Holy Smoke: A Jerusalem Mystery

by Frederick Ramsay

  “It has happened before.”

  “Because we earned the Lord’s wrath. That is no longer possible. We have the written Law now.”

  “For your sake I hope you are right, but you miss my point. Again I ask you to assume the impossible and see where it takes you. Were that to happen and you found yourself exiled to Memphis or Alexandria, would you call yourself an Egyptian or an Israelite?”

  “I see—Israelite. What my descendents might call themselves I do not know, but I believe that if that were to happen and we were all scattered again, it would be only a matter of time before we returned and reestablished the Nation. It would be the wish of Ha Shem that we live in the land he gave us.” Gamaliel frowned, “Sorry, you were saying?”

  “Only that Ali and I share professional secrets. Also, he teaches me about his culture. I tell him what I know of ours. It is very broadening, Rabban, you should try it.”

  “Indeed? Why?”

  “Never mind. You are an unreconstructed rabbi from Jerusalem. The effort would be wasted on you. Come sit in the shade, drink some wine, and tell me of your interviews with the man Jacob and the guard and I will tell you what I have discovered about our corpse.”

  “Good. Stick with the problem at hand. I must say, however, that your friend intrigues me.”

  “How so?”

  “I can’t say exactly but…Some wine and to work.”

  Chapter VII

  Gamaliel sat on the bench which Loukas had previously moved into the shade. “I did not see your servant, Draco. Is he not well?”

  “You know the story of poor Draco, how I pulled him from the gutter and of his terrible disease. He has had a turn for the worse. I’m afraid he will not live to see Passover. My hope is that he does not suffer much. The disease has ravaged all of his body. His pain, in spite of the medications I gave him, is terrible.”

  “Medications you gave. You no longer offer him relief?”

  “No, I still do. I am trying a new one that Ali, my visitor, brought to me. It seems to have worked a small miracle. At least Draco is sleeping quietly for a change—something he has not done for days.”

  “And what is this new potion you have from your Assyrian friend—or is he Parthian?”

  “I cannot say. He tells me it is the extract made from the sap of poppy flowers. But I have tried that before with only limited success, so this must be something new.”

  “Well, as long as it works.”

  “Indeed. It is a palliative only, Rabban, but it works. In the end it will only make his passing easier. And for him a quick death would be a blessing.”

  “A blessing certainly, but not to be wished for, Loukas. You are a healer. Doesn’t your code call for you to do all in your power to preserve life?”

  “It also states ‘First, do no harm.’ What good can come from prolonging a man’s suffering? In Draco’s case there is nothing to hope for and only pain to keep him company. I can ease that, and I may not deny him treatment. I will not stint in doing everything I can to ease his way, but a speedy death? Yes, I will pray for it.”

  Gamaliel would not argue the point. He had seen Draco on his previous visits and knew that death would be welcome. The ethics of advancing or delaying a death were far too complex to wrestle with today. Besides he wanted to know what Loukas had discovered.

  “Well, to the business at hand. Tell me the dead man’s secrets, then.”

  “His secrets? I cannot tell you much of them. I think, rather, it is his murderer’s secrets we should be digging out.”

  “You insist the man is a murder victim and his death is not the result of stupidity. Loukas, the poles and sacking notwithstanding, doesn’t the evidence point to a crazed or foolish man tempting the Lord? He enters, perhaps on a dare, perhaps as a test of his own faith, or perhaps out of lunacy. In the Presence he is consumed, or nearly so, by Ha Shem’s wrath.”

  “It would be the high priest’s desired story. I know that faith in the Temple, its traditions, its history, and Torah would be strengthened if that were the case. But that body lying in my storage area will not cooperate. I am sorry, Rabban, but something else happened to that man first.”

  Gamaliel sighed. Would nothing end simply? “And you say that because of what you found on inspecting it?”

  “What I discovered and had confirmed by Ali bin Selah.”

  “You had the pagan look at him. Was that wise?”

  “Why not? The man is dead. What harm can come to him now if a pagan or a dozen pagans look at him? He will be no less dead, and a worse state is not possible.”

  “But…” Gamaliel started to object to the thought of a pagan, an Assyrian at that, inspecting the body of one of the Faith, maimed and unrecognizable as it might be. But he knew Loukas and his acquired Greek ways and let it slide. “So, then what did you and your colleague find?”

  “You remember the general condition of the body? He had been badly burned from just below his knees to his forehead.”

  “Yes I remember, and…?”

  “Assuming for the moment that your notion of a wrathful deity scorched him, why not from the feet to the top of his head?”

  “No one knows how holy fire might be applied.”

  “No, of course not, but one would think it would be mighty and all consuming. Yet this man is merely seared on the front. In fact, his clothing, what is left of it, on his back is hardly soiled, much less burned. Doesn’t that suggest something less than the wrath of the Lord?”

  “It suggests one of two things, each of which must be considered. On the one hand the Lord does not utilize fiery punishment in the magnitude we assumed or, on the other, the burns were administered by some other entity.”

  “Good. We are agreed. Now the next thing I discovered was the presence in the burns of ash and bits of burnt wood.”

  “Wood? Then you suppose he must have fallen into a fire pit or the like and died.”

  “Except there is evidence he had been bound for some time and was still bound when he died.”

  “You can tell that?”

  “It is the matter of where and how the blood settles in wounds and so on. There is no mistaking it. This man had been bound before he received those burns.”

  “Then you are saying he did not fall into a fire. He was pushed?”

  “I believe he was thrown in, Rabban. He had been tied up, I don’t know exactly how. I am still working on that. Then carried to and dropped into the flames.”

  Gamaliel shuddered at the thought. “It would be a terrible way to die, face down in a pile of red hot coals.”

  “If that is the way he died.”

  “Pardon? If? What are you suggesting? That he didn’t die in the fire? How then?”

  “I think the man died before the burns occurred, although I would not put my seal on it.”

  “You have doubts?”

  “I could state for certain that the worst of the wounds were post mortem, but not all. I do not think it significant, but suggest we keep it in mind when we make our inquiries.”

  “Our inquiries? You are not supposing that you and I…that we are setting out to unmask a murder?”

  “It would not be the first time.”

  “I made a solemn promise to myself after the Feast of Tabernacles that I would never allow myself to be drawn into another investigation. Finding murderers and evil doers is the function of the guards, of those tasked to enforce the Law, not I, never again.”

  “But you are the rabban of the Sanhedrin. The Sanhedrin is the keeper of the Law.”

  “Only as long as the Caesar in Rome allows it to be so.”

  “True enough, but Rome does allow it, and as the rabbi’s rabbi and the chief officer in the Sanhedrin, you are ultimately responsible for the keeping the Law. Ergo, the discovery of this man’s killer ultimately falls on you.”

  “Nonsense. I am the chief interpreter of Moses’ Law, of Torah, but breaches of the peace and the lawbreaking of thieves and murderers is for others.”
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br />   “The circumstances of his death, if the high priest has his way, make it Torah. And if you do not pursue it, this man’s killer or killers will go free. You know that in your heart. You know that if the generally accepted notion that the Lord struck this man down like Uzza is upheld, a murderer goes free. You cannot let that happen, Rabban. It is your duty to see that it doesn’t.”

  “Uzza died because he reached for the Ark as it fell from a cart. He did not invade the Temple.”

  “It is a difference without a distinction and, as you so recently educated me to the fact, there is no Ark in the Temple.”

  Gamaliel shook his head and set his cup down on the table with a bang. “Of course you’re right. That is, if your notion of murder is correct. I must withhold judgment as to that for now. You know, Loukas, there are days when I wish I had never met you. Please refill this cup and help me decide what I must do next.”

  Chapter VIII

  The Shofars sounded the eighth hour as Gamaliel stepped through the doorway of his home. He felt dizzy and his stomach growled. Loukas’ wine, he thought, must have gone to his head. Three draughts from the sixth hour on was neither usual nor prudent, especially since he had missed breaking his fast. The murder at the Temple had severely disrupted his routine and Gamaliel, if nothing else, was a creature wedded to routine. His servant scowled disapprovingly at him and laid the remains of his afternoon meal on the table, supplemented with a bowl of lentils Gamaliel supposed was meant to make up for a missed breakfast.

  The burning question was, if Loukas had it right, what sort of person would stage such a grotesque murder? That assumed it was murder. He held out the hope that, in spite of the evidence pointing to this conclusion, Loukas had it wrong. But for now he had to accept that Loukas had the correct line on the circumstances surrounding the death, that it had been a murder committed elsewhere. He wished it were not, wished the more conventional solution would prevail. If the dead man were only a lunatic or fool who’d barged into the Temple, everyone would be happy and the case quickly forgotten. But in his heart Gamaliel knew that conventional thinking would not serve. Whether he or the Temple Party liked it or not, what occurred the previous night in the Holy of Holies probably constituted murder, pure and simple.

  But who had been killed, and by whom, how, and why?

  “Benyamin,” he said to the servant who hovered at his side, “assume you are a murderer.”

  The servant held a ewer of goat’s milk in one hand and a cloth in the other. “Master…I am what? I don’t follow you.”

  “This is a hypothetical —”

  “A what?”

  “You remember being young. Didn’t you and your playmates sometime pretend to be warriors, or great men?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well then, suppose in this game you are a desperate murderer. How would you go about the deed?”

  “I cannot imagine. A murderer, you say, Rabban. Surely you are not suggesting I am capable of such a thing?”

  “I believe, Benyamin, as the prophet says, people are capable of all sorts of evil under the sun. You are, I am, and everyone is, if pressed hard enough, capable of doing nearly anything. It is why we are so determined to keep the Law, why Moses carried it to us exactly as delivered to him by Ha Shem.”

  “You wish me to commit a murder?”

  “Not a real one, Benyamin, a pretend one. Just tell me your thinking if you were to contemplate such a thing.”

  The servant put the jug of milk on the table and sniffed. The scent of cooking still lingered in the room. He twisted a cloth in his hands. Gamaliel thought he looked miserable.

  “I had hoped that would never come to light,” Benyamin said.

  “You hoped what would never come to light? Benyamin, now I am as confused as you look.”

  “I assure to you, Rabban, as the Lord is my witness, it was an accident. Yes, I carried a great deal of anger at the time, and, yes, I brought the club to the meeting intending to harm the man who had dishonored my sister, but I did not mean to kill him.”

  “Benyamin, I have no idea what you are talking about. What man dishonored your…you have a sister?”

  “Sir, I…I thought you knew.”

  “We have gotten off on the wrong foot, I think. Perhaps you had better tell me your story now and then I will ask my question again.”

  Benyamin wiped his eyes and haltingly poured out his tale—of a younger sister dishonored by a neighbor. He did not explain how she’d lost her honor and Gamaliel did not ask. Benyamin, then the hot-tempered brother and filled with righteous anger, confronted the miscreant and words led to blows and blows to a clubbing and the neighbor then slipped and fell against a boulder. The wound inflicted by the stone had caused the death and Benyamin had been cleared of any wrongdoing, but it had preyed on his mind all these years.

  “I see. Well, Benyamin, you were found not to be responsible for the man’s death then. So be it. You must put it aside and trust the Lord to be forgiving and understanding.”

  “Yes, Rabban. So, is that what you wished to have me confess?”

  “No, it is not. What I hoped you would do is consider in a pretend fashion…pretend, you understand…how you would plan a murder if you wanted to commit one. But I can see that exercise would be useless at this point.”

  “I could try.”

  “Yes? Well, go ahead.”

  Benyamin screwed up his face in concentration. If there was a machine between his ears Gamaliel thought he surely would hear the wheels clacking away.

  “It is no use, sir. I am not capable of such a thing, despite my sordid past. Only…”

  “Only what?”

  “Well, I would say that if I were contemplating such a terrible thing, I would make sure that I masked the reason why I did it so as not to lead the authorities back to me.”

  “You would separate the deed from the motive. Well, thank you for that, Benyamin. I think I will sit in the sun for a while. If anyone stops to talk, I am not available. That is especially true of the high priest and any of the Temple officials.”

  “You are not at home. I understand. Ah…when do you plan on being at home?”

  Gamaliel scratched his head, measured his fatigue which by now, and after a meal, nearly overwhelmed him. “I will be away for at least three hours.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Gamaliel walked into the inner court and reclined on a bench which he’d earlier covered with mats. He would lie down and bask in the afternoon sun. He would consider the problem set before him. Perhaps if he turned over the facts of the case, as he had done in the past when called on to sort through something as grisly as this, he would begin to understand.

  The sun hovered near the western horizon when he awoke. Benyamin stood over him with a damp cloth and a cup.

  “Sir, I did not want to disturb you, but it is nearly evening and I know you always have your devotions before supper. Are you all right? You’ve been asleep for a long time.”

  “I am fine. What’s in the cup?”

  “A little wine thinned with water, sir. I believe you were dreaming and I thought you might…I thought it would freshen your mouth.”

  “Thank you.” He sat up, took the cup of watered wine, sipped, swirled the liquid in his mouth, and swallowed. It did remove the sour taste.

  Dreaming. Had he been? About what? He relaxed his mind and allowed his waking thoughts to return. A man with a mask, a very large mask that nearly covered the upper portion of his body bobbed, and danced before him, a cup in his hand. The whole area seemed filled with smoke which only made the place darker and more forbidding. The face, if that is what the mask depicted, changed, first sad, then happy, then fierce and dangerous. Suddenly a body appeared at the mask bearer’s feet. It was the burned man—only he wasn’t burned. Then the masked figure waved his hand over the body and it thrashed about and the burns appeared. The mask smiled and that was when Benyamin woke him. What on earth did all that mean? Oh, to have the mighty Josef of
Egypt here to interpret it.

  His sleeping resulted in his missing the guard change at sunset. Tomorrow would be soon enough. Maybe by then Loukas would have discovered something new from his inspection of the body. It was time to sup and then read until sleep came again. He would think about his dream later.

  Chapter IX

  As it happened, reading did not occupy Gamaliel’s evening as he’d planned. After eating his evening meal he’d retired to his reading room, the one room in his house which he insisted be exclusively his. Even when his wife lived and his children were young and underfoot, they rarely entered his personal version of the Holy of Holies. It was here that he kept his scrolls and books, his writing materials and blank sheets of papyrus in neat stacks on a table in one corner. There he would retreat to study, to find quiet and, since the death of his wife, peace and solitude. He lit his specially designed lamp with its multiple wicks. It alone could provide sufficient light for his failing eyesight to read the crabbed glyphs that marched across ancient panes. Because he had slept so soundly during the afternoon, he added a larger portion of oil to the lamp so that it would burn longer than usual. He would read, he thought, and let his mind find loftier things to occupy it than the sordid business in the Temple.

  But it never happened. Even before the night’s second hour had elapsed, his eyes strayed from the words on the sheet before him to be replaced by images from his dream—the man behind the grimacing mask, bobbing and weaving over the body. He could almost smell burned flesh. Did this uncomfortable apparition have anything to do with the desecration of the Holy of Holies? He shuddered.

  As much as he wished it otherwise, he knew the mystery must be resolved and quickly. He pushed aside the document in front of him and replaced it with a fresh sheet of papyrus, part of a lot he’d purchased the previous week. The seller had assured him that, though the leaves had been used before to record some official transaction or other, each one had been carefully sanded and could be used without fear of introducing an error caused by an unintended neqqudot.