Necessary Heartbreak (9 page)

Leah looked away. By now they were back within the city walls. She watched the crowds milling around the many marketplaces. “I don't have a husband,” she said softly, grabbing Elizabeth's arm.

“Where are we going?”

“You're going home.”

Elizabeth yanked her arm away. “I am not!”

They stood in the street about fifty yards from the grate. “This is too dangerous a place for you to be here alone.” Leah looked around helplessly. “I'm not sure we can save your father. Didn't he know the soldiers would be looking for him?”

Elizabeth shrugged in confusion. “I have no idea what you're talking about.”

Leah shook her head in disbelief. “He had to know. I don't understand why he came back.” She turned away from Elizabeth, deep in thought as she remembered that tragic day.

Leah climbed to the second floor and looked out the window with concern. On her left she could see a few neighbors retrieving some fruit that had fallen from the fig trees. Over to the right, several Roman soldiers milled around in the distance, not too far from the aqueduct.

She went back downstairs to the kitchen, picked up some grains from a bucket, and tossed a pile on the ground for the sheep that was nursing her lamb. Everywhere she moved in her now silent home seemed to have tragic reminders of a terrible time.

Leah had taken up weaving over the past few weeks in an effort to escape the horrific memories. It was a way to stop reality and briefly regain the happiness she had felt only a short time ago. She fingered a pretty white robe, hoping she would be able to sell it in the marketplace.

Leah started to stitch the bottom of the garment, then dropped it. Restlessly she walked back to the window again, looking left and then right. She repeated this several times, never adding more than a stitch or two at a time.

On the seventh try at working on the robe, she tossed it in a basket and retreated to an empty adjoining room. There, lying on a small mat, was a tiny blanket. Leah picked it up and held it to her face. She breathed deeply several times, allowing the scent to engulf her body as if the aroma would strengthen her soul.

It felt like another sunset had passed when she removed it, her tears soaking a section. Leah fell to the floor, clenching the garment. She stared at the room, absorbing all the details—a wooden cradle, a small robe she had recently made, and a plate and cup.

“Why? Why? Oh, why?” she moaned in a broken voice. “My Sarah. Oh, my Sarah. Oh, my Sarah. I miss you.”

Leah tightened her grip on the blanket, rubbing it softly against her eyes. She touched the cradle, placing her hand inside it. Her body
heaved back and forth. “Why? Why? I need to know why!” she cried with more anger. “Tell me, why?”

Her body gradually began to relax but she never released her hold on the blanket. Leah went downstairs to the kitchen and poured a cup of water. Sitting down at the table, she dabbed her eyes. She laid her head down on her folded arms, listening for any sounds.

The muffled noises of boys and girls playing outside shook her momentarily. Eventually, Leah drifted in and out of consciousness. As her shadow on the wall dissipated, she was vaguely aware that the sounds of the children had gone silent. She rose and headed back upstairs, placing a cup and plate on one mat next to where another neatly arranged set was waiting. The plate had several nuts, while the cup was filled with wine and water. The odor disturbed her so she replaced them with fresh wine and food.

She sat down, transfixed, on the opposite mat. Leah shook her head, deep in thought as she remembered the last time she had shared a happy meal with Yochanan. “We are blessed, my love,” he had said that glorious evening. “We are going to be a family.”

Leah touched her flat stomach and sighed. She got to her feet a few moments later, hearing some noises outside.
Could this be Yochanan?
she thought hopefully.
Yochanan?

Her heart thumped as she ran to the window. “Yochanan?” she said forcefully. She could see a brown-haired stranger gesturing wildly near the well.

“John, get out of here!” the man shouted.

“I'm coming. Go. Now. Run!”

That sounds like Yochanan
, she thought.
He is home. Thank you! Thank you!

Leah scurried up the ladder to the top of the house to greet him. The commotion outside turned violent and intense, confusing her as she stepped to the side of the roof to see what was happening. Several Roman soldiers were chasing two men, throwing rocks. One struck the brown-haired man on the back of the leg, and he cried out.

“Keep running. Don't stop.”

Leah's excitement turned to horror. “Yochanan! Yochanan!”

A man, tall and with arms like tree trunks, looked up toward her. “Leah!”

He collapsed suddenly, struck by a rock hurled by a Roman soldier. Yochanan hit his head hard against the side of a tree, not too far from the well. From the roof, Leah could see that he was bleeding heavily.

“John,” the other man yelled. “John!”

“Get that rebel! Kill him if you can!” a soldier shouted.

The stranger ran off as Leah held her hands over her face. “No! No! No!” she wailed. “Yochanan. Oh, my Yochanan. No! No! No!”

No breeze was to be found inside the Antonia Fortress that evening. The solid walls were dense and unyielding, and Michael felt alone and cut off from the outside world. He yearned for another chance to take a stroll along Crab Meadow Beach, then smiled ruefully to himself. How often had he thought about taking a walk down there, only to be quickly distracted by life's mundane problems?

He coughed slightly, trying to gather up some saliva to relieve the itch in his throat, and forced himself not to think about water. The heat was stifling, exhausting him. The screams he had heard earlier seemed to have diminished, or perhaps he'd just grown accustomed to his surroundings. He struggled to find a comfortable position but without success.

“I need water,” Michael shouted with the last bit of energy he had. In the next cell, Barabbas lay silent, a veteran at survival.

“Sleep, my friend, sleep,” he whispered.

Michael ignored him. “Help! I need water!”

He heard heavy footsteps approaching, then a soldier appeared outside his cell door. He rattled the metal bars with the shaft of his spear. “Shut up!”

“Leave him alone,” ordered a familiar voice. “He hasn't done anything wrong.”

A tall man strolled past Michael's cell and stopped in front of Barabbas. “This sick murderer deserves to die, though.”

“I'll get you before you get me,” Barabbas retorted, but with far less energy than he had displayed a few hours ago.

The Roman soldier laughed mockingly. “You'll rot here or we'll get you before you do die!” He shoved his spear through the opening and taunted Barabbas with the sharp, shiny point, allowing it to ping his neck, drawing blood. A group of soldiers standing nearby cheered.

“Kill him, Marcus. Let's give his cell to someone worthy. He isn't much of a rebel, is he?”

The soldiers laughed louder. One pulled out what looked like dice and another tossed several pieces of silver on the floor. “Are you in with us, Marcus?”

“How much do you have?” Marcus asked, half grinning.

“Enough to make you happy, Marcus.”

He walked past Michael, then suddenly turned to look at him. “No one will hurt you here.”

The three other soldiers sitting on the floor exchanged confused glances. “But, Marcus, we have orders to kill him.”

Marcus leaned over and grabbed the soldier by his neck. “The orders have been changed,” he said menacingly, then pushed the man back. He sat down beside the others and pulled out a light brown pouch, dumping several coins on the floor. Then he removed his helmet and wiped the beads of perspiration from his forehead.

Marcus looked back at Michael, now paralyzed against the wall. “Get my friend a cup of water,” he ordered, gesturing toward the soldiers.

“This is against the governor's policy,” the soldier to his right replied. Without warning Marcus grabbed his arm, pinning it to the ground.

The soldier winced in pain. “My arm. You're breaking it, Marcus.”

Marcus paused a moment longer, then let go. “I make the policy here. Get a cup of water for my friend.”

The soldier bolted to his feet and ran off, leaving the suddenly quiet dice game. Marcus got to his feet, stretched, and took a deep breath. “Are you fine in there?” he asked Michael conversationally.

Michael felt a sense of foreboding. There was no reason for Marcus' sudden concern. Michael studied the soldier's face, noticing several small, thin scars that stretched a couple of inches down the sides of his cheeks. His black hair was plastered to his head from the heat, and his teeth were dirty and chipped. The warrior didn't hide his battle tattoos either. Several fresh gashes lined his muscular biceps.

Marcus ignored his silence and continued, “You have nothing to fear, my friend. I'll make sure you stay out of harm's way while you are here with us.”

He opened the cell door and pulled at Michael's arm. The rusty clamp had pierced his wrist, leaving a line of dried blood along his hand.

“My friend, are you in pain?”

Frozen in fear, Michael tried to respond but couldn't. Marcus didn't wait for the answer. He unlocked the clamp and tossed it to the ground, removing the chain. The two other soldiers remained sitting, watching in utter confusion. The third soldier returned with a cup of water.

Marcus took the cup and offered it to Michael. “Take this.”

Michael looked at him. But overwhelming thirst destroyed any caution. He reached up and took it, not caring how muddy the water looked. He downed it quickly, never taking his eyes off Marcus.

“Tastes good now, doesn't it?” Marcus smiled.

Michael nodded.

“How about another?”

“Yes,” Michael said weakly. He was surprised at how calm he sounded.

Marcus took the cup, spun around, and tossed it in the middle of the soldiers, scattering several pieces of silver. “Get my friend another drink!”

None of the soldiers moved. They looked uncertainly at the cup. “Get it now!” Marcus roared.

Together as one, all three lunged for the cup, banging heads as they reached for it. If the situation had been different, Michael might have found it comical. He watched in fear as one man grabbed it and ran off. Marcus let his body settle against the wall, scraping the cement with his armor, much like the sound Michael's sixth-grade teacher, Miss Pavotti, made with her fingernails grazing the blackboard to awaken a sleeping classroom. Marcus was now shoulder to shoulder with Michael, whose body twitched.

The soldier laughed. “You needn't be afraid. I'm your only friend here.”

Michael was silent.

“Where are you from?”

“A place far away,” he mumbled.

“How far?” Marcus demanded.

“I'm not sure.”

Marcus laughed again. It was unlike the previous times he had done so. This time it actually sounded friendly, and for a moment Michael felt reassured.

“I believe you,” Marcus said, nodding. “Your clothes are odd. I haven't seen such.”

Michael looked down at his sandals.

“Do you know how to get home?” Marcus asked.

Michael's spirits lifted slightly. Perhaps Marcus did want to help him after all. He straightened up and spoke more forcefully. “Yes, I think I do.”

Marcus grinned and slapped him on the shoulder. Michael nearly fell over. “Good! I think I can help you.”

“Great!”

Marcus put his hand to Michael's mouth. “Quiet,” he said in a soft, reassuring tone. He pointed at the group of soldiers. They had moved their game of dice farther away and appeared to be completely engrossed.

The soldier came back with the cup of water and handed it to Michael. Marcus waved him away. He leaned closer to Michael's ear.
“Stay awake. I'll come by later and free you. But you must go directly to where you came from. You remember the place, right?”