A Stray Drop of Blood (36 page)

Abigail could feel her hatred curling up within her, pounding with every beat of blood through her veins, rising and rising until she had no choice but to scream. “No! Kill Barabbas! Spare the teacher!”

Her voice was lost in the continuing thundering from the people, but the prompter behind her must have heard her. “Quiet, woman!”

She turned to face him and saw a man whose dress labeled him as a religious leader. Her fury now had a focal point. “I will not! What has the teacher done to deserve death? Nothing!”

The man was aged, but robust. His gray hair and beard were still full, and his face was hard and unforgiving. “The decision has been made, woman. Barabbas is being released, and Jesus will be crucified.”

“
No!” Her voice choked on the sob of rage in her throat.

The religious leader looked disgusted with her. “Stay out of politics, wench. Go home to your husband.”

A heated gush of breath brought words spewing forth. “My husband is dead. And the man you just insisted be released so that your political agenda could be met is the man who killed him.”

The man’s cold eyes narrowed. “Barabbas killed no one but Roman wretches.”

“
He killed my husband! He killed his father! They were the best men I knew–”

“
Roman whore!” The man recoiled from her as if from a serpent. His eyes flew to her stomach. “Is it a Roman whelp, too?”

She was shocked enough by his words to be rendered speechless for a moment. In her second of inaction, the man seized her by the arm and began pulling her toward the doorway that would lead into the fortress. “I will show you what traitors deserve.” He dragged her unwilling form where he wanted it. No one took any notice, just cleared out of the leader’s way and then filled the gap when he went by.

“
Let me go! You are hurting me!” His hand was in a death lock on her arm, and the more she struggled against his grip, the more bruising it became. He ignored her appeals.

He stopped in front of the exit from the fortress and gave her a jarring shake. “Hold your tongue.” Turning with expectation to the opening, they waited only a few seconds before the pounding of footsteps was heard.

Abigail’s heart leapt into her throat. She knew now why he had dragged her over here. Barabbas was being released, and this was where the guards would leave him. The murderer would come, and the man beside her would offer her to him, telling him to finish what he started so well during the uprising. For some reason this stranger, this man supposed to lead her people, hated her enough to want her and her child dead. Was it because Jason was Roman? Or because she had objected when he told the crowd to crucify Jesus?

She was inflamed enough to ask but was not given the chance. The commotion within grew louder, and three figures emerged. Her focus was drawn to the central man. He was still dressed as a prisoner. His clothing was old and threadbare, his hair wild and unwashed, and his body bent from hunger and abuse. His face was dazed, and he blinked in the sunlight, the expression he wore one of confusion and astonishment.

“
Barabbas,” the man holding her said as if he knew the man, “congratulations on your release. Did I not tell you it would work this way?”

Barabbas just looked at the man before him, slumping when the soldiers who had led him out let go of his arms.

The leader pushed Abigail forward, hatred burning in his eyes. “This is what we are all fighting to avoid! A Hebrew wench bearing a Roman whelp. The men you killed were her husband and father.”

She expected Barabbas to leer, to lunge, to do something in keeping with the rage that had fueled an uprising. Instead, he looked at her with absent pity. “I am . . .” His voice faded as though he forgot he was speaking. He looked around, his eyes brightening with life and filling with a strange sort of terror.

When they fell on Abigail again, she could not bring herself to throw upon him the hatred she had felt half a minute ago. All she could feel now was the same unbridled panic, the sudden alarm of finding oneself in a situation foreign and unpredicted.

Even before he moved his gaze away from her, Barabbas’s feet started moving. Soon, his whole body followed, and he was running away from them and the crowd behind them as quickly as possible. The religious leader snorted in disgust and strode back into the crowd. Abigail stood where she was left, staring after the retreating figure of her husband’s killer.

“
Go home, Abigail.” The voice was cold and angry, and its familiarity did not register until she looked over to find Titus only a few feet away, his face a thunderhead of wrath. She could understand it. He wanted to watch the death of a man and instead had been ordered to set him free. Yes, she could understand it. But quite suddenly her soul was an empty chasm in which such emotions vanished in their endless search for a resting place. She stared at him as if not comprehending his words.

“
Go home. This is no place for you.” When still she stood immobile, he growled. “Now! I have no time to see you to safety. I must supervise the crucifixions.”

She nodded, even turned away from him, put one foot in front of the other. But she knew not where she was going. Home lay somewhere in that direction, but it was on the other side of a sea of people who would not part for her and was still cheering.

“
Crucify Jesus!” she heard them shouting.

“
His blood will not be on my hands.” Pilate dipped his hands in a basin of water.

“
Let his blood be on us and our children!” someone called out loudly. The new chant was taken up.

Abigail closed her eyes. Why would they wish the blood of an innocent man upon their people? She did not want her child to suffer for their desires.
She
did not want to suffer for their unwise choices. For centuries, her people had been paying the prices of their fathers’ sins. It had to end. She did not wish the death of the teacher. She did not know him, she could not judge him. Why did these people decide they could?

Tired, drained of her anger, all she wanted was to go home. She wanted to sit beside Ester, she wanted Dinah to force her to eat, she wanted Andrew to admonish her for her foolish foray that had come to nothing. She would tell the sad news, and they would sit together quietly, wondering what Cleopas would have said, what Jason may have thought of it. What did it mean, that their Christ stood defeated?

But nowhere in the Holy Scriptures themselves have I heard or read of a king come to triumph over nations. I have heard only of a savior come to be defeated. . . It would not be an absolute defeat, friend, just an apparent one.

Her own words from over a year ago echoed now through her mind. Giving up her endless struggle through the masses, she paused in thought. What was it the Scriptures said of the messiah? She did not remember so clearly anymore. She had not studied the Law much in the past year, she had thought about it no more often. Could it be that her master was right? Could this possibly be the fulfillment of the prophesied victorious defeat?

She could not know. She was no interpreter of prophecies, and there was no one to teach her now. Overwhelming helplessness welled up in her then, and her shoulders sagged.

The crowd surged. Caught in their midst, Abigail had no choice but to follow or be trampled. She did not know where they were going and could not bring herself to ask anyone. Each face she looked into was unconscious of all but the excitement. Cries still leapt from throats, arms were thrown up as if in celebration, and everyone pushed forward at once.

She was smaller than most of those around her, men who ignored her presence, and she could see nothing of where she was going. Soon, though, she knew. She had come out this morning intending to make this journey, and her plans were to be fulfilled after all. They were headed out of the city, to Calvary. There, the holes were already dug for the crosses. There, more people were already gathered for the day’s spectacle. She began to feel sick.

The journey seemed to last for hours, though it could not have been very long at all before they all arrived at their destination. Once there, the mob dispersed, everyone going to find a good place to watch the executions. What was it about the grisly display that drew men so? It was a well documented phenomena–even Plato had discussed it in Socrates’ voice, speaking of the raging battle within a being that inspired him to watch the horror even while another part shrank from it.

Abigail shrank entirely. She did not want to be here. Maybe now that the crowd had loosened, she would be able to go home. She turned back quickly toward Jerusalem to pursue that theory and ran headlong into a solid body. The man reached out to steady her.

“
Careful,” he said in a voice far softer than the others she had been hearing all morning.

Abigail looked up into his face. It was familiar, though it took her a long moment to place him. “Jairus?”

The man’s brows drew together even as his hands dropped from her arms. “Do I know you?”

She shook her head. “I met you once, a year ago. I am Ester’s companion. You told us of your daughter.”

“
Ah!” He smiled, the expression looking out of place with the milling mob as a backdrop. “I remember you now. You have changed.”

She flushed, her hands moving automatically to her abdomen. “I married her son. He and Cleopas were both killed in the uprising.”

Jairus looked shocked by the news. “I had not heard. I knew Roman soldiers were killed, I knew that one was a high official. If I had known, I would have come. How is Ester?”

“
Not well.” She shook her head “She has no will to live. I fear for her. Perhaps it would do her good to see a face from her past.”

“
Of course. I will try to come this afternoon. If I cannot make it, then the first of the week, after the Sabbath.” Then his brows drew together again as he surveyed her condition. “You should not be here, my friend.”

The reminder of where she was brought the agitation back. “I know. I was caught in the crowd. I am on my way back now.”

But Jairus shook his head and pointed to the road leading back into Jerusalem. There were figures on it marching with military precision, and the sound of a drum could be heard faintly over the many voices around her. “They are coming with the prisoners. There will be no escaping now. I would take you home, but I . . .” He hesitated, looking distraught. “This man changed my life. I must be here. So many are here in hate, I want to try to balance it. I want to see what becomes of Jesus.”

Abigail nodded wearily. “Cleopas believed he was the messiah.”

“
I would have gotten along well with Cleopas,” Jairus mused, as if to himself. Then he shook himself. “Stay by my side, my friend. This mob is unpredictable, and I would not forgive myself if something happened to Ester’s daughter.”

“
Thank you.” Tears sprang to her eyes. She blinked them away and swallowed with difficulty.

Jairus put a hand on the small of her back to guide her in the direction he had been going before their collision. “We will stand there,” he said, pointing. “I know the routes they take, and it will put us on the edge of where they will walk. We will be near when they pass by, and I will be able to see my savior once more before they–the crosses will go there,” he interrupted himself, pointing at the top of the hill, uncomfortably near where they stopped.

Abigail nodded numbly, staring with revulsion at the spot where in a few minutes men would hang. Right now it was empty but somehow ominous, much like the dark clouds gathering on the horizon.

The drums grew louder as the procession neared, and a deadly hush fell over the crowd. It parted around the path, and Abigail realized with horror that Jairus had been right in his predictions–they were suddenly on the very edge of the mass of onlookers, standing with toes on the road. She wanted to close her eyes against the coming visions but knew she could not. She was here, so she must watch. She must watch so she could tell of the event to her family. They would be worried about her, and she would give them the full explanation. Eyes wide and aware, Abigail turned with her protector to catch sight of the soldiers and the prisoners in their midst.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Andrew had met Drusus only a handful of times over the years he had served Cleopas; the cousins had never been friends but had kept up a hint of the connection for the sake of their family name. Now, he expected the man to arrive with a swagger–if Abigail’s child was a girl, Drusus would stand to inherit the entire Visibullis estate, a property considerable and expansive, including not only the house and land in Jerusalem, but also all that in Rome.

But Drusus arrived with no knowing smile, with no strut in his step. He arrived tired and obviously worried, a man quite different from the one Andrew had met before.

“
I am sorry I was so long in coming,” the physician said as he and Andrew hurried through the city, taking back alleys to avoid the crowds flocking the government buildings. “I planned to set out the day I received your first missive, but my wife fell ill. She, too, passed away only a week ago.”

Shame mounted fast. “Lord, we did not realize. We would not have sent for you–”

Drusus halted his apology with a raised hand. “She was a bitter and tired woman. I would be lying if I said it were not a relief. But I had to see to the arrangements, the funeral. I set out for Jerusalem as soon as I decently could. How does your mistress fare?”