The Master's Quilt (16 page)

“What about Saul?” she asked, her voice
trembling. “I’ve heard my father speak of him. He won’t rest until
he identifies and deals with all who were at the meeting
tonight.”

“I thought you didn’t have parents—that you
were a slave.”

“Is that what Doras told you? That I’m his
slave
?”

Deucalion flinched. “Is he your husband?” he
asked, fearing the answer.

Esther began to weep, and her whole body
shuddered. Between sobs she managed to speak. “I
am—not—a—
slave
. And I—am—not—
married
.”

Deucalion wanted to comfort her, but didn’t
know how. It was an awkward moment.

After several minutes, Esther regained
control. “I’m sorry,” she said, wiping the pink-stained tears from
her cheeks with the back of her hand.

Seeing the bleeding cut on her cheek for the
first time, Deucalion tore off another piece of his tunic. He stood
up and gently wiped the bloodstained tears from her face. “If I
have to do this much more this evening, I won’t have a tunic left,”
he said, trying to make light of the situation.

Esther managed a smile.

“There. I hope I didn’t hurt you. The cut
isn’t deep. In a few days you won’t even know it was there.” When
he finished, he let his hand linger on her shoulder for a
moment.

Her body trembled under his hand. She looked
up into his smiling face and shivered.

Deucalion thought she might be getting cold.
“It’s time we got you home,” he said softly as he glanced at the
eastern horizon.

“I can’t go home,” she whispered. “That’s
what I’ve been trying to tell you.”

“I don’t understand,” said Deucalion,
realizing for the first time that her eyes were a magnificent jade
green color, with variegated specks of blue, like an agate.

“Doras is my father,” she replied softly,
running the words together. “I can’t disgrace him, no matter what
might happen to me.”

Moved by her plight, Deucalion grasped her by
the shoulders and stared deep into her eyes. He was immediately
lost in the jade-green ocean of her doubt.

“In spite of his love for me he won’t be able
to forgive me this transgression,” she continued. “His faith is all
he’s ever really possessed.”

“But he’s your
father
. Surely he’ll
understand.”

Esther said nothing.

Deucalion’s mind raced. The fact that this
woman was a Jew, and he a Roman, was of no consequence to him; he
never allowed himself to slip into the rhetoric of bigotry, much
less the hypocrisy of self worship. And even though she had
ventured into extremely dangerous waters by associating with the
disciples of a man whom both Rome and the Jews feared, the
difficulty, if handled properly, could be overcome. But the fact
that she was the daughter of Doras was something else all
together.

“I knew you’d hate me if I told you the
truth,” she whispered, pulling away, and turning her back on
him.

“I don’t hate you, Esther. I barely know
you,” he replied.

She turned around when she heard his soft
words. “Then why are you so quiet all of a sudden?”

“I’m thinking.”

“About what?”

He smiled crookedly. “Why do women always do
that?”

“Do what?”

“Demand to know what a man’s thinking?”

“Because we’re not as unintelligent as men
seem to believe and we often have some very good solutions to
problems that men assume only
they
can figure out.”

“Oh?”

“Have you ever heard of a woman named
Rahab?”

He shook his head.

“But you
have
heard of Joshua?”

“He was the guy who led the army that
defeated Jericho. You Jews believe he caused the sun to stand still
for a whole day.”

“No,” Esther corrected, “we believe God made
the sun to stand still for a whole day; Joshua simply heard and
obeyed God.”

“So what does this woman have to do with
Joshua?”

“See, I’m already proving my point. Rahab was
a harlot who lived in Jericho at the time the Israelites entered
Canaan, and she was responsible for saving the men Joshua sent to
spy on the great city. She hid them among flax stalks on her roof
and then told the officers sent to find the spies that they’d left
the city before the great gates were closed.”

“The rest is history, as they say.”

“Please, I’m trying to make a point.”

“Sorry. Go on.”

“The story is important to Jews because it
illustrates that when confronted with the choice of submitting to
the king of Jericho or obeying God, Rahab, a woman who was looked
down upon by all in her city, chose to serve God. Because of her
faith, she became part of the genealogy of the
Christos
.”

Deucalion flinched. “Who?”

“
Christos
. It means ‘the Anointed One’
in Greek.”

“I know what it means, but who was this
‘Anointed One’?”

Esther swallowed hard and answered, “Jesus of
Nazareth. The man you Romans crucified two months ago—”

Deucalion staggered backwards, as if he had
been struck.
What
was going on here?

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Nothing—” He couldn’t believe how both of
the conversations he’d had tonight ended with the mention of the
Galilean. Earlier with Saul, and now with Esther. It had to be more
than coincidence. There was no way either of them could know what
he had done—the horrible truth behind his nightmares.

Esther stared at him intently and he sensed
she knew he wasn’t telling her everything. She also seemed to have
shed her earlier fear.

“Listen to me,” he finally whispered. “If I
tell you something, will you promise never to reveal it to anyone?
It could mean both our deaths.”

“I—I don’t know,” she stammered.

“Please. . .I need to talk to someone about
it. But there’s no one I can trust.”

“I’ll listen—”

Deucalion paced and wrestled with his
conscience. He was trapped, hemmed in. He had to be certain he
could trust this woman; there was too much at stake. “We don’t have
much time,” he muttered, more to himself than her. “It’ll be
daylight soon.”
Should he tell her about what happened at
Golgotha, and later at the tomb? Would she believe him?

Suddenly he stopped pacing. It would be
safer, for now, to stay out of those murky waters. “Did you know
that your father has been conspiring with Herod Antipas to remove
Joseph ben Caiaphas from his position as High Priest?” he asked,
pushing the other painful thoughts out of his mind.

“Not exactly,” she replied. “I mean—yes, I
know he desires, more than anything else, to be High Priest; that’s
all he’s spoken about for some time. But I wasn’t aware that he was
conspiring, as you put it, with anyone. I thought he was merely
making himself available for the position,” she finished softly,
hoping he would believe her.

Joseph moaned.

Deucalion had to make another important
decision— immediately. And he had precious little time to weigh the
consequences of his choice. “Is there someone you can trust—someone
with whom you can stay until I can sort this mess out?” he asked
abruptly.

Esther pulled at the strands of her long,
dark hair nervously. “I have a friend—a Jew who, like me, is a
believer. She lives alone, just east of the city, off the road to
Bethany. I might be able to stay with her.”

“Help me get Joseph to his feet. I’ll take
both of you there.”

“What about you? Your men will surely want to
know what has happened to you. You told the centurion you were
taking us to the garrison for questioning.”

“I’ll worry about that later; right now I
need to get you and your friend someplace where you’ll both be
safe.”

P
ontius Pilate held
Deucalion’s sword in his left hand and gestured vehemently at
Antonius with his right. “What do you mean no one knows where he
is? He’s the Commander of the Garrison. Praetorians do not simply
vanish into the night, never to be heard from again!” he yelled,
furious with his cowering servant.

Antonius stepped backward, out of the reach
of Pilate’s shaking fist. “He hasn’t been seen since he left the
woodworker’s shop,” replied the servant. “One of his men spoke to
him during the melee and he told the centurion that he was taking
two prisoners to the garrison for questioning. He never
arrived.”

“Prisoners? What kind of prisoners?”

“An injured man and a woman.”

“Jews?”

“The centurion didn’t say, master. He only
indicated that they disappeared into the night.”

Pilate’s initial rage began to subside as he
considered the possibilities.

“Disappeared, you say?”

Antonius remained silent and shrugged his
shoulders in reply. “Find Malkus immediately and tell him to report
to me at once,” said the Procurator, walking over to the balcony
and staring down at the Royal Bridge.

Antonius did not move, alerting Pilate that
he had a further message for his master.

Without turning around, Pilate asked, “What
else?”

“I would remind you that you have an
appointment with the High Priest this morning. He’ll be here
shortly.”

Under his breath, Pilate cursed. He had
completely forgotten about Caiaphas.

He had gone to great lengths to arrange a
surreptitious meeting with the High Priest. His predecessors had
set precedent by dealing directly with Antipas, letting him be
responsible for the conduct of the members of the Sanhedrin. He
grudgingly acceded to that precedent, although not out of any sense
of loyalty or duty. Antipas’ weakness was his lust for power and it
was precisely because of that lust that he was able to control the
Tetrarch.

The meeting he had arranged for today,
however, was an additional safeguard. He considered the irony of
the situation. Not only was he using Antipas to subjugate the
priesthood, but he was also using the priesthood to insure that
even if Antipas failed, Pilate would have a scapegoat.
Rome is
not going to crucify me as it did the rabbi from Nazareth
, he
thought.
I’ve ruled this cursed mote of dust and death for seven
years and what have I to show for it? Nothing but nightmares. It’s
time these Jews return some of the blood they have leeched from
me.

He stared morosely at the soft haze that
cloaked the distant mountains. The thick, gray-white mist reminded
him of the vapors that rise up from the surface of a stilled lake
as the chill of dawn caresses the warm, languid water. His gaze
kept straying, however, and he had to force himself not to look at
the bridge. He feared the madness he found within himself whenever
he remembered what had happened there.

Nevertheless, the memory flooded his mind
unbidden, as it had done repeatedly for the past two months. In his
mind’s eye he could see the blood that flowed unceasing from the
Nazarene’s wounds. The ruby-red river had permanently stained the
white marble stones that made up the long walkway over which Jesus
had been paraded before the jeering mass of people. His face
battered beyond recognition, his back flayed by the scourge, the
Nazarene had struggled mutely under the back-bending weight of the
heavy wooden cross.

Even now, the Procurator imagined he could
hear the blood of the Rabbi calling out to him from the ground.
Strangely, the voice was not one of retribution, but one of
forgiveness.

But in his heart he did not want forgiveness.
He wanted to be in Rome, living as a Roman, preferably as a retired
General—not here in Judea, living as a tortured shadow of the
soldier his father had raised him to be.

“Thank you, Antonius,” he said finally with
uncharacteristic politeness. “Inform me when the High Priest
arrives, but don’t send him in immediately.” The glaze of hardness
in his eyes stood in marked contrast to the soft, controlled timber
of his voice as he added brusquely, “I want him to squirm.”

“You want whom to squirm?” asked Deucalion,
his voice tired and fractured with resignation.

Pilate turned and gasped. “What in the name
of Caesar happened to you?”

“What happened may have been ordered in the
name of the Emperor, but it’s not something a Roman soldier can be
proud of,” replied the younger man wearily, sitting down at the
marble table Pilate used for his desk. His tunic was torn and
shredded in places, as if he had been attacked by some sort of wild
beast, and there were copper colored stains smudged with sawdust
and dirt, remnants of the spattered blood of dying believers.

“It was a bloodbath, Pontius. Saul is mad! He
slaughtered helpless men and women—people who had done nothing more
than gather to worship their God.”

“Get hold of yourself, Deucalion,” Pilate
snapped. “You’re babbling.” He studied his commander briefly,
knowing there was something he was holding back. “Where have you
been since you left your men last night? And why am I in possession
of this?” he asked angrily, holding up Deucalion’s sword.

Deucalion watched Pilate’s rage kindle with a
detachment he would not have thought himself capable of two months
ago. Normally, he would have made a concerted effort to calm his
superior, perhaps even to interject a joke to lighten Pilate’s
intensity.

Today he was too tired—more fatigued than he
could ever remember being. The sight of his sword, its sharp edged
luster dulled by the coating of dried blood smeared along its
length, made him sick to his stomach.
What is happening to
me?

“What is all this talk of madness and
slaughter?” berated the Procurator. “I expected you to report to me
early this morning, but not in this condition,” he continued,
gesturing futilely at Deucalion. “I sent Antonius to find Malkus; I
thought the Jews had murdered you!”