The Hidden Flame (18 page)

Linux learned to hide behind a sardonic twist of humor. Laughing away the acid flames of fury. Pretending that everything was fine, he could handle all such matters and still come up laughing. That proved to be the finest weapon against Castor. Linux played the fool, and gradually his brother began to ignore him.

When he first met Alban, Linux was astonished to find within the fierce Gaul the heart of a true brother. Alban's own brother had conspired to kill him, and Alban wore his rage like a badge of honor. Until, that is, Alban had come to follow this Judean prophet. And started using words that had struck Linux like fists. Forgiveness. Salvation. Messiah.

Linux lifted both hands to rub his face. He found himself trapped and abandoned to a fate that mocked his laughter, that ridiculed him with bitter spite. Never before were the mental images so clear, the motives behind them so vivid. Because here, in this crowded courtyard where the internal silence was so powerful he could not even hear the tumult surrounding him, Linux recognized a bitter truth.

This hatred of his brother ruled his life.

He was dominated by the futility of life's unfairness. Castor was not merely flesh and blood. He was the barrier to everything that Linux deserved. It was Linux who was born to rule. He was, in truth, the family's prince and heir. He should be the one seeking favor in Rome. He could rise, he could ascend, he could become ...

Oh yes, he hated his brother with every fiber of his being.

Only now, in this Judean night, did Linux realize how helpless his position truly was. Beneath the crackling torch that cast shadows upon his closed eyelids, Linux saw that he was chained to his wrath. It imprisoned him, and he had no chance of ever finding fulfillment, another way to move forward. Everything he did, all that he might achieve, would remain as ashes because of this fiery rage. Even the woman he wanted to claim as his own, the reason he was here this night, would likely be consumed by it.

Linux felt a hand come to rest upon his shoulder. He opened his eyes to find a smiling young man who said, "Peter will speak with you now."

Even when Ezra had been invited to join the senior apostle, it did not proceed as he wished. For as he was ushered to the head table, the young man he had been speaking with, Stephen, went over and brought the Roman forward as well.

Ezra had endured such exchanges before, and he loathed them. Two merchants brought together and forced to sit across from one another. The buyer then could sit and smile and observe the pair struggle over who would win the business. Ezra felt his position within the market and the Judean culture should grant him a greater degree of respect and deference. Especially under these circumstances.

Then he noticed the Roman's face. Though he wore a commoner's clothing, the man had served in the military, perhaps still did. That much was clear from his angular form, his evident strength and bearing. Yet he approached the head table seemingly mired in deep confusion.

Peter was in the process of rising to greet Ezra when his eye also must have been caught by the Roman. The apostle, in the process of stretching out his hands to Ezra, stopped and walked around the table. He drew the Roman down onto the bench across from where he had been sitting. By his own hand. A Judean seating an oppressor. And smiling as he did so. And laying his hand on the Roman's shoulder before returning to his place. Only then did he offer Ezra the traditional greeting, all the while his gaze resting upon the Roman.

Nothing could have prepared Ezra for what happened next.

When the three were seated, Peter waved Stephen down next to the Roman. He asked, "Your name?"

"Linux."

"I am Peter and this is Stephen." He spoke with the rough edge of the country born. Yet his manner was just as Gamaliel had described when Peter had stood before the Sanhedrin. His bearing held none of the subservience such a person would be expected to show his visitors, a senior merchant and a Roman officer. "May I ask, are you a God-fearer, Linux?"

The legionnaire wiped his face with a trembling hand. "I remember hearing the same being asked of a friend of mine. In my mind, I mocked him for taking the question seriously."

Peter seemed to accept the words without reproach. "Do you wish to be free from your chains, Roman?"

Ezra felt his mouth drop open in astonishment. For a Judean to speak thus to a Roman officer was unimaginable. Such an offense could result in Peter's death.

Yet the Roman nodded slowly, as though he had almost expected the question. "My friend asked me the very same thing."

"This is the God-fearer who once was a centurion and now is Abigail's guardian, yes?"

Ezra stiffened. Everything became clear in a flash. The Roman was cunning, he had to give him that. Since this Linux could not beat Ezra on normal Judean terms, he was appealing to Peter as an ally of the sect. Very wily indeed.

But Peter was asking, "Do your chains have a name, Linux?"

The Roman's gaze dropped to the table. "Castor. My brother."

"And what did your Roman friend, this Alban, ask you about your brother?"

"He said ..." The officer's swallow was audible. "He asked me what I would say if I was granted the power to ..."

"To what?"

Another swallow. "Forgive."

"And your answer?"

"What he asked was impossible."

Peter turned his head and exchanged a long glance with the young man seated across from him. He then addressed Ezra. "And you, good sir. You too have come with motives of your own."

These people continued to astonish him. Ezra had never heard such a comment as an opening gambit to a negotiation. And Peter's piercing look gave him the feeling that the man knew what he was going to say before he spoke. He searched hard and fast for something else, another response than the one he had planned, which was to suggest the man name his own price for the young woman's hand. An absolutely outlandish proposal for a washerwoman and an orphan. But with the Roman clearly having captured the center position, what choice did he have but to put his desire clearly on the table? Ezra replied, "I seek the hand of Abigail in honorable marriage. Tell me the amount you require."

He could tell the Roman's head had swiveled toward him. Ezra resisted the urge to turn and meet the man's challenge, keeping his eyes fastened on Peter. A moment later, Ezra sensed that Linux had dropped his focus back to the table before him. And he heard the man's sigh.

Ezra wanted to shout his triumph. Something about the Roman's abject state had him certain that he had already won.

Peter held Ezra's attention a moment longer, then asked quietly, "Is there no other reason why you came?"

It was Ezra's turn to nod slowly. The man was observant indeed. "I was sent by Gamaliel, the Pharisee. He wishes to know if you and your ... group ... if you are a threat to the Sanhedrin, and the good order of the Temple."

"'The good order,' " Peter repeated softly. He waited a moment longer, then asked more quietly still, "Is there no other reason why you are here this night?"

Ezra leaned back. "What other ... ?"

Then it struck him. It was as though his entire world was canted slightly, pulled a fraction off its normal course.

Ezra looked at the Roman. The man remained locked in some internal discourse, his features cast in tragic shadows.

Ezra realized it was not about the woman at all. Not anymore. This gathering, this night, this discussion. He was being asked to join the sect. Not only that, this senior apostle was speaking to the Roman about the very same thing.

Ezra knew a few Roman God-fearers, of course. Most had been in the country all their lives. A few others had been raised by a Judean servant and had adopted the Judean God in deference to a woman loved and revered since infancy. The laws governing such people were very clear. The Scriptures included numerous calls from the prophets and even the Lord himself for Judean to be a witness to all the nations.

But this ...

He was stunned by everything he had gotten so wrong. This meeting had nothing to do with what he had expected. He had come as a merchant, prepared to negotiate. He wanted something they had. He discovered he was willing to pay as much as was required, though he had not yet told Peter that. This was a new sect. They were growing by leaps and bounds. They needed money. They needed access. They needed ...

Peter seemed to find in Ezra's face the information he had been seeking.

He turned away. And shut his eyes.

To Ezra, it seemed as though the entire night caught its breath. He had no idea how long the moment lasted. Perhaps a few seconds, perhaps an hour. Then Peter opened his eyes and said, "We shall meet again tomorrow evening. Come to our compound in the Old City after Temple prayers."

C H A P T E R

SIXTEEN

THE NEXT EVENING, Martha arrived in the small room bearing a tray of food and drink. She set it down beside Abigail's pallet and lowered herself onto the stool. She reached out to smooth back the damp tresses from Abigail's face. "Try and eat a little," she said. "You must keep up your strength."

Abigail barely nodded. In truth, she had no appetite. "I ... I still don't know. I know what I want, but I still don't know what the Lord wants for me."

"And you need not," Martha said with certainty. "Not yet. You simply need to trust, take each next step by faith. You will know what is right when the time comes."

Abigail nodded, tears starting again. She could feel Martha's worn hand smoothing her hot cheek. Martha's eyes held a promise that she would be there for as long as Abigail needed her.

At the sound of footsteps and a voice calling, Martha rose to her feet. Abigail could not see the visitor, but she recognized the voice as Stephen's. His words were unclear, but she saw Martha's back stiffen.

"But she can't," Abigail heard Martha exclaim firmly from the doorway. "It's impossible."

Stephen asked, "So what am I to tell Peter?"

"Tell him she is very ill."

"He may still insist-"

"Then I will tell him myself."

Abigail could see Martha push past Stephen and move out of sight.

Abigail stirred uneasily. She should have gone. She should have responded to the apostle's request. Now Martha ... But she had no need to worry about Martha. She was no more intimidated by Peter than she was by anyone else. Still, Abigail wished no difficulties. Not for anyone in their community. But all she could do was to lie there and endure the pain-and wait.

Linux arrived at the torchlit compound where he had last seen Alban. He was directed to a long table where the Judean merchant was already seated. Linux had assumed he would again face his rival's hostility but seated himself and did his best to ignore the Judean's glare. Thankfully, none of the others milling about the compound seemed to share the merchant's antagonism, at least not tonight. Linux consoled himself that his desire to wed a Judean lass was not unique. Alban had accomplished that very thing. Why could Linux not do the same? So he had returned that evening with the intention of presenting himself and asking what they would have of him.