Redemption at the Eleventh Hour

by Andrew Crown

  Dismas asked just about every person who would acknowledge his greeting. The entire city seemed to know who Jesus was, but not His whereabouts. His name was on the lips of people in homes, taverns, and on the streets. Dismas had no lack of people to converse with about Jesus. Some had seen in Him in person, others only knew Him from stories, but everyone seemed to know Him one way or another.

  Wednesday started similarly to the past couple of days. Dismas rose early to search for clues, asking passersby where he might be able to find Jesus. He had left his donkey stabled at the inn, finding it far easier to engage people while on foot. But this morning remained as fruitless as all of the others. Outdated information or shrugs were all Dismas was able to gather.

  As the sun traveled higher in the sky, the streets began to fill with people going about their daily routine.

  The midday heat was beating down and Dismas’ face and back were soaked in sweat. He turned his body sideways to cut through a line of people, only vaguely aware that they were standing and waiting for something. A stern voice called out, “Next! Have your coins out and ready. State your name clearly! The faster you move, the sooner you leave.”

  Dismas glanced over at the source of the command and saw a well-dressed man with ornate blue robes and a handsome matching hat sitting at a table covered in scrolls of papyrus. A big white awning hung over the table to protect the man from the sun. Behind the table, a fully-armed Roman soldier complete with plumed helmet and a rectangular shield kept watch over several bags of coin lying in the dirt. The Roman’s steely gaze surveyed the crowd as if to dare any sort of retort that might be given to the tax collector.

  Those standing in line had resentment on their faces as they waited their turn to pay their taxes in the miserable heat. Men shifted their weight and put their hands on their hips while they waited, anxious to find relief from the unrelenting sun.

  Dismas made a move to continue his search and walked past.

  “Hey, you! Have you paid your taxes to Caesar yet?” The blue robed man squinted accusingly from behind the table as a gray bearded Jew made his mark on one of the scrolls as record of his payment.

  “Uh, no.” The thought hadn’t really occurred to Dismas. His nomadic life of little income and petty crime meant he never had paid much attention to taxes.

  “Then get in line!” The man had a smug expression on his face as he turned to the next person in line. “Come forward and have your money out! I won’t say it again!”

  Dismas considered ignoring the man but he caught the gaze of the Roman soldier. He didn’t look particularly aggressive at the moment; he was scratching the black stubble on his chin as he eyed Dismas. But his biceps seemed to bulge out of the breastplate of his armor as he leaned against a five-foot spear. Should he so desire, he could skewer Dismas with minimal effort. Dismas also remembered that he needed to keep a low profile, and blatantly ignoring a tax collector in front of a Roman soldier was not the way to do that. He begrudgingly walked towards the back of the line, thankful that he still had coins in his pocket that he could use to pay.

  He passed by the collective mass of sweat, coughing, and general impatience and settled in behind a red-faced man carrying a bundle of sticks over his shoulder. Judging by how slow the line was moving, Dismas realized he probably had about twenty minutes of waiting ahead of him. He slapped at a fly that landed on the back of his neck and stared ahead absentmindedly for several minutes as the line gradually crept forward.

  As he let out a long deep breath, he noticed a flash of movement, a whirling motion in the air. A man in front of him in line was spinning something round and round above his head. The people around him took a step back to give this man with the long spinning leather strap some space as they looked on with puzzled expressions. It took a moment for Dismas to register what the man was doing. He was about to launch something from a sling.

  The tax collector had just finished a transaction when he glanced up and saw the sling just as a rock released from it. A stone about half the size of a man’s fist shot through the air with astonishing velocity. The tax collector only had time to turn away slightly before the stone connected with his cheek with a sickening crack of rock meeting jawbone. A spray of blood shot from the man’s head before he slumped in his stool and tumbled to the ground.

  A woman’s scream pierced the air. The crowd immediately scattered in a panic upon seeing the attack, while the sole Roman soldier bounded after the assailant. The man with the sling turned to flee and Dismas recognized the craggy face of Micah, Barabbas’ compatriot. As he scurried past, Dismas remained frozen, transfixed at the scene unfolding in front of him.

  Micah was too focused on his escape to notice Dismas. His path was blocked by frightened people, dropped baskets, and obstinate animals. The Roman soldier was in excellent shape from years of long marches and training. He was also much younger than the man he was pursuing. The soldier threw down his shield and spear to gain even more speed, and was soon at Micah’s heels, who was shoving panicked men and women out of the way.

  As the angry Roman bore down upon him, Micah produced a small, rusty blade from the depths of his robe. He clumsily thrust it at the Roman’s face, but the soldier merely side-stepped the poorly aimed jab. The Roman countered with his massive forearm and struck Micah across the face. Micah fell to the ground with a thud and his rusty knife flew out of his hand and out of sight amid the trampling crowd. Dismas watched in horror as the Roman, standing over his writhing, bleeding foe, took his sword in both hands and plunged it downward through Micah’s chest.

  Bystanders gasped at the sight of the geyser of blood. Dismas himself was surprised that the soldier did not even try to apprehend the man; he was set on killing from the moment he gave pursuit. Upon verifying that Micah was no longer a threat, the soldier hurried back to the tax collector, who lay lifeless, his face resembling raw meat. Dismas saw Micah’s legs kick spastically as he tried to plug the hole in his chest with his hands. After a moment, his movement slowed, and he finally lay still.

  Dismas had seen enough. He was sickened by watching two men suddenly lose their lives before his eyes. He joined the chaotic throng trying to escape the scene. Shouts and orders rang out as townspeople tried to find shelter while Roman soldiers ran through the streets, some as individuals and others in loose formations of two to four. It seemed as if all the garrisons had opened and released the soldiers to secure the town.

  It was clear to Dismas that the soldiers were moving not as a well-directed unit but sporadically, as if they did not have a clear idea as to where to go. He saw a lone legionnaire up ahead run down a side street and then a moment later turn around and go down another street, laboring under his armor and shield. He was simply moving for the sake of moving. Dismas remembered what Barabbas had told him in the tavern and surmised that the Romans were struggling to coordinate their efforts against the simultaneous attacks on the tax collectors occurring all over the city.

  He passed by another tax collection station closer to the inn. A wounded tax collector was on the ground being attended by Roman soldiers. They were wrapping cloth around a stab wound on his hip. A few feet away, a swarthy man lay with a small blood-soaked blade similar to Micah’s at his feet. Blood poured out of several slashes on his body. The Roman sword had effectively laid waste to another of Barabbas’ men. Dismas moved swiftly past the scene and was soon safely back at the inn.

  *

  After a little over an hour of chaos, calm once again descended over Jerusalem. Across the city from the inn where Dismas was staying, Pontius Pilate, governor of Judea, sat in his great hall and demanded to know what had happened as reports trickled in about an uprising at the tax collection stations. Flustered aides put out calls for information from those with first-hand accounts. Reports arrived via couriers from the army at regular intervals. With each breathless courier the details gradually became clearer. Cloaked in a purple robe, the color of imperial Rome, Pilate nodded his graying head in acknowl
edgement. Once the scale and magnitude of the crimes were understood, he was ready to flex the full military might of his garrison.

  “Find the leaders of this attack and bring them here!” Pilate exclaimed. He then added, “I thought we had guards for the tax collectors!”

  “We did, Prefect. Every station had at least one soldier attached,” an aide said.

  “Clearly not enough! I want every effort made for the leaders to be brought here alive. See to it.”

  A short time later, the first success from the massive manhunt materialized. A man in manacles was led into Pilate’s hall surrounded by half a dozen Roman soldiers. His chains dragged across the marble floor, creating a screeching noise that made the governor wince. The man looked at Pilate with utter contempt on his face.

  “Prefect!” one of the soldiers called out. “We have brought you the man we believe to be the ringleader of the attacks. We caught him in the act and found incriminating documents on him.”

  Pilate rubbed his stubbly salt and pepper beard and looked the prisoner up and down. He appeared to be in good shape except for a cut across his forehead which was already starting to scab. He was younger than Pilate supposed ringleader would be. This man was not a grizzled veteran of the Roman prisons but a young man. His face, however, was affixed in expression of pure hatred as he stared at the governor.

  Pilate cleared his throat to call out with the utmost authority, “What is your name?”

  “Barabbas!” the prisoner shouted in a deep voice that echoed across the marble columned hall.

  Pilate glanced at the Roman soldiers and their officers. He adjusted his majestic purple robes to bring attention to the garments that represented Roman power, a tactic that often disarmed the criminals brought before him. Barabbas, however, was resolute in his quiet contempt. Pilate, undeterred, addressed his fellow Romans. “And we are sure that this man is responsible for the attacks on our tax collectors?”

  A centurion saluted and responded, “Yes, Prefect. I saw him plunge a sword into a citizen collecting Caesar’s taxes and then stab one of my men. My soldier will survive, but the tax collector’s wounds proved to be fatal. We also found these scrolls.” The centurion produced a roll of papyrus which he placed in Pilate’s outstretched hand before returning to the side of the prisoner.

  Pilate read through the document slowly. After a moment of silence, he said, “His master plan. It says here that there was to be seven attacks on tax collectors, all occurring at once.”

  “That is correct, Prefect,” the Roman officer concurred.

  “And what of the others that were part of this plot? What of the co-conspirators?”

  The same officer responded, “Of the seven men that attacked this afternoon, three were killed, two escaped, and two were captured, including Barabbas here. The other captive has been injured badly by the spear of one of our legionnaires and it is unlikely that he will survive long in our dungeons.”

  “Very well,” said Pilate. “I want a full search for the two that escaped and extra guards posted at all of the city gates until the extra crowds disperse from the Jewish Passover. I want all traffic into and out of the city monitored with the utmost vigilance.” Another centurion saluted and left to carry out the commands.

  Pilate then turned his attention to the chained Barabbas, who looked as if he would break his shackles and leap at the governor to claw his face if given the opportunity.

  The governor leaned forward in his chair. “Barabbas, given the testimony presented against you by many eyewitnesses and your ownership of these documents, I sentence you to death by crucifixion. The sentence will be carried out two days from now on Friday. Until that time, you will remain in the dungeons. That is all.” He made a shooing motion with his hands as a sign for the prisoner to be taken away.

  The Roman soldiers harshly grabbed Barabbas’ arms and dragged him from the hall, again producing a screeching sound of chain against marble.

  As he was being led away, Barabbas called out, “Rome will crumble under the weight of a free Jewish people! I hope my death is the spark that begins their freedom and your downfall!”

  Barabbas snarled as he fought against the overwhelming force of the soldiers’ hands at his arms and legs. The heavy wooden door of the hall closed before Pilate could hear any additional outburst.

  Pilate shook his head as if to reset his mind for his next administrative task. He called for a plate of grapes to be brought over to him by one of his servants. Keeping the peace in this dry and dusty province of Judea was proving to be difficult. Hopefully this latest incident would not make it to the ears of the Emperor in Rome, he thought to himself, sitting pensively as he tasted the sweetness of the grape.

  “Where is Tribune Magnus? I wish to speak with him,” Pilate called out to his aides standing obediently along the edge of the chamber. A slender man bowed and shuffled off to find the Tribune. He returned a short time later with Magnus, clad in his fine toga.

  “You sent for me, Prefect. I am here to serve.”

  Pilate, finishing the last of his grapes, cleared his throat. “Yes, Magnus. Come walk with me.”

  The two men strolled side by side out into a torch-lit corridor lined with marble busts of past Roman emperors and heroes from mythology resting atop pedestals. “I had these brought here soon after I was assigned to this province.” Catching Magnus’ expression of wonder he added, “They serve as a reminder of the importance of the master to which we all attend—Rome.”

  “Sir?”

  “Tribune, we ultimately serve Rome but nevertheless we rule with the permission of the Jews. Despite our military presence in this region, the Jews outnumber us by at least twenty to one. We may not be the leaders they want, but we are the leaders they have, and for the most part they tolerate us.”

  Magnus stood still, unsure of whether he should comment on what Pilate had just said. Thankfully, the governor continued his speech. “It is paramount that we achieve order in this land. At times, like today, that order hangs by a thread. While I applaud the efforts of the Roman soldiers in minimizing the damage done by the attackers on the tax collectors, we will not have any more Jews killed publicly in the streets. It is gruesome, it is unpopular, and it defies the rule of law. We cannot risk a rebellion and so troublemakers must be apprehended. Is that understood?”

  Magnus nodded solemnly. “Prefect, I will ensure that my men obey your directive. I understand that there is a delicate balance that must be achieved in regard to the Jews.”

  “Precisely, Tribune. I don’t think that I have to tell you that order is good, not only for us but for Caesar. We must do everything in our power to keep the Jews content. Roman interests and Jewish contentment are intertwined. See to it that your men save the killing for the battlefield.”

  Magnus nodded and saluted before exiting the torch-lit chamber. Pilate was left alone staring at the marble busts of Roman heroes from long ago. He shook his head. He silently vowed that he would do everything he could to ensure that the attack that day was an outlier as opposed to the beginning of something more.

  Chapter XIX

  The next morning Dismas again went into the streets with the purpose of finding Jesus, though he was still shaken from the attack he had witnessed. However, the city seemed to have largely recovered, save for the families of the men killed. Even the bloodstains in the streets had been washed away overnight by some unseen labor.

  Dismas was frustrated, and he resolved he would leave and risk returning to Leah. He was no closer to finding Selig or Jesus. He also realized that he risked capture just as much by openly walking the streets of Jerusalem as he did fishing on the boat with Asher. Seeing men die in front of him yesterday added to his feeling of homesickness. Surely Jesus, in His omniscience, would know of Dismas’ undying gratitude to Him and would understand his reasoning for leaving.

  Dismas walked back to the inn to retrieve his donkey. He turned a corner onto one of the streets in a part of town he had not been to yet
and entered into a small square crowded with people going about their business. Dismas stopped suddenly when he spotted two figures near a stone fountain in the middle of the square. The two Jews were in deep conversation and paid no attention to those who brushed by them on their way to their destinations. One of the men was Peter, who had spoken to on the hill in Bethsaida before the miracle with the fish and the bread. Dismas’ heart leapt at this unexpected development. He had found a disciple of Jesus at the very moment he stopped actively searching.

  Dismas approached Peter and his companion. Overjoyed at seeing him, he disregarded the fact he was interrupting a private conversation.

  “Peter! Do you remember me from the hilltop? I’m Dismas. You introduced me to Jesus in Bethsaida, and He saved my friend’s life.”

  Peter blinked at him without recognition as searched his brain for recollection as to the identity of this excited man. Then his face relaxed as the memory of their first brief meeting slowly came back to him.

  Dismas continued, “I have been wanting to thank Jesus ever since that day. Leah, my friend, made a full recovery from her illness as promised by Jesus. I owe Him a tremendous gratitude.”

  Peter put his hand on Dismas’ shoulder. “Dismas! I am glad that your friend’s health has been restored. Jesus is only a couple blocks from here. Andrew…” he gestured to the man that was with him, “…and I are about to return to Him, and we can bring you along if you would like. Rabbi is busy, but I am sure He will be happy to talk to you again for a moment.”

  Dismas thanked Peter and introduced himself to Andrew. He was honored to meet another disciple of Jesus. The three men walked a short distance to a small house wedged tightly in between the homes on either side. When they went inside the narrow one-story dwelling, Dismas saw roughly a dozen people seated on the floor. The group was mostly men along with a few women and they were seated in a semicircle around a familiar figure.