“Then she will not know,” he said simply. “Tell me her name so that I may avoid her.”
Hadassah sat in silence.
“Why do you not tell him?” Rashid asked, perplexed.
Alexander smiled wryly. “Because she is stubborn, Rashid. You see every day how stubborn she is.”
“If not for her, you would have passed me by on the steps of the Asklepion,” Rashid said darkly.
Alexander’s brows rose slightly. “I admit that’s true. I thought you were near death.”
“I was.”
“Not near enough, it would seem. You are gaining strength each day.”
“I was nearer death than you know. She touched me.”
His meaning was all too clear, and Alexander smiled wryly at Hadassah. “Clearly he thinks my ministrations had nothing to do with his improvement.” He returned to his scrolls.
“Do not credit me with healing you, Rashid,” Hadassah said in dismay. “It was not I, but Christ Jesus.”
“You have told others that this Christ dwells in you,” Rashid said.
“As he dwells in all those who believe in him. He would come to dwell within you if you chose to open your heart to him.”
“I belong to Siva.”
“We are both children of Abraham, Rashid. And there is only one God, the true God, Jesus, God the Son.”
“I have heard you speak often of him, my lady, but it is not the path Siva has chosen for me. You forgive your enemy. I kill mine.” His eyes darkened. “As I swear before Siva, I will kill yours if they ever come for you.”
She sat in stunned silence, staring through her veils at the dark, proud, rigid face before her.
Alexander glanced back over his shoulder, equally surprised by such fierce vehemence. Turning around, he assessed the Arab. “What position did you have in your master’s household, Rashid?”
“I guarded his son until my illness overtook me.”
“Then you are a trained soldier.”
“From a race of warriors,” Rashid said with a proud lift of his head.
Alexander smiled ruefully. “It seems God has not sent me an apprentice after all, Hadassah. He has sent you a protector.”
10
Julia stood among the crowd inside the propylon of the Asklepion and listened to the seemingly endless program of poets competing in the triennial festival honoring the god. She had found the earlier game with athletic and gymnastic events more to her taste. This sea of words pouring forth meant nothing to her. She was not a poet, nor an athlete. And she was in poor health. The reason she had come so often to the Asklepion was to attain the mercy of the god. She could not please the deity by literary works or feats of strength and agility. Therefore, she would make a vigil through the long night in order to honor and appease him.
As the sun set, she went inside the temple and knelt before the altar where the sacrifices were made. She prayed to the god of health and physique. She prayed until her knees and back ached. When she could kneel no longer, she lay on her face on the cold marble, arms outstretched toward the marble statue of Asklepios.
Morning came and she was filled with pain in every part of her being. She heard the chorus singing ritual hymns. She arose and stood with the others who had made vigils through the night with her. A priest gave a lengthy speech, but in her exhausted state, little of what he said made any sense.
Where was mercy? Where was compassion? How many offerings and vigils would she have to make to be made whole, to earn restoration?
Weakened from her long vigil, depressed and sick, she sank down and leaned heavily against one of the marble columns. She closed her eyes. The priest droned on and on.
She awakened with a start, someone shaking her. She glanced up, confused, still half-asleep.
“This is not a place to sleep, woman! Arise from here and go home,” the man said, clearly annoyed with her presence. From his robes, she knew he was one of the temple wardens.
“I can’t.”
“What do you mean you can’t?”
“I was here all night praying,” she stammered.
He took hold of her and pulled her roughly to her feet. “Have you no maid with you?” he said impatiently, assessing the fine linen of the tunic and veils she wore.
Julia looked around for Eudemas. “She must have left me sometime during the night.”
“I will summon a slave to take you home.”
“No. I mean, I can’t go home. I’ve been praying, praying for hours. Please. Let me enter the abaton and receive healing.”
“You must go through the purification ceremony and then be washed at the Sacred Well before we can admit you to the abaton, woman. You should know that. And even after that it’s up to the god whether you regain your health.”