The Master's Quilt (19 page)

Doras was mesmerized, and unnerved, by the
performance.

Antipas altered his voice and assumed the
role of the two accused teachers. “We agree your majesty. The
culprits should be punished, severely. However, it was not us who
committed this act of sacrilege against God. It was the
students.”

The Tetrarch paused and moved close to Doras,
then cackled. “Can you guess what happened?” he asked.

Doras shook his head.

“He had them
all
burned alive. Then he
dismissed the High Priest. A few days later he died. But it didn’t
end there. You see, my father had a grander plan—one that was truly
worthy of his madness—one that was almost as brilliant as when he
ordered the slaughter of every child under the age of two, because
of a Magi’s innocuous inquiry.

“On the eve of his death, he commanded the
most important men of the entire Jewish nation to come before him.
Then he sealed them up in the hippodrome and ordered them executed
after his death, saying, ‘The death of so many important men
commensurate with my own passing shall at least afford an honorable
mourning at my funeral.’ It’s no wonder Augustus said of my father,
“It is better to be Herod’s hog, than his son’.”

Doras’ face was white with loathing, and his
knees were trembling so much he could barely stand. Reaching the
limit of his endurance, he vomited all over the polished marble
floor.

Antipas laughed derisively, then retreated to
the far corner of the suddenly chilled room.

Doras wiped his mouth and staggered to the
table. He poured himself a goblet of wine and drank half of it
greedily. “Go ahead and laugh, you wretched excuse for a Jew,” he
said setting the half empty goblet down. “You think I don’t know
what you are?”

Antipas glared at him, glassy eyed.

“You’re a demon from the pit of
Gehenna
, trapped in a man’s body. You cut off the Baptist’s
head, because he dared speak the truth—because you were drunk with
passion. You are as vile as your father was, and no amount of
circumcision will cleanse you of the poison that rots your soul.
How could I have been so blind to think that you were sincere in
your concern for the well being of our nation? I see now that you
harbor an insatiable lust for that which you cannot have. You have
given your soul over to darkness; you are beyond any hope of
salvation.”

“What about you, my power-hungry protégé? Did
you not seek me out? Did you not prevail upon me to join with you
in ‘restoring the bite to the toothless Council?’” Antipas pointed
a plump finger at Doras and taunted him. “You fool. I was the man
who stopped the slaughter my father ordered to elevate his funeral
arrangements to a level of worship!” Antipas stumbled around the
room, waving his arms as he talked, as if he were fending off an
unseen tormentor.

The man is completely mad
, thought
Doras.
He’s talking to the walls
. He refilled his goblet and
took several gulps and prayed the wine would help stop his hands
from shaking.

Abruptly, Antipas stopped shouting.

The sudden quiet was unnerving.
Simultaneously, the chill in the room deepened, as though it were
night and the middle of winter, not day and the height of an
unusually hot summer.

Doras shuddered as a sudden, sharp pain
racked his chest. His knees buckled and he crumpled to the floor,
with his back resting against one leg of the table. The half-filled
goblet tumbled from his hand, forgotten in the midst of a sudden
realization. He was on the edge of the abyss; he had waited too
long before trying to secure the door to his own soul.

Antipas walked over to him and stood over
him, gloating.

Doras whimpered when he looked up and saw
twin ruby-red eyes, like two fiery coals from the white-hot center
of a blacksmith’s furnace, staring at him. He cried out in agony as
something ancient, something horrendously evil, forced its way into
his mind. He gagged as he choked on the stench that filled his
nostrils. A stench that was worse than the putrefying odor that
rose up from the Valley of Hinnom on days there was no breeze to
carry off the smell of burning refuse.

Antipas’ words reached his ears as if from a
distance. They were like the dry wind that is the harbinger of a
Syrian
sirocco
. “A Jew ruined my marriage. A Jew ruined my
relationship with Rome. And by all the gods, a Jew shall restore to
me what has been stolen. You will help me or you will die, as the
two before you have died—alone and without God answering your plea
for mercy. Do you
hear
what I am saying?”

At this point, Doras was willing to say
anything to get whatever it was that had entered His mind, out of
it. He nodded, not trusting speech.

Antipas stepped back and, as if nothing out
of the ordinary had occurred, said, “Now, where were we in our
planning?”

• • •

Esther took a deep breath and plunged into
her story. “I always felt there was something special about me, but
I never realized what it was until the night before my twelfth
birthday.” She smiled wistfully and played with several strands of
her hair. “Doras sat me down and reminded me that if I were a boy I
would be but one year away from my
bar mitzvah
—one year away
from becoming fully responsible for my behavior under the Law.”

“He seemed nervous, and that surprised me,
because he had always been in total control of his emotions—except
when my mother died. I asked him if something was wrong. He smiled
and hugged me, something he didn’t do very often, and said, ‘No,
precious one, there is nothing wrong. I’m just having difficulty
explaining to you that you must be more aware of yourself now—you
must be careful how you behave in public.’”

“I can understand why,” interrupted
Deucalion. “You’re a very beautiful woman.” He reached out and
cupped her chin, then added, “And those eyes of yours—I’ve never
seen eyes so crystal-green before. They sometimes seem to
glow.”

Esther’s face colored. “I must have gotten
them from my mother—my real mother—because Doras told me that my
real father’s eyes were ebony with specks of gold.” She pulled
away, then continued her story. “I told Doras he had nothing to
worry about; I had no intention of doing anything to make him
ashamed of me. I believed God had something special for me to do,
and I couldn’t let Him down.

“The next day, for my birthday, he took me to
Tiberias, where we sat for hours in a private hot water bath.”

Deucalion’s mind raced. He knew that the city
was situated atop the cemetery of the ancient town of Hammath.
Strict Jews did not go there.

“I know what you’re thinking,” she said,
seeing the shocked look on his face, “but Antipas built the city
and, as you know, the Tetrarch and Doras are close friends. It was
also before Doras was appointed to the Sanhedrin. Once my father
became a member of the Great Council, he became more circumspect in
his private life.

“As we sat in the bath, Doras told me how I
came to be his daughter. I was given the name Esther because I came
to be their daughter during the festival of Purim, on the 13th of
Adar, the Fast of Esther. Doras and Rachel had been married for
many years, but had remained childless, although not of their
choice. Finally, in desperation, Rachel dedicated herself to
fasting before God, and asked Him to bless her with a child. She
began praying in earnest during the Feast of Weeks.”

“When is that?”

“Seven weeks after
Pesach
,
Passover.”

“Ah, Pentecost. You Jews call it
Shevuot
.”

“You know it?”

“Only by name. But I am fascinated by the
Hebrew preoccupation with ritual. Tell me about it.”

“According to custom, Doras adorned his home
with flowers and herbs. He also purified himself by immersing his
body in the baths at the Temple and confessing his sins before God.
After the evening prayer, he and Rachel went to the synagogue,
where the canter blessed them. Later, when they returned home, they
prayed further and Doras read from the Holy Scriptures throughout
the night. The following morning the two of them recited the great
Hallel and Doras read the lesson from the Law—the
Maphtir
—from Exodus, and the lesson of the prophets from
Ezekiel. They repeated the same process again on the second
day.

“After the
Musaph
Ritual, just about
twilight, Rachel told Doras that she had heard from God. . .and
that He had promised them a child. They were both overjoyed, and
even though they didn’t know how or when, they
believed
and
waited patiently for God to fulfill His Word.

“It wasn’t until autumn that Rachel announced
she was with child. Doras was so certain it was a boy that he
decided to name the child Samuel and dedicate him to the service of
God, as Hannah had done with her son.”

“Why was he so anxious for a son?”

“The firstborn son of a Jew is the priest for
the whole family. Also, because of the preservation of the
firstborn of Israel, and the death of the firstborn of Egypt, all
the firstborn of Israel, both man and animal, belong to
Jehovah.”

Esther paused, thinking. She remembered
something she heard at the meeting the night Deucalion rescued her
from Saul. The speaker had called Jesus “the firstborn of many.”
The insight hit her with great impact.

“Go on,” prodded Deucalion, returning her
into the present.

“Doras purchased an ephod for his son to be,
and Rachel set about weaving him a mantle. The Feast of Tabernacles
was an especially joyful time for them. It is a time of
celebration, of
haq ha’succoth
, the Festival of Tents. Jews
give thanks to God in remembrance of the fatherly care and
protection of Jehovah, while Israel was journeying from Egypt to
Canaan. It is also
haq ha’osif
, the Feast of Ingathering;
the collecting of the threshed flour and the product of the wine
press that are symbolic of the labor of the field and the fruit of
the earth. Doras and Rachel thanked God for
their
harvest,
but their joy was short-lived.”

“What happened?”

“Rachel became very sick. She lost the baby
in the sixth month of her pregnancy.”

“So far along?”

Esther nodded. “They were devastated, Rachel
more so than Doras. She stopped eating and lost a great deal of
weight. Finally, fearful for her life, Doras fasted for eleven days
and begged God for help.”

“Did God answer?”

“Not immediately. Rachel began to eat again,
but she never fully regained her strength. Doras decided they
needed to leave the city for a while and they went to Caesarea.
That’s where they met the Bedouin.”

“The Bedouin?”

“My real father. He was a nomad, and his
wife—my real mother—had died giving birth to me. It’s an
extraordinary story—”

“Wait!” Deucalion interrupted as he looked
out the window. “Someone’s coming.” In the distance he saw a woman
approaching the house.

Esther moved beside him and smiled. “It’s
only Abigail.”

“Your friend?”

She nodded.

Instead of entering the house immediately,
the woman went over to her garden and began working in it.
Deucalion watched her as she deftly used a hoe to clear away the
weeds from her vegetables. As she went about her tasks, selecting
fresh cucumbers, leaks, and onions from the garden for dinner,
Deucalion said, “Tell me about her, Esther.”

“I met Abigail one day when I went to hear
Jesus speak. She was standing at the edge of the crowd, with her
hands and face covered. I felt drawn to her and decided to
introduce myself. As I approached her, I realized why she had been
hanging back. Her body was completely covered with huge white
lesions. She was a leper.”

Deucalion was stunned. He glanced out the
window and stared at Abigail. “But that’s impossible! Her skin is
like that of a baby’s.”

“That’s true.”

“But how—?”

“Let me finish. Although she was in no
physical pain, she was emotionally ravaged; the ostracism from her
family and from other people had brought her to the point of total
despair. I convinced her that I wasn’t afraid of her, wondering all
the time why I wasn’t fearful of catching her disease. When she
finally allowed me to hold her hand, she wept deeply. Between sobs,
she told me that no one, not even other lepers, had touched her in
five years! I bought her food and, as she ate ravenously, she told
me that she believed Jesus would heal her. That’s why she had come
to see Him.”

Deucalion grew pensive at the mention of the
Nazarene. He turned from the window and asked, “And was it the
Nazerene who healed her?”

Esther nodded. “With merely a touch. Not long
after that, He was crucified. I helped Abigail find this house and
I have been paying the rent from money Doras gives me to buy
clothes.”

“Why doesn’t she return to her family?”

“They want nothing to do with her.”

The door opened, and Abigail stepped inside.
The straw basket she carried was filled with a variety of plump,
juicy vegetables. She eyed Deucalion suspiciously, noting the Roman
uniform, but there was no fear.

When Deucalion looked into her eyes, he saw
the same strength reflected in them that he had seen on the faces
of the men and women at the woodworker’s shop—before Saul went
berserk. What was it about the Galilean that inspired such calmness
in the face of the unknown, even after His death?

“This is Deucalion,” said Esther.

“The Praetorian who rescued you and Joseph
from Saul?”

“Yes.”

“Well, he looks like he needs a decent meal,”
said Abigail, setting down her basket. “If he’ll bring me some
water from the well, I’ll make us a stew.”