Cleopas stopped in his tracks. “You what? Why would you do that?”
Jason sighed, his eyes roaming the sapphire skies above him. “For torture. I had reason to believe he was involved with another slave that was stealing from her master.”
“Oh?” Perhaps it was not a direct question, but he trusted his son would hear the meaning the word.
“They had a child together. The wench was accused of stealing her mistress’s jewels and trying to run away. Mark would have known if it were true.”
Cleopas ground his teeth together. “Do not tell your mother of this. Simply tell her you left him with the woman he loved.”
“Gladly.” He waited, though he looked ready to move again.
Cleopas sighed and strode homeward. “You gave up the slave I bought you, son. I will not provide another. If you wish one, you will have to find and purchase him yourself.”
Jason nodded. “Fine, but there is no need. I can take care of myself.”
“In a camp, yes. But who will wait on you at our table? Your quick judgement will cause more work for my servants.”
“If I recall, Simon seldom had much to do during meals anyway. He can help.”
“Simon has his tasks. As do the others.” He sighed again. “I will let them figure it out among themselves.” They were nearing their home now, and the sound of singing could be heard.
Jason’s lips twitched up. He had undoubtedly not heard the sound of women lifting their voices in a psalm, for no reason other than to praise their God while they went about their lives, since he left Israel. “Beautiful.”
“That would be Dinah and Abigail. I think they do not even realize they are singing until they see someone else approach. Enjoy it for the moment, for they will stop as soon as we are within sight.”
*
“Mistress, they come.”
When Ester sprang up, Abigail fell in behind her, wiping her hands on her coarse tunic as she went. Already commotion sounded at the front of the house, where Simon had gone to open the door. Abigail held back when Ester rushed forward and launched herself into the arms of the stranger.
Abigail wanted to think he looked familiar, but she suspected it was more because of his resemblance to his parents than because she remembered his face from six years ago. He stood tall, like Cleopas, shared the dark hair of both him and Ester. His features were the fine ones of his mother, though stronger. His form showed evidence of the hours of exercise and training he must have put in while in Rome.
She watched as a grin split his face and he caught his mother up, twirling her around.
“Mother! You have grown younger since I left.”
Her mistress laughed and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “My handsome charmer. All grown up. Where is the boy I sent off?”
His laugh was full and rich, but Abigail’s focus moved to Andrew, who slipped past the family and exchanged a few quiet words with Simon. Both their brows pulled down, even as they started back the hall.
They would be set on unpacking the young master’s belongings, and they would certainly make a mess of it. Simon did not spend enough time in the masters’ closets to know how best to organize it, and Andrew was filthy from the day’s activities. She slipped away to follow them.
Andrew nodded at whatever Simon had said to him. “The master has forbidden the mistress to know, as well.”
Curiosity piqued, Abigail stepped into Master Jason’s bedchamber right behind them. “What is she forbidden to know?”
“Abigail.” Andrew spun around, obviously startled. When she arched her brows, he sighed. “I suppose you may know, since you barely even met the man. It is his slave, Mark. He has been sold to the state for torture.”
Her throat closed up. True, she did not know Mark, nor the ways of Rome. But she knew that the man who had sold his trusted servant was now here, in their house. How could she be anything but uneasy about it?
To soothe herself, she moved to the bags Andrew had set down and got to work while Andrew and Simon exchanged what information on the subject each knew. She focused on the belongings to find places for. They were few–not surprising, she supposed, given his soldier’s status. He had been wearing his uniform, the armor and red cape. That left only a few tunics to unpack, a toga. One mantle more in the Hebrew tradition, brightly covered. A small chest engraved with the ark of the covenant.
“You need not do that, Abigail,” Andrew said after a moment. “I can manage.”
“I am done, and you are filthy.” She smiled and indicated his dusty feet. “You had better wash up while I change. Dinah will have the meal ready in minutes.”
They all left the chamber to tend what last-minute preparations they could.
*