The Hidden Flame (14 page)

The young man went on, "The man you see there was as he always was, laid out on his mat by the gate called Beautiful. He called to Peter, asking for the zadaka. This time, Peter stopped. We do not carry money with us, and Peter told the man as much. Then he said to him, `But I will give you from the best that I have. In the name of Jesus the Messiah, rise up and walk!' "

This was the first time Ezra had heard the dead prophet referred to as the Messiah, and he could feel the hair on the back of his neck rise up, as though the command had been directed at him as well. He should perhaps have felt a greater indignation, even fury. Granting this Jesus the title of Messiah went against everything he had ever learned. Yet the story of the dancing beggar left him so shaken he could not utter a sound.

The young man was continuing, "We went on to prayers, and the man you see there came with us, entering the Temple as a whole person for the first time in his life. He danced and he shouted, and the crowd he drew grew to an enormous size. Peter began preaching to them until the guards arrived and took us all before the Sanhedrin."

A group, including Ezra's sister, had gathered. Someone demanded, "What did the Temple priests say, Samuel?"

"They were very angry," he said. "They put us in the hold overnight, then brought us back before them this morning. They ordered Peter not to speak of Jesus again." The young man called Samuel shrugged. "They might as well have ordered him to stop breathing. Peter was direct, as only Peter can be. He told the Sanhedrin that it was they, along with Pilate, who crucified Jesus. Then he recounted what the prophet had said, explaining how everything had happened as the Holy One had ordained, just as had been prophesied in the Holy Scriptures. He invited the Sanhedrin-" he paused for effect-"to join with us in worshiping our Lord as Savior."

Ezra felt himself backing away from the man. Such words were a blasphemy. He could no longer see the joyful beggar, which made it far easier to weigh the young man's words from the perspective of a lifetime of worship and study. To expect the Sanhedrin to accept this dead prophet as the Messiah was insane-and worse.

Samuel was saying, "Peter told the Sanhedrin, did they think this miracle was perhaps the work of his own hands? If so, how did he happen to pass by this very same man repeatedly and only now, this time, work the miracle? The answer was that this was the work of the risen Lord, through his Spirit, which resides in the heart of each believer." The young man must have noticed Ezra's reluctance, because he turned to him and said, "You are new to us. Perhaps you also would join with us in knowing our risen Christ?"

Ezra's reply held a calm he did not feel. "Another time, perhaps. Today I come only ... only to listen and to learn."

The young man started to say something further, but then merely nodded and turned back to the others.

Ezra sought out his sister, who was talking excitedly with several of the other women. The one known as Abigail was nowhere to be seen. He touched his sister's arm and said, "We must go."

His entire being rebelled against what he had just witnessed. Part of being successful in business was having the ability to see beyond veils of deception, the flicker of a cunning eye, a meaningful exchange of glances. But there was none of that in what he had encountered here. Of that he was certain.

Ezra discovered the crowd was now spilling out into the cobblestoned plaza. He passed several discussions, some in debate, others listening avidly as the prophet's followers invited them to join and know the presence of the Holy Spirit for themselves. Ezra lingered for a moment at the edge of one such group, until the speaker looked directly at him and asked if it was time for him to enter through the narrow gate. The merchant motioned abruptly to his sister, and they left the tumult behind.

C H A P T E R

TWELVE

THE NEXT DAY A SUDDEN SQUALL sent the Old City shopkeepers scurrying to protect their wares. In the stalls surrounding the Lower City gates, sheep and goats bleated their panic as thunder crackled and lightning flashed. Children shrieked in fear and ran to find their mothers. Abigail could not remember a storm sweeping in as quickly or as turbulently. This one would have the locals reminding each other of it for months to come.

The cobblestones turned instantly slippery as the rain pelted down and people rushed for cover, sliding their way across the rain-polished stones.

Abigail, again on market duty with Hannah still sick, was caught in the downpour. Her overloaded basket impeded her progress as she tried to hold her own among the rushing throng. She was almost to the courtyard when two youths knocked into her as they ran past, sending her spinning and reaching for empty air in her effort to stay upright. One of the boys must have noticed and swung back toward her. But it was too late. Abigail crashed against the raw corner of the stone wall, then went down with a little cry while her basket flew from her hand, scattering its contents across the rain-slick street.

At first she was only embarrassed. She was now in a puddle, being further pelted by rain. She felt her clothing cling to her, sodden and mud-splashed. The fall had dislodged her shawl so that one side dragged into the water as well. Tendrils of hair stuck to her face, and the wind caught at her braid, whipping it back and forth.

"I'm so sorry. So sorry," the boy said. "I did not see you in the rain."

He offered a hand, and numbly Abigail took it and got to her feet. It was then she realized her leg was throbbing ... again. Looking down she could see the edge of the puddle was tainted by blood. Her blood. The boy must have noticed it too.

"You're hurt."

"My leg," she managed. Abigail wanted to assure him she would be all right, but she wasn't certain it was indeed the case. "I should be all right. But I'm afraid I will need help getting home."

He nodded. Abigail held her basket as the other boy joined him in gathering up what fruit and vegetables they could. The sloping street rushed with little rivulets, carrying the ever-present dirt and grime.

One of the boys took the water-logged basket from her. "Where do you live?"

"If you could just help me to the courtyard up ahead, I will be able to get someone to assist the rest of the way."

"I am so sorry," the other boy repeated.

Abigail tried for a smile, even if a bit wobbly. "I have a brother about your age," she offered. "I'm sure he would have also run for cover from the storm."

Abigail took the offered arm, leaning heavily on the young lad, and pointed the way to the courtyard.

By the time they made it to the entrance, the wind had abated and the rain slackened to a mere drizzle. The sun would soon be shining again as though the whole incident had never taken place. But Abigail knew the harm had been done. Once again the fragile scar tissue had been broken. She prayed that Martha or one of the Marys would be there to help her cleanse and bind the wound. She was no doubt facing another long recovery.

Two days later, Abigail's leg again throbbed painfully. Martha muttered her dismay as she bent to clean the red and swollen area. Abigail disliked being a burden to this overworked woman. She hid her discomfort from the cleansing as best she could. Jacob hovered close by, his concern obviously pushing aside whatever else had driven them apart. Abigail did not ask questions about where he had been and why, and Jacob volunteered no information.

When the wound was again bandaged, Jacob led her home, quietly scolding that she should have remained where Martha could care for her a few more days. The wound was still open beneath its bandage and needed more time to heal, he told her, sounding more like a man than a boy. Abigail admitted inwardly that he was likely right, but she did not say so.

When they reached their small abode, Jacob insisted that she sit down on the only stool in the room. Abigail did not argue. Her leg burned with pain, and she could tell it had begun to bleed through the bandages once again.

Jacob laid out her pallet and eased her down. She felt exhausted as she mumbled her thanks. Jacob started a fire, and when the pot had boiled made her some tea. Abigail sipped it appreciatively. The warmth soothed her soul if not her body. But it was Jacob's tender concern that brought the most comfort. To have her brother back again was an answer to her prayers.

The walk to the Temple a couple days later was more difficult than Abigail had foreseen. She did her best to conceal her distress and her limp from those with her. Jacob claimed the place by her side. If she so much as looked down at her feet, his steadying hand came out to her arm. She was comforted by all his anxious attention, but she felt she should be caring for him. It was Jacob who had been coming home after a long day of work, gathering sticks for the fire so preparing a simple supper would not cause her undue exertion. They normally had taken their meals at the compound, but now Jacob stopped daily for food supplies provided by Martha. And Jacob made sure Abigail applied the healing ointment and wrapped her leg with fresh cotton each day.

Though not yet able to determine how far she was from full recovery, Abigail had insisted she attempt the walk to the Temple for afternoon prayers. It had been too long since she had joined the other followers for this time of worship and devotion together.

Yet as she walked, Abigail wondered if she was doing the right thing. She knew if her limp was obvious, she would be turned away. But she sorely needed this access to her God among the rest of the believers. She felt useless, a burden. Jacob was carrying most of her responsibilities at home, and the women at the compound were doing her share of the work for the evening meal. The tasks of selecting the fruits and vegetables from the markets already had been given to others. And of course with her re-opened wound, her overseeing duties in answer to Martha's needs had hardly even begun.

She was so busy with her own conflicting thoughts that she had not been listening to Jacob.

"He's a fine man," she heard him say for her ears alone.

Abigail nodded. She was sure Jacob's assessment was correct, though she knew not of whom he was speaking.

"He's nothing like that rich old man. He does care for you. He has told me so."

She nearly stumbled in her shock. "What ... what are you saying, Jacob? What are you talking about?"

"You have not been listening."

Abigail fumbled, "Not ... not totally."

"Linux. I'm speaking of Linux."

"The Roman?"

Jacob stopped midstride. "Why do you say it like that? You make it sound like . . . like a curse."

Abigail flushed. "I had no intent of doing so. I'm sorry."

"He is sincere in his quest," went on Jacob rapidly. "I know he is. I see it in his eyes."

Yes, Abigail too had seen the young officer's intense, bold eyes as they swept over her face. The very thought made her shudder. Though he had the power to draw her attention, she wanted no part of him. It was impossible. And he was an outsider. A pagan. He likely paid court to some Greek or Roman god-or many gods, if he had a religion at all. And he did not believe the truth about Jesus. No. She wanted no part of him whatsoever.