An Echo in the Darkness by Francine Rivers
Now, nothing was left of that hallowed altar.
Pax Romana, Marcus thought, watching the old man grieving for what was lost. Judea was finally at peace, and that peace was built upon blood and death. What cost peace?
Had Titus known how great was his victory over the Jews? Had he realized how complete his triumph? He had torn away from them more than buildings; he had ripped the very heart out of their religion.
The people could go on studying the laws. They could go on prophesying in their synagogues. But for what purpose? To what end? Without the temple, without the priesthood, without the sacrifices for the atonement of sin, their religion was empty. It was finished. When the walls of the temple came tumbling down, so, too, did the power of their almighty unseen god.
“Oh, Marcus, beloved, God cannot be contained in a temple. . . .”
Groaning, Marcus pressed his hands over his ears. “Why do you speak to me like this?”
The old man heard and turned. When he saw Marcus, he hurried away.
Marcus moaned. It was as though Hadassah stood beside him among the ruins of this ancient city. Why did the echo of her words come so vividly to life here in this place of death and destruction? He spread his arms wide. “There’s nothing here! Your god is dead!”
“You can’t contain God in a temple.”
“Then where is he? Where is he?” Only the sound of his voice echoed off the remnant of wall.
“Seek and ye shall find . . . seek . . . seek . . .”
Marcus left the shadow of the war-scarred wall and picked his way among the rubble until he found the center of the temple. He stood upon a large half-buried boulder and looked around.
Was this the same rock on which Abraham had laid his son Isaac for sacrifice? Was this the inner sanctuary, the Holy of Holies? Had it been here that the covenant was made between God and Abraham?
Marcus looked out over the hills. Somewhere out there Jesus of Nazareth had been crucified, outside the gates of the city but within sight of the place where the promise had been given. “God sent his only begotten Son to live among men and be crucified for our sins . . . . through this Christ, all men can be saved and have eternal life,” Satyros, the ship captain, had said.
Was it coincidence that Jesus of Nazareth had been crucified during Passover? Was it coincidence that the beginning of the end for Jerusalem had begun during the same celebration?
Thousands had poured into this city for celebration—and been trapped here by civil war and Titus’ legions. Had everything that happened been by chance, or was there a plan and a message to all mankind?
Perhaps if he rode to Jamnia, he would learn something from the leaders of the faith. Satyros had told him a Pharisee named Rabbi Jochanaan had become the new religious leader and had moved the Sanhedrin there. As quickly as the idea came to him, Marcus dismissed it. The answers he needed would not come from any man but from God himself, if God existed. And he wasn’t sure who he was looking for anymore. Did he search for Adonai, God of the Jews, or Jesus of Nazareth, whom Hadassah had worshiped? Which one did he want to face? Or were they one and the same, as Satyros said?
A hot wind blew across the ruins, stirring up dust.
Bitterness filled Marcus’ mouth. “She chose you over me. Wasn’t that enough?”
No still, small voice spoke to him in the wind. No echo of the words Hadassah had spoken to him. Bereft, Marcus’ throat closed. Had he really expected an answer to come from thin air?
Stepping off the slab of dark stone, he kicked a blackened chunk of marble aside and headed back. When he reached the small slope, he sat beneath the shade of the olive tree, hot and frustrated, soul-weary.
He would find no answers here within this dead city.
Perhaps if he saw it from the outside, he would understand why this place was so special to the Jews’ faith. He wanted to understand. He had to.
Removing the hobbles, he mounted his horse and rode toward the hills. For the next three days, he traveled through the wadis, across the valleys, and along the hillsides, looking at Jerusalem from all angles. Nothing commended it.
“O Lord God of Abraham, why did you choose this place?” he said, bemused and unaware he was inquiring of a god in whom he claimed no belief. The hills of Jerusalem were unfit for agriculture, possessed no valuable mineral deposits, held no strategic military importance. It was fully eight miles to the nearest trade route. “Why here?”
“The promise . . .”
“’On this rock will your faith be built . . . ,‘” he said aloud, not remembering where he had heard it. Was it something Satyros had said to him, or something he imagined?
Abraham’s rock, he thought. A rock of sacrifice. That was all Jerusalem had to commend it.
Or was it?
He didn’t care anymore. Maybe he hadn’t come to find God at all. Maybe he had just come to this place because Hadassah had been here and he was drawn to it for that reason alone. He wanted to walk where she had walked. To breathe the air she had breathed. He wanted to feel close to her.
As night came, he wrapped himself in his mantle and lay down upon the earth to rest. Sleep came slowly and with it confusing dreams.
Press on . . . press on . . . a voice seemed to whisper. His questions wouldn’t be answered here.
He awakened abruptly and saw a legionnaire standing above him, silhouetted against the rising sun. “So, you’re still here.” The mocking voice was familiar.
Marcus rose. “Yes. I’m still here.”
“Bethany is two miles east, and there’s a new inn. You look as though you could use a good night’s sleep.”
“Thanks for the advice,” Marcus said wryly.
“Find what you’re looking for?”
“Not yet, but I’ve seen all of Jerusalem I need to see.”
The legionnaire’s smile verged on insult. “Where to now?”
“Jericho and the Jordan Valley.”
“There’s a company riding out to patrol that road in about two hours. Ride with them.”
“If I wanted company, I’d hire it.”
“The death of one fool can cost the lives of many good men.”
Marcus’ eyes narrowed coldly. “Meaning?”
“Rome frowns upon the murder of its citizens, no matter how they dare the fates.”
“On my head be the fault of whatever happens.”
“Good,” the man said with a half smile. “Because I’ve performed all the crucifixions I intend to in my lifetime. Put your head in a lion’s mouth, expect to have it taken off.” He started to walk away and then turned and looked back at Marcus, his hard face oddly perplexed. “Why are you here?”
“I’m looking for the truth.”
“The truth about what?”
Marcus hesitated and then gave him a self-deprecating smile. “God.” He expected the soldier to laugh at him.
The legionnaire looked at him for a long moment, then gave a single, slow nod and walked away without a word.
Marcus rode east toward Qumran. The “city of salt” lay on high ground near the Dead Sea and had once been inhabited primarily by a Jewish sect of holy men called Essenes, who studied and worshiped there. With the threat of invasion, the holy men had departed, hiding their precious scrolls as well as themselves in the caves of the Judean wilderness, leaving the city to Roman troops.
When Marcus reached the junction, he took the fork heading northeast for Jericho. He rode along a deep wadi cut by water erosion into the arid slopes that descended toward the Jordan Valley.
The sun rose hot and heavy, pressing down on him with each hour that passed. Pausing, he removed his mantle and loosened the skin bag from his saddle. He drank deeply and squirted some of the water over his face.
His horse blew out suddenly and sidestepped.
A lizard probably startled him, Marcus thought, leaning down to pat him and whisper soothing words.
Something moved at the edge of his sight, along the rim of the wadi. He studied the spot
He leaned down to secure the skin water bag to his saddle, just as a rock came flying at his head. The horse let out a high-pitched whinny and backed sharply, and Marcus quickly straightened in the saddle.
Four men leaped up from their hiding place along the rim of the wadi and ran toward him. Swearing, Marcus tried to get control of his horse. One of the men scooped up a rock and armed his sling as he ran. Marcus ducked as another rock flew past his head. The horse reared sharply, and Marcus barely held his seat as one of the men reached him and tried to drag him off.
As the horse came down, two robbers went for the bridle. Marcus kicked one man in the face, knocking him back. Another leaped. Dodging, Marcus let the momentum take the man across the saddle and flipped him off the horse.
Terrified, the horse let out another high-pitched whinny and reared again, lifting one man off the ground and breaking the hold of the other. Someone grabbed Marcus from the side. Jabbing his elbow into the attacker’s face, Marcus sank his heels into the horse’s flanks. The animal leaped forward, riding straight for another sicarius in front of him. The man managed to dive to one side out of the way, then, coming to his feet, he swung his sling.
Pain exploded in Marcus’ head as the stone struck its mark. His fingers loosened on the reins, and he lost his balance. He could hear the legionnaire’s words echoing around him: “Put your head in a lion’s mouth, expect to have it taken off.” He felt hands on him, dragging him from the saddle. He tried to fight them off, but it was no use. He hit the ground hard, the breath knocked out of him. As he gasped for air, one of the sicarii kicked him in the head, another in the side. A final kick to his groin consumed him in fiery pain, and he slid gratefully down a funnel of darkness.
He roused far too soon.
“Stinking Roman pig!” someone said and spit on him.
In a haze of pain, Marcus felt hands yanking in a frenzy at his possessions. Someone pulled the gold pendant from around his neck. Another dragged off his belt, taking with it the gold aurei hidden within it. They picked him over like vultures. When he felt one of them trying to slide the gold signet ring his father had given him from his finger, Marcus clenched his fist. A backhanded blow was delivered to the side of his head. He tasted blood and fought for consciousness. His fingers loosened, and he felt his father’s signet ring stripped from him.
Voices came through the crushing fog.
“Don’t cut him yet. The tunic is good linen. Get it off him first.”
“Hurry up! I hear a Roman patrol coming.”
“The tunic will bring a good price.”
“Do you crave being nailed to a cross?”
The tunic was stripped from him.
“Dump him in the wadi. If they find him, they’ll come looking for us.”
“Hurry up!” one of them hissed, and they grasped his heels and dragged him.
Marcus groaned as rock tore his bare back. They dropped him near the edge. “Hurry up!” One man began to run while the one who remained drew a curved knife.
“Roman raca,” the man said and spit in Marcus’ face. He saw the blade come down and instinctively rolled. He felt the knife slice along his ribcage as he fell over the edge of the wadi. He hit a narrow ledge, then rolled and slid down the jagged bank. The man above him cursed roundly. The others were shouting from a distance. The sound of hooves beat against the earth.
Groaning, Marcus clawed for a handhold. The searing pain in his side took away his breath. As he looked up toward the ledge, his vision doubled and blurred, the world spinning around him. Fighting nausea, he lay helpless, halfway down the steep bank of the wadi, wedged against an outcropping of rocks.
The sound of horses came closer.
Marcus tried to call out, but the words came out in a deep groan. He tried to pull himself up, but fell back and slid a few more feet down the steep incline.
The horses were on the road just above him.
“Help me . . . ,” he rasped, fighting to stay conscious. “Help me . . .”
The sound of hooves receded and a cloud of dust drifted down into the wadi.
Silence fell. No bird sang. No breeze rustled the meager grass or brittle brush. There was only the sun beating down on him, an orb of hot, merciless light.
And then there was nothing.
Hadassah arranged the small amphoras, vials, and boxes on the shelf while Rashid and Alexander carried in an examining table. She had been thinking of Marcus all morning. She closed her eyes, wondering why unease filled her. She had not glimpsed him since that day he had bumped into her before the baths. Why was he so strongly in her mind now?
God, wherever he is, whatever he is doing, watch over him and protect him.
She returned to her work and tried to concentrate on putting the drugs and medications in the proper order. Alexander and Rashid had gone out again, and she could hear them talking as they went down the steps.
The money Magonianus had given Alexander for the safe delivery of his son was already spent on renting these grander, more spacious quarters closer to the center of Ephesus and the medical school where Phlegon taught.
“It’s a risk, I know,” Alexander said when he told Hadassah of his decision the morning after Antonia’s baby had been safely delivered into the world. “But I think we’re going to need better accommodations for our patients.”
“The patients you’ve served near the baths won’t come there.”
“They might, and if they don’t, others will. Friends of Magonianus.”
“And have they more need than the others?”
“No,” Alexander said, “but they can pay, and I need money to further my studies.”
“What of Boethus and his wife and children? What of Ephicharis and Helena?”
“We’re not deserting them. I’m sending messages to all the patients we’ve seen and telling them where we can be found should they need us further.”
Hadassah was dismayed at the haste with which he was making decisions—and the direction those decisions were taking him.
He tipped her face tenderly. “You must trust me, Rapha.”
She drew back slightly. “Why do you call me that?”
“It’s what people are calling you.”
“But it is the Lord who—”
He put his fingertip over her lips. “Performed the miracle. Yes, I know you believe that. Then believe it was the Lord who provided the name.”
“For what purpose?”
“To protect your identity from those who’ve tried to destroy you. Magonianus moves in the circles of the wealthy and powerful. It’d help if you told me the name of the family who owned you, so we could avoid them. Since you won’t . . .”
She turned her face away, but he turned it back again, lifting her chin and looking into her eyes. “Hadassah, you’re too important to me now. I won’t risk losing you.”
Her heart took a startled leap. Important in what ways? she wondered, searching his eyes.
“What you did last night . . .”
“I did nothing,” she said insistently.
“You prayed. God heard and did as you asked.”
She saw clearly his thinking. “No. You can’t manipulate God, Alexander. Don’t ever think it. You can’t pray in hopes of getting what you want. It’s God’s will that prevails. It was God who saved Antonia and her son. God, not I.”
“He heard you.”
“No more than he hears you,” she said, her eyes brimming with tears.
He cupped her face. “That may be so, and if it is, he hears me thanking him now for bringing you into my life. I was afraid for you last night. So was Rashid. And then the answer came as clearly as someone shouting at the partition.” He laughed. “Rapha. So simple. And so shall you be called.” He
But everything happened so quickly, she could scarcely think.
What Alexander and Rashid had suspected would happen, did. When they had arrived at Magonianus’ residence late that afternoon, they had been immediately ushered into Antonia’s chambers. She was already receiving company. The sleeping infant had been cradled in the new mother’s arms while three women hovered, whispering, laughing, and admiring him. Magonianus stood by with the proud airs of a new father.
He had seen them first and put his hand on his young wife’s shoulder. “They are here, my love.”
Everyone had turned toward them and fell silent. Alexander’s hand had tightened beneath Hadassah’s arm as they approached the bed. Hadassah had felt the intent curiosity of the three women and lowered her head slightly as though they could see beneath the veils.
“Rapha and I have returned to see how you are, my lady. You are looking well,” Alexander had said, grinning down at Antonia.
“She is indeed well.” Magonianus’ eyes had been shining.
Antonia had smiled up at him and then looked at Hadassah. “Thank you,” she whispered and held the baby out slightly. “Will you hold him?”
Hadassah had taken the child carefully in her arms. “O Lord, bless this child. Keep him well and raise him up to be your child,” she had murmured, touching the soft, velvety cheek. His head moved slightly, and the tiny mouth worked as though nursing. She gave a breathless laugh.
“Marcus . . .”
The soft whisper of his name had filled her mind and heart. Was it only because she held a newborn child in her arms and knew she might have borne one with him? Tears had welled in her eyes, and she handed the child back to his mother. “He is very beautiful.”
Oh, Marcus, I still love you. I still love you so much.
Marcus . . . Marcus . . .
Father, it wasn’t your will that I fall in love with a man who rejects you, was it? Help me to forget him. How can I serve you wholeheartedly when I long for him? You know the deepest desires of my heart. O please, Lord, remove this burden from me. . . .
But now, as she put away the healing drugs and herbs in the new quarters, the soft whisper came again, insistent, not to be set aside.