Stephanus - Chapter 15 - The Life of Water

Katherine and Naomi pressed on with their desperate search for the children. The entire city was still enthronged at the Praetorium courtyard, as the two women ventured into their neighborhood, hoping someone had returned home. The unnatural mid-day darkness lingered over the countryside, deepening their fear for the children's safety. No one was home.

They, then hurried back to the fields in search of Ophelia. A weary foreman, lingering alone, told them he had seen Ophelia walking hand-in-hand towards the city with young Hakes. With the unnatural darkness, he had decided to remain in the fields.

As the darkness grew thicker, Katherine and Naomi turned boldly towards the Praetorium courtyard once more, thinking the crowds offered the best opportunity of finding the children.

But entering the city gates proved agonizingly slow. A long line of people streamed in for the trial, and Roman soldiers—hampered by the dim light—lit lanterns to interrogate each arrival. Katherine’s anxiety heightened, she worried most for Ophelia, knowing the girl was with Hakes.

Outside the city, Ophelia stirred groggily back to consciousness, only to feel disoriented and unsure of the time or place. She struggled to piece together what had happened?

She and Hakes had been walking hand-and-hand from the fields after her argument with her mother. Then what? He had offered her a drink from his wine flask; it tasted strange, almost impossible to describe. The effects struck swiftly. When he urged her to take another swallow, she felt to weak to resist.

Now she lay in the back of a jolting wagon, rumbling down a dusty road shrouded in darkness. In darkness? Panic surged through her. Her robe was gone, and her hands and feet were bound tightly.

Voices drifted from the front. “Nephew, you’ve done well! She’s a beauty—she’ll fetch a fine price in Yafo!”

Hakes voice answered, uncertain. “Uncle, I‘m confused. I’m not sure this is right?”

“You’ll change your mind when you pocket a month’s wages in one afternoon!” The older man laughed harshly. “You’ll forget all about the harvest fields!”

“Did I hear something?” Hakes asked.

“Let’s check our prize” The wagon halted. A lantern flared, showing Hakes face and the bearded features of his uncle beside him.

“I’ll check the bindings.” Hakes said.

“They’re fine,” the uncle replied. “Wet rawhide—they tighten as they dry, she won’t escape.”

Ophelia felt the cords biting painfully into her skin. “Hakes? What happening?” she demanded.

“Ophelia, I’m sorry.” he said. “This is my uncle Hake-em, he’s in the supply business. He says I am wasting away in the fields!”

“I don’t want to be poor. He continued. “And I don’t think you want to be with a poor man. So I am fixing it.”

“Fixing what?” Ophelia asked, dread rising.

“We’re headed to Cesarea Maritima on the Mediterranean. From there, a boat to Yafo, where my uncle knows a buyer who will pay well. When I can, I’ll buy you back.” Hakes said, trying to sound reassuring.

“What?!” Ophelia gasped.

“What your boyfriend means, dear,” the uncle interjected. “Is that you’re being sold into slavery. When he’s rich, he’ll buy you back.”

“Is that all I am to you, Hakes? Property to buy and sell?” she cried.

“This is for the best,” Hakes insisted. “When I am wealthy I can take care of you properly.”

“What makes you think I want to be with you?!” she screamed.

“Enough” Hake-em snapped. “We’re close to port. And we need to meet that boat.” The lantern was extinguished, and the wagon once again began to lurch forward down the deepening gloom.

As the drug faded, Ophelia realized the unnatural darkness was lifting: the sun now cast long shadows like late afternoon turning into evening.

She thought of her mother’s warnings—“I told you so.”—and longed to be home, despite the pain. Her father’s words returned: ‘Always live in the moment, do not worry about the past, or try to predict the future.’ and, ‘Yahweh will never lead you anywhere you do not belong.’

She clung to that promise and silently prayed: “Oh good and merciful Yahweh, You who know us better than we know ourselves, deliver me from this trial, just as You delivered Your people from bondage in Egypt.”

She began to plan her escape.

The wagon finally halted near the docks. “There it is,” Hake-em announced joyfully. “A short sail north to Yofa. Then we celebrate with food and wine!”

Ophelia strained against her bonds, but the rawhide only cut deeper. She sobbed for her captives mercy.

She was picked up like cargo by the two men, and carried aboard a small fishing vessel with a cabin. Before departing, Hake-em lit an oil lamp on a bench lashed to the deck.

As Ophelia’s eyes adjusted to the dim lighting she made out fishing nets and tackle, clay pots, a tunic and some sandals—meager tools, but something. All sails rose, and the vessel was quickly under way.

Hakes entered the cabin. “Ophelia, you are a beauty,” he said. “My uncle’s right—you’ll bring good money. But, I’m sorry, I won’t be poor in this world.”

“Have you thought about the next world?” Ophelia retorted.

He raised a hand to strike, but she kicked his shin knocking him off balance. “You’re not in the position to resist!” he growled.

“Who’s making things worse?” she shot back. “You want more money for a bloody lip? You best take care of me.” Ophelia defiantly pointed out.

Hakes left at his uncle’s call, shutting the door. Ophelia scooted around to the low bench. The lamp was fixed for rough seas. However, the clay pot had been upset when Hakes got kneed, knocked off the table where it cracked hitting the deck. She rolled it against a beam until it shattered. Then used a sharp shard to cut the rawhide torturing her wrists and her legs.

She pulled on the fowl smelling tunic for cover, then grabbed the net and a larger shard.

When Hakes returned with a flask—“I thought you might be thirsty…?”—He froze.

Ophelia lunged, throwing the net over him and smashing the shard into his head. He collapsed knocking over the lamp. Flames spread across the table.

Ophelia burst out of the cabin to face Hake-em. He grinned. “Good, you have spirit! That is worth more!”

She seized an oar and thrust it into his belly toppling him over board. Hakes stumbled from the cabin, forehead bleeding, and Ophelia lept into the sea on the opposite side of the boat.

Hake-em shouted for a lifeline, as Ophelia frantically swam away from the boat. Something sleek flashed past—then a bottle-nosed dolphin leaped playfully over her. It circled back, curious. She reached out, took a deep breath, and grasped it’s dorsal fin. The mammal surged forward, propelling her through the water, as she struggled to hang on!

Several hundred meters south, she saw smoke, just as light was fading on the horizon. The dolphin had tired and vanished. Darkness fell. Exhausted, Ophelia treaded water until she could no longer. Then, rolled onto her back and floated.

A sounding horn blew, a distant light flickered. Digging deep, she swam towards it.

Too weary to continue, she rolled onto her back and floated, again. A shout, a splash,—a young man in a subligaculum swam to her, tying a rope around her limp body. They were hauled aboard.

A Roman Navarchus greeted her as she regained consciousness. “Explain yourself, daughter! What are you doing alone in open waters so far from shore?”

Ophelia recognized the uniforms of the Roman Navy. “I was kidnapped, but escaped my captors.”

“Does the fire on the horizon have anything to do with you?” the commander probed.

“An oil lamp in the cabin.” Ophelia replied. “They were taking me to Yofa for sale, but Yahweh provided my escape.”

“Slave traders.” the navarchus said. “We have been alerted of their activity in Yofa, and ordered to investigate by Pontius Pilate. Our base is his port of Cesarea Marintima.

“Am I under arrest?” Ophelia asked.

“Arrest, no. Protection, yes!” the navarchus comforted her. “First, what is your Citizenship? Are you a slave? And what will we find on board with your captors?”

“I am a Hellenistic Jew of Jerusalem, not a slave to anyone. It is a small boat with a cabin and two men; a younger one and his uncle. I didn’t see any weapons; the boat is for fishing.”

“Helmsman, steer to intercept!” the navarchus ordered.

“Will you identify them?” Ophelia nodded.

“How did you get so far?” He asked as they were escorted to his quarters.

She told him about the dolphin, the loss of her father, and the argument she regretted with her mother.

“My faith has gone through recent changes.” The officer said. “The story of the centurion’s servant healed by Y’shua has spread through our ranks. Many are questioning authority now. Is Rome improving life? Or is there another way?”

Ophelia listened quietly. Yahweh, where are you leading me? Centurions who once served Rome without question now whispering of another King. She prayed to herself, awed by the day’s events.

“After we confirm the identities of your captors, we will return you to port, and make the necessary arrangements for your passage home.”

Praise and honor to you, Yahweh! Thank you, my father. Ophelia concluded her prayer.

Katherine and Naomi watched as the three crosses stood stark against the bruised sky, like broken fingers accusing heaven. Y’shua in the center, the two thieves—one defiant, one repentant—flanking Him in mockery and mercy. The wood groaned under the weight of bodies and sin; ropes still bit into wrists where nails had not reached.

Katherine stood rooted among the women, Naomi’s hand locked in hers so tightly their knuckles whitened. They could not look away from Maryam. The mother had not screamed once. Not when the hammer fell, not when the cross rose, not even when the first drops of her son’s blood pattered onto the dirt at her feet like dark rain. Maryam simply stood—small, steady, terrible in her quiet. Her veil had slipped; she did not replace it. Her hands, stained crimson where she had pressed them to the foot of the cross, trembled only once, when the soldier lifted the lance.

Katherine felt the lance in her own chest. She had lost children to the night and the crowds, but they were alive somewhere, she told herself. Maryam’s child would not come down from that wood breathing. The thought cracked something inside her, something she had kept locked since the day her own little ones vanished.

Above them, Y’shua lifted His head—slowly, as though every vertebra protested. His eyes, swollen nearly shut, found His mother. No words. Only the long, unbroken gaze of a son saying goodbye without sound.

Maryam answered with the smallest nod, the barest movement of lips that might have been “My boy” or “It is finished” or nothing at all.

Then the sky answered.

The darkness, already thick, deepened until torches hissed and guttered. A wind rose, cold and sudden, whipping dust into eyes already wet. The ground shivered again—not violently, but enough to make the crosses sway like pendulums. Somewhere in the city a great cry went up; later they would learn the Temple veil had torn from top to bottom, the Holy of Holies laid naked before mortal eyes.

One of the thieves cursed, hoarse and frightened. The other whispered, “Lord, remember me when You come into Your kingdom.”

Y’shua turned His head—only slightly, the effort costing Him everything—and answered, “Today you will be with Me in Paradise.”

Katherine’s throat closed. Paradise. Spoken from a mouth already tasting death. She thought of Ophelia then—of the girl’s stubborn faith, the father lost too soon, their anger. Then she thought of her own missing children—Stephanus and Akakios—somewhere in this chaos, perhaps safe, perhaps not.

Naomi leaned close, voice barely audible. “They’re alive, Katherine. I feel it. They’re watching too.”

Katherine did not answer. She could only watch Maryam, who now knelt, forehead resting against the blood-slick wood, hands spread as though she could still cradle the child she had borne.

No wailing. No theatrics. Only love that refused to let go, even when the body it loved was failing.

Then Y’shua spoke once more, the words carrying across the hill with impossible clarity:

“Father, into Your hands I commit My spirit.”

The last breath left Him like a sigh.

The centurion who had ordered the nails driven now stood beneath the cross, helmet removed, face streaked with dust and something that might have been tears. He looked up at the lifeless figure, then at the women below—Maryam first, then the others—and spoke so softly only those nearest heard:

“Truly this man was the Son of God.”

The words hung in the air like smoke.

Katherine felt them settle into her bones.

Somewhere far off, in a quiet port, a hidden room or the belly of a ship, Ophelia might have felt the same tremor in her spirit—the sudden knowing that the world had shifted, that the God who had sent a dolphin and softened a Roman officer’s heart was the same God who had just torn the veil and claimed victory through a broken body.

And on the hill, Maryam lifted her head, eyes fixed on her son’s still face, and whispered the only prayer left:

“Blessed are You, Lord our God… who gives life to the dead.”

The wind died.

The darkness began, slowly, to thin.

But the crosses remained—three black shapes against a sky that was learning, inch by inch, to remember light.