The Angel and the Cross Page 3

The crooked and unpredictable turns of the city streets were intentionally designed as a strong defense against invaders. Straight streets made it too easy for the enemy to advance once it had broken through the town walls. Crooked, winding, narrow streets, on the other hand, made it impossible for soldiers to gain speed or rush ahead more than three abreast, thus making them easy targets for hot oil or even stones thrown from the higher levels of the houses and shops.

  As a result, the mazes of twisting alleys confused Quentin. To make it worse, he had spent the first five minutes of escape running blindly, putting as much extra distance as possible between him and his captors.

  The buildings around him, limestone and baked clay structures with reed or thatched palms roofs, were bleached bone-white by years of sun. At street level, the buildings were darkened by the filth of the town. They rose at odd angles on the rising and falling hills of Jericho, crammed together like the crooked teeth of camels.

  Street hawkers shouted their wares, some pushing cloth or produce in front of Quentin. “Buy this!” they called. “No, mine is better!” another pitched.

  Beggars, some blind, some crippled, some without arms or legs, appealed to him in high, whining voices.

  Yet it was the quiet ones Quentin feared most - the ones who wore tattered, sweat-stained robes and rubbed their chins thoughtfully as he passed.

  Finally, after another twenty minutes of walking, Quentin saw a street he recognized. A smile of relief broke through his perspiring face.

  He began to quicken his stride, not quite daring to break into a run.

  He held his head high, walking with strong, certain strides.

  Then, only a couple of hundreds of yards from the palace walls, he ducked into a doorway.

  Danger.

  He waited, breathing hard through his mouth. His eyes showed no fear, only the intelligent pondering of a new challenge.

  He waited until a crippled beggar hobbled past him on crutches.

  Upon seeing Quentin in the doorway, the beggar stopped and reached out, plucking at his robe. “Please! Please! Enough to buy the crusts from your father’s table!”

  Quentin shook free angrily. His fine robe plainly stamped him as a Roman. Which, of course, was the obvious problem. Unless…

  Quentin motioned for the beggar to come closer.

  “I have no money today. But I do have a bargain which will help you greatly.”

  The tiny beggar regarded Quentin with suspicion. “What could I have that you want?”

  “Your own clothes and your crutch. In exchange, you get this robe.”

  The beggar squinted at the soldier’s voice. “Then how do I walk?” he asked.

  “The way you do when you’re not on the street begging and pretending to be crippled.”

  “What? Are you saying that—”

  “Surely this robe is worth a hundred of those crutches.”

  “A robe gives little support.” The beggar scratched his chin. “Perhaps that gold chain around your neck will provide consolation for me.”

  “Have you lost your mind? This gold chain is worth a small fortune.”

  Quentin stopped mid-sentence and squinted down the street.

  “However,” he continued quickly, “without crutches, your need for consolation must be great. Take the chain, too. But promise to remain in this doorway for at least another half hour.”

  The beggar nodded, and the two exchanged clothes. Quentin tried not to show revulsion as he donned the putrid rags. He leaned heavily on the crutch.

  “Wait,” the beggar said. “It is obvious you want to be in disguise. Take my head gear as well. And you have my word that I will remain here.”

  The beggar did not have to know that Quentin was an escaped prisoner to understand the obvious problem the boy faced. The palace would be the first destination searched by the Zealots once they discovered their prisoner gone.

  With that knowledge, there would be no need to waste time in search of their escaped prisoner. All that was necessary was to place spies on the streets nearby the palace and simply nab Quentin as he approached.

  Quentin nodded gratefully at the beggar and wrapped more cloth around his head. The smell nearly gagged him, but at least his face was almost hidden.

  Less than a quarter mile remained for Quentin to walk. Yet he took nearly an hour to travel the distance as he hobbled slowly and kept his head low, pretending to be a beggar.

  Finally, he saw the palace gates directly in front of him.

  He straightened. His next words were not words of relief at having made it safely. Rather, they were words of sorrow.

  “Eli, Eli,” Quentin said softly to himself. “Now I shall have to arrange your death.”

  Angel Blog

  You may be surprised that Our Father permitted me to take on a human shape and allowed me to speak with Quentin.

  Undoubtedly, you are also wondering how this was possible. A human’s first question is often how. This, I find annoying.

  It’s not your curiosity that annoys me. That is something all of us angels celebrate. Curiosity and creativity are so linked that sometimes it is difficult to tell one from the other. You were created in the image of the ultimate Creator, so naturally your curiosity and creativity reflect His glory.

  What annoys me is that you tend to ask the wrong and selfish questions.

  How, how, how.

  How can an angel run that fast? How do you go back and forth between heaven and earth? How does time work in heaven? How do you talk to Our Father? How did Our Father part the Red Sea for Moses? How did Jesus turn the water into wine?

  How, how, how.

  Here’s the quick answer. You are part of the natural world. Our Father, the Creator of this natural world, is outside its boundaries and limitations.

  But how? you ask. How did He create it? How can He be outside of it and then step into it?

  There you go again, annoying me.

  The reason you perpetually ask how is that you want some sense of whether you are capable of doing it too. If only you could discover the secret of how Our Father transforms things, then perhaps you can gain that same power for yourself.

  Don’t believe me?

  Why do you ask magicians how they did their tricks? Because you want to be assured it’s just as possible for you to do it, too.

  How, how, how.

  Such a selfish outlook.

  Still, I’ll be generous.

  If you really want to know the how of me taking human form and appearing out of nowhere to catch Quentin when he fell, the how of the sounds I could form into words, and the how of the sounds that could make sense to me even though angels are not part of the physical world, I will tell you what I know about the limitations and powers of angels. I suppose I owe it to you.

  Angels can’t create. That’s something only Our Father can do. As I say whenever possible, if you could have been there at the beginning, you would be the biggest believer in the universe. Yes, that beginning. The beginning of time. Of the universe. Not that I was there. But the great thing about the spiritual world is that time and space don’t form a prison for us like it does for you. (Believe me, you’ll find out someday. On the other side. By then, you’ll be glad you trusted in Our Father. Or extremely sorry that you chose to ignore him during your physical life on earth. This isn’t a threat, just a reality. But hey, if you decide to take it as a threat and make some good choices because of it, everyone in heaven will still be overjoyed to see you when you get there.)

  As I was saying, since time and space don’t bind us, we angels have a good idea of what it was like at the beginning of creation. Spectacular doesn’t give it justice. It’s beyond comprehension. Then again, if you television watchers got off the couch and walked through the woods and took a close look at Our Father’s handiwork, you might get an inkling of how incredible it was.

  What else can’t angels do?

  Angels can’t change substances. Again, only our Father can do that. So don�
�t come to me and ask for that lump of lead to be changed into gold. I’m not a fairy godmother. And yes, I’ve had that request before. Greed, greed, greed. (By the way, the whole myth about fairy godmothers started when some of you met angels and didn’t recognize us as such.)

  Angels can’t alter the laws of nature. Again, only Our Father can do that.

  Same thing for miracles.

  And here’s something that might surprise you. Angels can’t see into your hearts – but after centuries and centuries of experience with you humans, we can make some pretty good guesses.

  I want to stress that the fallen angels face the same restrictions. That would be Satan and his gang. They can’t do any of Our Father’s special stuff, either. No creating, no changing of substances, no altering the laws of nature. No searching or changing the hearts of men.

  I hope that satisfies your questions about how angels operate in the physical world.

  The question I’d rather hear you ask is this:

  Why?

  Why did Our Father create the world? Why does He love you as infinitely as He does? Why did He give you a chance for redemption through the sacrifice of His son? Why does he send angels back and forth between heaven and earth? Why did Jesus change water into wine?

  How is the selfish question. You want the power of being able to do it yourself.

  Why is the selfless question. It forces you to look past yourself and to look at the world through the eyes of something else. When you do that, you understand the world better and you understand other people better.

  Asking why questions about Our Father is like asking to learn more about His nature. In so doing, you become closer to Him.

  Why, then, was I instructed to take physical form and protect Quentin as I did?

  Very good question.

  Chapter Seven

  At the gate, Quentin straightened, threw his crutch aside, and called to the soldier.

  “Let me in, good man.” Quentin noted hungrily the beautiful green estates behind the walls. “I was to return yesterday, but was detained. Marcus, my father and your commander, waits for me.”

  The soldier glared at him stonily.

  “I said,” Quentin repeated louder as he drew himself to his full height, “Let me aside.”

  The soldier continued glaring. “Whatever land you came from, return before grown men break you into little pieces.”

  What I, Pelagius, did next is something an angel can do quite easily.

  Neither the soldier nor Quentin felt my presence. Yet I stood squarely in front of the general’s son, watching his face closely.

  As Quentin spoke, I distorted the sound words coming from his mouth to a gibberish no man could understand.

  “Make sense!” the soldier snapped.

  Quentin had little patience for the guard’s reluctance. His voice came out hoarse with anger. “I could have you torn apart by lions,” he snarled. “I have been kidnapped, only to escape. Marcus is my fath—”

  Then Quentin laughed. “Oh, yes. This clothing. You think I am a beggar. Naturally, I can explain.”

  “Leave, puppy,” the soldier snarled, “before your yapping causes me to lose patience.”

  Another soldier stepped from behind the palace wall to join the first.

  “What is it, Claudius?”

  “This wretch babbles in a foreign tongue and will not leave.”

  “Then speak to the beggar without using words,” the second soldier said with a vile look of anger. Without warning, he swung the butt end of his spear in a short, sharp motion, squarely into Quentin’s ribs.

  Quentin fell to his knees on the sharp stone street. When he rose, rage filled his voice.

  “You both shall die!” he screamed. “Marcus will pull you apart with teams of horses!”

  “See,” Claudius remarked. “A tongue I‘ve never heard before. And he watches us like he expects us to understand.”

  The second soldier laughed. “He’ll understand this.” The soldier raised his spear.

  Quentin backed away in confusion.

  “Run along, camel scum. Pester the beggars where you belong.”

  Quentin tried once more. Eloquently. Passionately. “The joke you two have played is superb - listening to me and pretending not to understand. Yet fun is fun, even among fellow Romans. Listen! I have been kidnapped and have narrowly escaped. My father, I’m sure, wants to know that I am safe. I am tired, hungry, and in desperate need of a hot bath and a rubdown. Will you please let me enter now?”

  I, of course, turned all of this into the same type of gibberish he’d been spouting earlier. I confess, I was enjoying this. Had he listened to me more closely when I first rescued him from falling, I’m sure this wouldn’t have happened.

  “Strange accent,” the first soldier muttered. “Maybe from Asia? Or the wilds of Europe?”

  The second soldier simply grunted. “I don’t care. The look on his face shows no respect. He definitely needs a lesson.”

  Quentin put up his arms to block a rain of blows. He was an expert fighter, but unarmed. Against equally trained soldiers, his arms were mere reeds blocking a scythe. The thick wooden end of the spear clubbed him across the ear.

  I was not directed to stop the blow.

  Even as Quentin was falling, another explosion of pain landed just below his cheekbone. Darkness overwhelmed him.

  Chapter Eight

  That night the scavengers arrived. Human scavengers.

  “Feel these arms. If he lives, he’ll fetch a good price as a slave.”

  Those were the first words Quentin heard upon his return to consciousness. Immediately, the smell of rotting vegetables gagged him.

  He stopped himself from retching or even coughing at the horrible smell. Something about the coldness of the man’s words told Quentin he should not betray his wakefulness.

  Without stirring, Quentin opened his eyes a crack. Two shadowy figures hunched over him in the darkness. Incredibly, the man’s body odor became stronger than the smell of rotting vegetables as he leaned close. Quentin lowered his eyelids.

  Breath like sour milk washed over Quentin as the other spoke. “It’s a shame about this blood, though. These rags are much too stained. We can’t sell him looking half-dead.”

  “But he is half-dead. We still don’t know if he’ll wake.”

  “Don’t worry your head over details. We’ll find a way to use him somehow. Sell him into slavery, I’m thinking.”

  Slavery! Quentin prayed to the gods that the men had not felt his tremor of awareness.

  “Such strong legs!” Callous hands pinched and prodded his calves. “He must have been eating well lately.”

  Two other hands lifted a leg. Quentin forced himself to keep the muscles relaxed. If they knew he was awake…

  “You’re right. We’ll feast for a month from what he’ll bring.”

  Both of the murky figures cackled.

  “You get rope,” the first one suggested. “I’ll keep guard so that no one else discovers him.”

  Quentin wanted to leap to his feet and run. But the ground beneath him felt strange — very soft — and his body ached. He wasn’t sure he could outrun a turtle. Yet he must escape. Once he was traded to a slaver, he would be branded and probably lost for life.

  “Why should I get the rope?” the second one said. Suspicion tinged his words. “I saw him first. You get the rope.”

  “Me? What’s to stop you from stealing him away in my absence?” came voice one.

  “And what’s to stop you? Answer me that!”

  “I’m not the one who waltzed off with a perfectly good melon last week. I’m not the one who ate it all by himself and got sick.”

  “I didn’t want the sun to spoil it. Besides, the week before, you let a goat get away from us.”

  “Because you were drinking wine and wouldn’t share.”

  There was a sound of one man’s hand cuffing the other’s neck. “That’s for reminding me how selfish you are.”


  Then the sound of a blow returned. “Well, that’s for stealing the melon.”

  Two more thuds. “Ooof!” they both said at once. If it were not for the seriousness of the situation, Quentin would have laughed. As it was, he nearly jumped as something crawled up the inside of his thigh. Where was he?

  Then everything made sense. The rotting vegetables. The squishy, uneven ground beneath him. The men who were so obviously scavengers.

  He had been discarded atop the town garbage heap.

  That crawling sensation on the inside of his leg grew stronger. Quentin bit back a scream.

  “We’ll both get the rope,” the first one said. “And we’ll both sell him together.”

  “That’s fair enough for a couple of old friends.”

  Their voices began to fade as they hurried away. “You’re not hurt, are you?”

  “Not much. And you? I didn’t get a good swing.”

  “It’s sad to grow old, isn’t it? Remember the days when we could have fought for hours?”

  “Oh yes. Those were the days. Now about the rope…”

  Quentin could wait no longer. He clamped his fist down hard on the inside of his thigh. A hard-shelled beetle burst under his hand.

  He began to feel tiny squirmings all across his body. Maggots.

  He lifted his head to make sure the scavengers were out of sight. The effort of lifting made him gasp in pain. But he had to get away.

  He stood, sinking to his knees in putrid garbage. Almost blindly, he staggered through the heaped offal, in the opposite direction of the scavengers.

  He half ran, half hobbled, resisting the demand inside him to stop and flail at the crawlings on his body. First things first — safety.

  He followed twisting turn after twisting turn, alley after alley, not caring about the danger.

  When he finally stopped, he yanked the rags free from his body and frantically brushed at his skin. Scraping sand from the ground, he scrubbed himself for half an hour, ignoring the shrieking of his cut and bruised skin. Then he pounded and scrubbed the rags and shook them free before slipping inside them again.

  Quentin huddled in a doorway, wrapping his arms around his knees. He felt dizzy. His head throbbed above his ear and below his cheekbone. The aches and pains grew stronger. He only had to close his eyes to see the butt end of the spear coming down again and again.