When Jesus Wept - By Bodie Page 0,75

up, the boys were left starving and freezing.

Now this.

“They’ll die by the dozens, and it will spread,” Marcus reported. “I hoped to find Jesus … to take him back there with me.”

“It’s because of threats against his life that we urged him to move away from Jerusalem,” I said. “You know Lord Caiaphas has spies watching for him. So does Herod Antipas. Is there nothing we can do ourselves, so we don’t have to ask him to return?”

Marcus looked doubtful. “I’ve seen such a plague take hold in Rome. Thousands died—mostly beggars and children—but anyone who cares for them will be risking the same.”

“I’ll go,” I volunteered. “I’m no physician, but surely blankets and decent food will help. It’s the least I can do.”

Martha shook her finger in my face. “I’ll not have you going alone. I’m coming too.”

“We have lives to protect here,” I countered. “Tell her, Marcus.”

“He’s right,” the centurion agreed. “You have no idea how bad it is, Martha. The children Mary brought with her from Galilee must not be exposed to this plague. You and she must stay here and care for them. No one should go back and forth until the crisis passes. Only someone who can remain there should go.”

“And that means me,” I said firmly. “The vines are dormant. This year’s vintage is in the barrels. I get restless this time of year anyway. I’ll go, and Peniel can help me. Besides, Martha, you never had this illness. Mary and her servant, Tavita may be safe because they already had it. Peniel says he also had it as a child, but you never did.”

The underground caverns that were home to the Sparrows were gloomy and fearful at all times. Now the sounds of coughing and low moaning reverberated the length of the low ceilings.

It was terrifying. A score of children were already dead.

Threescore more were gripped by the plague: feverish, shivering, hollow-eyed, and listless. “Dear God of Heaven, where do we even begin?” I murmured my prayer of supplication even as my mind wrestled with the problem. “They must be moved,” I decided. “These tunnels are too cold and drafty. They’ll all be dead in days.”

“I agree,” Marcus said, ordering men to stir the meager fires and sending others to round up blankets. “But where can we take them? We don’t want the plague to spread, nor cause a panic that one is spreading.”

“Leave that to me,” I offered. “Stoke the fires and get them some water. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

The first three empty buildings I offered to rent suddenly became unavailable when I explained the need. Fear and superstition overcame greed.

It was not until I located an empty olive-oil storage warehouse outside the Damascus Gate that I was successful. The building had been vacant for a year. The owner was eager to see it earn some payment, his broker said, and in any case, the landlord lived in Antioch and never visited the property. “Make it worth his while and it’s yours,” the steward said, not even asking me my purpose for the space.

“Short term,” I said. “I’ll pay you three months’ rent for two months’ use if I can take possession today.”

“Done,” the steward said, stretching out his upturned palm to receive a pile of silver coins.

I recruited a team of beggars who were also eager to earn some of the coins from my money pouch. With their assistance, soon my hospital took shape. In short order I acquired braziers and charcoal to heat the drafty space, rope-strung sleeping pallets, cook pots and fresh water, and a supply of bread and beans.

When all this was organized and ready to receive the children, I sent my crew off to carry them back. Of the residents of Jerusalem, it was the beggars who had little fear of the plague. They had lived with near starvation much of their lives and often saw dreadful diseases up close. Finding their next meal was more important. This pestilence had no terror for them—at least, not yet. Unlike the wealthy, including Lord Caiaphas and Tetrarch Antipas, who escaped to safer locations, the poor had no means of escape.

The glowing embers of the braziers raised the temperature of the hall. Bubbling pots of stew scented the air. I made my way along rows of boys, spooning broth into mouths.

The first Sparrow, a lad of ten named Suda, was clad in little more than rags. He apologized for coughing. His eyes were bright with fever,