Tears filled his mother’s eyes. “Perhaps if you try to remember how Hadassah lived instead of the way she died.”
The words struck his heart, and he turned slightly, angry that she should so remind him. “I remember all too well,” he said hoarsely.
“Perhaps we don’t remember in the same light,” Phoebe said softly. She raised her hand to feel the pendant concealed beneath her palus. On it was the emblem of her new faith: a shepherd carrying a lost lamb across his shoulders. Marcus didn’t know. She hesitated, wondering if this was the time to tell him.
It was strange that in watching Hadassah, Phoebe had found the path her own life must take so clearly before her. She had become a Christian, baptized by water and the Spirit of the living God. It had not been a struggle for her, not like it had been for Decimus, who had waited to the very end to accept the Lord. Now it was Marcus, who was so like his father, who fought against the Spirit. Marcus, who wanted no master over his life and would acknowledge none.
Looking at his stance, his hand clenching and unclenching, Phoebe knew this wasn’t the time to speak of Jesus and her faith. Marcus would be angry. He wouldn’t understand. He would be afraid for her, afraid he would lose her the same way he had lost Hadassah. Oh, if only he could see that Hadassah was not lost at all. He was.
“What would Hadassah have had you do?”
Marcus shut his eyes. “Had she done things differently, she would still be alive.”
“Had she been different, Marcus, you would never have loved her the way you do, with all your heart and mind and soul.” Like he would love God, but he couldn’t see that it was the Spirit within Hadassah that had drawn him.
Seeing his pain, she ached for him. Rising from the bench, Phoebe went to her son. “Is your monument to Hadassah going to be your unrelenting hatred for your own sister?”
“Leave it be, Mother,” he said hoarsely.
“How can I?” she said in sorrow. “You are my son, and no matter what Julia’s done, she remains my daughter. I love you both. I love Hadassah.”
“Hadassah is dead, Mother.” He glared down at her. “Did she die because of any crime she committed? No! She was murdered out of petty jealousy by a whore.”
Phoebe laid her hand on his arm. “Hadassah’s not dead to me. Nor to you.”
“Not dead,” he said bleakly. “How can you say that? Is she here with us?” He moved away from her and sat on the bench where Hadassah had often sat in the quiet of the evenings and the stillness before dawn. He looked exhausted, his back against the wall.
She came and sat on the bench beside him and took his hand. “Do you remember what she told your father just before he died?”
“He took my hand and placed it over Hadassah’s. She belonged to me.” He could still see the look in her dark eyes as he had closed his hand firmly around hers, taking possession. Had his father known then she was in danger? Had he been telling him to protect her? He should have taken her from Julia then and there rather than await her convenience. Julia had been with child at the time, her lover gone. He had felt pity for her situation, never realizing the danger. Had he been wise, Hadassah would still be alive. She would be his wife.
“Marcus, Hadassah said that if you but believe and accept God’s grace, you will be with the Lord in paradise. She told us that whosoever believes in Jesus will not perish but have eternal life.”
He squeezed her hand. “Words to comfort a dying man who saw his life as meaningless, Mother. There’s no life after death. Just dust and darkness. Everything we have is right here. Now. The only kind of eternal life anyone can expect is in the heart of another. Hadassah is alive, and she’ll remain so as long as I live. She’s alive in me.” His eyes hardened. “And because of my love for her, I will never forget how she died and who brought it to pass.”
“Will you ever understand why she died?” Phoebe said, eyes glistening with tears.
“I know why. She was murdered out of jealousy and spite. Her purity exposed Julia’s impurity.” He took his hand from hers, tense and fighting the emotions raging within him. He didn’t want to take it out on his mother. It was no fault of hers that she had birthed a poisonous snake. But why did she have to speak of these things now when he felt so raw?
“Sometimes I wish I could forget,” he said, lowering his head into his hands and kneading his forehead as though his head ached with memories. “She told me once that her god spoke to her in the wind, but I hear nothing except the faint echoing of her voice.”
“Then listen.”