Thorns of Glory, page 20
Foolishness! I set my jaw, my suspicions confirmed that the Oracle of Cohor was the only tool that could untangle my difficulties. My course of action was clear. I gathered up the blanketed bundle and resumed my journey.
I wended my way around and approached the lime-white walls of Jerusalem from the west, seeking to enter by its Water Gate, as I’d been advised, in order to reach the place where I had secreted the less complicated, less discriminatory Oracle of Cohor.
Today, more than any other, the streets were choked by pilgrims. They’d come to offer sacrifice at the city’s Holy Temple. Or rather, they’d come to pay others—priests of a special lineage—to sacrifice unblemished animals of assorted varieties. Principal among these was a beast with a frizzy pelage that, before shearing, seemed as voluminous as the creature itself. I’d not yet learned the animal’s name, but the pelage was called wool. I came to understand that it was not the thick-coated adults whose sacrifice was demanded at the Temple, but the snow-colored offspring known as lambs. This animal’s bleats were in perpetual competition with the murmuring crowd, along with the brays of a churlish, supply-laden beast called a donkey.
The widest of thoroughfares narrowed as the frayed canvas of the pilgrim’s tents had been staked well beyond established peripheries. An imbroglio was underway as I approached the western entrance; Jewish officers chastised the impoverished rabble for removing markers that had been laid to define the roadway’s prescribed width. Space for erecting shelters had been depleted in all directions. Despite the threat of clubs and swords, visitors debated animatedly with the impatient law enforcers.
“Where else am I to stake it?” a man contended. “You tell me. I am waiting before you. You tell me!”
Even as I passed through their midst, I perceived an abrupt hush of voices. Heads turned toward the city’s interior. A cadence of boots presaged the approach of Jerusalem’s true authoritarians—the soldiers of Rome. The Jewish policeman scowled at the pilgrim with whom he was arguing and threw up his hands with finality as if to say, “Now look what you have brought upon yourself!” Yet I discerned that this officer was no less distressed by the arrival of the Romans than the pilgrims were. He shrank away among the tents with several fellow enforcers, fearful, I presumed, that he might be found derelict for failing to persuade the pilgrims to move with more urgency.
Some men and women were already pulling up stakes before the soldiers wearing bronze helmets and steel-tipped spears marched into sight. The sufferance of these taskmasters, these conquerors from a faraway capital, was at a breaking point. Those whose tents breached the boundary of the road seemed aware that their stubbornness to obey mundane municipal regulations might lead to bloodshed.
I’d reached the right pillar of the Water Gate when two dozen perturbed warriors of Rome marched past me. All eyes were fixed upon these men of violence, or so I thought. It startled me somewhat as I locked eyes with a woman whose glare was not set upon the Romans but instead were captivated by me. Furthermore, her aspect struck me as disapproving. I’d scarcely adjusted my gaze when I realized I had also drawn the attention of several males, one elderly and two younger, also unfriendly. I’d habituated myself to ignore the leers of men, unless their composure suggested they were dangerous. These gazes were different, and I could not deduce a reason.
Though obscured by the crowd, an uproar of voices made it clear that the Romans were confronting those whose tents still breached the boundaries of the road. Shouldn’t this commotion have drawn everybody’s attention? So why were many of them still scrutinizing me? I used my free hand to pull my shawl farther across my face. Admittedly, because of my inexperience with this Jewish wardrobe, my shocks often escaped, perhaps accentuating my foreignness. However, my foreignness did not sufficiently explain their hostility. This city was replete with “foreignness,” even some whose skin was as dusky as my oracle. Their enmity was a mystery I wasn’t sure even they apprehended. My intuition told me I should depart quickly. In fact, I decided I should not remain long in any single location.
As I slipped into the city, my face more effectively shrouded, I put the scornful faces out of my mind. A new specimen of uneasiness beset me. I could not shake the feeling that the place where I’d concealed the Finder was not as secure as I’d surmised. I rushed past the facade of the royal palace, a structure second in grandeur only to Jerusalem’s Temple, and proceeded south toward the grand amphitheater.
Despite my resolve to remain incognito, I could not curb my fascination. I marveled at the throngs of men of all ages whose beards unfurled in successive layers like animal pelts upon their breasts, often twisted into strands and tied off with homespun articles or pendants as commonplace as a curlicue of vibrant thread. Women wore clean, threadbare tunics of ebullient colors. Their foreheads and the corners of their eyes revealed the creases of a lifetime of labor. Many of them hunched over smoky fires, fingers crimped by long hours of sewing, washing, cooking, and serving. Mischievous children flitted to and fro, testing their mothers’ self-restraint.
The sun had journeyed well beyond the sky’s midpoint. The farther I ventured, the calmer the populace seemed to grow. Calmer may be a faulty adjective, for the streets were never quiet. Jews were as talkative as any people I’d encountered. The talk seemed always to be advice and counter-advice. Exotic odors and spices assailed my senses as the evening meal was prepared. Even the oldest and feeblest women volunteered incessant instruction as younger women nodded and ofttimes rolled their eyes. I smiled wistfully, yearning to know how it felt to experience such familiarity with family and loved ones.
As the pilgrims and their encampments became more concentrated, I passed as unheralded as a shadow, never releasing the fringe that covered half of my face. Many stared at me in spite of these efforts. Too many. Was I overconfident in my ability to pass unnoticed? Perhaps some wondered if I hid an unsightly (or contagious?) affliction. I could hardly avoid jostling shoulders. Still, it was my good fortune that no one tried to stop me.
The games arena, or Hippodrome, came into sight. Despite the congestion of humanity, the building itself and the space immediately surrounding it was expressly offensive to the Jews. I’d known this since the morning I’d arrived here—was guided here—to find Joshua’s uncle. I witnessed the onset of an amusing contest. The cobbled courtyard was considerable in size, except on the south, where a wall segregated this part of the city from another, more elite, neighborhood. Lack of space had forced many pilgrims to erect their tents distressingly close to the building. Thus, they’d devised a curious remedy to preserve their sensibilities. I noticed that the Hippodrome’s very shadow was judged repugnant. As the sun crept westward and the shadow shifted, families pulled down their canvases and transferred their encampments to the opposite side, where the shadow had withdrawn. A family representative was dispatched to lay claim to a newly sunlit plot of ground. Scuffles arose as pilgrims quibbled over the precise position of corresponding plots on the opposite side. These arguments were settled by ropes and other measuring devices. Except for a few unbridled grunts and snarls, the affair was remarkably orchestrated, and in most cases, all affected parties pretended to be satisfied. So strange, I thought, that even the shadow of a “pagan” edifice was viewed as a potential harbinger of defilement.
All the better for me. My object was to reach a hidden niche of the amphitheater’s inner vestibules. My challenge was to climb its steps and enter one of its many archways—unnoticed. If any pilgrims noticed me, I counted on the hope that none would inform the Roman sentries who lazily paced the exterior. They might crinkle their faces in distaste, but that would be all. I counted four bronze-helmeted guards with spears. If there were more, they were likely dozing inside the archways. None seemed particularly concerned that trespassers or vandals might threaten the edifice during Holy Week. Perhaps during other festivals that attracted tourists and Zealots, but not at Passover.
My challenge was entering the Hippodrome, not exiting. For when I left, I would possess the Finder, which would guide my every step, even to the degree of rendering me entirely invisible. Again, I did not seek this power for myself. I sought it for others. I sought to benefit the man I loved.
I glanced to my left. A carriage rested beside an abutment near one of the exits of the courtyard. The palanquin’s occupant—an aristocrat, for certain—was hidden behind ornamented windows and embroidered cerulean curtains. Porters in dignified tunics were taking refreshment at a gurgling fountain. One man dipped into the water a delicate chalice I presumed was intended to slake the thirst of the carriage’s occupant. A pale hand rested upon the rim of the window, feminine and manicured. I’d sensed eyes on me from the moment I’d entered this city. Now it felt as if the person inside this carriage were watching me too. Surely I was being paranoid. Hundreds of pairs of eyes flickered about.
I aimed toward an archway whose sentry—if one was assigned—had ambled off to another station. Confidence, I said internally. For the next few seconds, it was vital that I appear as if I belonged, as if my errand were routine. I released the veil that hid my face and pressed close to a retaining wall, Joshua’s bundle of weapons still under one arm.
My steps were swift but not too swift. Several exclamations erupted behind me, but whether directed at me or whether they were just random outbursts, I could not tell. I didn’t turn back. An instant later I was past the archway. I skirted a dozen more steps, rounded a corner, and flattened against an interior wall, letting my bated breath suspire from my lungs. Had I made it? I listened, leery as an ocelot.
Hobnail boots clicked in the entryway. “Who is here? Show yourself!”
My heart clenched. I’d been observed! One of the Jews had tattled. What a rake! I should not have been so impatient. Why hadn’t I taken more time for reconnaissance? I stood stiffly, holding my breath. Footsteps approached. The echo of his boots made it impossible for the Roman to approach with any degree of stealth. Blood throbbed in my neck. The sentry nearly rounded the corner; he might have been close enough to seize my arm. I readied to break and run. The hand of Providence interceded.
A second voice resounded. “What are you doing?” the man demanded, obviously a senior officer.
“An old woman reported that someone came inside.”
Their voices reverberated under the high ceiling. I took the opportunity to flee, never setting eyes on either soldier. They disputed the reliability or importance of the report of a “Jewish nag.” I dodged obstacles: lumber, tools, and sealed jars that wept lines of dry paint. The facility was undergoing renovation for the upcoming season. Any other week besides Passover, the place would have bustled with artisans of various trades. I stepped cautiously, aware that if I kicked over a bucket of nails, the sound would alert the entire facility and soldiers would converge.
It wasn’t long before I found a familiar space below a stairway at the western end. Dusty refuse was scattered about. The niche was so out of the way that even custodians had ignored it. I hadn’t expected to locate it so fast. My previous two visits had been in twilight—first, when I’d met Josh’s uncle and second, when I’d hidden the oracle. Relief washed over me as I slipped into the recess. I’d made it! Nothing more to fear. As soon as I reacquired the Finder, my steps would be guided. I’d become as a ghost of the night.
I found the place where it was concealed and lifted away a few pottery shards. I sighed with satisfaction. There it lay, the Oracle of Cohor, black as obsidian. It seemed to blink back at me, a soft smile. I glanced around to verify that no one had seen me enter this shadowed space. I set down the bundle of weapons, removed the Liahona from the satchel, and covered it with the same pottery shards. As I scooped up the Finder, peculiar, familiar sensations fluttered through me. Who could say if this object was stone or metal? As I held it, it felt very heavy, but I knew this sensation was temporary. An instant later it felt as light as a pumice stone.
In my mind, I said the words I’d said before: I require your services.
The reply was instantaneous. Comforting and intoxicating. Not at all like the stubborn Liahona.
Yes, my master. Or perhaps it said mistress. In any case, it acknowledged my femininity. The oracle itself was feminine, gentle-toned, soothing, respectful. Its purpose was to serve, not control. It was this tone that revealed its fundamental difference from the sword that had so tormented Joshua or the Director I’d just hidden under the shards.
My conversation with the Oracle of Cohor was not with words. Rather, it was like pulses of thought. Words would have taken considerably longer to settle in.
You must help me, I thought.
I am your servant.
We must find the woman called Sabrina and the infant called Gid.
As you request.
And we must leave this place unseen.
So it shall be.
Anxiety drained out of me as I slipped the oracle into the same satchel that had carried the Liahona. Well, perhaps some anxiety percolated from within, because I hesitated, looking either direction before I emerged from the dreary recess. This was instinctive, I decided. I strode alone and unseen toward the north. I hesitated again, and the Finder responded.
You may exit through the same archway you entered.
Is this advice or instruction?
Advice. And counsel. Advice because it will reassure you of my power. Counsel because important events await you.
This was unexpected news. I reminded the oracle, I’ve no time for distractions. I must reunite Sabrina and her babe with Joshua, Melody, and Jenny.
Of course. Part of the plan.
Apprehension prodded me as I continued walking. I told myself to be patient.
The Finder replied, Yes. Patience. Trust. All part of the plan.
I was enveloped by a blanket of warmth as I saw the entryway ahead. Part of the plan. Part of the strategy. I could accept that. I did as I was directed. The Finder had never misled me before.
I rounded the corner where moments earlier I’d pressed close to the wall. As the Finder had assured me, no sentries paced the archway; no one was on alert. A few more paces and sunlight caused my eyes to squint. I stood upon the platform where a second set of stairs led to the ground level of the square. I used my free hand to shade my eyes; then I gasped in dismay.
I was not alone on the platform. The archway was not free of soldiers. Five Romans stood there in their chest plates, helmets, and greaves, one draped in an officer’s flowing red robe. They addressed one another animatedly. One sentry gripped the arm of an older woman—the Jewess, I presumed, who’d watched me enter. The Hippodrome was forbidden to trespassers, not only by religious edict but by the laws of the Empire. The woman appeared to regret the report she’d given to the soldiers. A number of pilgrims stood behind her, pleading with the soldiers that she “did nothing wrong,” only her “duty” and that the “Antonians” (whatever that meant) were compromising her “worthiness to participate in holy rites.” The most persistent advocate for her was an old man. Her husband? The Jewess cringed at her Roman assailant’s touch. She refused to make direct eye contact with the sentry.
The robed officer addressed her in a threatening tone. She raised her chin and peered at me. I stiffened in my tracks.
She appeared to point right between my eyes. “There! She entered right there, as I have thrice said and will say again.”
My muscles lost their strength. I nearly dropped the Finder’s satchel and fainted in dread. The officer directed several Romans to march toward me. The charade was over. I was about to be apprehended. The officer directed additional soldiers toward other archways.
“Search every hallway,” he barked. “A sesterce to anyone who apprehends the trespasser.”
One sentry grumbled mildly, “I’ll wager two sesterces that the old woman saw a sprite.”
Another quipped, “Or she is blind and saw nothing.”
By degrees, I realized the guards were not looking at me—just toward the archway. I remained immobile as they marched past me on either side. Still grumbling, they entered the stadium. Other soldiers penetrated archways to the north and south. My heart fluttered rapidly. At last, I sighed in astonishment and relief. It wasn’t the first time I’d procured such a miracle, but never before in broad daylight. I was truly invisible!
A malevolent grin climbed my cheeks; I held the Finder tenaciously. What was the point of continuing to hide my face? I released the veil and allowed both of my hands to massage the smooth surface of the Oracle in gratitude, in praise, in affection. Once again, it had saved my life. Now it would save the lives of Joshua’s aunt and cousin.
I cannot deny there was an added bounce in my step; I felt mischievous and guileful. The soldier released the arm of the old Jewess. As I descended the steps, she was embraced by her long-bearded husband and others, presumably sons and daughters. I felt a twinge of resentment. She’d snitched on me. Snitched to the Romans, her enemies. And for what? Had she expected a reward? An accolade? Her reward was tears and defilement. I suspected the grimy touch of a gentile sentry—goyim—was akin to touching a corpse in this peculiar culture.
I passed the emotional reunion, again with no reaction from onlookers, and made my way through the crowd.
Where now? I asked the Finder.
No response.
My eyes flickered toward the gate that had brought me into the precinct surrounding the Hippodrome. I thought I glimpsed two people enter who resembled Joshua and his cousin Melody. The press was heavy. Before I could verify the sighting, a figure stepped in front of me. I halted, gulping. Had my path been blocked by accident? Until now the Finder had made me undetectable. I’d expected to move through the crowd freely. The man wore a pilgrim’s tunic of rustic cloth and a red sash, which by itself was wholly unremarkable. A hood shaded his features. Then I recognized the short pointed beard and wild gray eyes. Kentor!
