The Last Sacrifice

by Hank Hanegraaff

  “I knew it would only be an inconvenience for you,” Maglorius said. “I feel much better.”

  Was the man trying to hide a smile? Boaz couldn’t decide.

  Nor was he given much time to examine Maglorius. The ex-gladiator again moved with alarming quickness behind the door and barred it shut. Which, again, left Boaz staring at the door.

  It wasn’t until Boaz was following his armed guards through the arches of the inner courtyard to the outer courtyard that he realized one important detail.

  All of the merchants he needed as witnesses kept their shops in the markets of the lower city. The same lower city that had been held by the rebels for six days already, rebels who allowed no access to anyone from the upper city.

  There was no sign of the standoff and siege ending soon. Nor any guarantees that the merchants would survive the battles that the city faced in the near or distant future.

  In sudden rage, Boaz kicked a nearby clay pot filled with soil and flowers.

  And broke his big toe.

  The Tenth Hour

  “I want to talk about the boy,” came the voice that broke in on Malka’s thoughts as a shadow fell upon her.

  She sat on a stool in the street in front of the doorway to her shack, where she’d been waiting for Quintus to return. Instead, the footsteps Malka had recognized belonged to the other, the one who looked out for him. The one who claimed to be an older brother, but was not.

  “He’s not here.” Malka tilted her face upward as she spoke.

  “I know. That’s why I want to talk.”

  “I told you everything I could yesterday. I don’t know where he goes and—”

  “Listen to me. Tomorrow, I am going to come to take him away. I want to prepare you for that.”

  Malka had been preparing for this almost since the first day Quintus had been placed in her care. Still, it felt like a heavy hand squeezing her heart, like the weight of all her years pushing down on her bones.

  “He’s a fine boy,” Malka said. “I will always remember his kindness to me.”

  “We will remember your kindness too.”

  Malka smiled, but it was merely a tightening of her lips to hide the pain she felt. This one blocking the sun and standing above Malka as she spoke down, this one had always been formal and distant, emphasizing the employer position.

  “There is one thing I need of you,” the voice above Malka continued.

  Whenever this one spoke, Malka tried to imagine the face that went with the words. From the first day, Malka had known it was a young woman. Malka’s vision was gone, but her sense of hearing and smell were heightened. However the one above her disguised herself to the rest of the world, she was unable to fool Malka.

  “You must not say good-bye,” the voice said. “When I come to get him tomorrow, pretend it is like any other day. He can’t know it will be his last day with you.”

  The hand clenching Malka’s heart seemed to squeeze harder. As the days with Quintus had become weeks, and the weeks had become months, the presence of the innocent young boy and his questions and his tears and his laughter had added joy to Malka’s life beyond anything she’d expected might ever happen to her again. She’d never had a child of her own.

  “Not even good-bye?”

  Malka felt air shift around her. Sunlight on her face. The young woman had squatted, Malka guessed.

  “Tomorrow Quintus will be able to escape Jerusalem,” the voice said, much nearer. Yes, the woman had squatted. Malka felt the young woman’s hand on her shoulder. Gentle. “But I’m worried he will want to take you with him.”

  “I’m blind and I’m old,” Malka whispered. “I’m not fit to travel.”

  As Malka spoke, she realized the implications. If the young woman and Quintus took her, she would be too much of a burden. She would be endangering the boy’s freedom. Yet to set him free, she must choose loneliness, made that much more poignant because memories of Quintus would haunt her tiny, impoverished home.

  “If there was any other way . . .” The voice trailed off. “So you understand the importance of pretending tomorrow is no different than any other day with Quintus?”

  “Yes. Of course.” Malka heard the dullness in her own voice.

  “You will be rewarded for this,” the voice said. “I will make sure that money is sent back to you.”

  Money would not replace laughter, not in an old woman’s miserable shack.

  “He is going to a better place?” Malka asked. Then immediately thought how stupid that must have sounded. Any place would be better for the boy than this squalor in the lower city.

  “Yes,” the voice said. “He is going home.”

  Malka nodded. Quintus had never spoken about his home, and Malka could only imagine what it might be. But if leaving was going to make the little boy happy, then Malka would set aside her own sorrow and rejoice for him.

  She would hide her tears until he was gone.

  “One last thing,” the voice said. “Don’t tell Quintus I was here this afternoon.”

  “Phinehas will lead a meeting of the Nazarenes tonight,” Olithar told Annas the Younger. “A sacramental supper, if I understand it correctly.”

  Olithar was a tall, skinny man with a sparse beard. He had his arms crossed and quietly slapped his right hand against his left forearm. It was a nervous habit that Annas detested as much as the sight of Olithar’s straggly beard.

  The scrolls that Annas had been studying when Olithar arrived were still open on a table. They were in a chamber in the household of Annas that he had temporarily set up to deal with his business matters. In the stalls at the Court of the Gentiles—controlled by his family for two generations now—it was much more convenient. But the rebel takeover of the Temple had forced him out. The inconvenience was nothing compared to the staggering loss of daily revenue now that Annas could no longer oversee the buying and selling of the animals for sacrifice.

  “Does Phinehas suspect you have a spy among them?” This was an important question for Annas to ask. The city was dangerous now. He did not want to risk a trip into the lower city alone if there was any chance the Nazarenes would not be gathered.

  “No,” Olithar answered without hesitation. “Nor does the spy suspect I report to you.”

  “What does he look like?” Annas asked and then listened as Olithar described the man.

  “Tell your spy not to be there tonight,” Annas said. He most definitely did not want this spy telling Olithar later about the meeting. While the spy would eventually hear about it from the other Nazarenes, Annas wanted at least a day or two to pass before Olithar found out. Annas trusted no one, least of all Olithar; Olithar had betrayed Ben-Aryeh to Annas for very little money. Annas well knew that a man unfaithful to one master would just as likely be unfaithful to his next.

  “Are you having them arrested?”

  “What I intend is my business.” Annas glared at Olithar and made a dismissive motion.

  Olithar stared at his feet but, surprisingly, did not leave. “I only ask,” he said, “because of the brother of the Nazarene.”

  Annas was curious as to what had motivated Olithar to this feeble defiance. Usually Olithar scurried away at the earliest opportunity. Annas liked his subordinates to be fearful.

  “The brother of the Nazarene—James? He doesn’t matter anymore.”

  “That’s why I ask,” Olithar said. “You had him stoned to death when you were . . .”

  Olithar looked up, guilty, then down again.

  “Yes,” Annas said, his voice icy. “When I was high priest.”

  How he hated any reminder that he’d lost his position. Olithar was fortunate that he’d helped engineer the downfall of Ben-Aryeh; otherwise Annas would be in full rage.

  “I have a nephew among those Nazarenes tonight,” Olithar said. “If you’re going to have them killed too, I would like your permission to warn him away.”

  “A nephew? You haven’t told me this before.”

  “
I . . . I . . . just found out,” Olithar answered.

  In content and presentation, it was an obvious lie, but Annas decided to let it pass. Once he ruled the city, he’d find a way to make sure Olithar could present no future problems.

  “Who is your nephew?” Annas demanded. “Give me his name and description.”

  Once again, Olithar supplied the information.

  “You had better pray he does not take ill or find another reason to be away tonight,” Annas told Olithar. “Because if he is missing from the gathering, I will conclude that you warned him away.”

  If Olithar gave warning to his nephew, then that warning would reach all the other Nazarenes.

  Olithar spoke with his head down. “If he is executed, it will break my sister’s heart.”

  “If he is missing from the meeting,” Annas said, “you will pay whatever punishment he would have faced. Do you understand? Now go.”

  Olithar hesitated. “There’s one other thing.”

  “Is it something more you’ve kept from me about the Nazarenes?” Annas could feel his rage building.

  “No,” Olithar said quickly. “Ananias has called for another council of the Great Sanhedrin. He wishes to get agreement to allow peasants into the city for the wood-burning festival. I’ve been requested to see if you will attend.”

  Annas considered this briefly. More than likely, Ananias was proposing it as an effort to ease hostilities. As such, the Great Sanhedrin would probably agree. Which would put Annas in a position of showing support for Ananias by casting his vote in favor or of alienating his own support in the Great Sanhedrin by voting against Ananias.

  “No, I will not,” Annas said, making an easy decision. It would be much better to abstain. The rebels were so entrenched that offering an olive branch would certainly not end the standoff. And if his own efforts worked among the Nazarenes this evening, Annas would be that much closer to removing Ananias from power anyway.

  Eleazar was alone on the top of the western temple wall when Gilad approached him.

  “There is something important we need to discuss,” Gilad said. “And I knew I would find you here.”

  “Am I that predictable?” Eleazar had been leaning on the balustrade. He straightened as he spoke to his friend.

  “Hardly. But I know how much you love the city. . . .” Gilad gestured to take in the view. If there was one spot in all of Jerusalem that encompassed its diversity and glory and squalor, this was it.

  The wall guarded the top of the plateau that had been leveled by Herod’s workmen for the Temple Mount. It overlooked the lower city nestled in the Tyropoeon Valley directly below. Eleazar and Gilad stood halfway between the northwest and the southwest corners of the mount. To their right, the much-hated Antonia Fortress rose above the wall, giving the Roman garrison a clear view down into the Temple area. To their immediate left, connecting at right angles to the temple wall, was the bridge that straddled the valley, connecting the temple wall to the tower of a city wall on the other side of the valley. At least fifty priests manned the barricaded entrance to the bridge, ensuring that troops from the tower would not attempt an attack on the Temple at one of its few vulnerable points.

  Beyond, to the north and west, a hill rose, giving sight to the second wall of the city, and beyond that, higher on the hill and almost at the horizon, was the third wall, encompassing and protecting Bezetha, the new section of Jerusalem.

  To the south and west, flanking the same hill, was Zion, the upper city with its collection of palaces, mansions, and private guards. Herod’s palace, an almost impregnable fortress that the hated king had built along the far western wall of the city to protect himself from his own people, dominated the view.

  The lower city itself crammed the valley; the roofs of all the tiny houses made it seem like a collection of boxes riddled by a confusing maze. Cutting through it, halfway up toward Zion, was the aqueduct that now served as a line of siege between the upper and lower city.

  Gilad joined Eleazar in a pensive moment of gazing across the city.

  “‘It is beautiful in its loftiness, the joy of the whole earth,’” Gilad said quietly. “‘Like the utmost heights of Zaphon is Mount Zion, the city of the Great King. God is in her citadels; he has shown himself to be her fortress.’”

  Eleazar smiled sadly and recited more of the psalm of David. “‘Walk about Zion, go around her, count her towers, consider well her ramparts, view her citadels, that you may tell of them to the next generation. For this God is our God for ever and ever; he will be our guide even to the end.’”

  Eleazar had hoped his time of peace and contemplation would last longer than this, but he knew there was no sense in avoiding whatever Gilad needed to discuss. “Is it good news or bad news?” he asked.

  Gilad shook his head. “For me, good. For you?” A pause. “You’ll have to decide.”

  “Anything that isn’t clearly good news is not good news.”

  “Manahem.”

  “He’s decided against joining our battle?”

  “Hardly. He and his men are only a few days away.”

  Eleazar relaxed somewhat.

  “We need control of the gates of the city,” Gilad said. “You’ve known this all along.”

  “No,” Eleazar said. “What I’ve argued is that the mere knowledge that Manahem is outside the city should be enough to encourage all the people to join with us.”

  “That remains to be seen. Besides, I have a better idea on how to win the hearts of the people.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “But first we need to ensure that everyone knows Manahem will be able to enter the city as soon as he and his army arrive.”

  “Debatable.”

  “Which is why I’m here. On one hand, if we can’t get control of the city gates, we have only the possibility that Manahem will be able to help. With the possibility that his army will eventually stop waiting outside the city and drift away. Even if they do stay, Florus might actually send soldiers in this direction to rescue the city. Time is not on our side.”

  “On the other hand?” Eleazar said, staring across the city. How he hated this situation, Jew against Jew. But he hated Roman oppression even more and believed God would help them prevail to end it.

  “On the other hand, if we do get control of the city gates, it is certain that Manahem will give us complete victory.”

  “I can’t argue with that. But we’ve been trying to win control of the gates for nearly a week. I don’t see any way of doing it before Manahem arrives.”

  “Tomorrow,” Gilad said quietly. “Tomorrow we can storm the upper city. If you grant the order to go ahead with it, I would like your permission to have the house of Joseph Ben-Matthias protected. As you know, he saved me from execution in Rome.”

  Eleazar shook his head impatiently. “We will not storm the upper city. Not enough men. No weapons for them even if we had enough. We’ve been fortunate to hold the line as long as we have. If we risk it all and lose, we’ll never have this chance again.”

  “Tomorrow,” Gilad repeated. “You will have all the men and weapons you need.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Some of the Zealots from the hills have arrived already for tomorrow’s wood-burning festival. Your stand against the upper city has roused a belief that they can finally do something. I’m told thousands will be arriving with their sicarri hidden in their tunics. All they need is a signal, and they will rush out of the Temple and attack the upper city.”

  “We agreed to a truce! The wood-burning festival is holy, not to be used for war!”

  “You see it that way,” Gilad said. “I don’t.”

  “As governor of the Temple, I made a vow to the high priest that—”

  “To the high priest?” Gilad asked. “Or to your father?” Gilad put a hand on Eleazar’s shoulder. “My friend, you and I both know that the position of high priest has become the ultimate symbol of corruption to the people. He gets his power o
nly from the king of Judea, who in turn gets his power from Rome. The high priest serves Rome first, the people second.”

  Gilad pointed at the upper city. “If you have any doubts, look where and how they live. Far above the poor who cry out for justice from them. So is Ananias the high priest to you? Or your father?”

  “A vow is a vow, whether I make it to my father or to the high priest. You want me to betray it.”

  “Eleazar, we are running out of time. Tomorrow, victory is ours if we want it. Eventual defeat is almost as certain if you don’t want it. The choice is yours.”

  As she walked away from the old woman, Valeria felt remorse that she hadn’t expected.

  Earlier in the day, thinking through the problem, it had seemed clear. The old woman could not go with them to Rome. She would be unlikely to survive the journey. Worse, she would slow them down and add difficulty to their escape from Jerusalem.

  Tomorrow Valeria intended to pretend she was taking Quintus to the market. And when she and Quintus were with the bodyguards arranged by Joseph and safely on their way out of the city, she would tell Quintus their destination and console him with the same promise she’d made to Malka. When they reached Rome, she would arrange for money to be sent back to the woman to make her last years comfortable.

  Wasn’t that enough?

  Yet seeing the old woman on the stool, with her deep wrinkles and the startling white milkiness of her cataracts, had provoked compassion in Valeria she did not want as a burden.

  The woman’s quiet acceptance of their departure had also bothered Valeria, and looking past the woman into her shack had given her a sense of what it must be like to live alone in such poverty. Of course the woman would have grown fond of Quintus. Valeria should have foreseen that. But it was too late now.

  Their escape was before them, and soon, this cursed Jerusalem would be behind them. Within days or weeks, especially as they approached Rome, Quintus would forget about Malka.

  Yes, Valeria told herself with every step down the street, she was definitely doing what was best for all of them.