Perhaps it’s not too late, he thought hopefully, running his hand through the cool wetness on the marble railing. Abruptly he turned and stumbled toward the door. “Antonius. . .” he cried out hoarsely. “Wake up! I must get a message to Malkus. Wake up! Do you hear me?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Five miles east of the Great Salt Sea, and the cave, Malkus woke, drained and irritable. He sat up groggily and watched the sun rise, big and round, over the camp he and his men had hurriedly made late last night. Dawn was only minutes old, and the day was already hot. The absence of any wind didn’t help the cloying weather, or his mood.
The soldiers who were already awake were doing their best to cleanse themselves. There had been another heavy dew during the night, and yesterday’s dust now clung with irritating tenacity to their damp clothing.
“What a contradiction in terms this land is,” muttered Malkus, wondering if the people took their cue from the weather. He marveled at Judea’s idiosyncrasies. The inhabitants were irritable and stubborn, with little tolerance for the uncircumcised; yet they would sacrifice their own flesh and blood in order to keep themselves pure.
His reflections were interrupted by the arrival of Tacitus, his second-in-command, who announced, “The men await your orders, sir.” Malkus stood and secured his sword—once Deucalion’s—in the scabbard tied to his waist, then looked east, toward the sunrise, squinting his eyes against the harsh glare. When he spoke, his voice was thick with exhaustion, and the dark circles beneath his eyes made his face look bruised, as if he had been in battle during the night.
“I’ll be glad when we have completed our duty, Tacitus,” he said, his mind elsewhere. “I grow weary of Judea. Rome beckons to me in my dreams. She calls to me insistently, like a siren. But I’m bound to this parched and inhospitable country by the bonds of another man’s destiny.” He shivered despite the heat, then whispered, “We’re all doomed, Tacitus—all of us who stood against the Nazarene.”
“Commander?”
Malkus blinked, then stared at Tacitus as if he were only just recognizing his presence. The chill left him as abruptly as it had come upon him. “What. . .?”
“The men are waiting. Your orders, sir.”
Malkus brushed the dirt off his sandals and straightened his crumpled, damp robe. “Come, Tacitus,” he replied in a somber voice, “we march to the Great Salt Sea.”
The deep purple blue of dawn was already fading into the pastel blue of morning as the two men walked through the camp.
• • •
Pontius Pilate paced the marble floor of Herod the Great’s Palace. The haggard look on his face was accentuated by the long, deep lines that looked like crow’s feet spreading outward from the corners of his sullen brown eyes. He had roused Antonius from sleep and had hastily prepared new orders, rescinding his command to kill Deucalion and the girl. Instead, Malkus was to arrest them and bring them to him for questioning. The runner had left before just before dawn. The Procurator knew that Malkus, though camped only a short distance from his destination, would not begin the search for the cave until the sun rose. The courier must reach Malkus in time, Pilate thought. He must!
• • •
Herod Antipas lay passed out on the floor of his residence. The prostitute with whom he had feverishly shared his bed had unknowingly, and rather unceremoniously, pushed him off his bed in her sleep. The Tetrarch had been too drunk to care. He finished off the last of spring wine four months early, attempting to drown his latest failure in an ocean of fermented grapes. Doras was dead, having supposedly committed suicide. Two years of planning and preparation had died with him.
First his demented father had failed him. Then Augustus had denied him the full measure of his rightful inheritance, and his brother had married the woman he desired. His plans to control the Sanhedrin had developed nicely until Pilate sent that accursed Jew from Bethlehem to him. Now with Doras dead, and hope with him, he would have to content himself with his building projects.
“Perhaps mortar and stone will prevail against time, where flesh and blood have failed,” he muttered, just before he passed out.
• • •
Caiaphas had risen early and walked downstairs to the courtyard. He stood in front of the solitary acacia and smiled. Annas had informed him late last night of the death of Doras, and of the fate of Pilate’s Praetorian. “It seems as though the fire Simon spoke about with such trepidation has burned itself out, he told the tree, stroking the dark shit’tim wood with his right hand. “I have nothing more to worry about. The old men who sit on the Council have short memories—especially where their own failures are concerned. They will support me now.” He laughed heartily, then hugged the tree as if it were a long lost friend.
Annas, stood in the shadows of his upstairs room and observed his son-in-law’s strange behavior for the second time in less than a month. “He’s lost his mind,” he said under his breath. It was wise for me to arrange for Jonathan to become High Priest. Perhaps it would be even wiser for me to escalate his rise to power.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Deucalion walked along the beach and watched the bright yellow ball of fire rise majestically over the shimmering green expanse of salt water stretching before him. As the sun began to reclaim its authority over the earth, he prayed, thanking God for the day. He was glad to be alive and eager to get started on the journey to Capri.
Tiberius will see us, and we will make a difference, he thought, as he headed back towards the cave and Esther.
Suddenly the ground beneath his feet rippled. There was no warning, no sound, just the abrupt, startling tremor, as if the earth had heaved a heavy sigh.
Concerned about Esther’s safety, Deucalion began to run along the shore, heading towards the cliffs. That was when he heard the faint shout. He stopped running. In the distance he thought he saw a group of men, but he couldn’t be sure because there was a haze between him and whoever had shouted.
Nevertheless, he knew in his heart they were centurions. Pilate had found them.
He uttered a quick prayer, hoping they were shouting because of the tremor and not because he had been seen. “Plan, don’t panic!” he scolded himself. If he could get to the cliffs without being seen, he would have a better than average chance of eluding his pursuers. The cave was well hidden and the legionnaires would be fighting the heat as they searched for him. He started running again, this time in a crouch, hoping that he was right.
• • •
Malkus reigned in his horse and fought to stay on his mount as the earth trembled beneath the bay stallion’s hoofs. The horse whinnied and snorted. Several of his men cried out in surprise. He and the reddish-brown horse were both sweating heavily, and from a distance the animal’s coat appeared to be the color of dried blood.
Tacitus ran up beside horse and rider and grabbed the stallion by the bit. “One of the men saw someone running down the beach,’ he said.
“Where—”
“There, ahead of us on the beach, at the base of the cliffs.”
Malkus stared at the edge of the great inland sea, only half listening. The glistening green water was rippling spasmodically; unlike a normal wave pattern, the water moved in concentric circles, as though a huge rock had dropped from the sky, sending giant ripples outward from the center of impact. Before the tremor, the sea had been flat and quiet, the surface of the water a mirrored surface upon which the sun danced.
“Commander. . .”
Malkus blinked. “Was it Deucalion?”
“I’m not sure, sir. But there’s no one living near here.”
“Except the Essenes. Have you forgotten about them?”
“The community of religious fanatics is behind us, Commander, and it’s located some distance from the shore.”
“Send a man to follow, quickly,” barked Malkus, his pulse accelerating as it always did before he went into battle. “And make certain the man you choose remains unseen.”
“As
you command,” responded Tacitus as he released the horse. He turned and started in the direction of the men.
“And Tacitus. . .”
“Yes, Commander?” Tacitus turned to face Malkus’ hooded stare.
“If it is indeed Deucalion, remember, we are under strict orders not to reveal who we’ve been chasing until the last possible moment.”
“I understand, Commander. I’ll tell the tracker that we don’t want to lose our quarry in the rocks and nothing more.”
Tacitus moved off to select his man and Malkus turned his gaze to the cliffs. “I know you are out there, Deucalion—I can feel your presence,” he muttered. The horse whinnied again and Malkus stroked its neck, calming him. “Easy boy,” he whispered and reached for the oilskin water bag hanging on his saddle, anxious to wash a bitter, burning taste from his throat.
• • •
Deucalion was sweating heavily as he climbed up the steep cliff. Even though it was still early, the sun beat down upon the earth relentlessly, and the intense heat reflected off the white, limestone rocks.
He crouched as low as possible as he darted among the crags and crevices of the rock face, using the larger boulders to shield him from any prying eyes that might be watching from below. He glanced over his shoulders from time to time, making sure no one was following him. But his checking was perfunctory—he didn’t believe he had been seen.
He was wrong. One hundred feet below, a lone centurion tracked his prey with the cunning and silence of a wolf.
Deucalion reached the cave exhausted. The climb itself was not particularly difficult, but he virtually ran up the side of the cliff. In his haste he scraped his legs in several places, and he was bleeding from a number of small but painful cuts on his hands and feet.
Esther, startled by Deucalion’s abrupt appearance, looked up as he stumbled into the cave out of breath. “What happened? You’re bleeding,” she cried.
“Water!” was all he managed to say.
Esther filled the ladle and waited expectantly as Deucalion gulped it down and asked for another. He drank half of the second ladle, then poured the rest over his head.
He told her, “There was someone else on the beach. . .perhaps a large number of men.”
Esther’s eyes grew wide with fear. “Centurions?”
“I’m not sure. They were too far away. And there was a strange haze hovering above the shore.”
“Did they see you?”
“I don’t think so.”
“But you’re not certain?”
“No.”
Esther looked out towards the entrance of the cave anxiously. “Did you feel the tremor?” she asked.
Deucalion nodded.
“What are we going to do?”
Deucalion shrugged. “Wait. . .and watch. If it looks safe, we’ll leave tonight. If they are centurions, it should be dark enough for us to sneak past them.” He stared at her and added softly, “In the meantime, we’d better pray.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The sun reached its zenith. The day was hot and still. Malkus and his men were sweating profusely under the weight of their armor. Only Malkus’ horse seemed unaffected by the heat. The animal stood in the loose gravel, his head erect, his muscular body glistening in the harsh, unrelenting afternoon sun.
The tracker Tacitus had chosen had returned and confirmed Malkus’ suspicion: the lone figure sighted on the beach just before the tremor was Deucalion; he had disappeared into a cave on the backside of the cliff.
Just then, a messenger from Pilate arrived. The man was out of breath because he had run the entire distance from Jerusalem. When he regained his composure Tacitus took him to Malkus, who was standing by his horse. The messenger bowed and then said, “The Procurator sends word that you are not to harm the Praetorian. You are to place him under arrest and return him to Jerusalem.”
Malkus pondered the messenger’s words briefly, drew his sword and pierced the messenger thru the heart, killing him instantly. As the man’s body slumped to the ground, Malkus said, “I will not be denied what is rightfully mine.” He stared at his second-in-command with expressionless eyes and added, “Get rid of this body, Tacitus, and tell the men to leave behind everything but their weapons. We’ve a long climb ahead of us.”
Ten men climbed the cliffs, grumbling all the while about the heat, the dust, and the salt stinging their eyes. Now, as they stood facing the well-concealed cave, Malkus realized that had they not seen Deucalion on the beach, they might never have found the refuge.
“Deucalion Cincinnatus Quinctus! It is Malkus,” he shouted. “We know you’re in there. There’s nowhere for you to go. Come out immediately—and bring the woman with you.”
There was no reply from inside the cave, but several of Malkus’ men began murmuring among themselves. They knew they were tracking an enemy of Rome—but a Praetorian! One of their own? Their former Commander? “May the gods protect us,” one of them mumbled.
Malkus called again. “Do you hear me, Deucalion? Pilate has stripped you of your rank. I am now Commander of the Garrison. The Procurator has ordered me to arrest you and the woman and bring you back to Jerusalem.” The lie comes so easily, thought Malkus. “Do you hear me, Deucalion? You have nothing to fear. Pilate is a just man. He will deal with you fairly.”
“Like he dealt with Jesus, no doubt,” came the disembodied voice from within the darkness of the cave. “You forget, Malkus—I was at the crucifixion. . .I watched you nail the Nazarene’s body to the cross. . .and I plunged my spear into his side.”
Malkus looked at his men, suddenly uneasy, as the voice paused, then continued. “I was at the tomb. I know what I saw and heard. Yet you and the others have denied the truth. I listened to the Tribunal’s lies and later witnessed the slaughter of innocent men and women at the hands of that madman, Saul. All of this sanctioned by the ‘just man’ you speak about.”
Deucalion had yet to appear, and the sound of his voice echoing off the limestone rock sounded strange and guttural.
The murmuring spread among Malkus’ men.
As each heard Deucalion’s voice, they grew pensive and restless. All of them knew that their former Commander was no coward, and those who knew him well knew he loved Rome. There was not a man among them who wasn’t grateful for the temporary peace he brought to Jerusalem by setting up provisional grievance committees, giving the Jews an opportunity to release their anger and frustration verbally, rather than by attacking and killing centurions. What madness of Pilate’s was this? they wondered.
Inside the cave, Deucalion’s military mind assessed the situation. He knew that for him there could be no escape; he would die here, at the edge of the Great Salt Sea. But perhaps he could bargain for Esther’s life.
“Malkus, I want to talk with you—alone. Come to the front of the cave.”
“We’ve nothing to discuss, Deucalion.”
“You’re wrong, Malkus. I have something Pilate wants . . . something he desperately needs in order to free himself from the domination of Vitellius and regain the favor of Caesar.”
Malkus listened to the voice of his former Commander, wondering if Deucalion was lying. Sweat ran down his face, back, and legs in rivulets. He looked at the sun, then at his men. “Curse this heat,” he muttered, then added under his breath, “and curse you too, Deucalion.” He knew he had to make a decision. . .fast. The scorching sun had robbed him of time.
“All right, Deucalion. . .I’m coming up.”
Esther grabbed Deucalion. “What are you doing?” she cried. “They’re going to kill us both.” Her eyes and voice pleaded with him. “If Pilate gets his hands on the parchments, he’ll destroy them.”
Deucalion stared at her, his eyes clouded with emotion. “I know, my love,” he said, reassuring her with a gentle touch of his strong hands. “But maybe I can prevent them from killing you. If Malkus will guarantee your safety, we can hide the scrolls and you can come back later and retrieve them. Then, when you have the o
pportunity, you can give them to someone who will understand. . .someone who believes as we do. Someone who will use them for their intended purpose.”
“No! I love you, Deucalion. My life is nothing without you.”
“We have no other choice, my love. The information contained in those scrolls is more important than one life. You must live to see that others read them. You must tell others the truth.”
“Jesus tried, and they crucified Him. And He was the Son of God. Why should they believe me?”
Deucalion grasped her by the shoulders, saying, “They will believe because Jesus came and because He was crucified. Barnabas told us that even he didn’t believe. . .at first. It will take time, but the word will spread. Whether or not people believe is between them and God. But they must be told. At least then they have the opportunity to choose.” Deucalion paused, searching for the right words to convince her. “Just before we left Abigail’s, Barnabas said something to me that I had forgotten about until now. I wasn’t sure what he was trying to tell me at the time, but now I think I understand.”
“Tell me.”
“He said that faith is the fabric of God’s web. . .it is the substance of things that we hope for, the evidence of things we cannot see. Faith is the fabric and the shed blood of His Son, Jesus, is the scarlet thread. God is The Master Weaver. He weaves the fabric of our faith, through the power of the blood, together with His Faith, in the loom of His heart. He binds all of us who believe into one massive quilt—The Master’s Quilt.”
Esther clung to him, overwhelmed. His passionate words brought to memory the words of the great Hebrew prophet, Hosea: “My people perish for lack of knowledge.”
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