“All of which her god stripped from her.”
“So it would seem.”
He put both hands lightly around the clay cup on the table before him. “Who were her friends?”
“Girls and boys of her own age. None to whom you can speak.”
“Why not? Because I’m a Gentile?”
“Because her family wasn’t the only one that didn’t return from Jerusalem. There are many empty houses in our village.”
Marcus winced. He was ashamed. Ashamed of his manner toward the old woman. Ashamed he was a Roman. He stood and walked to the open doorway. He stared out at the dirt street. A soft wind was stirring the dust. A woman walked down the street, a large jug balanced on her head as her children skipped alongside her. An old man sat outside his house, his back against the wall.
“What was Hadassah like when you knew her?” the old woman asked from behind him.
He lifted his gaze to the clear sky. “The first time I saw her I thought she was just as you say: unremarkable. Half-starved. Her head had been shaved. Her hair was just growing back. She had the biggest brown eyes I’ve ever seen.”
He turned and looked at the old woman. “She was afraid of me. She shook every time I came close to her. In the beginning. Later, she said things to me that no one would have dared.” He remembered how she had come to him in Claudius’ gardens and pleaded for the lives of the slaves. And how, at the same time, she had pleaded for him.
“Please, Marcus, I beg of you. Don’t bring the sin of innocent blood upon your head.”
He closed his eyes. “I’d look for her and find her in the garden at night. On her knees. Sometimes on her face.” He opened his eyes again, his face tightening. “Always praying to her unseen god. Her Christ.”
He said the word like a curse.
A muscle jerked in his jaw. “Later on, even during the day, I’d know just by the look on her face that she was praying. As she worked. As she served.” He shook his head. “You said she had little faith, but I tell you, I’ve never known anyone with a more stubborn faith than hers. No amount of logic would dissuade her. Not even the threat of death. Not death itself.”
Tears spilled from the old woman’s eyes, but she was smiling. “The Lord refined her.”
Her words roused Marcus’ deepest anger. “Refined her into what? A worthy sacrifice?”
Deborah looked up at him. “For his good purpose.”
“Good purpose? What good was there in her death? Your god of old was content with the blood of lambs.” He gave a harsh, mirthless laugh. “You want to know why Hadassah died? Because his son isn’t content with the old sacrifices. He wants the blood of his believers!”
Deborah raised her hand slightly. “Sit, Marcus. Be still and listen.”
He sat on the stool and put his head in his hands. “Nothing you can say will make a difference.” Yet the soul-hunger within Marcus weakened his resolve to hold his anger as a shield. He felt tired, spirit-spent.
Deborah spoke gently, as to a child. “If a centurion ordered a legionnaire to go into battle, would he not go?”
“Hadassah wasn’t a soldier.”
“Wasn’t she? Rome builds armies to take land and people captive, to expand the boundaries of the Empire to the farthest reaches of the known world. But Hadassah was a soldier in another kind of army, one that fights a spiritual battle to free the human heart. And in that war, God’s will prevails.”
“She lost her battle,” he said hoarsely, seeing in his mind’s eye Julia gloating as Hadassah faced death.
“You’re here.”
Deborah’s softly spoken words struck hard. Marcus scraped the stool back and stood. “Have you any more wisdom to impart?”
Old Deborah looked up at him placidly and said no more.
Marcus returned to the deserted house. Furious, he kicked the door shut and swore he wouldn’t open it to anyone again.
26
Hadassah entered Julia’s house in silence. She had known the moment Alexander led the way up the street where she was and to whose villa she was going. She recognized the feeling swelling in her belly, for she had had long acquaintance with it. Fear. Yet, she knew God’s hand was in this, and so she prayed as Rashid carried her up the marble steps and Alexander knocked on the door that she would know what God willed of her when the time came.
A young servant woman opened the door. Hadassah didn’t recognize her. The girl’s eyes fixed upon Hadassah even as she greeted Alexander with grave respect. The servant drew back as they entered, bowing as Rashid carried Hadassah into the antechamber.
Distressed, she whispered for Rashid to put her down. He obeyed and held his arm out for her to use as support. “This way, my lord,” the slave girl said, flustered and not even daring to look at Hadassah again. She walked quickly toward the stairs.