The Damascus Way Page 4

  Latif’s eyes scouted the empty site once more, then he slipped his hand inside his robe. It emerged holding a slender leather satchel. “Take this. I was to hand it to another who leaves for Tiberias, but I am being watched and cannot make the contact. They must not find it. Hide it well.”

  “But what am I to do with this?” Jacob wanted to step back, but he forced himself to stay and listen to his friend.

  “If I am wrong, and we leave here safely, you can give it back to me. And you can forget we ever spoke. But I am not wrong.” He thrust the satchel into Jacob’s hands. “If I am taken, return to Tiberias as soon as possible.”

  Latif quickly explained the procedure Jacob was to follow exactly. The man stopped now and then, asking Jacob to repeat the instructions. Upon his arrival back in the Tiberias encampment, Jacob would be approached by someone within the camel pen. Jacob was to wear a red headband and carry a basket of herbs to treat the animals. He was to speak a phrase which Latif urged him to repeat several times until he was sure Jacob would remember it correctly. After the phrase was spoken, his contact would respond by drawing the sign of the fish in the sand. Jacob would then also draw the sign of the fish. Only then was Jacob to pass over the satchel.

  Latif ended with one more caution. “It must be just as I have said. And be careful. There are eyes everywhere. Now, do you have it clearly in mind?”

  “I think so, yes, but . . .”

  “In this there are no uncertainties, Jacob.”

  “Of course.” Jacob tried to swallow.

  “And if I am taken, I place three of my camels in your charge. Jamal has given me a special assignment to . . .”

  “You have a double mission?”

  “Two. Separate. They are not in any way related.”

  “You are obviously a man to be trusted.”

  “And I in turn trust you. With them both.” Latif might have shaken his head, or perhaps it was merely a nervous tremor. “Keep safe the packet, Jacob. Guard my camels,” Latif implored, his dark eyes saying far more than his words. “Now go. And if I am taken, pray for me.”

  Jacob wanted to protest further, but the man turned and hurried away. Jacob slipped the satchel inside his robes, fitting it tight against his abdomen, and refastened his belt. He tried to tell himself that Latif’s fears were merely overwrought imaginings. All of the caravan’s associates bore the strain of the road and the storm. But as Jacob turned toward the tent, he felt the satchel riding against his skin. The man’s fears seemed to emanate from the leather, working deep into Jacob’s own gut. He looked forward to the morrow, when he could hand this back to Latif and forget the exchange had ever taken place.

  With their eyes protected from the swirling dust, the donkeys made no protest as Alban was helped into the saddle. The man was so weak that both Abigail and Jacob were required to give him a hand up. It was the first time Jacob could ever recall his guardian needing help to do anything. The realization left him reluctant to leave Alban’s side. “Are you sure you will be able to ride?”

  “It’s a good plan,” Alban said, coughing weakly. “And you were right to insist I remain here in Jerusalem.”

  Abigail darted a glance at Jacob. Such an admission was troubling indeed. “Be ready to assist him,” Jacob murmured as he made a cradle of his hands for Abigail to step into the saddle of a second donkey, then moved it alongside Alban.

  “I will be fine,” Alban said.

  Both Alban and Abigail were dressed in cloaks of the Damascus style, free-flowing robes of a golden color with hoods that shadowed their faces. The woman’s robe differed from the man’s only by the tassels that rimmed her hood, and which now were whipping wildly in the wind. Jacob, attired in a Syrian servant’s robe, grey with a striped cloth belt, gripped the reins and pulled the two donkeys forward.

  With a slight reduction in the gale, the Roman guards had returned to their posts outside the gates. A metal basket, as large as a kettle, burned several logs and flung cinders in a steady stream into the evening sky. Jacob had hidden the leather satchel beneath the carpets in his tent. Even so, he felt as if it were still burning the skin of his abdomen as they approached the gate. The guards huddled against the wall, eyeing them sullenly, but made no challenge.

  They passed well to the east of the plaza fronting the Freedmen’s Synagogue, though the maneuver was probably unnecessary. The streets of Jerusalem were largely empty. Most of the stall owners already had shuttered their shops and left for the comforts of home and fire and food. Overhead the wind buffeted the rooftops, like the rumble upon a giant’s drum. The donkeys’ clopping hoofs held to a steady cadence as Jacob hurried forward. The only sounds between them were Abigail’s quiet directions and Alban’s occasional cough.

  Soon enough, Jacob required no further instructions, for he knew where they were going. He stopped before the familiar gate and rapped loudly with his staff. The face that appeared in the recessed portal peered at Jacob and his two shrouded passengers in the near darkness. The bearded man barked out, “We are closed. Come back tomorrow.”

  “It is I, Master Carpenter.”

  “I know you not.”

  “Jacob. Your former apprentice. Let us in. Please.”

  “Jacob . . .” He squinted doubtfully through the gloom. “I still do not – ”

  “You once accused me of only being good at holding up the side wall.”

  “Can it be?” The scrape of the bar being lifted, and the carpenter flung open the door. “Merciful heavens, it is you.”

  “As I said.” Jacob led the two donkeys inside, and the carpenter quickly closed and barred the gate. “Help me with Alban.”

  “Alban is here as well? And Abigail, I see! Dressed as foreigners from beyond Judea’s boundaries.” He helped ease Alban to the earth. “What has happened to you, my good man?”

  “It is nothing,” Alban said, wheezing hard from the journey. “A cough – ”

  “And a fever strong enough to eat him from the inside out,” Jacob said as he tethered the two animals. “Our caravan must leave tomorrow. But Alban needs rest and time to heal.”

  Abigail greeted the large man and asked, “Is there place for one more? I can move – ”

  “No, no, not necessary. For a friend in need? Of course we have room!” The carpenter fitted himself to Alban’s other side. “Come and settle your bones by the fire, brother.”

  “I do not wish to make trouble,” Alban said.

  “We can pay,” Jacob put in.

  “No more such talk. We do not speak of payments here.” The carpenter glanced over Alban’s bowed head. “You look like your own elder brother, Jacob. How long has it been since – ?”

  “Five years.”

  “And long ones besides. But from the looks of you, you have made good use of the time.”

  Alban wheezed out, “Jacob has become my good right arm.”

  Abigail followed close behind the trio. “So he will take good care of your caravan, Alban, and you can rest easy and recover before getting back to your Leah.”

  Alban coughed again and would have doubled over save for the grip the two men had on his arms. When the spasm ended, he said, “Yes, I have been gone from Leah too long . . . and from our son, Gabriel.” Even speaking their names seemed to soften the lines of pain and weariness in his face.

  “We comfort and care for one another.” The carpenter was a simple man, with hands as large as the mallets he used. He led Alban through the familiar doorway into what Jacob knew as the main workroom. “You are joined with us in the family of our Lord. Of course we will help, and you will soon be ready to travel home to your wife and child.”

  The workroom had been swept clean and the tools stowed. The high-ceilinged chamber was filled with torchlight and tables and perhaps thirty people. At the other end, large doors opened into what Jacob recalled was the storage area for wood and finished products. Here in this place, all was warmth and friendship. Nods and smiles greeted the newcomers.

  Jac
ob allowed himself to be seated at a table with some men, and Abigail settled herself on the other side with the women. Alban was given one of the few chairs set near the great oven and the warmth of its fire.

  The master carpenter, Josiah, stepped to the front of the room and spread his arms wide, as if embracing the whole gathering. “In the name of our risen Lord,” he sang out.

  Jacob bowed his head with the others for an opening prayer, the men rocking back and forth their agreement and fervently echoing amen at its close. A psalm was sung. Another prayer. A second song. Then bowls of fragrant stew were passed along the rows by several young women.

  Jacob held his bowl below his chin and enjoyed the meal with the others, responding when spoken to but comfortable with mostly listening.

  When the women were gathering the dishes, Abigail moved nearer to Jacob. “We have so little time together, my brother.”

  Jacob nodded somberly. It was true. His visits were always a brief stop when he came with the caravans. At the same time, he wished Abigail could be convinced to leave this city. It truly was not a place for her and her little daughter. He would feel much more at ease were she to move near Leah up north. But he did not speak his thoughts. Abigail had already heard them many times. Instead he asked, “Where is the little one?”

  “Asleep upstairs.” Abigail’s face glowed with her smile. “You are not the only one who has grown.”

  “You are living here now?”

  “For six months. Ever since the . . . the men came to our quarters at the upper room where our Lord shared his final meal.” Abigail shuddered at the memory. “I was away at the time, continuing Stephen’s work with the orphans and widows. Three of our dear friends still are missing. The Temple guards will tell us nothing.”

  Jacob shook his head, but he did not want to hear more bad news. Not tonight. “Is my little niece as lovely as I recall?”

  A woman on Abigail’s other side said, “Dorcas holds her mother’s beauty. She captures our hearts with her smiles.”

  It took Jacob a moment to realize who had spoken, the woman had aged so. “Martha! Forgive me, I did not recognize you.”

  At least her voice had not changed, and she was as blunt and direct as ever. “You have grown into a man as comely as your sister is lovely. I shouldn’t be surprised if – ”

  “Martha,” Abigail whispered. “We are preparing to pray.”

  Martha shrugged and lifted her hands, palms up. “Well, it is good to see you, Jacob. We have need of men of valor,” she added. “Now more than ever.”

  Jacob answered her nod with one of his own. The satchel hidden under the carpets came to mind. He took a deep breath and turned back toward Josiah standing before them at a small table graced with a homespun cloth.

  The evening prayer service began with a sharing of the bread and the wine. An everyday occurrence for most there, but for Jacob, this prayerful remembrance of their Lord’s last supper with his disciples held a singular intensity. It had been a long while since he’d had this opportunity. He watched as the elders of their group stood before the table and Josiah again prayed, lifting the bread and the cup in turn as he blessed them, then broke the bread into small pieces for distribution.

  Jacob thought about the incongruity of the most revered in the group, who normally were the ones being honored and served, to now be carrying the plates of bread and the goblet of wine to each participant. He was reminded of the story he’d heard of Jesus kneeling to wash his disciples’ dirty feet. A servant . . . kept whispering through his mind as the words of the sacrament were recited. “On the night when he was betrayed, Jesus took the cup. . . .”

  Beyond the closed doors and shuttered windows, the wind moaned its way through the darkened inner courtyard. Faces held an otherworldly calm. Most paid the noise no mind. They prayed for those who had particular needs. The first prayer was for “our beloved friend and fellow believer Alban, whose body requires a healing touch.” The next was for friends who had left five months earlier for Samaria, from whom there was still no word. Then they all joined aloud in fervent petition for a family that had been hauled away that very afternoon by the Temple’s henchmen, led by Saul of Tarsus. The name itself, intoned in grave sorrow by the master carpenter, seemed to cause even the candles to shiver.

  From where he was sitting, Jacob could see the workshop’s entrance, and beyond was the compound’s main gate. Outside those locked and barred doors lurked the same night, the same risks. In here, however, all was peace. He felt that God was very close to him that night, a comfort so strong Jacob could almost hear a voice speak into the deep quiet of his heart.

  He glanced again at Alban by the oven’s outer wall. The warmth caused his guardian’s features to glow, or perhaps it was the same Spirit that Jacob felt burning within his own chest. He knew Alban was sincere in his concerns for Jacob’s safety. But Jacob also was certain this was not the life for him. His eyes moved back to the master carpenter, singing in his deep voice, “The Lord watches over all who love him. . . .”

  Jacob suddenly realized that for the first time he could look at his former employer without a veil of resentment – over being forced toward a profession he loathed, over working for a man who could not be satisfied. Jacob had never been meant to become a carpenter. Nor was he destined to be a merchant, managing a stall. God might not have spoken to him in words that he could discern. But he knew this just the same.

  Jacob slipped off the bench and knelt in the space between the tables, the stones cold on his knees. He bowed his head and prayed with an intensity that was matched only by his heart’s calm. Grant me wisdom, O Lord. Solomon asked this first. I am not as wise as he. I have asked for everything else. Freedom, liberty, strength, riches. But I humble myself this night and accept that without you, and without your direction, all these other things are nothing. I am nothing. Show me clearly what you would have me do. Give me the strength to accept your will. And do it to the utmost of my ability.

  Banging upon the outer gate halted the song as if cut off with a knife. As Jacob sat back on his seat, Josiah moved out of the room and into the courtyard. He demanded, “Who disturbs us at this time of night?”

  “A friend!”

  Though Jacob could not place the voice, something about it brought his head around.

  Josiah grabbed a stave leaning against the portal and gripped it across his chest. “It is late. Return tomorrow – ”

  “I cannot! The mask of night was necessary in order for me – ”

  “I know that voice!” Alban was rising unsteadily to his feet. He called as loudly as he was able, “Linux?”

  “It is indeed.” A pause, then, “Can that be you, Alban?”

  “None other.” Alban waved toward the master carpenter, whose hand rested upon the latched bar. “He is a brother and a friend. You may open the door.”

  CHAPTER

  FOUR

  Tiberias

  Julia kicked restlessly at covers that seemed to pin her to her bed. She rose to her feet and moved in the darkness across to the window. Her sleep was finished for the night.

  She pushed at the latch that held the shutter in place. A chill predawn breeze greeted her. She breathed in deeply of the wintry aromas. Overhead a few clouds scuttled across the sky, hiding all but one curve of the moon. On a distant hill a fire flickered. Camel drivers? Shepherds? Rome’s soldiers? Perhaps a group of Zealots. No, likely not. They were far too secretive concerning their whereabouts.

  Her thoughts floated back over the previous six months. When she had first accompanied Zoe to the meeting of the group known as the Way, she had gone with the faint hope that somehow they might be the answer to her mother’s dilemma. After all, even their name held out some promise of that, didn’t it? Zoe had seemed so positive that the people there would offer her both wisdom and comfort. But those first discussions had not been about her mother. It was all about a Jewish rabbi who had lived, and died . . . and lived again. Julia had been tempted to dismi
ss it all as sheer foolishness, as she had when Zoe first told her about it. Reason said that it could not possibly be true.

  Even so, she had found herself looking forward to the next meeting. It was obvious that this little band truly believed all these things they talked about at their meetings. It had seemed beyond Julia’s understanding. Yet they looked like honest, reliable people. Some of them were certainly unlearned, but there were also scholars among them, even one trained Pharisee. These too accepted what was declared as fact. Julia left each meeting struggling with her questions.

  Gradually she had found herself wanting with all her heart for this story to be the truth. She felt the rabbi’s words, repeated by his followers so carefully and convincingly, calling to her. If only she could throw her cautions aside and accept what they were saying, she had mourned inwardly. Would it change her circumstances? Her heart? For days her thoughts were constantly upon what she had witnessed and heard. Many times she felt prayers of hope welling up within her. O God, are you really there? Did you send your very son here? Is he our Messiah? Through his death, can you wash me from my sin and self-seeking? Replace my heaviness with joy? My isolation with a sense of belonging . . . somewhere? To someone?

  Last evening, when she had been able to bear her swirling thoughts no longer, she had gone in search of Zoe. “Is it true?” she demanded of this servant who seemed more like family. “Is it really true he was – is – the Messiah that was promised?”

  “Oh, yes.” Zoe’s tone had sounded almost a hymn of praise rather than spoken words. “Oh, yes,” she’d repeated, her hand going to her bosom. “He is.”

  This time Julia had not hesitated. “Then I too want to believe. I need him. I accept the truth. I can no longer make sense of my world without him.”

  They had knelt together and Zoe had helped her through a prayer, Julia’s voice trembling with emotion. Much to her amazement, a quiet but unmistakable calm had poured into her mind. Her soul. She felt like the disturbing questions had been soothed away, and she was left with a deep sense of peace. She had not felt this way since bounding into her mother’s lap as a carefree child.