It was enough.
Yet, from that one statement, Hadassah saw the hard, treacherous road ahead. Thinking as she did, Julia might never turn. And, as Alexander had warned her, Hadassah knew she herself might yet die in the arena. She was absolutely sure of only one thing: God had sent her here for a purpose, and to his purpose she must yield. She could not count the cost.
“I will never leave you, Lady Julia, nor forsake you. Not as long as I draw breath in this body.” With that said, Hadassah held out her hand.
Julia stared at it. Face crumpling, she took it and clung to it out of her own need. Beyond that, she could not think.
31
Marcus spent several weeks in Gennesaret, walking the city streets. Dressed in the clothing Ezra Barjachin had given him and mimicking the reverent posturing of those he had observed, he was able to enter a synagogue. He wanted to hear the Scriptures being read and stood on the outer fringes of the gathering to do so. Though he understood no Hebrew, he gained strange comfort in hearing the Scriptures from the Torah. All the while the words flowed over him, he thought of Hadassah. She had spoken, and he had been deaf. Just as then, Hebrew or Greek, Aramaic or Latin, the language was alien to him, for the meaning escaped his grasp.
He heard the music of the language, the haunting call of it, and wanted to understand. He wanted to see and hear and have it sink in. He wanted to know what had drawn Hadassah to God and held her there with such determination and conviction until the end.
Who are you? What are you?
He looked around surreptitiously and saw the devotion and peace in some of the men’s faces, the hope. In others, he saw mirrored what he felt. Hunger.
I want to know what sustained her. God, I want to know!
The ache inside him grew. Yet he remained, listening earnestly to the men as they discussed in Greek the fine points of Judaic law. Laws upon laws mounted with tradition. Too complicated for him to understand in a few days. Too complicated for a lifetime. Frustrated, he withdrew and wandered along on the shores of the Sea of Galilee, thinking about all he had heard and trying to make sense of it.
Surely life hadn’t been so complex for Hadassah. She had been a simple, ordinary girl, not a brilliant scholar or theologian. Everything she had believed had all narrowed down to one truth for her: Jesus. Everything she did, everything she said, the way she lived—it all focused on the man from Nazareth.
If only his own life could be so clear.
What was this constant hunger that gnawed at him? It had plagued him even before Hadassah had come into his life. There was no definition for what he felt, no description of that for which he yearned. He had tried everything to fill the emptiness within himself: women, wine, games, money. Nothing was sufficient. Nothing answered the need. The void remained, an affliction of his spirit.
Traveling the short distance to Capernaum, he took lodging in a Greek inn. The proprietor was gregarious and hospitable, but Marcus kept to himself, untouched by the jovial atmosphere. The activity depressed him, and he took to spending evenings at the harbor, watching the fishermen bring in their catches for the day. At night, he watched the blazing torches as the boats glided over black water and fishermen cast out their nets.
A trumpet sounded six times, ushering in the Sabbath, from the roof of a synagogue on high ground that faced a holy city that no longer existed. He watched men and noted the four-corner fringed garment they wore. He had learned that the deep blue thread at one corner was a constant reminder to the wearer to keep the Law.
After a few days he grew restless and walked on to Bethsaida, but after several nights there, he headed east for Bethsaida-Julias. He had heard that Jesus of Nazareth had taught on the hillsides near the small city. But Jesus had been crucified over forty years ago. Would his words still echo on those quiet slopes?
He had thought he could find Hadassah’s God in this war-torn land that bore the stamp of Rome, but God eluded him. He wasn’t to be found on a mountaintop or in a holy city. God wasn’t at the altar stone in the heart of the temple. God wasn’t in a deserted house in a Galilean village or even along a lonely path to the sea.
How do I find you?
No answer came.
Oppressed in spirit, Marcus fell into despair.
He could find no peace. He had even lost all sense of purpose. His carefully laid plans had come to nothing. He wasn’t even certain anymore why he had come to Palestine. Worst of all, somewhere along the long road, Hadassah had slipped away from him.
He could no longer see her face. He couldn’t remember the sound of her voice. Only her love for her god remained clear. He wanted to imagine her here, walking these same shores, a child, happy. Maybe then he’d feel some peace. Yet, his mind betrayed him repeatedly, going back to a clouded vision of a dark-haired girl kneeling in the garden of his father’s Roman villa. Praying. Praying for his family.
Praying for him.
Why did that one image remain? Why did it so torment him? Why was that one burning light of memory all he had left of her?
Shunning people, Marcus remained in the hills east of Bethsaida-Julias, seeking solitude to clear his thoughts and find her again. He groped for justification for a quest that had lost all focus. The harder he tried to think on these things, the more jumbled his thoughts became, the more confused his mind grew, until he wondered if he was going mad.
His hair and beard grew. He took to following the shepherds with their flocks, standing off in the distance, watching. They took such care with the animals, guiding them to green pastures, making them lie down in the cool shadows to ruminate. The beasts drank from still pools built along the streams and followed the shepherd each time he pounded his staff on the ground. He watched the animals enter into a sheepfold, not bunched together, but one by one, each carefully tended by the shepherd. Some the shepherd anointed, working the oil into the wool about the sheep’s eyes and nose. And once inside, safe within the protective walls, the shepherd lay across the mouth of the fold to guard his flock.
Marcus lay upon his own coat and stared up at the heavens, his mind in chaos. Someone had said sometime during his travels that Jesus had been called “the Good Shepherd.” Or had it been Hadassah who said it? He couldn’t remember. But, oh, the peace to be like one of those dumb sheep, watched over and provided for and protected by a Shepherd whose existence seemed to be simply that, the tender care of his sheep.
Again and again Marcus returned to watch, and still the pain tormented him, worrying his mind like a dog worried a festering wound. His heart was raw. He wanted to resurrect Hadassah in his mind and, each time he tried, remembered her death instead, the violence and horror of it.
Why? His heart cried out. God, why?
Without warning, he dreamed again one night, this time of a fiery pit inhabited by tortured beings writhing in the flickering dark light. It became more intense, more vivid, until he could feel the heat and smell the sulfurous smoke surrounding him. Terror filled him, and then a flicker of hope as somewhere far above him, out of sight and reach, he heard Hadassah crying out to him to come to her.
“I can’t find you!” he cried out in anguish and awakened abruptly, bathed in his own sweat, his heart pounding.
Night after night the dream returned, torturing him. And then, as suddenly as it had begun to plague his nights, the dream stopped, leaving a void far worse. A yawning darkness surrounded him—and, exhausted, he felt himself fall into it.
Haggard and unkempt, Marcus wished for death, for an end to torment. “I know you’re there. You’ve won! End it!” he cried out to the skies.
Nothing happened.
He went down to the shores of the sea and sat staring out at the rippling water for hours on end. The wind was cold and cut into him, but he scarcely felt it. A vision of himself came to him. It was so clear he might have been standing before a mirror, yet he saw beyond . . . into his soul. He covered his eyes, gripping his head, and heard his sister’s words.
“I heard what
she said to you! I heard her throw your love back in your face. She preferred her god over you, and you said her god could have her. Well, now he shall!”
Marcus groaned. “No.” He held his head tighter, pressing, wanting to crush the words and images from his mind.
“You said her god could have her!”
“O God, no . . . !” If not for him, she would be alive. It was due to his own rash words, words spoken in hurt and anger, that she had been sent to die.
“I did it for you!” Julia had cried that day when Hadassah had walked out on the sand to face the lions. And though he cried out against it, he could no longer turn away. It came upon him like a storm wave, overwhelming. He saw Julia, the sister he had so loved, wild with fury, hands clutching at him and screaming.
“You said her god could have her . . . you said her god could have her . . . you said—”
“No!” he cried into the wind. “I never meant her to die!”
“You said her god could have her. . . .”
The wind came up strongly and Marcus remembered his last words to Hadassah in the upper chambers of Julia’s villa: “Your god can have you!”
He had wanted her for himself, and when he couldn’t have her, he had walked away full of rage and contempt.
And she paid the price.
On his knees, he covered his head. “I deserved death, not her.”
With the dark silence came the weight of judgment. He knelt on the shore until the wind died down and stillness fell around him. Digging his hands into the sand, he lifted his face. “I came to curse you, but I am the one who is cursed.” No still small voice spoke to him. He had never felt so alone and empty. “Why should you answer me? Who am I? Nobody. What am I? Nothing.”
He felt swallowed up by guilt and vomited on the sand in remorse, for he knew he deserved worse for his part in what had happened to Hadassah. He couldn’t run and hide from it anymore. “If you are God, take justice. Take justice!”
The soft wind rippled the waters, and a gentle wave washed the shore. He heard the old woman’s words again, as though whispered to him over the water.
“Until you find God, you live in vain.”
He saw the vanity all his life had been and the bleak, dark nothingness that stretched out before him. He was convicted of his sin. His own life should be forfeit. Despite Julia’s part in what had happened, it should’ve been him that day, standing on the sand. Not Hadassah. She had never done anything deserving of death. But, looking back, he could see the countless times and countless ways he had taken a path deserving of death.
He waited for judgment, but God was silent. So Marcus rose to his feet and judged himself. He proclaimed his guilt and handed down his sentence . . . and walked into the sea.
The cool water lapped about his ankles, his knees, his hips. He threw himself forward and began to swim, straight out toward the depths. The water became rougher and colder. His limbs grew numb. Exhausted, he swam sluggishly, still outward. A wave struck him and he breathed in water. Choking, he instinctively struggled for life even while craving death.
As consciousness began to slip away and the cold enfolded him, he heard his name spoken.
“Marcus.”
It came softly from all around him, and then stillness fell as a rising warmth took hold of him.
32
Marcus awakened on the shore. Disoriented, he stared up at the stars. A dream, he thought, it must have been a dream. But why then did his lungs hurt? He pushed the weight of a dry cloak off of him and sat up. The sea breeze caressed him, and he felt the cool dampness of his tunic against his skin. His heart began to beat faster. Goosebumps rose all over his body.
A fire crackled.
Shaking with fear, Marcus turned his head. A man in a long tunic sat on the other side of the flames, cooking a fish. In the flickering light, Marcus thought his garments shone. Never had Marcus seen such a face.
“Are you God?”
“I am a servant of the Lord Most High.”
Marcus felt a chill of apprehension. “By what name are you called?”
“Do not be afraid,” the man said, and his voice was at once commanding and soothing. “I am Paracletos.”
“Where did you come from?”
Paracletos smiled, and his countenance seemed even brighter. “I have come to bring you good news, Marcus Lucianus Valerian. God has heard your prayers.”
Marcus began to shake violently. He had asked God to take his life and thought to drown himself when nothing came of it. Was this stranger here now to strike him down in the name of the Lord? Well, it was no less than he deserved. He waited, heart thundering in his ears, sweat breaking out on his skin.
“Rise and eat,” Paracletos said, holding the stick with the roasted fish toward him.
Marcus rose slowly and leaned over the fire, sliding the fish carefully from the stick. He sat again and removed the flesh from the bone. It was delicious and melted in his mouth. After the first bite, he realized how hungry he was. Paracletos gave him bread and wine, and Marcus ate and drank until he was replete. It would seem God wanted him to die with a full stomach.
The intensity of Paracletos’ gaze burned Marcus’ heart. “Many have prayed for you, and their prayers have been heard,” he said, “but you must ask in order to receive.”
Anguish filled Marcus. “By what right do I ask anything?” He knew what he wanted most, but it was impossible. “Can I receive forgiveness from one whose death I caused?”
“In Christ all things are possible.”
Marcus shook his head and closed his eyes. He thought of Hadassah. In his mind, he saw her walking out onto the sand, her arms open wide, smiling, singing. Who but God could give her such peace in such circumstances? Who but God could give her the faith she needed? Faith. Where did it come from?
“Ask and you shall receive.”
Marcus looked up at him. Deserving nothing, he clenched his teeth. Should he cry out to God to save him now when he had cursed him time after time? Should he plead for mercy when he had given none?
“God gave his only begotten Son that whoever believes in him should not perish, but would have everlasting life.”
“The fiery pit is where I belong, not in the heavens,” Marcus said hoarsely. “Hadassah lost her life because of me.”
“And has found it. God holds it still in the palm of his hand. She will not be taken from him. I tell you this in truth, Marcus Valerian, that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor any other created thing, will ever be able to separate Hadassah from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.”
Relief and gratitude washed over Marcus.
The man rose and approached him. “Believe in him who sent me. Hear the Good News. He who died has risen again, just as he raised you up from the sea. You asked the Lord to take your life, and so he has.”
He put his hand on Marcus’ shoulder, and at his touch, Marcus’ heart broke. Tears came like the lancing of an ancient, infected wound that had pained him from birth throughout his life. He fell prostrate on the sand and wept.
“Go to Capernaum,” Paracletos said. “You will find a man at the gate. Tell him all that has happened to you tonight.”
Marcus stood after a long while but saw no one on the beach with him. Could he have dreamed it? He looked and saw, there before him on the sand, a charcoal fire and the bones of a fish.
The hair on the back of his neck prickled and a spilling warmth spread through his body.
Marcus ran into Bethsaida-Julias. “I’m looking for Paracletos,” he said, gasping for breath. “Do you know where I can find him?”
“I know of no one by that name,” came the repeated answer, nor had any seen a man who fit the description Marcus gave. Surely someone would have heard of such a man.
“Perhaps you’ve seen an angel,” one man mocked.
“Go sleep off the wine!” others laughed.
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Marcus took the road to Capernaum, and it was almost dawn when he came near. He saw a man sitting by the gate. People passed by him, but he seemed to be watching the road. Was this the one Paracletos meant? Marcus strode toward him, and the man’s gaze fixed upon him intently. Setting aside his feelings of foolishness, Marcus obeyed Paracletos’ command and poured out the story of what had happened to him the night before.
“The last thing he said to me was to come to Capernaum and tell all this to the man by the gate. And so I have.” He expected the man to laugh and accuse him of being drunk.
Instead, the man’s smile shone. “The Lord be praised! I am Cornelius. I was told in a dream that a Roman named Marcus would meet me here. Are you he?”
“I am Marcus,” he said hoarsely, adding dryly, “Were you told what to do with me?”
The man laughed. “Oh yes! Come with me!” He led Marcus down to the sea. Marcus followed him into the water in confusion. Cornelius turned to him and put his hand on his shoulder. “Do you believe that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of the living God?”
Marcus felt a moment of fear. Whatever came now would change his life forever. He clenched his teeth and fists, still struggling against himself. Did he believe? Did he?
Tense, uncertain, he knew he had to make a conscious decision. “I believe,” he said. “Forgive my unbelief.”
The man took firm hold of him and lowered him into the water. “I baptize you in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.”
The flow of cool water enfolded Marcus, burying him, and then he was raised up into the warmth of the sun. He planted his feet firmly as the man next to him rejoiced in the Lord. Others came running, and all Marcus could do was stand and stare out over the Sea of Galilee, surprised by the joy he felt.
Sudden. Inexplicable. Complete joy.
It hadn’t been a dream. He hadn’t imagined any of what had happened the night before or been said by the stranger who called himself Paracletos. Yet even more profound was the change he felt within himself now that he had made the decision to believe that Jesus was the Christ, the Son of the living God. He felt cleansed. He felt whole. His blood rushed through his veins with new life, new direction.