by Wendy Alec
‘Your majesty, in compliance with your instructions, my demonic scholars have been examining the way of the Nazarene and those that surround Him. The religious powers in Jerusalem seek power. He threatens their authority. The masses desert them and instead follow the Nazarene’s compelling oratories.’
Zilith stroked his faustian beard. ‘He has few friends in high places.’
‘And many enemies, your Majesty.’ Darsoc of the Grey Magi stood. ‘The one who leads they call Caiaphas is weak and ambitious,’ he hissed. ‘My magi seek him out.’
Lucifer paced up and down. ‘We need to strike where he is vulnerable...’
‘Your Excellency,’ Dracul, ruler of the iniquitous Warlock Kings of the West stood, then bowed, ‘we have found a willing and fervent disciple in he whom they call Judas. One of the twelve. He is vain and politically ambitious...’ Dracul’s cat-like eyes glittered with malice from under his black hood. ‘With a weakness for gold...’
‘Each day that the Nazarene lives is a threat to my kingdom.’ Lucifer raised his sceptre high. ‘Release your evil magi. Fill Iscariot’s dreams with disturbance. Highlight every weakness. Stir up those around Caiaphas. We cut his time short!’
Chapter Twenty-three
Subterfuge
Jotapa sat at her dressing table in her royal quarters. Her maidservant, Ghaliya, braided her long, dark tresses with deft birdlike movements of her fingers.
‘Ghaliya...’ Jotapa paused, then lowered her voice. ‘You have another letter from your cousin?’
Ghaliya nodded, walked towards the door, and closed it quietly, then took out a folded missive from her apron pouch. Jotapa frowned inquiringly. Ghaliya nodded, her eyes aflame.
‘It is news of Him!’ Jotapa grabbed it eagerly. She clutched Ghaliya’s hand as she devoured the contents of the missive. ‘They say he is a king,’ she murmured, ‘...a king of the Jews. You must tell me, Ghaliya. Tell me everything. I must know!’
Ghaliya deftly wove fresh orchids and gardenias through Jotapa’s hair as she spoke. ‘The stories that circulate – they are...’ Ghaliya held her hand to her mouth.
Jotapa nodded impatiently. ‘Yes, yes, go on!’
Ghaliya lowered her voice. ‘They say that blind eyes see,’ she whispered, ‘...that the lame walk..’
Jotapa covered her mouth in ecstasy.
‘That even the dead are raised!’
‘He is not of this world – He has a strange powerful magic – I knew it was so!’ She hesitated. ‘And the bold holy man ... he is still admonishing my husband?’
‘He condemns your husband’s marriage to Herodias as unlawful. A sin against yourself and against God. After the wedding, Herod had him seized. He is imprisoned in Macherus.’
‘Imprisoned!’ Jotapa’s eyes widened in horror. ‘This Baptist – he is a follower of this Jesus, also?’
Ghaliya nodded. She lowered her voice and put her mouth to Jotapa’s ear. ‘I heard it said in the palace kitchen that our Jesus of Nazareth called your husband, Herod Antipas...’ Ghaliya giggled. Jotapa raised her eyebrows. ‘...a fox!’
‘The Hebrew is a man of discernment!’ Jotapa laughed out loud. Her expression grew distant. ‘I wonder if He realized he is my husband.’
She swung around and placed her head close to Ghaliya’s.
‘And what of these followers?’ She hesitated. ‘Those who use the sign?’
‘They are everywhere, in every station – even Herod Antipas’s house steward in the royal palace is a follower.’
‘That sombre Chuza?’ Jotapa shook her head in disbelief.
Ghaliya nodded vehemently. ‘His wife, Joanna ... she travels everywhere with Jesus and ministers to Him out of her own funds.’
‘Chuza holds tightly to his purse – he would never allow it!’
‘He is transformed, princess,’ answered Ghaliya. ‘He is now the most tolerant of husbands...’ She stopped in mid sentence and bowed her head.
Jotapa looked at her quizzically. ‘Go on, Ghaliya.’ She clasped her hand. ‘It is safe.’
Ghaliya wiped the corners of her eyes with her apron.
‘...since the Hebrew healed his son,’ she whispered.
Jotapa shook her head in wonder. ‘He healed his son...’ she repeated slowly, rising to her feet.
She glided over the marble floors, through the open balcony doors onto the ornate portico, staring out for a long time towards the west wing, deep in contemplation. Slowly, she turned to Ghalilya who was hovering by the doors. ‘If the Hebrew can heal Joanna’s son...’ She looked at Ghaliya, an inspired gleam in her eyes, then lowered her voice.
‘...He can heal Zahi!’
Ghaliya stared at her in shock.
‘But ... your Majesty...’
She turned her palm upwards to Ghaliyia, pointing to the tiny scar.
‘We have to take him to Him. We will go to Jerusalem!’
Ghaliya started. ‘But, Your Majesty, your former husband, Herod Antipas – if he discovers you...’
Jotapa swept away her protestations with a wave of her hand. ‘Herod stays at Macherus and in Tiberias at Galilee. Jerusalem is far from his thoughts; of this I am assured.’ Her face flushed with excitement. She strode back into her chambers, her face lit with exhilaration. ‘We will take Zahi to Him, Ghalilya. He will be healed; I know it!’
Ghalilya stared at Jotapa open-mouthed.
‘Call Ayeshe, that he may make preparations. Duza will assist us in the subterfuge. My father does not visit Zahi in his chambers – he will not know of his absence. I will tell the king that I go to look after his interests in the incense and spice trade in Jerusalem. I am in charge of much of his household – it is a believable request. Tell your cousin we make haste for Jerusalem. Let her alert Joanna of our coming. It is the Jews’ Passover feast – we shall not be recognized in the crowd. We go to Jerusalem – that we may find the Hebrew.’
Chapter Twenty-four
The Veil
‘The Wort Seers of Diabolos have seen a portent.’ Marduk said. ‘A veil.’ He passed the missive to Charsoc who held it gingerly with his gloved hand and carefully opened it. A thin black wisp of hemlock snaked upward. Charsoc scanned the page.
‘Tell me about this veil.’
‘It is a veil of the Race of Men of the Hebrews,’ Marduk replied. ‘It hangs in Jerusalem in what is termed the Most Holy Place. In their temple.’
‘The veil’s purpose?’ Charsoc’s tone was sharp.
‘As is common knowledge to the fallen, since our Emperor’s supreme triumph in the East of Eden, the Race of Men have been cut off from direct access to Yehovah’s presence.’
Charsoc waved Marduk on impatiently.
‘Due to their fallen estate, the slightest direct contact with the power and light emanating from Yehovah will kill those of the Race of Men instantly. The veil that hangs in the Most Holy Place acts as their protection on the rare occasion when Yehovah would choose to visit their High Priest. The veil serves as a reminder that the Race of Men’s iniquities render them unfit for the presence of Yehovah.’
‘So...’ Charsoc fingered the missive, deep in contemplation, ‘the veil acts as a divide between the Race of Men and Yehovah’s presence. It holds no sorceries of its own.’
‘It holds no sorceries.’
Charsoc folded the missive.
‘Dispatch our scouts to investigate it. I will inform our Emperor.’
* * *
Herod Antipas lay back on a soft mountain of vermillion and oyster satin cushions, staring up, half-intoxicated, at the scantily clad young Ethiopian girl who slavishly plucked grapes and placed them on his tongue. A second girl, whose skin was pale as milk, sliced a pomegranate and laid the slices sensuously across his chest. His jewelled crown lay awry on his head, and his hair was dishevelled. The juices from grapes and fruits dripped from his mouth onto the expensive embroidered napkins draped across his chest.
His gaze fell to the hundreds of elegant pot-bellied Roman senators a
nd Galilean nobles sitting at his lavish tables weighed down with the finest meats and fowl and delicacies from all around the Galilean provinces. He watched, satisfied, as his finest generals drank goblets of the finest wines, while a hundred courtiers flanked the great hall, serving the guests’ every whim.
A score of voluptuous dancing women, procured from every corner of the Roman Empire, whirled sensuously across the wide marbled floors. Herod lay back, eyeing Herodias, who sat like an Egyptian cat, erect and arrogant.
‘Your birthday,’ she purred, ‘is an occasion to be remembered by all. It should be the spectacle of Galilee, of Palestine ... of Rome...’
‘Administrators, rich landowners, civic leaders and my army commanders – why, Herodias, you have excelled yourself, my dove.’
Herod brought her small delicate painted fingernails to his rouged lips and kissed them.
‘Ah, but, my Antipas, the best is yet to come.’
The entire hall suddenly quieted as the lanterns were dimmed and the music changed from its throbbing, incessant rhythm to one slower and more sensual. Then from a dais came a slim, lithe form, her pale alabaster skin shining through the seven veils of sheer pale rose voile swathed around her sensuous form – so sheer that Herod’s eyes stayed riveted to her as she swayed rhythmically in time to the music.
Her waist-length black hair swayed against her bare back to the music as her hands moved across her body, discarding each layer of sheer material until she stood clad only in the seventh sheer veil. She reached down and sensually caressed his swollen pot-bellied abdomen, then raised the last veil from her face, revealing the high cheekbones, the sensual crimson lips.
Herod put his hands over his face.
‘Enough! Enough!’ he cried, clapping loudly and slowly, until the entire Great Hall was on its feet, applauding.
‘More! More!’ they cried.
Herod motioned for her to sit next to him.
Herodias watched, alert, and nodded to Salome.
Salome sat down next to her stepfather on the satin pillows, drinking from his goblet and sharing his sweetmeats, whispering diabolical enticements into his ear.
Suddenly Herod rose, swaying in his semi-drunken stupor. He clapped his hands loudly, and instantly the music stopped.
He gestured to Salome to stand on the dais, then walked tipsily up to her. ‘Ask of me whatever you will, and I will give it to thee. I swear it this night, by the gods! Whatever you ask of me, stepdaughter, I will give it thee, unto the half of my kingdom.’
A cold smile glimmered on Herodias’s face. She and Salome stole from the banqueting hall outside, through the private corridor and into her opulent chambers.
Salome sat on Herodias’s luxurious bed, wrapping the purple perfumed silk sheets around her in triumph. Herodias scrutinized her own fading beauty in the hand glass, then turned to examine Salome’s fresh, pert features.
‘What shall I ask for, Mama?’ Salome giggled. ‘Up to half the kingdom!’
‘The old dithering fool,’ Herodias spat.
Salome paled. She knew to avoid her mother’s violent tantrums at any cost. She sat on the bed, suddenly silent.
Herodias nodded. ‘We shall silence the Baptist and his vile accusations forever. No longer shall he turn your stepfather and his subjects in Judaea against me, his rightful wife,’ she hissed. ‘We must preserve our place at the court; we can brook no interference by that viper. He must be silenced. Your very future depends on his being dead. Now, go back to Herod and ask for the head of John the Baptist!’
Salome gasped. Then a small wicked smile played on her lips. She hurried back through the great hall, then stood before Herod, demure and sweet-faced.
Herod laughed loudly. ‘You have chosen – so what is it to be, my sweet? Up to half my kingdom – was there ever such a generous father!’
Salome curtseyed.
‘Oh, Herod, great and just – and true to your vow,’ her voice was soft but clear, ‘I will that thou would give me the head of John the Baptist on a silver platter.’
Herod paled. He shrank in disgust from Salome, appalled. Then he turned to face the great hall, looking first at the senators, then at the merchants, until his gaze stopped at his generals.
‘I cannot, Salome. Anything ... anything but the Baptist’s head – my treasuries, my jewels, Salome ... my palaces, even, I beseech you...’
Salome stared past Herod to the entrance of the great hall, far in the distance, to where Herodias stood, a slim, shadowed figure.
Herod followed her gaze. ‘He is a righteous man,’ he muttered. ‘Not worthy of death.’
Herodias slid over the floors, then sidled up to him, whispering into his ear. ‘You made a vow, O great Herod, and a vow must be fulfilled.’
Herod bunched his fists, snapped out of his drunken state, his mind whirling.
‘The Baptist has done nothing worthy of death. I cannot.’ Chuza, his house steward, tried desperately to catch the eye of Joanna, who was praying under her breath.
‘You are weak, Antipas.’ Herodias’s imperious whisper seemed to reverberate into every corner of the great hall.
He started. She grasped his bangled arm, her violent, uncontrolled temper rising. ‘He turns the rabble against us. They hate us – they loathe me ... They spit at my carriage in the streets when I pass – I, wife of the tetrarch of Judaea! It is his poison; his tongue is as a viper’s.’
Herod stood like stone.
‘And what of your guests?’ she hissed. ‘What will they say when they leave Herod’s palace – that he was a man too weak and inadequate to keep his vow?’
Herod’s arms dropped like lead weights to his side. He sat down, his hand shaking so violently that he could scarcely hold his wine cup.
‘Malchus,’ he ordered in a weak, unsteady voice, ‘take the guard to the Baptist’s cell in Macherus and execute him.’
‘And bring us his head on a charger!’ Herodias screamed.
* * *
Lucifer stood on the roof of the Eastern Wing that housed Perdition’s royal aviaries, in front of hundreds of colossal gilded hell cages, feeding his pet carrion scavenger scouts from a large silver urn filled with freshly killed mansouth liver.
Charsoc bowed before him. ‘I request an audience, m’Lord.’
Lucifer washed his bloodied hands in a bowl that Balberith held out to him, then dried his hands fastidiously on an embroidered napkin passed to him by a courtier. He flung the napkin onto the floor, then walked towards Charsoc.
‘The Wort Seers of Diabolos have seen a portent, your Majesty.’ Charsoc bowed again. ‘A portent they say is related to the Nazarene. A veil.’
Lucifer stopped in his tracks.
‘The veil that hangs in the Hebrews’ temple,’ Charsoc continued.
‘That veil...’ Lucifer’s expression grew dark. ‘It hangs in the Holy of Holies.’ He tore the missive from Charsoc’s grasp. ‘The lone place on this planet where Yehovah trespasses and visits with the Race of Men.’ He scanned the missive. ‘The Wort Seers foretell it bodes ill for my kingdom.’ Lucifer frowned. ‘They saw it torn.’
‘It would be a most arduous task to tear, m’Lord,’ Charsoc replied. ‘My scouts report it is a most unwieldy looking shroud. Forty cubits long, twenty wide, of the thickness of one cubit and wrought in seventy-two squares. It needs at least three hundred priests to manipulate it. It has been said in the Race of Men that bulls tied to each side would not be able to rip the veil apart.’
‘Yet my finer instincts tell me the Wort Seers have seen truly – that it holds significance to Yehovah and the High Council in the affairs of the Race of Men. But torn ... why would it be torn?’ Lucifer paced up and down the eastern elevation, pensive.
‘It protects them..’ he muttered. ‘without it the Race of Men would be struck dead from the radiation of Yehovah’s presence.’ He turned to Charsoc. ‘Instruct the Black Murmurers to watch over this veil. Tell Marduk to report to me immediately of any unusual happenings.’
Charsoc bowed.
‘You word is my command, Your Excellency. I instruct the Black Murmurers immediately.’
Lucifer walked to the edge of the upper Pavilions, gazing over the desolate smouldering, lava wastes of hell that stretched as far as the eye could see. He looked down at the missive still in his palm, then raised his head to the pale amber horizon. Strangely troubled.
Chapter Twenty-five
The Hebrew
They stood silent on the steps of the temple in Jerusalem. Zahi, his face wrapped in cloth, rode in the carriage, veiled from view. Ghaliya sat on the opposite side, playing the rich merchant’s wife, with Jotapa, heavily disguised in a maidservant’s veils, at her right hand, next to Ayeshe.
‘Zerubbabel’s temple,’ Jotapa whispered. ‘Zahi, look – see how Herod has spent vast sums on its beautification.’ She stopped in mid sentence as a huge outcry erupted from the outer court of the temple.
There was a sound of loud shouting and the crashing of tables onto the temple floor.
A familiar voice raged like thunder. ‘You den of thieves! You dare to make My Father’s house a house of merchandise – a bazaar! Your incessant haggling – your profiteering from the poor...!’
Dove sellers and moneychangers scattered like geese through the Court of the Gentiles, past the carriage and Jotapa. Sacrificial sheep and oxen milled about and ran through the temple courtyard, to the sound of more crashing ... then silence.
Hundreds of onlookers gathered outside the entrance to the outer court. Waiting. Jotapa watched, fascinated, from behind her veil as a tall, lean, fierce-looking figure walked wearily out through the temple doors and across the temple courtyard, a makeshift whip of cords clasped tightly in His hands. She drew an involuntary gasp. Yes, it was Him – but – Why – He somehow looked much younger than her memories of their encounter in the desert. He could barely be thirty.
She studied the man on the temple steps. Then frowned, perplexed. Today there was no trace of the humour or compassion she had seen in the wilderness. His handsome features were grim, the strong chin set. She sighed deeply, lowering her eyes. She had initially found the Hebrew attractive ... dangerously attractive. But Jotapa was gifted with Aretas’ pragmatic shrewdness – she was no fool and she had sensed instantly that He was unavailable. She had known from their encounter in the desert that His only and overriding passion, like the monks of old, was His God. There would be no woman in the Hebrew’s life – of this she was somehow certain. She studied Him curiously. His dark eyes flashed like lightning as He wiped the tears from His eyes with the back of His hand – tears of anger, she was sure. She smiled faintly ... tears of passion.