by Wendy Alec
Why was He so incensed?
She turned to Zahi, bewildered. Zahi gestured towards the temple.
‘The temple of the Hebrews has always been a great national treasury,’ he said quietly, his voice muffled somewhat by the thin gauze cloth. ‘Its vaults contain immense stores of private wealth. The deposits never sit idle, Jotapa. They are loaned at the very highest rates of interest by their moneychangers. I know from our sources that the temple archives in Jerusalem reveal inconceivable debts owed by the poor to the rich.It is not a pretty picture. The Jewish authorities are hated by the commoners. The Hebrew is discerning.’ Zahi paused. ‘And courageous.’
Jotapa stared, transfixed, as a small boy not more than four years of age, caught sight of Jesus and instantly wrestled himself away from his mother’s grasp, tearing across the pavement over to Jesus, nearly knocking Him over in his excitement. The boy latched on to Jesus’ legs and buried his head in His robe. Jotapa watched, fascinated, as the terrible fierceness dissolved from Jesus’ features. He drew the boy to Him and placed His hand gently on his head, His eyes gazing distantly ahead. The lash slipped from His hand onto the pavement. He tousled the boy’s head, then shook his mane of long dark hair out of his eyes and surveyed the courtyard. Still grim. Then drew a deep sigh.
Jotapa watched a dark striking young man who stood just behind Him, trembling with ill-concealed rage.
‘Master...’ The younger man gripped Jesus’ shoulder fiercely. Too fiercely.
Jesus turned to face him, and instantly Judas loosed his grip. Pale.
‘Master,’ he implored, ‘the authorities ... I worked so hard – they were just coming to accept You ... to accept the cause. You withdraw Yourself to Galilee when You could have been crowned king, and they think You’re in flight. ... You refuse to show Yourself openly, then publicly challenge the Pharisees – it all bodes ill, Master.’
Judas stepped back, taking in the scene of overturned tables and smashed merchandise. He put his hands to his head.
‘We’ll never set foot in the temple again ... We’re ruined. Some are even saying You have a demon!’ He threw his hands up in sheer frustration. ‘I know You are the Messiah, I believe in the cause’ – he gestured at Peter and the other disciples – ‘more than these men, with their incessant petty bickering. I would die for the cause. I would die for You, Jesus. You could put it right. Just take up their challenge and show them one sign from heaven,’ he pleaded.
‘The fear of man is a snare to our cause.’ Jesus turned His face to him. Forbidding.
‘And a snare to you, Judas Iscariot,’ He stated quietly.
Judas stared at him as though he had been literally lashed across the face. Hot tears rose in his eyes. He stepped back. For a fleeting moment, Jotapa thought she saw a vulnerability in Jesus, but as fast as it appeared, a terrible weariness took its place, as though He bore the weight of the whole world.
Then Jesus gathered the child in His arms, walked straight past Judas and handed the child gently to a large ruddy-faced man. ‘We will depart for Capernaum, Peter,’ He said quietly; then He walked across the courtyard, towards the street.
‘Let us go, princess,’ Ghaliya whispered nervously. But Jotapa was rooted to the ground. She shook her head, her gaze fixed on Jesus.
‘No, we stay!’ she declared. ‘We know why we are here.’
All at once as Jesus left the temple steps, throngs of men, women and children flocked around Him, clutching at His robe, His feet, His hands, until even His disciples could hardly make a path for Him through the crowd.
Jesus studied the faces close to Him, His eyes filled with compassion. Jotapa watched as an old woman clung desperately to the fringes of His robe, then stumbled in the shoving, pressing crowd. The woman lay, tears streaming down her face, fallen in the dust of the street. Her tears turned to loud, heaving sobs; then a look of shock came over her countenance and she started both to laugh and cry, as if she had lost her mind.
The crowd continued to push towards Jesus, pressing in on Him from every side, when He held up His hand. ‘Who is it – who touched Me?’ His eyes scanned the raucous, pushing crowd.
Men and women vigorously shook their heads, but Jesus pushed through the clamouring men and women until He stood over the old woman, still lying on the ground. The woman looked up at Him, trembling.
‘You touched Me?’
She nodded. ‘I suffered a flow of blood for twelve years, Master.’ She clung to His hands. ‘I spent all my money, my life savings, on physicians, and still I grew worse, until–’
‘Healing virtue went out of Me.’
‘Just now, in the crowd, I tried to touch You, Master, but the crowds ... I have been so weak, but I clung on to the very fringe of Your robe. Then I was swept away by the crowds. But ... but the bleeding stopped.’ She gazed up at Him in adoration. ‘I am made whole!’
A brilliant smile spread across Jesus’ face. His expression softened and He knelt down until His face was directly in line with the old woman’s. Tenderly He took her face in His hands.
Jotapa turned to Zahi. His face was pushed right up against the window, drinking in the entire scene. Jotapa saw a fleeting ray of hope in the eyes that had been without hope for so many years. She left the carriage and ran nearer, much nearer the crowd.
‘Old mother, your faith has healed you,’ Jesus murmured gently, then drew the old woman to His bosom. Tears ran down the wrinkled face as He tenderly kissed the top of her grey head. ‘Go in peace.’
The old woman clung to His hands, covering them with kisses, her face transformed. For a fleeting moment she was beautiful.
That’s it, thought Jotapa, observing Him in wonder. He makes us all beautiful – old and young, man and woman, boy and girl. It was almost a kind of sorcery – she considered – and yet not sorcery at all.
And then Jesus turned. He stared directly at her. She was certain of it.
Jotapa frowned. It could not be – she was too well disguised as a noblewoman’s maidservant to be recognized. She turned to look behind her, then turned back.
Jesus was walking towards them. She frowned. She turned to Ghaliya, then back to the tall lean figure drawing rapidly closer. He continued His staring directly at her. There was no doubting it.
‘My greetings to the house of Aretas, daughter of the king of Arabia.’
He seemed amused. In fact, Jotapa was sure she caught a trace of mischief in His gaze. Her eyes flashed in annoyance.
‘Your temper?’ He questioned, the deep dimples showing in His bronzed cheeks. ‘It is better kept in check nowadays?’
Immediately Jotapa’s eyes narrowed, and she drew herself up to her full imperial height.
‘You address the princess of Arabia.’ Her nostrils flared in indignation.
Jesus’ eyes flickered with mischief. She glared at Him. How He knew her! ‘My temper, I can assure you, is in exactly the same state as Yours was today, except that You had a whip, and I have none.’
Jesus threw back His head and laughed loudly in delight.
Jotapa frowned, her quicksilver temper starting to rise, but then, as she returned His gaze, somehow she knew with a deep knowing – that it was not her discomfort He enjoyed ... He was enjoying her. Despite all her flaws – and there were many – the Hebrew liked her – Jotapa – spirited, strong, haughty princess of Arabia.
And she realized that to each one who clutched at His robe, He was the same. He found the treasure in each soul – searched through the sin and bitterness of each until He found the pearl of great price. With her it was her strength.
And the tears welled up in her eyes, unheeded. Jesus bowed His head slightly, then walked towards her and straight past her, His countenance stern, almost severe. Jotapa turned, her heart pounding. Instinctively she knew that He was headed straight for the carriage across the road, the carriage that held Zahi.
She clutched her skirts in her hands, dashing after Jesus, but before she could catch up with Him, He had already o
pened the carriage door. He put out His hand to Zahi, who immediately grasped it and stepped down onto the dusty road, in full view of all the crowd. A loud gasp went up from the throng surrounding Jesus as they stared at Zahi, his face and hands covered in the thin gauze cloth. A plump red-faced woman clasped her child to her and moved away rapidly, followed in quick succession by dozens of men and women all across the crowd. Jotapa tried to move nearer, but Duza gently held her back.
Jesus looked deeply into Zahi’s eyes for a long moment, then whispered something that escaped Jotapa.
Zahi fell at Jesus’ feet.
‘Who do you say that I am?’
‘You are the Unknown God,’ Zahi whispered in awe. ‘...the one whom the Rab Mag Daniel prophesied.’
Jotapa stared in astonishment at Duza.
‘He has studied the great Rab Mag’s writings these past eight years fervently, day and night, in his library.’ Duza said softly. ‘There were nights he could not sleep, but still he studied. Searching, searching for the meaning of the great Messiah.’
Jesus smiled gently. An intimate tender smile. Gently, He unwrapped the muslin covering Zahi’s face. The crowd, now watching from a safe distance, gasped in horror at the disfigured features. Then Jesus unwrapped the cloth from each hand, revealing the stumps and rotted flesh.
‘Go in peace,’ He said. ‘Your faith has healed you.’
And a gasp went up from the entire crowd, followed by a long, awed silence. In front of their eyes, Zahi’s features started to heal. Jotapa watched, incredulous, as the raw distended and rotting skin on Zahi’s face began to smooth and heal. She stared down at Zahi’s hands. The nodules disappeared; the fingers grew long and straight. She watched as the decaying stump where Zahi’s thumb had once been healed and grew back. She blinked. This could not be! Why, she had believed that Zahi could be healed, but certainly not that his fingers be replaced and as new!
She turned to Duza who was staring in stunned silence, as was the crowd. All were transfixed by the immediate miracle occurring before their eyes. Judas stared, exhilaration on his countenance. This was their Messiah.
Jesus clasped Zahi to Himself in a long embrace.
Zahi fell to his knees, tears coursing down his cheeks. ‘Thank You ... thank You,’ he murmured in adoration, staring through tears at the backs of his hands, turning them over in wonder.
And then Jesus placed His hand under Zahi’s chin and raised his face to His. He smiled tenderly into Zahi’s eyes. ‘Zahi, crown prince of Arabia, follow me.’
Zahi rose to his feet, and Jotapa watched as Zahi turned his face to her and Duza. Duza struggled to contain the short, racking sobs that rose from the depths of his soul.
And then Zahi smiled directly at Jotapa. A brilliant, sundrenched smile.
And in an instant, both he and Jesus were gone.
Chapter Twenty-six
Dark Choices
Charsoc flew through the forbidding clandestine underground crypts of the damned, his black sorceror’s cloak flapping, riding the subterranean zephyrs. The soporific throbbing beat of the shaman drums and the grand haunting arias of the Necromancer choirs filtered upward from the lower crypts growing in intensity as he neared two mammoth black doors adorned with ornately carved golden Seraphim and Gorgons, the entrance to the inner sanctum of the lower crypts of the shadows, the gateway to the Catacombs of Ichabod.
He raised his silvered staff, its head a live serpent. Instantly the massive black doors flung open, revealing the sweltering underground tunnels of the nether regions – the abode of the Dark Younglings.
The air was thick with the eerie hum of demonic incantations, voodoo, hexes and enchantments as hundreds of Charsoc’s dark deformed youngling apprentices industriously poured their gruesome poisons and potions, reciting their black arts and enchantments. Charsoc pulled his black sorcerer’s cape tightly around him. He flew through the gloomy tunnels, past the infinite Lower Libraries of Iniquities, their mother-of-pearl shelves crammed with millions of silver tomes and ancient black codices. The menacing rhythm of the shaman drums grew louder as he descended into the crypts of the shadows, the abode of Huldah and his macabre Shaman Kings. The crypt ceilings were festooned with dark menacing trompe l’oeils of damson and deep magentas, barely visible through the shadowed gloom. He flew downward ... forever downward, through the cramped outer shaman warrens that housed the million colossal iron hell cages that incarcerated the sinister shaman vulture scouts who screeched in terror and hissed venomously as he passed by.
Finally he reached a door of beaten gold, its handle one huge uncut ruby. Charsoc placed his ringed fingers on the glittering jewel. Instantly he vanished from the Crypts of the Shadows into the Catacombs of Ichabod.
* * *
Aretas paced the throne room in a dread fury.
Jotapa stood trembling on the far side of the chamber. Duza, Ghaliya and Ayeshe knelt before the throne, their heads bowed.
‘You took Zahi, your dying brother...’
Each syallable strained from his mouth.
‘...my firstborn, the crown prince of Arabia, to Jerusalem to see the Hebrew...’ He stared at Jotapa. Incredulous.
‘Without my permission. And now ... NOW you tell me that he just disappeared ... vapourised into the streets of Jerusalem.’ His face was blacker than thunder.
Jotapa swallowed nervously. ‘Father ... he was healed – the Hebrew healed him.’
Aretas drew himself up to his full imperial stature.
‘To add insult to injury...’ his dark eyes flashed with fury, ‘you have the gall to tell me, your own father, that Zahi no longer has leprosy, that ... that the Hebrew just miraculously healed him.’ Aretas looked from Jotapa to the clear-eyed Ayeshe, then to the trembling Duza.
‘It is true, Your revered Majesty,’ muttered Ayeshe from the floor. ‘The Hebrew healed Zahi. He is well.’
Aretas strode over to the Beytel and with his sceptre swept the cross to the floor, enraged. ‘The Hebrew...’
Ghaliya and Duza flung themselves facedown on the floor.
At last Jotapa spoke. ‘Let them go, Father. It is my fault. I commanded them ... I forced them to take us. They had no choice in the matter.’
Aretas’ eyes flashed darkly.
‘No choice? Ayeshe!’ He whirled around to his frail aged Nabatean servant. ‘You, who have served me from the cradle – you who are as stubborn as ten thousand unruly mountain she-camels who disobey their masters – did you have a choice?’ He motioned for Ayeshe to rise.
The sinewy old Nabatean stood up and looked directly at Aretas, his gaze clear and true. ‘I chose this course, my lord. It was indeed old Ayeshe’s will to accompany them.’
Aretas threw his hands in the air. ‘I am vexed that you do not fear me, Ayeshe!’ he raged.
‘This is a terrible day for a king of Arabia.’
‘I do not fear you,’ Ayeshe said softly. ‘But I love you, my ageing king.’ The old man bowed his head.
Aretas groaned in exasperation. ‘Never did I think I would live to see the day when it was a greater thing for my servants to love me than to fear me!’ He glared at Ayeshe.
‘I was there, sire when–’
Aretas waved him silent. His expression softened. ‘Yes, yes, my old caretaker, you recount the events of the infant Hebrew too many times – I was blind; then I saw.’
Aretas rolled his eyes in frustration. ‘And you Duza, bosom companion of my firstborn son – did my daughter command you, too? Did you succumb also to the will of a woman?’
Duza lifted his head. ‘Your Majesty, the pain that the disease inflicted on the prince was more than could be borne, both for himself and for your soul, sire.’
Duza placed his forehead back down on the marble.
Aretas thrust his arms heavenward in despair.
‘So your motive, too, was borne of love.’ Aretas set his cup down hard on the table. ‘Love, love...,’ he mumbled, ‘...where is the respect that should be shown to a king of
Arabia?’
He looked at Jotapa, his countenance softer. ‘You say the Hebrew touched him and he was made whole. You are sure of this, Jotapa. You saw it with your own eyes?’
‘And the eyes of all these witnesses before you, Father,’ Jotapa whispered.
Tears welled up unheeded in Aretas’ eyes. ‘You ... you saw it, then...’ he stumbled, his eyes pleading with Jotapa.
Tears streamed down Jotapa’s cheeks. ‘His flesh is healed, Papa, as clear and smooth as a newborn babe’s. Your son, beloved of your soul, is whole and free and has peace in his soul.’
Aretas looked, speechless, from Jotapa to Ayeshe and then to Duza. Deeply moved.
‘His fingers are grown and strong again, Your Majesty.’ Duza’s voice was clear. ‘Word travels in Jerusalem that he writes ... for the Hebrew, as His scribe.’
Aretas walked to the great window and gazed out towards the Royal Hunting Grounds. He stared for a long while at the lions that prowled across the exotic grasslands.
‘He is not safe there. The stories of these followers of the Hebrew circulate even to Arabia. The Hebrew has powerful enemies: the Pharisees, the Sanhedrin ... the Romans. They all fear His sway and authority over the masses, and now Zahi is one of them – a...’ He could not bring himself to say the word.
He turned from the window. ‘He is a ... follower of the Hebrew. Is this true?’
‘Yes, Father, Zahi has become a follower.’