The Master's Quilt (27 page)

Nevertheless, he knew in his heart they were
centurions. Pilate had found them.

He uttered a quick prayer, hoping they were
shouting because of the tremor and not because he had been seen.
“Plan, don’t panic!”
he scolded himself. If he could get to
the cliffs without being seen, he would have a better than average
chance of eluding his pursuers. The cave was well hidden and the
legionnaires would be fighting the heat as they searched for him.
He started running again, this time in a crouch, hoping that he was
right.

• • •

Malkus reigned in his horse and fought to
stay on his mount as the earth trembled beneath the bay stallion’s
hoofs. The horse whinnied and snorted. Several of his men cried out
in surprise. He and the reddish-brown horse were both sweating
heavily, and from a distance the animal’s coat appeared to be the
color of dried blood.

Tacitus ran up beside horse and rider and
grabbed the stallion by the bit. “One of the men saw someone
running down the beach,’ he said.

“Where—”

“There, ahead of us on the beach, at the base
of the cliffs.”

Malkus stared at the edge of the great inland
sea, only half listening. The glistening green water was rippling
spasmodically; unlike a normal wave pattern, the water moved in
concentric circles, as though a huge rock had dropped from the sky,
sending giant ripples outward from the center of impact. Before the
tremor, the sea had been flat and quiet, the surface of the water a
mirrored surface upon which the sun danced.

“Commander. . .”

Malkus blinked. “Was it Deucalion?”

“I’m not sure, sir. But there’s no one living
near here.”

“Except the Essenes. Have you forgotten about
them?”

“The community of religious fanatics is
behind us, Commander, and it’s located some distance from the
shore.”

“Send a man to follow, quickly,” barked
Malkus, his pulse accelerating as it always did before he went into
battle. “And make certain the man you choose remains unseen.”

“As you command,” responded Tacitus as he
released the horse. He turned and started in the direction of the
men.

“And Tacitus. . .”

“Yes, Commander?” Tacitus turned to face
Malkus’ hooded stare.

“If it is indeed Deucalion, remember, we are
under strict orders not to reveal who we’ve been chasing until the
last possible moment.”

“I understand, Commander. I’ll tell the
tracker that we don’t want to lose our quarry in the rocks and
nothing more.”

Tacitus moved off to select his man and
Malkus turned his gaze to the cliffs. “I know you are out there,
Deucalion—I can feel your presence,” he muttered. The horse
whinnied again and Malkus stroked its neck, calming him. “Easy
boy,” he whispered and reached for the oilskin water bag hanging on
his saddle, anxious to wash a bitter, burning taste from his
throat.

• • •

Deucalion was sweating heavily as he climbed
up the steep cliff. Even though it was still early, the sun beat
down upon the earth relentlessly, and the intense heat reflected
off the white, limestone rocks.

He crouched as low as possible as he darted
among the crags and crevices of the rock face, using the larger
boulders to shield him from any prying eyes that might be watching
from below. He glanced over his shoulders from time to time, making
sure no one was following him. But his checking was perfunctory—he
didn’t believe he had been seen.

He was wrong. One hundred feet below, a lone
centurion tracked his prey with the cunning and silence of a
wolf.

Deucalion reached the cave exhausted. The
climb itself was not particularly difficult, but he virtually ran
up the side of the cliff. In his haste he scraped his legs in
several places, and he was bleeding from a number of small but
painful cuts on his hands and feet.

Esther, startled by Deucalion’s abrupt
appearance, looked up as he stumbled into the cave out of breath.
“What happened? You’re bleeding,” she cried.

“Water!” was all he managed to say.

Esther filled the ladle and waited
expectantly as Deucalion gulped it down and asked for another. He
drank half of the second ladle, then poured the rest over his
head.

He told her, “There was someone else on the
beach. . .perhaps a large number of men.”

Esther’s eyes grew wide with fear.
“Centurions?”

“I’m not sure. They were too far away. And
there was a strange haze hovering above the shore.”

“Did they see you?”

“I don’t think so.”

“But you’re not certain?”

“No.”

Esther looked out towards the entrance of the
cave anxiously. “Did you feel the tremor?” she asked.

Deucalion nodded.

“What are we going to do?”

Deucalion shrugged. “Wait. . .and watch. If
it looks safe, we’ll leave tonight. If they are centurions, it
should be dark enough for us to sneak past them.” He stared at her
and added softly, “In the meantime, we’d better pray.”

T
he sun reached its
zenith. The day was hot and still. Malkus and his men were sweating
profusely under the weight of their armor. Only Malkus’ horse
seemed unaffected by the heat. The animal stood in the loose
gravel, his head erect, his muscular body glistening in the harsh,
unrelenting afternoon sun.

The tracker Tacitus had chosen had returned
and confirmed Malkus’ suspicion: the lone figure sighted on the
beach just before the tremor was Deucalion; he had disappeared into
a cave on the backside of the cliff.

Just then, a messenger from Pilate arrived.
The man was out of breath because he had run the entire distance
from Jerusalem. When he regained his composure Tacitus took him to
Malkus, who was standing by his horse. The messenger bowed and then
said, “The Procurator sends word that you are not to harm the
Praetorian. You are to place him under arrest and return him to
Jerusalem.”

Malkus pondered the messenger’s words
briefly, drew his sword and pierced the messenger thru the heart,
killing him instantly. As the man’s body slumped to the ground,
Malkus said, “I will not be denied what is rightfully mine.” He
stared at his second-in-command with expressionless eyes and added,
“Get rid of this body, Tacitus, and tell the men to leave behind
everything but their weapons. We’ve a long climb ahead of us.”

Ten men climbed the cliffs, grumbling all the
while about the heat, the dust, and the salt stinging their eyes.
Now, as they stood facing the well-concealed cave, Malkus realized
that had they not seen Deucalion on the beach, they might never
have found the refuge.

“Deucalion Cincinnatus Quinctus! It is
Malkus,” he shouted. “We know you’re in there. There’s nowhere for
you to go. Come out immediately—and bring the woman with you.”

There was no reply from inside the cave, but
several of Malkus’ men began murmuring among themselves. They knew
they were tracking an enemy of Rome—but a Praetorian! One of their
own? Their former Commander? “May the gods protect us,” one of them
mumbled.

Malkus called again. “Do you hear me,
Deucalion? Pilate has stripped you of your rank. I am now Commander
of the Garrison. The Procurator has ordered me to arrest you and
the woman and bring you back to Jerusalem.”
The lie comes so
easily
, thought Malkus. “Do you hear me, Deucalion? You have
nothing to fear. Pilate is a just man. He will deal with you
fairly.”

“Like he dealt with Jesus, no doubt,” came
the disembodied voice from within the darkness of the cave. “You
forget, Malkus—I was at the crucifixion. . .I watched you nail the
Nazarene’s body to the cross. . .and I plunged my spear into his
side.”

Malkus looked at his men, suddenly uneasy, as
the voice paused, then continued. “I was at the tomb. I know what I
saw and heard. Yet you and the others have denied the truth. I
listened to the Tribunal’s lies and later witnessed the slaughter
of innocent men and women at the hands of that madman, Saul. All of
this sanctioned by the ‘just man’ you speak about.”

Deucalion had yet to appear, and the sound of
his voice echoing off the limestone rock sounded strange and
guttural.

The murmuring spread among Malkus’ men.

As each heard Deucalion’s voice, they grew
pensive and restless. All of them knew that their former Commander
was no coward, and those who knew him well knew he loved Rome.
There was not a man among them who wasn’t grateful for the
temporary peace he brought to Jerusalem by setting up provisional
grievance committees, giving the Jews an opportunity to release
their anger and frustration verbally, rather than by attacking and
killing centurions. What madness of Pilate’s was this? they
wondered.

Inside the cave, Deucalion’s military mind
assessed the situation. He knew that for him there could be no
escape; he would die here, at the edge of the Great Salt Sea. But
perhaps he could bargain for Esther’s life.

“Malkus, I want to talk with you—alone. Come
to the front of the cave.”

“We’ve nothing to discuss, Deucalion.”

“You’re wrong, Malkus. I have something
Pilate wants . . . something he desperately needs in order to free
himself from the domination of Vitellius and regain the favor of
Caesar.”

Malkus listened to the voice of his former
Commander, wondering if Deucalion was lying. Sweat ran down his
face, back, and legs in rivulets. He looked at the sun, then at his
men. “Curse this heat,” he muttered, then added under his breath,
“and curse you too, Deucalion.” He knew he had to make a decision.
. .fast. The scorching sun had robbed him of time.

“All right, Deucalion. . .I’m coming up.”

Esther grabbed Deucalion. “What are you
doing?” she cried. “They’re going to kill us both.” Her eyes and
voice pleaded with him. “If Pilate gets his hands on the
parchments, he’ll destroy them.”

Deucalion stared at her, his eyes clouded
with emotion. “I know, my love,” he said, reassuring her with a
gentle touch of his strong hands. “But maybe I can prevent them
from killing you. If Malkus will guarantee your safety, we can hide
the scrolls and you can come back later and retrieve them. Then,
when you have the opportunity, you can give them to someone who
will understand. . .someone who believes as we do. Someone who will
use them for their intended purpose.”

“No! I love you, Deucalion. My life is
nothing without you.”

“We have no other choice, my love. The
information contained in those scrolls is more important than one
life. You must live to see that others read them. You must tell
others the truth.”

“Jesus tried, and they crucified Him. And He
was the Son of God. Why should they believe me?”

Deucalion grasped her by the shoulders,
saying, “They will believe because Jesus came and
because
He
was crucified. Barnabas told us that even he didn’t believe. . .at
first. It will take time, but the word will spread. Whether or not
people believe is between them and God. But they must be told. At
least then they have the opportunity to choose.” Deucalion paused,
searching for the right words to convince her. “Just before we left
Abigail’s, Barnabas said something to me that I had forgotten about
until now. I wasn’t sure what he was trying to tell me at the time,
but now I think I understand.”

“Tell me.”

“He said that faith is the fabric of God’s
web. . .it is the substance of things that we hope for, the
evidence of things we cannot see. Faith is the fabric and the shed
blood of His Son, Jesus, is the scarlet thread. God is The Master
Weaver. He weaves the fabric of our faith, through the power of the
blood, together with His Faith, in the loom of His heart. He binds
all of us who believe into one massive quilt—The Master’s
Quilt.”

Esther clung to him, overwhelmed. His
passionate words brought to memory the words of the great Hebrew
prophet, Hosea:
“My people perish for lack of
knowledge.”

“You’re right, my love,” she said, on the
verge of weeping. “We must have faith in Him. Once the seed is
planted, if the soil is fertile, the tree will grow and bear
fruit.” Esther reached down and grasped hold of the manuscripts,
then leaned over to kiss Deucalion.

“I’m waiting, Deucalion,” Malkus called from
the cave entrance, interrupting their fleeting embrace.

Their kiss forestalled, Deucalion motioned
for Esther to wait at the rear of the cave, out of sight.

When Deucalion stepped from the shadows into
the light, Malkus stifled a gasp.

His former Commander seemed to radiate light.
There was a calmness and certainty about him that was beyond
anything Malkus had ever seen in a man—especially in one who must
know that he was about to die.

No, that wasn’t quite true. He had seen
another who behaved the same way, just before He died. The Nazarene
had radiated that same light. He had looked into Jesus’ eyes just
before driving the nails into His hands and feet and what he saw
there had frightened him, just as the glow he saw in Deucalion’s
eyes frightened him now.

Suddenly confused, Malkus pulled his eyes
from Deucalion’s searching gaze.

Where else had he seen that light before? Of
course!
At the tomb
. The morning the body of the Jew
disappeared. The morning all the madness started.

“Your time in hiding has been harsh on you,
Commander,” he said.

“Less harsh than your conscience has been on
you, Malkus,” replied Deucalion sympathetically. He glanced at the
sword hanging from Malkus’ waist. “There was never any love lost
between us, Malkus,” he continued, “but I’ve never wished ill for
you. Neither do I wish ill of Rome. You, as much as anyone, should
know that I have always had the Empire’s best interest in my
heart.”