An Echo in the Darkness by Francine Rivers
The casual words struck Marcus like a blow, for they unwittingly brought to his mind an image of himself laughing and cheering as men and women died for no other reason than entertainment for the mob.
Ezra saw his anguish and understood. “Your Hadassah is alive, Marcus.”
“She’s dead,” Marcus said with flat clarity as he withdrew his hand. “I saw her die in an Ephesian amphitheater.”
“Life is far more than we see with our eyes. Your Hadassah is with God, and God is eternal.”
Pain clutched Marcus’ heart. “I wish I could believe it.”
“In God’s time, perhaps you will.”
“May your God protect you,” Marcus said and smiled slightly. “And find a good, strong man for Taphatha.”
Ezra stood at the gate and watched Marcus walk down the road. He was filled with a deep compassion for the tormented young Roman and wondered what would happen to him. Turning toward home, Ezra prayed that God would place a hedge of protection around Marcus as he traveled.
Jehosheba glanced up from her work as Ezra entered the house. “Perhaps now that he is gone, everything will return to normal.”
“Nothing will ever be the same again,” Ezra said.
“Bartholomew walked Taphatha home from the well yesterday afternoon. He said she hardly spoke to him.” She pressed her lips together. “She never had trouble finding words with that Roman you brought into our house.”
“She will have the man God intends for her.”
She dropped the garment she was repairing into her lap and looked up at him. “And who will that be?”
“You worry too much, woman,” he said and ladled water into a clay cup.
“You used to worry more about Taphatha than I.” Her eyes flickered with uncertainty. “What’s happened to you over the last few days?”
“Wondrous things,” he said and drank.
She frowned in annoyance. “What wondrous things?”
He set the cup down. Soon he would tell her, but not now. “I need time to sort through what I have learned before I can explain in a way you will understand.”
“I am such a fool? Tell me, Ezra. While you’re sorting through whatever it is you’ve learned, will you work at your booth again?”
Ezra didn’t answer. He stood in the open doorway and looked down the street. Taphatha was coming from the market, a basket balanced on her head. Bartholomew was walking beside her. He was a good and persistent young man.
Ezra had not told his daughter Marcus was to leave this morning. He supposed it was the coward’s way out. Her feelings for Marcus had become more and more apparent with each day. And Marcus Valerian’s attraction for her had been noticed as well. It was to the young man’s credit that he had left when he did. A lesser man would have remained to take advantage of a beautiful girl’s infatuation.
But what was he to do now?
Jehosheba came to stand beside him. “Do you see how she ignores him? And all because of a Roman,” she said bitterly, but when she raised her head and looked at him, Ezra saw the chagrin in her expression. “What will you say to her?”
“I will tell her Marcus Lucianus Valerian has gone.”
“And good riddance,” she said as she turned away. “It would have been far better if he had left sooner.” She sat down and took the worn garment again.
Taphatha paused and spoke briefly with Bartholomew. She turned toward the house again, and Bartholomew stood watching her go the last bit of distance. Clearly dejected, he turned away and started down the street again.
“Good morning, Father,” she called cheerfully as she came the last bit of the way. Lowering the basket from her head, she kissed his cheek and entered the house.
“How is Bartholomew?” Jehosheba said, keeping her eyes on her work.
“He is well, Mother.”
“So are others,” she muttered under her breath.
Taphatha took the fruit from the basket and placed it in the clay bowl on the table. “He said his mother is already preparing plum hamantashen for the mishlo’ah manot this year.”
“I haven’t even begun my preparations for Purim,” Jehosheba said dismally. “Other things have interfered.” Her gaze flickered accusingly at her husband.
“I’ll help you, Mother. We have more than enough time to prepare the gifts for the poor and food packages for our friends.” She selected two perfect apricots and started for the steps to the roof.
“He’s gone,” Ezra said.
Taphatha stopped and turned. She stared at him with alarm. “He can’t be!” she said, blinking. “His wounds aren’t fully healed.”
“Healed enough,” Jehosheba muttered.
“He left this morning, Taphatha.”
She ran up the steps to the roof. When she came down again, Ezra thought she would run after Marcus. She even took a few steps toward the door and then stopped. Her shoulders sagged, and with a soft cry, she sank down onto a stool. Her eyes filled with tears. “He did not even say good-bye.”
Jehosheba clutched the worn garment in her hands and studied her daughter. She looked up at Ezra, beseeching him.
To do what? he wondered.
“He said he would go,” Taphatha said tremulously, tears slipping down her cheeks. “He said it would be better if he did.”
“A pity he didn’t go sooner,” her mother said dismally.
“I hoped he would stay forever.”
“To what end?”
“I don’t know, Mother. I hoped.”
“Hoped what, Taphatha? That a Roman would agree to be circumcised? That a Roman might become a Jew? You must think, Daughter.”
Taphatha shook her head and looked away, her face pale with misery. Jehosheba started to say more, but Ezra shook his head, silencing her before she did. Her own eyes were filled with tears and accusation as she looked at him. He knew what she was thinking. It was his fault Taphatha had fallen in love with a Gentile. It was his fault she was suffering. He shouldn’t have brought Marcus Valerian into their home.
But if he hadn’t, he might never have come to know the truth.
Having no words to spare his daughter her pain, Ezra remained silent. After a moment Taphatha rose and fled to the roof.
“You couldn’t say something?” Jehosheba said in accusation, her cheeks pale and tear streaked.
“Whatever I say will only hurt her more.”
Jehosheba dumped the garment she was sewing into a basket and rose. “Then I will—”
“No, you won’t. Sit down, woman, and leave her be.”
Wide-eyed, Jehosheba sat.
Taphatha carried out her duties over the next few days. She said very little. Jehosheba went to the market and visited with the other women. Ezra returned to his parchments, ink, and pens. He felt a restlessness and hunger and spent more and more time on the roof during the evening hours, praying for direction.
He was waiting, but he knew not for what.
A Roman advocate came from Caesarea Maritima seven days after Marcus’ departure. The man was richly dressed and accompanied by eight well-armed guards. With great ceremony, he presented Ezra a letter and gestured for two guards to set a strongbox upon the table.
Confused, Ezra peeled off the wax seal and unrolled the scroll. The epistle stated that the bearer of the letter, one Ezra Barjachin, could sail at any time to any destination on any ship owned by Marcus Lucianus Valerian. He was to be given the best accommodations and treated with the highest respect and honor.
“How can this be?” Ezra said, stunned. “Who is he that he can say these things?”
The advocate laughed. “Do you not know who was under your roof, Jew? Marcus Lucianus Valerian can do whatever he pleases. He is a Roman citizen and one of the richest merchants in the Empire. He owns emporiums in Rome, Ephesus, Caesarea Maritima, and Alexandria. His ships sail as far as Tartessus and Brittania.”
Jehosheba sat down heavily on her stool, her mouth agape.
The advocate opened the strongbox,
Stunned, Ezra drew back from it.
“The difference between a Roman and a Jew,” the advocate said haughtily, casting a disdainful look around the simply furnished room. Having finished his assignment, the advocate walked out of the house. The soldiers followed.
Ezra looked into the box again. Unable to believe his eyes, he picked up a handful of golden coins and felt the weight of them in his hand.
Jehosheba rose, trembling. She stared into the strongbox and clutched Ezra’s sleeve. “There is enough here to live comfortably for the rest of our lives! We can buy a bigger house. We can have servants. You can sit by the city gates with the elders. Your brother Amni will never look down his nose upon you again!”
Taphatha stood silently, her wide, dark eyes upon her father.
“No,” Ezra said. “God has another purpose for this money.”
“What purpose? He has blessed you for your righteousness. He has given you wealth to enjoy.”
Ezra shook his head. “No,” he said again and dropped the coins back into the box. “This is for his work.”
“Have you gone mad? Haven’t you listened to the Pharisees? God rewards the righteous.”
“No one is righteous, Mother. Not even one,” Taphatha said softly. “Only the Lord himself is righteous.”
Ezra smiled at her, his heart expanding at her words. He nodded, his eyes shining. She would understand and believe when he told her the Good News. “We will wait upon the Lord.”
“Yes, Father. We will wait upon the Lord.”
Ezra closed the lid of the strongbox and locked it.
22
Marcus walked north within sight of the banks of the Jordan River. He passed through Archelais, Aenon, and Salim and then walked northwest toward the hill country. In each village, he paused to ask anyone who would speak with him if they remembered a girl named Hadassah who had gone with her family to Jerusalem and not returned after the destruction. No one had ever heard of her.
He left wondering if the people to whom he spoke told him the truth. Often the courteous demeanor with which he was first greeted changed instantly to wariness and hostility when he spoke. His accent was marked. He could see the change come in their eyes and knew what they were thinking. Why would a Roman dress as a Jew unless he had some hidden scheme to trap them by their words?
After days of wandering, he entered a small village named Nain in the hills of the district of Galilee. He stopped at the marketplace and purchased bread and wine. As had happened before, he was assumed to be a Jew until he spoke and his accent was recognized. However, this time the merchant was blunt rather than apprehensive, straightforward rather than withdrawn.
“Why are you dressed as a Jew?” he said, openly surprised and curious.
Marcus told him of being robbed on the road to Jericho and of being rescued by Ezra Barjachin. “These were a gift from him. I wear them proudly.”
The merchant nodded, seemingly satisfied with his answers but still curious. “What are you doing here in the hill country of Galilee?”
“I’m looking for the home of a girl named Hadassah.”
“Hadassah?”
“Have you heard the name before?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Hadassah is a common enough name among Jewish girls.”
Marcus was not satisfied with his answer. He described her in as much detail as he could.
The merchant shrugged. “Dark hair, dark brown eyes, slight build. Your description would fit any one of a hundred girls. Was there something remarkable about her?”
“She was remarkable.” An old woman was standing in the shade of the stall. Marcus could tell she was eavesdropping on his conversation with the merchant. Something about her expression made him direct his next question to her. “Do you know of a girl named Hadassah?”
“It is as Nahshon says,” the old woman said. “There are many Hadassahs.”
Dejected, Marcus started to turn away when the old woman spoke again. “Was her father a potter?”
He frowned, trying to remember, then glanced back at her. “Maybe. I’m not sure.”
“There was a potter who lived here. His name was Hananiah. He married when he was advanced in years. His wife’s name was Rebekkah. She bore him three children—a son and two daughters. One of the girls was named Hadassah. The other was Leah. The son was called Mark. They went to Jerusalem and never returned.”
The merchant looked impatient with her. “The Hadassah of whom you speak may not be the same one.”
“Hadassah claimed her father was raised from the dead by Jesus of Nazareth,” Marcus said.
The merchant glanced at him sharply. “Why did you not say this in the beginning?”
“Then you know of her.”
“The Hadassah you seek is the same one,” the old woman said. “The house where her family lived has been closed up since they went to Jerusalem for Passover. We heard they all died there.”
“Hadassah lived.”
The old woman shook her head in amazement. “An act of God,” she said reverently.
“She was a timid child,” the merchant said. “One would think it would be the strong who survived. Not the weak.”
Leaning heavily on her cane, the old woman studied Marcus intently. “Where is Hadassah now?”
Marcus looked away. “Where did she live?” His question met with a long silence. He looked at the old woman again. “I must know,” he said heavily.
The woman studied him, and her lined face softened. “Hananiah’s house is down that street, on the east side, fourth from the end.”
Marcus turned away.
“Roman,” she said gently, “you will find no one there.”
He found the house with ease and was amazed at how small it was. The door had been left unlocked. It creaked as he pushed it open. As he entered the dim interior, cobwebs caught at him. He brushed them aside. The place had the dry smell of disuse and abandonment.
He glanced around at the small main room. There were no steps to the roof in this house, only a door at the back that opened into a bedchamber. A bare platform bed was built into the clay wall.
Marcus crossed the room and lifted the small bar on the window doors and pushed them open. Sunlight streamed in and, along with it, a blast of warm air that set particles of dust dancing in the stream of light. Stepping back, Marcus turned and saw the sun shone in upon a potter’s wheel. He went to it and turned it. The wheel moved stiffly, protesting years of disuse.
Leaving it, Marcus ran his hand over the dusty, roughhewn table. He sat on one of the five stools and looked slowly around the room. There was a yoke and two water buckets near the front door. Other than that, there were a few clay jugs and bowls. Little else. Certainly nothing of value.
Closing his eyes, he breathed in deeply, his hands flat on the rough surface of the table. Hadassah had grown up in this house. She had slept in this room, eaten at this table. His fingers spread on the gritty surface, thinking her hands had touched it. He wanted to capture her essence, to be close to her.
Instead, fear filled him.
He couldn’t remember the details of her face anymore.
He tried desperately to grasp his memories of her, but they were fading, blurring her image in his mind. He covered his face and tried to remember, to put her features together. All he could see now was a faceless girl on her knees in his father’s villa garden, her hands raised toward the heavens and God.
“No.” He groaned, digging his fingers into his hair and holding his head. “Don’t take what little I have left of her.” But no matter how he pleaded or how hard he tried, he knew she was slipping away from him.
Exhausted and depressed, Marcus looked around. He had come so far. And for what? For this? He closed his eyes and laid his head on his arms.
23
Didymas entered the bedchamber and came out onto the small balcony wher
“What is it?” Julia said, annoyed by the slave girl’s presence.
“A man is here to see you, my lady.”
Julia’s heart took a small leap. Had Marcus returned? Perhaps he had finally come to his senses and decided they had only one another. Though she knew it was improbable, knew she shouldn’t hope, she felt hope rise anyway. Her fingers trembled as she continued to press the cool wet cloth against her throbbing forehead. She was afraid to reveal her face to Didymas’ scrutiny. Didymas would no doubt secretly relish her struggle, and even more so, her pain.
“Who is it?” Julia said with feigned indifference. She had had no visitors in weeks. Who among her supposed friends would come to see her as she was now?
“His name is Prometheus, my lady.”
“Prometheus?” she said blankly, her heart dropping as a wave of disappointment poured over her like cold water. “Who is Prometheus?” she demanded in irritation. The name was familiar, but she couldn’t place it.
“He said he’s a slave of this household, my lady. He asked first for Primus. When I said the master was no longer in Ephesus, he asked to speak with you.”
With a shock, Julia remembered who he was. “Prometheus!” Primus’ catamite! What was he doing here? He had run away almost four years ago. Why would he come back now? If Primus were here, he would either kill the boy on the spot or, far more likely, suffer anew from his foul passions for him. What was she supposed to do with him?
She thought quickly. With Primus gone, Prometheus must know he was placing his life in her hands. He might not be aware of the two maids she had sent to the arena in Rome, but he had been here when she sent Hadassah to the lions. He was also more than aware she had always been repulsed by his position in the household. She had mocked Primus’ passion for him and looked upon Prometheus himself as something less than a trained dog.
Her head throbbed. “Why does he come back now?” The cool cloth she held over her eyes did little to ease the pain.
“I don’t know, my lady. He did not say.”