An Echo in the Darkness by Francine Rivers
It couldn’t have come through me, Jehosheba thought ruefully, for she knew well that she was rebellious and doubting. Nor could it have come through Ezra, who was enmeshed in a constant struggle against circumstances. Jehosheba’s lips tightened—circumstances he often brought upon himself.
She cupped Taphatha’s cheek and shook her head sadly. “They won’t remember that at all. They’ll remember Jerusalem. They’ll remember Joseph. They’ll remember Masada. And because they remember, they will turn their backs on us because we have given shelter to a Roman, a Gentile, and thereby defiled our home.”
“Then we will remind them of what God says, Mama. Have mercy. You mustn’t worry so much about what others say. Fear God. It is the Lord we must please.”
Jehosheba smiled bleakly. “We will remind them,” she said, doubting it would do any good. Besides, what choice had they now? The damage was done.
Taphatha kissed her cheek. “I’ll fetch some water.”
Ezra watched her take up the large earthen jar and go out the door into the sunlight. She slipped her feet into her sandals and, balancing the jar on her head, started down the street. He went to the open door and leaned against the frame, watching Taphatha. “Sometimes I think God has called our daughter to bear witness to him.”
“That’s hardly comforting when you consider what happens to prophets.”
Her words struck him and he closed his eyes, resting his head on the doorframe, near the mezuzoth. He knew the words contained in the small rectangular stone cases by heart. He could recite each of the Ten Commandments and the Holy Scriptures, all written so carefully on parchment so that they could be stored in the mezuzoth, fastened to the doorframe of his house. He believed those Scriptures and promises with all his heart . . . and yet a few words from this woman could pierce him with a strangling doubt. Had he endangered his daughter by helping the Roman? Had he endangered them all?
Help me, Lord God . . . , he prayed as he turned and looked back at his wife. Raising his hand, he kissed it and laid it over a mezuzah before coming back inside. “I couldn’t just leave him to die, Jehosheba. God forgive me. I did think about it.”
Her face softened. “You’re a good man, Ezra.” She sighed. “Too good.” She rose and returned to her work.
“As soon as the Roman is well enough to travel, he will go.”
“What’s the hurry? The damage has already been done!” She looked toward the steps to the roof. “Did you put him on the bed in the tabernacle?”
“Yes.”
She flattened the dough with several hard whacks. It was just like Ezra to give the best bed away. Well, as far as she was concerned, when the Roman left, he could roll up that defiled bed and take it with him.
18
Marcus awakened to the sound of a town crier. He could hear the man clearly, calling out his announcements in Aramaic from a nearby rooftop. He tried to sit up, then sank back with a gasp of pain, his head throbbing.
“You will feel better in a few days,” a woman said.
He heard something rinsed in water, and he sighed as a cool cloth was placed over his forehead and eyes. He made a sound in his throat. “Robbed . . . horse . . . money belt.” He gave a low, harsh laugh of contempt. His split lip stung. His jaws hurt. Even his teeth hurt. “Even my tunic.”
“We will give you another tunic,” Taphatha said.
Marcus was aware of the resonance of the girl’s voice, her accent. “Are you a Jew?”
“Yes, my lord.”
Her words pierced him, bringing back memories of Hadassah. “A man helped me.”
“My father. We found you in the wadi and brought you here.”
“I thought all Jews hated Romans. Why would you and your father stop to help me?”
“Because you needed help.”
He remembered hearing the Roman patrol on the road. He had heard others pass by above him speaking Greek. If they had heard his call, they had not tarried to find or help him.
“How is he doing, Daughter?” a man’s voice said.
“Better, Father. His fever is down.”
“That is good.”
Marcus felt the man draw near. “I was warned not to travel alone,” he said dryly.
“Wise counsel, Roman. Heed it next time.”
Despite the pain in his lip, Marcus smiled wryly. “Sometimes a man can’t find what he’s looking for with others beside him.”
Taphatha tipped her head, curious. “What are you looking for?”
“The God of Abraham.”
“Haven’t you Romans gods enough of your own?” Ezra said sardonically. His daughter looked up at him in silent plea.
“You aren’t willing to share yours?” Marcus said.
“It would depend on your reasons for wanting to do so.” Ezra gestured Taphatha to move away and hunkered down to remove the cloth and rinse it again himself. He didn’t want his daughter to spend too much time with this Gentile. He laid the cool cloth over the Roman’s face.
Marcus moved again and drew in a hissing breath through his teeth.
“Don’t try to sit up yet. You may have a few cracked ribs.”
“My name is Marcus Lucianus Valerian.” His name roused no comment, no questions. “The name means nothing to you?”
“Is it important?”
Marcus uttered a laugh. “Apparently not important enough.”
Ezra glanced at his daughter. “Go and help your mother, Taphatha.”
She lowered her eyes. “Yes, Father,” she said meekly.
Marcus listened to the sound of her footsteps as she went to the stairway. “Taphatha,” he said. “A sweet name.”
Ezra’s mouth tightened. “You were fortunate, Marcus Lucianus. You lost your possessions and suffered scrapes and bruises, but you are alive.”
“Yes. I’m alive.”
Ezra noticed the dismal way the Roman uttered the words and wondered at the reasons behind it. “My wife and daughter applied salt and turpentine to your wounds. The cut in your side is sealed with pitch. You should heal in a few days.”
“And then be on my way,” Marcus said, his mouth curving faintly. “Where am I?”
“In Jericho. On my roof.”
Marcus listened to the crier calling out his announcements across the neighborhood. “Thank you for not leaving me in the wadi to die.”
Ezra frowned at the humility of those words and relented slightly. “I am Ezra Barjachin.”
“I am in your debt, Ezra Barjachin.”
“Your debt is to God.” Annoyed at the trouble the Roman had brought upon his household, he rose and left the roof.
Marcus dozed, awakening periodically to sounds rising from the street. Taphatha came back and gave him a thick gruel of lentils. He was hungry enough that it tasted good. He hurt too much after eating to make conversation. Her hands were gentle as she readjusted the blankets over him. He caught the scent of her skin—a mingling of sun, cumin, and baked bread—just before she left him alone again.
Night came, bringing with it a blessed coolness. He dreamed he was adrift on the sea. He could see no shoreline, only a vast, endless blue all the way to the horizon.
He awakened as the sun rose. He could hear children playing on the street. Carts passed. The crier shouted again in Aramaic, then in Greek. The swelling around his eyes had gone down enough that he could open his eyes. His vision was slightly blurred. When he tried to sit up, he sank back, overwhelmed by a wave of dizziness.
Ezra came up to the roof. “I have brought you something to eat.”
Marcus tried to sit up again and groaned.
“You must not push yourself, Roman.”
Marcus submitted to being fed again. “What difficulties have I made for you by being here?”
Ezra didn’t answer. Marcus looked up at the solemn, bearded face framed by two long curls of hair. He suspected the man was already suffering from repercussions and heartily regretting his act of kindness.
“What do you do to make a
“I am a sopherim,” he said solemnly. “A scribe,” he explained when Marcus frowned, not understanding. “I copy the Holy Scriptures for the phylacteries and mezuzoth.”
“The what?”
Ezra explained that phylacteries held strips of parchment on which were written four select passages, two from the book of Exodus and two from Deuteronomy. These parchments were enclosed in a small square black calfskin case and fastened on the inside of the arm nearest the heart, between the elbow and shoulder, by long leather straps. Another phylactery was tied to the forehead during prayers.
A mezuzah, he explained further, was a container on the doorframe of a Jewish home. Inside it was a small piece of parchment on which were written two passages from Deuteronomy and marked with “Shaddai,” the name of the Almighty. The parchments were replaced after time and a priest would come to bless the mezuzoth and the household.
Having finished his meal, Marcus sank back onto the bed. “What Scriptures are so important you have to wear them on your arm and head and post them on your door?”
Ezra hesitated because he was not sure he should share Scripture with a Gentile dog of a Roman. However, something compelled him.
“‘Hear, O Israel: The Lord our God, the Lord is one! You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your strength. And these words which I command you today shall be in your heart. You shall teach them diligently to your children, and shall talk of them when you sit in your house, when you walk by the way, when you lie down, and when you rise up. You shall bind them as a sign on your hand, and they shall be as frontlets between your eyes. You shall write them on the doorposts of your house and on your gates.’”
Marcus listened intently as the words flowed from Ezra. His voice was full of reverence. He spoke the Scriptures precisely, but in a way that made it clear they were written in his heart and not just ingrained in his head after years of copying them.
“‘You shall fear the Lord your God and serve Him, and shall take oaths in His name. You shall not go after other gods, the gods of the peoples who are all around you (for the Lord your God is a jealous God among you), lest the anger of the Lord your God be aroused against you and destroy you from the face of the earth. . . .’” Ezra went on, his eyes closed. When he finished reciting the Scriptures for the Roman, he fell silent. No matter how often he said or heard them, those words were like music to him. They sang in his blood.
“No half-measures,” the Roman said grimly, “or God will wipe you off the face of the earth.”
Ezra looked at him. “God blesses those who love him with all their heart.”
“Not always. I knew a woman who loved your god with all her heart.” He fell silent for a long moment. “I saw her die, Ezra Barjachin. She didn’t deserve such a death. She didn’t deserve to die at all.”
Ezra felt a pang within his own heart. “And so you look to God for answers.”
“I don’t know if there are any answers. I don’t know if there is a god such as the one you believe in and she served. He’s in your heart and head, but that doesn’t mean he’s real.”
“God is real, Marcus Lucianus Valerian.”
“For you.”
Ezra pitied him. The Roman had been beaten more than physically. And in the wake of Ezra’s pity came the first flicker of hope he had felt since seeing Joseph crucified. Many enemies had come against God’s chosen people. Some had conquered them because Israel had sinned against the Lord. Jerusalem, bride of kings, had fallen to other nations. But when the people turned back to God, God went before them, destroying their enemies and restoring his people to the Promised Land. Assyria, Persia, and Babylon had put Israel to the sword and in turn been called to judgment. Just as Assyria, Persia, and Babylon had fallen, so too would Rome fall. Then the captives would return to Zion.
The Roman spoke, shattering his dream with a single question. “What do you know about Jesus of Nazareth?”
Ezra recoiled. “What makes you ask me about him?”
“The woman of whom I spoke said Jesus was God’s Son come down to earth to atone for the sins of man.”
A chill washed over Ezra. “Blasphemy!”
Marcus was surprised at the vehemence of that single word. He started at it. Perhaps he shouldn’t ask questions of this Jew.
“Why do you ask me this question?” Ezra said harshly.
“I apologize. I only wanted to know. Who do you say Jesus is?”
Heat poured into Ezra’s face. “He was a prophet and healer from Nazareth who was tried and judged by the Sanhedrin and crucified by Romans. He was killed over forty years ago.”
“Then you reject him as your Messiah?”
Ezra stood up, agitated. He glared down at the Roman, resenting his presence, resenting his reasons for being here, resenting the unrest in his own household, his own mind. And now this question!
Why did you give me this man, Lord? Do you feed the doubts I’ve had over the years? Do you test my faith in you? You are my God and there is no other!
“I’ve angered you,” Marcus said, squinting against the sunlight. Even with blurred vision, he could see Ezra’s agitation in the way he moved away. How many other pitfalls would he face in conversing with this Jew? Why hadn’t he kept silent? Why hadn’t he waited to ask another, someone knowledgeable but uninvolved and objective? This man clearly was not.
Ezra stood with his hands on the wall of the roof. “It isn’t you who angers me, Roman. It’s the persistence of this cult. My father told me long ago that Jesus told his followers he came to set a man against his father, a daughter against her mother, and a daughter-in-law against her mother-in-law. And so he did. He set Jew against Jew.”
He had set Ezra’s own father against his uncle.
“Do you know any Christians?”
Ezra stared down into the street, flooded with painful memories. “I knew one.”
He remembered his father’s brother coming to this very house when he was a boy. He had been hard at work, practicing letters while his father and uncle talked. He had listened intently, curious about the man called Jesus. He had heard many things said about him. He was a prophet, a poor carpenter from Nazareth with a band of followers who included fishermen, a tax collector, a zealot, and a supposed harlot who had been demon-possessed. Whole families followed him. Some said he was a miracle worker. Others, a revolutionary. Ezra had heard that Jesus had cast out demons, healed the sick, made the lame walk and the blind see. His father had insisted it was hysteria, rumor, false claims.
Then Jesus, the supposed Messiah, was crucified. Tried and judged by his own people. Ezra’s father had commented only that he was glad the debate over the man was over. And then . . .
“I have brought you good news, Jachin,” his uncle had said all those years ago. “Jesus has risen!”
Ezra could still remember the incredulous, cynical look on his father’s face. “You are mad. It’s impossible!”
“I saw him. He spoke to us at Galilee. Five hundred people were there.”
“That can’t be! It was someone who looked like him.”
“Have I ever lied to you, Brother? I followed Jesus for two years. I knew him well.”
“You only thought you saw him. It was another.”
“It was Jesus.”
His father argued vehemently. “The Pharisees said he was a troublemaker who spoke against the temple sacrifices! Don’t deny it! I heard he turned over the tables and drove the moneychangers out of the temple with a whip.”
“They were cheating the people. Jesus said, ‘My house is a house of prayer, and you have turned it into a den of robbers.’”
“The Sadducees said he disclaimed heaven!”
“No, Jachin. He said there is no marriage in heaven, that men will be as angels.”
Back and forth they went, his father contending with his uncle. As time passed, Ezra saw the gap grow between them—his uncle, calm, filled with joy and
“They will stone you if you go about telling this story!”
And so they had.
“If you proclaim this Jesus is the Christ, I will take up the first stone against you myself!”
And so he had.
“Such blasphemy is an affront to God and his people,” his father had said later to Ezra, and then nothing more was ever said.
After all these years, the one thing that stood out the most clearly in Ezra’s mind were his uncle’s words. They had echoed over and over down through the years. “Jesus has risen. He is alive. Death, where is your sting?” He could hear his uncle’s joyous laughter. “Don’t you realize what this means, Brother? We are free! The anointed one of God has finally come. Jesus is the Messiah.”
He had tried for years to squelch those words, but still they rang, “The Messiah has come . . . the Messiah . . .”
And now, here was a pagan, an idol worshiper, a despicable Roman dog whose very presence was turning Ezra’s household upside down and inside out, asking the one question that had always terrified Ezra most: “Who do you say Jesus is?”
Why, Lord? Why do you bring this upon me?
The truth was that Ezra didn’t know who Jesus was. He was afraid to think on it, but, in his heart, he had always wondered. He had hungered and half-hoped, but been too afraid to find out for himself.
His uncle’s body had not been placed in a tomb. He had been crushed to death beneath the weight of the stones and left to rot in a pit outside the city walls. A terrible fate for any man. All because he believed in Jesus.
After his uncle’s violent death, not one word had been uttered about him or about Jesus of Nazareth. It was unspoken law from that day forth: neither man had ever existed, neither name was ever to be uttered again. And so it had remained for twenty-three years.
Ezra had thought his father had completely forgotten what happened. Until that day, when Ezra had been sitting near his father’s deathbed.
His father had given Amni, Ezra’s brother, a blessing. The time was short. Amni stood and withdrew slightly, waiting for death to come. Ezra knelt and took his father’s hand, wanting to comfort him. His father turned his head slowly and looked at him. Then he whispered the unsettling words. “Did I do right?”