An Echo in the Darkness by Francine Rivers
“Are there Christians here in Sebaste?” Marcus said.
“A few. I don’t have anything to do with them. It’s not good for business.”
“Where would I find them?”
“Don’t get anywhere near them. And if you do, don’t bring any into my inn. Jews hate Christians worse than they hate the Romans.”
“I thought they’d have a common ground. The same god.”
“You’re asking the wrong man. About all I know is the Christians believe the Messiah has already come. His name was Jesus.” He laughed derisively. “This Jesus, who was supposedly their anointed one of God, came from some little dunghill in Galilee named Nazareth. Believe me, nothing good comes out of Galilee. Ignorant fishermen and shepherds, mostly, but certainly not a Messiah like the one the Jews are expecting. The Messiah is supposed to be a warrior-king who comes down from the heavens with a legion of angels. The Christians worship a Messiah who was a carpenter. What’s more, he was crucified, though they claim he arose from the dead. According to this sect, Jesus fulfilled and, thereby, abolished the Law. There’s enough in that claim to keep a war going forever. If there’s one thing I’ve come to know in twenty years of living in this miserable country, it’s this: A Jew isn’t a Jew without the Law. It’s the air they breathe.”
Malchus shook his head. “And I’ll tell you something else. They’ve got more laws than Rome, and they’re adding to them all the time. They’ve got their Torah, written by Moses. Then they’ve got their civil and moral laws. They’ve even got dietary laws. Then they’ve got their traditions. I swear Jews have laws about everything, even how and where a man can relieve himself!”
Marcus frowned. Something Hadassah had once said about the Law flickered like a small flame in his mind. She had summed up the entire Law in a few words for Claudius, Julia’s first husband. He had written it down onto one of his scrolls and then read her words to him. What had they been?
“I need to find out,” Marcus muttered to himself.
“Find out what?” Malchus said.
“What the truth is.”
Malchus frowned, not understanding.
“How do I get to Mount Gerizim?” Marcus said.
“Just walk out that door and you’ll see two mountains, Mount Ebal to the north, Mount Gerizim to the south. Between them is the pass to the valley of Nablus. Abraham came through there to their ‘Promised Land.‘”
Marcus gave him a gold coin.
Malchus’ brows lifted slightly as he turned it in his fingers. The Roman must be very rich. “The road’ll take you through the town of Sychar, but I give you fair warning. Romans are hated throughout Palestine, and a Roman traveling by himself is asking for trouble. Especially one with money.”
“I was told a Roman legion guards these roads.”
Malchus laughed without humor. “No road is safe from sicarii. And they’d sooner slit your throat than listen to any plea for mercy.”
“I’ll be on the watch for zealots.”
“These men aren’t zealots. Zealots are like those who committed suicide on Masada a few years back. They preferred death to slavery. You can respect men like that. Sicarii are something else altogether. They see themselves as patriots, but they’re nothing more than murderous bandits.” He pushed the gold coin into the fold of his grimy girdle. “You’ve picked a foul country to travel in, my lord. There’s nothing here to recommend it to a Roman.”
“I came to find out about their god.”
Malchus gave a surprised laugh. “Why would anyone want to have anything to do with their god? You can’t see him. You can’t hear him. And look what’s happened to the Jews. If you ask me, you ought to stay well away from their god.”
“I didn’t ask you,” Marcus said in clear dismissal.
“It’s your life,” Malchus muttered under his breath and went to see to his other patrons.
Malchus’ wife placed a clay bowl of stew before Marcus. Hungry, he ate and found the mixture of lentils, beans, and grain with honey and oil satisfying. When he finished, Marcus rose and found his booth against the wall of the open courtyard. His horse had been given hay and grain. Nudging the animal aside, Marcus rolled out his bed and lay down for the night.
He awakened every time someone stirred or got up. Two travelers from Jericho drank wine, laughed at jokes, and talked far into the night. Others, like a retired soldier and his young wife and child, settled early.
Marcus awakened at daybreak and set off for Mount Gerizim. He rode through the town of Sychar late in the afternoon. Eager to reach his destination, he didn’t stop but continued up the mountain. He stopped at a Jewish shrine to ask questions, but hearing his accent and noting his dress, the people avoided him. He rode a little farther, hobbled his horse, and set off on foot to reach the top.
What he found there was a magnificent view of the hill country of the Jewish Promised Land.
But there was no sign of a god. Not that he could see. Frustrated, he cried out against the emptiness around him. “Where are you? Why do you hide from me?”
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
“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.
Reining his horse in, he stopped and stared after the young shepherd for a moment longer, perplexed. What was it about him that was different? Shaking his head, Marcus gave a self-deprecating laugh and urged his horse on. He had spent too much time on the mountain without food and drink. He was turning fanciful.
He continued at a brisk pace down the mountain and headed south for Jerusalem.
12
Hadassah awakened to someone banging on the outer partition of the booth and calling for help. “My lord physician! My lord! Please. We need you!” She sat up, struggling from sleep.
“No,” Rashid said, moving quickly to intercept her. “It is late, and you must rest.” He stepped around her to push the partition aside, determined to silence and chase off the intruder. “What do you want, woman? The physician and his assistant are asleep.”
“My master sent me. Please. Let me speak to him. My mistress’ time has come, and we learned her physician has left Ephesus in disgrace. My mistress is in great difficulty.”
“Be off with you. There are other physicians at the baths. This booth is closed.”
“She will die if she doesn’t get help. You must awaken him. He must come. I beg you. Please. She is in terrible pain, and the baby won’t come. My master is rich. He will pay whatever you ask.”
“Rashid,” Hadassah said as she drew her veils down over her face. “Tell her we will come.”
“You have just lain down to rest, my lady,” he said in protest.
“Do as she says,” Alexander told him, already up and checking his instruments, adding several to his leather carrying pack. “Bring the mandragora, Hadassah. If it’s as bad as it sounds, we may need it.”
“Yes, my lord.” She added several other drugs to the box besides the mandragora. She was ready before he was, and, taking up her walking stick, she limped to the partition. Rashid blocked her way, and she put her hand on his arm. “Let me speak with her.”
“Do you not need rest like any other?” he said and glared at the slave girl outside. “Let her go elsewhere.”
“She has come to us. Now move aside.”
Mouth tight, Rashid yanked the partition back. Hadassah went outside. The slave girl drew back from her, her face pale in the moonlight. Hadassah understood her trepidation, for she had seen it often enough. The veils made many people nervous. She tried to ease the slave girl’s anxiety. “The physician is coming,” she said gently. “He is very knowledgeable and will do all he can for your mistress. He’s packing what he needs.”
“Oh, thank you, thank you,” the girl said, bowing several times and then bursting into tears. “My lady’s pains began yesterday afternoon and grow worse and worse.”
“Tell me your name.”
“Livilla, my lady.”
“And the name of your mistress?”
“Antonia Stephania Magonianus, wife of Habinnas Attalus.”
Alexander had appeared. “Magonianus? Surely not Magonianus the silversmith?”
“The same, my lord,” Livilla said, clearly distressed at the slightest delay. “We must hurry. Please. We must hurry!”
“Lead the way,” Alexander said, and Livilla set off quickly.
Rashid yanked the partition closed with one hand and followed. “You cannot keep up,” he said walking beside Hadassah.
She knew he was right, for already pain was shooting up her bad leg. She stumbled once and gasped. Rashid glowered at her with an expression of grimness as he reached out to take her arm. “Do you see?”
Alexander glanced back and saw her difficulty. He stopped and waited for her to catch up.
“No,” she panted. “Go without me. I will come as quickly as I can.”
“She should not be coming at all,” Rashid said in annoyance.
Hadassah shook his hand off her arm and limped after Livilla, who was standing at a corner and calling back to them to hurry. Alexander fell into step beside her. “Rashid is right. It’s too far and too hard on you. Go back. I’ll have Magonianus send a litter for you.”
Gritting her teeth against the pain, Hadassah scarcely heard him. All of her attention was on the frightened slave girl urging them to hurry.
Rashid swore in his own language and caught Hadassah up in his arms. He strode up the hill, still muttering under his breath.
“Thank you, Rashid,” Hadassah said, her arm around his neck. “God sent her to us for a reason.”
They followed Livilla through the maze of dark city streets and reached a large shop facing the Artemision. One glance told Hadassah who they were coming to see. Magonianus. The silversmith. The idol maker.
Rashid carried her through the shop to the residence behind.
“This way,” Livilla said, panting from exertion and running for a marble staircase. Somewhere above them a woman screamed. “Hurry! Oh, please, hurry!”
Rashid followed her into a room on the second floor and stood looking around, Hadassah still in his arms. Alexander was right behind him and halted just inside the door with the same reaction. The lavish surroundings were stunning. The room was resplendent with color. Murrhine glass glistened, and Babylonian coverings draped the east wall. Two murals bespoke of a wealth far removed from the small booth on the street outside the public baths. One covered the west wall and displayed sprites dancing in a forest while two lovers were entwined together in a bed of flowers. Another on the south wall displayed a hunting scene.
Hadassah, however, saw nothing but the young girl writhing on the bed. “Put me down, Rashid.”
Rashid obeyed, staring in amazement at the conspicuous evidence of Magonianus’ prosperity.
Hadassah limped to the bed. “Antonia, we’re here to help you,” she said and laid her hand against the girl’s damp forehead. She was no older than Julia when she had first married. Across from her was a gray-haired man much like Claudius, holding her small white hand between both of his. His weary face was pale and beaded with perspiration. Antonia cried out again as another c
“You must be calm for her, my lord.”
“Habinnas!” Antonia cried, her blue eyes widened in fear as she looked up at Hadassah. “Who is she? Why is she covered in veils?”
“Don’t be afraid, my lady,” Hadassah said gently, smiling down at her, though she knew Antonia couldn’t see her face. It was best that she couldn’t, for the dreadful scars would frighten the girl even more. “I have come with the physician to help with your lying in.”
Antonia began to pant again and then moan. “Oh . . . ohhh . . . ohhhh, Hera, have mercy.”
As Hadassah stroked the girl’s forehead gently, she saw an amulet around her neck. She had seen many such amulets over the past months. Some, made of stone or hare’s rennet, were meant to make childbearing easier. Others, like this one, were to stimulate fertility. She took the smooth oval hematite in her hand and saw, engraved on one side, a serpent devouring its own tail. She knew without turning it over that on the other side would be an engraving of the goddess Isis and a scarab beetle. Also engraved in minute detail were an invocation in Greek and the names of Oroiouth, Iao, and Yahweh. Wearers believed the combination of Greek, Egyptian, and Semitic motifs and words would bring magical powers. Untying it, she set it aside.
“I’m going to die,” the girl said, rolling her head back and forth. “I’m going to die.”
“No,” Habinnas said in agony. “No, you’re not going to die. I won’t let you. Even now, the priests are making sacrifices in your name to Artemis and Hera.”
Hadassah leaned closer. “Is this your first child, Antonia?”
“No.”
“She’s lost two others,” Habinnas said.
“And now this one won’t be born.” She began to pant, one hand raking the damp blanket while her other whitened on her husband’s hand. “It pushes and pushes, but it won’t come. Oh, Habinnas, it hurts! Make it stop. Make it stop!” She screamed, her body curling in agony.
Habinnas held her hand with both of his and cried.
Still distracted by the opulence of his surroundings, Alexander crossed the room and removed perfume bottles and unguents from an ivory table. He glanced around again at the shining Corinthian bronze bed with its Chinese silk veiling, at the intricate pattern of various colors of marble on the floor, and at the large ornate brazier and gold lamps.