The Last Sacrifice

by Hank Hanegraaff

  “Year after year, you filled this household with praise for the Zealots. Of course he would join them.”

  It was obvious they had forgotten the presence of Valeria.

  “He made his own choices.”

  “How long did you know he was with the rebels?”

  Nahum looked away.

  “How long?”

  “He was a courier for them,” Nahum said after some hesitation. “He brought messages from post to post along the line.” He swallowed hard, stoic yet proud. “I’m told he was one of the bravest among them.”

  “He’s dead, you fool!”

  “We all die,” Nahum said. “He died fighting for the freedom of our people. He wasn’t a coward bound by creditors’ notes. But let me tell you, that cowardice has ended.”

  Leeba stared at him in return. Comprehension filled her eyes. “No. You can’t!”

  “They killed my son.”

  “The upper city will win,” she said. Her voice was flat. “They have weapons and all the rebels have is determination. They have wealth, and we have the debt to them. If you don’t lose your life, you’ll lose your livelihood when this rebellion is defeated.”

  “They killed my son. Do you think I care any longer what my creditors in their mansions above us think?”

  “I’m your wife. Do you care if you leave me widowed?”

  “You are also a Jew. We serve God first. This battle is for Him, and we will not lose. If you are widowed, at least you will be free of Roman oppression.”

  “We will lose,” she said. “I’m begging you not to join the rebels. When this is over, we’ll leave the city and begin a new life somewhere else.”

  Nahum was stunned, as if she had slapped him again. “Desert the city of God? He has never deserted us.”

  Leeba put her face in her hands for long moments. When she looked at him again, resolve filled her features. “My husband, God has never deserted us. But God has always punished us for rejecting Him.”

  “We are engaged in a battle for His cause. How can you say we reject Him when every day we pray for Messiah?”

  Her shoulders were square now. “Husband, you are no longer bound by creditors’ notes. I am no longer bound by fear for our family, for if my son is gone and you are determined to martyr yourself in a failed cause, then I will speak openly.”

  “I . . . I . . . don’t understand.”

  “I am a follower of the Nazarene,” she said. “Jesus was the Son of God and predicted God’s judgment would fall on those who pierced Him. ‘Behold, you will see me coming on clouds,’ He told us.”

  “You are a Nazarene!”

  “Listen to me, Husband. We must flee the city. The end is upon those who rejected and continue to reject Him. The Messiah Himself made this prophecy, and we are nearing the end of the generation that pierced Him on the cross.”

  “You. A Nazarene.”

  “And you are one of the best glassblowers in the trade. Surely we can make a household elsewhere and live in peace. The Temple will fall, but those who believe in His warnings will be saved.”

  “Woman, I’ll send you away in divorce before I leave the city. And every holy man in the city would applaud me for it.” He paused. “No, I won’t divorce you before I leave the city. I’ll do it immediately. You may no longer consider yourself a wife of mine.”

  Leeba fell to her knees, sobbing again, but Nahum ignored her.

  Nahum pointed at Valeria. “Tonight, I sleep on the roof with you.”

  15 Av

  Dawn

  Nahum was awake when the trumpet calls from the Temple began to echo across the city. He’d not slept at all, up on the roof on a pile of blankets he’d made into a temporary bed after declaring his wife divorced.

  Nearby, he saw that Valerius shifted on his sleeping mat. A strange, quiet boy. Hardworking to be sure, and willing enough when ordered to do any task, but reclusive to the point of mystery, disappearing and reappearing during the day with no willingness to tell where he’d gone. No matter. With the glassblowing furnaces empty of charcoal until the standoff ended, Nahum had already decided what the boy would do today.

  Leaving the boy to tend to his own morning hygiene in privacy, Nahum walked to the edge of the roof and brooded as the brilliant yellow edge of the sun slowly rose above the city walls, casting a beautiful glow across the lower city. No poetic thoughts crossed his mind, however. Dawn would not let him escape the same turmoil that had kept him awake through the night.

  He had just declared his wife divorced. To be sure, he would have no trouble finding another wife, but as the slow minutes had formed hours during the dead dark of night, he’d realized how fully he loved her.

  How had it happened that he’d made such a rash decision?

  It could be nothing else but a lashing out in pain, generated by the death of Raanan, something that he still could not comprehend. Indeed, in this very moment as the city began to stir, he half expected to hear his son’s footsteps bounding up toward him. Raanan dead. Killed by royal troops.

  Nahum had meant much of what he’d said to Leeba. The boy had died fighting for the Jews’ freedom, as had countless other young men all through their history. There was solace in that.

  Yet the honor in the boy’s death did nothing to remove the heartrending grief that Nahum would not permit the world to see. And now he could not even share this grief with the boy’s own mother.

  He pondered this, knowing it would stir his anger and rage against the oppressors who lived in the upper city. Anger and rage, right now, were much better for a man than grief and indecision.

  Yes, Nahum told himself, dwell on the injustice of oppression. Savor the rage against those who killed your only son.

  Those who ruled Jerusalem did so by permission of Rome. Short of anything that might defile the holiness of God, the establishment and the royalty always did as Rome directed. They claimed it was for the sake of the people—for war with Rome would lead to destruction—yet it was obvious that obeying Rome and using its power continued to make them rich while the poor continued to suffer.

  And, as Eleazar said again and again, wasn’t the fear of Rome an indirect blasphemy of their one true God who had promised them a Messiah? And wasn’t this the same blasphemy that his own wife was committing by choosing to follow the Nazarene?

  With a degree of savage joy, Nahum’s resolve returned. He must cast his wife aside for her rejection of God. The rebellion must continue!

  Yet most of the lower-city people remained neutral, fearful, like Nahum had been, of the creditors who held so much sway in their lives. How could the tradesmen and the poor side against those who would most certainly defeat them? against those who could sell them into slavery by calling in a note of debt? Nahum had felt no differently, until he’d lost all he cared for when the death of Raanan had not only robbed him of his first and only born, but driven such a deep wedge between Nahum and his wife.

  If only there were a solution. . . .

  Before he could give it much more thought, he heard the shuffling of the apprentice’s sandals behind him. Nahum turned to the boy. “Valerius, you will come with me.”

  As always, the boy simply regarded him in silence and waited for whatever else Nahum might say.

  “You are young and built with the thinness of a gazelle,” Nahum said. “You will now take Raanan’s place and run messages from post to post along the line of siege.”

  “This man, Joseph Ben-Matthias,” Maglorius said to Amaris. “Is he trustworthy?”

  They sat in the inner courtyard where Maglorius had faced Boaz the day before.

  As always when the two of them spent time together in her household, Amaris had a woman servant nearby. Not because she was afraid of Maglorius. But because she respected her husband. Maglorius might be serving her as a bodyguard, but he was still an unmarried man close to her age. While Romans might not see anything untoward about such an arrangement, the Jews in Jerusalem did.

  “Very trus
tworthy,” Amaris said without pausing for thought.

  “Tell me more about him.”

  “Tell me why.”

  “He may be sending you to Rome.”

  Amaris had been cutting a fig from a plate beside her. She set it down slowly and stared at Maglorius.

  He grinned broadly. “Thought that might get your attention.”

  “Why should I go to Rome?” Amaris asked, although she knew the answer.

  “Your husband is there with Vitas.”

  “But this household . . .”

  Maglorius snorted. “Will be taken from you. Boaz will return. You know that. He has the law and the establishment on his side. What I did yesterday was more for my satisfaction than anything else.”

  Amaris closed her eyes and nodded. She opened them again. “Joseph Ben-Matthias. The son of a priest. Descends from the Hasmoneans. Very intelligent. Well respected. A few years ago, he went to Rome.”

  “Really.” Maglorius leaned forward.

  “Some priests had been sent there to be tried by Nero, including a chief priest named Gilad, who serves Eleazar directly.”

  “Sent to Rome. Why?”

  “Felix, the former procurator, laid false charges and hoped to cause trouble. Joseph deplored the injustice and decided to defend them, even though he knew it would make an enemy of Felix. Fortunately for him, in Rome, he made friends with Poppaea.”

  “Caesar’s wife?”

  “The same.”

  “I’m impressed.”

  “You should be,” Amaris said. “She secured the release of the priests and sent Joseph back to Jerusalem with gifts. On his return, he shared them widely.”

  “Generous.”

  “Perhaps.” Amaris smiled. “Or shrewd. He is well admired on both sides of the city.”

  Maglorius found this interesting. “Why not then appoint him as a mediator?”

  “He saw too much of Rome.”

  “I don’t understand,” Maglorius said.

  “Unlike most in Jerusalem, he understands, or says he understands, the might of the empire. On his return—before all the troubles—he took a very public stand that any rebellion against Rome would end in the destruction of the Jews. Lately, he’s avoided public discussions.”

  “Afraid of the rebels?”

  “My husband described him to me once as very practical,” Amaris said. “A man who travels to Rome to face Nero is not a coward, Simeon said. I think Joseph believes he can be of the most use if he manages not to take sides in this rebellion.”

  “In case the rebels win?”

  “As I said, practical.”

  Maglorius pondered this. “His reputation is widespread.”

  “At least in Jerusalem.”

  “So it’s possible that Valeria would hear of this too?”

  “Valeria!” Amaris set her fig down again.

  “I don’t know how yet, but it seems that Joseph Ben-Matthias has taken responsibility for ensuring safe conduct for Valeria and Quintus from here to Rome.”

  “Oh, Maglorius,” she said, her relief obvious. “I’ve heard so much about them from you; it’s like I know them myself. After all these weeks, they’re still alive.”

  His smile was grave. “It would appear so.” He explained the events of the night before.

  “You don’t seem happy about this,” Amaris said.

  “They’ve been in the city since the riots,” he answered. “Yet never once came to me for help. Why would they hide from me?”

  “You’ll see them today. Ask them.”

  “You could ask them too,” he said. “I’m being paid to protect the travelers up to Syria, then to Rome. I’m suggesting you go with us.”

  Two armed temple soldiers escorted Annas through a passageway down to the well-lit subterranean bath, well below the Court of Israel.

  Eleazar, who’d already been alerted, was waiting for him. “You can leave now,” Eleazar told both temple guards.

  They hestitated.

  “Did you search him for weapons?” Eleazar asked them.

  Both nodded. One said, “He only had a scroll.”

  “I doubt he’ll attempt to assassinate me with it. Leave us in privacy.”

  As the echo of their footsteps faded, Eleazar kept a steady gaze on Annas. He sat on a stool and gestured for Annas to do the same.

  Annas ignored the gesture and walked to one of the baths, a huge basin cut into marble. He dipped his finger into the water.

  “Things have changed,” Eleazar said dryly. “I decided it was a frivolous luxury to keep it heated. The manpower it takes to replace the cooling water with hot water is much better used elsewhere.”

  Annas shrugged. “That answers one of my questions then. This conversation won’t be between two naked men, stewing like bones in a soup.”

  “I’m not priggish by any means,” Eleazar answered. “But I find nothing appealing about the Roman tradition of bathhouses.”

  “One must adapt,” Annas said.

  “Or not.” Eleazar’s voice hardened. “That sums it up between us, doesn’t it? You accommodate Rome. I won’t.”

  “We both want the same thing. Peace for our people.”

  “No. You want your family to maintain control over the temple markets. You want to be high priest again.”

  “I won’t deny it.”

  “Remember you are speaking to the son of the high priest.”

  “You can say that with righteous indignation and keep a straight face?” Annas shook his head. “Or is your grasp of politics so pitiful that you fail to realize your rebellion all but ensures your father’s disgrace and fall from power?”

  Eleazar stood abruptly. “Why are you here?”

  “I’m the one person in Jerusalem who can mediate an effective peace between the upper and lower city.”

  Eleazar snorted. “That would take someone with honor and integrity, like Joseph Ben-Matthias. Not someone notorious for lack of principles. Someone who was once disgraced and fell from power as high priest and will do anything to get back that position.”

  Annas smiled. “That’s why Ben-Matthias is the wrong man. He wouldn’t bear those insults as a means to an end. As for me, you know exactly what I want and that I will do anything to get it. You don’t have to question my motives.”

  “Do you really think I’m prepared to work with you?”

  “Either you find someone on our side as an ally or your cause is lost. Your father won’t be high priest much longer, and in all likelihood, the position will be mine again. Help me now, and you’ll have my support with whatever compromise we can negotiate.”

  “Or?”

  “I don’t believe it’s necessary to threaten you. Just remember, one way or another, I will be the next high priest. This standoff is only proving that you can’t defeat us. Eventually, Florus will send us enough troops, and you’ll be destroyed.”

  “God is mightier than Rome. And if I have to work out a compromise, today’s truce is a good start. My father, the high priest, is a man I trust.”

  “Listen to me,” Annas said. “I’ve already promised amnesty to all the Nazarenes. Irritating as they are to you, many of the poor are grateful to them. If you want support of the people, end the persecution.”

  “Irritating as they are to me? How about blasphemous! You want me to make an alliance with you when . . . when . . .” Eleazar was at a loss for words.

  “I didn’t suggest approval. I said amnesty. We’ll treat them like Gentiles instead of persecuting them like apostate Jews. It accomplishes two things: gives us political currency and puts distance between them and us. Some foreigners, you know, think there is no difference.”

  “I’ve heard enough,” Eleazar said. “And I believe I’ve shown you enough respect. If you stay much longer, however, I can’t promise I’ll remain so restrained.”

  “As you wish.” Annas took a step, then stopped. “Oh,” he said. “The scroll that the guards found on me.” He reached inside his clothing an
d removed it. “It’s a copy of the transcript of yesterday’s meeting of the Great Sanhedrin. You’ll find it of interest.”

  Annas tossed it at Eleazar’s feet.

  Eleazar ignored it.

  “You really should read it. Remember your father, the high priest? the man you trust?” Annas grinned. “Think about this. There in the transcript, you’ll find that he has pledged to throw the first stone at your execution.”

  “Malka, Malka, wake up!”

  Malka blinked sightless eyes as Quintus roused her from restless sleep. She shivered beneath a blanket that she clutched to her chest. Although it was summer, her bones never seemed to hold any heat.

  “Malka,” Quintus said. “Remember what day it is?”

  She’d fallen asleep dreading this dawn. Yes, she knew what day it was. Quintus would leave today and not return.

  “Feel this,” Quintus said.

  Before she could reply, he pulled her hands and thrust something into them. Soft fabric.

  “New clothes,” Quintus said. “So you can look your best today.”

  “My best?” In the perpetual darkness that surrounded her, Malka was confused. Did Quintus know he was leaving today? If so, why his joy? Unless . . .

  Her breath caught. Had the young woman changed her mind and decided Malka would not be such a burden after all? For a moment Malka entertained the notion, allowed herself to feel the joy that she would not be left alone, that she would be allowed to travel with the boy to his home.

  “You can look your best!” Quintus answered. “For the wood-burning festival. Today? Remember?”

  The Festival of Xylophory.

  Evening after evening, she sang songs to Quintus, told him stories about the Jews and their history and their customs. One of his favorite stories had been about Malka meeting her husband, now long dead, during a party on the day of the wood-burning festival.

  “This is too much,” Malka said. The boy had given her a gift! “We can’t afford new clothing. And I have no wood to bring to the Temple.”

  “Yes, you do,” Quintus said. “You told me how important it is for Jews to give wood, so I’m giving you this to take today.”