A hot wind blew across the ruins, stirring up dust.
Bitterness filled Marcus’ mouth. “She chose you over me. Wasn’t that enough?”
No still, small voice spoke to him in the wind. No echo of the words Hadassah had spoken to him. Bereft, Marcus’ throat closed. Had he really expected an answer to come from thin air?
Stepping off the slab of dark stone, he kicked a blackened chunk of marble aside and headed back. When he reached the small slope, he sat beneath the shade of the olive tree, hot and frustrated, soul-weary.
He would find no answers here within this dead city.
Perhaps if he saw it from the outside, he would understand why this place was so special to the Jews’ faith. He wanted to understand. He had to.
Removing the hobbles, he mounted his horse and rode toward the hills. For the next three days, he traveled through the wadis, across the valleys, and along the hillsides, looking at Jerusalem from all angles. Nothing commended it.
“O Lord God of Abraham, why did you choose this place?” he said, bemused and unaware he was inquiring of a god in whom he claimed no belief. The hills of Jerusalem were unfit for agriculture, possessed no valuable mineral deposits, held no strategic military importance. It was fully eight miles to the nearest trade route. “Why here?”
“The promise . . .”
“’On this rock will your faith be built . . . ,‘” he said aloud, not remembering where he had heard it. Was it something Satyros had said to him, or something he imagined?
Abraham’s rock, he thought. A rock of sacrifice. That was all Jerusalem had to commend it.
Or was it?
He didn’t care anymore. Maybe he hadn’t come to find God at all. Maybe he had just come to this place because Hadassah had been here and he was drawn to it for that reason alone. He wanted to walk where she had walked. To breathe the air she had breathed. He wanted to feel close to her.
As night came, he wrapped himself in his mantle and lay down upon the earth to rest. Sleep came slowly and with it confusing dreams.
Press on . . . press on . . . a voice seemed to whisper. His questions wouldn’t be answered here.
He awakened abruptly and saw a legionnaire standing above him, silhouetted against the rising sun. “So, you’re still here.” The mocking voice was familiar.
Marcus rose. “Yes. I’m still here.”
“Bethany is two miles east, and there’s a new inn. You look as though you could use a good night’s sleep.”
“Thanks for the advice,” Marcus said wryly.
“Find what you’re looking for?”
“Not yet, but I’ve seen all of Jerusalem I need to see.”
The legionnaire’s smile verged on insult. “Where to now?”
“Jericho and the Jordan Valley.”
“There’s a company riding out to patrol that road in about two hours. Ride with them.”
“If I wanted company, I’d hire it.”
“The death of one fool can cost the lives of many good men.”
Marcus’ eyes narrowed coldly. “Meaning?”
“Rome frowns upon the murder of its citizens, no matter how they dare the fates.”
“On my head be the fault of whatever happens.”
“Good,” the man said with a half smile. “Because I’ve performed all the crucifixions I intend to in my lifetime. Put your head in a lion’s mouth, expect to have it taken off.” He started to walk away and then turned and looked back at Marcus, his hard face oddly perplexed. “Why are you here?”
“I’m looking for the truth.”
“The truth about what?”
Marcus hesitated and then gave him a self-deprecating smile. “God.” He expected the soldier to laugh at him.
The legionnaire looked at him for a long moment, then gave a single, slow nod and walked away without a word.
Marcus rode east toward Qumran. The “city of salt” lay on high ground near the Dead Sea and had once been inhabited primarily by a Jewish sect of holy men called Essenes, who studied and worshiped there. With the threat of invasion, the holy men had departed, hiding their precious scrolls as well as themselves in the caves of the Judean wilderness, leaving the city to Roman troops.
When Marcus reached the junction, he took the fork heading northeast for Jericho. He rode along a deep wadi cut by water erosion into the arid slopes that descended toward the Jordan Valley.
The sun rose hot and heavy, pressing down on him with each hour that passed. Pausing, he removed his mantle and loosened the skin bag from his saddle. He drank deeply and squirted some of the water over his face.
His horse blew out suddenly and sidestepped.
A lizard probably startled him, Marcus thought, leaning down to pat him and whisper soothing words.