The Hidden Flame (23 page)

Even as the servant had related the news, Ezra had reshaped the words into something more acceptable. Clearly the servant had witnessed something that had shocked him to the core. This much was certain. Yet Ezra's mind refused to accept what the servant had told him. His sister dead? Her husband also? Within hours of each other? Impossible!

A drover shouted a warning at Ezra and prodded his sheep toward the gate. Ezra stepped off the road, stumbling over the uneven earth. The ground did not seem stable beneath his sandals. Nothing was as it should be.

Ahead of him, the servant took the turn onto the lane leading south into the Kidron Valley. Ezra demanded, "Where are you taking me? Where is Sapphira?"

The man pointed ahead, his hand trembling. He did not speak.

When the man's destination finally struck home, Ezra stopped as if struck dead himself. The reality of where they were headed condensed the heat and the sunlight until it held him fast. He had to struggle to breathe.

The servant stumbled forward another few steps, then realized Ezra no longer followed. He returned and stood before the merchant, panting in exhaustion and fear.

Ezra heard his own breath punching out in tight gasps, as if he had just run far into the desert. He blinked and stared about him. Finally he said, "This is the potter's field."

The man stood silent, his eyes lowered to the stones at his feet.

In the distance, a crow gave a lonely cry. A rock clattered down the hillside behind them. Otherwise, there was no sound except their strained breathing.

Ezra licked dry lips. "Tell me again what happened. From the beginning."

"The apostles had gathered. Followers were coming before them and offering donations. Ananias stepped forward." The servant sounded utterly shattered. "He stood before the apostles. He laid money at their feet. Peter asked if this was everything he had received from the sale of the land. He-"

"Wait." Every word was a struggle to get out. "What right does Peter have to make such a claim?"

"Barnabas also sold land. He gave the entire amount."

Ezra blinked, dislodging sweat. Or perhaps he wept but was too stunned to realize it. "This other man gave everything he made from the sale of his own property to the apostles?"

"Barnabas is a leader among us. He performs miracles. The Spirit is strong in him. The people look to him for leadership. He casts a gentle shadow." The servant's words carried a numb and toneless quality. "I think, that is ..."

"Go on."

"My master and mistress wanted to gain a similar respect within the community. I believe ... they sought to wield the same influence."

Ezra winced, and another droplet of sweat or sorrow fell to the earth. This was very much like his sister. Sapphira always wanted to have everything her way, but never understood the price that had to be paid. Her entire life, she had been given whatever she wanted. The sacrifice and the labor were paid by others. Of course she had sought to have this power without paying the price.

Ezra felt his grasp upon the world slip away, as though he had been laid to rest in the same grave as his sister and brother-in-law. It was indeed true. Sapphira was gone.

The servant went on, "Peter was the apostle who spoke. When Ananias insisted that he had given everything, Peter accused him of lying not to the apostles but to the divine Spirit of God. Peter said that Ananias was under no obligation to give anything at all. But he had turned his donation into a treachery against the Holy Spirit. As he said this, Ananias was struck down."

"Who struck him?" Ezra could feel the rage in the base of his gut, ready to uncoil and lash out. It was good to feel something, anything at all. "Who dared strike my kin?"

"N-no one, sir. No one was even close to him."

"They threw a stone? A stave, an arrow, a ... ?" He stopped because the servant was shaking his head back and forth, denying Ezra a target for his anger even before the words took form.

"No one touched him." The servant might have been trembling with shock, his voice dulled to a simple moan. But he was utterly certain. "No one threw anything. No one moved at all. He just fell down. Dead."

"That cannot be."

The servant did not respond. His gaze remained fastened upon the rocks at his feet. But his hollow expression suggested that he saw the event happening again. Over and over and over.

"What happened next?"

"Several of the young men were instructed to ... to pick up the body and bring it here." The servant's swallow was loud in the dry, silent air. "Then your sister arrived in the compound. Peter asked her the same question. She gave the same response. Peter condemned her for lying." His voice was now barely audible. "She fell and breathed her last."

"And then?"

The servant waved his hand toward the sunlit emptiness. "The same young men brought her here as well."

Ezra tried to take in the field before him. But he felt like he was looking through a veil. Not that he needed to see it clearly-he knew what lay before him. The potter's field was Jerusalem's recent burial ground for commoners and the poorest of the poor. A lone tree grew by the furthest boundary marker, its limbs stunted and stained by the field's nameless crop. The yellow earth was tilled into dozens of mounds, hundreds. His sister was buried somewhere out there, her grave unmarked.

Ezra turned his face to the sun and allowed the tears to rise and fall. He slammed his fist into his other hand and groaned out the only dirge that would mark his sister's passage. "They will pay for this."

The atmosphere within the community remained subdued. Besides the appalling deaths, it sounded as if attacks on their members within the city were becoming sharper and more frequent.

Abigail felt increasingly vulnerable as she went about her duties. Jacob was on edge as well. As they made their way to the compound for evening prayers, she was startled when Jacob gripped her shoulder and shoved her hard against the wall. He stepped in front of her, blocking her vision and shielding her with his body. He snarled over his shoulder, "What do you want?"

A stranger's voice said, "Please-I mean you no harm. I have been sent."

Jacob remained tense and guarded. "Why are you lurking in the shadows if you mean no harm?"

"I was told to find you but to remain unseen. I assure you, I am no danger to you. I've been sent by Alban."

Jacob's voice rose. "He is here?"

"He is not far away, and he wishes to see you."

Abigail dared take a peek around Jacob. The stranger seemed harmless enough. She prayed he was telling the truth. "Where is Alban?" she asked.

"At the south camp. He wishes you to meet him there."

Abigail pushed past Jacob. "You will take us?"

"It is why I came."

"Then let us go."

As they started off, Abigail clutched Jacob's arm. "How we have prayed. And now when we need him the most, he.. ." She could go no further. In spite of her resolve to push aside the fear that had crept into her heart from the recent events, its dread left her shivering. Tears veiled her eyes until she could scarcely see where they were headed. Alban has come! whirled through her mind.

As Alban had warned them in his letter, he had changed much in the two years since their last meeting. Abigail would have been hard-pressed to recognize him had she passed him on the street. But his voice and firm embrace convinced them that he was the man they had been waiting for.

Alban drew them quickly into his tent and pulled the flap across the door. The flickering torchlight illuminated a bearded face that looked both leaner and darker than Abigail recalled. But the eyes belonged to Alban.

He was dressed in a plain tunic, with a simple band around his waist and a headpiece very much akin to that of a Bedouin. A short sword hung from his belt and a long knife from the other side. Abigail had no doubt that he could wield both with skill. She watched him pull the weapons out and lay them on the table beside a battered shield. And saw as well how Jacob followed the moves with undisguised longing.

"Jacob, my boy. I can't call you that anymore. Look at you. You are nearly my height. How could you grow like that?"

It was true. Jacob was now only half a handsbreadth shorter than the older man, though still much slighter in build in spite of muscle developed from his work lifting heavy wood.

"And Abigail. How Leah would love to see you. She misses you so. Every day she speaks of you."

"She is well?"

He grinned and nodded. "More than well. She is counting the weeks until we are blessed with a child. And sewing little garments. Already she has filled the cradle with soft blankets-and the whitest of sheepskins for him to lie on."

Abigail laughed softly. "Him, you say."

"It is a habit. If it is not he, then she will be greatly loved. I hope she will be as beautiful as her mother. And as pure of heart." He waved them onto cushions by the tent wall. "But you. Are you keeping well?"

Abigail and Jacob looked at each other and laughed. "Yes, Alban, I am more than well," Abigail said. Then both she and Jacob described her healing, with many questions along the way from Alban.

"Thanks be to our Lord!" he exclaimed when they were finished with the story.

"Now, tell me what else has been happening," he said. "Are things well with the brethren? I hear many have been added to the numbers."

"That is true," Abigail said. Then she glanced again at Jacob. The deaths remained a shadow that stained his features.

"Has there been trouble?" Alban looked from one to the other. "Has Rome struck against the followers with its heavy hand?"

"No. Not yet. Though daily we see Jerusalem becoming more frenzied, chaotic."

"The Sanhedrin, then?"

"They are angry with us over the preaching and teaching. In fact they put some of our number in prison a short while ago. But we all pray for courage as Peter admonishes. The teaching continues."

A moment of silence turned awkward. Alban pressed, "Will you not tell me what is wrong?"

Abigail hesitated. Where was she to begin? So much had happened, so many things crowded into her mind.

She gazed about at their surroundings. Torchlight shone on the tent walls, casting a comforting glow over the threadbare carpet and low wood table with the simple brass utensils. The water pitcher and mugs were once-fired clay, with no adornment whatsoever. When Abigail had first come to know Alban, he was a centurion and one of Pilate's chosen men. He and Leah's betrothal ceremony had been held in Herod's palace. Yet here he sat, dressed in the garb of a caravan guard, sitting amongst poverty almost as abject as her own.

And one look into the man's face told her that here was a truly happy man. Content, serene, calm in his faith. All that she was not. She saw no doubt, no worries about the future, no regrets over things that were not as he might have preferred. How she wished for Alban's strength!

When she did not speak, Jacob said, "Two men are vying for Abigail's hand in marriage. Peter put them off, saying you are her guardian and the matter would be settled when you arrive."

Alban showed no surprise over the news. "Do you wish to marry one or the other?"

"No, I do not," she said quietly but firmly. "Neither of them."

Jacob shifted restlessly beside her. "Well, I think she should give serious thought to-"

Abigail cut him off. She had no interest in Alban knowing one of the suitors was his old friend. "I have already told you I do not wish a marriage to either man."

Alban looked toward Jacob, but he merely scowled at the carpet by his feet. Alban said, "Perhaps we should wait and discuss this more on the morrow. It certainly is not something we can settle tonight."

Abigail sighed her thankfulness. She would prefer to discuss this without Jacob present.

Alban's calm gaze shifted from one to the other. "There is more, yes? I sense-"

"I work for a carpenter." The heat of passion lifted Jacob's voice. "It is loathsome. I detest it."

"You want to do something else. I see that. Do you have an idea of what you wish for your future?"

"You know I have," Jacob shot back. "Nothing has changed. I want to do what you have done."