An Echo in the Darkness by Francine Rivers
“It’s almost sunrise,” Alexander said. “Patients will be gathering outside soon.”
His jaw set. “You must send them away.”
Alexander’s mouth tipped at his tone. “Are you sure you were a slave, Rashid, and not a master?” He held up his hand and added, “You are right.” He took a writing tablet and wrote a short message on it. “Put this outside on the ledge. We will hope those who come can read.”
Rashid read it.
“Does it meet with your approval?” Alexander said dryly.
“Yes, my lord.”
When Rashid came back inside, Alexander nodded toward the small cedar box on the counter. “Take a look,” he said, sprinkling sand on his notes.
Rashid opened it. He took one of the gold coins out and turned it in his fingers. An aureus. “A fortune,” he said.
“Habinnas prizes his wife’s life very highly. There’s enough there to rent an apartment and buy more supplies.” His mouth flattened. “I have a feeling we will be needing both soon.”
Rashid put the coin back in the box and closed it. “Yes, my lord. Tonight opened a new path. Hadassah touched that woman and brought the child forth. Magonianus saw. He will tell others . . . and those others will come.”
Alexander nodded grimly. “I know.” He poured the sand back into the small bowl. “As long as her compassion was limited to commoners or slaves like you, we’ve had no problem other than more patients than we can handle. Now there’s danger.”
Rashid’s gaze darkened. “Magonianus moves in exalted circles.”
“Yes, as do the masters who sent Hadassah to die in the arena,” Alexander said, seeing Rashid fully comprehended the threat. He rolled the scroll and tucked it into a cubicle above the writing table. “As Hadassah said, legally she still belongs to those who purchased her.”
“You are also in danger for harboring her, my lord.”
Alexander hadn’t considered that. “There’s that, too, I suppose. The problem is what do we do now? She has a valuable gift, and there are many who need it.” The thought of what could happen if Hadassah’s owners discovered she was alive propelled Alexander from his stool. He paced in frustration. “I’m not about to give her back to anyone who sent her into the arena to die, no matter their reasons!”
“Find out their names, and I will kill them.”
Astonished, Alexander stared at him and saw the dark fierceness in the Arab’s eyes. “You leave me in no doubt you could do such a thing,” he said, appalled. He shook his head. “There are sides to your character that worry me, Rashid. I’m a physician, not an assassin. I strive to save life, not take it. In that, Hadassah and I are alike.”
“I will protect her, whatever the cost.”
“Hadassah wouldn’t approve your means of protection. In fact, it would cause her tremendous grief.”
“She need not know.”
“She would know. I don’t know how, but she would.” He looked at Hadassah, lying asleep on the mat. “She’s a strange one. She can see into people and know things about them. She says it’s only because she listens and looks, but I think it’s more. I think her god reveals things to her.” She had curled on her side like a child. He stepped over and gently removed the veils, exposing the disfiguring scars. Gently he touched her marked face, careful not to awaken her. “The fact that she’s alive is a testimony to her god’s power. My abilities as a physician wouldn’t have been enough.” Straightening, he looked at Rashid. “Perhaps we should leave it to her god to go on protecting her.”
Rashid said nothing.
Alexander looked at the fathomless face. “Do you know why she covers herself?”
“She is ashamed.”
Alexander shook his head. “She has not one particle of vanity in her. She covers her scars because they disturb others. No other reason than that. People see the mark of the lion on her. They fail to see what it means.”
He bent down and smoothed back the tendrils of hair. His heart ached for her. From the moment he had seen her walk into the middle of the arena, he had been drawn to her. She was like the slaves at the Asklepion: cast away and forgotten, her life meaningless in the scheme of things. And yet her sweetness and humility were like a beacon to Alexander’s heart—and to many others. Scarred and broken, Hadassah had a resilience that defied reason. Sometimes the love she expressed to a patient by a light touch or softly spoken word pierced him. It was the love he wanted to show . . . the love he seemed to lack.
He cared. Hadassah loved.
He shook his head in wonder. How was it possible for anyone who had been through what she had suffered to be the way she was?
“I’ve never known anyone like her, Rashid,” he said, rubbing a strand of dark hair between his fingers. “I will do nothing that would displease her.” He was startled to realize that his voice was shaking with the intensity of his emotions, and he straightened quickly. He looked at the Arab, staring hard into his dark eyes. “Nor will you.”
“I have sworn to protect her, my lord.”
“Then protect her, but do so in a manner pleasing to Hadassah and not yourself.”
“My life belongs to her. Because of that, I can’t let someone take hers.”
Alexander’s mouth tipped. “She would say your life belongs to her god, just as hers does.” He let out his breath and rubbed his neck wearily. “Don’t ask me for answers. I haven’t any. Perhaps we are only borrowing trouble. Nothing may come of tonight, neither opportunity nor threat. Let’s get some sleep. We can face whatever comes much better with some rest.”
But rest was elusive.
Alexander lay awake, thinking, going over and over the night’s events in his mind. Wonder over what had happened mixed with a troubling confusion when he considered the intensity of his feelings at the thought of Hadassah being in danger. He tried to tell himself that it was only natural he be worried. After all, Hadassah was a capable and valuable assistant. But something deep inside told him there was much more to it than that.
Finally someone knocked on the partition and called out an appeal in Hebrew. Alexander recognized a few words and knew it was not him for whom the man called, but Hadassah. Apparently, Rashid was having equal difficulty sleeping, for he rose swiftly and opened the partition just enough to speak to the intruder upon their sleep.
“You fool! Can’t you read?”
“I must speak with Rapha.”
“The physician has left the city and will return tomorrow.”
“Rapha. I want to speak to Rapha.”
“She’s not here. Go away! There are other physicians at the baths. Take your trouble to them.” He shut the partition firmly and lay down on his bed again, his face rigid as he saw Hadassah had been awakened.
She sat up, rubbing her face. She grimaced as she looked toward the crack of light coming through the partition. “It’s morning.”
“No,” Rashid lied. “The moon merely shines.”
“So brightly?”
“Go back to sleep, my lady. There is no one to disturb you.”
“I heard someone—”
“You heard no one,” he urged gently. “You were dreaming you were back in Judea.”
She rubbed her face, then raised an eyebrow at him. “If I was dreaming, how is it you know they spoke in Hebrew?” She reached for her veils.
Alexander got up. “I’ll look,” he said, fully aware she couldn’t ignore someone’s plea for help no matter how badly she herself needed rest. He stepped over her and went to the partition. Peering out the crack, he saw a man walking away dejectedly. “There’s no one standing outside,” he said truthfully.
“You’re sure?”
“Absolutely.” He went to the back of the booth, where he took down a skin bag. Pouring water into Hadassah’s small clay cup, he added a portion of mandragora and took it to her. “Drink this,” he said, holding the cup to her lips. “You must rest or you’ll be no good to anyone. I’ll awaken you before I open the booth.”
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“Antonia is sleeping as you should be. We’ll go and see her tomorrow.” He covered her again and remained hunkered down beside her until the drug took effect. As soon as she drifted to sleep, he returned to his own mat.
Rashid sat watching Hadassah.
“Rest, Rashid. She won’t wake up for hours.”
The Arab reclined. “Did you hear what the Jew called her?”
“I heard. What does it mean?” Rashid told him. Alexander thought for a long moment, then nodded in satisfaction. “I think we have our answer.”
“Answer to what?”
“How to protect her. Henceforth, Hadassah won’t be known by name, Rashid. She’ll be known by the title just given her. She’ll be known as Rapha.”
The healer.
13
Marcus rode south for Jerusalem, following the road through Mizpah. He continued on to Ramah, where he stopped to purchase almonds, figs, unleavened bread, and a skin of wine. People withdrew from him. He saw a woman gather her children close and hurry them inside a small clay house like a hen protecting her brood of chicks against a predator.
He understood when he saw Jerusalem.
As he rode toward it, he felt the pall of death over the land. All Rome had talked about the conquest and destruction of Jerusalem. It had simply been another uprising successfully crushed by Rome’s legions. Now he saw for himself the annihilation of which Rome was capable.
Crossing the arid valley, he was staggered by what he saw. Where once a great city had stood were broken-down walls and buildings, blackened remains of burned homes—it was a land stripped bare of life. In a wadi behind a mount were tangles of bleached bones, as though thousands had been tossed heedlessly into the pit and left unburied. Two strategic towers had survived the demolition and stood like lone sentinels in the rubble.
Jerusalem, the “Dwelling of Peace,” was peaceful indeed. It had been reduced to an open graveyard.
Marcus made camp on a small hillside beneath a scraggly olive tree. Looking over the small valley, he could see the shattered remains of Jerusalem’s ancient walls. He slept fitfully, disturbed by the echoing silence of so many dead.
He awakened at the sound of hobnailed sandals on rock. He rose and saw a Roman legionnaire coming toward him.
“Who are you and why are you here?” the soldier demanded.
Marcus curbed his annoyance and gave his name. “I’ve come to see the house of the god of the Jews.”
The legionnaire laughed once. “What’s left of it is up there on that hill. They call it Mount Moriah, but it’s nothing when compared to Vesuvius. You won’t find much left of the temple. We’ve torn it down and razed it for materials to rebuild barracks and the township you see over there.”
“Were you with Titus during the siege?”
The legionnaire looked at him enigmatically. “I was in Germania. Under Civilis.”
Marcus studied the man more closely. Civilis had rebelled against Caesar and fought with the Germanic tribes during that brief uprising. Domitian had commanded the legions that brought the frontier back to order. Civilis had been brought to Rome to die and one out of every ten men under his command had been put to the sword in the field. Apparently the rest had been sent to duty stations throughout the Empire. Judea was considered the worst.
“Decimation has a way of restoring one to loyalty,” the soldier said, looking squarely into Marcus’ eyes. “Sending me here made sure of it.” His mouth twisted in a bitter smile.
Marcus stared back at him, unafraid. “I came to see the temple.”
“There is no temple. Not anymore. Titus’ orders were to tear it down stone by stone until nothing was left.” His mouth tipped. “We left one section of wall.” He looked at Marcus again. “Why are you so interested in the temple?”
“Their god was supposed to dwell in it.”
“If there ever was a god here, there’s nothing left of him now.” The soldier’s gaze swept across the stretch of devastation. “Not that Rome will ever convince the Jews. They still come here. Some of them just wander through the ruins. Others stand by that cursed wall and weep. We send them away, but they still come back. Sometimes I think we should tear the whole thing down and crush every stone to dust.” He let out his breath and looked at Marcus again. “Nothing will come of it. There aren’t enough men left in all Judea to make any serious trouble for Rome. Not for generations.”
“Why did you tell me you were part of Civilis’ rebellion?” Marcus asked.
“As a warning.”
“A warning against what?”
“I’ve fought campaign after campaign for twenty-three years so that men like you could recline on comfortable couches in Rome and live a life of ease and safety.” His hard mouth curved sardonically, his hard eyes flicking over Marcus’ expensive tunic and brass and leather tooled belt. “You’ve the stamp of Rome all over you. Take warning. I won’t raise a finger to save your neck. Not here in this place. Not now.”
Marcus watched him walk away. Shaking his head, he picked up his mantle and put it around his shoulders.
He left his horse hobbled on the small mount and went into the ruins. As he picked his way through the fallen stones and gutted buildings, his thoughts were focused entirely on Hadassah. She had been here when the city lay under siege. She had been hungry and afraid. She had been here when Titus broke through. She had seen thousands put to the sword and crucified.
And yet, never once had he seen the look in her eyes that he had just seen in those of a Roman soldier.
She had given the small insignificant coins of her peculium to a Roman woman who had no money for bread. And she had given it freely, knowing the woman’s son had been a legionnaire who had taken part in the destruction of her homeland.
She had lost everyone here, father and mother, brother and sister. Somewhere among these broken-down buildings and the blackened rubble lay the forgotten bones of those she had loved.
The Jews believed their god had promised that Abraham’s descendants would become as numerous as the stars in the heaven. The multitude had been reduced to the thousands, and those scattered across the Empire, yoked to Rome.
Marcus looked around him and wondered how Hadassah had survived at all.
“God has not deserted me.” Her words echoed in his mind.
“Here is the evidence, Hadassah,” he whispered, the dry hot wind stirring up dust around him.
“God has not deserted me.”
Marcus sat on a block of granite. He remembered clearly the first time he had seen her in Rome. She had been standing among other slaves Enoch had brought back from the market—men of Judea, emaciated of body and broken of spirit. And she had stood among them, small, thin, shaved bald, eyes too large for her face . . . eyes clear of animosity, but full of fear. He had been struck by her frailty then, but hadn’t felt pity. She was a Jew, wasn’t she? Hadn’t her people brought destruction on themselves by civil war and insurrection?
Now, here, he saw Roman retribution.
Did any people deserve so great a devastation as this? He hadn’t cared then. Without thought of what a slave girl had been through, he had looked at her and seen nothing to interest him. He had said she was ugly, unaware of the beauty within her, the gentle spirit, her capacity for love and loyalty.
She had been a child during the fall of Jerusalem. As a child, she had seen thousands die of bloody civil war, starvation, annihilation. Men. Women. Children. How many thousands had she seen nailed to crosses around this city? How many more had she walked beside on the journey north to arenas and slave markets?
And still, with evidence of the physical trauma she had suffered and the yoke of slavery around her neck, there had been a sweetness in her face that day in the villa garden. A sweetness that remained unchanged even to that day when she had walked out into the sunlight of the arena, her arms spread.
“God will never desert me. . . .”
Sitting here in this desolate place, he could believe her god had delivered her from certain death as a child. Why then had he abandoned her later when her love of him had been even stronger?
Looking up at the holy mount, Marcus’ mind whirred with questions. He felt strangely connected to this landscape of devastation. In a sense, it reflected the devastation of his own life when he lost Hadassah. The light had gone out in his life, even as it had gone out in Jerusalem. With her, he had felt alive. In her, he had known hope. Near her, he had tasted joy. She had awakened in him a yearning that tore his soul open, and now he was left bleeding in the aftermath. Wounded. Lost.
He clenched his hands. He shouldn’t have asked her to become his wife. He should’ve taken her into his home and made her so. Had he done it, she would still be alive.
Around him, heavy silence lay like a shroud over the ruins of Jerusalem. He could almost hear the screams of the dying . . . the weeping of thousands echoing across the valley.
He heard someone crying now.
Marcus listened and then rose and went toward the sound.
An old man stood weeping before the scarred remains of the temple’s last remnant of wall. His palms and forehead were pressed against the cold stone, his shoulders shaking with sobs. Marcus stood behind him and watched with a sense of inexplicable sorrow and shame.
The man reminded him of faithful Enoch back in Rome, steward of the family villa. Marcus’ father had been tolerant of all religions and had allowed his slaves to worship whatever god in whatever manner they chose. Enoch was a righteous Jew. He followed the letter of the Judaic law. Following the letter of the Law was the very foundation of his faith, the rock on which his religion was built. Yet, Enoch had never had the opportunity to make the necessary sacrifices his laws demanded. Only here, in Jerusalem, would that have been possible. Only here could Enoch have given the appropriate offering to the chosen priesthood to sacrifice on the consecrated altar.