The Eagle And The Lamb (Truly Yours Digital Editions) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Epilogue

  Dear Readers

  Dedication

  Copyright

  ISBN 978-157748-008-2

  © 1996 by Barbour Publishing, Inc. All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the permission of the publisher, Truly Yours, PO Box 719, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683.

  Scripture taken from the Holy Bible: New International Version®. niv®. Copyright© 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan Publishing House.

  With the exception of renouned historical figures, all of the characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events is purely coincidental.

  Prologue

  The amazed murmurs of the crowd ascended slowly to a deafening roar. Parthians, Medes, Elamites, and Judeans all chattered and motioned frantically at one another.

  Jubal Barjonah pushed himself forward angrily, his eyes coming to rest on the leader of the Galileans. What was his name? Simon, called Peter, that was it.

  Twelve of them stood and faced the crowd, but it was Peter who addressed them.

  “Fellow Jews and all of you who live in Jerusalem, let me explain this to you; listen carefully to what I say.”

  The crowd quieted, their attention focused on the speaker. He continued.

  “These men are not drunk, as you suppose. It’s only nine in the morning!” Jubal could hear several snickers in the crowd.

  “No, this is what was spoken by the prophet Joel.”

  Jubal’s startled eyes flew to Peter’s face, his attention suddenly riveted. Jubal had studied the prophet Joel’s writings for many years. He almost had a passion for them. They and the writings of Isaiah were his favorites. Peter’s quoting of Joel was totally accurate, but how did that apply to this situation? Jubal’s attention was caught once more as the voice went on, vibrant and full of authority.

  “Men of Israel, listen to this: Jesus of Nazareth was a man accredited by God to you by miracles, wonders and signs, which God did among you through him, as you yourselves know.”

  There was no denying the man Jesus of whom he spoke was a fantastic magician. Jubal had seen the results of his “healings.”

  Peter continued, “This man was handed over to you by God’s set purpose and foreknowledge; and you, with the help of wicked men, put him to death by nailing him to the cross.”

  Jubal felt a stab of guilt when he remembered his part in the debacle. He had been one of the crowd shouting for the crucifixion of the man they called Jesus.

  As Jubal listened to Peter quoting from the Psalms of David, he felt convicted by the things he had to say. Could what he said be true? Was it possible that Jesus fulfilled the old prophecies?

  Suddenly the writings of Isaiah came clearly to his mind. The false witnesses at the trial, Jesus’ refusal to answer the charges. Struck and spit on, and still He did not open His mouth.

  Jubal’s face paled, and his heart started to thunder. What had they done? His mind twisted with the agony until he cried out with the others.

  “Brothers, what shall we do?”

  Peter replied, “Repent and be baptized, every one of you, in the name of Jesus Christ for the forgiveness of your sins. And you will receive the gift of the Holy Spirit. The promise is for you and your children, and for all who are far off—for all whom the Lord our God will call.”

  Jubal pushed forward with the frenzied crowd, intent on reaching the speaker. The words of the mighty Joshua came to his mind. From this day forward, he and his house would serve the Lord.

  Chapter 1

  The sound of thundering hooves broke the silence of the still, peaceful morning. Two riders appeared on the brow of the hill. Though both were large and strong, one stood out as the more confident of the two. His black hair was cropped close to his head and glistened with the moisture from his perspiration. Bare muscular arms rippled against the short white tunic he wore so gracefully. Eyes as blue as the Mediterranean gave evidence of his Greek ancestry.

  He and his steed matched perfectly. Both large and powerful. One barely under control, hooves stomping in frustration at being held in check.

  “Easy, Orion,” the rider soothed as he reached down to stroke the horse’s neck. “We must remember our friends.”

  The friend in question quickly caught up, his breathing more labored than his companion’s.

  “For pity’s sake, Antonius, can’t you control that mangy beast?” he complained in irritation. “I thought we were on a hunt, not having a race.”

  Antonius glanced at his friend, his eyes roving over his already lathered horse. A fierce pride welled up inside Antonius. Orion was the best horse the Roman legion had to offer, but only because he belonged to Antonius personally.

  Since Antonius’s father had been a senator and had the ear of the emperor, Antonius had been granted special privileges. Orion was the one Antonius was the most grateful for. Already the stallion from Thrace had been instrumental in saving his life. More than once.

  Orion was not lathered at all. Even now, after an hour of riding, it still took all of Antonius’s energy to control him. Sliding from his mount, Antonius dropped the reins and stared about him.

  “Come now, Flavius. Surely you are not tired.”

  Flavius dismounted also, brushing dark hair from his eyes. “As though I would admit it if I were.”

  Antonius grinned but jerked to attention when he noticed movement from the trees to his left. Motioning Flavius to silence, he reached for his bow and quiver of arrows. A glitter of excitement sparkled in his eyes as he took aim.

  “What do you see?” Flavius whispered urgently, trying to peer in the direction Antonius was aiming.

  “If I’m not mistaken, there’s a deer among those trees. See the brown spot? To the left.”

  A slight movement caught Flavius’s attention. “Shoot, Antonius, before he gets away.”

  The twang of the bowstring was the only answer Flavius received as Antonius’s arrow whistled unerringly toward its target. A small thud was followed by a piercing scream that drained the blood from Antonius’s face.

  “By the gods!” Flavius whispered. “That sounded like a human scream.”

  Antonius followed the same direction as his arrow, leaping over rocks and roots. Pushing aside the shrubbery, he noticed a small clearing among the bushes. A small body lay crumpled at the edge of the perimeter.

  Laying down his bow, Antonius went quickly forward, turning the body over when he reached it. A young girl lay unconscious before him, her breathing labored. The arrow had pierced her shoulder, and blood was flowing swiftly from the wound.

  “Zeus!” Flavius’s startled exclamation brought Antonius’s eyes to his friend.

  “Get my water bag,” he snapped.

  Flavius disappeared from view, returning a moment later with the bag. Antonius opened the flask and poured water over the girl’s wound, gently probing with his fingers.

  “I need to pull out the arrow, but I ne
ed something to stem the flow of blood first.”

  Flavius looked helplessly around. “What?”

  Reaching down to the hem of his garment, Antonius quickly jerked off a piece of material.

  “When I tell you, use this to put pressure on the wound.”

  Flavius nodded his agreement. Sweat beaded on Antonius’s lips and face as he gritted his teeth and got ready to pull the arrow free. It was fortunate that the girl was unaware of anything happening to her.

  “Now!”

  Antonius jerked the arrow, and Flavius pushed the material against the girl’s shoulder.

  “Be thankful it’s only a Jewish girl, Antonius. Otherwise, there could be big trouble.”

  Antonius pulled another strip from his garment to use as a bandage to tie the other piece in place. The girl’s color was beginning to alarm him.

  “She must be from somewhere close. We need to find her village and get help.”

  Lifting her gently in his arms, Antonius strode swiftly into the open. A piercing whistle rent the air, and Orion lifted his head, his ears perked forward. Another whistle and the stallion threw himself forward, hooves thundering toward Antonius.

  “Take her, Flavius, and hand her up to me.”

  Antonius took the girl in his arms, settling her against his chest. Her head fell backward against his arm, and her eyes fluttered open momentarily. Dazed brown eyes gazed at him uncomprehendingly. A spark of recognition seemed to light behind her eyes and then faded.

  “Who are you?” The whispered croak barely made it past her lips before her eyes closed again. Thank the deities, thought Antonius. This was not going to be a pleasant ride.

  Flavius lifted Antonius’s gear to his own horse and quickly followed. A much-used path told them in which direction to head, and they quickly came upon a small village. People came to their doors and stared with open hostility at the two Roman soldiers.

  A young girl standing at the well turned startled eyes upward as Antonius paused beside her. Sudden fear filled her face, and she turned to run.

  “Wait!” Antonius commanded, and the girl froze. “I need help.”

  The girl noticed for the first time the bundle held in his arms. Her eyes widened farther, and she stared up at him in horror.

  “Is this girl from this village?”

  The girl nodded her head, her eyes never leaving the figure of the wounded Jewish girl.

  “Take me to her family,” Antonius commanded again, and the frightened girl quickly turned to point the way. “I said, take me.” Antonius had no time and was in no mood to knock on doors.

  Orion picked his way along the main street, shying nervously as a door slammed behind him. The girl reached a house that was slightly larger than the rest they had encountered. From what Antonius knew of the Jews, the owner must be somewhat wealthy. Probably a carpenter or a blacksmith. Antonius felt a moment’s disquiet.

  Flavius pulled up beside him. “Uh-oh. This could be trouble.”

  Antonius gave him a silencing glance and turned when the door opened at the girl’s knock. Another young girl stood in the doorway, her eyes widening in alarm when she saw Antonius and Flavius. The other girl spoke quickly to her, but Antonius couldn’t understand what was being said. Turning, the girl fled back down the street from whence they had appeared.

  “We need help,” Antonius barked. The girl jumped slightly and disappeared from view. A moment later, the door opened wider and a large man appeared. His beard was white, which told of his age, but his body was large and powerfully built. Definitely a smith, Antonius decided.

  “What can I do. . .Sara!” He leaped the distance to Antonius’s horse, his hands flailing about helplessly. His eyes glared fiercely up at Antonius, who hastened to explain.

  “An accident. My friend and I were hunting. . . .” Words suddenly failed him at the look of agony on the old man’s face.

  Reaching up, he gently took the girl from Antonius’s arms.

  “Simhah!” he bellowed, and the girl who had answered the door came quickly to his side. Seeing the girl in the old man’s arms, Simhah paled.

  “Don’t just stand there! Make ready a pallet. Get some more water from the well. And have Pisgah run for the healer.”

  Turning, he strode away without so much as a backward glance. Flavius stepped his mount to Antonius’s side.

  “Come. Let us leave this accursed place. Her people will take care of her now.”

  Antonius barely heard him. His eyes were following the old Jew as he disappeared from sight. Whether he liked it or not, he felt compelled to stay. He had to make sure the girl was going to live.

  “You go, Flavius. I intend to stay and see this through.”

  Flavius snorted. “Don’t expect gratitude from these people. Like as not, they would just as soon split your throat.”

  The fierceness returned to Antonius’s face. Flavius shook his head. The only time he had ever seen that look on Antonius’s face was when he was getting ready to do battle.

  “All right,” Flavius sighed, “but I stay with you.” He looked around him nervously. “I don’t trust these people.”

  Dismounting, both men walked to the door. Flavius hesitated, but Antonius pushed his way forward, ducking his head to enter. When Antonius’s eyes adjusted to the dim light, he could make out four figures in the room. There were two sections to the room, which had two floor levels, one about eighteen inches above the ground. It was there they had laid Sara and were bending over her.

  The old man turned at their entrance, his shaggy eyebrows ascending toward his still-full hairline. Antonius could see the struggle going on within the man before he finally came toward them.

  “Shalom.”

  Antonius nodded his head. “Peace be with you, also.”

  If the old man was surprised, he certainly didn’t show it. Antonius thought that the man would have made a fine general. His bearing was almost regal.

  The woman leaning over the girl turned to him in surprise. She rapidly fired her speech at him. He answered her quietly, but with authority. Her lips set in a grim line. Again she attacked him with her words, and again he answered quietly. There was no doubt she didn’t like what her husband had to say. Her angry eyes rested on Antonius and Flavius briefly before she turned and addressed the old Jew again. This time when he answered, his voice rang with his displeasure.

  The old woman rose from her place. “Yes, adon,” she replied scathingly.

  “Abigail!” He glanced at her angrily but turned toward the Romans. “Is there something more I can do for you?”

  Antonius stepped forward, his eyes going to the girl on the mat. “Her name is Sara?”

  The old man nodded, questioning Antonius with his eyes.

  Before Antonius could form his next question, another old man arrived. He stopped suddenly, his eyes going wide at the sight of the two soldiers. His wizened face and long sideburns gave him a somewhat comical appearance, similar to a little monkey Antonius had once seen at a bazaar. Sara’s father turned to him, motioning toward the still figure on the mat.

  Antonius frowned as they began to converse in Aramaic, struggling to follow the words. His ability with the language was very limited since he came in contact with it so seldom. Still, he could understand some of what was being said.

  “She will live?” he questioned.

  The wizened old Jew glared at him. “It’s a good thing you Romans are poor marksmen. A little farther to the left and she would not be alive even now.”

  “Hold your tongue, old man!” Flavius ordered. “Antonius is one of the finest marksmen in all Rome!”

  Wizened brown eyes regarded them curiously. “My mistake,” he told them and turned away to rummage in the sack he had brought with him. Pulling herbs from the bag, he concocted a poultice that he placed on the wound.

  There was a disturbance at the door, and a young Jewish boy entered, a look of fear contorting his features when he saw the Roman soldiers. There was something vaguely
familiar about him to Antonius, but he couldn’t quite place him. Ducking his head, the boy turned to leave again.

  “Dathan!”

  The boy stopped, turning reluctantly toward the old man. He was obviously the son.

  “Father.”

  “Where have you been? We have need of you,” the boy’s father told him.

  “I had things to do.”

  Antonius watched with interest the sulky expression of the boy and the grim, set lips of his father. Lifting a goatskin bag, the old man handed it to the boy. “Go and get some water from the well.”

  The boy’s eyes sparked with anger. “That’s women’s work! Send Simhah, or if she can’t, send Sara.”

  The old man threw the goatskin at Dathan, launching into a volley of speech that Antonius had no hope of following. The boy’s eyes grew wider, and his glance flew to Sara. His face paled. Taking the goatskin, he turned and fled. Straightening his shoulders, the old man turned to Antonius.

  “The healer says that Sara’s chances are good if she can make it through the night. She has lost a lot of blood, but she is healthy and strong.”

  Antonius wasn’t sure if the old Jew was trying to convince himself more than Antonius. Realizing that there was little he could do and that his help wouldn’t be appreciated anyway, he prepared to leave. Fixing the man with an imperious eye, he told him, “I will return on the morrow.”

  All the inhabitants of the room watched in silence as Antonius and Flavius turned to leave. The door shut firmly behind them.

  “Whew! I was beginning to wonder if we would get out of there with our lives,” Flavius joked.

  One dark eyebrow winged upward as Antonius looked him over.

  “Surely a soldier of Rome is not afraid of a few old Jews.”

  Flavius snorted. “The old healer looked like he might be capable of putting a curse on you. The next time you go, be sure you take your shield with you to protect you from the daggers they throw with their eyes.”

  Mounting their horses, they wheeled around and headed out of the village. Antonius rode silently, his face as black as the thunderclouds that so rarely swept through the region. A tic worked continually in his cheek.