The Damascus Way Read online

  This had been happening far too frequently of late, Helena’s begging off joining Julia for the evening meal because of not feeling well. “Set the tray on the table by the window, please.”

  Zoe did as bidden and with a brief nod toward Julia turned to go.

  “Wait. Please,” Julia added, flushing slightly at the tone of her voice. She sounded arrogant to her own ears. “Please,” she said again, “I . . . I really don’t like eating alone. Do you mind staying?”

  With one brief nod the roles of mistress and servant seemed to evaporate between them. Zoe granted her a look of shared companionship. Almost as a grandmother acknowledging her grandchild. “You are worried too,” the woman said softly.

  Julia swallowed away the lump in her throat, crossed to the window, and pushed the heavy curtain aside. Perhaps the day had cooled enough to allow fresh air inside. The light was moving toward dusk as evening shadows stretched across the courtyard and the limestone floor of the room. One lone star held a solitary place in the night sky, blinking faintly as though beckoning others to join it. “Did you bring two cups?”

  Zoe had eased herself onto a stool. “No – just the one.”

  “Never mind. I have another with my water jar. I’ll fetch it.”

  Julia poured two servings of tea before taking her place in the chair at the small table’s opposite side. She pushed the tray toward Zoe, hoping the frail-looking elderly woman would eat. What would she and her mother ever do if something happened to Zoe? Julia looked steadfastly at the woman she had known all her life and asked the question that was uppermost in her mind. “Is Mother truly ill?”

  Her eyes held Zoe’s as she spoke, challenging her to tell the truth.

  The old woman shook her head as she spoke. “She worries.”

  It was the answer that Julia had expected. “But I cannot get her to tell me what it is that concerns her,” she said. “Does she share her heart with you, Zoe?”

  The elderly woman hesitated. “Helena – your mother – does not speak of it, but I . . . well . . .”

  “You have known Mother far longer than I. She sees you as the only friend she has. We both love her. We need to talk about anything that might help her.” Julia reached across the table to Zoe’s hand.

  The pleading words clearly had an impact on the woman. She refused to meet Julia’s gaze as she said, “It started long ago. Back in Samaria, where your mother was born, she was a cheery, carefree girl. Then when . . . when things . . . happened to the family and they were left with nothing but debt, Helena was forced to be the answer to the need.”

  “The ‘answer’? What do you mean? How?”

  “Your father said he would take the small market stall and . . . well . . . Helena in exchange for the sum owed. He even, generously it was said, offered some denarii as well. And then Helena was brought here. I came with her.”

  Julia felt her body stiffen. “My father?”

  Zoe only nodded, her eyes fixed on the hands tightly knotted in her lap.

  “He married her?”

  There was no response from Zoe.

  “You mean . . . ?” Julia couldn’t finish. She could feel her heart pounding in her chest.

  When Zoe spoke again it was in a gentle tone. “Julia, that is the way of things. You can’t change it. Your grandfather had died. Helena’s mother, your grandmother, accepted the only course that might save her family. Otherwise they all would have been sold into slavery. Or left in the streets to beg. Helena was a beautiful young girl. Your father noticed her. He offered a way out of – ”

  “But he loves her,” Julia protested.

  Zoe’s eyes lifted. “Yes. Yes, he loves her, your father does.”

  “But he – he purchased her?” Julia still could not grasp it. “She was simply payment for a debt?”

  “In . . . in a manner of speaking.”

  “She’s not his wife – she’s his slave.” The terrible word came out far too harshly. Oh, the shame of it! Julia could feel hot tears scalding her eyes. No wonder the town women crossed to the other side of the street to avoid her. No wonder guests never arrived at their door. “So that is why we are treated as lepers – ”

  “No. No, I am quite sure the neighbors, the townspeople, do not know.”

  “So my father hides her away to shield her from wagging tongues?”

  Zoe shrugged and picked at a snag in her shawl. “It is a common enough thing for men in Jamal’s position. I do not think he gives it thought at all.”

  The very words made further anger churn through Julia. Had he really no idea of what this meant? “She is a common . . .” But Julia couldn’t say it.

  Even so, Zoe’s head lifted and she said quickly, “Are you to judge? What do you know of how it began? Or what it is now? Do you not see them when they are together?”

  Julia’s words were equally impatient. Angry. “Where does he go all the time, Zoe? Is he always just traveling the roads with his merchandise as he claims?”

  Again Zoe sighed, but Julia could tell she would not lie. “I understand he has a home – a family.”

  “Where?”

  “Damascus.”

  “So he cheats us both. His Damascus family and us. Do they know about us?”

  Zoe slowly lifted her shoulders. “I have no idea. It is really none of our concern, Julia. We should ask no questions. Nor should we – ”

  “Does Mother know? Of that other family? Does she know?”

  Zoe nodded.

  “No wonder she is ill. She worries. She has no rights, no husband – ”

  “I do not think she worries much about herself.”

  Suddenly Julia understood. Her mother was a Samaritan, considered an outcast from Judaism – neither a member of the Jewish community nor of the Gentiles. Even her Hellenized name labeled her as other than a true Hebrew. And now it turned out she was a kept woman – could not even claim to be the wife of a wealthy Greek merchant. She clung to a most tenuous position against another woman, another household, another family. . . .

  So what rights does that give her only child? Julia placed her untouched food back on the tray. “And I am a girl. Mother has no son to care for her should she be turned out.” Julia stared directly at Zoe. “Why did she not have more children?”

  “She did want them. Cried for them. But her womb had closed. She said Jehovah deemed her unfit. . . .”

  Julia pushed away the now-cold tea and rose from her chair. She crossed the few steps back to the window. More stars had found their places in the darkening sky. To her left a sliver of moon did its best to offer what little light it could. From the courtyard, squabbling voices of outside servants hung on the stillness. Likely the guards disputing over the hours of watch, she thought numbly as her fingers traced a path across the windowsill.

  She turned back to Zoe, her only anchor in a tilting world. “You’ve always known this?”

  Zoe nodded. “Yes, I have been with your mother from the beginning – back in Samaria.” Sadness darkened her eyes, and the hand she lifted to push back her shawl trembled.

  “You have spoiled me,” Julia scolded softly. “You leave me feeling like an overly pampered child.”

  Zoe straightened, her eyes flashing a silent protest. “You have enjoyed the finer things of life. You have father and mother and love – ”

  “And I have not taken responsibility for anything. But I will. I must find a way to help Mother. Surely there is something that can be done.”

  “I think there is one way,” Zoe said slowly, staring into her cup, then lifting her gaze to Julia’s. “Remember my trip back to Sychar a few weeks ago? I had permission to travel with your father’s caravan to see my family. Well, I saw more than my family. I talked with a neighbor, another Samaritan, someone I would not have claimed as a friend those long years ago when your mother and I lived there. But she has changed – she is a different person now. She told me all about it. She met a man some years ago – a prophet of Israel – at the city well. T
his rabbi spoke to her, and she became his follower, along with others. It seemed too much to believe when I first heard her story, but she urged me to find a group of his followers when I returned to Tiberias and let them tell me more. I did. They are in a village nearby. These people of the Way, as they are called, are everywhere. More and more of them.”

  Zoe’s voice took on an emotion Julia had not heard from the servant before. “He is not just a prophet. He is our promised Messiah. He did not come just for the Jews. He came for all people. Even us Samaritans. To bring salvation. And freedom.”

  Julia was more curious than convinced, but she asked, “Where is this prophet?”

  Zoe frowned. “Well . . . he . . . they crucified him.”

  “What are you saying? He is dead?”

  “Now, this is the part I found hard to believe at first, but it is true,” Zoe said, hurrying on. “He came out from his tomb. People saw him. A few at first, then more. He talked with them. Ate with them. He gave them messages and promises about the future. They know that what he said – ”

  “I don’t understand.” Julia shook her head at the preposterous story.

  Zoe stood now, her eyes filled with an unusual light. She reached a worn hand to place on Julia’s shoulder. “Come with me. We are meeting again tonight. Let one of the leaders explain what I cannot. Come. Please come.”

  It was pure nonsense. A dead man coming to life! But . . . where else was there any promise of help? What harm could it do to listen to their account of this man, whoever he was?

  Julia finally nodded assent, watching as the old servant’s eyes took on a further gleam.

  CHAPTER

  TWO

  Tiberias

  Six Months Later

  “Alban!” The voice of Jamal, Syrian trader and owner of both the caravan and the trading grounds outside Tiberias, carried far. Especially when he was in a temper. “A word with you!”

  Alban quickly left Jacob’s side and started toward the open tent. Clouds of dust shimmered above the campsite while camels snorted and stomped and bellowed – some impatient to begin the journey, others complaining over the enormous loads being fastened upon their backs. Most were simply being camels.

  Jamal’s tent was a decidedly elaborate affair with its wooden corner posts ornately carved and painted in whorls and other exotic designs. As the dawn wind had not yet stirred, all four sides of the tent were raised. The floor, layer upon layer of woven carpets, held a throne-like chair with gilded arms. Jamal was seated upon it, a brass table to his left holding quill and ink along with parchment and tea. The traveling abode was situated upon a small hillock just outside the camp’s perimeter, providing Jamal a bird’s-eye view of the entire caravan.

  Alban knew the man’s practiced eye would have missed nothing. As he approached the tent, the head servant started forward with the traditional bowl and towel. Alban would be invited to wash hands and face and feet. But Jamal impatiently waved the man aside. “We will not keep our chief guard a moment longer than required.”

  Alban remained, as expected, at the edge of the tent. His dusty sandals did not touch the carpet’s border. “Sire?”

  “It is considered a bad omen to begin a journey with a quarrel among the men.”

  “Among followers of the Way,” Alban said quietly, “there is no such thing as omens.”

  Jamal brushed that aside with a wave. “I do not follow any man or deity. And it is good for us all that I do not. I lead, Alban – I lead! And I hired you, a former Roman centurion, to guard my caravan. Not to create discord among my guards.”

  “I hear and obey, sire.”

  “My caravan departs with the sun. I want my chief guard’s attention focused upon the protection of my goods, not on his young assistant. Perhaps I should replace him – Jacob is his name?”

  “He is my right hand,” Alban assured him quickly. “And one of your finest guards.”

  “I’ve heard nothing but good reports about him,” Jamal allowed. “So why is it you insist upon staining the dawn with your arguments?”

  Alban knew that beneath the trader’s usual joviality lay a streak of dangerous wrath. He sensed the man’s force lurking within his now easier manner. “Jacob is at times a difficult and stubborn young man.”

  “While you at his age were no doubt an angel with wings of gold and a smile that melted the hearts of your elders?” Jamal sipped from a golden goblet. As soon as he placed it back on the table, the hovering servant refilled it. Steam poured out the long spout, and the air was suddenly perfumed with mint. “Tell me – I forget. Jacob is your nephew?”

  “My charge. I rescued him from slavers when he was but a lad. A few years ago I was appointed his legal guardian. His sister’s as well.”

  “You and he are bound by ties strong as blood,” Jamal noted, his former ire seemingly evaporated like the steam from his cup. “Which no doubt explains why I heard you two squabbling like father and son.”

  Alban sighed. His wife, Leah, had admonished him over the same point. And more than once. “I apologize if we have disturbed your morning, sire.”

  “Not just mine! The caravan master is already anxious enough, what with the threat of bandits and Zealots hovering about the Samaritan plains, ready to snatch my hard-gotten goods!”

  Jamal had returned from his last journey suffering from some illness. At the urging of the best physician in Tiberias, he had reluctantly agreed to stop his traveling, at least for a time. But the decision had not been easy, and Alban knew the merchant chafed at the thought of his caravans departing Tiberias without him.

  “I shall guard your caravan and your merchandise,” he now told the man, “with my life.”

  “Your loyalty is not in question, Guard Captain.” Though he had returned to his easy manner, Jamal’s eyes were iron hard. “Now I command you to go out and make peace with your Jacob.”

  Alban bowed as expected. “Sire.”

  He returned to where Jacob was helping load the donkeys that carried the caravan’s own supplies. Jacob looked over his shoulder at Alban’s approach and yanked so hard on the strap the donkey bellowed.

  Alban held both arms wide. “I ask that there be peace between us.”

  Jacob kept busy lashing covers over the provisions they would need for the next four days. “Only because Jamal ordered it.”

  “The command was his. The peace is my own.”

  Alban could see that Jacob remained stubborn, but he kept his irritation in check. Finally Jacob gave a short nod, though refusing to meet Alban’s eye, and swiftly turned back to his work.

  Alban watched his charge for a moment longer. Jacob’s growing strength and manhood were evident. At times Alban could still see the youth peering out from the dark eyes. But the trader’s ire granted Alban a fresh perspective. He realized Jacob’s shoulders were now broader than his own. The lad’s legs and arms were finely muscled. At almost twenty, Jacob was half a head taller than Alban himself. He was still so wiry that Alban outweighed him, but Jacob was all lean strength and filled with the vigor of youth.

  As he walked toward where his horse was tethered, Alban reflected on how Jacob restrained his movements nowadays when they trained together. Clearly Jacob was reluctant to best his master and mentor. Alban sensed the eagerness in his charge, the joy he took in his growing abilities with sword and staff and spear and bow. At the same time, Alban felt as though Jacob considered it all simply part of a thrilling adventure. But Alban knew the truth. These days, the roads of Judea and Samaria and beyond carried a growing risk. This was one of the reasons Alban felt such urgency in drawing the young man away from this vocation. Yet Jacob threatened to toss aside the new opportunity Alban had presented. Alban’s arguments only threatened to tear their relationship apart.

  At the caravan master’s plaintive cry, Alban swung onto his horse and signaled the other guards with a shrill whistle. He and Jacob both saluted Jamal as they passed the merchant’s tent. Then Alban faced the new day and the open
road.

  In his heart he knew there would be no peace with Jacob this day.

  From the outskirts of Tiberias their caravan descended toward the plains to the southwest. November had scarcely begun, yet the wind carried a chill more suited to February, heavy with coming rain. The camels snorted and balked, and the drovers’ shouts were plucked away by a rising wind. Bandits used wind and rain to mask their attacks. Alban signaled with his whip hand, ordering the nine armed men to begin circling the caravan. Jacob’s team traveled in one direction, while his own moved in the opposite course. It permitted them to cross paths repeatedly and enclose the caravan in a tight loop. Alban’s strategy was one Roman troops had developed.

  By late afternoon the caravan remained safe and the wind had subsided, but Alban and his men were exhausted. They camped beneath the shadow of a Roman garrison marking the entry to the Plains of Megiddo. Alban ordered his men to unsaddle their mounts and give them an extra feed. He began patrolling alone on foot, though he too wanted nothing more than rest and food. His bones ached. He missed Leah and their beautiful son, safe at their home on the outskirts of Capernaum. Alban sighed and wondered if he was getting too old for such duties.

  Jacob approached him, carrying a skin of cold tea and a soldier’s repast of dried meat and onions wrapped in flatbread. While the young man fell into step beside him, Alban ate and drank. When he was done, Alban wiped a hand across his lips and repeated his words from that morning. “I would have peace between us, Jacob.”

  He clearly had been expecting this, for he instantly said, “Then you will speak no more about this idea of yours.”

  “It is a good plan, Jacob.”

  “Not for me, it is not. I want nothing to do with it.”

  Alban kept his voice calm, though it required great self-control. “I wonder if this might be God’s will for you, my friend.”

  Alban could tell Jacob had started to round on him but stopped and continued simply walking alongside. “I talk with God. Every day,” Jacob finally said. “He hasn’t said a thing about this to me.”