An Echo in the Darkness by Francine Rivers
Marcus . . . Marcus . . . Marcus . . .
She felt the call and pressed her fist against her heart.
O Lord, be with him. Watch over him and protect him. Put angels around him. O Father, let him know your mercy. . . .
Alexander carried the small writing table up the steps. He bumped the edge of it into the doorway, banging his fingers. He muttered a curse under his breath and carried his clumsy burden into the room and set it down with a thump.
Hadassah was on her knees, her head bowed, her hands pressed against her heart.
Rashid entered behind him with a painted screen. He saw her, too, and looked at Alexander in question. Alexander shrugged. They quietly went about the work of putting things in their proper places.
Suddenly Rashid nudged Alexander, a look of fear in his dark eyes. Alexander turned his head and felt a prickling sensation down his spine.
Still kneeling in the same position, Hadassah was bathed in a stream of sunlight.
14
“Taphatha, we must hurry or we won’t make Jericho before dark!” Ezra Barjachin called back over his shoulder to his daughter. He switched his donkey’s side. Following on a smaller donkey, Taphatha obeyed his command but tapped the beast’s haunches so lightly it continued its leisurely pace. “Beat that lazy beast with your stick, Daughter! Don’t pet him with it.”
Biting her lip, Taphatha applied a heavier hand, and the animal quickened its pace.
Ezra shook his head and turned around again, gazing nervously at the road ahead. He should not have bought the donkey. It was small and far too tame, but he had thought it perfect for his grandson, Shimei. Now, however, the animal’s placid nature was jeopardizing their safety. They would have moved faster with him leading this animal while Taphatha rode.
He looked up the road ahead. Robbers hid in these hills, awaiting hapless travelers. Ezra swatted the donkey’s side again, and the animal broke into a trot up the incline. He would feel safer once they reached the rise of hills and could see down the descending slopes to Jericho. Here the road was desolate, the sun hot, the risk of attack hovering over him like the carrion birds he saw up ahead.
He glanced back at Taphatha, hoping she hadn’t seen the birds. She tapped the gentle beast again. In another moment, he knew she would pity the donkey and lead rather than ride him. “We must hurry, Daughter.” He should never have listened to his brother Amni and brought her on this trip. As the eldest and most successful of the family, Amni had always intimidated him.
Now Taphatha was back on this lawless road with him, and the journey was a pointless disaster. Not only had no marriage agreement been reached, but familial ties had been severed. It was unlikely Amni would ever forgive him or Taphatha for the debacle that had occurred.
What could he have done differently? Had he ignored Amni and left Taphatha at home, would everything have come out as he had hoped? What if she had married Adonijah? Would disaster have come from such a union?
He conceded that without Taphatha there, the matter of her marriage would have been settled easily—had Amni been reasonable and Adonijah less insistent on his way.
Ezra looked around again. He had worries enough trying to arrange a secure future for Taphatha. Now he had the added burden of worry about robbers accosting her and stripping her of her virtue.
Adonijah had never been his first choice of a husband for Taphatha. His first choice had been Joseph. The son of a potter, of the tribe of Benjamin, Joseph had been wholeheartedly devoted to God. But Joseph was gone. Roman soldiers had arrested him a year ago and taken him outside the city walls and crucified him.
Taphatha was fifteen now, a full year older than her sister had been when she married. God had already blessed his daughter Basemath with a son and daughter. Surely God would bless Taphatha even more, for she was devoted to the Lord.
He must find a good husband for her and assure her future happiness, as well as the continuation of his own bloodline and heritage. So many had died in Jerusalem. So many others had ended up in Roman arenas. A precious few had been sold as slaves to Roman masters and were now scattered over the conquered territories.
God had promised that Abraham’s offspring would be as great in number as the stars. Barely a handful remained, and that grievous number was being sifted still. Vespasian had put forth a decree that all descendants of David be killed, and for that reason alone, Isaac had been nailed to a cross.
God, why have you forsaken us? What will become of my youngest daughter?
In all Jericho, Ezra did not know one man good enough for her. Many claimed to be Jews, but they interpreted the Law according to their own lusts. A few good men of strong faith were still unfit because of intermarriage. Bartholomew would be perfect for Taphatha. Like her, he was devout and strong in the spirit of the Lord. Unfortunately, his father was a Greek. Josephus was another who had approached Ezra several times. He was a good man, but his grandmother had been a Syrian.
Sinking deeper into depression, Ezra tapped his donkey again. He had been so certain that Taphatha’s future would be settled by this journey. He had been sure that when Amni saw her beauty, her gentle spirit, her purity, he would want her for his son. What father would not? And he had been right.
“She is wonderful,” he had said quietly, “but Adonijah insists upon seeing her for himself. I’ll advise him, of course. She is quite lovely.”
When Adonijah joined them, he scarcely looked at Ezra, giving only a cursory greeting. Handsome, possessed of a proud bearing, his gaze had fixed upon Taphatha in surprise, and a small smile had touched his mouth. While he studied her, Amni had boasted of his son’s acumen in matters of religion and business. Satisfied with what he saw, Adonijah had approached her boldly. Amni had been amused when his son took Taphatha’s chin and raised her head. “Smile for me, Cousin,” he had said.
And then Ezra’s daughter, who had never once disobeyed him nor given him grief, had stepped back from Adonijah and said very clearly, “I will not marry this man, Father.”
Adonijah’s countenance had darkened noticeably. “What did you say?” he had commanded with mockery.
She had looked straight into his eyes. “I will marry no man who treats my father with disdain or who ignores the counsel of his own.” And with that said, she had fled the room.
Ezra turned cold again thinking of it.
“Your daughter is a fool!” Amni had shouted, outraged and insulted.
Ezra looked between his brother and nephew, mortified with embarrassment.
“Go and speak with her, Uncle,” Adonijah had said haughtily. “It’s unlikely my fair cousin will find a better opportunity than this one.”
Ezra had spoken with her.
“It would be madness to marry such a man, Father,” she had said, weeping. “He looks upon you as beneath him because his purse is heavier. He refuses the counsel of his own father and looks upon me like a heifer for his pagan sacrifice. Did you see his face?”
“He is very handsome.”
She shook her head, her face in her hands. “He is so proud.”
“Taphatha, he is of our tribe, and there are not many of us left. Amni is a righteous man.”
“What is righteous about him, Father? Was there kindness in his eyes? Did he greet you with respect? Did your brother wash your feet or kiss you? And what of Adonijah when he entered the room? Did he speak to you with the respect due an elder? If they cannot love you, they can’t love God.”
“You judge them too harshly. I know Amni is proud. He has some right to be. He has made a fortune for himself. He—”
“Adonijah looked at me, Father. He looked at me. Not into my eyes, not once. It was as though he was . . . touching me. I was cold into my very bones.”
“If you don’t marry Adonijah, what am I to do for you, Taphatha?”
She had thrown herself on the ground before him, her forehead on his feet, her shoulders shaking. “I will stay with you, Father. I will care for you. Please, don’t give me to
Her tears had always been his undoing. He went to his brother and told him there would be no marriage. “I offered your daughter a great honor, and she dares insult us. Take her and get out. I will have nothing more to do with you or any member of your family.”
As Ezra had lifted Taphatha onto the donkey, Amni had shouted at him from the doorway. “Your daughter is a fool and so are you!”
It had taken every ounce of self-control he had not to respond in kind. He had looked at Taphatha, and she smiled at him, her eyes clear.
Perhaps he was a fool. Only a fool would be on this accursed road.
The heat of midday beat down upon him. His mouth was set in grim lines as he urged the donkey on. He knew he must place his trust in the Lord. The Lord would provide Taphatha with a righteous husband, a husband of her own tribe.
But don’t wait too long, Lord. We are so few.
He glanced back and saw Taphatha walking, the lead rope in her hand. “Daughter, what are you doing?”
“It’s very hot, Father, and the poor animal is weary from carrying me.” She ran up the road toward him. “Besides, I’m tired of riding,” she said cheerfully.
“You will tire soon enough in this heat,” he said, dabbing the sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his robe. There was no use in insisting she ride. Besides, the donkey needed no urging now that she held the rope.
“What do you suppose they’re circling, Father?”
“What?” he said in alarm and looked around for robbers leaping from the rocks.
“Up there.” She pointed.
As he lifted his head slightly, he saw the vultures again. “Something died,” he said flatly. Or was killed, he added to himself. And it could be them next if they didn’t get out of these hills and down to Jericho.
Taphatha kept watching the birds flying their slow, graceful circles.
“A goat probably fell into the wadi,” Ezra said, trying to allay her concern. He whipped the stick on his donkey’s side, hurrying its pace as they came nearer.
“Goats are very surefooted, Father.”
“Perhaps it was an old goat.”
“Maybe it isn’t a goat at all.”
The vultures were almost overhead. Ezra’s fingers tightened on the stick. He glanced up again and frowned. They would not still be circling had their prey died. They would be feasting upon it. What if it was a man?
“Why me, Lord?” he muttered under his breath and then motioned sharply to Taphatha. “Stay away from the ledge. I’ll look.” He slid from the donkey’s back and handed her the rope.
He walked to the edge and looked down into the wadi. He saw nothing on the floor of it but rock and dust and some scraggly bushes that would be washed away during the first rains. He was about to step back when he heard the trickle of rocks. He looked to his left and down along the steep cut in the bank.
“What is it, Father?”
“A man,” he said grimly. Stripped and bleeding. He looked dead. Ezra looked for sure footing and started down. Now that he had seen him, he couldn’t ride on without finding out if he was alive or dead. “Why me, Lord?” he muttered again, sliding down a few feet and moving cautiously along a rocky surface until he could descend again without sending a cascade of rocks over the man. Glancing up, he saw his daughter on her hands and knees, leaning over the edge. “Stay back, Taphatha.”
“I’ll get the blanket.”
“We probably won’t need it,” he said under his breath.
As he came closer, he saw the man had been slashed along the side. The open wound was swarming with flies. His skin was reddened from exposure, both eyes were blackened and swollen shut, his lip was split, he was covered with bruises and scrapes. Sicarii must have beaten him, stripped him of everything he owned, and dumped him in the wadi.
Full of pity, Ezra knelt on one knee, but as he leaned over him, he realized the man’s hair was cropped short. A Roman! Closer examination revealed a pale band of white around the first finger of his right hand where a signet ring had been. Ezra drew back and stood up.
Staring down at the wounded man, Ezra struggled against the rising heat of animosity. Romans had destroyed his beloved Jerusalem, the bride of kings. Romans had crucified Joseph and obliterated his daughter’s chances of having a secure and happy future. A Roman foot was on the neck of all Jews.
“Is he alive, Father?” Taphatha called down to him.
“He’s a Roman!”
“Is he alive?”
The man moved his head slightly. “Help me,” he rasped in Greek.
Ezra winced at the pain in that voice. He bent down again, his gaze moving over the purpling bruises, the deep gash, the burned and abraded skin . . . and his animosity evaporated in a warm wave of compassion. Roman or not, he was a man.
“We won’t leave you,” he said and called up to his daughter. “Tie the water bag to the rope and lower it. My cloak as well.” She disappeared from the edge momentarily and then returned. He caught hold of the water bag and untied it. She pulled the rope up and sent the cloak down next while two donkeys stood at the edge, peering down at him.
He tipped the Roman’s head up and let a few drops of water drip into his mouth. Pouring a small amount of water into his cupped hand, Ezra cooled the man’s sunburned face. The Roman moved slightly and groaned in pain. “Don’t move. Drink,” Ezra said in Greek and held the mouth of the water bag to his lips. The Roman swallowed the precious liquid. Some of it ran down his chin and neck onto his scraped chest.
“Attacked . . .”
“You’re not out of danger yet, and you’ve put me and my daughter in it along with you,” Ezra said grimly.
“Leave me. Send the patrol back.”
“You’d be dead by then, and I’d have to answer to God.” He lay the cloak over the man.
“Drop the rope,” he called up to Taphatha and caught it as it slithered down the incline to him. The man had passed out again. Ezra used the precious moments to wrap the cloak firmly around him and tie a makeshift harness.
Lord, help me, he prayed and began to pull the man up the incline. I’m too old for this. How am I going to get him up to the road?
“Father, you’ll hurt him more bringing him up that way,” Taphatha called down.
“He’s unconscious again,” Ezra said, gritting his teeth as he put his back into the chore of pulling the man a foot at a time. He stopped to get his breath. “A pity you aren’t a small wiry man, Roman. Then I could hoist you over my shoulder.” Clenching his teeth, he started again.
A cascade of rock and dirt nearby made him glance up sharply. “What are you doing, Taphatha. Stay on the road.”
“He’s too heavy for you.” She had his donkey by its rope. The other followed. “It’ll be easier to take him down into the wadi, Father. If he was attacked up here, the robbers may be waiting somewhere along the road.”
“You can’t get down here. It’s too steep.”
“Yes I can.”
He watched her lead his donkey down a diagonal cut. The small donkey followed docilely. How she had managed to find a place to take the animals safely into the wadi, he didn’t know. Bracing himself a foot at a time, he began to slide the Roman down, foot by foot, toward the floor of the wadi.
As soon as Taphatha reached the bottom, she left the animals and came up to help her father. One look at the Roman’s battered face and her eyes filled with tears. She grasped the other side of the harness and helped Ezra. When they reached the bottom, Ezra unlooped the water bag from his shoulder and lifted the man’s head so he could drink again.
The Roman’s hand grasped his wrist. “Thank you,” he rasped.
“Lie still. My daughter and I will make a litter out of what we can find,” Ezra told him.
Marcus lay wreathed in pain, listening to the man and his daughter speaking Aramaic. They came back and struggled to lift him onto the litter they had made, and he blacked out briefly. He drifted between a dark netherworld and agonizing
A sea of pain rolled over Marcus. As he floated toward darkness, he could hear Hadassah whispering, “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for You are with me. . . .”
15
“You’re doing too much, my lady,” Iulius said to Phoebe, shifting the bundles he was carrying as they walked the narrow alleyway near the docks. “You can’t keep on this way.”
“I’m a little tired today, Iulius. That’s all.”
The slave’s mouth tightened. She was wearing herself out trying to take care of the sailors’ widows and their children. She arose at dawn, worked until midmorning, and then called for him so she could take clothing and food to needy families. By the time she returned to the villa in the afternoon, she was exhausted and faced with hours of evening chores she had set out for herself. It wasn’t uncommon to find her asleep at her loom.
“You can’t clothe and feed everyone, my lady.”
“We must do what we can,” she said as she looked up at the shabby tenement they were passing. “There are so many in need, Iulius.” She saw women hanging old garments out to dry, while below them ragged children played soldiers in a street splattered with night soil. Phoebe recognized several of the boys and greeted them warmly.
Iulius saw all that she did. “The poor will always be with us, my lady. You can’t take care of them all.”
Phoebe smiled at him. “Do you reprimand me, Iulius?”
He shifted the heavy bundle again. “Your pardon, my lady. Far be it from me to reprimand my owner.”
Her smile faded at his obdurate manner. “You know very well I wasn’t reminding you that you’re a slave, Iulius. You may have your freedom right now if you so wish it.”
His face reddened. “My lord Decimus would not have wished me to leave you.”