The Last Sacrifice

by Hank Hanegraaff

  Boaz hesitated for a moment, and one of the elderly men behind him reacted too slowly, bumping his back and knocking him forward slightly. Boaz was forced to stagger to keep his balance, and that sign of weakness, along with his instinctive fear, made him angry.

  Yet he still hesitated as he evaluated the man. There was something familiar about him. He was obviously not Jewish. His hair was sandy gray, so he probably wasn’t Roman either. He was not a young man, but still he radiated strength and power. His face bore the scars of an assortment of slashes.

  Then it hit Boaz.

  The famous gladiator! Maglorius.

  Yes. Boaz had a good memory, especially for gossip, since gossip used wisely could make a man rich. In a flash, he recalled what he knew and had heard about Maglorius.

  The ex-gladiator had not fought since reaching Jerusalem, less than a year ago. After earning his freedom, Maglorius had moved to Jerusalem to serve as the personal bodyguard to Lucius Bellator’s family. It was rumored that he’d taken the position simply to continue an affair with Bellator’s wife, for the old man had no vigor. Then came the riots of May, when Roman soldiers slaughtered citizens of Jerusalem without discrimination, pursuing them through the markets and up the streets. The elderly Bellator had been killed in his own household, here in the upper city. His wife had sold the house in less than a day and fled back to Rome, and Bellator’s children had disappeared.

  What was this ex-gladiator doing here now?

  Boaz reminded himself that five armed men stood behind him. That he had the legal right to evict Amaris. He told himself it didn’t matter what Maglorius was doing here. So he took three strides forward and faced Maglorius directly.

  The ex-gladiator’s silence was ominous. So was the iron bar he held across his waist.

  Boaz swallowed hard. This time, however, his mouth was dry from fear, not the lust of the previous afternoon. Boaz hoped his voice would not break when he spoke.

  “Out of our way,” Boaz said. “This is my house, and I command you to leave the property.”

  “The house belongs to Simeon Ben-Aryeh,” Maglorius said. “You have no authority here.”

  “It’s been granted by a judge,” Boaz snapped, losing his fear briefly now that he felt a position of strength. If this was going to be a debate, few could equal him.

  “Based upon what?” Maglorius asked.

  It seemed to Boaz that Maglorius already knew the answer. Of course he would, if he had talked to Amaris.

  “Failure to pay debts according to contracts with various merchants,” Boaz answered. Confident. After all, what could an ex-gladiator know about such things?

  “Ah, a simple matter then,” Maglorius said. “May I see those contracts?”

  “Go to the archives,” Boaz answered. “The keepers of the records will show them to you.”

  “No.”

  What an idiot, Boaz thought. Muscles but no brains.

  “Of course they will,” Boaz sighed. “Let me explain the arrangement here in Jerusalem in a way that any dim-witted foreigner can understand. Nearby on the slope of Acra—I expect you’ll need to ask for directions despite the fact that nearly everyone in the city has heard of it—is our Repository of the Archives. The keepers of the records hold all contracts of debt for public display, so that creditors can pursue the obligations of debtors as needed. Creditors like me. Debtors like Ben-Aryeh.”

  “No.”

  Dense, Boaz thought. Very dense. “Shall I try to explain again?”

  “No. If you want to come inside this house, you go the archives and bring the contracts here so I can see them first. I’m not leaving.”

  “Five armed men behind me say otherwise.” Boaz quickly shifted his head to confirm that they were still there. What horror, if they’d walked away while he was insulting this ex-gladiator. “They have the legal right to use whatever force necessary to evict Amaris or anyone else who protests.”

  Maglorius smiled. His hands shifted, and Boaz jumped back. But all he had done was lift the thick iron bar from his waist to the height of his chest.

  Still smiling, and with no apparent effort as he kept his eyes on Boaz, Maglorius began to bend the bar into the shape of an upside-down U. He did not stop until his hands were almost touching at the center of his chest.

  “Strangely enough,” Maglorius said, smile in place, “one of my last fights in the arena involved five men. Two armed with nets and tridents, three armed with spears. I faced them barehanded—at least until I took a spear from the first dead man.”

  With the same apparent lack of effort, Maglorius began to straighten the bar, continuing to speak. “Five of you. I suppose, then, that I can take that as a good omen. Five is a good number for me. As you can see, I am able to tell about it. The five from the arena are not.”

  Maglorius didn’t speak again until he had finished straightening the bar completely. Boaz and his five escorts didn’t speak either. They were mesmerized by the exhibition of strength in front of them.

  “In the arena,” Maglorius said in the same conversational tone as he leaned on the bar as if it were a tall cane, “it was actually a fair fight. You see, there was no way of protecting my back and, all told, I believe those five lasted nearly fifteen minutes. Much longer than the odds they had been given by most bettors. Here, as you can see, I have the wall to ensure that none of your five men can sneak behind me. I suppose since I’ve aged a little since then and haven’t fought in a while, I may need that advantage. But then again, maybe not.”

  “They are not afraid of you,” Boaz said.

  “Don’t you know who he is?” the nearest man said. The one with a limp. “Maglorius. He fought in Rome. In front of Caesar.”

  “His request does seem reasonable,” another said. An elderly one. “What harm could there be in returning with the contracts?”

  “Or with another five of us,” a third muttered. He was barely more than a teenager. He directed his next words to Maglorius, and in them was a touch of hero worship. “You’ve never fought ten at a time, have you?”

  “Ten, I think, would be much safer for you,” Maglorius said. “But if I only kill five before I’m defeated, how can you be sure you will be among the survivors? Nothing personal, of course.”

  “This is ridiculous,” Boaz said. “Move this man away from the door. I want to take possession of my house.”

  “We’ll escort you to the archives and back,” the first said firmly to Boaz. “The city is dangerous right now, and you should be grateful for our help.”

  “Utterly ridiculous,” Boaz said, backing away and keeping his eyes on the iron bar in the hands of Maglorius. “Ridiculous and an outrage.”

  Still, Boaz thought, it couldn’t hurt to return with at least ten. Especially if they were as inept and spineless as these first five.

  Inside the Court of Israel was the Court of Priests; in essence both formed one large court divided by a low wall. The Court of Israel guarded the Court of Priests, which contained the immense altar and in turn guarded the Holy Place and the entrance to the Holy of Holies, the innermost sanctuary where dwelt the presence of God.

  The massive walls of the court supported the various apartments, including the apartment of the high priest, which Ananias by necessity had abandoned when Eleazar organized the rebellion of the priests.

  In the walls, too, were various passages that led to tunnels beneath the Temple Mount. Some, like the passage to the well-lit subterranean bath for the use of the priests, were relatively well-known. Others, inside chambers built into the court walls, were kept secret, and the entrances were cleverly hidden by apparently seamless walls with intricate decorations.

  Alone, Eleazar stepped into one of these chambers. It would take him into a tunnel that led to secret cisterns beneath the city, always full of water, no matter how much of a drought might strike Judea.

  His father, of course, as high priest, knew of the tunnel and the cistern.

  It was a risk, Eleazar knew,
to go alone. He had no guarantee that Ananias would honor his request for a private meeting. Indeed, if his father decided to have him arrested and executed, the rebellion might be over.

  Yet if there was any man Eleazar could trust, no matter the intense differences in their faith and patriotism, it was his own father. Ananias.

  So Eleazar moved forward into the cool darkness of the tunnel, armed with only a torch.

  “You know where he lives, but you don’t know his name.” Falco’s voice had a high-pitched sneer.

  “It’s obvious by how he’s dressed,” Joseph said calmly. He would learn nothing from the Roman by replying with the same tone. “Almost in rags. Whatever money he has, he gets by working for a glassblower, but it’s the most menial of labor.”

  “He told you that?”

  Joseph shook his head. “Until a few days ago, he was always smudged in charcoal. His fingers blistered from heat. A boy only gets like that from attending the fire for the glassblower. The boy was able to visit only at the end of the day, when his work was finished.”

  “The end of the day?” Falco sighed, rubbed his face with his cloth again. “If I’m going to have to wait that long, you must send for more water and food and find me a place to sleep while I wait. I’m not enjoying Jerusalem at all.”

  This statement, to Joseph, was another example of the man’s arrogance, so typical of Romans. Falco had been on Joseph’s rooftop for fifteen minutes, yet he had barely seemed to notice the amazing view of the Temple Mount across the city. The plated gold of the Temple dome blazed in the sunlight, contrasting magnificently against the gleaming white marble of other buildings nearby. Rightly so, it was known as one of the wonders of the world. Yet Falco was too absorbed in himself to even make a polite visitor’s comment about it, more focused instead on devouring pieces of fruit and cheese that servants had brought at Joseph’s request.

  “You won’t have to wait that long,” Joseph said.

  “I thought you said he usually appeared at the end of the day.”

  “Since our last Sabbath, he’s appeared much earlier in the afternoon. Clean. Not smelling of fire.”

  “The glassblower,” Falco said after a moment’s reflection. “No longer blowing glass. No longer employing the boy.”

  So, Joseph thought, this man Falco, dispatched like a servant from Rome, does have some intelligence.

  “Yes,” Joseph said. “With the city gates closed to most traffic, a glassblower out of charcoal, perhaps. Or deciding that the standoff will continue too long and he doesn’t want excess inventory that can be easily destroyed. The lower city market can’t be stopped entirely, of course. People still need to eat. But luxuries like glass—”

  “I believe I just implied that,” Falco said. “Let’s not make our wait too tedious.”

  “Of course.” Joseph warned himself to be careful around the Roman.

  Silence fell upon the two men until Falco moved to settle on a cushion and sighed with weariness. “Tell me,” he said from the cushion. “Why did you become involved in this matter?”

  It was an appropriate question. In May, just after riots had nearly torn Jerusalem apart, the boy had appeared one afternoon and insisted upon an audience with Joseph. Negotiated a price for Joseph to arrange for a letter to reach Rome. Returned a week later with half the necessary money and a pledge to pay the remainder in weekly installments. Something about the boy’s dignified manner had compelled Joseph to ask far less for his services than he would normally demand. Joseph had been impressed by the boy’s utter determination to see the task completed, and he was extremely curious about all of it.

  “It’s simple,” Joseph answered, deciding not to reveal all of those circumstances. “My connections to Rome are well-known within this city. The boy asked me to use those connections and was willing to pay what I asked.”

  “Obviously you did it for money. I don’t care about your motives. What I do care about is why the boy approached you.”

  “I would hope it is also well-known that I am trustworthy.”

  “And Romans in this city are not?”

  “Perhaps the boy doesn’t know any Romans here.”

  “Don’t treat me as if I’m stupid. You’ve read the letter. You know the boy is simply a messenger, representing two important Roman citizens trapped in the city. So why would they choose you over official channels?”

  “At the boy’s request, I did not read the letter,” Joseph said mildly. “I’m in no position to speculate.”

  Yet Joseph could not avoid his share of silent speculation. Learning more about the letter from Falco only raised more questions for Joseph. What two important Roman citizens were behind this? The city had been in civil war for only the last five days. Yet the boy had approached Joseph months earlier, when anyone had been free to leave the city. So what had trapped them? And, as Falco had aptly pointed out, why not go through the protection of official Roman channels?

  Unless, of course, these citizens felt it was not protection at all.

  “The sooner the boy arrives, the sooner I can leave this city,” Falco said. He heaved himself up and, like Joseph had done minutes earlier, walked closer to the edge of the roof. He looked past the lush gardens of the upper city and surveyed the valley between these residential quarters and the Temple, as if looking for fighting on the streets of the markets below.

  Falco turned back to Joseph, frowning. “Something is wrong about all of this, and I don’t like it at all.”

  The Seventh Hour

  “Here.” Boaz thrust several bound scrolls toward Maglorius. “Contracts. Properly witnessed. Transferred and witnessed again. Penalties agreed upon if payments overdue. It’s all legal.”

  Maglorius had risen as Boaz and the five men approached. Boaz had been unsuccessful raising extra men. He wasn’t surprised. Sounds of skirmishes between the royal troops of the upper city and the rebels of the lower city had been reaching him all morning.

  “You are too kind,” Maglorius said. “If you don’t mind, tell me the sum of the debts outstanding and to which merchants they were owed.”

  “Read them yourself.” Boaz had no urge to reveal the insignificant amount compared to the value of the house. He did not want Maglorius to respond with violence. “Everything is legal, as you’ll plainly see.”

  “There’s the difficulty,” Maglorius said. He made no move to open any of the scrolls. “I don’t read.”

  “You don’t read.” Boaz was stunned. He’d gone to all this effort. It had been a battle to convince the keepers of the records to let him leave the Repository of the Archives with them. Even the judge who had ruled in favor of Boaz had had no choice but to go to the repository to review the contracts.

  “I don’t read,” Maglorius said. “However, Amaris does. If you’ll wait just a moment . . .”

  Maglorius smiled and opened the door behind him. Before Boaz could protest, Maglorius took the scrolls inside. And shut the door.

  From inside, the sound of a bar coming down to secure the door reached Boaz clearly.

  What was he to do? Order these same five inept men to attempt to crash through the door? Hardly. Boaz knew full well that the upper-city residences were well protected. It would take a battering ram to get through.

  He began to grind his teeth.

  But he could do little else to ease his frustration as he waited.

  And waited.

  “It has been weeks since you permitted the last sacrifice on behalf of Caesar,” Ananias said to Eleazar. Ananias wore simple peasant’s clothing, not the ornate costume of the high priest. Here, he and his son would talk man-to-man. “I am here because I want to plead with you to resume the sacrifices on behalf of Caesar. Rome has not yet acted, but when it does, we are doomed.”

  They stood in torchlight. Condensation in the cool air trickled down the stone walls and from the ceiling of the tunnel, with an occasional drop landing in the cistern with a plop that was loud in comparison to the natural hush around t
hem.

  “If you had the faith of our forefathers,” Eleazar said, “you would not declare doom upon our people. God has promised us a Messiah and will not break His covenant with us.”

  This was the first time that father and son had spoken since Eleazar ended the temple sacrifices for foreigners, and for Ananias, his son’s words confirmed the accusation that Annas the Younger had made earlier in the day in front of the Great Sanhedrin.

  “My son, my son. You are well intentioned, but if God sends us a Messiah, it will be in His own time. Who among us may force God to act?”

  “If God sends a Messiah?” Eleazar lost his temper. “I knew you were a puppet of the establishment and a political choice for high priest, but is your faith in God and His promises that little?”

  Ananias ignored the insult and ignored an impulse to admonish his son for the lack of respect. “Let me speak truthfully to you. Because if a father cannot trust a son, he can trust no one.”

  Eleazar crossed his arms. It was a clear-enough signal of resistance to Ananias, yet this might be their only chance to speak freely one to the other.

  The cool, damp air in the tunnel far beneath the Temple Mount was unnaturally still, but to Ananias it seemed to become even more still as he dared voice his doubts for the first time.

  “There are times,” Ananias said, “that I wonder if the Nazarene was who he claimed to be.”

  He didn’t have to explain who he meant. Since the crucifixion of Jesus of Nazareth, his followers, who claimed the Nazarene was Messiah, had become known as Nazarenes.

  “Am I hearing you correctly?” Eleazar asked. “You, the high priest, uttering blasphemy?”

  “Listen to me,” Ananias said gently. “That’s all I ask.”

  Eleazar shifted his weight from foot to foot as if impatient but did not protest.

  “You remember James, the brother of the Nazarene.”

  “I do,” Eleazar said. “We stoned Him to death because he proclaimed the same blasphemy as you do now.”