He did not hesitate. He let out a roar that filled the air and charged. It was his place to save his father.
Too late. Before the sound ever pierced the air, the sword had pierced Cleopas’s chest. As Jason flew up, the life drained out of his father’s eyes and he sagged, empty, to the ground. Instead of paralyzing pain, it was lightning rage that burned through Jason, and he headed for the man who was even now taking flight.
The pursuit did not last long; they ran into an alley with no outlet, and the rebel apparently realized he would get no reprieve, so turned and headed back for Jason, sword raised.
He knew it was Barabbas. He did not know how he knew; he had never seen the face, but he had heard the description of the man. His beard was unkempt, his hair wild, but his eyes, even when lit with the taste for blood, were intelligent. He did not attack frantically, but rationally. Each thrust was calculated, each parry practiced. If he retreated a few steps, it was to better strike. Jason knew within seconds that his skill was at least matched. He would not let himself think that it may be outdone.
Somewhere in the background, he heard a shout that was his name, but it did not so much as distract him. Somewhere inside, he recognized the voice, recognized the warning within it, but he could not spare it any attention. He was fighting for his life, and he knew it. His every thought was on his movement, on what he could do next to direct death to the man across from him instead of inviting it to himself.
He was gaining the upper hand when a skirmish from the wall above them sent a piece of stone shattering to the ground behind him. The sound of splintering rock barely made it into his consciousness before it proved his destruction. Barabbas saw his opportunity and took it. He went on the offensive again and forced Jason back just one step.
Just one.
Jason stumbled, unable to find solid footing, and in that moment, his enemy’s sword struck.
For a second, the metal shaft that entered his stomach suspended him, kept him on his feet. He stared down at it before the pain had time to be felt, wondering if all the blood on the sword were his, or if his father’s were mixing in, too. Then the sword withdrew, and gravity took hold. He stumbled backward, fell, and the pain soared into his perception.
It was then that the shouts came into focus, the shouts that he realized only then had never ceased. It was Titus, and he was near. He heard him give the command to pursue and capture, he heard the sound of many feet obeying. But all he could see was the black sky above him, a few stars glittering very far away. He could feel a throbbing and did not know if it was the cadence of the soldier’s feet as they ran or his own heart rushing blood to the wound that would only ooze out and take his life with it.
Then a face blocked his vision. It was contorted in pain, but it was familiar and therefore welcome. “Titus.”
Titus knelt down, pressing a hand against the wound to try to stop the bleeding. “Jason. Be calm. I will get you help. My men are even now laying hold of the man who did this.”
“He killed my father,” Jason wheezed, that emotional pain now joining the physical one that was slowly forcing all other awareness away.
“Yes,” Titus admitted, “but he will be avenged. I swear that, Jason.”
Jason nodded, letting his eyes slide shut for a moment, then opening them again. Abigail, his poor Abigail. She had already lost so much, so many she loved. And with his father gone . . . “They will be alone.” His voice came out as little more than a gasp. “Mother and Abigail will be alone. Titus, swear to me they will be cared for.”
His friend gripped his hand. “Of course they will be. Jason, you will not die.”
The night had felt so heavy ever since he had taken Abigail to the general. Now it closed in, pressing down on his chest. Stifling his vision. “Tell my mother that Father died quickly, without suffering. Tell her I love her. And tell Abigail I am sorry that I will not meet our child. Tell her she is my sun, moon, and stars.”
“Jason . . .” Titus glanced down at the hand he had pressed to the wound, and something shifted in his face. “I will tell them. They will be protected. I swear to you, my friend, that your family will be cared for.”
“Ring.” Jason moved a finger within Titus’s hand. The Roman looked down at the heavy gold that encircled his middle finger, the one he had put on the day he left for Rome. The day he first met Abigail. “Tell Abigail to give it to Samuel. Tell him . . . tell him he is my son. I would have adopted him. I would have . . .”
The night weighted his chest, forced his eyes closed. The sweetest face he had ever seen filled his vision, words fought for a place on his lips. They emerged in Hebrew, no more than a breath. “Protect her, Jehovah. Sustain her. Show her your truth, your Son . . . my father, I give her to you.”
The darkness, once sluggish, pounced.
*