The Master's Quilt (18 page)

“There’s no controlling what I witnessed last
night,” countered Deucalion with a conviction that at once
disturbed Pilate but also reminded him of why he had asked that the
Praetorian be assigned to him. “If Saul’s fanaticism is allowed to
continue unhampered, and if he has the support of the Legion, then
there is truly little hope for Rome. We cannot participate, even
nominally, in such madness and remain unaffected.”

“You know, there are those, my young friend,
who accuse me behind my back of being self-seeking and cowardly,”
replied the Procurator, barely controlling his anger.

“Others argue that although I’m able to
perceive what is right, I lack the ‘moral strength’ to follow
through with what I believe rather than simply executing my orders.
Well, last night’s undertaking should convince even my staunchest
detractors that I have Rome’s best interest at hand, no matter what
my own beliefs may be.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I was ordered by Vitellius to ‘remedy the
dilemma in Judea.’ And that is exactly what I’m doing. If that is
self-seeking, then I readily admit to it. Who among us is not? As
for cowardly,” he shrugged, “I leave that for the historians to
decide.”

Antonius reappeared, interrupting the
conversation. “The High Priest has arrived, Procurator,” he
announced.

Angered, Deucalion asked, “What is he doing
here?”

“Have you forgotten? Last time we met I told
you that I’d arranged a meeting with Caiaphas to find out what is
happening within the Sanhedrin. I’ve heard odd rumors—”

“What kind of rumors?”

“I’ll tell you about them later, after my
meeting with the High Priest.”

Deucalion ignored the attempted dismissal.
“Does Caiaphas know you’re once again on speaking terms with
Antipas?” he asked, determined to find out as much as he could
before leaving.

“I doubt it. He wouldn’t be here if that were
the case. That would be a bit like walking blindly into the lion’s
den, would it not? At any rate, even if he suspects something, the
information you obtained from Doras should distract him.”

Deucalion fought nausea churning within his
belly. Pilate would find out from the High Priest that the
information from Doras was old news. And he knew that it would do
no good now to tell the Procurator that he’d spied upon the meeting
of the Great Council. That information would only serve to make him
more a suspect than he would be when the truth of last night’s
events became known.

And the truth
would
become known. Of
that he had no doubt. Once Pilate had the scent of a scandal, he
would ferret it out. If it had the potential to affect his chances
of retiring to a villa outside Rome, he would eliminate the
problem—permanently.

“I don’t want Caiaphas to see you here,” said
the Procurator. “Wait outside on the balcony and listen. I want
your opinion of what’s said.”

T
he hot season had
already made its debut in Jerusalem by the time
Tam’muz
,
July, made its appearance on the Hebrew calendar. The air was still
and clear, the heat intense.

The sky was as brass, the earth as iron.
Wind, when it came, usually heralded from the northwest, although
sometimes it blew from the east. On rare occasions, a
khamseen
blew in from the south.

The wheat harvest was in full swing in the
mountain districts. Time was precious to the barley farmer; springs
were drying up and vegetables were withering and dying on the vine.
Bedouins left the steppes for the more succulent mountain pastures
as Judea rapidly became dry and hard; a dreary wasteland of
withered stalks and burned up grass.

Thank God for the morning dew
, thought
Esther. Without it there would be no relief from the heat. She
worked the sticky dough between her hands vigorously. She loved to
bake, and now she had plenty of time to do just that. Deucalion had
been gone for almost a week, and during the time he had been away
she heard nothing from him. She wondered if he would ever return.
Part of her was fearful because he was, after all, a Roman
Praetorian. And yet, in spite of her fear, she was drawn to him.
There was something
different
about him—something that
touched her spirit.

She didn’t have the same feelings about
Joseph, though he was a Jew. She wondered why. Joseph was a good
man, and she cared about him, but not in the same way she cared
about Deucalion. Now that her friend was fully recovered, he was
spending more and more of his time in the company of the apostles
of Jesus. He also left behind a number of leather scrolls, wrapped
in linen—scrolls he said belonged to an old man he’d met in the
caves on the shores of the Great Salt Sea, just a few miles east of
where she now was. He asked her to watch over them until he decided
what to do with them.

Outside the small house a pair of swallows
sang a cheerful musical tune. “What an impossible situation,” she
muttered, adding leaven to the dough so that it would rise when
heated. She began to hum to herself, keeping tune with a previously
unknown melody that suddenly filled her head, trying to push
thoughts of Deucalion from her mind.

Abruptly, she heard a muffled
rap! rap!
rap!
at the front door. Startled, she wiped her hands on her
apron, and then smoothed her hair.

“Who’s there?” she asked, uncertain what she
would do if centurions were at the door.

“Deucalion—”

Relieved and excited, she unlatched the door
and opened it, and then hugged Deucalion fiercely. Tears of joy
slid down her face and left tiny tracks in the flour that had
settled there like a fine coating of dust.

Deucalion returned her unexpected hug, a look
of surprise on his face, and then suddenly realized how much he had
missed her while he was in Jerusalem.

“I thought you’d forgotten about me,” she
said, her face buried in his chest. “Or worse—”

“Worse?”

“You could have been making some sort of
arrangement with my father—”

Deucalion grasped her by the shoulders and
pushed her away from him so that he could look at her, then
laughed. His eyes danced with pleasure as he soaked up the sight of
her. In the light of day her jade green eyes shone like crystal.
They reminded him of the perfect pair of oval emeralds mounted in
gold that Claudia, Pilate’s wife, wore as earpieces.

“You find that amusing,” she said with mock
indignation.

“Not at all. It’s just that you’ve either
aged considerably since I last saw you, or perhaps I simply failed
to notice the streaks of gray in that beautiful black hair of
yours.”

“It’s the flour,” she said and used a clean
corner of the plain white apron she wore to wipe her face. “Tell
me, what did you find out while you were in Jerusalem?”

The smile on Deucalion’s face vanished. He
stepped inside the clean, well-kept house and closed the door
behind him. “I’m afraid I’ve some bad news, Esther,” he said
wearily.

Esther walked over to the small table where
she had been working and sat down, pushing the dough and flour to
the side.

Deucalion could tell by the look on her face
she was expecting bad news. “Your father,” he began with a sigh,
“once I was finally able to talk with him, was convinced something
horrible had happened to you. When I told him you were alive and
safe, he was relieved. I told him I knew you were his daughter, and
that shocked him. He asked me how I knew and I told him the truth,
but only part of it. I left out the details of what happened at the
woodworker’s shop, saying only that I managed to get you away from
the meeting before Saul could harm you.”

Esther stared at him with glistening eyes.
“And his reaction?”

“His whole expression changed in an instant.
One moment he was relieved, the next he was subdued and pensive. He
listened quietly, then was silent for some time before he
spoke.”

“You must tell me what he said.”

“Esther—”

“Tell me! I
must
know.”

“He said that you had disgraced him; that he
could no longer call you by his name. He finished by saying that
you would never be allowed to set foot in his house again.”

The silence in the room was thick, almost
suffocating.

Esther stared out the window, a blank look on
her face. Her body was so rigid that Deucalion immediately thought
of a
Shit’tah
tree, standing resolute in the midst of a
raging wind. Realizing she was not going to respond to what he
said, he continued. “Before I spoke with him, your father knew
nothing of the incident at the woodworker’s shop. That surprised
me; I thought for sure Caiaphas would have informed him
immediately, if for no other reason than to gloat.”

Esther’s head snapped around. “Why do you say
that?”

“Because it was the High Priest who had you
followed.”

“How do you know?”

Deucalion told her.

When he finished she said, “So it’s true,
then. My father
is
conspiring with Herod Antipas to unseat
Caiaphas as High Priest.”

Deucalion nodded. “The two of them have been
subtly manipulating the Sanhedrin for some time. The crucifixion of
the Nazarene gave them the perfect opportunity to make their move.
Your father was supposed to garner enough support from the
Pharisees and dissident Sadducees to unseat Caiaphas and wrest
control of the Sanhedrin from Annas. Three weeks ago he openly
challenged Caiaphas in a special meeting of the Sanhedrin. But he
failed.”

“And how is it you know what happened in the
Sanhedrin?”

Deucalion remained silent.

Esther raised her hand to her mouth, unbelief
registering in her eyes. “
You were
there
?” she
exclaimed, stunned. “No gentile has ever been present at a meeting
of the Council. But yes, I can see the truth in your eyes—”

“I disguised myself as a Jewish merchant and
hid inside the Hall of Hewn Stones. Had I been discovered and
caught—”

“You would have been killed on the spot,” she
interrupted, astounded at his accomplishment. “The inner Temple
Square, around the sanctuary itself, is a consecrated area. It’s
holy ground.”

Deucalion shrugged. The incredible feat
seemed unimportant now, in light of recent events. “It was
something I had to do. I needed first-hand information.”

“But how did you understand—?” Esther
stopped. “Of course! The night you rescued me. I spoke Hebrew and
you answered me in my own language!” She stared at him intently a
look of concern on her face. “There’s something I must tell you,”
she whispered, “something I tried to tell you that night in the
meadow, but couldn’t—because I was afraid.”

“Of me?”

“No. I was afraid of what you might think.
But now . . .” She paused. “Doras is not my father!”

Deucalion frowned.

“That is, he’s not my
real
father. .
.” she continued rapidly.

• • •

“How could you be so stupid?” Antipas
bellowed at Doras, like a cobra spitting venom.

“Your own daughter a believer—infected with
the damnable blasphemy that is spreading like a plague among our
people.”

Doras stood mute before Antipas’ rage,
seeking refuge in silence. His face was drawn and haggard, and his
whole body was on the verge of shaking uncontrollably.
Oh, how
bitter the sweet water has turned
, he thought, fighting nausea.
Curse the day that Persian Bedouin, with his ebony eyes of fire,
came into my life.

“This is just the sort of thing that Caiaphas
needs to solidify the support of the Pharisees,” continued the
Tetrarch as he gathered his robes about him and paced nervously.
Even though it was the middle of the afternoon, the room was dark
and foreboding, like the lair of a wild animal. After several
minutes, he stopped abruptly and whispered in a trembling voice,
“The sins of the father. . .”

“What?”

Antipas turned and glared at Doras. There
were dark circles beneath his sunken eyes.

“Just before my father died, rumors
circulated that he in fact was already dead. Believing the rumors
to be true, two Pharisee teachers of the Law incited a group of
their students to climb to the Temple roof in the middle of the
day, and remove a large, solid gold eagle that had been affixed to
the front entrance.

“My father had commissioned the huge bird,
representing the Imperial Roman Eagle, as a political gesture to
Augustus, his benefactor. However, the extremists among the
Pharisees decided that the Temple had been desecrated. They claimed
that the eagle, being an image of a living creature, violated the
second commandment forbidding graven images.”

“But that’s foolishness,” interrupted Doras.
“The commandment only forbids the worship of graven images. Even
Solomon’s Temple was adorned with figures of bulls, lions and
eagles.”

“Of course, you idiot, but my father was
extremely disliked and offense was easily taken, whether it was
justified or not,” Antipas said as he walked over to a small table
upon which sat a flagon of wine and two leaded goblets. He filled
one of the goblets to the top and drank half of it down. Some of
the wine spilled onto his robe, staining it red above his
heart.

“What happened?”

“The fools hacked the eagle to pieces, while
a crowd on the street below cheered them on. My father demanded
that the perpetrators present themselves before him. The two
teachers and their students, along with a group of notables from
the community, appeared before his sickbed.”

At this point, Antipas did something
unexpected: he assumed the role of his dying father, speaking with
the voice of a demented, bitter, arrogant old man. “You ungrateful
cowards! Not only did I rebuild the magnificence of Solomon’s
Temple for you, adding to its splendor by reconstructing it as it
was in the time of Zerrubbabel, but I also kept the Romans off your
backs in the process. I’ve done more for you in a few short years
than the Hasmonans did in a century. And
this
is how you
repay my diligence? What have you to say in your defense?”