An Echo in the Darkness(87)
Her face softened. “You’re a good man, Ezra.” She sighed. “Too good.” She rose and returned to her work.
“As soon as the Roman is well enough to travel, he will go.”
“What’s the hurry? The damage has already been done!” She looked toward the steps to the roof. “Did you put him on the bed in the tabernacle?”
“Yes.”
She flattened the dough with several hard whacks. It was just like Ezra to give the best bed away. Well, as far as she was concerned, when the Roman left, he could roll up that defiled bed and take it with him.
18
Marcus awakened to the sound of a town crier. He could hear the man clearly, calling out his announcements in Aramaic from a nearby rooftop. He tried to sit up, then sank back with a gasp of pain, his head throbbing.
“You will feel better in a few days,” a woman said.
He heard something rinsed in water, and he sighed as a cool cloth was placed over his forehead and eyes. He made a sound in his throat. “Robbed . . . horse . . . money belt.” He gave a low, harsh laugh of contempt. His split lip stung. His jaws hurt. Even his teeth hurt. “Even my tunic.”
“We will give you another tunic,” Taphatha said.
Marcus was aware of the resonance of the girl’s voice, her accent. “Are you a Jew?”
“Yes, my lord.”
Her words pierced him, bringing back memories of Hadassah. “A man helped me.”
“My father. We found you in the wadi and brought you here.”
“I thought all Jews hated Romans. Why would you and your father stop to help me?”
“Because you needed help.”
He remembered hearing the Roman patrol on the road. He had heard others pass by above him speaking Greek. If they had heard his call, they had not tarried to find or help him.
“How is he doing, Daughter?” a man’s voice said.
“Better, Father. His fever is down.”
“That is good.”
Marcus felt the man draw near. “I was warned not to travel alone,” he said dryly.
“Wise counsel, Roman. Heed it next time.”
Despite the pain in his lip, Marcus smiled wryly. “Sometimes a man can’t find what he’s looking for with others beside him.”
Taphatha tipped her head, curious. “What are you looking for?”
“The God of Abraham.”
“Haven’t you Romans gods enough of your own?” Ezra said sardonically. His daughter looked up at him in silent plea.
“You aren’t willing to share yours?” Marcus said.
“It would depend on your reasons for wanting to do so.” Ezra gestured Taphatha to move away and hunkered down to remove the cloth and rinse it again himself. He didn’t want his daughter to spend too much time with this Gentile. He laid the cool cloth over the Roman’s face.
Marcus moved again and drew in a hissing breath through his teeth.
“Don’t try to sit up yet. You may have a few cracked ribs.”
“My name is Marcus Lucianus Valerian.” His name roused no comment, no questions. “The name means nothing to you?”
“Is it important?”
Marcus uttered a laugh. “Apparently not important enough.”
Ezra glanced at his daughter. “Go and help your mother, Taphatha.”
She lowered her eyes. “Yes, Father,” she said meekly.
Marcus listened to the sound of her footsteps as she went to the stairway. “Taphatha,” he said. “A sweet name.”
Ezra’s mouth tightened. “You were fortunate, Marcus Lucianus. You lost your possessions and suffered scrapes and bruises, but you are alive.”
“Yes. I’m alive.”
Ezra noticed the dismal way the Roman uttered the words and wondered at the reasons behind it. “My wife and daughter applied salt and turpentine to your wounds. The cut in your side is sealed with pitch. You should heal in a few days.”
“And then be on my way,” Marcus said, his mouth curving faintly. “Where am I?”
“In Jericho. On my roof.”
Marcus listened to the crier calling out his announcements across the neighborhood. “Thank you for not leaving me in the wadi to die.”
Ezra frowned at the humility of those words and relented slightly. “I am Ezra Barjachin.”
“I am in your debt, Ezra Barjachin.”
“Your debt is to God.” Annoyed at the trouble the Roman had brought upon his household, he rose and left the roof.
Marcus dozed, awakening periodically to sounds rising from the street. Taphatha came back and gave him a thick gruel of lentils. He was hungry enough that it tasted good. He hurt too much after eating to make conversation. Her hands were gentle as she readjusted the blankets over him. He caught the scent of her skin—a mingling of sun, cumin, and baked bread—just before she left him alone again.