by Brock Thoene
Emet hung back, uncertain what he should do. The black lamb approached him with stiff-legged curiosity. Emet stuck out his hands, and the black probed his palms.
“Pet him!” Lev said impatiently. Then Lev nudged Emet aside and entered the nursery. “See here. Give me your thumb.” Lev formed Emet’s fingers into a fist, leaving the thumb up. This he poked into the lamb’s mouth. “Here’s the way to get him to follow.”
Emet smiled as the baby latched on. Smooth, toothless gums, a rough tongue, and a corrugated pallet formed a fiercely sucking vacuum. “It doesn’t hurt.” Emet giggled.
“That’s the trick. A little goat’s milk on your fingers, and they’ll follow y’ to Damascus and back for the promise of it.” Lev straightened. “So. I’ll teach y’ to milk the goats out back. How to feed the babies. But most important, your job is to keep those scraps of fleece tied onto the four. See here! If the coats come off too soon, Old Girl’ll reject the lambs. Maybe hurt them. You understand?”
Emet nodded vigorously. “Sure.” But he didn’t really understand. Questions rattled around in his brain. Would Old Girl still reject the orphans if they didn’t wear the extra coat of wool? Emet decided he would ask Zadok later. He didn’t want Lev to think he was too ignorant to accomplish this task.
Lev pulled Emet’s thumb free from the black. It was red. Lev shrugged. “You’re not much bigger than a lamb. A bit smarter maybe. But it doesn’t take a clever fellow to tend sheep.”
Zadok returned to the barn with Avel and Ha-or Tov in tow. “Is he managing, then?” Zadok inquired after Emet.
“It’ll do,” Lev replied. “A bit timid at first. But it’ll come along.”
Then beyond the stable Emet spotted Jehu, the gruff shepherd from Migdal Eder. Jehu, warlike in demeanor, devoured the path with long strides. His grizzled face was set in consternation.
Lev saw him too. “Here comes Jehu.”
Zadok turned and sighed. “His face says trouble. I put him on guard against a jackal last night.”
“Two-legged jackal.” Lev wagged his head and lifted Emet out of Old Girl’s domain. “Jackal in a Roman cloak, more like.”
Jehu called from a distance. “Sir! Zadok! Bad news! Six from the Korban flock stolen last night! The best of them! Yerushalayim bound today they were! Gone! Slaughtered!”
Zadok set his chiseled features against Herodium’s outline. “Come along,” he said to the boys. “We’ll deal with this right now.”
SODO
On horseback, skirting the cone of Herodium, Marcus Longinus studied the construction project spreading out across the valley in front of him. The purely Roman part of Marcus admired the audacity of the undertaking. Bringing water from two hundred leagues off in a man-made river of stone and lime mortar represented an achievement of Roman will and ingenuity: taking an unruly, unproductive land and subduing it into fruitfulness and civility.
But the portion of his nature drawn from his Britannic princess mother, born in freedom but destined to live in slavery, recoiled at the same view, or at least sympathized with Jewish objections.
Pylons and half-completed aqueduct supports stalked across the pasturelands, like figures from Jewish tales of Goliath and his Philistine brothers returning to do battle with the puny Jews. And this time where would they find a David to deliver them?
While Judea would benefit from the water, the sheer size and permanence of the watercourse would proclaim to the entire world . . . and most pointedly to the Jews . . . the superiority of all things Roman.
Aqueducts and bridges were distinctively Roman. In fact, one of the divine titles claimed by former emperor Augustus was Pontifex Maximus, highest bridge-builder; the god-man who spanned the gap between heaven and earth. The emperor was the embodiment of Rome, and Rome alone could assess the needs of her subordinate peoples, command the resources to address those needs, produce a Rome-approved solution, and enforce gratitude for the conclusion.
Marcus patted Pavor’s neck absentmindedly while he pondered this. He had not thought of his mother in some time. Not long ago he had believed himself so wholly Roman in his worldview that no doubts could possibly have intruded. From where did such questions arise, and why now? His doubts about the empire had certainly increased since meeting Yeshua of Nazareth. Was he the source of this uncertainty?
Yes.
To cross the valley between Herodium and Beth-lehem the aqueduct’s arches would be some of the highest of its entire route. This part of the waterway had been begun by Pilate’s predecessor, then abandoned because of a lack of funds. Now that Governor Pilate had access to the Korban money, the scheme was once again under way.
Suddenly Marcus’ attention was drawn to a gang of thirty or so men grouped at the base of the nearest arch. As a thin rivulet of gray smoke trickled into the pale blue sky, an altercation developed. Even from this distance it took no eagle-eyed awareness to recognize that shaking fists and waving arms didn’t represent peaceful discussion. Sun glinting on blades proved that bloodshed was imminent.
Clapping his heels to Pavor’s flanks and clamping his knees tightly, Marcus plunged off the roadway and down a steep gorge on the most direct route toward the trouble. On a plateau above the argument scene Pavor drove right through the middle of a flock of sheep, parting them like a ship pushes aside the sea.
As Marcus drew nearer, it became apparent that not two but three distinct groups of men were involved in what was nearly a brawl.
The easiest of them to recognize were the legionaries in their red tunics and flashing armor. Though not numerous, the soldiers, with their javelins at the ready, were prepared to attack. Marcus counted a decade of troopers and recognized a centurion with his distinctive transverse-mounted plume.
Beside these were fifteen or twenty laborers clad in leather. From the style of their dress and their brawny arms Marcus took them to be Jewish aqueduct workmen.
Opposite these and doing most of the arm waving were men whose hooked staffs announced them to be shepherds. Five herdsmen accompanied by three boys were angrily shouting at the others.
Hammers, javelins, and wooden staffs squared off.
Serious injury and death hovered close at hand.
At the drumming of Pavor’s hooves the group sprang apart. All turned to gauge what sort of threat was thundering down on them. Spears, mallets, and shepherds’ crooks formed a temporarily united phalanx of weapons confronting Marcus.
He rode directly toward the centurion and shouted for an explanation.
The Roman officer faced him, waving not a short sword or javelin but a roast leg of lamb. “Greetings, Marcus,” the centurion boomed. “Heard you’d be along.”
It was Shomron. Worn out in the service of Rome, the mostly bald centurion was usually on duty in the Antonia in Jerusalem and seldom left there.
“What’s all this about?” Marcus demanded of the squat, leathery-faced Samaritan officer.
Shomron pointed with the sheep shank toward the shepherds. “Those fellows accused us of stealing. I explained that this lamb . . . and five or six others . . . wandered into the aqueduct right-of-way and were fair game.”
“It’s a dirty lie!” pronounced the biggest shepherd, a giant, white-haired man missing his left eye. “Jehu here saw those men driving off part of a flock bound for the Temple, and we tracked them here!” He leveled his staff at a dark-skinned, heavy-browed, thick-necked laborer who acted like the leader of the working men.
Marcus turned toward the stonemason, who deferentially tugged his forelock. “Oren is my name, sir. The army is supposed to supply us with midday rations, but for the last three days we’ve had nothing but weevilly meal mixed in cold water. A man can’t bust rocks and haul mortar on that, can he, sir? What were we supposed to do?”
A babble of voices, like the unintelligible muttering of thousands of sheep, overwhelmed Marcus’ hearing. Everyone blamed everyone else, everyone had a complaint, and all voiced them at once.
“Silence!” Marcus bel
lowed. “Shomron, set the laborers back to work. Then you, Oren, and—” Marcus looked at the scar-faced shepherd.
“Zadok,” the man volunteered. “Chief of shepherds for Migdal Eder.”
Marcus nodded. “Shomron, Oren, Zadok, and I will sort this out. The rest of you, back about your business!”
Over the vociferous objections of the shepherd named Jehu, Zadok sent his companions back to Migdal Eder.
“You, boy,” Marcus added to a slender, blond-haired youth. “Hold my horse.”
With surprise Marcus identified Avel, the beggar boy from Jerusalem whom he had last seen in Galilee. The light of recognition was in the boy’s blue eyes too, but neither spoke.
Then Marcus noted that another diminutive figure was Emet, the deaf-mute. But the boy appeared healthier than when Marcus had seen him last. Happier too. Perhaps he had met Yeshua, as Marcus had suggested.
“Follow me,” Marcus gruffly said to the three men, and he led them to a nearby tent.
Sunlight filtered through the fabric of the tent and moved in dappled patterns across the carpeted floor.
Marcus sat opposite the centurion, the stonemason, and the shepherd.
Of the three Zadok remained aloof, refusing to sit when offered a chair. Nor would he accept refreshment. He stood tall in spite of his advancing years. Instead of leaning on his staff, he gripped it as a soldier might carry a javelin. Marcus guessed from Zadok’s scar that the shepherd had been a warrior at an earlier time in his life. The gash that marred his face carried the pattern of a Roman blade. Marcus had seen enemy skulls split open in exactly the same place by a legionary’s blow. From the crown of the head through the eye, cheek, and into the jaw. It was invariably a fatal strike. An ordinary man would not recover from such a wound.
But Zadok seemed anything but ordinary. Proud and dignified, he was no simple shepherd. One fact was evident in his demeanor: he hated Rome and hated Marcus. He hated Shomron, the Samaritan centurion, even more. And he held the Jewish stonemason in utter contempt.
Zadok was, Marcus thought, perhaps the best man in the room.
Marcus began, “I arrived this morning. Sent here by Governor Pilate to oversee a project jointly undertaken by the Jewish Sanhedrin and Rome to bring water to Jerusalem. A benefit to all.”
Zadok calmly cut to the heart of the issue. “The Paschal lambs you stole are Korban. Set apart from birth for sacrifice at the Temple.”
“Stole!” Shomron reddened. “By law we are entitled to take what we need from the flocks to feed our men.”
Zadok did not look at him. “I see you are Samaritan. You have no understanding.” Then the shepherd’s face turned ever so slightly toward the stonemason. “But you. A Jew. You know what it means to kill a Paschal lamb that is Korban and use it in an unworthy way.”
The mason defended himself: “I worked on the Temple in Yerushalayim for sixteen years! We ate the meat from sacrificed lambs the same as any priest.”
“A Roman aqueduct is not the Temple. That is the dispute which rages in Yerushalayim even now, is it not? And these lambs were not sacrificed,” Zadok countered. “They were simply butchered.” He leveled a stern gaze at the mason. “You know what you’ve done? You know what curse you’ve laid on yourself and your men by eating unworthily something which is the Lord’s alone?”
The mason blanched. He opened his mouth and then closed it again, as if he couldn’t think how to respond.
Marcus spread his hands on the desk in front of him. “What’s done can’t be undone. How can we . . . Rome . . . settle the loss?”
Zadok’s brow furrowed as he considered Marcus’ question. “You’re a Briton?”
The question caught Marcus by surprise. “My mother.”
Zadok’s thin lips curled in an enigmatic smile. “Well, then. That island has yet to be conquered by Roman legions. Why do you wear the armor of Rome? Why are you here?”
A strange, probing question. One Marcus had lately asked himself. “We were speaking of lambs.”
Zadok disagreed fiercely. “We speak of that which is holy. Sacred. Freedom. The Paschal lamb. Set apart for a single purpose. To die at Passover for our deliverance. To die in memory of the first Passover. In that hour the blood of the lamb marked the doorposts of Hebrew slaves in Egypt. The angel of death saw the blood as a sign of belief and passed over the Jewish households. But death came to the firstborn of Egypt who hadn’t marked their doors with blood of the lamb!”
Marcus rebutted, “A worthy tradition. But hardly worth coming to blows over.”
Zadok held up his finger, commanding silence. “That’s not all. The sacrifice of a Paschal lamb recalls how Moses delivered the children of Israel from slavery in Egypt! Led them to freedom in a new land. This land. Our land. Eretz-Israel. Not Rome’s. God’s promise to Abraham is remembered every Passover by the sacrifice of a firstborn male lamb delivered in Beth-lehem in the stable of Migdal Eder.” Zadok pointed the crook of his staff at the stonemason. “Son of Abraham! Dig and find wisdom. The death of the lamb symbolizes God’s deliverance from the slavery of sin for the human soul! Deliverance for the seed of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob! And through them Torah teaches that the whole world will be blessed! This is what the Eternal One promised to Abraham on the mount in Jerusalem where our Temple stands now.!”
The stonecutter covered his eyes with his hand and shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
Thus ended the lesson. The old man had made his point clearly. The stolen animals were much more than just a meal. Grave desecration had been committed by Roman legionaries and by Jewish stoneworkers.
Marcus said in a businesslike way, “Your philosophy has no place in this dispute.”
“The lambs your mercenaries stole and butchered were the firstborn males of the block. Unblemished. Perfect. Beloved by the shepherds who watched them grow. Each had a name. They were raised by hand in the Lord’s lambing pens. Born within the circle of Migdal Eder’s pastures. Reserved for sacrifice on one exact day of the year in Yerushalayim . . . Passover . . . to be offered to the Eternal One alone.”
Shomron snorted at this. “They’re sheep like any other!”
Zadok ignored the Samaritan centurion and addressed the Jewish stonemason. “Is that true, mason? Is an unblemished male lamb born in the stable of Migdal Eder in Beth-lehem and reserved for Passover just like any other lamb?”
The mason flushed and glanced down at his feet. “Get on with it!” he blurted.
The shepherd had managed to shame the stonecutter. Whatever Zadok was getting at went right over the Samaritan centurion’s head. As for Marcus, he wished merely to prevent human bloodshed. There would be a vicious confrontation if the controversy wasn’t resolved. And Marcus knew that in the end it would be the shepherds of Beth-lehem who would get the worst of any fight.
“You’ll admit the workers have to be fed,” Marcus protested.
“You have missed my point.” Zadok was confident. “I intend to take word of this desecration to the Sanhedrin. Explain to them what goes on here! How Rome’s soldiers and Jewish apostates mock our beliefs! Then the council will take the matter to the cohen hagadol, who will carry the matter to Pilate. And Pilate will certainly call you before him to explain why you allow our holy flock to be profaned.”
Effective. The old shepherd had a persuasive way about him. The world was about to explode over a handful of sheep in Beth-lehem, and everyone would be blaming Marcus.
Marcus inquired, “What’s the price of the Korban lambs? How many were butchered? Six? What’s the price? Rome pays its debts.”
“They can’t be bought to feed the appetite of heathens.”
“Understood. But what’s done can’t be undone. Your Passover lambs can’t rise from the dead. Rome will make restitution. What we have wrongfully killed by . . . mistake . . . we will pay for. How much?”
Zadok considered the offer. “During Passover an unblemished lamb is purchased at the Temple for two and a half pieces of silver.”
Shomron blurted, “Six lambs! That’s fifteen shekels! Outrageous!”
Zadok ignored Shomron and explained to Marcus, “During Passover a lamb taken from the flock of Beth-lehem is sacrificed on behalf of a company of Israelites who share its flesh in a holy meal of remembrance. Tens of thousands of lambs. Hundreds of thousands of Jews. Each man pays a share of the price. That’s the way of it.” Zadok did not retreat from his demand. “We will be satisfied if Rome will pay for what it took. Six lambs. And . . . make restitution by purchasing six more to be sacrificed to feed the poor in Yerushalayim!”
Marcus was being herded into a corner by the clever shepherd. “A fair sum . . . for pardon of a religious error. A misunderstanding.” Marcus leveled an angry gaze at the stonemason, who had surely known better. “In Rome a man who commits sacrilege can be crucified for it. So you see, Imperial Rome requires a man’s life for his religious mistakes.” Marcus then glared at Shomron as the centurion opened his mouth to protest. If this blew up into a religious riot, Marcus would make sure Shomron would be the officer Rome would execute. The intense look warned Shomron to say no more.
Marcus continued, “You Jews substitute the life of a lamb to pay for a man’s transgressions. Civilized. Admirable. So . . . for the sin of our workmen we’ll dock the pay of the stonemasons and the legionaries. And . . . six more lambs for the poor. Twelve lambs in all. Will thirty pieces of silver purchase atonement?”
The mason and the Samaritan scowled down at the floor. Zadok seemed satisfied, but he was not finished. “I also require your promise that your men will not steal Korban lambs again.”
“Agreed. Those who do so will be punished.” Then Marcus asked Zadok, “But my men have to be fed. There are other sheep in the flock. Those unworthy to be sacrificed to your God?”
Zadok turned the full force of his gaze on Marcus. Confusion flickered in the old man’s eye an instant, as though he heard someone else speaking to him. He put a hand to his forehead and whispered, “You . . . Why are you here? The stonecutter has forgotten who he is. This Samaritan centurion sold his soul long ago. But you? Why defend them?”