The Master's Quilt (7 page)

He started for the doorway when something
caught his eye. He looked up and glimpsed the face of a dark-haired
woman watching him from the portico above the veranda. He raised
his hand to shield out the glare and blinked, then looked closer.
The woman was gone, leaving nothing but shadows dancing across the
gypsum-coated, sun- dried brick walls. “Must be the heat,” he
muttered and strode forward.

The first thing he noticed as he entered
Doras’ house was the cleanliness; there didn’t seem to be a speck
of dust anywhere. And that was most unusual, even for a Jew, since
Jerusalem was a very dusty city. The second thing he realized was
that Doras was not a poor man. The small home was filled with a
variety of expensive rugs, brass and copper lamp stands, and marble
furniture.

Dinner was served in the main living area. He
sat opposite his host upon cushions covered with very expensive
carpets from Persia. Half a dozen large brass lanterns, overlaid in
gold, provided light. During the meal the two men enjoyed casual
conversation covering a variety of topics. As the servants cleared
away the last few dishes Doras said, “I must say Deucalion, you
intrigue me. Previous to this evening I would have thought our
conversation much too arcane for the Roman soldier’s mind,
preoccupied as it must be with military matters.”

Deucalion smiled nonchalantly at the subtle
way Doras sought to establish control of the conversation. “Not all
soldiers are as pragmatically blind as our detractors would have
you Jews believe. Some of us even fill our idle hours studying
Hebrew history.”

“Oh?”

“You Jews believe in a god called Satan,
correct?”

“Satan is no god, Praetorian. He is
consummate evil.”

“Then why do your Holy Scriptures refer to
him as ‘a son of the morning fallen from Heaven,’ a god wrongly
worshiped?”

“Surely you’re not suggesting—”

“And did not the god you call ‘Jehovah’
promise in the Garden of Eden that the one who would ‘bruise the
head’ of the serpent, Satan, would come through the lineage of
Abraham?”

Doras grew agitated. “Where did you get this
information, and why are you taunting me with it?”

“I assure you my intent is
not
to
taunt you, Doras.”

“What then?”

“Merely to make a point.”

“I’m listening.”

“You are an
Edomite
, are you not?”

Doras flinched. “So?”

“The Edomites are descendants of Esau, the
eldest son of Isaac, correct?”

Doras nodded.

“Well then, you of all people should
understand. The Edenic promise of the one who would crush Satan was
fixed in the family of Abraham. Let’s see, I believe the lineage
should have been Seth, Shem, Abraham, Isaac, and
Esau
. But
that was not to be, was it, Doras? Esau sold his birthright—for a
bowl of pottage, no less. His younger brother,
Jacob
,
received the irrevocable blessing instead.”

Doras was livid. “This is intolerable. I will
not allow a Roman soldier to insult me in my own home.”

“Forgive me. . .I thought we were discussing
why you invited me here tonight.”

Doras reached for his goblet of wine and said
angrily, “I don’t understand your point.”

“Esau’s bitter hatred towards his brother
Jacob for fraudulently obtaining his blessing was inherited by his
descendants. When the great Babylonian king Nebuchadnezzer besieged
Jerusalem, the Edomites joined forces with the Assyrians. They took
an active part in the plunder of this city and the slaughter of its
Jewish residents. I believe you are a direct descendant of the man
who led the Edomites.”

Doras gasped. “But how—”

Deucalion smiled. “I have my ways, just as
you and the Sanhedrin have yours. The point is, you are not happy
with Joseph ben Caiaphas as High Priest. Knowing that Pilate is
extremely unhappy with him as well because of what happened during
the Passover, you wish to align yourself with us so that we might
help you remove Annas’ puppet. And you hope to convince me that
your plan will serve our interests as well as your own.”

Doras glared at Deucalion, but remained
silent.

The Praetorian resumed his explanation. “Now
that we understand one another, perhaps you would care to elaborate
on why you invited me here tonight.”

“Out on the veranda,” grimaced the flustered
Jew, rising unsteadily. “I need fresh air.”

The veranda wasn’t large, and the only pieces
of furniture were a small wooden table and two cushions. Both men
chose to remain standing.

Deucalion gazed up into the clear sky and
stared at the full moon. He was relieved to be outside; the
atmosphere in the house had been cloying. Truth be known, he was
not very happy with himself because of the way he had berated
Doras. Yet, he’d had to do it.

The older man would be stunned if he knew
that the Praetorian had a gift for languages, and had mastered not
only Greek and Aramaic, in addition to his native Latin, but Hebrew
as well. It was a secret few knew, one that gave him a tremendous
edge in dealing with the Jews.

There were times when he almost believed he
could think as they did.

Doras would be easy to manipulate. Although
the aging Jew was not a Pharisee, he thought and acted like one. He
served the law of his people diligently only because he knew he
could profit by it. Other Jews referred to men like him as
Shechemites
, so named after the son of Hamor, who seduced
Jacob’s daughter, Dinah, only to be brutally killed by her
brothers, Simon and Levi.

“Everything a man does depends on fate—and
God,” said Doras after taking several deep breaths. “And everything
that happens in the world takes place through God’s providence.
That being the case, it follows that in human actions, whether good
or bad, the cooperation of God is implicit. So you see, your
intimation that my blood is tainted because of my ancestry
evidences your complete lack of understanding of our religion.”

Behind them, inside, the servants
extinguished the lanterns.

“And what about a man’s
will
?”

Doras smiled. “God allows spontaneity. It
pleased Him that there should be a mixture; that’s why He added the
will of fate to human will.”

“As a sort of balance between virtue and
baseness, no doubt.”

“Exactly.” Doras regained his composure. “For
one who is not a Jew, you are indeed quite perceptive.”

Deucalion ignored the implicit arrogance of
the statement. “Perceptive enough to know that there are serious
political problems within the Sanhedrin, and that is why you sent
me that cryptic note.” He also knew all too well that the
Israelites went out of their way to avoid all contact with a
heathen, lest they be defiled. This evening was indeed
extraordinary.

Doras turned from his perusal of the city and
faced Deucalion. “Political problems, as you put it, are, for those
who subscribe to the Pharisaic tradition, not political at all. The
Pharisees in the Sanhedrin are not a ‘political party’ as you
Romans think of such. Their aim, that of insuring strict adherence
to the law, arises from religious,
not political
motivation.”

Deucalion let his host continue, as if his
revelations about Jewish government were new to him.

“As a group, the Pharisees are comparatively
indifferent to politics. However, there are others within the
Sanhedrin who do not share our sentiments. Consequently, the
Council is divided.”

“In what manner?”

“The Pharisees, scribes, and other elders who
support me agree with the idea of divine providence.”

“Ah, the idea that we Romans occupy Judea
only because it is the will of your God.”

“That’s only a small part of it.”

“Go on.”

“Rome’s power over us is a
chastisement
of God that must be submitted to willingly.
Thus, so long as we are not prevented from the observance of the
law, the harshness of your occupation must also be borne
willingly
.”

“Why is that?”

“Because it is the will of God.”

“That seems rather fatalistic.”

“I suppose to the Roman way of thinking, it
is. But we Jews know that one day the Messiah will come and set us
free. You see, Deucalion, we believe that there is nothing that
cannot be accomplished by faith.”

“Yet you crucified the one man in your whole
history who claimed to be that Messiah.”

“The Nazarene was a blasphemer,” replied
Doras angrily. “Nothing more—nothing less. However, his death has
produced some unexpected fruit.” He grew suddenly pensive.

“You said there were two groups?”

“A few Pharisees and most of the Sadducees,
among them Annas and Caiaphas, believe that Israel must acknowledge
no other king than God alone and the ruler of the house of David,
whom God has anointed. For them, your supremacy is both
presumptuous and illegal. Therefore, the issue for them is not
whether obedience and payment of tribute to Rome is a duty, but
rather whether or not it is legal.”

“How does all of this relate to your problem
with the High Priest?”

Before Doras could answer him, the most
beautiful woman Deucalion had ever seen interrupted them.

Because only a solitary lantern lighted the
veranda, the immediate brightness of the flame mellowed into a soft
glow just beyond Deucalion’s depth of vision. It gave the illusion
that at the point of blending the light had no real ending and the
darkness no real beginning. The raven-haired woman stepped into
that dull glow as if she were stepping out of eternity and into
time.

“Why have you disturbed us?” Doras asked in a
gruff voice.

“I thought the two of you might be thirsty,
so I brought a flagon of dandelion wine,” the woman replied.

“Put the wine on the table and leave us. And
do not interrupt us again.”

The woman did as she was told. Then, without
a further word or glance, she left them to their business.

Deucalion stared after her, watching her long
black hair dissolve into the darkness. Her voice sounded like silk
rustling in a gentle breeze, and the appraising look he had seen in
her eyes made his heart pound. “Who is she?” he asked, amazed at
the effect the woman had upon him.

Doras studied Deucalion a moment before
saying, “She’s a married slave.”

Something in the abruptness of his tone
warned Deucalion that Doras was lying, but he could think of no
good reason to tell him so. Instead, he stared into the darkness
that had absorbed the woman and wondered about the truth.

D
eucalion left Doras’
house well after midnight, and his thoughts were like miniature
ships tossed about upon a choppy sea of dandelion wine. Doras had
shocked him with his revelation of the conspiracy between himself
and Antipas. Yet, in spite of the significance of that piece of
information, the Praetorian could not shake the vision of the
incredibly stunning black-haired woman.

Who is she, really?
he wondered.

He did not believe for a moment she was a
slave. She was far too beautiful, too noble. Besides that, the look
she gave him before Doras had commanded her to leave had not been
the glance of a married servant. She was no timid wife stealing a
glance at an unusual houseguest. Her eyes had shined. They radiated
a lustrous, but soft light that seemed to push back the darkness.
And in the few seconds of eye contact he had seen interest and
excitement in those sparkling eyes. His curiosity had been roused
to the point of distraction. Or maybe it was the dandelion
wine.

Suddenly his head exploded in pain.

He was knocked to the ground, gasping for
breath. In rapid succession he received several harsh kicks to his
ribs. He tried to stand and fight, but was repeatedly knocked to
the earth. The wine dulled his reactions and made him easy prey. He
tried to focus on his attackers, but all he saw were four blurred
figures. What he could see, however, caused him to gasp.

Centurions!

His mind raced.
Why would members of the
Legion attack
him?
What madness possessed them?

Once more he tried to stand and fight, but
was again pushed off his feet. More humiliated than hurt, he rolled
himself into a tight ball. He had to protect his head and ribs.

His attackers remained silent throughout the
beating. Upon his submission to their punishment, the blows became
less pronounced, even cursory.

As abruptly as it had started, the attack was
over.

He lay in the dust, groaning. Blood trickled
out of the corner of his mouth. His right eye was swollen shut, and
struggled to breath, as if he’d been kicked in the chest by a
horse.

One of the attackers reached into his robe
and pulled out a small purse of gold and silver coins, then threw
the bundle into the dust near Deucalion’s face. The bag of money
landed with a soft
thud
, sending a small puff of dust into
the air.

Deucalion coughed and spit red saliva. One of
his teeth was loose, and he fought the nausea constricting his
stomach.

From the darkness to his right came a harsh
voice. “You will take the money, Praetorian, and you will not make
trouble.” A different voice, this one on the left, said, “All of us
except you agreed to take the money and be silent. We do not want
to hurt you further, but we will do what is necessary if you
persist in challenging the inquest’s findings.” A third, muffled,
voice came from behind him. “There was
no resurrection
. You
saw nothing unusual at the tomb. The body was stolen by thieves,
perhaps even by the stranger you encountered when you arrived at
the tomb.”

The fourth assailant spoke, and his was the
only voice that sounded vaguely familiar. “Enough! Remember,
Praetorian, the investigation is concluded. You’ve been
warned!”