The Master's Quilt (15 page)

Saul started to interrupt, but Deucalion
stepped forward from the shadows and grabbed him by the arm, then
said firmly, “Let him finish.”

“He who knew no sin became sin that we might
live forever. His sacrifice has restored us to our rightful place
as priests and kings unto God. The prophet Isaiah prophesied the
shedding of His holy blood upon the cross and His resurrection from
the dead. They are the seal of His covenant with us.”

“Stop!” bellowed the man from Tarsus. “This
has gone far enough. You are like a rabid dog. Your words infect
and inflame. I will listen to no more of this blasphemous talk.”
Catlike, he moved toward the front of the room. His robe was held
closed by a cord, securing the garment at his waist, and from it
hung a scabbard holding a long dagger. As he moved toward the
speaker, he reached down and drew forth the blade.

Behind him a woman screamed.

Pandemonium followed on the heels of its
dying echo.

Oblivious to Deucalion’s cry for order, Saul
rushed forward, raised the dagger over his head, and with a
sickening
s-w-o-o-o-s-h
plunged it deep into the chest of
the speaker. Spurting blood from the gaping wound stained both the
victim’s and Saul’s white robes with ruby red death.

The old man crumpled to the earthen floor.
His body twitched spasmodically in the dust.

Nausea consumed Esther. She was trapped at
the bottom of a deep, dark well, and there was no way out. She
glanced at Joseph. He must have been struck by a flying piece of
wood, because he was slumped over and there was blood on the
floor.

Everything unfolded in dreamlike
slowness.

When she saw Saul head towards the old man
with his dagger raised, she screamed. Immediately, four centurions
entered the room with swords drawn. Several members of the
gathering rushed towards the door in an attempt to escape. In their
haste they impaled themselves upon the swords. Blood splattered
everywhere. A thick, musky odor now filled the room.

Other people began to scream and cry out.

The small enclosure had become a
slaughterhouse of death.

Abruptly, Saul turned.

He stared at her with a cold, heartless gaze
that was darker than the darkest night she’d ever experienced, and
then moved purposefully in her direction. She could not move. She
was mesmerized by the brutality she witnessed and by the cruel look
she saw in Saul’s eyes.

Deucalion tried unsuccessfully to restrain
his men, but inexplicably they had caught Saul’s contagious
madness. More centurions rushed into the small room. In the ensuing
chaos, the Praetorian was knocked to the floor from behind.

Fighting against the crush of bodies, he
struggled to his knees. It was then that he noticed the
raven-haired woman he had seen at Doras’ house cowering in the
corner.

“No!” he shouted, shocked to see her trapped
in the midst of this madness. Then he saw Saul. The crazed man
stood over her, his dagger raised, a malicious, demonic look in his
eyes. “Saul, don’t!” he commanded as he desperately attempted o
free himself from the mass of broken and bleeding bodies
surrounding him.

Joseph sat up, holding one hand over his
right eye. Out of his left, he saw a short man with bushy black
eyebrows standing over Esther with a bloodied dagger in his right
hand. Galvanized into action by Deucalion’s shout, he struck the
man as hard as he could in the stomach. The man gave a grunt and
staggered backwards.

Joseph stumbled to his feet, grabbed Esther,
and pulled her through the crumbling doorway.

Deucalion struggled upright, pushing aside
the body of a believer, unconsciously wiping his bloody hands on
his tunic. All thoughts of controlling Saul were now replaced by
thoughts of how he could help the dark-haired woman escape the
carnage. His sword lay on the floor, covered by blood and dust,
forgotten as he fought his way to the opening and stepped out of
the madness.

At the front of the shop, Joseph leaned in a
daze against a large pile of birch. Blood trickled from a gash
above his eye. Esther stood by his side, her eyes vacant.

Deucalion rushed forward and grabbed her by
the shoulders, then roughly grasped her chin in his right hand and
turned her face to his. “You!” he demanded. “What are you doing
here?”

She did not reply.

Frustrated, he slapped her. Not hard, but not
gently either. Her eyes fluttered and he saw recognition. He tried
to get through to her again. “You can’t stay here. I cannot control
my men. We must leave now.”

“Where. . .?” came the soft-spoken, hesitant
reply.

“We must go outside.”

“My friend. . .Joseph. . .you must help him.
. .he’s hurt.”

Deucalion grabbed hold of the wounded man and
supported him with his right arm, but did not let go of the woman.
“Stay close to me and say nothing when we step into the street,” he
whispered in a strained voice.

Outside the shop a crowd was beginning to
gather. Many of them had been awakened from slumber by the screams
of those being slaughtered inside the woodworker’s shop. Most were
Jews and they argued violently with Deucalion’s men. The centurions
had their hands full maintaining order as more and more people,
Romans and Jews, began to fill the small street.

As Deucalion and his two charges emerged, one
of his men approached them hurriedly. “The crowd is becoming
unmanageable, Commander,” he said, staring at his superior with
consternation. “What in the name of the gods is going on in
there?”

“The Jew has gone mad!” Deucalion replied,
his body trembling noticeably. “I’m taking two prisoners to the
garrison for questioning.”

The centurion stared at Deucalion, covered as
he was in blood and dirt, and then at the man and woman he
supported. “But—” was all he said before Deucalion’s stern gaze
silenced him. He saluted stiffly and said, “Whatever you say,
Commander.”

Without looking back, Deucalion moved towards
the shadows with Esther and Joseph stumbling along at his side. He
pressed through the growing crowd, ignoring their shouts.

Unknown to Deucalion, an expressionless pair
of eyes watched the whole scene from the darkness of a doorway a
short distance away, making note of his conversation with the
centurion. As soon as the Praetorian and his two charges had
disappeared into the night, the eyes blinked twice and were
gone.

B
efore they’d gone
very far, Joseph moaned. Deucalion, fearful that his groaning would
attract attention and not wanting to encounter any of the stray
groups of centurions who might be wandering through the city,
decided it was best if he found a spot where they could rest. Also,
he needed time to think.

There was a small meadow just outside the
western gate, on the outskirts of the city. It would be safe there,
temporarily at least; the Roman patrols did not venture outside the
walls of Jerusalem at night unless there was specific reason. And
it would be a good place to question the woman.

He maneuvered them through the darkened
streets without incident. When they arrived at the meadow, he
gently eased his burden to the ground and then examined the man’s
wound. The cut was superficial, but because the wound was just over
the eye, it had bled profusely. He tore off a piece of his tunic
and wrapped it tightly around Joseph’s head to staunch the flow of
blood.

Joseph groaned again, less loudly this time.
He would be semiconscious for some time. Deucalion finished tying
the makeshift bandage, then turned his attention to the woman.
Darkness shrouded the meadow, though the moon did give some
illumination. Even though she was standing several feet away, there
was just enough light to allow him to see her face clearly.

She was dazed and disoriented, and had a
glazed look in her eyes. A look that he had seen many times before
in the eyes of soldiers on the battlefield and one that he knew had
been in his own eyes on more than one occasion.

His own harsh experience reminded him that
the glaze mirrored not only pain, but fear and denial as well.
There were some things human eyes were not meant to see.

Sensing this strikingly beautiful woman’s
silent agony caused him a moment of almost overwhelming grief.
Simultaneously, he had an intense desire to comfort her. “Would you
like to talk about it?” he asked. “Sometimes it helps.”

She shook her head and said warily, “You must
be a man of some importance in the Legion.”

“How can you tell?”

“Because of the way you spoke to the
centurion outside the woodworker’s shop.”

“So you
were
paying attention. What in
the name of the gods were you doing at that meeting?”

She ignored his question and asked one of her
own. “Why have you risked your commission, and perhaps your life to
save us?”

“You mean because you’re Jews?”

The woman nodded. “We cannot even claim the
protection of the Sanhedrin, because—”

“Go on,” he insisted.

“Because we believe that Jesus of Nazareth is
the Messiah spoken about in the Holy Scriptures.” She paused and
her eyes suddenly cleared. She stood bit straighter at the mention
of the name of the Galilean and held her head higher.

Deucalion, caught off guard by the amazing
change in her expression, was momentarily speechless.

“Well?” she pressed.

“What are you asking?”

“Why did you rescue us?”

“I’m not ready to answer that question just
yet.”

“Why not?”

“You ask too many questions for someone in
your predicament.”

“Then at least tell me your name, so I’ll
know who my benefactor was—”

Deucalion frowned.

“Before they take you away and put you in
prison for treason,” she finished quietly.

In spite of the circumstances, he laughed.
“You’re very beautiful when you’re so serious,” he chided as he sat
down on a large rock and leaned back on his elbows. “Deucalion
Cincinnatus Quinctus, at your service. I doubt I’ll be arrested for
treason for merely questioning a slave.”

Esther frowned, then whispered, “What a nice
sounding name. Deucalion . . . Cincinnatus. . .Quinctus,” she
repeated slowly in a strong, resonant voice, emphasizing the
syllables of his name, as if she were testing each upon her
tongue.

“Most people, when they first hear it, tell
me it’s an odd sounding name.”

“I don’t find anything odd about it at all,”
she replied with finality, as if that settled the matter once and
for all.

“I was named for a Greek god and a Roman hero
of the fifth century,” he continued.
Why couldn’t they have met
under much different circumstances?

“In that order!” she asked, feigning
disbelief, a hint of amusement in her tone.

“In that order,” he replied, smiling. At
least she was not behaving as he had expected—fearful and timid. He
sensed she was stronger than she had initially seemed. “You’re a
very entertaining woman when you’re not being chased by a fanatical
Jew.”

The barest trace of a smile quivered on her
lips.

He asked her name. She told him and said,
“Perhaps you’re wondering how someone as plain as I was given such
a beautiful name.”

“I don’t think you’re plain at all,” he
replied, suddenly sobered by her modesty. He looked at her intently
and added, “In fact, I can’t imagine a woman being any more
beautiful than you are at this very moment.”

Esther was suddenly silent.

Deucalion had a pretty good idea she
believed, like most Jews, that Romans were incapable of any emotion
save that of arrogance. He was also surprised at his own
outburst—he had never spoken to, or even about, a woman in such a
manner before.

Finally, Esther broke the silence. “My name
means many things to many people, but to Jews it is a name that
signifies loyalty, compassion, strength, and most of all, love. Not
of self, mind you, but of others. Esther was one of the Jew’s
greatest heroines; the Festival of Purim is dedicated to her.”

“The casting of lots or
tabernacle
,”
said Deucalion knowingly.

“You know Hebrew?” she asked, amazed.

“A bit,” he replied, understating his
fluency. The soldier in him prevented him from being entirely
candid, but he wanted very much for that not to be the case.

“Tell me, what else do you know about my
name?”

Deucalion sat forward and shrugged.
“Nothing—”

Esther cast him a doubtful look.

“Really, I don’t. Please continue,” he said,
flustered. “I like listening to the sound of your voice. It reminds
me of the sound a young bird makes singing in the trees.”

Esther seemed flattered by his compliments.
He wondered if she thought he was toying with her and hoped she
didn’t.

“Perhaps my voice sounds like a bird singing
because the proper Hebrew form of my name,
Hadassah
, means
“myrtle;” birds are drawn to the starry, white flowers of the
bush.”

“How interesting.”

“That’s not all. The Persian rendition is
derived from the name of the great Babylonian goddess, Ishtar.”

Unable to resist showing off, Deucalion
interrupted her again. “In Greek your name means ‘star’ from the
word for Venus.”

“How nice to be compared to a star,” she said
as she smiled appreciatively, then looked up and admired the star
studded night. “There’s nothing more beautiful than twinkling
stars,” she added with a sigh. “They shine forth against the black
canvas of the heavens, reminding me that no matter how dark it is,
love can blossom—and sometimes live.”

Deucalion loved the poetry of her words. He
was suddenly lightheaded, like the night he had consumed too much
dandelion wine at Doras’ house. He did not want to break the spell
she had cast over him, but certain matters must be dealt with
immediately. “Your master will be concerned if you don’t return
soon,” he said, pushing all other thoughts from his mind. “We had
better get you cleaned up and back to Doras’ house.”