The Angel and the Cross Read online

  The Angel And The Cross

  another myrockandrollbook by

  Sigmund Brouwer

  also look for:

  The Angel and The Sword

  The Angel and The Ring

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright © 2012 by Sigmund Brouwer

  all rights reserved

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people.

  Angel Blog

  Whatever you are complaining about these days, just stop. Alright? No more whining, no more sniveling. Heartfelt prayer - where you lay out your concerns about life to our Father - is one thing. That’s sweet, sad music to all of us in heaven. But whining and sniveling disguised as prayer is a horrible screech that I wish would end.

  Obviously, I’m going to have to remind you that whining and complaining and sniveling does absolutely nothing about the situation you’re facing. You’re standing in a mud puddle up to your knees, crying about it to anybody who walks by? All that does is annoy everyone. Just get out of the mud puddle!

  In other words, instead of complaining, you can quietly do something about it.

  And if you there is nothing you can do about it, then accept it. With courage. With dignity. With faith in God, our Father.

  If only you could see humans the way that I see humans, you’d realize how beautiful it is when a human shows all three of those characteristics in the face of difficulty. Courage. Dignity. Faith.

  Yes, yes, yes. I agree with those of you who love to point out the obvious. You can’t see humans the way I see them. Because you’re not an angel. And I am.

  (By the way, my name is Pelagius. Don’t ask why or how I happen to be forming these words on paper for your benefit. Either read them or don’t. I can’t control your choices.)

  But human as you are, you’re still able to view life the way angels do. If you choose to, you can see that humans are eternal creatures. Your time on earth is only the beginning, and it’s a great training ground where you can make choices that form your character and your soul.

  Choices. You’ll find out I’m big on taking responsibility. Which is much better than hoping that, say, a guardian angel like me will appear out of nowhere to solve your problems. I’m not saying it doesn’t happen – that’s why I’m here, after all. I’m just saying don’t count on it.

  Choices. If you think of your time on earth as a training ground, you’d realize problems as opportunities, not things that make you whine, complain, and snivel. Problems are part of your eternal journey that help you to learn and grow.

  If you could see humans the way that I see humans, what you would see is potential - immense, wonderful, breathtaking potential. I see beyond your clothing and the smell or shape of your body.

  By the way, it’s amusing to watch human vanities shift over the years. One century, those of you who are more robust – which means well-layered, with reserves of fuel – are considered the beautiful people. I blink my eyes, a century or two passes, and then the skinny among you are fashionable. Let me say this loudly, folks. Who cares about the percentage of body fat? Let me answer just as loudly. Nobody in heaven! Since heaven is what truly matters – yup, eternity is a long time, and being in God’s presence is a joy beyond anything I could describe – keep your focus there. Not on whether some television-watching moron who buys into commercials is teasing you about your weight. Think of it this way. In another century, when you and the moron are long dead and gone, each of your skeletons will look about the same, give or take a few inches of height. Nor will it matter to your skeletons whose estate had plenty of money to spend on a coffin and whose estate did not.

  Here I am, already talking to you about death. You may think I’m morbid.

  I’m not. Death is as much a part of life as breathing. (Just not as frequent, thank our Father.) You, however, live a coddled life in the third millennium. You’ve sanitized death, moved it to hospitals, hidden the stench in steel-lined coffins, and, in all possible ways, shoved it aside. The only place you celebrate death is in movies and prime-time cop shows and hyped-up network news, but don’t get me started about that garbage.

  Face it. Death is going to happen to you. You can try to ignore it as much as you want to, but it’s still stalking you with great, great patience, and you’d better be ready for it when it pounces. I’d maybe even argue that living is about learning to die well. Which is a choice. What a surprise - here I am, mentioning choices again.

  But here’s the good news.

  A while back, death lost the big battle.

  Believe me, the Evil One did his best to win that fight. He knew far better than you humans how terrible it would be for his side if death ever became something you did not have to fear. And, like a snake pinned to the ground by a spike, the Evil One has been writhing in agony ever since.

  What was the big battle, you might ask? (Here’s a hint: it also involved spikes, through the hands and feet of someone sent by our Father.)

  Until that final victory over death, Our Father and the Evil One had been involved in skirmishes over the centuries. These were skirmishes that made it necessary for Our Father to repeatedly send angels to interact among you, and you can read about them in many places of the Bible. (After the great victory, however, you’ll notice that we angels aren’t nearly as conspicuous.)

  As for my actions before the great victory, yes, I, too, was among those angels given a role in preparing for the final battle against death. That battle involved a Roman boy, the son of a high-ranking general in Judea. The boy’s name was Quentin, and I’d been watching over him for many years. I knew him well enough to guess at his thoughts, just by reading his body language and facial expressions.

  What I didn’t know was why I’d been sent to ensure nothing harmed him. All I could do was trust that eventually I would find out. . .

  Chapter One

  The slow waving of a wide palm fan did little to cool the room of mid-afternoon heat. In the room - aside from a middle-aged, bald slave tending the fan - were three living creatures: an old man, a sixteen-year-old Roman boy named Aulus Lucius Quentin, and a fat but surprisingly nimble fly.

  “Quentin, sit down again.”

  “Eli!” the boy reproached the old man. “I am sitting.”

  “Child, I am blind. Of that there is no doubt. My ears, however, have not been dulled by age. You are not hunched over a scroll as you should be. You are in vain pursuit of a fly.”

  “Eli,” the boy said as he tiptoed back to his stool in front of an ornate cedar table, “how can you say such a thing?”

  The old man chuckled. “Now that you are seated, I shall tell you I heard the light patter of your feet as you tried to remain quiet in your pursuit. Then, each time the patter halted, a fly began buzzing. A fly much quicker than you, I might add. It escaped you five times.”

  “Only four,” the boy said.

  The slave, standing impassively as he pulled the rope in a slow rhythm to wave the fan, smothered a smile. Slaves in the palace learned quickly to be seen, not heard.

  Quentin sighed. He pushed back his straight, dark hair. His forehead was high and broad. It was a handsome face. His nose was straight and commanding, the way it should be for Roman nobility. It was a handsome face. He was tall for his age, and the muscles on his body were just starting to show as tight cords. The Romans placed great emphasis on physical proficiency. Aside from studying with the old man, which lasted a minimum of four hours a day, it was also expected that Quentin spend two hours doing gymnastics, an hour riding horses, and two hours practicing weapons use each day.

  This schedule, of course, did not apply to all Roman citizens. But Quentin was
the son of a commander of a legion, Aulus Lucius Marcus, and much more would be expected of him when he reached adulthood.

  “Don’t sigh at me like that,” Eli commanded. “If you don’t learn this now, you will regret it later.”

  “You always say that. But all this history stuff is useless. Nobody needs to know about wars and dead emperors. And why should I learn these numbers? When I grow up, I’ll be a military man like my father. The only counting I intend to do is numbering the dead after a battle.”

  At that, a look of pain crossed the blind man’s face, as if he were remembering the dead of his own past.

  The old man’s features had been arranged gently by the passage of time. The wrinkles showed years of good humor, and his thick, white eyebrows suggested a ghost of a smile. His eyes, clouded by cataracts, had once been a fierce blue, yet they still managed to convey intelligence.

  “I’m sorry.” Quentin spoke quietly as he noticed the change of expression in the old man’s face. “I forget that we are on different sides.”

  Eli swung his head to the window, a simple opening cut into the limestone wall of the palace and barred with rough iron. He kept his head still, as if his blind eyes were searching the cloudless sky beyond.

  His face became troubled, as if he were struggling to make a difficult decision. Then he straightened his head.

  “Child,” he said. “I don’t blame any Roman for my grief. The people I lost fell to our own king, Herod the Great.”

  “You’ve never spoken about this before,” Quentin said.

  “You will need to know much about my people, Quentin. If only I could tell you more in the time that remains.”

  “Time that remains?”

  “Hush,” the old man said. “Outside these palace walls live a proud people. Even with Roman occupation of our beautiful land of Judea, we are still proud. You must remember that when...” His voice faltered “...if you are ever cast among them. They wait for a great leader, the Messiah, promised by prophets of old. Until our Messiah arrives, some of them - the Zealots - will always fight the yoke of captivity. You must not take that personally.”

  “Of course I know about the Zealots,” Quentin said. “Eli, it seems as if you are speaking in circles.”

  The old man smiled sadly. “Perhaps. I want you to know how my family died. Later, you will understand and, I hope, forgive me.”

  “Forgive you for what?” Quentin almost became alarmed, but the old man waved his stammering into silence.

  “Herod the Great was only a half-Jew. Rome, not royal blood, gave Herod his power. He then married one from the royal line. Mariamne. Her beauty was stunning…” The old man’s face softened. “And, I believe, Herod truly loved her. For the first half of his reign - with Rome’s permission, of course - he brought peace. Yet the second half...” The old man’s voice trailed away.

  Quentin did not press him, for a spell was on Eli’s face.

  When Eli began speaking again several minutes later, his mouth tightened. “During the second half, Herod the Great began to fear for his throne. First, he murdered Mariamne’s brother. Then he killed the rest of Mariamne’s family. He did it simply to make sure no one would be left to take the throne. Finally, he began to suspect Mariamne herself, and he eventually had her murdered too. And that is when Herod finally lost his mind.”

  Eli smiled woefully. “You are listening carefully, aren’t you?”

  Quentin nodded, forgetting the old man could not see his gesture.

  There was a pause as Eli waited.

  Quentin spoke. “Yes. I am listening carefully.”

  “Then please never again tell me that history is dull.”

  Quentin recognized that Eli was trying to speak lightly of matters that hurt deeply.

  The old man’s voice finally broke as he resumed. “Herod the Great was torn by the anguish that he had murdered the one he loved. He lost his sanity, of that I am convinced. He suspected all around him of conspiracy, and began to use Roman soldiers to murder the Jews by the thousands. Among them were my own family -- wife, children, and grandchildren. They were tortured, slashed by swords, then hung and burned as an example. I was only saved because I was away on a journey to Jerusalem.”

  Quentin stood and clenched his fists. “I am Roman. Yet I will never murder innocent people. I will be a soldier fighting other soldiers.”

  Eli smiled sadly. “I pray so. Yet orders are never easy to disobey. If you read your history more closely, you would know that, too. If the people of this land rebel, Rome will be forced to fight them. In war, many innocent always die - women, children, babies.”

  “No! That is not right!”

  “It is not right,” Eli agreed. “The slaughter would be a horror. I must do everything in my power to prevent such slaughter from happening again.”

  “I will help you,” Quentin said stoutly. In five years of tutoring, the old man had never before showed emotion.

  Teacher and student heard footsteps that stopped outside the thick wooden door. Eli turned his blind eyes to the noise. For a moment, Quentin thought that he saw tears in them.

  “I ask of you one other thing,” Eli said. “Remember that all of us are tossed by the winds of events much larger than our own lives.”

  The door crashed open.

  Three huge men with swarthy beards and the glint of desperation in their eyes swept into the room. Their swords were drawn.

  “Now you understand why I need your forgiveness, my son,” the old man said very quietly.

  He turned his head to the three men. “Take the boy,” he said. “But if you harm even his shadow, may the Lord our God rain curses upon you and your children.”

  Chapter Two

  Disbelief stunned Quentin into nothing more than a whimper of protest as the three men advanced.

  Betrayal. Impossible.

  Pain was visible on Eli’s face. He had indeed betrayed the young soldier. The bandits had known when and where their meeting would take place.

  The three bandits took no chances with their Roman captive. Transfixed with shock, Quentin was bound immediately and dragged from the room.

  He took a breath to shout, but one bandit placed a calloused palm directly over his mouth. Enraged, Quentin bit the hand as hard as possible, tasting the salty, warm blood he drew. The man yelped, then struck the side of Quentin’s head with his free hand.

  “Do anything like that again, mongrel, and I shall cut your hand off!” The man shook drops of blood onto the marble floor. “No matter what the blind old man said.”

  “Gag his mouth, you fool,” another snarled at the first bandit. “You will not harm the soldier. You will not disobey the old man or Urbal the Wise.”

  Quentin was reminded once again of the betrayal he could barely yet believe.

  Betrayal!

  Kidnapping the son of a high-ranking official in a foreign country – this Quentin could understand. Much of his training was devoted to ways of avoiding danger from angry citizens.

  This, however, was no ordinary kidnapping. It was betrayal by his faithful, patient Eli — betrayal of a true friendship, something no boy could understand.

  The pain of it racked Quentin like rocks twisting in his stomach, even as he stumbled between his three captors.

  One of the bandits lifted Quentin up onto his shoulders as they ran from the entrance of the small stone building to a little cart in the alley.

  He roughly dumped Quentin into the cart and, with help from the others, covered him with rags and blankets that smelled strongly of goats in hot sun.

  The cart began to bounce him around as it moved away from the palace. Frightened and angry as he was, Quentin forced a part of his mind to observe its movements.

  Where were they going? Were they leaving this city of Jericho? Would Quentin be able to find his way back when he escaped? As the next question rose again — why had Eli betrayed him? — Quentin ignored it, stuffing it deep inside. That, he would answer later. The son of a Rom
an commander would never let emotion turn him weak.

  The good-natured yelling and shouting of people in the crowded city streets surrounded the cart. It bounced and flopped as the wooden wheels bit into stone after stone.

  The cart finally stopped in a hidden courtyard adjacent to a square, two-story stone building.

  As the bandits dragged Quentin from the cart, they wrapped a cloth around his head, giving him no chance to notice any clues about the building or its location.

  Then they pushed him inside.

  **

  Inside the building, another guide took Quentin’s hand. This hand grasping his own was smooth of any calluses, tiny and cool against his fingers.

  A young woman, he guessed.

  Soundlessly, she led him to the top of the steps, then pulled him to a complete stop. Reaching under his makeshift hood, she fumbled with the gag.

  “You will find food and water inside,” came her whisper. “If you make noise, you will be gagged again.” A pause. “I am sorry. I cannot untie your hands.”

  Quentin tried to speak, but his throat was so dry he could barely manage a croak. Before he could try again, he was swiftly pushed into a room. The hood was pulled from his head.

  The door slammed shut. Bolts clicked into place.

  His guide had not been quick enough to hide herself from him. When Quentin’s hood was yanked off, he had seen a flash of her face.

  It was a face he would never forget. An oval face. High cheekbones. Perfect, dusky skin. Haunting dark eyes. Delicate eyebrows. Anger and compassion. All belonged to a woman who barely reached the height of his chin.

  His enemy.

  When she slowly walked away from the room at the top of the stairs, the burly guard who had followed them settled his back against the wall outside the door.

  Fading afternoon sun cast a small shaft of light into the cramped room. The walls were gray with years of accumulated filth. The room was completely bare except for a pile of straw in one corner. Beside the straw sat a pitcher with water and a bowl filled with figs and bread.