This one.
Hadassah labored up the steps toward him.
His fingers worked beads swiftly with each prayer he rasped. To Vishnu.
She lowered herself painfully onto the marble step just below him and put her walking stick aside. She cupped his hand in hers, stilling his futile, repetitive pleas. “Shhh,” she said gently. “God hears your prayers.” His fingers loosened, and she took the prayer beads and tucked them into her sash for safekeeping should he want them later. She touched his forehead tentatively and assessed his eyes as he gazed up at her. She was surprised at the fear in his eyes. Did he think she was the specter of death beneath her veils? His breathing was labored.
She raised her head and motioned to Alexander. “Over here, my lord!”
Alexander hurried toward her. As he reached them, the man coughed. It came deep from his lungs, wracking his body. Alexander watched small spots of blood stain the pristine marble. “Lung fever,” he said grimly and shook his head.
“This is the one,” Hadassah said and slipped her arm beneath the man’s broad shoulders.
“Hadassah, the disease has already consumed his lungs. I can’t do anything for him.”
Ignoring him, she spoke to the Arab. “We’re taking you home with us. We will give you medicine and food. You will have shelter and rest.” She helped him into a sitting position. “God has sent me to you.”
“Hadassah,” Alexander said, his mouth flattening out.
“This one,” she said, and Alexander looked at her sharply. He had never felt such fierce determination from her before.
“Very well,” he said and put his hand heavily on her shoulder. “I’ll take him.” He drew her to her feet and set her aside. Handing her the walking stick, he looked around for help and called to two temple attendants. Eager to have the ill man removed from their midst, they lifted him easily to a rented litter.
Alexander looked at the Arab again. Drugs and time would be wasted on this one.
Hadassah lingered, looking at all the others they had to leave behind to die.
“Come, Hadassah. We must show these men the way,” Alexander said. She lowered her head in a way that told him she was weeping silently beneath her veils. He frowned. “I should’ve left you at the booth rather than bring you to see this.”
Her hand whitened on the walking stick as she walked with him. “Is it better to hide from what’s happening in the world than to know?”
“Sometimes. Especially when there’s nothing you can do to change it,” he said, slowing his pace to make it easier on her.
“You are changing it for one man,” she said.
He looked at the Arab being carried on the open-air litter. His dusky skin had a faint tinge of gray and sheen of sweat. Deep hollows were beneath his eyes. “I doubt he’ll live.”
“He will live.”
Alexander was amazed at her conviction, but he had learned from past experience to respect what she said. She had knowledge he couldn’t fathom. “I’ll do what I can for him, but it’ll be up to God whether he lives or dies.”
“Yes,” she said and fell into silence. He knew by the way she limped and held her walking stick that all her efforts were now concentrated on making her way through the crowded streets. He stayed just ahead of her with the litter to his left in order to protect her way. She was tired and in pain. She needed no careless passersby jostling her, and he meant to make sure none did.
When they reached the booth, Alexander placed the Arab on the table to examine him further. Hadassah took the goatskin bottle from the wall hook and poured water into a clay cup. She hung the bottle back on its hook and came to slip her arm beneath the man’s shoulders, raising him enough so that he could drink.
“Shall I mark his cup lest we use it by mistake, my lord?”
He laughed. “Now that you’ve gotten your way in bringing him here, it’s ‘my lord’ again.”
“Of course, my lord,” she said again, and he heard the smile in her tone.
She lowered the Arab, and Alexander watched her stroke the man’s hair back like a mother would. He knew the tenderness that would be in her touch and the compassion that would shine from her eyes. A sudden surge of protectiveness shot through him. The thought that anyone could have wished her dead, could have ordered her sent to the lions, filled him with a fury that startled him.
Abruptly he directed his gaze at the Arab. “Your name,” he said.
“Amraphel,” he rasped. “Rashid Ched-or-laomer,” he finished.
“That is too much name for any man,” Alexander said. “We’ll call you Rashid.” He took the damp cloth Hadassah handed him and wiped the man’s sweaty face. “You have no master now, Rashid. Do you understand me? Whoever left you on the steps forfeited all rights to you. I claim none. Your only obligation to me is to do as I say until you are well. Then it will be up to you whether you go or stay and work with me.”
Rashid coughed heavily. Alexander stood by, watching him with a grim expression. When the spasm finally passed, Rashid groaned in pain and sank back weakly on the table.
Hadassah came and stood beside the table again. She put her hand on Rashid’s chest and felt the steady, strong beat of his heart beneath her palm. He will live. The still small voice assured her again of this. God knew how. God knew why.
Relaxing, Rashid put his hand over hers and looked up at her with deep-set obsidian eyes. She smoothed his black hair back from his brow again. “God has not abandoned you.”
He recognized the Judean accent and frowned slightly. Why had a Jew taken pity on an Arab?
“Rest. We’ll prepare a bed for you.”
When it was ready, Alexander helped him into it. He was asleep almost within the moment he was covered with the wool blankets.
Alexander stood with his hands on his hips gazing down at his sleeping patient. “In good health, he must have been a man worth reckoning with.”
“He will be again. How will you treat him?”
“With horehound and plantain—not that it’ll do him much good at this point in the disease.”
“I’ll prepare a poultice of fenugreek,” she said.
“Frankly, it would be more productive to beseech your god in his behalf.”
“I have been praying, my lord, and will continue to do so,” she said. “But there are things we can do for him as well.”
“Then let’s get to it.”
9
Rashid did little else but sleep over the next few weeks. His mat was against the back wall of the booth, out of the way. When he was awake, he watched Alexander and Hadassah care for patients. He listened to all that was said and observed what was done.
Hadassah gave him fish, vegetables, and bread soaked in wine twice a day. Though he had no appetite, she insisted he eat. “You will regain your strength.” She spoke with such certainty, he obeyed her.
When the long day ended, he watched her prepare the evening meal. She always served him first, then the physician, which surprised him. As he thought proper, the woman served herself only after they had eaten their fill.
Each night he listened as they carried on lengthy discussions of each patient. It became quickly apparent to Rashid that the veiled woman knew more about each man, woman, and child who came to the booth than the physician himself. The physician had heard words; the woman had heard their pain, anguish, and fear. The physician saw each patient as some physical ailment. The woman knew their souls . . . just as she had known his the moment she looked into his eyes. He had felt it when she touched him.
People came more often to see her, but she guided them gently to the physician. Yet Rashid could not help wonder over the weeks that passed if anything the physician did would do any good without her presence.
He looked at Alexander sitting at his worktable nearby, transferring all that Hadassah had written on the tablets onto scrolls, adding what he had done for each patient. When he finished this task, he would take the evening inventory of drugs, making note of w
hat was needed. He would prepare medicines.
And all the while he worked, she sat, hidden beneath her veils on the small stool near the brazier, praying.
It seemed to Rashid that she prayed constantly. Sometimes Rashid heard her humming softly. At times, she would unclasp her hands and spread them, palms upward. Even during the day when she was seeing the sick, there was an air about her that made him think she was listening, contemplating something unseen.
Watching her filled him with a sense of peace, for he had seen amazing things happen in this booth over the past weeks. He was convinced that the God of Abraham had touched her with power.
As he improved, he sat on a mat outside and overheard other things. “She has the healing touch.” More than one person spoke these words to any who would listen. Word about Hadassah and Alexander was spreading, for some who came to see them were not from the narrow streets near the wharf or baths, but from across the city.
A small crowd gathered outside each morning. They could be heard whispering respectfully, waiting for the partitions to be drawn back and the booth opened. Some came because they were sick or injured and needed a physician’s attention. Others came to hear Hadassah’s stories and ask questions about her god.
A woman named Ephicharis came often with her little daughter, Helena. So, too, did a man named Boethus. He sometimes brought his wife and four children with him. He never left without giving Hadassah coin “for someone in need.” And always this offering was given to someone before the day had ended.
One morning, a young woman came to the booth. Rashid noticed her immediately, for she was a lovely finch among a flock of plain brown sparrows. Though she was dressed in a simple brown tunic with a white waist sash and a shawl drawn over her dark hair, her beauty captivated. A woman such as this belonged in silk and jewels.
Hadassah was pleased to see her. “Severina! Come. Sit. Tell me how you are.”
Rashid stared at Severina as she moved gracefully among the others. She possessed the radiance of a star shining in the heavens as she took the stool beside Hadassah’s writing table and said, “I didn’t think you’d remember me. I was here so long ago.”
Hadassah covered the woman’s hand with her own. “You look in good health.”
“I am,” she said. “I didn’t return to the Artemision.”
Hadassah said nothing, allowing her the freedom to say more if she chose. Severina raised her eyes again. “I sold myself as a household slave. The master who bought me is kind, as is his lady. She’s trained me as a weaver. I enjoy the work very much.”
“The Lord has been good to you.”
Severina’s eyes filled with tears. With trembling hands, she took Hadassah’s and pressed it between hers. “You were kind to me when I came here. You asked me my name. You remembered me. So simple a thing as that and yet important in ways you can’t imagine.” She blushed. Letting go of Hadassah, she arose. “I just wanted you to know,” she whispered and quickly turned away.
Hadassah rose clumsily. “Severina, wait. Please.” She hobbled over to where the young woman stood uncertainly on the edge of the circle of waiting patients. They spoke for several minutes while others watched. Hadassah embraced her, and Severina clung to her, then drew back and walked quickly away.
Rashid watched Hadassah’s stiff, awkward gait as she made her way back to her stool. He wondered if she was even aware that several patients who sat on the stone-cobbled street waiting to see the physician touched her hem as she passed by.
Each day brought improvement for the Arab. Alexander examined him daily and kept record of the amount of horehound and plantain he gave him, as well as the fenugreek poultices Hadassah bound to his chest. Perhaps these things, as well as the nourishing food and warmth of blankets and shelter, had had a part in saving him from death. But Rashid knew it was more than medicine or shelter that had restored his life. Because of his knowledge, he treated Hadassah with a respect bordering on reverence.
One thing, though, greatly troubled him. One evening he gathered his courage and sought an answer. “Are you his slave, my lady?”
“Not exactly,” she said.
Alexander was bent over a scroll on which he was writing. He glanced up at her answer. “She is free, Rashid. Just as you are free.”
Hadassah turned toward Alexander. “I am a slave, my lord, and will remain so until legally freed.”
Rashid saw that her statement annoyed the physician, for he put down his stylus and turned fully on his stool. “Your masters forfeited all rights to you when they sent you to the arena. Your god protected you, and I put you back together again.”
“If it was known I was alive, my lord, it would be within my lady’s right to demand my return.”
“Then she will not know,” he said simply. “Tell me her name so that I may avoid her.”
Hadassah sat in silence.
“Why do you not tell him?” Rashid asked, perplexed.
Alexander smiled wryly. “Because she is stubborn, Rashid. You see every day how stubborn she is.”
“If not for her, you would have passed me by on the steps of the Asklepion,” Rashid said darkly.
Alexander’s brows rose slightly. “I admit that’s true. I thought you were near death.”
“I was.”
“Not near enough, it would seem. You are gaining strength each day.”
“I was nearer death than you know. She touched me.”
His meaning was all too clear, and Alexander smiled wryly at Hadassah. “Clearly he thinks my ministrations had nothing to do with his improvement.” He returned to his scrolls.
“Do not credit me with healing you, Rashid,” Hadassah said in dismay. “It was not I, but Christ Jesus.”
“You have told others that this Christ dwells in you,” Rashid said.
“As he dwells in all those who believe in him. He would come to dwell within you if you chose to open your heart to him.”
“I belong to Siva.”
“We are both children of Abraham, Rashid. And there is only one God, the true God, Jesus, God the Son.”
“I have heard you speak often of him, my lady, but it is not the path Siva has chosen for me. You forgive your enemy. I kill mine.” His eyes darkened. “As I swear before Siva, I will kill yours if they ever come for you.”
She sat in stunned silence, staring through her veils at the dark, proud, rigid face before her.
Alexander glanced back over his shoulder, equally surprised by such fierce vehemence. Turning around, he assessed the Arab. “What position did you have in your master’s household, Rashid?”
“I guarded his son until my illness overtook me.”
“Then you are a trained soldier.”
“From a race of warriors,” Rashid said with a proud lift of his head.
Alexander smiled ruefully. “It seems God has not sent me an apprentice after all, Hadassah. He has sent you a protector.”
10
Julia stood among the crowd inside the propylon of the Asklepion and listened to the seemingly endless program of poets competing in the triennial festival honoring the god. She had found the earlier game with athletic and gymnastic events more to her taste. This sea of words pouring forth meant nothing to her. She was not a poet, nor an athlete. And she was in poor health. The reason she had come so often to the Asklepion was to attain the mercy of the god. She could not please the deity by literary works or feats of strength and agility. Therefore, she would make a vigil through the long night in order to honor and appease him.
As the sun set, she went inside the temple and knelt before the altar where the sacrifices were made. She prayed to the god of health and physique. She prayed until her knees and back ached. When she could kneel no longer, she lay on her face on the cold marble, arms outstretched toward the marble statue of Asklepios.
Morning came and she was filled with pain in every part of her being. She heard the chorus singing ritual hymns. She arose and stood with the others who had made vig
ils through the night with her. A priest gave a lengthy speech, but in her exhausted state, little of what he said made any sense.
Where was mercy? Where was compassion? How many offerings and vigils would she have to make to be made whole, to earn restoration?
Weakened from her long vigil, depressed and sick, she sank down and leaned heavily against one of the marble columns. She closed her eyes. The priest droned on and on.
She awakened with a start, someone shaking her. She glanced up, confused, still half-asleep.
“This is not a place to sleep, woman! Arise from here and go home,” the man said, clearly annoyed with her presence. From his robes, she knew he was one of the temple wardens.
“I can’t.”
“What do you mean you can’t?”
“I was here all night praying,” she stammered.
He took hold of her and pulled her roughly to her feet. “Have you no maid with you?” he said impatiently, assessing the fine linen of the tunic and veils she wore.
Julia looked around for Eudemas. “She must have left me sometime during the night.”
“I will summon a slave to take you home.”
“No. I mean, I can’t go home. I’ve been praying, praying for hours. Please. Let me enter the abaton and receive healing.”
“You must go through the purification ceremony and then be washed at the Sacred Well before we can admit you to the abaton, woman. You should know that. And even after that it’s up to the god whether you regain your health.”
“I will do anything you ask,” she said desperately.
He assessed her again. “It is very costly,” he said quietly.
“How much?” she said quickly. She saw his eyes move to her gold earrings. She removed them and handed them to him. He tucked them swiftly into the folds of his red silk girdle and looked pointedly at her gold pendant. She removed it as well and placed it in his outstretched hand. His thick fingers closed around it and pushed it hastily into the folds of his red girdle along with her earrings.
“Now will you take me inside?”
“Have you nothing else?”
She looked down at her shaking white hands. “All I have left is this lapis and gold ring my father gave me when I was child.”