She managed a smile and squeezed his hand. “My God knows everyone. He will hear you. Titus,” she then intoned in a way that made him brace himself for whatever might follow, “I have said things to you recently I regret. You were a good friend to Jason. You stood beside him in spite of your disapproval.”
Forgiveness . . . he had not even wanted it before, but now it bathed him in peace. “And I was wrong to disapprove. Forgive me for all I have said to you, Abigail, and concerning you. You had no ill intents. Jason made his decisions, and he made them well. I should not have judged him so harshly.”
“Different standards.” Titus let her grip his hand as another pain hit her, wondering at the amount of force her tiny fingers could exude. When she could, she breathed, “But no more. There does not have to be Roman and Hebrew now, Titus. We can all be held to the same standard that the Christ has given us.”
“Yes.” He looked up, to where Tabitha had entered the room. “And this woman was his follower. Perhaps she can tell us more of what he taught.”
Tabitha looked at each of them, at the boy, then gave a serene smile. “I will tell you.” She put the cup of water on a table where Abigail could reach it, then moved to the other side of the bed and took a seat beside Samuel.
“It began,” she said with sparkling eyes, “over thirty years ago, when a virgin was discovered to be with child, though she had never intimately known a man. . . .”
*
Andrew stood in the doorway of the inn, looking out into the approaching night.
“It grows dark.” Simon put a hand on Andrew’s shoulder. “She will undoubtedly remain at home for the night, where it is safe.”
“But tomorrow is Sabbath. She cannot come then, and we cannot return for her. We must wait for the first of the week.” He frowned his distaste for that necessity. “I am worried for her, Simon. She could deliver the babe at any time. And that earthquake–”
“We must trust. We must believe she is well, just detained by the commotion, the storm, the darkness. She is fine, she is probably staying with Julia for the night, she has Samuel with her. If they do not arrive an hour after first light the day after the morrow, we will go ourselves to find her.”
Andrew nodded, turned back inside. But he was less than satisfied.
*
“I am not leaving.” Titus stated it firmly from the chair he had pulled up to the bed, using the tone of voice his men knew they had better not cross.
Tabitha crossed it anyway. “It is inappropriate. You are not even a relative, and you are a man. This room is no place for you during a birth. Go back to the garrison.”
“No.” He leaned forward to pick up Abigail’s hand when she moaned. His determination turned to concern. “She grows weaker.”
Tabitha sat beside Abigail with a sigh and gently massaged her abdomen. For hours, she had told them what she knew of Jesus the Messiah, and as she spoke, Abigail had been alert, attentive, and her pain seemed to ease. But within moments of her conclusion, the woman had started thrashing in agony once again. Titus had helped hold her down so that she did not injure herself.
Now, as dawn streaked the eastern sky, Abigail had calmed all the way into unconsciousness. Samuel slept too, curled up beside Abigail. He had looked to be in equal amounts of torment as she those past hours, and he needed the rest. They all did.
Titus gazed at the exhausted midwife. “Sleep for a while. She will need you at your best later, and I will wake you if she stirs.”
She nodded, placed her hands on Abigail’s stomach for a moment as if to will strength into her, and then stood. She moved over to the chaise and lay down.
Titus was left looking down on the laboring woman, her face drawn even in slumber. His mind was a muddle, but one thing was clear: he could not just leave her alone. Because of the loss they shared, because of the things they had seen that day, because of the lessons they had learned, and because she had no one else, a bond had been forged between them. He did not understand it, but he knew it was there. And as he studied her, protectiveness overcame him.
The hand he held was small, so delicate that it seemed he could crush it without effort, yet so strong when it gripped his in pain. He put their palms together, and her fingers barely reached his second knuckle. She was no bigger than a child, yet here she lay giving birth to one of her own. He drew in a deep breath and thought back to the first times he had seen her. Her frailty had not struck him then, nor had her strength. All he had been able to see was a beautiful face, an alluring body, and the modest reserve that ensured he would never know either but from a distance.
Days ago, he had seen only his friend’s widow, large with his friend’s child.