The Master's Quilt (24 page)

“How do you know he was a Jew?”

“Because I followed him to the Temple and
watched him disappear inside.”

“What does all this have to do with our
problem?”

“A week later I received instructions to
select two of my best men and meet a fourth centurion near Antipas’
residence, just before sunset.”

“Who gave that order?”

Malkus looked shocked. “I thought
you
did.”

“What?”

“But the scroll—”

“Was it signed?”

“No, but it had your seal on it.”

“By all the gods, this smells of Annas,”
snapped Pilate. “What happened when you met this anonymous
centurion?”

Malkus’ legs trembled as he told the
Procurator about the ambush.

“You fool!” bellowed Pilate. “Deucalion acted
on my orders. He went to that house to gather important information
on Caiaphas and the Sanhedrin. The Jew who lived there gave
Deucalion valuable information on the High Priest’s plans to
disrupt our administration of Judea,” he shouted, then realized by
the look on Malkus’ face he had said too much.

Angry with himself for losing control and
entrusting his secret to a man he barely knew, he walked over to
the marble table and poured himself a goblet of wine, hoping it
would dull his throbbing headache. He took several gulps, then
walked over to the balcony and stood, looking out beyond the Royal
Bridge, straining to see the distant mountains through the
blue-gray haze.

Invariably his gaze was drawn to the Temple.
“It has to be Annas,” he muttered. “No one else would have the
audacity to meddle in my affairs so brazenly. He is the only one
who could possibly have known about Doras
and
have the ear
of Vitellius.”

Pilate turned and faced Malkus. His eyes were
cold points of steel. “You will never discuss this matter
again—with anyone—on pain of death. Is that clear?”

Malkus nodded obediently and averted his
eyes.

“I want you to find Deucalion,” continued the
Procurator. “You know his habits—how he thinks. And when you do,
make sure his death is swift and, above all, quiet. I want no
evidence, no curious spectators. Is that clear?”

“Perfectly clear—”

“Whatever else he may be, Deucalion is first
and foremost a Praetorian. As such, he deserves to die with
dignity.” The harshness suddenly left Pilate’s voice. “Be careful,
Malkus. Deucalion is a formidable enemy, especially when he
believes in something.” He paused and sighed, then whispered, “And
he passionately believes in what he saw and heard that morning at
the Nazarene’s tomb.”

“Is that all?”

“Not quite. I want you to go back to that
same house you followed Deucalion to and arrest the man who lives
there. His name is Doras.”

“What about the girl?”

Pilate glared at him and replied in a voice
as void of emotion as when he had been speaking about the moon,
“When you find them, kill her as well.

• • •

The summer was barely half over and already
it had indelibly etched itself into Deucalion’s memory. In the
space of four short months his life had changed forever. There were
moments when he imagined that if he were to meet himself in the
streets of Jerusalem, he would not recognize himself.
The old me
is no more and the new life within me grows steadily stronger
,
he thought, then stood up from the table, and walked over to the
window.

He stared at Abigail’s garden, deep in
thought.

He had been up all night reading the
parchments, occasionally stopping to stare at the waning moon. Now
it was early afternoon and the sun reigned unchallenged in the
heavens.

Abigail had gone shopping in the city and
Esther had gone to see her father. “I can’t just leave without
telling him how I feel,” she said just before dawn. He agreed, and
told her to be careful, then added, “Be sure you are back before
twilight. We have to leave here tonight. Pilate has many spies. If
he doesn’t already know about this house, he soon will.”

The door opened behind him.

“I’m leaving for Joppa,” said Barnabas as he
entered the small home. “Before I go, you must tell me your
plans.”

Deucalion turned and replied, “You’re right
about the parchments. They
are
incredible. But I don’t
understand why you’ve given them to me.”

“Who knows whether you have come to the
kingdom for such a time as this?”

“What?”

Barnabas smiled and sat down at the table.
“It’s a quote from the book of Esther. She lived during the time of
King Ahasuerus.”

“I’ve studied about him. The Greeks call him
Xerxes. He was a Persian monarch whose kingdom extended from Media
to Ethiopia.”

Barnabas nodded. “Ahasuerus was married to
Queen Vashti, an extraordinarily beautiful woman. However, Vashti
failed to honor her husband and rebelled against him. Consequently,
Ahasuerus ordered his advisors to seek out a virgin to be his new
queen.

“A Benjamite by the name of Mordecai had been
carried away from Jerusalem by Nebuchadnezzar, king of Babylon, and
taken to Shushan, the capital of Persia. Mordecai had raised
Esther, because her father and mother were dead. When the king’s
decree was published, Esther was among the virgins brought before
Ahaseurus.”

“What does all this have to do with me?”

“Patience, my friend. Esther so impressed the
king that he made her his wife and queen. Not long after, Haman,
one of the king’s trusted advisors, and man who had nothing but
scorn for Jews, conceived a plan to destroy all the Jews in
Ahaseurus’ kingdom. Mordecai informed Esther of Haman’s plan, but
she was reluctant to go to the king because she was fearful.
Mordecai pointed out to her that if Haman’s plot were successful,
not only would her people be destroyed, but she also, because she
was a Jew. He also prophesied to her that if she failed to speak
out, God would provide another to deliver the nation of Israel, but
if that happened, she and her father’s house would be
destroyed.”

“And her decision?”

“She prayed and fasted, and God gave her a
solution. The Jews were saved from extermination, and Haman and his
ten sons were hung. A yearly feast was instituted to commemorate
our deliverance under queen Esther.”

“The Feast of Purim,” muttered Deucalion,
overwhelmed by the magnitude of God’s sudden revelation to him.

“You know it?”

Deucalion shook his head. “No, but Esther
told me about it the night I rescued you two from Saul.”

“It seems a great deal happened that
night.”

“More than you know, Barnabas.”

Barnabas stood and walked to the door. “It’s
time I left for Joppa.”

“I still haven’t answered your question.”

“Maybe not in words, Deucalion. But I can see
the answer in your eyes. . .and I believe God knows your heart.
That is all I need.”

Deucalion stuck out his hand. “Goodbye,
Barnabas. The Lord be with you.”

Barnabas turned and grasped Deucalion’s hand.
“One last thing before I go,” he said. “I lived for a time in a
cave, at the edge of the Great Salt Sea. You and Esther can hide
there until you decide what to do. No one will bother you. The only
people who frequent the area are the Essenes, and they keep to
themselves, shunning all contact with the world.”

“How far is it?”

“Two days walk. I’ll tell you how to find
it.”

“We’ll need food and water.”

“Water is no problem; there’s a small, hidden
spring. Food you’ll have to acquire along the way. I take it you
have some money?”

Deucalion smiled and reached inside his
tunic. “How fitting that the Tribunal shall finance this
adventure,” he said, lifting the small bag of money from his
belt.

• • •

“Hello father,” Esther said as she walked out
onto the veranda.

Doras had been gazing intently at the city
below and he turned at the sound of his daughter’s voice. “What are
you doing here?”

“I came to say goodbye. Deucalion and I are
leaving the city.”

“You’ve been with
him
the last two
weeks?”

“No, Father. I’ve been living with another
outcast.”

“You look healthy.” He didn’t add,
for one
who is an outcast
.

“We’ve managed. . .and the Lord is
faithful.”

Doras flinched. “Where will you go?”

“It’s best you don’t know.” Esther stared at
her father, surprised that he wasn’t angry. She’d expected him to
yell at her, at the very least. But he seemed distant, as though
his thoughts were far away. Her heart went out to him. “I’m sorry I
failed you,” she said, searching for the right words to express
what she was feeling.

Her father sighed heavily. “It is not you who
has failed me, my little
hadassah
. It is I who have failed.
The Sanhedrin. . .you. . .and most of all, God.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Sit,” he said and motioned for her to take
one of the cushions, then sat down across from her.

“Where are the servants? They should be
preparing dinner.”

“Gone—”

“Where?”

“It’s not important now. What is important,
however, is something I should have told you a long time ago.”

“Father—”

Doras raised his hand and said, “Please, let
me finish. I have wanted to share this with you since your twelfth
birthday, but because of my selfishness, I never found the time.
It’s about your real father—and how you came to be my
daughter.”

“You never lied to me, did you, about my
being adopted?”

“No, Esther, I never lied to you—I just
didn’t tell you the whole story. For that I am truly sorry.”

“Oh, Father, I wish we had had this
conversation sooner. So much has happened in the past few months.
I’ve grown up in ways I never thought possible.”

“And we have grown. . .
apart
.”

“It doesn’t have to be that way anymore.
Deucalion and I don’t have to leave. We can—”

Doras shook his head. “It’s too late,
Esther.”

“What do you mean it’s too late?”

“As always, you ask too many difficult
questions. Let me tell you what I haven’t had the courage to tell
you about your father.”

“All right, but then you must explain to me
why you’re behaving so strangely.”

“I’ve told you many times how Rachel became
sick in the sixth month of her pregnancy and lost our child. And
that we traveled to Caesarea Phillipi where we met your father—a
Bedouin.”

Gabriella nodded.

Doras continued as if it had happened
yesterday.

He and Rachel walked down one of the side
streets of the city situated near the base of Mount Hermon. It was
late afternoon, just before twilight, and they were on their way
back to their lodgings, when he noticed the tall, broad-shouldered
man with dark, almost black skin staring at them.

Oddly, Doras wasn’t afraid, even though he
carried a large amount of money hidden inside his robe. The
stranger reminded him of a very old olive tree. One that had borne
much fruit in its time and was near the end of its productive
life.

The man approached them boldly, his hands
stretched forth in greeting, as if he’d just encountered a pair of
long lost friends. When he was only a few feet away, Doras noticed
a long scar that ran from his left ear, along his jaw line, and
ended at the top of his adam’s apple. It was jagged and wide, and
obviously very old, because there was virtually no discoloration
between it and the rest of his wind-burned face.

“I’ve watched you closely these past three
days,” the stranger said, addressing Doras in broken Hebrew. His
voice was clear and crisp, almost melodious. “And it seems that
your wife is most unhappy. I come from the desert, and I am also
acquainted with the kind of grief your wife harbors inside her
belly.”

“What do you know of our grief?” replied
Doras, speaking in Aramaic.

“Thank you,” said the stranger, positioning
himself between Doras and Rachel and taking each of their arms in
one of his. “It is much easier if we converse in Aramaic. I know so
very little Hebrew.”

They continued walking, arm in arm, and Doras
was too astounded to be afraid. He glanced at Rachel and saw that
the man equally mesmerized her.

“My wife died a few days ago,” continued the
stranger as if he were sharing sad news with old friends. “But, God
be praised, in her death she left me life—a daughter.”

“Why have you come to us this way? And why
are you telling us all this?” Doras asked, starting to feel
foolish.

The stranger stopped walking. “I’ve seen your
wife staring at the children in the streets,” he replied, then
sighed heavily. “You, like my wife, are Jewish and God spoke to me
and told me to give you my daughter.”

“You’re mad!” said Doras, grabbing Rachel by
the arm. They started to leave and the stranger stopped them with
his words.

“God also told me that the ones I seek prayed
for a child and conceived, but lost the baby in the sixth month. He
instructed me to bring my infant daughter here to Caesarea and seek
out a man and woman of your description.”

Rachel gasped, as if she had been struck.
Doras was about to rebuke the man sternly when his wife asked, “How
do you know it was God who spoke?”

The stranger stared at them for several
moments. That’s when they both realized how unusual the man’s eyes
were. His eyes were dark brown, almost ebony, with specks of gold,
shimmering with an odd kind of light that seemed to reach out and
envelope them. Both had the sense that they were standing next to a
brightly burning fire, fueled by coals of the purest power they had
ever experienced.

“There is no other voice like the Voice of
God,” the man replied. His words were soothing, like a cool balm
applied to a throbbing, burning wound. “I was praying to Him for
guidance, asking him what to do with the girl-child after my wife
died, when suddenly my tent was filled with smoke—but there was no
fire.