Page 21 of Unveiled Tamar’s Story (Mysteries & Wonders of the Bible #1)
Well, there was one thing. “Thank you. For your help today.” She still didn’t know why a total stranger had done so much for her, but she was certain that she wouldn’t have been able to walk through the city as she’d done without Mariana at her side, without her clothes, without the appearance they presented.
She was a sweet woman. Perhaps, in another world…or perhaps if they did go through the full conversion process…
But for now, this was how it must be. She said her goodbyes and then slipped through the gates.
Exhaustion hit her the moment she was outside the city. For the first time since she awoke, she was alone again, and she felt it. Alone . Each step she took toward the beautiful garden cemetery, it pummeled her. Alone .
Then, as she started up the garden path, an even worse sensation. Not alone .
She looked over her shoulder, trying to make out shapes in the gathering dusk. Who was that slipping out of the gates?
Men, without question. Men who seemed to carry something in their hands. Spears? Swords?
Guards? Perhaps her disguise hadn’t been so convincing after all. Perhaps they’d been following her and were just waiting for a moment to pounce when she wasn’t in the company of others.
No . She didn’t know if it was fear or rage that fueled her, but she wouldn’t give up now.
She wouldn’t let them take her so that Caiaphas and his sect could silence her the way they were seeking to do with Lazarus.
She wasn’t just going to let him steal from her everything she’d worked for all these many years.
She wouldn’t go quietly. She wouldn’t go at all.
Opting for speed over stealth, she ran up the path, sending pebbles dancing beneath her feet. She prayed that darkness would fall quickly, prayed for a burst of energy, prayed that somehow the guards’ eyes would be blinded.
Halfway up the path, she tripped on a rock cloaked in shadow, tumbled forward onto her knees, and caught herself with her hands.
Fire lit her palms, and a new horror seized her when she pushed herself up and saw the condition of her borrowed garment.
“No,” she breathed into the twilight. Was it only dirt, or had she ripped the fabric?
She reached to investigate but stopped herself just in the nick of time.
Her hands were bleeding, caked in dirt—if she touched the silk, she’d only make it worse.
Were those voices coming from farther down the path? Yes, masculine ones. She ignored her pulsing palms and stinging knees and took off again, running as quickly as she could.
By the time she gained the cave, her chest was heaving, her eyes stinging with tears as hot as her palms felt.
She couldn’t let them flow, though, couldn’t make a sound.
She’d spotted the Romans guarding the tomb of the Teacher as she crested the hill, but they’d been looking the other way.
One thing, at least, that had gone right.
Hands trembling, she hurried to the back of the tomb and the chamber hidden in darkness.
Her clothes waited there, but before she dared to change, she first reached for the full waterskin Bithnia had brought along with the food that morning.
She splashed some of it onto her hands, hoping that she’d gotten the worst of the dirt and blood off.
She needed light, a basin, soap to bubble away the dirt. She needed to make certain every pebble was cleared from her skin. She needed honey and bandages to wrap them.
She had only water and darkness, pain and fear.
She washed her palms again as best she could then felt around for the folded clothing she’d left and used the inside of her tunic to pat her stinging hands dry.
By the time she slipped the silk off and her own wool on, her whole body was shaking.
She tugged at the cloth bands of the vittae, desperate now to have the last of the Roman garments off.
She wanted her own things. Her own life.
Her own family. She wanted the headscarf that Illana had taken, the cook fire in her family’s kitchen, the comforting sound of her nieces and nephews laughing and playing.
She wanted to know that when she went back to the weaving room after the festival concluded, she would still have a place there.
Davorah .
The pain seemed to spiral from her palms, up her arms, and to her heart.
No, they’d never been close friends. But they had worked side by side for so long.
How could Davorah do this to her? How could she plot against Tamar?
Had it been there all along, all these years?
Or had she only begun to think it her right when her uncle ascended to the high priesthood?
But even if so, that was so long ago—nearly a decade.
A decade for her to have resented Tamar, to have stewed, to have plotted.
She hadn’t wanted anyone to know that she was of Caiaphas’s family, Sarah had said. Because then her plotting would be obvious.
Male shouts came from outside, and Tamar pressed her back to the wall. It was utterly dark here. She needn’t worry. Probably. Not unless they searched inside better than Valerius had done last night. Not unless they realized it wasn’t merely a wall but a corridor to a second chamber.
Through the pounding of blood in her ears, she couldn’t make out their words. Then, finally, she realized it wasn’t only that. The words weren’t Aramaic or Greek. They were Latin.
Her breath shuddered out. Not temple guards. Roman guards. The next shift to guard the other tomb, probably.
Weak with relief she knew she shouldn’t indulge, she slid to the floor. They were still her enemy. But they weren’t the enemy she feared most right now.