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Journey of the Shepherd Woman

By Carlene Havel, Sharon Faucheux

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Chapter One
John Simon placed his clothing on the table where a soldier sat writing. Knowing it was futile to attempt to hide anything, he laid the leather pouch full of coins in full view on top of his garments.
The gray-haired Roman scribe laid his reed pen aside to examine the purse. When the pouch was emptied, he grunted and tossed it aside, leaving the coins stacked in front of him.
“Full name?”
“John Simon, sir.”
“Occupation?”
“I am a shepherd in the hill country near here. I came into the city this morning, planning to return to the hills by evening.”
“What is your connection to this rabble? Are you their leader?” The old soldier waved a beefy hand toward the line of naked men whose names he had already recorded.
“I do not know these men. I was walking down the street when I turned a corner and found myself in the midst of a riot.”
“Of course you did.” The old soldier chuckled. “And no doubt you love everything Roman and swear absolute allegiance to Caesar.” He turned and let his eyes slowly travel the full length of John Simon’s nude body. “Well, what have we here? You have not been circumcised,” he said, with obvious surprise. “Therefore, you cannot possibly be one of these Jews. Where are you from? What nationality are you?”
“I was raised in Ephesus by a Jewish mother. My father was Greek. He served in the Roman army for many years.”
The soldier held his pen poised in midair. “Name?”
A guard poked his head inside the shelter. “The lictors are ready for another prisoner.”
The soldier at the table pointed to the slender man at the end of the line. “You. Go.” As the naked man followed the guard outside, the recorder barked, “Well?”
“Johannus Simonus.” John Simon replied, this time using the Roman pronunciation.
“Not your name, fool. Your father’s.”
“Linus Simonus,” John Simon replied, only belatedly remembering to add, “Sir.” He struggled to block out the screams that resounded from the adjacent courtyard. Although he dreaded a Roman beating, he believed he could endure it. He suspected some of the emaciated men in line ahead of him would not survive the lictors’ whips.
The old soldier stood and faced John Simon, so close their noses almost touched. After a long stare, he spoke. “Yes, I do see Linus Simonus in your face, even though you do not have his fair hair.” He rubbed his chin. “Put on your clothes and wait outside, over there.” He jerked a thumb toward a corner of the shelter.
John Simon quickly obeyed, confused but hopeful he might somehow be spared a dreadful scourging. He hurried out of the hut and flattened himself against the rough wooden planks of the hut’s wall, standing perfectly still and trying not to call attention to himself in any way. From where he stood, he could not see the punishment taking place, for which he was more than grateful. The cries and moans of the victims were enough to make him cringe.
After what seemed to be a long time, the gray-haired soldier came and took John Simon’s arm. “Come with me.” As they walked toward the gate of the military compound, he said, “I am Marius Secundus. Your father and I served together.”
“I hardly knew him,” John Simon confessed. “He was killed when I was not quite five years old.”
“I know.” Secundus opened the gate, grunted at the guards, and led John Simon into the street. “I was there.” After they walked a short distance in silence, he stopped. “Your father was a brave man and a good friend. He lost his life saving mine. Now, finally, I have repaid the debt I owe him.” Secundus handed John Simon his empty purse. “Your coins helped persuade the centurion you should be let go.”
John Simon tucked the flattened pouch into his belt. “Truly, I was not involved in the riot.”
“Whether you were or were not makes no difference. Go on your way, and take care you do not get into trouble again. The next time you show up at the barracks, I will not be able to help you.” The old soldier walked away swiftly.
John Simon hurried through the empty streets, shaken by his narrow escape. He came to Jerusalem to contribute to the upkeep of widows and orphans supported by the disciples. Now, his only wish was to get home. The lengthening shadows reminded him to hasten before the city gates were shut for the night.
As soon as he was outside the city walls, John Simon cast about for a makeshift weapon. He lost his shepherd’s rod when the Roman soldiers herded him in with the rioters. Then, he had discretely let his knife drop into the street, not wanting to be armed when he was taken into custody. After selecting a few smooth stones and placing them into his empty coin pouch, John Simon veered off the road. He knew the hills well enough to find his way home in the dark. He preferred meeting a wild animal to risking an encounter with the bandits who sometimes roamed the roads at night.
After the last of the twilight faded, a three-quarter moon rose to guide his steps as he navigated the rough terrain.

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