On the Road to Damascus: The Story of Rebekah and Lucius

Prologue

A crescent moon hung like a sword’s blade over Jerusalem. Its pale glow cast faint shadows along the dark and empty streets.

Matthias hurried along the narrow passages. He halted now and then, listening for sounds that might betray someone following him. As he picked his way through the ruts and stones, his sandals caught and noisily scattered an unseen pile of pebbles. A dog barked sharply nearby. He stopped again, his heart pounding in his chest. There was a muffled shout, a door slammed shut, then nothing. After a few minutes he started moving again. Perspiration trickled past his ears to be lost in the fullness of his beard.

The meeting with Stephen and the others had taken place well after midnight. The time and place had been determined by the need for secrecy. They had talked into the early hours before dawn in a private home near the Great Temple. When the meeting had ended, they left one by one, mindful of the watchful eyes of temple police and Roman patrols.

Suddenly a familiar sound caught Matthias’ attention. Voices… but from where? He stopped again and pressed his back against a rough plaster wall, straining to hear. The sounds were closer now. Matthias inched along in the darkness. His sandal found something wet and foul smelling. So much garbage—and worse—littered the streets. The heel of his foot began to slide. He nearly fell before regaining his balance. Pressing himself within a small depression between two walls, he remained still, and waited.

The voices grew louder as they approached. In the glimmer of moonlight he could just make out two soldiers as they passed, swords clinking at their sides. He held his breath. When they had moved on, he allowed himself to breathe again. He slipped silently from the narrow space and turned back in the direction he had come. A few yards down the path he found another alley, turned and followed it.

The alley opened onto a small courtyard that Matthias recognized. A congested jumble of modest homes surrounded it. Most were still shuttered and dark. Here and there a ribbon of light spilled from under a doorsill as families prepared to meet the new day. The smoke from several charcoal cooking fires was already seeping into the yard.

Matthias made his way to a building off to one side. It was taller than the others and looked like a misshapen box piled awkwardly on top of a larger one. Weathered wooden stairs clung precariously to the side of the building. They led to a door next to a shuttered window on the upper floor.

Glancing around to make certain he was alone, Matthias moved from the shadows. He took the stairs carefully. When he reached the doorway he rapped gently. There was no answer. He knocked more insistently. This time he heard the scrape of a bench against a wooden floor, then footsteps. Through the door he heard a low voice. Matthias identified himself. The bolt was drawn and the door opened a crack, then all the way. Matthias stepped inside. The door closed behind him.

A small lamp illuminated the room. The odor of perspiration, stale fish and lamp oil hung oppressively in the warm air. Some women were gathered together, praying. A group of men stood talking near the shuttered window. The conversation stopped as one of the men recognized Matthias and approached him.

The peace of the Lord be with you, the man said.

And also with you, Peter, Matthias replied. There was a flutter of muted greetings as those in the room gathered about Matthias. Peter raised his hand and the room fell silent.

Tell us what you have learned, Peter said. Will the High Priest Caiaphas set his hand against us?

Bartholomew the magistrate says he speaks of little else. Caiaphas calls us blasphemers and charges that we cause disunity and unrest among the people. Matthias wiped perspiration from his forehead with the sleeve of his tunic.

But not all are convinced we are a threat. Many disagree with Caiaphas, Matthias continued. They feel we will disband now that the Lord Jesus has been crucified. They no longer wish to concern themselves with us—or with Caiaphas and his obsession. Even the great rabbi Gamaliel advises tolerance. Still, the High Priest will not relent. He calls for nothing less than for the followers of Jesus to be driven out of Judea. What shall we do, Peter?

Whatever comes to pass, Peter replied, we will continue on the path the Master set for us. Our Lord told us to remain in Jerusalem and to wait here for the Holy Spirit to come upon us. We are to be his witnesses here and to the ends of the earth. That is the work Jesus charged us with. That is what we will do.

There were mutterings throughout the room.

But how will we do this, Peter? one of the men asked. How will it serve the Lord if we are arrested by Caiaphas’ guards and thrown in his dungeons?

Another disciple spoke, a seller of fruits and vegetables. How are we even to preach to all the people? Many buyers at my stall in the city are travelers from other provinces. We speak only a few words of each other’s language.

Jesus said his work would be accomplished through us, Peter said. We must remain steadfast, even in the midst of our concerns and fears. The Lord said he would always be with us. His word is truth.

As dawn approached, the glow behind the window began to brighten. One of the women extinguished the oil lamp and cracked open the shutters. Light spilled in from outside. The air was still.

Suddenly, at about 9 o’clock, a strong breeze arose from within the courtyard. It swirled clouds of dust from the streets below and rattled the shutters. The gust quickly became a howling wind, filling the yard. Without warning, the heavy bolt on the thick wooden door of the upper room flew back. The door burst open. The gale filled the crowded space, blowing lamps and cups to the floor.

Matthias turned away and covered his face. Several of the women screamed in alarm. Men hid their eyes. Then, even as the windstorm raged about them, the room itself fell profoundly silent. Above the head of each man and woman in the room, divided tongues of fire appeared, as bright and intense as the noonday sun.

Those assembled began to cry out as the flames rested upon them. Some fell to their knees, eyes closed, their lips moving soundlessly. Matthias felt as though he were being consumed from within, purged, made new. Then, as quickly as the startling events had occurred, they ceased. The flames disappeared. The gale subsided. Shouts arose from the courtyard below from those who had witnessed the fearsome wind.

Peter was the first, and then others also began to gather their senses. A shared look of astonishment spread across their faces. Smiling and laughing, they embraced one another. Each had been filled with the Holy Spirit. They found they could speak and understand languages they had never known before. Gone were the doubts and fears that had gripped them only moments before.

With renewed purpose and confidence, Matthias followed Peter and the others through the open door and down to the courtyard below. A crowd was gathering. Matthias’ heart was bursting with joy.

There was much work to be done, he thought, as he descended the stairs with the others. So very much to be done!

Chapter 1

Rebekah half carried, half dragged the heavy wooden bucket filled with wet clay from the small yard behind the cottage to her pottery wheel near the kitchen. She had spent the better part of the morning preparing the mixture. Now it was as fine and smooth as dough.

Her client in Jerusalem had requested a deep blue base with embellishments in yellow. Rebekah had chosen a finely textured, light gray clay. When mixed with the dye she had prepared from ground indigo flowers, it had taken on a hue as rich as the evening sky. The yellow decorations she would add later from a dye made of almond leaves and ground pomegranate rinds. On the few occasions when she needed advice on creating a particular color, she consulted her brother, Amos. He had much experience with dyes and tints from his work as a custom leather smith.

Pushing the bucket the last few inches with her bare foot, Rebekah sat on the bench near the wheel to catch her breath. She was a lovely woman in her mid-20s with long brown hair and striking dark eyes. Rebekah supposed she could have waited for help from Amos. He would soon be stopping by for the midday meal they often shared. But he would have insisted on moving the bucket by himself—a task that was really too much for him considering the injury to his leg. Why, she wondered, must men mount such a show of their strength and independence no matter the cost? And they claim women are stubborn, she thought to herself.

With the working clay prepared, Rebekah pulled her bench up to the pottery wheel. It was a sturdy affair with an ample round wooden platform at waist height. The platform was centered by a post to a large, round stone kick wheel near the ground. She prodded the great stone several times with her foot, until the heavy stone’s momentum kept the platform spinning. The wheel squealed and groaned from the friction of wood against wood. Rebekah reached in to the center post with a small clay pitcher. From it, she poured a trickle of olive oil about the shaft. As the oil spread and soaked into the wood, the wheel ceased to complain.

As the pottery wheel reached the desired speed, Rebekah reached into the bucket of dark blue clay. She withdrew an amount suitable for the pitcher she planned to make and threw the wet mass down hard on the center of the moving platform. Rebekah held the clay in place with pressure from her hands. Then, carefully placing her thumb into the spinning lump, she quickly found the center and began to shape the clay into the object she saw in her mind’s eye.

Almost unconsciously, Rebekah worked the clay—squeezing, lifting, shaping. She gave the flywheel a kick now and then when she felt the wheel slowing. Her fingers moved swiftly and confidently as the pitcher took shape. The wet clay glistened in the sunlight that streamed through the open doorway of her cottage.

Now she reached for her tools. There were small branches carefully carved with pointed and contoured shapes, brushes made of bound straw and horsehair, a wet sponge. These she skillfully applied to the spinning pitcher to smooth or carve patterns that would later be enhanced with the bright yellow dye. Finally, satisfied with her creation, Rebekah carefully cut the base from the platform with a thin string of cowhide that she held taut between her hands. When the vessel had dried and stiffened, Rebekah would carefully transfer it to the drying racks in her yard. Later, it would be painted, glazed and fired in the kiln her brother had built for her.

Rebekah rose from the bench, wiped her clay-stained hands on her apron and brushed several strands of hair from her eyes. She had just picked up a brush to rinse it clean when she became aware of a presence standing in the cottage doorway. She turned and saw a man silhouetted against the afternoon sun.

In her mind, she knew it must be her brother, Amos. But the figure was standing in such a way, with the light just so, that her heart felt for a moment it was the man she had loved and to whom she had been betrothed. That man now lay buried these many months with his brother and sister. She dropped the brush that had been in her hand and stared.

What is wrong, Rebekah? Amos asked.

Rebekah quickly regained her composure, stooped down and picked up the brush.

Nothing, she said. And then, For just a moment I thought you were Dismas. He stood that way in the doorway when he returned to me from the wilderness, from his time with Gestas.

Amos sighed and stepped into the room. He clearly favored his left foot as he made his way to his sister and hugged her warmly.

It has been seven months since his death, Rebekah. I have prayed that God would make the burden of his death lighter for you. He stepped back and leaned for support on a raised wooden shelf in the kitchen. On the same shelf he placed a small bundle of food he had brought with him for their afternoon meal.

The burden is lighter, Amos, only there are still times—such as a moment ago—when the wound is again freshly opened. It may be a place we had been, familiar words spoken, a look or a gesture. So much reminds me of him still.

She pointed to a bench near the door. Sit, please. I can see your leg is troubling you. Where is the walking stick I gave you?

Amos smiled. I am not an old man yet, he protested mildly. It is not that I fail to appreciate your gift, but I have put it aside for when I really need it. My leg bothers me a little because I have been on my feet since early this morning, stretching my skins in the sun. And now, with the walk up that hill… he glanced over his shoulder toward the road on which he had just traveled. Rebekah shook her head, returned the smile and, out of respect for her brother’s pride, said nothing further. His injury at the hands of Roman soldiers was, for both of them, a painful reminder of the circumstances that had led to Dismas’ death.

Amos pointed to the large bucket of clay alongside Rebekah’s pottery wheel. You moved it yourself. There was disapproval in his voice. I would have done that for you. That bucket is too heavy for a woman to carry. Why did you not wait?

Rebekah placed her hands on her hips and leaned in toward her brother. There was no need, Amos. It was not that difficult for me, she lied, just a little. If, as you say, you can walk without your staff, so I am not so delicate that I cannot move a bucket of wet clay. Besides, I wanted to get an early start on this new order. I promised it by the end of the month.

Now it was Amos’ turn to shake his head and smile. Come, let us share this food together, he said, rising from the bench. He retrieved the package he had brought with him. I have cheese, grapes and bread for us. He unwrapped the cloth bundle and began to place the items on a low table in the kitchen. Rebekah took down two cups, two plates and a small pitcher of wine. The bread, cheese and fruit she divided between them. After washing and drying their hands, they reclined on either side of the table. Amos offered the blessing and they began to eat.

Are you pleased with the color for your new pottery? Amos gestured toward the dark blue clay pitcher that now sat drying on the pottery wheel platform.

Yes, and also with the consistency of the clay. The blocks you brought back with you from Jerusalem make a ‘dough’ as fine as flour and water. And the light gray color will mix well with many dyes. It was a good choice.

An expensive choice, Amos was quick to add.

I am paid well for my pottery, she snapped.

And so you should be. The Greek artisan taught you well, Amos replied, quickly changing the subject.

Indeed, he did, she agreed, adding, I miss him even to this day. It pleases me that I am still able to use the stone wheel he gave me, even though the rest has been replaced so many times over the years. In a way, it is as if he were still here, looking over my shoulder and encouraging me as he did during my apprenticeship.

When their meal was done, and while Rebekah was busy cleaning and putting away the cups and dishes, Amos brought up a subject that for many months had been in the forefront of his thoughts.

Have you recently seen the centurion, Lucius?

Rebekah paused, a saucer frozen in her hand. Then, without turning around, she resumed her motion and placed it on the shelf. Only last week, she said, at Judith’s home, for the sharing of the bread and wine, and for the retelling of the teachings of Jesus. But you were there were you not?

Yes, but it was two weeks ago that Lucius was there. I thought since then you might have seen him or perhaps he would have called on you.

Rebekah thought for a moment. Was it really two weeks ago?

You know it was, Rebekah. That is not something you would confuse or forget.

She sighed, and turned to face her brother. What is it you are saying, Amos? When weeks pass and we do not see each other, you are concerned. When he called twice in the same week, you were concerned. Which is it? Is it that I do not see him enough, or too often? And why should it matter?

Because it involves you, Rebekah. I care for your happiness—and for your reputation. Is that not a brother’s responsibility?

Rebekah sighed again. She wiped her hands on her apron and sat down across from her brother. We enjoy each other’s company, Amos. Is that so scandalous? Besides, you and I owe Lucius a great deal. He assumed much risk on our behalf when you were arrested. And he and Gaius also helped make Dismas’ death easier for him. Lucius is a good man.

Yes, but he is a Roman, a Roman centurion. And we are Jews, Rebekah, living under Roman authority. Besides, I believe his interest in you is more than mere friendship.

Rebekah chose to ignore her brother’s last observation.

We are Jews who follow the Way of Jesus, Rebekah countered. That alone to many in Jerusalem—and even to some in our own village—is cause for much greater scandal. Lucius also goes to Judith’s home, as we do, to hear the teachings of Jesus and to share in the supper. Stephen also has baptized him. In those ways he is one of us.

But he does not believe as strongly as you and I and the others do, Rebekah.

Who is to say? Is it our place to judge a man’s heart? Rebekah argued. It was Lucius whom we first met when Judith and I traveled to hear the Rabbi Jesus speak. And Lucius heard the Teacher speak outside Tiberias before any of us. We each follow the words of Jesus in our own way.

You and Judith grow stronger in your faith each day, Amos said. You even talked of accompanying Judith when she spoke of spreading the message of Jesus with some of the other disciples. I see Lucius as a man more curious than devout. Even his friend, Gaius, his fellow centurion at the fortress, is more committed in his belief. Gaius is willing to put himself in jeopardy by helping Judith and others in the community of believers.

Well, I am convinced my seeing Lucius is for the good. And if tongues wag in disapproval it is on their heads, not mine. The faith you say Lucius lacks will grow, I am certain of it. Only allow him more time to come to know Jesus and follow his Way.

I could not bear to see your heart broken again, Rebekah. They both knew he meant the loss of her beloved Dismas—crucified by Herod for avenging the death of his brother and sister. Dismas had been punished for killing the man responsible, the tribune Marcus Palantina.

It is my heart, Amos, and I must trust myself and God to protect it. Lucius is not Dismas. The paths they walked are not the same. Both have a claim on my heart but in different ways.

Amos could see his argument was having little effect, and he could see no purpose in upsetting his sister further. He moved to change the direction of their discussion.

I saw Miriam yesterday, Amos offered. I called on her to repair the broken strap of a water skin. Rebekah’s attention was turned by the mention of the name of Dismas’ mother.

And how was she? Rebekah asked.

Perhaps a little better. But she now can walk only with the aid of a crutch. She said you told her you often pray to Dismas. Is that so? Amos was genuinely curious, since it was not the Jewish custom to pray to anyone but Jehovah, and now, for the followers of Jesus, to God’s Son, as well.

I talk to him, Amos, I do not pray to him.

And what do you say?

I tell him about us, about our lives. I ask him to speak on our behalf when he sees Jesus in the place of paradise the Lord promised him. I do not pray to Dismas or expect to hear him speak to me. But I have faith that he hears me and knows what is in my heart.

Do you tell him about your feelings for Lucius? Amos asked, daring to raise the subject again.

Rebekah paused, but only for a moment. In this matter also, Dismas knows my heart.

Chapter 2

The centurion leading the Roman patrol extended his arm high in the air and without a word the group reined in their horses. With only a few protesting snorts from their mounts, a dozen well-armed men came to a halt. Lucius, a fellow officer who had been bringing up the rear, led his mount out of the formation and trotted up to meet his friend.

They had arrived at the entrance to a shallow valley, a place where the legionnaires were still well hidden behind an outcropping of large boulders and scrub brush. Less than a few hundred yards away, Lucius could see a steep jumble of limestone cliffs that seemed to erupt from the valley floor. He lowered his voice and pointed to a handful of dark openings and clefts in the walls ahead of them.

If your informant is correct, Gaius, the robbers we seek will have taken refuge in the caves before us.

Ah, but which cave, Lucius? They hide in their hole like spiders. If we approach the wrong one they will hear us and likely scatter. Gaius looked about, surveying the network of caves and passages that riddled the mountainous terrain. They know this land. We would never be able to round all of them up if they were to escape in many directions.

Then we will wait and watch until one of the spiders comes out of its hole, Lucius replied. Lucius was a tall man in his mid-thirties, tanned and fit. He wore his dark hair and beard closely cropped. Gaius, a friend and fellow centurion, was half a dozen years his senior.

Cautioning the men to stay hidden, Gaius had the troopers dismount and set up a temporary camp out of sight of the cliffs. Two men were assigned to the first watch.

Lucius and the others had left the Antonia Fortress in Jerusalem before dawn. It was late morning when they arrived at the cliffs. Even though the winter season was approaching, the sun was already growing oppressively hot because of the lack of shade in the barren wilderness. Two hours passed and still no movement had been observed.

Lucius took a long pull on his water skin, wiped his mouth and approached Gaius.

You are certain your informant told you the truth about these thieves, that they are here in these hills?

As certain as I can be, my friend. The man we questioned knows well that if he has lied to us he will be stretched on a cross outside the city gates.

This is taking too long, Lucius said. He glanced back at the men. It is not good for us to wait as we do while the heat of the day builds. It saps our strength and dulls our edge. We need a ploy to bring one of the spiders into the open. I have a plan. Select one of your men with a fast horse and send him to me.

Although Gaius was senior officer to Lucius by virtue of his duties at the fortress, he had great respect for his comrade’s talent and initiative. The two had served together some months before during a dangerous mission that resulted in the capture of an infamous thief and murderer. Since then, they had successfully raided the nests of many thieves and helped secure the trade routes leading to and from Jerusalem.

Pontius Pilate, the procurator for the district surrounding Jerusalem, was pleased, as was Herod, the tetrarch who ruled the northern territory. Greater safety meant increased commerce. And greater commerce meant the collection of more taxes—all of which enriched the private treasuries of both men.

Gaius returned a few moments later with a young trooper. The man had a strong frame and eager spirit. This is Damon, Gaius said. He is one of the best horsemen at the fortress.

Lucius took Damon aside and pointed toward a rough path that stretched before the caves that dotted the cliffs.

We need to lure our prey into the open. I believe a lone rider, quickly passing outside those caves and continuing past, will surprise those inside and draw at least one curious observer. Can you be that rider?

Damon nodded his agreement.

Good. Then remove your uniform and armor so you do not look like a Roman soldier. We must maintain the element of surprise. Ride only in your tunic and boots. Your mount also shall be stripped of all but saddle, sword and harness. Can you manage this? Again the trooper nodded.

Make your ride with as much clatter and noise as you can, Damon, but travel swiftly. You must be long past before those inside have time to pursue or attack you. We will advance on the thieves as soon as they show themselves.

The young man saluted, turned and proceeded as he was instructed. Careful to keep out of sight, he moved quietly until he was in position. Damon prepared to begin his run from the far right side of the cliffs. The eyes of Gaius, Lucius and the remaining troopers were fixed on the caves.

Suddenly, and with much shouting, Damon goaded his mount into a full gallop. Rider and horse flew across the face of the caves as if pursued by demons, kicking up many rocks and stones along the way. The racket echoed and reverberated from the hard cliff walls. Lucius could see no way that anyone hiding in those caves could possibly ignore such a commotion.

And he was right.

All at once, two figures emerged from a