The Hidden Flame (7 page)

Peter looked satisfied with this solution, and Abigail nodded dumbly. She assumed she was now excused and rose from her place. Already Martha was a few steps in front of her.

They were almost to the stairs when Martha spoke over her shoulder. "Now, haven't I just served up a day-old fish? I was seeking to ease our load-and what happens? Peter goes and dumps more on your shoulders than anyone should need to carry. I'm so sorry, Abigail. I never should-"

Abigail reached for her arm. "Don't trouble yourself so, dear Martha. I don't mind. Really I don't. I am happy to serve the widows. And orphans. It's a task that with the Lord's help I can do. It's an honor to participate in this way."

Martha shook her head, her expression saying she refused to be comforted.

"I will miss working alongside you," Abigail hurried on. "But we will still see much of one another. I will be in and out all day long. You'll get tired of me meddling in your kitchen. I will-"

"That's enough now," Martha said. "I know you are just trying to make the best of the situation. I interfered, and I am reaping the harvest. And that's final!"

"Actually," Abigail dared to add, "once I am used to the idea, I think it is a good one. It does take much of the work from the kitchens. It also lets the widows and their children feel like families even in their difficult situations."

She hesitated. "And I do think that once I learn how to do it, I will love serving in this way."

"Humph" was Martha's response.

"You know," said Abigail, tilting her head, "I've got a feeling this new duty might be even better than the wash tubs."

Martha "humphed" again, but this time there was a twinkle in the eyes that turned to meet Abigail's.

It wasn't until the quiet of the night that Abigail was able to think through what had just happened. She was to be an overseer-in an important role. Oh, not a true overseer perhaps. There would still be those above her. Stephen in charge of the storehouse. The Council. Peter. But still, she had just been given a significant task.

The idea challenged her. Even frightened her. Could she do it? It was a large responsibility. What if she failed? The widows needed daily rations, as did the children without parents. There were many who had no remedy for their situation except for the community of believers. Daily she had noted these two groups as they came and went. Daily her heart ached as she watched them.

Sad, empty faces, with babes in arms or young children clutching at their skirts. Or children totally on their own. Even as their faces lightened as they worshiped, she still saw their grief. They grasped for some sign that would give them hope.

She felt honored, deeply honored, to be asked to serve in such a way. Perhaps, with the Lord's help, she would be able to bring some comfort, some encouragement, to those who came for help.

"0 Lord God," she breathed fervently, "may I be able to serve as you served when you were with us. I will joyfully lend my hands, my heart to the task before me, in your name. Strengthen me to serve. Give wisdom. Supply the means to meet the needs. Make me a blessing to all whom I touch, I pray with thanksgiving."

C H A P T E R

FIVE

THE TWO WOUNDED SOLDIERS slowed down Linux and the troop considerably. They did not approach Jerusalem until just after sunset on the third day. Jerusalem at dusk was stunningly beautiful. Torchlight and twilight's final glimmer turned the city walls the color of molten gold. A rising moon in the east washed the Kidron Valley in silver and stark shadows. Somewhere within the Temple compound, a trumpet sounded the signal for evening prayers. The city seemed to float upon its hilltop, a lustrous crown to the fading day. Despite the beauty, however, the troops did not ease their hands from their weapons until the first rider saluted the sentry guarding the Sheep Gate.

Linux returned to the chambers he had shared with Albanseemingly a lifetime ago-above the fortress stables, though he certainly could have commanded more auspicious quarters. The Antonia Fortress was the first major structure completed by Herod the Great, father of Herod Antipas and the man responsible for the rebuilding of Jerusalem's Temple. Linux left his respects with the night duty officer, glad he did not have to deal immediately with the gruff commandant, and made an official request for troops to be placed at his disposal the following morning. One glimpse of the scroll with the imperial eagle he carried was enough to have the commandant's aide saluting and promising that all would be as Linux requested.

He ate a leisurely supper and lingered in the baths attached to the fortress, soaking away the dust and the bruises. Then he began his quest.

Linux tried to tell himself that all he wanted was to determine the location of his friend, the former centurion. But in his heart he knew otherwise.

The fortress was a brooding hulk, separated from the Temple's western wall by a lane that was always in shadows. That night the lane was so empty Linux's footsteps echoed off the stone underfoot and the walls to either side. But up ahead the major thoroughfare connecting the Temple entrance to Herod's Gate teemed with activity.

Linux felt his heart rate surge as he approached the packed avenue. The Zealots' attack was fresh enough for him to be more aware than ever of the danger the city held for a Roman walking alone and unarmed. But Linux could not bear arms and go where he wished that night. So he accelerated his pace until he was a half step off running. He glanced at every passerby, every shadow.

He was neither challenged nor threatened, though he felt eyes on him everywhere. Linux feared he might not even find the place he sought, for his three visits had been over two years ago. And he had never made the trek at night. Nor could he ask directions, as he did not know the square's name, if it possessed one at all. What was he to say to a suspicious Judean? That he, a Roman, sought the courtyard where the followers of the dead prophet gathered?

Linux walked until he feared he had missed the turning or had taken the wrong route entirely. The city's poorer quarter was a stone-lined warren where even Temple guards walked in threes, and rarely at night. He was about to turn back when the familiar stairs appeared to his right, as broad as the fortress lane, scarred by centuries of feet. The steps climbed to just beneath the city's interior wall. He arrived at the pinnacle and surveyed the empty plaza. Linux had only seen it teeming with people and burnished by the desert sun. But he knew he had arrived.

The first time he had been there, an intense discussion had swirled from every side. How these Judeans loved to talk-about news of the day and politics, but mostly about their religion! Linux recalled that momentous day when he had led Alban to meet his fate. Pontius Pilate could well have demanded the centurion's head. Yet Linux's friend had walked alongside him, speaking quietly of the Judean prophet.

Linux took a deep breath of the night's dry, dusty odors. The early spring rains were long gone. The worst heat was still ahead of them. It would not rain again for six long months.

As his thoughts continued, Linux felt as though Alban had moved up alongside him. He heard anew the questions for which there were no answers, about forgiveness and love and a living God. The words resonated inside his head as he looked around him for signs of life.

Then he heard quiet conversation and saw the glimmers of light around the edges of a door.

Linux walked over to the tall double doors, obviously locked. Up close he heard the sound of many voices. The last time he had been there, these doors had been wide open, the crowd so dense the plaza's air had seemed compressed. The prophet's followers had been celebrating the wedding of his friends, and Herod had sent his guards to arrest them. Four days later, Linux had been ordered back to Italy. He had heard nothing of Alban since then.

Linux knocked on the door. Instantly the conversation inside went silent.

A small portal at face level was unlatched. The door, about a foot across, was laced with iron bars, preventing a sword or spear from stabbing through. A bearded face studied him for a moment, then demanded, "What is it you want?"

An unseen man from within hissed, "Who is it?"

The bearded man squinted through the barred portal as he replied, "A Roman."

Linux said, "I come in peace."

The man was as tall as Linux with the features of a worker. Or warrior. "It is late, Roman. What do you want?"

"I mean no harm to any of you," Linux said, raising his empty hands. "I come seeking word of a friend."

The man was dubious. "This friend, he is a follower of the Way?"

Linux had never heard this term before. But now was not the time to inquire about its meaning. "His name is Alban. He is married to Leah."

From behind the man, a woman's voice said, "The Roman speaks of my guardians."

The man did not take his eyes off Linux. "He speaks of the God-fearer?"

"The same. May I have a word with him please?" The voice trembled a bit.

The bearded man frowned his reluctance at Linux, then slowly stepped away.

At first glimpse of the young woman who replaced the man, Linux's heart began to thump.

The iron bars framed an exquisite face. And the eyes ... As she drew the covering up over her lower face, a single curl of brown hair emerged from the traditional Judean shawl. "Forgive me, sire, I have forgotten your name."

"I am Linux." She was far lovelier than he recalled. The dark eyes frankly met his gaze, the voice sounded musical even when turned shy by this stranger. "Forgive the intrusion. I come in peace, seeking word of Alban and Leah."

"They are not here."

"Are they safe?" His voice was rough with emotion, as if he had run a fierce race.

"They are." She smiled, and her face grew lovelier still.

Someone from within said, "Abigail?"

She backed a step.

"My lady, please, can you at least tell me where they are?"

"We do not speak..." Her name was called again, more sharply. She swiveled the small door shut, saying, "I must go."

Linux stared at the closed portal. The young woman had left behind the scent of lemons and some spice, perhaps myrrh.

He whispered the name. "Abigail."

Reluctantly, he turned away, shoulders sagging in defeat.

C H A P T E R

Six

THE NEWS EzRA SOUGHT came from the most unexpected source. "My own sister?"

Sapphira was the youngest of their clan. "An unexpected jewel," his mother had always called her, which was how the name had been chosen. Sapphira had married into a family of Jerusalem merchants. It was from their compound that Ezra did business whenever he was there in the city. He sat now in the chamber he had taken as a headquarters for himself, and stared across the table strewn with documents and samples of wares, and tried to come to terms with what he was hearing. "You? A follower of this dead prophet?"

"If you ask among the followers, my brother, they will tell you he is not dead."

"Who? Who says such a thing? The man was crucified. By the Romans. You think suddenly these masters of death and mayhem made a mistake? Or changed their minds?"