Avenger of Blood (29 page)

Peter slowly walked from the library into the adjoining bedroom and returned a few minutes later, a small bundle under his arm. “I'm ready,” he said. “Let's go.”

24

AN HOUR LATER THEY WERE WAITING OUTSIDE Helena's bedroom while Marcellus, who had arrived about the same time, examined her. When the medical officer opened the door and motioned for the others to enter, Rebecca was shaken by the grave look on his face. “I'm sorry,” he said to Antony. “There's nothing I can do for your mother.”

Antony nodded grimly. “Thank you for coming,” he said.

Rebecca struggled to keep her composure when she saw Helena. Her condition, which had been progressive, had worsened dramatically in the two weeks since Rebecca's last visit. Now her friend clung to life with a fragile hold. Helena's hands were clamped shut, her fingers curled together like tight claws, and her limbs were rigid. The dark-honey-colored curls hung limply around her sunken face. Her breathing was shallow, and Rebecca noted there were slight pauses between breaths. As she stood by the bedside, she found herself willing the other woman to breathe.

Priscilla took Peter by the hand and led him forward. “Please pray,” she said in a small voice. “Please.”

Peter sat down on the edge of Helena's bed and Priscilla climbed up beside him. Calpurnia, the family's housekeeper, was on the opposite side. Marcellus was at the foot of the bed, and Rebecca stood between him and Antony, who kept patting his mother's clamped hand. “Don't leave us, Mother,” he said, his voice choked with emotion. “Your friends are here to see you.”

“And pray for you,” Priscilla added.

Rebecca's heart ached for Antony and Priscilla. And for Peter. He looked both sad and frightened. She knew he was wondering what he would tell Priscilla if he prayed for her dying mother and she was not healed.

After a moment Peter cleared his throat. “Would you bring some oil for anointing?” he asked Calpurnia. She nodded and left the room, returning quickly with a small container of olive oil.

Peter unwrapped the bundle he had brought with him from home, drawing out a long piece of white fabric with a blue stripe running along the border. It had fringe along the edges and tassels at the corners.

“It's a
tallit,”
he told Antony. “A prayer shawl. It belonged to my father.”

Rebecca was surprised. Her father had kept some of the Jewish feast days, and he loved to read the Scriptures in Hebrew, but she had never seen him in the prayer shawl.

“He wore this sometimes when I was a child,” Peter said. “But he was so hurt by the local synagogue's rejection of Jewish followers of Christ, he eventually gave up the practice. Anyway, after Father died, I found the
tallit
in his things and kept it.”

In just a few words, Peter explained that the fringes on the prayer shawl represented the 613 commandments of the Mosaic Law, and that the tassels spelled out the Hebrew name for God, Y-H-W-H, in the number and sequence of the knots. “So it's a symbol of the authority and power of God's name,” he said. Peter paused slightly, then added, “I brought the
tallit
to help us remember that healing is released by our faith in God's power.”

Rebecca felt a surge of tenderness toward Peter and a bit of sisterly pride in his willingness to be the one to pray for Helena's healing when prayers for his own healing had not been answered. “Many times,” Rebecca told the group, “I've heard John tell stories of how Jesus healed everyone who touched the tassels of his prayer shawl. He would have worn a
tallit
just like this.”

“John often talks about Jesus as the Great Physician,” Marcellus said. “‘You're a good doctor' he'll tell me. ‘But Jesus is the true Healer.'”

Antony's look was a combination of skepticism and desperate hope as Peter carefully spread the prayer shawl across Helena's body. Antony's mother was close to death, and the situation did look hopeless. Rebecca knew, however, that nothing was ever completely hopeless with God. She longed to reach out a hand and reassure Antony, but she held back, worried that her touch might offend him.

Peter glanced up briefly at Rebecca, and she nodded, offering silent encouragement. He took the container of oil from Calpurnia and dipped his finger in it. Then he touched Helena's forehead, transferring the oil.

“Put your hands up here,” he told Priscilla, “on your mother.”

The little girl placed her hands on her mother's body, then Peter placed his hands over Priscilla's and began to pray out loud.

It was a simple prayer, and later Rebecca would not be able to recall a single word of it, but she would never forget the impact.

After everyone joined Peter in pronouncing the amen, they fell quiet. But the silence around them seemed to hum and vibrate, and the room seemed to grow smaller. A presence—an immensely powerful, peaceful presence—filled the room and overflowed Rebecca's heart until she thought she would burst. The presence was as sweet and tender as it was powerful, and the beauty of it made her cry.

She looked around, wondering if the others felt it too. Yes, she decided. Marcellus's ramrod military bearing was gone; he held on to the foot of the bed with one trembling hand, and with the other he wiped his eyes. Peter's eyes were closed, but Rebecca had never seen such a glow on his face. Antony had crumpled over the edge of the bed, unable to stand as the divine presence permeated the room and vanquished the specter of impending death.

Rebecca saw Antony reach for his mother's hand, then watched as Helena's fingers slowly relaxd and uncurled. When she squeezed her son's hand and opened her eyes, Antony began to weep.

In a fraction of a moment, Helena's rigid limbs returned to normal. Rebecca noticed there was no swelling or redness. She'd never seen Helena's hands look so beautiful, so young. Even the knots on her knuckles were gone. How often Rebecca had gently massaged those painfully sore and tender hands. Now they were whole.

“I knew it!” Priscilla cried. “I knew Jesus would heal Mother if you prayed.” She threw her arms around Peter's neck, and he broke down and cried then.

Calpurnia uttered, “Thank you, Jesus!” over and over. Then she raised her hands and started singing a hymn of praise. The others joined the singing, except for Antony, who didn't know the words. But in a moment, when Helena's faint voice began to echo the words to the song, he jumped to his feet, raised his hands, and cried, “Thank you, Jesus!”

Everyone was crying and laughing and rejoicing all at the same time. Antony grabbed Rebecca and hugged her, lifting her off the ground. Then he stepped back, looking embarrassed, and started to apologize.

“It's all right,” she said before he could get the words out. She knew it was just an expression of enormous relief. But Antony's touch had sent her heart soaring and she secretly wished he would hug her again.

“Calpurnia!” The strength of Helena's voice got their attention. Everyone turned around, and somehow Rebecca was not surprised to see Helena sitting up in bed.

“Yes, ma'am.” Calpurnia tried to regain a proper decorum as she answered her employer, but she could not stifle her smile at the sight of Helena sitting upright.

“Get to the kitchen,” Helena said. “I'm as hungry as a bear.”

“I'll get you something to eat right away,” the housekeeper said, then she hurried out of the room.

Priscilla plumped several pillows against Helena's back. “You won't need me to feed you this time, will you?”

“No, but you can do something else for me, baby.”

“What is it? Anything, I'll do anything.” Priscilla bounced off the bed and stood beside her mother.

“I want you to brush my hair and help me put on a clean tunic.”

Helena waved a thin arm at the others. “Now, the rest of you get out of here so I can get dressed. Wait for me in the dining room,” she said. “I want to eat a real meal around a real table.”

“I'll wait outside,” Antony said. “I'll carry you to the dining room when you're ready.”

“Oh no, you won't. I don't need your help.”

Antony blinked in surprise at his mother's quick rebuke. Rebecca couldn't help smiling. Helena's color had not only returned, but so had her attitude.

Helena announced, “God has healed me, and I'll be able to get to the dining room on my own two feet.”

A half-hour later she did just that, and while the thrown-together meal was meager, those in attendance considered it a great celebration.

25

February, A.D. 97

JACOB WAS SICK OF SNOW. Before he'd arrived in Cappadocia he'd only seen it once or twice. As a novelty, snow held a certain fascination. And even now, as he looked out the window of the room he shared with Gregory, Jacob could admire the pristine beauty of the white-blanketed landscape. Trudging through the snow to work was a different matter, however, and it was time to leave.

Jacob dressed in the trousers and boots he'd added to his meager wardrobe. Even with his heavy coat and hat, it would be a cold walk. Having lived all his life on the sunny seacoast, he was not acclimated to the more frigid mountain temperatures.

A month ago he had taken a job in order to finance the purchase of a horse to replace the one that had been stolen. He had ample funds for living, since he'd been furnished a place to stay, but buying a horse would have depleted his purse. Livia had seemed reluctant to intervene on his behalf, so Jacob had finally asked Gregory to introduce him to one of the reputable breeders who supplied the army.

Pomponius had asked an exorbitant amount for the horse Jacob wanted, and as skillfully as Gregory had wrangled with him, the breeder had ceded little on the price. He knew Jacob was stranded and, therefore, knew how much Jacob needed what he had for sale.

The horses were, as Livia had said, the most magnificent animals Jacob had ever seen, and he made up his mind that he just had to have the chestnut filly with the white blaze on her forehead. After an entire afternoon of bargaining, however, Gregory had wanted to call a halt to the proceedings. Still, Jacob hesitated, and before they could leave,

Pomponius's two young boys had run through the stable. Once he had corralled them, Pomponius explained that he had not been able to locate a suitable replacement for their schoolmaster, who had recently quit. Within minutes Jacob had sealed a bargain to tutor Pomponius's sons as part of the purchase price.

Since then he'd walked the two miles to Pomponius's house six days a week. Jacob was teaching the boys, who were seven and nine, languages, history, geography, and math. His father's wealth had provided him with an outstanding education, so Jacob was well prepared to tutor. The lads were progressing nicely with their studies, and as a reward for behaving themselves, Jacob took them riding when the weather permitted.

Each afternoon when the lessons were finished, Jacob returned to Gregory's and spent the remaining daylight hours building an enclosure for his new horse; until it was ready, the filly would remain stabled at Pomponius's. In the evenings, Jacob enjoyed talking to Livia, and then he fell into bed, exhausted. It was a quiet life.

A rather pleasant life, he thought as he tramped along the icy road this morning. Pleasant, yet unfulfilled. Jacob was no closer to apprehending Damian than he'd been when he arrived in Caesarea over two months ago. The army post was impenetrable, he'd discovered. And besides, he couldn't exactly try to bring Damian to justice inside a camp full of soldiers.

Eventually, Jacob had given up his daily visits to the past. There was no way he could watch it continuously, and he didn't think Damian would try to leave Caesarea until the roads cleared in the spring, so Jacob had figured he might as well make the most of his time.

He would rather spend more of his time with Livia. He enjoyed being around her, and especially enjoyed watching her work— although the pleasure was not mutual. Sometimes Jacob thought she didn't even like him, and at other times she seemed enchanted by his company. The woman was a complete conundrum, which only made her more challenging, and therefore more attractive, in Jacob's eyes.

He also liked being around Gregory. After his initial prophecy about Jacob's purpose for being in Caesarea, the older man had not lectured Jacob. Instead, Gregory had been a gracious host, insisting that Jacob stay with them as long as he wanted. Over the weeks the two of them had had many occasions to talk, and Jacob found himself telling Gregory all about his family, especially his father. Gradually the deep hurt was diminishing, and a lot of Jacob's anger as well.

But Jacob could not—would not—return home a failure, no matter how homesick he was. He had to accomplish what he'd set out to do. He had to figure out how to get close to Damian.

That thought was fresh on his mind when he arrived at Pomponius's and learned the boys were too sick for lessons. They were both feverish and coughing, and their father had given permission for them to forego schoolwork for the day.

“I couldn't get word to you. But perhaps the day won't be a total loss,” Pomponius said with a hearty slap to Jacob's back. “You can spend some time with that filly who's stolen your heart.”

For a moment Jacob was confused and thought Pomponius was referring to Livia, and he wondered what had given Pomponius that ridiculous idea. Then Jacob noticed his employer gesturing toward the stable, and he smiled. “That filly has stolen my heart indeed. And you knew it the moment you introduced us.”

Pomponius's weathered face split into a wide grin. “You're a good horseman, and I knew you'd appreciate the best of my stable.”

The two men spent an agreeable hour in the stables. Jacob groomed the chestnut, while Pomponius checked on the other animals. He employed several groomers and handlers, but supervised their work closely.

“Would you like to do some riding with me?” Pomponius asked.