All at once, the cave was filled with a brilliant white light—a shimmering luminescence that was both soothing and penetrating.
Deucalion gasped.
Before him stood a man dressed in white. “I am Uriel,” said the silver-haired stranger, “and I’ve come to tell you that you and Esther will not die here in this cave.”
“What?” Deucalion moaned. I must be hallucinating.
Uriel nodded and smiled, then said “No, you’re not imagining—I am real.”
Oddly, his body seemed light as a feather. Was that singing he heard? Suddenly, recognition dawned. “You were at the tomb!” he cried.
Uriel nodded again.
The Light. . .the sound. . .the singing. It all came back to him now. It had all been real. “The parchments,” he pleaded, full of remorse. “You must take the parchments! How will the believers know the truth if they don’t read the scrolls?”
Uriel shook his head, thinking of the wild-eyed Saul. “The Lord has many servants,” he replied cryptically. “Chosen ones you cannot imagine. . .and purposes no man can fathom.” Then he disappeared as suddenly as he had come.
• • •
Darkness reigned outside the cave. The moon was barely a sliver of light in the starry sky. Tacitus and three men had managed to carry their semiconscious Commander to the temporary camp they had set up along the shore of the Great Salt Sea.
Malkus winced in agonizing pain, but still managed to give orders. “What happened to Deucalion?” he wheezed, coughing up bright red blood.
“Buried in the cave,” answered Tacitus.
“How. . .many. . .lost?”
“Five, sir.”
“How long was I unconscious?”
“Several hours.”
“My leg—”
“It’s broken in three places.”
“It’s hard to breathe. I feel like I’ve been kicked in the chest by a horse—no, by several horses.”
“I think you’ve also broken several ribs.”
Malkus grimaced. “I’m sure it’s nothing life-threatening.”
“No, provided you don’t lose too much blood,” Tacitus warned.
Malkus stared at his second-in-command for several minutes, then said, “I am not responsible for Deucalion’s death. Do you understand? His blood is on the hands of his God.” A spasm of pain racked him, but he didn’t cry out. “We shall return to Jerusalem at once,” he added. “I must report to Pilate.”
“But Commander—”
“At once, I said!”
“As you wish, Commander. Hail Caesar.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Deucalion Cincinnatus Quinctus tasted fear. The flavor was cold, like iron, and it lay on his tongue with the sharpness of a battle sword.
Around him stretched a stark and shadowy landscape. He gripped a spear in his sweaty right hand, tight enough to soak the wooden handle. Cautiously, he walked towards a mound littered with skulls. The mound, adjacent to the narrow glen called Hinnom by the Jews, held three wooden crosses.
In the distance a wild dog howled. He turned in the direction of the unnerving sound and saw the city of Rome—or was it Babylon? Sweat burned in his eyes and when he blinked, the scene dissolved.
Around him the shadows shifted, seemingly alive with things that made his skin crawl. Even though it was almost summer, and he was in the middle of the desert, he suddenly felt chilled to the bone. He walked on, shivering uncontrollably. Finally he stopped before the center cross and looked up.
Above him a man hung with His head slumped forward, so that his chin touched his chest. He wasn’t breathing. There were three bloodied holes in his body; one in each wrist, and one through both feet, where the two-pound nails that secured Him to the crossbars had punctured His olive colored skin. He reminded Deucalion of a flayed animal pelt, stretched taut to dry.
Deucalion began to weep, full of remorse, knowing that he, and indeed all mankind, was responsible for the man’s crucifixion. He cried out with all his heart, “Father, forgive me. . .”
Suddenly there was a sound as a rushing, mighty wind and a blinding white light consumed Deucalion. In the midst of the light stood the Nazarene, dressed in white linen, His hair white as snow. When He spoke, His voice was soft, yet resonant, penetrating but not intrusive. And His words were full of power. “Know this, Deucalion Cincinnatus—I Am the Resurrection and the Life: he that believes in Me, though he were dead, yet shall he live.”
Then, as abruptly as he had appeared, Jesus was gone.
Startled, Deucalion cried out and was immediately awake. He blinked repeatedly, adjusting to the harsh light that still burned in his eyes, realizing that it was the sun that was causing his discomfort. He stared at the crystal blue heavens until his eyes flooded with tears.
He was outside the cave!
He sat up and stared down at his leg, amazed at what he saw and felt. There was no pain. . .no blood. . .no evidence at all of the horrible wound he had sustained in the earthquake.
Beside him he heard a groan.
“Esther!”
“Deucalion?” came the muffled reply. “Wha—what happened?” she asked, groggily.
Deucalion shook his head. “I’m not sure.” He stared at her in amazement as she sat up. “How do you. . .feel?”
“Strange. . .like laughing and crying at the same time. What about you? I thought I heard you cry out a moment ago.”
Deucalion grew pensive. “I was dreaming about the day at the cross. It was a dream that I’ve had many times the past few months, yet this time something was different.”
“I don’t understand.”
He told her about the original dream, then explained, “This time, the Nazarene appeared before me in a blaze of light. And He spoke to me! Then He just disappeared. That’s when I cried out and. . .woke up. . .outside the cave. . .here, beside you.”
Still dazed, Esther shook her head. “So it was all just a dream—the cave, the soldiers, the earthquake and—” she shuddered, unable to finish the thought.
Deucalion continued to stare at her, a strange gleam in his eyes. Finally he reached out, touched the back of her head, and gently probed her hair with his fingers. Satisfied, he stood up and walked several feet to a narrow hole in the side of the cliff, where he knelt down and examined the ground around the opening.
He found dried blood on the rocks.
“Not a dream—”
“What?”
Deucalion stood slowly and walked over to where she was still sitting. “No, my darling,” he replied, then laughed loudly, “it wasn’t a dream.” Feeling more alive than he could ever remember, he reached down and helped her to her feet.
“Then how—?”
Deucalion smiled and took her in his arms. He could feel her heart pounding against his chest, and that caused his own heart to beat more quickly. In an instant he saw realization flare in her beautifully alive jade-green eyes.
“A miracle,” he announced loudly, just before she too smiled and kissed him with abandon.
EPILOGUE
My name is Vashti. I was born thirty-three years ago on the island of Crete, where my father, a Roman, married my mother, a Jewess. I was named after the first wife of King Ahaseurus because my father said I was extraordinarily beautiful and because I, like my mother, have eyes the color of the purest jade.
It has been seven years since mother and I came to Alexandria. Seven years since the Romans destroyed our Temple at Jerusalem. Seven long years since Father died. I never understood why he thought he had to return—why he thought he could make a difference. Or why my brother Cincinnatus went with him. Now, after what Mother told me last night, I think at last I understand. And for the first time since Father left us, my heart is at peace.
My mother and father often told me the story of how they met, and how Father was once the commander of Pontius Pilate’s Praetorian Guard in Jerusalem. I never grew tired of hearing how they met at my grandfather’s house, how Father becam
e entranced by the sight of Mother, how they both became outcasts, and how the death and resurrection of the Nazarene brought them together. It is an extraordinary story; one I think my husband would delight in chronicling, were it not for the burden he carries in his heart.
Even more incredible is the miracle of how they were delivered from certain death by an angel of God. His name was Uriel, and he was responsible for rescuing my parents from the depths of a cave that had been sealed by an earthquake on the shores of the Great Salt Sea.
More than any other part of Mother and Father’s incredible story, it is their miraculous deliverance from death, as well as God’s supernatural restoration of their physical bodies, that has intrigued me the most. I have often wondered why God spared them. And now I think I know—it has to do with the scrolls.
Father was always reluctant to talk about them with me. Mother would only say that they were very important, that they contained incredible information about mankind’s true enemy—the accuser of the brethren. However, before he left for Jerusalem, Father finally consented to tell me about some of what he read in the parchments given to him by a man named Joseph. At long last I understand his reluctance to speak of what he had read penned there, and I shudder to think what would happen should they fall into the wrong hands; but that is not likely to happen.
When Uriel rescued my parent’s, the scrolls remained behind, buried in the darkness of the cave meant to be their tomb. Perhaps that is indeed best. I don’t know. I’m certain, however, that God’s ways are higher than man’s. If He desires for the information contained in the parchments to be revealed, it will be so. No man, or demon, can prevent it.
My heart still aches with the loss of Father and my older brother. We were such a happy family together, before Vespasian and his army laid siege to our most holy city, Jerusalem. The four of us did almost everything together. In our own small way, our family was responsible for bringing the message of the Nazarene here to Crete. Although we’ve always had to be careful about who we talk with about our faith, many came to the meetings Father held in our home. All were hungry to hear the truths that the Son of God had spoken when He walked among men. Even though it was dangerous for all of us, our small group of fellow believers continued to grow. During the meetings, which were all held under the cover of night, my brother and I would sit by the flickering candle light and listen, enthralled by all we heard. My heart soared in those times of refreshing. I felt as if my soul was a bird, set free from its cage, free to fly in the heavens. Cinncinatus, being the man that he was, seemed less intrigued than me by what we heard, but he listened, and learned as well. I’m certain that’s why he made the choice—to go with Father to Jerusalem.
When the meetings were finished, both of us delighted in eating the sweets Mother had prepared for our guests. Those were some of the best days of my life. I will always cherish the memories in my heart.
Eventually, however, things started to change. Gradually at first, and then with increasing fervency, Father began to receive news of the events unfolding in Judea from sources I cannot begin to fathom. He would never reveal to me how he knew what he did. He just said, “There are things better left unspoken between a father and his daughter. Although the Lord has forgiven me of my sins, He has left me with a burden in my heart I cannot ignore.”
I suppose that is what finally drove him to leave us, and return to Judea, in spite of the great risk to his own life. Cinncinatus insisted that Father not go alone, and finally he relented.
I think Mother always knew Father would go back. After he left, as the days became weeks, and the weeks became months, she often found solace in prolonged times of prayer and fasting before our heavenly Father. Sometimes I wouldn’t see her for days. When she eventually emerged from her room, her face would be glowing with an extraordinary light. And I knew in those moments that she had been in the presence of God—in eternity, outside of time—and that she carried a measure of His Glory back with her.
But I digress from the task my Heavenly Father has set before me.
I learned well the lessons Mother and Father taught so long ago. Those who know them both say I have my father’s heart and my mother’s spirit. I cannot think of a finer accolade, save one—the most valuable compliment of all that compels me to put pen to parchment. I fasted and prayed that the Father’s will might be accomplished and not my own.
Mother died this morning, after a brief illness. Although I’m deeply grieved, the words she spoke to me before she went to be with the Lord give me hope. As we Jews are fond of saying, “I now have an anchor for my soul.”
I’m not sure why I’m writing this—perhaps because I do not want to forget one jot or tittle of it as I grow old. No, that’s not entirely true. My real desire is that Flavius will consent to my bequeathing this letter to our newborn son, Justus, when he is of age, as a legacy of his true heritage. I pray that God will soften my husband’s heart and reveal to him the truth about His Son. It’s not that Flavius is an unkind man, far from it. But he is a scholar, descended of the Hasmoneans and born to a lineage of priests, and a Pharisee. I am his second wife, and we have been married seven short years. Even though I know he loves me, I fear he loves the Law more. It was that deep abiding faith I saw in him that first drew me to him and, ironically, it is the newly rediscovered faith within me that may yet draw us apart. I pray not.
I am taking a great risk speaking of things which some deem heretical, nevertheless, I feel compelled to write down what mother shared with me in the early morning hours, just before the column of dawn. If nothing else, this simple act of obedience to the voice, God’s voice, my constant companion since I was a child, makes me feel somehow restored.
I cannot, however, confirm the veracity of what I’m about to pen, for I was not even conceived when the events took place. But I have heard others, besides mother and father, talk of the Nazarene and I have seen the indescribable light in both my parent’s eyes whenever they have spoken His name.
So, my son, if you are reading this, and I am not alive to explain further, all I ask of you is what your grandmother, Esther, asked of me—even if you don’t believe, pass it on to your son or daughter and let them decide for themselves whether or not they believe it to be true.
I must write quickly, before Flavius returns from his work at the Great Library, and before my resolve falters. The historical account I urge you to consider is this:
The heat from the scorching morning sun pulled the city from its slumberous lethargy, sucking the cool forgetfulness of night from the belly of Jerusalem. The sky was cloudless. . .a dispassionate spectator. Its countenance was the color of a sapphire. The last vestige of the full moon hung low in the western sky; the nightly brilliance had rapidly given way to a spectral translucence. There had been no breeze for three days. To say that the morning was stifling would have been a gross understatement.
It was the time of the spring equinox. The barley that had been planted in October and November was being harvested in the plain of Jericho and in the Jordan valley. Jews throughout Judea had been diligently preparing during the past month for the Feast of the Paschal lamb. Bridges and roads had been repaired for the use of pilgrims, the red heifer was burned as a sin offering, and holes were bored into the ears of those who wished to remain in bondage to their masters. Any dead body discovered in the field was buried where found. To insure that pilgrims coming to the feast did not contract any uncleanness by unwittingly touching such graves, the priests ordered that “all sepulchers should be whitened.”
The first sacred month—the seventh civil month of the Hebrew calendar was replete with festivals: the fast for Nadab and Abihu; the fast for Miriam and for the death of Joshua; and the festival of unleavened bread. But this particular April was to be very different than any other. The “latter” or spring rains would arrive sooner than expected and with such force that when combined with the melting snows of Lebanon would cause the Jordan channel to fill beyond bursting, inundat
ing the entire lower plain.
That climatic irregularity was of little significance however when compared with the events that would transpire simultaneous with the advent of this, the Passover celebration.
The noise originating within the walls of Jerusalem was as stifling as the stillness of the air. From one particular section a cacophony of voices rose above the hum of the huge city, like filth overflowing a bursting sewer.
A portable tribunal had been erected on the Gabbatha, a tessellated pavement in front of the Herodian Palace. A throng of angry citizens pummeled the morose Governor of Judea with abusive rhetoric. Pontius Pilate had failed in his bid to shuffle his “problem” to Herod Antipas.
The Nazarene some called Christos, stood before him, silent and irreproachable. In an uncharacteristically poignant moment of compassion, Pilate made a frantic attempt to sever himself from the blood-guiltiness that entwined his heart. He magnanimously offered, according to custom, to free the Jewish prophet, who had been hailed as Messiah just three short days ago. The maddened crowd had ridiculed his conciliatory gesture. Caught up in the fevered mindlessness of a rabid dog, they chose to forgive the murderer Barabbas instead.
The Procurator’s cheeks were now hollow depressions in a sagging facade of hopefulness. The large, dark semi-circular stains underneath his sunken eyes were visible even from a distance. He stared resignedly at the battered man standing stoically before him.
Jesus had yet to speak.
Pilate, sitting uncomfortably in his magistrate’s chair, wiped sweat from his brow and marveled at the endurance of the man. He cast a furtive glance at the uncompromising morning sun. “It is barely the third hour, he muttered miserably, and already the day is scorched—and I along with it.”
Finally Pilate, the Governor of Judea, realized that he had no choice but to crucify Jesus. He stood up wearily and turned his back on the madness. As he began to wash his hands listlessly in the porcelain basin that sat on the inlaid, marble table he’d imported from Babylon during happier days, his jaw began to twitch uncontrollably. The human mass of fury, hovering angrily around the lone figure, surged forward, as if on cue.
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