by Brock Thoene
“She was . . . very ill.”
“Dead, I’d say.” The boy was matter-of-fact in his report.
“Yes. So it seemed.”
“You doubt it now that you’re a few days down the road. But I saw what I saw. And you saw it too.” Avel covered his legs with the fresh straw. “What will you tell them?”
“Who?”
“The important men who give charity straw to the quarry Sparrows? The men who sit in the marble halls of the council chamber? The ones who sent you to bring a report?”
“You know a lot for a young boy.”
“I carried the torches through the streets of Yerushalayim for the likes of your honor. Such important men often talk in front of Sparrows as if we’re deaf. Or very dumb. But we’re not. And so ask a little bird what secrets there are in Yerushalayim. We can tell more than you think.”
“You’re a clever lad. Would you like to come back to the city with me? Tell what you saw and heard to the learned rabbi Gamaliel?”
Avel shook his head firmly. “We’re going to Beth-lehem.”
“Why Beth-lehem?” It was a curious choice for a destination. Beth-lehem was an inconsequential village, mostly inhabited by shepherds. It was near the place where Rachel, wife of the patriarch Jacob, died giving birth to the youngest of Jacob’s children. Her tomb was there still.
“To Migdal Eder.”
“The Tower of the Flock? But why?” Nakdimon’s interest was further aroused. There had always been a watchtower for the shepherds called Migdal Eder, ever since Jacob’s day. Jacob, renamed Isra’el by the Lord God, had pitched his tents there, raised his flocks there, and reared his brood of twelve sons there.
“I have a message to carry to someone.”
“The message being?”
Avel shook his head. “I’m only to mention it to the one it’s for.”
Nakdimon raised his eyebrows. “Well, then. Take your message to Beth-lehem and then come back to Yerushalayim. You give your report, and I promise I’ll find an apprenticeship for you. What occupation would you like to learn?”
“I wanted to kill Romans. But I changed my mind.” Avel glanced down at Emet’s bloody feet. “Maybe a shoemaker. I’d make Emet a pair of shoes to fit his feet.”
“Come along with me to the Holy City. Testify to what you saw in regard to your rebel friends and Yeshua, and I’ll find you a position.”
The child studied the crust of barley bread in his hand. “You saw what I saw. And you’re a ruler of Israel. They’ll take your word for it over mine.”
“I’d like them to hear you.”
“No, your honor, thank you. Now I’m a messenger.”
Nakdimon probed. “What message? Who at Migdal Eder are you to see?” Was this a hint at rebellion? Clever. Who would suspect a child to carry word of Galilean revolt to the shepherds of the flock? It was a possibility.
Avel’s mouth clamped tight. Had he read Nakdimon’s curiosity as a threat? Yes. Perhaps it was a threat. What if these three children were part of the rebel band from the north? Did they bring some plan for revolution? The shepherds of Migdal Eder had easy access to the Temple when they brought their flocks in from Beth-lehem.
Nakdimon had pushed too hard. Avel was not talking. The boy slipped down into the bedding and squeezed his eyes shut. Avel was not asleep, Nakdimon knew, but he was finished with this conversation.
A wave of weariness washed over Nakdimon. He tucked his chin against his chest and finally drifted off.
ELOHIM
The next day it was not much out of the way to detour through Bethany on the way from Caesarea to Jerusalem. Marcus Longi nus, acutely aware that Miryam lived nearby with her brother and spinster sister, slowed Pavor’s pace as he approached the town.
The market square was bustling with activity. Mistresses of households, with children and servants following behind, moved from stall to stall.
Was she among them?
The aroma of baking bread surrounded him. It was a tangible thing, awakening his senses and making him hungry.
In the same way, he sensed her nearness. This was the street where she walked as a child. There, beyond the well, was the synagogue where her family had doubtless prayed. Behind the withered faces of merchants lurked memories of her girlhood, of her father, her mother, the scandal of a life taken by madness at the edge of the water.
What if he stepped from Pavor, his fiery black horse, and bought a bunch of figs to eat from that old woman under the striped awning? What if he asked her as he held out the coins, “Do you know Miryam? Sister of El’azar? What sort of young girl was she before her mother killed herself ?”
Just to hear someone else describe her as she was, as she had been known! That would be like fresh hot bread to Marcus’ famished soul.
Her soul was a flower before the stone fell on her.
And somehow, in an instant, Yeshua had made her bloom again. Then suddenly, without grief or guilt or bitterness to weigh her down, she had drifted away from Marcus forever. He stood tottering between the reality of his occupation and the hope that someone like Yeshua could change the world for the better.
Marcus, afflicted by duty and doubt, gladly afflicted others. He would not be good for Miryam since she had let go of her past. He wanted everything, wanted her as he had known her, though he loved her better now that she was someone else. After she met Yeshua, she wanted what she had only so she could give it away. Marcus would drag her down, weigh her down like stones, if she were to love him still.
He knew she didn’t cling to even one shred of anger.
But he carried anger like a sword in its scabbard, waiting to be drawn and used.
If only he could see her . . .
He scanned the faces of the market crowd in search of her. He would know her walk, the way she held her head and reached out her hand to examine an orange.
She was not there.
He listened for the familiar laughter. He would follow the sound of it the way a weary man follows the path to a cool spring.
She was not there.
On impulse he stopped at the baker’s stall and purchased a warm loaf. Holding it up to inhale the aroma he asked the baker, “The house of Master El’azar of Bethany? You know where it is?” Marcus felt clever that he hadn’t let on he was really asking where Miryam the notorious sister lived.
The fellow eyed him with suspicion. Why would a centurion want to know such a thing? He raised a flour-dusted hand and pointed beyond the boundaries of the town toward a fig orchard and the red tiled roof of an enormous villa. “There.” He might have added, And what makes you think you’d be welcome?
Marcus paid him a penny and bought a jug of cider to wash down his breakfast. He stood in the street for a while and stared at the red roof floating like an island on the green sea of the orchard.
As he rode past the lane that led to Miryam’s home he imagined what she would be doing at this hour of the morning. Perhaps she would walk out? Stroll with her sister into the village, see him riding by on Pavor, greet him and gaze at him the way she used to?
But the lane remained empty.
Still, he wondered if she was somehow aware of his passing by so near her this morning.
The journey south from Galilee had been long and dusty. Nakdimon’s three youthful companions on the back of the donkey had finally lapsed into the silence of exhaustion. Forward progress along the highway slowed as they approached the eastern bank of the river.
The waters of the Jordan were swollen with heavy Spring rains. The ford beyond Jericho was usually no higher than mid-calf. Today the current was swift and waist deep, making the crossing difficult.
On this eastern bank Jacob had wrestled with the Angel of Adonai’s Presence. At the end of the struggle Jacob was renamed Isra’el, meaning “Prince of God.”
It was also near this place that the Lord had parted the waters of the river for Jacob’s descendants. Led by the Ark of the Covenant and carrying the bones of Jacob’s
son Joseph, the Israelites had returned from Egypt’s slavery to the land promised to their fathers.
Evidence of the Lord’s power had not been visible in Israel for centuries, Nakdimon mused, as he took his place in the line waiting to cross. No parting of waters. No pillar of fire. No Shekinah glory suffusing the sanctuary. What was the Temple if the Shekinah was not within? Glorious stones rising like a mountain on Zion. Songs of praise. Endless prayers for forgiveness. The collecting of tithes. The bleating of tens of thousands of sheep. The blood of sacrifices.
But no miracles.
Nakdimon considered again that this crowd of farmers and peasants, a microcosm of the nation, was thickly larded with thieves, tax collectors, and rebels. Saint and sinners, they were the children of Israel. They crossed over Jordan into the land as one nation.
In recent days the cry of Yochanan the Baptizer could be heard on this riverbank: “Teshuvah! Return! Turn your heart to the Lord! The Kingdom of God is near! Behold the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world!”
Until Yeshua of Nazareth arrived on the scene, miracles over the centuries had been few and far between.
Hope among the am ha aretz, the people of the land, had grown cold over generations.
Until now.
Perhaps the waters of the Jordan did not magically part today. Yet the tangible sense of expectation passed from one person to another. The throng inched forward to cross over Jordan in memory of the first Exodus, the first coming home to the land of Israel.
Yeshua of Nazareth! Worker of miracles! Prophet! Deliverer! Messiah? Lamb of God? Surely he will come to claim David’s throne in Yerushalayim and free us from tyranny!
A rope stretched from shore to shore across the expanse to steady those who waded into the water. A long unbroken line of pilgrims, children on shoulders, belongings on heads, passed beneath the outstretched arms of a priest.
He and they sang in antiphonal chorus as they stepped into the stream: “I will lift up my eyes to the hills—where does my help come from?”
And from the waters the people responded with the chorus, “My help comes from the Lord, the Maker of heaven and earth.”
From the west bank a second priest blessed them yet again as they entered Eretz-Israel, The Land! “He will not let your foot slip—He who watches over you will not slumber; indeed He who watches over Israel will neither slumber nor sleep.”
And so continued the songs of ascent throughout the thousands who crossed.
“The Lord will watch over your coming and going both now and for evermore ...”
Ancient words took on fresh meaning as the river washed away dust from outside the land. Was this to be a new day for Israel?
Nakdimon, donkey and boys in tow, approached the water’s edge. Of all those generations that had crossed this river to find the promise, was he finally living in the age that would see God’s promises fulfilled on earth?
The priests and people sang the words of Psalm 132:“For the sake of David your servant,
do not reject your anointed one.
The Lord swore an oath to David,
a sure oath that he will not revoke:
One of your descendants
I will place on your throne.”
Was the name of that son of David Yeshua? God Saves? Immanu’el? God-with-us?
A sense of awe and hope mingled inextricably with terror as Nakdimon led the boys across the wide Jordan. What if this was not the hour of Israel’s deliverance? What if Yochanan the Baptizer had been wrong in his declaration that Yeshua was the Lamb of God who would take away Israel’s sin? What if Yeshua wasn’t the one Israel had been waiting for? Longing for? A lifetime had been spent hoping the promised King would come and rule in justice and mercy in Jerusalem!
What if Yeshua was not the fulfillment of the prophecies? Could Nakdimon carry a good report back to his uncle Gamaliel and not also express his doubts?
Nakdimon thought of his children waiting for him back in Jerusalem. If he judged this affair wrongly in favor of a false messiah, they would be in danger.
It was this last concern that caused Nakdimon to weigh carefully what words he would offer to Gamaliel about Yeshua. How could anyone be sure?
Nakdimon sang with the others in the stream as the torrent rose above his waist:“For the Lord has chosen Zion,
He has desired it for his dwelling:
‘This is my resting place
forever and ever;
here I will sit enthroned,
for I have desired it—
I will bless her with abundant provisions;
her poor will I satisfy with food
I will clothe her priests with salvation,
and her saints will ever sing for joy.
Here I will raise up a king for David
and set a lamp for my Anointed One!
I will clothe His enemies with shame,
but the crown on His head will be resplendent.’ ”
Washed clean from the waters of the Jordan, they entered the territory of Judah. Bethany and Jerusalem lay ahead in one direction. The most direct route to Beth-lehem and Migdal Eder, the Tower of the Flock, was another.
Nakdimon offered, “Come back with me to Yerushalayim and I’ll see to it you have apprenticeships.”
Avel, as leader and spokesman for the trio, declined the invitation. “Our path leads only to Beth-lehem! Only to Zadok of Migdal Eder. We are messengers. Yeshua said we shouldn’t go anywhere but to Zadok.”
And so it was settled. Yeshua had given the command and these three orphans would not deviate from his word even for their own good.
At the fork in the road, Nakdimon and the donkey parted company with the boys. Nakdimon paused and watched them until they disappeared from sight over a low hill.
Somehow, he had the feeling he would see them again.
Marcus leaned over the parapet of the Antonia fortress. His view in the deepening twilight first took in the Temple Mount, where the evening sacrifice was just concluding. The Roman-held tower on which he stood was the highest point in the city. At his feet lay the whole expanse of Jerusalem, from the cross-shaped form of the Temple sanctuary, to the magnificent palace built by Herod the Great on the western hill.
The courtyards and terraces of the Temple were packed with worshippers and sightseers, as were the streets of Jerusalem. The approaching Passover celebration was one of the pilgrim feasts, gathering whole families of Jews from all over Judea and the Galil. Indeed from other parts of the empire many had started on their journeys weeks earlier. The number of people crammed into the Holy City doubled at this time of year, with every house swarming with friends, relatives, and even total strangers who could by Jewish religious laws of hospitality claim lodging.
Guard Sergeant Quintus, old enough to be Marcus’ father, was at his side. “Sorry you’re not back in command here, sir,” he offered sympathetically. “Just a month ago you stopped a riot, that’s certain, where Praetorian Vara would have killed thousands to accomplish the same thing.”
Quintus had been with Marcus through many years of their service to Rome. He didn’t understand Marcus’ sympathy for the Jews, but he respected Marcus as an officer and a warrior. Clearly, Quintus argued, it was misguided politics to send Marcus off to supervise a building project when the larger need was here.
As tesserarius of First Cohort, Quintus had risen as far as his ambition, education, and intellect could take him. But Marcus found his insights invaluable. Marcus was anxious to hear everything Quintus suspected but had no wish to openly encourage disloyalty. “Praetorian Vara has the confidence of the governor,” he said simply.
Quintus spat a date seed over the battlements, but in deference to Marcus, aimed it to fall outside the Temple Mount platform. “He must,” Quintus agreed. “Two full legions posted here in the last month. Half the whole force in the province, and they say another legion is coming with the governor and Tribune Felix. Scarcely enough left elsewhere to guard caravan routes
and such, and them the dregs. All the best cohorts are here.”
“Expecting trouble, then?”
Quintus gestured toward the city, where the first lighted torches of the Jerusalem Sparrows were appearing. “A million Jews. Those from foreign parts just now hearing about the execution of their holy man, the Baptizer. Others up in arms about some sacrilege to do with Temple money. The place is ripe for rebels and assassination and riots. You can feel the tension everywhere.”
The bustle echoing up from below faded as the crowds drifted away from the Temple. Previously masked noises replaced it: the bawling complaints of legions of lambs. The holy mountain was always partly a stockyard because of the ongoing sacrifices, but this time of year the pens were full to bursting.
Jewish law required that one sacrificial lamb must be provided for every ten to twenty worshippers for the Passover supper. That obligation meant that in addition to the usual flocks of animals the number of lambs for this one ceremony would increase by thousands and thousands. Twice as many as Marcus could see would . . . every one . . . have their blood spilled before the week was out.
Marcus hoped the Jewish God would confine the bloodshed only to lambs, but he doubted it. He too had noted the strain in the atmosphere.
“Two whole legions?” Marcus queried. “I haven’t noticed anything like that number of troopers. Where are they?”
“That’s just it,” Quintus explained, pointing toward his own red tunic. “First Cohort is in uniform . . . some others too. But fully a legion and a half are wearing cloaks over their swords and going about in disguise. Vara says he’s got a surprise ready for any rebels who show up; that he’s ready for anything that might go wrong.”
“Vara is hoping for something to go wrong,” Marcus declared in an unguarded moment. “Watch yourself, Quintus,” he added. “Something bad is coming. I can feel it.”
“Needn’t worry about me, sir,” Quintus returned stoutly. “The back of my neck has been prickling this week, same as it was before the Cher usci came howling out of that German forest. But you’re right. Let any Jewish prophet or rebel leader speak a single word of revolt, and he’ll find a Roman boot on his throat double-quick.”