodded. “They’re beautiful!”
“Because Romans are so smart, we split the valley in two and recognize both names. The point of division between El Ghor and El ‘Arabah is those cliffs. Beyond them are flat marshlands that run all the way to the south end of the Great Salt Sea. From there south to Akabah is the Arabah, and north, to the Lake of Galilee, lies the Ghor.”
“How clever. I bet there’s something not even a smart Roman such as you knows.”
“Try me.”
“Doras once told me that this area is like the wilderness our ancestors wandered in for forty years.”
“That’s a long time.”
“It’s also an extremely significant period of time.”
“Why?”
“See, I told you that you’re not as smart as you think.”
“I confess. Now tell me why forty is such an important number.”
“Jews believe it’s the number of probation, trial, and chastisement. Moses was forty when he was forced to flee Egypt and eighty when God spoke to him from the burning bush and commanded him to return to Egypt to rescue his people. Caleb was forty when he was sent out from Kadesh-Barnea by the great patriarch to explore Canaan.
“Canaan?”
“The Promised Land.”
“And where might that be?”
“We’re standing in the middle of it.”
Esther sighed with the memory. That conversation was typical of their time together. They’d spent their days alternating between getting to know one another and studying the parchments. At night, they prayed together around the fire, asking God for wisdom and guidance—and for strength to accomplish whatever He told them to do.
All of a sudden Esther jumped to her feet and ran outside.
The day was almost over and vibrant colors were beginning to separate the dark blue ceiling of the sky into a rare mosaic of pale pastels and strikingly resonant hues. The beginnings of a breeze caressed her face and she did not want to miss a moment of it. Outside the cave, the wind blew in short bursts, cleansing the air of its staleness. “Thank you Lord,” she shouted to the heavens, relishing the refreshing relief from the heat.
Before she turned and went back inside, she glanced down the cliff, through the shimmering ocean of heat that lapped at the limestone cliffs below the cave, to the beach below. Deucalion was somewhere down there. Even though she couldn’t see him, she knew he was walking along the beach—a mixture of crackling gravel with deeply stained marl and chalk—as the two of them had done, hand in hand, many times over the past few days.
Abruptly, the prophetic words of Ezekiel flooded her mind: a river of water, bubbling forth from the Temple, sweeping eastward, down to the sea, increasing in force and power as it flowed, healing the bitter waters upon contact, restoring life to the dead.
She remembered Simon ben Gamaliel talking about that vision once, at one of her father’s many parties. “Ezekiel’s vision teaches us that there is nothing too sunken. . .too useless. . .too doomed, but by the grace of God it may be redeemed, lifted, and made rich with life.”
Later when she saw that Simon was alone, she asked him what he’d meant. Surprised by her interest, he smiled and replied, “Ezekiel was speaking of our nation, Esther. However, his vision was not only a vision for Israel, but also a metaphor for the life of one who dedicates himself to the service of God. We who serve in the priesthood must have the persistence of Habakkuk.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“‘Write the vision, and make it plain upon tables, that he may run who reads it,” he continued, quoting the prophet’s words. “‘For the vision is yet for an appointed time, but at the end it shall speak, and not lie: though it tarry, wait for it; because it shall surely come, it will not tarry.’”
At the time, she wondered if those words applied to a woman who desired to serve God. Later that same night she received the answer.
After her father’s guests had gone, she was cleaning the house, singing to herself quietly, praising God. Suddenly, the room filled with a soft, barely discernable haze. And she had smelled frankincense.
Then a quiet, firm voice from within reminded her of the significance of her name and of the fact that it was Esther, with the help of Mordecai, who had harkened to the voice of God and in so doing had saved the nation of Israel from certain destruction.
Not long after that she heard Jesus speaking to a large crowd of people. She had been overcome with emotion when she realized that the voice that had spoken to her that night and the voice of Jesus were one and the same. That was how she came to her salvation.
As the sun slipped below the horizon, she walked to the back of the cave, where she began preparing the evening meal. She glanced at the parchments and prayed that people would listen—and believe.
Deucalion returned just after darkness robbed the twilight of its beauty, but before the stars awakened from their daytime slumber. Venus, queen of the dusk, had disappeared with June from the nighttime ensemble and no longer bridged the gap between last light and star shine.
“I have our answer,” he said and stepped from the deep shadows outside the cave into the dancing light from the small fire inside. “It finally came to me today as I walked along the beach.” He paused and took a sip of water from the bucket Barnabas had left behind, then continued. “We must take the scrolls to Capri. I’m convinced that’s the only way Tiberius can be made to see that the people of the Way are not his enemies.”
“He won’t believe us,” Esther said softly, “even if we’re able to get to him before the Legion gets to us.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Think of what it’s taken for us to believe. We’ve spent hours in prayer over the last few
days and yet we both have difficulty dealing with the enormity of the truth.”
Deucalion replaced the ladle in the bucket and sat down. “Still. . .we must try. We can’t ignore the burden the Lord has placed in our hearts.”
Esther looked into Deucalion’s eyes as the firelight danced across his face. The strength of his gentleness and the depth of his caring filled her more with his essence than any physical act ever would. She was glad that they had agreed to remain celibate in their time together and let God provide the time and the place of their union in marriage.
She walked over and sat down beside him, and he pulled her close and wrapped his arms around her making her feel safe and secure. “Whatever happens in the days to come,” she said, looking into his eyes, “I want you to know that I love you more than you can imagine. . .more than mere words can express.”
Deucalion grasped her chin in his hand and kissed her, slowly and unhesitatingly. She felt passion surge, but knew she must not give herself over to it completely.
It wasn’t time yet.
Deucalion pulled back and said, “We leave for Capri tomorrow, my love. And once we’ve seen Caesar, I want us to marry.”
Esther hugged him fiercely. “Nothing would make me happier.”
• • •
Pontius Pilate wrestled with the night. The demons that plagued his dreams seemed to feed off his torment and misery. Each night they grew in stature and number.
He was lost in the dark abyss of Hades. Charon had deposited him, along with his fellow lepers, on the dark side of the River Styx. At any moment he expected to encounter Orcus—the Greeks called him Pluto—and he was sweating blood. He cringed with fear, certain the god of the underworld would see the rotting lesions on his body and feed him to his three headed dog, Cerberus.
He gagged as a horrible stench filled his nostrils. It was worse than the smell that rose from the Valley of Hinnom. He cried out with fear, although his voice was weak and tremulous.
Sweat covered the Procurator’s quaking body. He was lying askew on his bed, and an ocean of fear poured out through the pores of his mottled skin, soaking his silken bedclothes. He cried out again, this time screaming, and the raspy sound yanked him from his nightmare.
He opened his eyes, disoriented. The darkness covered his soiled clothing and hid his uncontrollable trembling. “What have I done,” he moaned to the empty room, then reached over to the table beside his bed and grabbed the flagon of wine placed there before retiring. It was empty.
With a great deal of effort, he pulled himself into a sitting position, as if he were truly a man who had leprosy, or one who was so advanced in age he could not move easily without help. When he realized this, he wanted to weep, but he was beyond tears.
Instead, he sat in the darkness, trembling and thought about the decisions he had made.
After Pilate’s conversation with Malkus, Annas had revealed his true intentions. “You’ve wavered long enough, Procurator,” he had said, his voice harsh and uncompromising. “Vitellius demanded that you remedy the unstable situation here in Judea. . .immediately. Yet you delay carrying out your orders. Need I remind you that you neglected a dangerous and potentially catastrophic situation once before.”
He flinched and glared at his adversary. Annas was right, of course, but he hated the Jew all the more for his rightness. “You’re exaggerating, Annas,” he said calmly, keeping the gnawing frustration that had settled in his belly out of his voice.
Annas laughed derisively. “Hardly, Pontius.”
“Rome isn’t what she was in my father’s day,” countered the Procurator. Augustus would never have tolerated such insolence from a man like you.”
“Speaking of emperors,” Annas said. “I understand that Tiberius languishes in Capri. It is rumored that his skin has broken out in large red blotches and that his whole body is covered with pus-filled eruptions that exude the most unpleasant of smells and cause him a great deal of pain.”
“Your words have you on cliff’s edge, priest.”
“I meant no disrespect, Pontius. It’s just that I have also heard that Tiberius has planned well for his death—”
“What are you insinuating?” interrupted Pilate.
“I’m surprised you don’t know.”
“Know what?”
“Why, that Tiberius has chosen Gaius Caesar to be his successor.” Annas’ smile was almost a sneer. “I believe his fellow legionnaires refer to him as ‘little boots.’”
“Caligula!” spat Pilate, shocked by the Jew’s revelation. “I don’t believe it!” He turned and walked over to his desk, then sat down heavily. His head sagged forward as if it were too heavy for him to hold up. “My spies tell me that Tiberius hates his adopted son. In fact, if the rumors are to be believed, the Emperor reportedly told a group of Senate representatives that Caligula was ‘a viper being nursed in Rome’s bosom.’ Why would Tiberius chose such a successor? He is a child, a boy whose morals and habits are contemptible.”
“The child, as you refer to him, has a claim that is as good as any previous ruler’s. He is, after all, the great-grandson of Augustus, through Julia. And since the death of his son, Drusus, Tiberius has been unable to produce progeny of any gender. On the other hand, who are we to question a man who allows himself to be worshiped as a god?” finished Annas tauntingly.
Pilate glared at the titular head of the Sanhedrin and changed the subject. “You are in no position to gloat, Annas,” he said sternly. “I understand Antipas and Doras are determined to remove your son-in-law from the position he has held for fifteen years. I’m also informed that they are close to succeeding.”
Annas laughed loudly, then poured himself a goblet of wine, intentionally infuriating Pilate with his breach of manners. “You poor, beguiled man,” he said, enjoying the moment. “Do you not know? Doras is dead.”
“What?”
“He hung himself this afternoon. It seems he couldn’t stand the pain of losing his daughter.” Annas stared at the Procurator and added, “I’m told he chose the same tree that Judas Iscariot used.”
Pilate’s face was blank. “Who?”
“The man who betrayed Jesus to us for thirty pieces of silver.”
Pilate was suddenly beyond words.
“So, you see,” continued Annas, “it is highly unlikely that Herod will try to continue his efforts to unseat my son-in-law.” He walked over to the balcony and stared down at the Temple, wondering what Pilate thought about whenever he looked at the Royal Bridge. “As for you, Pontius. . .your problem remains alive, walking the streets of the city.”
Pilate looked at Annas, all but defeated, and said with his last bit of defiance, “Not exactly.”
“Oh?”
“We’ve located Deucalion . . . and the girl. I’ve sent Malkus and a cohort of men to take care of both of them.”
“How did you find them?” Annas asked, a look of amazement on his bloated face.
“We discovered she was hiding with an outcast—a woman named Abigail.”
“An outcast?”
“A leper,” Pilate said, fighting to control the nausea germinating like a poison weed in his belly.
“I see. . .and what has become of this leper?” asked Annas.
“She told us what we needed to know. Unfortunately, she didn’t survive the interrogation.”
“A pity,” sighed Annas. “Although I imagine her death is as fortuitous for Rome as Doras’ death was for us.”
Pilate remained silent.
“Where are Deucalion and Esther?”
“Esther?”
“Doras’ daughter. I’m surprised you didn’t know.”
Pilate waived his hand casually and shrugged. “Names are of no consequence to me at this point. I care only about the swift resolution of our problem.”
“As you say, it is our problem. Where are they?”
“Somewhere along the shore of the Great Salt Sea, in a cave.”
“What do you mean somewhe
re?”
Pilate grunted. “Perhaps you should pray to your God and ask Him. And while you’re at it, ask Him to make sure that your sleep isn’t as troubled as mine has been these past weeks. Perhaps, if He is merciful, He won’t probe your conscience. . .I doubt your image could stand the strain.”
The Procrator’s thoughts returned to the present. The night remained still. The Arabah had swallowed all the wind. Pilate got out of bed and walked to the balcony. He absentmindedly rubbed his hand across the marble balustrade ringing the suspended veranda and it came away wet with dew. “That’s strange,” he muttered, “it feels like oil.”
He wiped the sticky wetness on his bedclothes and thought about his nightmare.
The reason he screamed himself awake was not because of what he had seen in Hades. It was because of what had happened after that.
Immediately after he smelled the horrible stench, the scene had changed abruptly.
From the center of darkness in the pit beneath him, a blinding white light had raced toward him and enveloped him. He tried to close his eyes, but couldn’t. Standing in front of him was the Galilean. Jesus was dressed in white and He was glowing brightly, as if He were on fire. He had spoken thirteen words: “You are forgiven, for in your ignorance, you know not what you did.”
Then the brightness increased and became a consuming fire.
All of a sudden the leper, Abigail, was standing in front of him. . .beside Jesus. And she was also glowing. Then came the thief who was crucified with Jesus. And finally, Deucalion and a strange dark-haired woman appeared beside the Galilean.
That was when he awoke in terror. The light had become so intense he thought the sun had fallen on him. His body had been on fire.
He shuddered. Had he not screamed himself awake, the faces would have continued to appear—faces of all the men, women, and children he was responsible for killing. “Yes, Gehenna is worse than I ever imagined,” he mumbled, grateful he couldn’t see the Royal Bridge at night.
The Master's Quilt Page 19