“You have to promise to write,” Deborah said, finally pulling back. “As soon as you know where you are staying in Rome. Then we can write too.”
Just then, David and Ephraim came out of the courtyard. Both were carrying leather bags that were round and heavy. “Here are some oats for the horses,” David said. “There should be enough to give them some each day. That will help them to keep going longer.”
“Thank you. I plan to push them pretty hard.” Ezra turned to his wife. “It’s time, Lilly,” he said. Then to Miriam and Livia. “We have to go.”
As they climbed up into the carriage, Miriam turned to David. “May I ask you a quick question, David?”
“Of course.”
“It was something Jesus said yesterday. I’ve thought about it all night.”
“What?”
“The parable about the judge.”
There was a soft smile from David. “Did you find it somewhat troubling?”
Her face registered her surprise. “You did too?”
“And I as well,” Leah chimed in, as David nodded.
“What particularly did you find troublesome?” he asked Miriam.
She pursed her lips, trying to find how best to express it. “Well, it sounded as though Jesus was saying that we need to pester God in our prayers until he finally relents and answers us. At least that’s what happened with the woman and the judge.”
“Yes,” Leah said, pleased that she was not alone in this question. “The judge didn’t give the woman what she wanted because it was right, or because he cared about her; he gave in only because she wouldn’t leave him alone. Is that really how God is?”
David nodded. “That’s what it sounded like, didn’t it?”
“But you don’t think that’s what Jesus meant, do you?” Miriam said. “I mean, surely God isn’t like the unjust judge.”
“No, he’s not. We know that for sure.”
“Then—”
Leah broke in, her mind working quickly. “Maybe Jesus was saying that if an unjust and hardhearted judge will respond to importuning, to persistent pleading, then how much more will a loving Father hear and answer our prayers.”
Now Deborah came in. She hadn’t said anything to David, but she too had been troubled by that brief little parable. “That’s true, Leah, but here’s what bothers me. Remember what Jesus said that day he gave the sermon up on the mount? He said that God knows what we need before we ever ask him.”
“Right,” David said. “So why should we even have to ask at all? We can never surprise God with a request, so why pray at all? Why not just sit back and wait for him to give us what we need?”
“Exactly,” Deborah said. “That is what troubles me.”
Miriam shook her head. “I hadn’t thought about that part of it.” She pulled a face. “You’re supposed to help me understand it, not confuse me even more.”
David laughed gently. “Sometimes, the more I think about some of the things Jesus teaches us, the more perplexing they become. And I’ve decided that he sometimes does it deliberately so that we have to think.”
Ezra finished stowing the two bags of grain and climbed up onto the driver’s bench. “So, David, have you come to any conclusions?”
“I have some thoughts, but—” He stopped as they heard the crunch of sandals on the graveled street.
To their surprise, a dark figure was approaching at a rapid walk, though with a distinct limp. The eastern sky was noticeably lighter now, but within the narrow streets it was still quite dark. Then David grunted, a look of concern passing over his face. He looked quickly at Deborah. “It’s Sextus Rubrius,” he said in a low voice.
“Who?” Miriam asked. Then she remembered the name. He was the Roman centurion who had escorted her and her father from Caesarea to Jerusalem after the attack by Ya’abin.
“The Roman centurion here in Capernaum,” Deborah whispered. “He’s a friend.”
“Yes, I’ve met him before.”
They watched as the figure came closer, able now to see the helmet, the leather breastplate, the sword swinging at his belt.
“David ben Joseph?”
“Ho, Sextus. Good morning. What brings you out at such an hour?” David’s voice was amiable, but Miriam saw that his body was as stiff as the sword the other man wore. That puzzled her. If this man was a friend—
Then it hit her. A hand flew to her mouth, hoping against hope that she was wrong.
“I didn’t expect to find you up and about,” Sextus said as he reached them. He looked at the others curiously.
“We have had guests from the coast,” David said smoothly, not offering to introduce them. “They’re traveling to Caesarea this morning.”
Sextus nodded, then motioned with his head at his friend, stepping back. “There is word from Caesarea,” he said gravely. “I need to speak with you.”
Deborah gasped. “Simeon?”
The grizzled old veteran obviously had hoped to speak with David alone, but seeing that Deborah had gone instantly white, he nodded. “Yes. A messenger came in last night to alert our garrison of possible trouble.” He paused; then his eyes dropped. “Simeon has been arrested.”
Deborah felt her knees go weak, and she groped blindly for the side of the carriage. Ephraim stepped to her side and steadied her.
“Arrested?” David said in a hollow voice. “But why? He brought the gold.”
There was shame in Sextus’s eyes. “Pilate got the gold as well. He refused to bargain—” He glanced quickly at Deborah, then away again. “He said there was to be no negotiating with the man who was responsible for the disaster at the Joknean Pass.” He dropped his gaze as he continued. “Simeon will be held with Yehuda and the others for the games in September.”
As Deborah gasped at that announcement, David spun around. “I’m going with you to Caesarea, Ezra. Let me get my things.”
The centurion leaped forward and grabbed his friend’s arm. “No, David! That would be madness.”
“I’ll speak with the governor. We can offer him more, if that’s what it—”
Sextus shook him gently. “Listen to me, old friend. Marcus Didius sent a private note. He tried to convince Pilate to accept Simeon’s offer. Marcus thought you might try to do something. He asked me to warn you—it’s his way of repaying you and Simeon for saving us the night of the ambush. Since you were there that night, Marcus suspects you know as well as Simeon who it was that betrayed us. If you go, Pilate will take you as well. The governor is adamant on this matter. He wants to know who was responsible for that disaster.”
Miriam blanched and felt her body go weak. She and Livia exchanged horrified glances.
Fortunately, Sextus was not looking at them. What he had not told them was something else Marcus had said in his letter. Simeon would be tortured to get the information they wanted. If they could not break him, then Pilate was talking about sending a contingent of legionnaires to Capernaum to arrest David ben Joseph. Sextus knew that was pure insanity, and he didn’t think it would actually come to that. But if David went to Caesarea, there was no question about what would happen to him.
Deborah went to her husband in three quick steps. “He’s right, David. You can’t go.”
David’s shoulders fell, and his whole body seemed to sag.
Rubrius watched him for a moment, then spoke softly. “I’m sorry, David. If there is anything I can think to do, I will let you know.” There was no optimism in his face. He started to back away. “I’m sorry.” Then, without looking at the others, he turned and walked swiftly away.
The moment he was out of earshot, Miriam leaped down from the carriage and ran to Deborah. “I can do something,” she cried. “As soon as we get there, I’ll talk to Marcus.”
Now it was Lilly who went white. “Miriam! You are the one they are after! You heard what the man said. You are the one in danger here.” She turned to her husband. “I don’t think we should take her back to Caesarea. What if Simeon—”
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She stopped, seeing the look on Deborah’s face. “I’m sorry. You’re right. Simeon will never tell them.”
Miriam’s jaw tightened. “It was Simeon and Yehuda who saved our lives once,” she said. “My life and Livia’s, and my father’s. My father is a hard man, but he has not forgotten a debt such as that. I’ll have him talk to Pilate. Perhaps we can offer him even more, convince him to take the gold and let Simeon go.”
She looked at Deborah, suddenly forlorn. “I won’t let them kill him, Deborah. I promise.”
It was a tiny straw in a tempestuous sea, but it was all there was, and Deborah grasped for it desperately. “Yes, Miriam. Go! Take great care, but go! You are our only hope.”
Chapter Notes
The account of the “healing of the demoniac child,” as many scholars call this event, is recorded in some detail by three of the Gospel writers (Matthew 17:14–21; Mark 9:14–29; and Luke 9:37–43). The description in this chapter draws on all three accounts but relies most heavily on Mark’s account.
The people at the time of Jesus spoke Aramaic, a sister language to Hebrew, but the New Testament manuscripts were written in Greek. Therefore, we do not know what Aramaic word was used to describe the boy’s condition. In Greek, the word which the King James Version translates as “lunatick,” is selaynayAHDzo, which literally means “moon struck”—seLAYnay is the Greek word for the moon (see Vine, 2:36–37; and Vincent, 1:61–62). Based on the description of his symptoms, most scholars agree that it was likely epilepsy, and some modern versions of the Bible use “epileptic” in place of “lunatick” in their translations.
The parable of the unjust judge (or the importunate woman, as it is often called) is found in Luke 18:1–9 and likely did not happen at the same time as the healing of the boy. It is linked here with the other lesson on fasting and prayer to show more of what Jesus taught on this subject.
In the parable, the King James Version uses the phrase, “that men ought always to pray, and not faint.” That term is misleading to modern readers, to whom “faint” generally means to lose consciousness. The Greek word used in that verse means to lose courage or to lose heart, and thus to give up (see Vincent, 1:204).
Chapter 13
Far off. Oh, keep far off, you uninitiated ones!
—Virgil, Aeneid, vi.268
I
Capernaum 11 July, a.d. 30
Leah stopped at the door to her parents’ bedroom. It was open part way and in the light from the lamp she was carrying, she saw that both her mother and father were on their knees at the side of the bed. She stepped back, pulling the lamp away so that its light did not shine directly through the doorway.
Finally, after more than a full minute, she heard the rustle of clothing, then the scrape of feet on the floor. She moved forward again. “Eema? Abba?” Even though Leah was now an adult, in the privacy of their home she, like her brother Joseph, always used the more intimate diminutives “Mama” and “Papa” that younger children used, rather than the more formal Eem, “Mother,” or Ahv, “Father.”
“Come in, Leah,” David said. He came to the door and opened it wider.
“Uncle Aaron is here.”
Her mother was immediately at David’s side. “Aaron?”
“Yes, he arrived just a few minutes ago. I told him I thought you were in bed, but he said he must speak with you.”
Deborah reached behind the door and got her outer robe, wrapping it around her as she stepped out into the hall. She looked at David, who followed close behind her. “Aaron? At this hour? Something must be wrong.”
He was in the main sitting room, pacing back and forth, his head down, his peyot, or side curls, dancing and bobbing as he moved. At the sound of their footsteps, he stopped, then quickly came to Deborah. He reached out and took both of her hands. His face was drawn, his eyes dark with anguish.
“What is it, Aaron?” Deborah exclaimed. “What’s happened?”
“I just heard about Simeon, Deborah.”
“Oh.” Deborah was partly relieved. She didn’t need another tragedy in the family at the moment. She was also significantly surprised.
“Let’s sit down,” David suggested. “It was kind of you to come, Aaron.”
He shot his brother-in-law a sharp look. “We may disagree about matters of faith, David, but I haven’t forgotten who my family is.”
Caught off guard by his vehemence, David nodded quickly. “I know, Aaron. I didn’t mean to imply otherwise.”
Deborah collapsed into a chair and began rubbing her temples. “The—” She caught herself, not sure how Aaron would react to the word that it was a Roman soldier who brought the news. “The person who told us said he expected additional information in the next few days.”
“Sextus Rubrius,” Aaron supplied, faintly amused by his sister’s reticence. “I spoke with him just about an hour ago.”
Both David and Deborah showed their surprise. “You did?” David asked. “You went to the house of a Gentile?”
“Yes.” He waved the implication away with disdain. “The centurion told me that the sentence will not be carried out immediately. Something about some Roman festival in the fall.”
Deborah was still reeling. “You went to see Sextus Rubrius?”
He again waved it away, clearly pleased to shock them a little. “I didn’t go into his house, and I didn’t touch him, so with a month or so of ritual purification, I’ll be safe once again.”
She just stared at him. For a moment she thought he was joking about having been in contact with a Gentile, and a Roman soldier at that, but then she saw he was completely serious.
His demeanor grew very serious. “I was very concerned when I heard, Deborah. It’s no secret that Simeon and I disagree about his approach to solving our problems with Rome, but he is still my nephew. And, if I understand it correctly, this was not just some raid on the Romans. He was trying to secure the release of his associates, I believe.”
Leah was still standing near the door. She answered for her parents, who were clearly still taken aback by all of this. “Yes. You’ve met Yehuda of Beth Neelah before, Uncle Aaron. He and two others were captured during a clash at the Joknean Pass. Simeon took a ransom payment to the governor for their release.”
“That’s what the centurion said as well. That is a noble endeavor and worthy of commendation. Only the deepest of love for one’s fellowmen generates that kind of courage.”
“Thank you,” Deborah said, touched with emotion. “That means a great deal to me to hear you say that, Aaron.”
He reached in his robes and withdrew a letter. “I have just come from Amram. We have drafted a letter to the governor. I will be leaving immediately for Caesarea to deliver it.”
It was one astonishment after another. A small triumphant smile formed at the corners of his mouth. “I know what you think of us, and our—as you call it—obsession with the Law, but we have not forgotten the primary virtues—love, courage, integrity.”
“Amram?” David said. “This is the Amram we know, chief of the Pharisees here?”
“Don’t be haughty, David. Yes, that Amram. Though he does not carry the same influence with the Romans as someone who sits on the Great Sanhedrin in Jerusalem; nevertheless, Capernaum has one of the most influential councils in the province. Amram has agreed to formally intervene with Pilate in Simeon’s behalf.”
David could scarcely believe it. “What does this letter say?” He could see it was sealed and therefore could not be opened.
“Amram reminds the governor that the Pharisees represent the largest majority in all of Israel and that we have been instrumental in keeping the people at peace in times of unrest.”
David nodded. That was not only true, but he knew that the Romans also knew that it was true. They didn’t particularly like the Pharisees because of their arrogance, but they recognized their power with the people.
“Amram mentions the influence you and your family have in this community, David, a
nd he asks the governor to consider granting Simeon a pardon, especially in light of the fact that it was Simeon who prevented a greater massacre of the Romans last month.”
What Aaron didn’t say was that Sextus Rubrius had also told him of the governor’s desire to learn who had betrayed the secret of the ambush to Simeon. Torture of their newly acquired prisoner was a high likelihood. Amram had specifically and strongly condemned the possibility of any physical mistreatment of the prisoner, reminding Pilate that such barbarity was against the Mosaic Law and therefore highly offensive to the people. Highly offensive. In light of some of Pilate’s past blunders in underestimating the religious fervor of his subjects, that contained a not so thinly veiled threat.
“You would do all of that?” Deborah whispered, her eyes filling with tears. She rushed to him and threw her arms around him. “Thank you, Aaron. Thank you.”
“After all you have done for me, dear sister, did you think I would simply turn my back on you?” He touched her cheek. “We can argue about Jesus later. Right now, this is a family matter.” He smiled softly. “And I am still family.”
II
In the Galilean highlands and the Jezreel Valley 13 July, a.d. 30
The four travelers did not go to Caesarea by way of Ptolemais, as Ezra had originally planned. It was the safer way, but it would take almost a full day longer. Speed was now of the essence. Ironically, the shortest route from Capernaum was up and across the Nazareth Ridge, then down through the Joknean Pass to the coastal plains.
They stopped the first night a few miles west of Nazareth and south of Beth Neelah, taking lodging in a small wayside inn that overlooked the Jezreel Valley. They rose early the next morning and came together in the small main room downstairs. They were the only ones in the inn who were up, so they spoke in soft whispers.
“I have a proposal,” Ezra said. “We can purchase a simple breakfast from the innkeeper, but not until about sunup. We can wait and eat here, or we can eat the bread, cheese, and dried figs we still have. There’s a small spring about three hours from here. We could stop and have breakfast there.”
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