Redemption at the Eleventh Hour

by Andrew Crown

As he was about to get up to leave, he spotted a woman walking among the ravenous men, who called out to her. Some tried to grab her. The big bearded tavern keeper, trailing a few steps behind her, forcefully slapped the hand away of any man that reached for her without paying. She was very beautiful, with paler skin than just about every woman Dismas had ever seen, and very light brown hair. She had to be from a northern province of the Empire, he thought. The women around Judea and Galilee were all brown or olive skinned. This ivory-skinned woman was exotic to these men in the tavern.

  Despite their aggressive overtures, this woman seemed to enjoy the attention. She chuckled as each man had his hand slapped away. She winked at the ones who held up a few coins and were met with a reply of “Not enough” from the tavern owner behind her. This woman clearly relished her pure power over men. With each step, she seductively shook her hips as she casually brushed the shoulders of the men as she walked past.

  Her eyes, glowing like emeralds in the firelight, then locked on Dismas. He felt in his pocket for the ring he had taken from the centurion. He didn’t know how much it was worth, but he knew that a piece of Roman jewelry would certainly be enough to pay for the company of this striking woman.

  She seemed to sense his internal debate as she walked over to him and smiled encouragingly. She arrived at his table and lightly massaged his shoulders.

  “Can I be of service to you, handsome traveler?” Without asking his permission, she sat on his lap and leaned against his chest. Her entire body was perfumed in a sweet aroma of jasmine that was intoxicatingly arousing.

  The other men in the tavern hooted and hollered when she sat on Dismas’ lap but she paid them no attention. She was focused on Dismas, as if he was the only man in the world that held her interest.

  She purred in his ear, “Normally, I take no less than ten pieces of silver but you’re so attractive that I’ll give you a discount. Never mind what he says.” She gestured towards the big tavern keeper who was momentarily distracted by an unruly patron. She gave Dismas a quick kiss on the cheek followed by a little chuckle.

  Dismas was tempted. He wanted nothing more than to go upstairs and have this exotic woman relieve all of his troubles. The anxiety caused by the Romans, his homesickness for the fishing village, and the stress of being in the big city would surely all melt away in her arms. He felt himself drawing the centurion’s ring from his pocket.

  Then, in the recesses of his brain, Dismas pictured Leah as if she was right there beside him. Even amidst the sultry beckoning in this fair-skinned woman’s voice and the physical reactions that he was experiencing in her presence, he felt a strong desire for Leah. He remembered Leah’s smile and her playfulness. He longed to run his hands through her long, dark hair. He knew that lying with this other woman, as appealing as she was, would leave him feeling empty and guilty, even if Leah never found out. This woman in his lap simply could not compare.

  “No, not tonight,” said Dismas politely. The woman made a mock pout and moved on to the Arab trader at the next table. She sat on his lap and used the same line about giving him a discount on account of his rugged handsomeness. They only spoke for about a minute before money changed hands and she was leading him up the narrow staircase.

  Dismas finished the remainder of his drink, then left the tavern and retrieved his donkey for the short journey to the inn. He bought himself a comfortable room with the stolen coins along with a place in the stable for the animal and spent the rest of the night and the next day drifting in and out of dreamless sleep. It was the first day in quite some time that he did not have to be moving and he relished the opportunity to rest his aching muscles.

  As the shadows of the afternoon turned to nightfall and the bustling city sounds quieted to a murmur, Dismas began to stir again. He quickly dressed and washed his face in washbasin before returning on foot to the tavern.

  The scene inside looked much as it did the night before, with beautiful women mingling with drunk, eager men. He did not see the fair-skinned woman tonight. Just as well to avoid more temptation, he figured.

  He spotted the hooded Micah in a dimly lit corner with another man, talking with their bodies hunched towards each other. They took such great care to go unnoticed that they almost looked like a pile of rags laying on a small, broken table in the corner. He made his way over to them.

  They looked up in alarm at Dismas. Despite their caution, they had still been snuck up upon and made quick motions for small knives attached to their belts before Micah relaxed and recognition flashed across his face.

  “Ah, Dismas! Welcome back. Barabbas, this is the one I was telling you about.”

  The other man eased his hold on the hilt of the knife.

  Barabbas was much younger than Micah—about Dismas’ age. He had expected the mastermind of the plot to be a more seasoned man. Barabbas sported a neatly trimmed beard with not a single hint of gray. His dark, curly hair fell upon his thick brow.

  “I’m pleased to meet you, Dismas,” he said in a deep, powerful voice as he extended his hand.

  Dismas took it and sat down. He was impressed at the authority and confidence Barabbas seemed to command. Despite his youth, it was clear that he was the leader and Micah looked to him for direction.

  “Shall we get a drink or talk business?” Barabbas asked.

  “I can talk and drink,” Dismas said. Micah made a motion to the tavern keeper, who brought over a vessel of wine and three cups. Dismas noticed that the big tavern keeper kept the women away from their table, to give their meeting as much privacy as possible. This added to the intrigue for Dismas.

  Barabbas filled his cup to the brim and took several deep gulps, draining it within seconds.

  “Micah tells me that you do not like the Romans.” He looked at Dismas in the eye, sizing him up. “That isn’t extraordinary—resentment towards Rome is rampant in this city. The question is whether your sentiments will lead you to be a man of action.” He paused to study Dismas’ face for signs of discomfort.

  Seeing none, he continued, “What I’m about to tell you requires absolute discretion. I will allow you to decline my offer if you wish, but you must guarantee your silence. There will be consequences if I suspect otherwise.” A darkness flashed across Barabbas’ face, and Dismas had no reason to doubt the sincerity of his words.

  “I can be quiet, but I cannot pledge more until I hear the details.” Dismas looked between the two men.

  “That is all we can ask,” Micah said. He flashed him a smile with his missing tooth which struck Dismas as slightly creepy.

  Barabbas nodded solemnly and said in his baritone voice, “The Romans are collecting taxes this week in advance of Passover. Their Jewish tax collectors are the fuel that feeds the fire of Rome—the men who take money from their own to fund wars of conquest in far flung provinces while their own lands are under military occupation. Jews who are tax collectors for Rome are traitors to our people. I am sure you will agree?” He was even more political and poetic than Micah.

  Dismas remained indifferent. “I see. Go on.”

  Barabbas continued explaining his plan as if he done this a hundred times before. “Perhaps more importantly, as the Romans send these tax collectors throughout the city, they leave them exposed and relatively unprotected. They may have a soldier to keep order, but he can easily be overwhelmed. I am proposing a large and coordinated attack on these money snatchers. Imagine a dozen men, striking simultaneously like lightning at different points all over the city, killing quickly, and then disappearing within the crowd before the Romans can muster a coordinated retaliation.” He said this so coldly that it almost made Dismas shudder.

  Micah chimed in excitedly, “The Romans will never know what hit them. We are sure that the number of volunteers to collect taxes for the Romans will diminish after this. They will be too intimidated to betray their own people for fear of attack.”

  “We have men willing to participate and have stockpiled some weapons,” Barabbas said. “Not
the kind of weapons required to engage the whole Roman army, mind you—mostly some old blades and slings, but they are enough to overwhelm a tax collector and a guard with the element of surprise.”

  “When I saw you yesterday, Dismas, I knew you were the kind of strong young man we needed for this task,” said Micah. Another creepy smile passed over his face.

  “I agree,” said Barabbas, pouring himself another cup of wine. “You have the physical characteristics to be an asset. I hope that you have the disposition towards our politics as well. Will you join us?”

  Dismas thought this was the stupidest idea he had ever heard. To attack tax collectors in broad daylight as the city was being reinforced daily with more and more soldiers was beyond ill-conceived—it was doomed. He shared the passion of these men in their hatred of Rome, but he was not going to throw his life away with such a foolhardy scheme. He also thought it wrong and cowardly to attack fellow Jews. If they were going to use violence, they should at least attack the source of their problems, the Romans themselves. He decided it would be best to avoid the company of these men rather than try to educate them about the shortcomings of their plan.

  “Gentleman, I appreciate your consideration for such a noble endeavor,” said Dismas tactfully. “While I share your misgivings about our occupiers, I do not wish to participate in your undertaking. As I said before, I commit to remain silent and I wish you well.”

  Dismas tried to say it as respectfully and directly as possible. He was alarmed, however, when he saw that same flash of darkness across Barabbas’ face that he had seen earlier. He feared what atrocity Barabbas had considered in that moment. Dismas was thankful that he rejected his offer in a public place.

  “Very well, Dismas. Remember your promise, or I will find you and cut off your head.” Barabbas said the last part so casually that Dismas felt another cold rush of blood in his heart. Micah stared at him icily, no longer smiling.

  Dismas didn’t know what to say so he stood up, muttered a goodbye, and left the tavern. Every few paces he glanced over his shoulder and scanned the dark streets; he was not being followed, but he still felt uneasy. He did not relax until he shut the door to his room at the inn and blew out the candle, cloaking himself in complete darkness. It was certainly an awkward exit, but he was safe now. He had no desire to go near that tavern or see those men ever again. He had difficulty sleeping that night as fears of Barabbas standing over him with a knife prevented him from keeping his eyes closed for long.

  *

  Across town at the main gate, a long column of Roman soldiers entered Jerusalem, chanting to keep their weary feet in step with one another. The chant was loud enough to wake the townspeople in the homes they passed, but the partial legion moved through the stone streets indifferent to the commotion they caused. Torches held by a man in every fifth row cast shadows off their gleaming armor, a menacing warning to anyone else who happened to be out on the streets at that hour. In front of the column sat their Tribune on a beautiful white horse.

  “We march toward the governor’s palace,” said Magnus to his exhausted men. “Bricius, you and Cassian keep your cohort in line and take the lead. We can rest as soon as we reach the residence of the Prefect.”

  The bald, speckled centurion saluted and barked out profanity-laced orders to his men. His nose was tender and his head was sporting a new scar that still showed traces of the stitches from the Roman physicians at the castrum. He had told his fellow officers at the garrison that he had drunkenly fallen and cut himself on a rock that day in the fishing village. They had laughed at him for being so foolish and careless. He dared not tell them the truth, that he had been beaten by an unarmed Jew. He made sure Gallus and Tycho kept their mouths shut about it. For his drunken incident, Magnus hadn’t even punished him beyond a verbal reprimand, for he was too preoccupied with preparations for their upcoming journey to Jerusalem for Passover.

  As Bricius led his men through the streets, he massaged his temple. He remembered the jar crashing down on his head, but not much after that. He had been awoken by Tycho splashing water in his face in the middle of the village. It wasn’t until he got back to the castrum that he realized that his money and his precious ring were missing. The ring had been awarded to him years ago when he was promoted to centurion, and Bricius had counted it among his most prized possessions. Again, he had to devise a new lie to tell his fellow officers about the missing ring. He said it slipped off his finger while drinking of the Sea of Galilee, a somewhat plausible explanation that drew sympathy. Bricius had cursed Dismas every day since, vowing to run his sword through his heart should he find him, wherever he may be.

  The procession of Romans entered the swinging iron gates of the stone palace that belonged to the governor of Judea, Pontius Pilate. The parade ground within the stone walls, normally barren save for a few palace guards and city officials, was filled with soldiers. Bricius directed his men to the makeshift barracks and then proceeded with his fellow officers to the governor’s large imposing house to lodge, their impermanent home until the Passover crowds dispersed. Crowd control was one of the main duties of the Roman soldiers this time of year, and it was something that Magnus, Bricius, and rest of the legion expected to pass as uneventfully as it had in previous years.

  Chapter XVIII

  Sunlight filtered into the tiny, dusty room at the inn. The brightness woke Dismas and he rolled off his mat into the shade to try to capture a few more minutes of sleep. It was a futile effort. He lay on the ground and stared up at the wooden ceiling, trying to gather a little more energy as he had a long journey to begin that day back to the fishing village. The quest to reconnect with his brother was to be abandoned, he decided.

  While he absentmindedly studied the wooden beams above him, he gradually became aware of a commotion outside. Shouting and the sound of sandaled feet slapping the ground at a run drifted to his ears. Dismas lay motionless, trying to determine if the disturbance was driven by fear or excitement. The voices were too joyful and animated for the people to be moving in alarm. There was something thrilling going on.

  He wearily rose to his feet and dressed. The sounds only increased in magnitude as he left the inn and stepped blinking into the bright morning light. He had to quickly jump back to avoid a child running past him with a large palm branch clutched in his hand. The young boy didn’t even break stride, and Dismas had the urge to curse after him. But his attention was drawn to a group of older people also clutching palms. In fact, everyone he saw held a palm branch as they surged towards the city gates. The palms were so plentiful that it looked as if trees themselves had sprouted legs and moved in unison.

  Although he did not understand the purpose of the palms, Dismas fell in behind a group of eager people on their way to the main gate of the city. His curiosity had gotten the better of him. As the column edged closer to the final destination, more people with palms joined from the side streets like streams feeding a mighty river. Soon, Dismas was jammed shoulder to shoulder with members of the excited throng and could move no closer. As a tall man, however, Dismas could see over the dozen or so rows of people ahead of him.

  What he saw through the waving green palm branches shocked him. There in front of the crowd and riding on a donkey was…Jesus. Dismas could hardly believe it. He had never thought he would see Him again after that day on the hill.

  People were waving their palms, laying down their cloaks, and singing songs for Him. Trailing Jesus on foot were his twelve disciples, who looked triumphant as they waved to the cheering crowd. Dismas spotted Peter at the front of the other disciples looking weary from the journey but happy at the reception they were receiving.

  Everyone seemed so blissful—everyone except for Jesus. The man that was the source of the jubilance looked melancholy. Dismas was perplexed. Had He not any joy seeing how moved the people were by His presence? The people of Jerusalem would not wave palms or lay down their cloaks for Caesar himself, but they were for Jesus, the great miracle worker! Yet
Jesus appeared sorrowful, as if He was being led to somewhere He did not truly want to go. He nodded respectfully at people as they called out to Him and occasionally tried to force a smile, but otherwise kept a mournful expression on His face. How someone who was so inspiring to others could be so sad troubled Dismas.

  Jesus and His disciples made their way through the crowd which parted for them and continued to cast their cloaks down in front of Him. As the procession passed Dismas, he tried to push forward.

  “Jesus! Jesus!” His voice was drowned out by the multitude shouting praises at the one they called the Messiah.

  “Jesus! Thank you! Thank you for saving Leah! Jesus!”

  It was a futile attempt. The roar of the crowd proclaiming “Hosanna!”, “Rabbi!”, and “Messiah!” was too overpowering for one man’s voice to be distinguished over the clamor.

  Dismas struggled to push closer, but Jesus and His disciples began to disappear from view as they snaked through the crowd. After getting a couple of unintentional elbows to the ribs, Dismas decided to abandon his effort. He would try to meet with Jesus later. He needed to express his gratitude to Him for healing Leah. He fell back from the crowd and their waving palms and made his way back towards the inn. As he walked down a side alley, the shouts of the crowd for their savior echoed in his ears. His return trip to Leah and Asher would be delayed by this new and important errand.

  *

  The next few days passed with Dismas trying in vain to seek an audience with Jesus. Despite His fame, Jesus proved to be difficult to track down. Dismas heard rumors from a portly fishmonger that He was preaching near the palace of the governor, Pontius Pilate. When he arrived, out of breath after his speedy walk, he found no one there. Similarly, he heard from a woman carrying an infant that Jesus had ignited a frenzy at a temple and had angered the Pharisees. Once Dismas arrived at the temple, he found merchants cleaning up overturned tables and spilled merchandise but found no Jesus or His disciples. Dismas was frustrated but remained determined. Seeing the miracles before his own eyes had drove him to push towards another meeting with Jesus.