TWENTY-TWO
THE GARDEN.
FRIDAY.
Peter, sick to his stomach, watched as the vehicles moved off. The searchlight from the helicopter vanished. The pitch of the engine changed, noise from the rotors beating a farewell. Apart from intermittent pools of street lighting, he was left in darkness.
What would Jesus do, he asked himself. Helpless as a baby torn from its mother's breast his response was to break down and cry. Weeping uncontrollably he realised this was the first time in three years he'd been deprived of the wisdom of Jesus, and crushed by a paralysing fear he raged against the injustice of the situation.
Tired, exhausted by fear, he lapsed into silence, staring down the empty street at a complete loss. For how long he didn't know. It was as if he'd sunk into a trance that was only broken by a low voice calling his name. He spun round, stared into the blackness of the gardens. 'Who's there?'
A figure emerged from the bushes.
'You been there long?' Peter needed to know how much of his distress John had witnessed.
John shook his head. 'Nah. I was hiding in the gardens. I thought it was time to come out for a look and saw you standing there. You alright?'
It was a stupid question, Peter thought, but didn't say. Now wasn't the time. He shrugged, mumbled an affirmative, asked about the others.
'Dunno. I'm surprised they didn't take us all.'
'They don't want the headless chickens, mate.' Peter told him. 'Look how we scattered when trouble came.'
'You didn't.'
'Over too quick, John. I was rooted to the spot.'
They discussed the night's events, speculated where Jesus might have been taken.
' State Security HQ.' John suggested.
'It’ll be the Temple.' Peter said. 'Pilate won't want anything to do with it. It'll be Caiaphas up to his tricks.'
'It was the Polizei who came for him.' John reminded.
'Means nothing.' Peter declared. 'C'mon, let's go.'
'Go where?' John didn't want to admit he just wanted to go home.
'Temple.' Peter gave him a look. 'We need to be there when the Boss is released.'
John looked at Peter. Had he lost it? Was the strain proving too great, had he not heard a thing Jesus said last night? This is my body. This is my blood. Eat, drink, and remember me. He couldn't see Jesus coming out of this alive.
Peter moved off down the street. 'C'mon.'
John sighed, followed.
✝
Inside the Temple.
Early hours in the Holy Place. The flickering light from the candle gave Caiaphas just enough light to see where he was going as he paced from the door to the curtain. Every time he reached the curtain, he stopped and gazed upon it with awe. To think that the living presence of God was behind the thick material screen, and that he, Caiaphas, high priest of the Jews, was the one man alive allowed to venture into the most holy place. And that was only permitted on one day a year; Yom Kippur or the Day of Atonement. He looked at the curtain now, at the fine linen, at the angels embroidered in blue, purple, scarlet yarn, and marvelled.
He sighed, turned, and paced the short distance to the door, turned, and repeated the journey. As he walked, he worried if he was doing the right thing. He'd asked God, but God was silent on the subject. He would have to decide for himself. It was a heavy burden. The future of his faith depended on getting it right. He glanced at his watch. They must have detained Jesus by now, or had he wriggled free like so many previous occasions? He resisted the temptation to contact the officer in charge of the squad. Radio silence had been agreed, the fewer people who knew about the nights work the better. Time enough for the world to know.
On and on he paced, the minutes ticking by. Caiaphas mentally prepared himself for the forthcoming chat with the so-called Messiah. His aim, get Jesus to condemn himself through his own words, to provoke the man into discretion that could be viewed as blasphemy. He'd need the backing of the Sanhedrin, but they would follow where Caiaphas led. There would be no option other than to convict Jesus, and that would mean one outcome, death.
✝
Outside the Temple.
Speaking little, Peter and John moved through the darkened streets. Reaching the Temple, they were surprised to find a small group of people gathered, with others arriving in dribs and drabs. They eased their way through the knots of people, trying not to draw attention to themselves. Peter heard the name Jesus mentioned a few times.
'They know.' He whispered to John.
John nodded.
Up against the closed gates, Peter stared at the Temple complex, wondered where Jesus might be, how he might be feeling. Lights shone from some windows and high above the ground he could see a figure at a window.
✝
Inside the Temple.
The waiting was over.
Jesus, to Caiaphas' relief, had been arrested by the Polizei and handed over to the Temple guards. They would bring him upstairs to be questioned. It wouldn't be long now, Caiaphas thought. He could hear the low buzz of excited, nervous chatter from the large meeting room next door, where selected members of the Sanhedrin, summoned from their beds amidst much grumbling, were beginning to gather.
Waiting in the anteroom, Caiaphas looked out of the window. A silent crowd gathered by the gates. It seemed to be swelling as he watched, people pouring down the streets to join those already assembled. As he continued to watch large vans bearing the logo of Northumbria Broadcasting pulled up, technicians dismounted, started assembling camera equipment. Caiaphas sucked his teeth, realised it was bound to happen. Nothing could be kept secret in the present age. He turned from the window, shook his head in amusement. What was it about this Jesus that attracted so much attention?
There was a light tap on the door. It opened on Caiaphas' command, and then, there he was, the man who'd brought so much grief into his life, Jesus.
Caiaphas looked at him, savouring the moment. It had taken a long time, but now, the pendulum had swung the other way. The months, years, of Jesus setting the agenda, were over. The rightful order had been restored. Caiaphas slowed his breathing, tried to quell his mounting excitement, told himself this was the right course of action. He couldn’t think of a better way to preserve the integrity of the Jewish faith.
Jesus, blindfolded, wearing light coloured trousers, a short-sleeved blue shirt, stood before him, silent. It looked as though he'd been struck in the face. A mark on his jaw, a cut lip. He looked at the guards holding Jesus by the arms. They stared back, giving nothing. He should have realised one of them would get carried away. Still, it should make it easier now he'd been softened up. He smiled to himself, with luck this would be the end of Jesus and all this Messiah nonsense. He turned and led the way through to the meeting room where his handpicked court waited.
✝
Outside the Temple.
The roving news reporter drifted through the crowd, cameraman a pace behind. Nothing much was happening. He was bored, tired and annoyed he'd been dragged out of bed for this non-event. He stopped every so often, stuck his fluffy microphone under a fresh nose, asked for an opinion on, what they thought was happening. Had Jesus been arrested? What would happen next? Had he been charged? Anything to keep the news machine churning.
Peter and John kept out of his way. Whenever it seemed he might get close, they moved position, turned their faces away. He seemed to ghost through the throng, Peter thought, popping up when least expected.
'What does Jesus mean to you, are you a follower?' He asked a man a few metres away. Peter shifted his balance, didn't wait for the answer. He slid round a large woman, and raised his eyebrows at John who shrugged.
The dark of the night was fading, the sun lurking just below the horizon. It might be his imagination Peter realised, but it seemed as though a number of people were looking at him with recognition. He moved through the crowd avoiding eye contact. They should get away while they had the chance, save themselves. They couldn't do anything
to help Jesus. He was lost, trapped in the machine, at the whim of forces beyond their control. Just because the disciples hadn't been arrested yet didn't mean it wouldn't happen. He was just about to suggest leaving when a woman whispered to her companion who stared at the two disciples. He nodded in confirmation. The woman hesitantly approached Peter. 'Do I know you?'
'No.' Peter frowned, turned to John for support but he'd vanished into the crowd.
'I do.' The woman insisted. 'You're one of the disciples.'
'I can assure you, I'm not.' Peter replied forcibly.
The woman looked puzzled as Peter moved away. He searched for John as he walked but couldn't see him. The crowd by now had swollen to a vast number. No chance, Peter thought. John would have to fend for himself. He abruptly cannoned off a man who staggered backwards. 'Watch where you're going, mate.'
Peter muttered an apology, moved off. The man grabbed his arm. 'It's Pete, isn't it? One of Jesus' disciples. What's happening, mate? Any news?'
'You've got me confused with somebody else.' Peter told him, pulling his arm free. As he moved off, the man insisted to anybody who'd listen that the disciples were in the crowd.
It was getting lighter all the time. The crowd was getting anxious, bored, agitated. In the absence of news, rumours started. Jesus was free, was talking to the TV people. Jesus was dead, shot while trying to escape. Jesus had taken over, was established in the Governor's residence. Peter heard the rumours, ignored them. He just wanted away.
At last, the crowd thinned, it became easier to move, and a side street appeared. He was about to turn into it when a black fluffy microphone was thrust under his nose. 'And here we have Peter, right hand man of Jesus for the last three years. You were there, I understand, Peter, when Jesus was arrested. Can you tell the viewers what happened?'
Peter looked beyond the reporter into the unblinking eye of the camera. 'It wasn't me. I wasn't there.' He turned, and ran down the empty street. As he fled, heart pounding, the first cockerel of the day began to crow.
✝
Inside the Temple.
Caiaphas registered the faint crowing of a cockerel as he began outlining the case against Jesus. Dawn already. They needed to move fast. He cleared his throat, and addressed the court. 'Here is Jesus. Take a good look at him. This self-proclaimed Messiah. The son of the living God.'
He paused for effect, taking a sip of water. 'Ask yourselves, would God allow his son to be arrested, bound, blindfolded and brought before you in this condition? Where are the angels to protect him, to guard him? Don't you think God's son could summon legions of angels for protection?'
There was murmuring from the assembled Pharisees, and teachers of the law.
Caiaphas let his words settle for a few moments. He crooked a finger at a guard, whispered in the man's ear, watched with a smile as the guard slapped Jesus hard across the cheek.
Shocked, the court fell silent.
'Jesus,' Caiaphas mocked, 'shouldn't you now turn the other cheek?'
Caiaphas felt a burning rage as Jesus turned his head to one side. He lashed out, striking Jesus. 'So, Jesus, son of God, famed prophet of Whitby, who struck you?
Silence.
'Can't speak, won't speak.' Caiaphas turned to the court. 'We've never known the man so silent, have we?'
Somebody laughed.
'Three years he's been travelling around Northumbria, proclaiming this new kingdom,' Caiaphas went on, warming to his task. 'God's kingdom. It's here. It's now.’
'Well gentlemen, it's not either of those things. God is in heaven. He hasn't sent his son to be with us, this man is no more God's son than Brotherton is.
More laughter. Brotherton acknowledged the recognition with a little bow.
'No,' the high priest continued in a lower tone. 'This man is an imposter. For reasons best known to himself, he's come along to trap the unwary. Well he's done plenty of that these last three years. He's played us all for gullible fools. Well enough is enough.'
'Excuse me?'
Caiaphas looked at O'Deamus.
'Yes?'
'Is it possible for the blindfold to be removed? I think at least Jesus should be able to see his accusers.'
Caiaphas snapped his fingers and waited while a guard removed the blindfold.
Jesus blinked in the harsh lighting of the committee room, focussed, and looked at O'Deamus, who looked away.
Caiaphas drank more water. This was going well. He had most of the members with him, O'Deamus the possible exception. It was time to introduce the first of the two witnesses. He’d decided not to over complicate the case. The more charges, the more witnesses, would mean more room for doubt, more wriggle room. A simple conviction for blasphemy would suffice.
Caiaphas drained his glass, signalled for more water and ordered the guards to produce the first witness. He paced up and down while he waited for the man to be summoned. Once the witness had been sworn in, Caiaphas asked him to repeat what he'd heard. It should be simple. He’d been told the exact words to say, was being paid well enough to say them.
The witness, a middle-aged man, avoided looking at Jesus. 'I heard this man say, "I will destroy this building with my own hands and in three days will build another, not with my own hands."'
'"This building?'" Caiaphas frowned. 'Which building?'
'This building, sir. The Temple, sir.'
Caiaphas nodded. The cretin had got there in the end. 'What do you say to this testimony against you, Jesus?'
Silence.
'Are you not going to speak?' Caiaphas shook his head in amusement. 'You always have so much to say, but when it's important to speak, you remain silent.'
Silence.
'Are you sure?' Caiaphas goaded. 'This is your opportunity to defend yourself.'
Jesus remained silent. Caiaphas would have expected the Messiah to speak, at least in his own defence. 'Very well.' He dismissed the witness, called the next and last witness.
There was a short delay while the witness was located in the toilets. He stood before the court now, and was asked what he'd heard. He replied confidently. 'This man said, "Angels would destroy the Temple and everybody in it, and then three days later he would rebuild it from the ruins."'
Caiaphas thanked him, told him he could leave. 'What do you say, Jesus?'
Silence.
Caiaphas sucked his teeth. He needed Jesus to speak, to condemn himself with his own words. It was one thing having witnesses, video evidence, recordings, but the court needed to hear it from Jesus himself. He pushed his frustration aside, the last thing he needed was an acquittal, or not proven verdict. He could feel the eyes of the court on him. He was so close. Perhaps he hadn't asked the right question. He turned, addressed Jesus. 'Are you the Messiah, the Son of God?'
'I am,' Jesus spoke for the first time. 'And you will see the Son of Man sitting at the right hand of the Mighty One and coming on the clouds of heaven.'
Caiaphas nodded, and smirked in triumph as he addressed the court. 'And there we have it. Do we need any more witnesses? I think not. You have heard this blasphemy.' He paused, savouring the moment. 'What is your verdict?'
There were several shouts of death, and crucify him. A show of hands was taken and despite a few abstentions, there were more than enough votes for the death penalty. Caiaphas called for silence, and addressed Jesus. 'It is the sentence of this court that you be taken from here to a place of crucifixion and nailed to a cross until you die. May God have mercy on your soul.'
Caiaphas tried not to let his triumph show. His outward persona calm, inside he was doing back flips. Calm down, he told himself. Pilate still had to be convinced to ratify the decision of the Sanhedrin.
Jesus, who was silent throughout the voting, was blindfolded again and led out. The more belligerent members of the court formed two lines through which he was forced to walk while they kicked and spat on him.
✝
Askham Bryan, Near York, Northumbria
Swanger pottered around
her tiny kitchen, the radio playing in the background. She’d just finished her second coffee of the day, and was beginning to feel human when a change in pitch on the radio, something akin to excitement, caught her attention.
'...ing news. We're receiving reports that the renowned prophet, Jesus of Whitby, has been arrested, and is being questioned in connection with the recent terror campaign mounted by Four Kingdoms United. We've tried speaking with his inner circle of followers, the disciples, but nobody is available for comment at present. A Polizei spokesperson wouldn't be drawn on the reports either. So, stay tuned and we'll keep you updated with the latest reports as we get them.
Now a quick weather summary before we return to the studio, it's hot and sunny all the way. And remember, the hosepipe ban is still in force.'
It was a surprise it had taken so long, Swanger thought as she washed, dried, put away her breakfast things. It must be a Polizei operation, she decided, the SS had long since lost interest in Jesus.
Leaving the house her phone rang. It was an upset, indignant Barnabas, wanting to know if she knew, or worse, had been part of the operation to arrest Jesus. She assured him she didn't know beforehand, had not been involved. He wanted to talk more but she told him later. Right now, she intended wrapping things up with Beaumont and Bocus.
TWENTY-THREE
STATE SECURITY HQ, YORK, NORTHUMBRIA.
Beaumont studied his face in the mirror. He didn't think he looked too bad considering he'd been in a vegetative state less than twelve hours ago. He needed a shave but that could wait. He blew air through his teeth, was surprised, amazed to be alive. When the white clad officials had entered his room the night before and started messing with the IV lines, he'd assumed the worst. Couldn't believe it when they removed the needles from his arms, unhooked all the equipment. The lead nurse had patted him on the cheek, told him to get a good night's sleep. Tomorrow was a big day.
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