He spent the night staring up at the stars and listening to a wolf howl somewhere in the valley below. Hadassah had said her god spoke to her in the wind, and so he strained to hear what the wind had to say to him.
He heard nothing.
He spent all the next day waiting and listening.
Still nothing.
He started down the mountain on the third day, famished and thirsty.
A shepherd boy was standing near his horse, feeding the animal green sprigs from the palm of his hand. Scattered around the hillside were sheep grazing.
Marcus strode down the slope. With a cold look at the boy, he unlooped the goatskin water bag from the saddle and drank thirstily. The boy did not retreat but watched him with interest. He said something.
“I don’t understand Aramaic,” Marcus said tersely, irritated that the boy hadn’t taken himself off to tend his sheep.
The young shepherd spoke to him in Greek this time. “You are fortunate your horse is still here. There are many who would steal him.”
Marcus’ mouth curved sardonically. “I thought Jews had a commandment against stealing.”
The boy grinned. “Not from Romans.”
“Then I’m glad he is still here.”
The boy rubbed the velvety nose. “He is a good horse.”
“He’ll get me where I’m going.”
“Where are you going?”
“To Mount Moriah,” he said and then after a brief hesitation, added, “to find God.”
The boy looked up at him in surprise and then studied him curiously. “My father says Romans have many gods. With all of them to choose from, why do you look for another?”
“To ask questions.”
“What sort of questions?”
Marcus looked away. He would ask God to his face why he had allowed Hadassah to die. He would ask him why, if he was the almighty Creator, he had created a world so full of violence. Most of all, he wanted to know if God even existed. “If I ever find him, I’ll ask him about many things,” he said heavily and glanced back at the boy. The small shepherd studied him with dark pensive eyes.
“You will not find God on Mount Moriah,” the boy said simply.
“I’ve already looked on Mount Gerizim.”
“He is not on a mountaintop, like your Jupiter.”
“Then where will I find him?”
The boy shrugged. “I don’t know if you can find him in the way you want.”
“Are you telling me this god never shows himself to man? What about your Moses? Didn’t your god appear to him?”
“Sometimes he appears to people,” the boy said.
“What does he look like?”
“He’s not always the same. He came as an ordinary traveler to Abram. When Israelites came out of Egypt, God was before them, a pillar of cloud by day, a pillar of fire at night. One of our prophets saw God and wrote he was like a wheel within a wheel and had the heads of beasts and shone like fire.”
“Then he changes form, like Zeus.”
The boy shook his head. “Our God is not like the gods of the Romans.”
“You think not?” Marcus gave a cynical laugh. “He’s more like them than you know.” His grief rose, gripping him. A god who loved his people would have reached down from the heavens to save Hadassah. Only a cruel god could have watched her die.
Which are you?
The boy looked at him solemnly but without fear. “You are angry.”
“Yes,” Marcus said flatly. “I am angry. I’m also wasting time.” He unhobbled the horse and mounted.
The boy moved back as the animal pranced. “What do you want of God, Roman?”
It was an imperious question from so small a boy, and was said with a curious blend of humility and demand. “I’ll know when I face him.”
“Perhaps the answers you seek can’t be found in something you can see and touch.”
Amused, Marcus smiled. “You have big thoughts for a small boy.”
The boy grinned. “A shepherd has time to think.”
“Then, my little philosopher, what would you advise?”
The boy’s smile faded. “When you face God, remember he is God.”
“I’ll remember what he’s done,” Marcus said coldly.
“That, too,” the boy said almost gently.
Marcus frowned slightly, studying the boy more intently. His mouth curved wryly. “You’re the first Jew who’s spoken to me man-to-man. A pity.” Turning the horse, he started down the hill. He heard the jingle of bells and glanced back. The boy was walking across the grassy hillside, tapping his belled staff on the ground. The sheep responded quickly, gathering closer and following him as he headed toward the western slope.
Marcus felt something strange move within him as he watched the boy with his sheep. An aching hunger. A thirst. And suddenly, he sensed an unseen presence . . . a vague hint of something, like a sweet, tantalizing aroma of food just beyond his grasp.