The Angel and the Cross Page 2

  Hands tied in front of him, Quentin wandered to the straw and kicked it in disgust. He jumped slightly. Two rats scurried out from beneath. They darted to the wall and scrabbled their way up to the window before disappearing in a hole at the base of the iron bars that held him prisoner.

  He sighed as his heart slowed. Wonderful, he thought. A Roman soldier afraid of rats.

  He moved to another wall, sat down slowly, and leaned back against it.

  “By the gods,” he muttered, thinking he was alone. “By the gods.”

  But, of course, Quentin was not alone in the room.

  Angel Blog

  He was not alone, of course, because I was there. As yet unseen, but listening to him invoke the names of his deities.

  By the gods?

  It’s amusing and tragic that those among you who refuse to seek or understand the greatness of Our Father still have an instinctive knowledge of His power. It’s as if your soul instinctively yearns for what paradise was like before Satan - the fallen angel - convinced man to place his selfishness ahead of being with Our Father.Amusing? Yes, because you are clever enough and stupid enough to manufacture false gods.Tragic? Yes, because you so rarely glimpse how it can be, the way it is for angels who always glory in His presence.

  But Our Father has built into you an instinct for a home you’ve never seen. He’s built into you an emptiness that only He can fill.

  Many of you try to fill this emptiness with substitutes. Drugs, drinking - you know, the list goes on and on. Your preachers will call these sins, vain pursuits of anything to fill the emptiness in your soul. And yes, many of these substitutes truly are sins against Our Father. And yes, it does anger Him when you deliberately misuse yourself or others. But if you could only understand that His heart also holds sorrow, for Our Father grieves when you hurt yourself. And hurt is always the end result of those sins.

  And we angels grieve, too. We might not always like you, but we do love you. We know you are Our Father’s special creation, and we can see the home He has ready for you.

  It would have been nice to tell all of this to Quentin. Hearing him call to the gods was a reminder that all men in all ages instinctively yearn for their Creator.

  But it was not my time to speak to him.

  I knew my immediate task. Watch over Quentin carefully. And keep him from death.

  He was essential to the great victory over death and the Evil One.

  Chapter Three

  Quentin waved his bound hands at the bowl of food. “Goat dung!” he snorted. “Jupiter spare me if I’m here long enough to be forced to eat it.”

  He tried wriggling his fingers against the numbness that was creeping into his hands from the tightness of the rope. He could see traces of blood from where the raw skin had already broken.

  Quentin snorted and shook his head in disgust.

  “Rule number one,” he told himself. “Soldiers at war sleep whenever possible. And this, you trusting young fool, is definitely a war. Even if you aren’t a soldier yet, behave like one.”

  With that, he settled down and forced his breathing to slow until it became deep and regular.

  **

  Hours passed. The sunlight became feeble, then died, replaced by the dusty dimness of stars.

  Quentin woke to a coolness against his face.

  The young woman in front of him did not pause as she noted his open eyes. She merely dipped her rag in the bowl of water again and wiped more dirt from his face.

  His eyes adjusted to the flickering light given by the candle set beside her feet. He saw it was the girl. The one who had closed the door on him. The enemy. He was simply one of the hated Romans, occupying the land God had given to the Jews.

  They stared at each other in silence for several minutes until she finished.

  “My name is Shelomith,” she said finally, breaking the tension. “I am called Shel.”

  Quentin ignored the soft friendliness in her voice.

  As she stood, Quentin said, “Tell me what they will do with me.” It was not a question but an order, given by Roman nobility to a Jewish servant. The dimness of the room prevented Quentin from seeing the angry flush on the girl’s face.

  “That is not my concern,” she said, straightening her posture.

  “Little concerns you, then? Except, of course, the washing of others.”

  She did not react to the insult, aside from flushing a shade deeper. “You may be assured, I will not return. This has become one risk too many. I should have known better than to worry about a Roman. I can see my sympathy has been wasted.”

  The girl spun on her heel and vanished.

  In her absence, the silence seemed much larger.

  “You are brilliant, Quentin,” he muttered to himself. “Likely the last woman you’ll see on this earth, and you sent her away angry. She shows kindness, and you insult her. Naturally, she scurried away like the —”

  Like the rats in this room, he thought.

  Quentin sat bolt upright.

  The rats had disappeared into the windowsill, exactly where the iron bars joined the limestone.

  Quentin struggled to his feet, painfully aware of his hands bound by the coarse rope.

  His hope was in the windowsill. If the rats had gnawed the limestone at the base of the bars, there was a chance that…

  Quentin reached out, both arms stiff, and tugged. He nearly shouted with glee.

  Undetected by casual observation, the iron bars were only weakly attached to the wall. The rats had spent months digging their hole into the wall. Their effort might just free a Roman hostage.

  Quentin yanked harder on the bar. It moved another fraction.

  He began to seesaw back and forth. The effort numbed his restricted arms, forcing him to rest often.

  The sight of freedom outside spurred him. He could look down now. The starlight showed the city street only one level below. The drop would hurt, he decided, but not cripple him if he eased his way out and gently dropped, feet first.

  Quentin worked for two more hours. As the first light of dawn whitened the sky, he broke the bar loose. It only took him another glance out the window to sober his joy. The new view showed a fall that could possibly kill him.

  There was no way he could stand on his hands — even if they were untied — and wriggle out feetfirst. His only choice was to go headfirst and somehow flip quickly in midair so that he landed on his feet.

  Romans placed great emphasis on gymnastics. A midair flip should be routine. Yet could he do it under these conditions?

  His life depended upon a successful flip. Yet he was bruised, hungry, and exhausted. If he failed, there was no way he could survive a headfirst crash into the stone road below.

  But he had to make the attempt.

  Quentin eased his body into the opening. The cool early morning air gave him extra energy. He wriggled farther and farther until only his legs, feet hooked upward behind the windowsill, kept him from falling.

  Now, his upper body was extended well into space. His face was directed straight down. Although it was only the distance of one flight of stairs, the height made him dizzy. If he didn’t manage to flip himself to a feetfirst position in the scant time before landing, he would most certainly break his arms, and probably his skull.

  He gritted his teeth and issued a brief mental plea for safety to one of the gods, promising, as was the custom, an expensive temple offering if he were to land safely.

  It was a misdirected plea. Someone infinitely greater had a plan that included him alive.

  As his body dropped, the unthinkable happened. His clothing caught on a rough part of the wall. It only grabbed slightly, but enough to prevent the first crucial midair twist. Quentin choked back a scream.

  Below him, a heartbeat away, lay the stony ground. He had no time to recover.

  As he shuddered and closed his eyes, Quentin knew he would die. His arms were trapped in the robe that had prevented his turn. He would be unable to protect his h
ead. He closed his eyes and tightened his jaw as the ground rushed upon him.

  Chapter Four

  This was the moment to reveal myself.

  Instead of a bone-splintering crash into stone, Quentin landed in a strong softness. My arms.

  Suddenly — now in body — I could detect the pleasant perfume of crushed petals clinging to my clothing.

  Before Quentin could open his eyes, I spoke.

  “Men should not attempt to fly without wings. That is the realm of angels.”

  Nobility has its own strength. Frightened as Quentin was, he took several seconds to compose himself before replying, eyes still closed.

  “Angels are only the fond hopes of old men.” He took another breath, every part of him the son of one of the mightiest Roman army commanders in all of Judea. “Now if you would kindly set me down — feet first — I will inquire your name and arrange to reward you suitably.”

  “What kind of reward do you think an angel might find attractive?” I said. “You humans waste a lot of effort trying to own things that, frankly, are worthless.”

  Only when Quentin was standing did he open his eyes. They widened in shock.

  It was easy to guess what he was thinking. I stood no taller than he. Our bodily form, when Our Father chooses not to illumine us with glory, does not set us apart from you. How did this man manage to catch me so easily? he must have wondered. From where did he get his strength?

  I stared back at him without blinking. “Believe me, Quentin,” I said, “you should be grateful I’ve been sent to protect you. Others have been terrified when I arrive in a different form than this.”

  He studied me further.

  My clothing was a simple robe, sashed at the waist. My hair, light colored, was short and of no particular fashion. Sandals unscuffed. No sword. No visible dagger.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Pelagius.”

  “Pelagius. You shall be paid well, for I am the son of a high-ranking Roman general. However, I would like to make the arrangements quickly. It is not a good time for me to remain here.” Quentin stopped and frowned. “You knew my name. How?”

  His eyes searched me again for weapons.

  “I am an angel, not one of the Zealots. I have no intention of recapturing you.”

  “Fine, then. I have offered a reward twice. My obligation to you is discharged.”

  He thought me crazy, had dismissed me already.

  I smiled in return.

  He began to run.

  Unfortunately, Quentin was not familiar with the twisted alleyways around us. I gave him a minute — watching with admiration the way his natural athletic strength combined with rigorous physical training allowed him to run as fast as any man could over the rough stones.

  He disappeared quickly from sight.

  False dawn was brightening, the first shadows creeping from the edges of the crammed buildings. A lone street vendor began pushing a cart in the direction of the gate of the town wall.

  When the minute lapsed, I appeared in front of Quentin. Calm. Arms crossed. Not breathing hard.

  Chapter Five

  “Let’s not make this difficult,” I said, hiding my admiration for the distance he – a mere man - had managed to travel in such a short time.

  Instead of expressing disbelief or awe at my showing up so suddenly, Quentin reacted like a soldier. He sprinted in another direction, careful to make sure this way, too, led away from the bandits’ hideout.

  Several corners later, I stood ahead of him. Waiting. Still calm. Arms still crossed. Not breathing hard.

  “There are two more alleys you haven’t tried,” I suggested lightly.

  Quentin glared at me. “Who are you?” he panted. “And how did you manage to run ahead of me like this?”

  “I’m an angel,” I repeated patiently. “It would take a lot of explaining to answer that accurately. Since you don’t believe I’m an angel, the effort I put into explaining would be wasted.”

  He rasped for breath.

  “Of course,” Quentin said in a tone of exasperation reserved for stubborn children or senile old women. “An angel. You told me that before.”

  Yet, he hesitated. Not because he believed me to be an angel, but because he lived in a time when lunatics were treated with superstitious caution.

  Quentin glanced around and decided he had put enough distance between himself and the rest of the bandits. He might not be able to outrun this crazy stranger, but maybe he could outtalk him.

  He inserted a soothing tone into his voice, even as his eyes darted about in search of an appropriate escape. “Yes, an angel. Sent by the god Jupiter? Or perhaps the goddess Venus?”

  I stared back impassively. “This is the land of Israel.”

  “Of course, of course,” he said quickly. “Then you are from the god of the valleys, Baal? Or the goddess of fertility, Asher?”

  “Had not Eli, your longtime teacher, spoken to you of his God?”

  Quentin frowned. “Eli is worse than the vilest of enemies.”

  I raised an eyebrow.

  He spit out his next words. “Even savages do not betray friendship. If you know his name, perhaps you know that he betrayed me.”

  “You need a better education. My question was rhetorical. That means I knew the answer. Eli has spoken to you of his God,” I continued. “Think of the prayer he utters every afternoon, the simple one which fills him with peace.”

  “Hear, O Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is one,” Quentin muttered. “You then subscribe to the silly Israelite belief that there is only one God.”

  I smiled.

  As a soldier’s son, Quentin would not think about the gods often. But he, like most Romans, believed there were many of them -- all unpredictable -- and that the safest thing to do was to please as many as possible. To worship only Jehovah was a certain shortcut to angering all the other gods. To the Romans, then, it was no wonder that these Jews failed so miserably in their politics. If the Romans hadn’t conquered them, someone else surely would have.

  Forgetting briefly that he thought I was insane - and forgetting briefly he was a fugitive needing to move very soon - Quentin said lightly, “You are an angel of Jehovah.” He grinned triumphantly, as if he were playing a study game with Eli.

  “You are young and have not been raised in the faith. I shall overlook your lack of seriousness.”

  My tone sobered Quentin.

  I could tell he still thought I was crazy. I motioned to a broken stone bench in the alleyway for him to sit upon. Both of us, I’m sure, listened carefully for any sounds of pursuit. How much more time would pass before they discovered him gone?

  I sat beside him.

  “In answer, yes, I am a messenger. Our Father has a task for you.”

  Quentin had recovered slightly. He said, “If He is as mighty as the Israelites claim, why doesn’t He do it Himself?”

  “You know not what you say.” It was painful for me to hear anything other than praise for the Father I knew as infinitely great and loving. Then I relaxed, remembering my task and who the man was. “I shall answer your youth and ignorance. Our Father works through His people. Moreover, He is a God of love. Those who serve Him do so by choice. They return His love, unforced.”

  Quentin relaxed briefly. The intelligence within him could not help but counter my words. “A god who loves? How quaint and absurd! Gods do not love people. Gods use people as playthings in their wars and battles and jests across the heavens.”

  “You believe fully in gods who may hurt you. Yet you find it difficult to accept the God who loves.”

  “Perhaps. But — if what you say is true — why has He chosen me? I am not an Israelite. And I’m certainly not a believer.”

  “It will be revealed.”

  Quentin shook his head. “Don’t bother trying to impress me with this prophet nonsense. Save it for your own people.”

  He cocked his ears to listen for unusual sounds this early in the morning
. He made a movement as if to leave.

  Lightly, I touched his knee. The touch contained enough force to hold him motionless.

  When I released my hand, he sat back, studying me with a greater degree of respect.

  “A task,” he said. “Like some legend of old.”

  He paused and thought, deciding upon another approach. “Well, then. If your Father is giving me the choice, it is by His own rules I can refuse. If your Father truly loves me, I can refuse and He will not punish me. Is that not right?”

  I nodded.

  “Fine,” Quentin continued. “Then I refuse.”

  I had expected no less.

  “Without hearing your task?”

  “I refuse. That is my decision.”

  I stood, inviting Quentin to stand as well.

  “You may refuse. You shall not be punished for refusing.”

  Quentin smiled, relieved. All it took to deal with a crazy man with crazy strength was to think on his same crazy level.

  “However,” my voice remained even. “Do not be surprised if Our Father chooses to open your eyes to Him in a manner that is not pleasant.”

  Quentin stopped short of taking his first step away from me.

  I folded my arms. “Here’s a warning. You face a long and difficult journey.”

  Quentin smiled in disbelief. “I need only reach the Roman soldiers at the palace gates of this city to be safe.”

  “As you say,” I replied. “Now remember this. Cry out to Our Father, and He will listen.”

  A sudden wind blew dust into Quentin’s eyes. When he blinked them open again, I was gone.

  Chapter Six

  Quentin began to walk — with a wary eye toward any pursuit — in the direction of the palace that was located at the center of Jericho. The sun had been up for only half an hour, but already the day was hot and the streets were filling noisily with people.