Jerusalem's Hope

by Bodie Thoene

The slave had ebony skin and teeth like aged ivory. His white hair was a sharp contrast to his jet-black complexion.

  “Master Nakdimon will be with you shortly.” The servant’s voice was heavily accented. His left ear bore the mark of an awl, indicating that he had chosen a lifetime of servitude in the house of his master. And why not? Avel thought, as he peered around at the luxurious surroundings. A slave in bondage to a man like Nakdimon lived better than nearly every free man in Israel. Avel remembered the generosity of the ruler with the Sparrows. It was clear from what Avel saw around him that Nakdimon could afford to be generous!

  So this was what lay locked behind the gates of a rich man’s palace. Avel drank it in. The air was cool and still, except for the pleasant gurgle of water in the fountain. This was a different world from the stink and press of Jerusalem’s packed lanes. Massive stone walls, topped with shards of broken pottery, blocked the clamor of the rabble and kept thieves from entering.

  Beneath the shelter of the portico was evidence that children lived here. Toys were neatly arranged on a shelf beside a door. From a far-off quarter in the mansion Avel heard giggling and laughter.

  Avel envied the comfort of children raised in such plush surroundings. Then he proudly reminded himself that they were not privy to every meteor that flashed across the sky like he was.

  The bondsman came to take away the washing bowl and towels and then sized up Avel. He smiled, showing gaps in the long yellow teeth. “Young master. Come over here to the fountain. Master keeps fish within. Frogs too.”

  And water lilies. Fish darted among them. It was peaceful here, and yet Avel felt uneasy.

  The murmur of conversation drifted out of the house. Avel thought he recognized Nakdimon’s voice. There were others with him.

  Avel dipped his fingers in the courtyard fountain. A frog leapt into the water. Honeysuckle vines wound around the pillars of the portico, surrounding this sanctuary of the mighty with a sweet aroma.

  In the old days Avel had often caught the scent of blossoms as he and Hayyim had passed by this house. Avel thought about his old friends at the stone quarry. He remembered how they used to strain to see inside the massive gates of the men they led from place to place by torchlight.

  Ah! The stories Avel would have told Hayyim, if only Hayyim had not died!

  The Ethiopian emerged from the main house and bowed slightly. “The master bids me ask Master Zadok, honored shepherd of the flock, and his young apprentice to enter into his house.”

  Zadok stood and shook out the folds of his cassock. He adjusted the eyepatch. With a swipe of his thumb he wiped a smudge of dirt from Avel’s cheek and smoothed back a lock of hair.

  “Remember your place, boy. Great teachers of Israel have summoned you here. Speak only the truth. Do not speculate on any matters beyond what you are certain of. No guessing. No maybe this or that, eh? And give them only as much information as they ask. You understand me, boy?”

  Avel nodded solemnly. He remembered Yeshua facing the hostile questions of those who hated him. Always the Teacher managed to turn their mocking back on them. Avel wished he were as clever as that.

  Zadok followed the servant inside. Mosaics adorned the floors with scenes of gardens and flowers. The walls were clean and plastered. Morning light streamed through the windows, which looked out on a broad lawn and fountains.

  So much water for the gardens. Was this waste of water the reason many common folk were upset by the use of Korban for the aqueduct? Avel wondered. Would the lawns of the Sanhedrin and the priests benefit from Pilate’s construction project?

  On the patio Nakdimon ben Gurion sat on a low stone bench opposite his uncle, Gamaliel ben Simeon. Intimidated, Avel hung back. With a stern glance from his shepherd eye, Zadok demanded Avel come along.

  The two rulers were sunk in conversation. They fell silent and stood when Zadok and Avel joined them.

  “So! Zadok! Shalom, shalom, old friend!” Gamaliel clapped the herdsman on his back.

  Avel was amazed at the familiarity!

  Zadok clasped hands with both men, but his scarred visage remained grim, his tone curt. “Shalom. You have called me here with my apprentice on such a day. The day of preparation is almost at hand. This is important?”

  Nakdimon extended his hand to Avel. “You found your shepherd, I see.”

  Avel blushed at the attention. Had his conversation with Nakdimon on the highway somehow gotten Zadok in trouble?

  “Yes. I was sent to find Zadok. In Beth-lehem. Like I said.”

  “Well done. Clever boy to bring your two friends so far at the command of Yeshua.” Nakdimon and Gamaliel exchanged a knowing glance.

  Avel noted the look and figured the comment was meant to get him talking. He rubbed his eyes and considered how he might reply. But he didn’t know how to answer. He thought he glimpsed the hint of a smile on Zadok’s lips.

  Then Nakdimon turned his attention to the old shepherd. He indicated Zadok should sit. “I know we have inconvenienced you. This is an extra journey in your busiest time.”

  “Lambing and Passover.” Zadok scowled. “Always the same time each year. Hardly a moment to sleep or eat for anyone in Beth-lehem or Migdal Eder.”

  Nakdimon continued, “You’re managing, Zadok? I was sorry to hear of Rachel’s passing. It must be difficult.”

  The old man glanced down and touched the scar on his face. “I have my work.”

  Gamaliel spoke. “Rachel bore her loss well these many years.”

  Zadok sighed and nodded. “She was ready in the end. Ready to see our boys. They would be men now. I always marked the passing years and considered what age this one would be and that one. But they remained always babies . . . small boys to her. She didn’t look back when she left this world.”

  Avel pressed his lips tightly together. So there had been a woman and sons in the life of Zadok. And they were gone. Dead. Finally Avel understood the expression of grief that was permanently etched in the old man’s ravaged face.

  “But enough.” Zadok stroked his beard. “I am not the only man who has lived longer than he might like. Nakdimon, you’re also left a widower with children to raise alone. But y’ didn’t call me away from my duties with the Temple flock to inquire after my grief.”

  “You’re right.” Gamaliel leaned forward. “The rumors, Zadok! There are rumors!” He seemed barely able to say the words. “You must know them! That somehow the child survived . . . And there are two men among us who are of the right age. And they claim to be for the people! For Israel! Bar Abba’s name means ‘Son of the Father’! And then there is the other. Yeshua. Teacher. Healer. Hardly king-like. But impressive. Rumors are growing that he’s the one. Oh, yes! Nakdimon has seen him. Spoken to him. Witnessed what miracles he is doing among the people! Rumors are that he’s coming here to Yerushalayim for Passover this week. But it’s one year more, Zadok, according to my calculation of the prophet Dani’el. I called for you because . . . until now you have refused to speak what you know. You heard what you heard all those years ago. . . . Could either of these two men be the child? Is it time?”

  Avel observed that the herdsman clearly knew more than he would admit to. His jaw was set. His brow furrowed. “That was long ago,” Zadok said, resisting. “I’ve heard no more since that night.”

  Gamaliel probed, “It’s been thirty-two years. Your own sons would be men, you said. How old?”

  “Enoch, thirty-five. Samu’el, thirty-three. Gaddi. He was a babe in Rachel’s arms. He’d be thirty-two.” The old man’s shoulders drooped visibly as some horrible memory played out before him. “What can they have to do with anything? Herod was mad.”

  Gamaliel said intensely, “It’s written in the book of the prophet Je remiah . . . a lamentation so loud it would be heard in Ramah. Six miles away from Beth-lehem. Yes? Even now the old ones remember that the wailing of Beth-lehem’s mothers was heard in Ramah. ‘The voice of Rachel weeping for her children and she would not be comforted because they were
no more. . . .’ Why do you refuse to speak? Why don’t you tell us what you know?”

  “I’ve sworn an oath. Until I’m released, my life is bound by a covenant of silence. Would you, a teacher of Torah, compel me to break a blood covenant?”

  Gamaliel sighed, as if beaten by Zadok’s reply. “But before that terrible hour there was hope! It was you who first brought the good news to my old father at the Temple when you brought in the herd of lambs for sacrifice! You were the messenger of the Almighty then, Zadok.”

  Zadok replied in a barely audible whisper, “I’m nothing but an old man. Waiting like your father, Simeon, waited. And if I’d known what grief that message would bring I never would’ve spoken a word. Nor will I speak of it again until I’m released.” Zadok raised a finger to his eyepatch. “Doesn’t this convince you, Reb?”

  “Well, then. Well, well.” Then Gamaliel turned the full power of his gaze on Avel, locking him into his seat. “On the journey to Beth-lehem you told master Nakdimon you were sent to give a message to Migdal Eder in Beth-lehem.”

  “Yes, sir.” Avel’s heart quickened. Were they trying to trap him into betraying Yeshua in some way? Or Zadok?

  “What was the message?” Gamaliel demanded.

  Avel glanced at Zadok for permission to speak. The old man nodded once.

  “He said . . .”

  “Who said?” Gamaliel asked.

  “Yeshua said . . . to tell Zadok that Immanu’el was coming to Yerushalayim,” Avel repeated.

  “Immanu’el. The very name. God-with-us. Did Yeshua mean himself ? Or another? When? This Passover? Now? This week?”

  “I couldn’t say, your honor.”

  “You couldn’t say? Or you won’t tell me?”

  “I don’t . . . know . . . when. Only that he’s coming and we’ll go with him.”

  “Where?”

  “Wherever he takes us. Just with him.”

  Gamaliel pressed him. “Nakdimon says you were in the camp of bar Abba for a time?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where is bar Abba?”

  “They were planning to come to Yerushalayim for Passover.”

  “For what purpose?”

  Avel searched his memory for snatches of hushed conversation between bar Abba and his officers. “They say that what’s been done with the Korban . . . that the aqueduct is a wrong thing.”

  “And what will they do about it?”

  “Fight.”

  “Romans?”

  “And Sanhedrin.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “They were going to use us boys as spies.”

  Nakdimon raised his eyebrows in surprise. “And would you go along with them?”

  “We ran away.”

  Gamaliel sat back, as if amazed at Avel’s reservoir of information. “Is there any connection between bar Abba and Yeshua of Nazareth? Are they in league with each other? One to carry a sword and the other to claim the throne of David in Yerushalayim?”

  There was a connection, but indirectly. Avel remembered Yeshua’s pupil Judas Iscariot coming into bar Abba’s camp. Dark eyes. Brooding features. He was eager to make Yeshua king in Jerusalem, eager to change the way things were. He spoke to bar Abba about this very thing. The Kingdom was at hand, he said.

  “Why do you hesitate in your answer, boy?” Gamaliel asked. “Do they mean to bring revolt here? Revolution because of the aqueduct?”

  “Yeshua is nothing like bar Abba.”

  “Is that true? What do you mean?”

  Avel challenged Nakdimon. “You saw Yeshua! You saw it all! What happened to Deborah! You saw Yeshua the same as we did. Tell Reb Gamaliel they’re nothing alike! They’re not the same! You know the truth. Tell him!”

  Nakdimon agreed, “No. They’re not the same.”

  Avel blurted his defense of Yeshua. “Ha-or Tov was blind and now he sees! Emet’s ears are open!”

  “And what happened to you, Avel?” Gamaliel queried. “The Mourner. Isn’t that your name?”

  “Not anymore. I . . . I’m different.” Avel couldn’t elaborate. There were no words to tell what had happened inside his heart. Everything had changed. The boy considered Zadok. The old man had seemed to wither at the reminder of his grief. How many years had Zadok been in mourning? Suddenly Avel knew there was another reason Yeshua had sent three boys to the shepherd in Beth-lehem. Avel added gravely, “There was more that Yeshua wanted me to say. To Zadok. Another message for Zadok.”

  Startled at this news, Zadok said gruffly, “Well?”

  Avel knew he was right to go on. “Yeshua said I should tell Zadok this . . . he said he wants you to know: Blessed are you who mourn. You will be comforted!”

  The encounter with Asher two nights before seemed like a bad dream in the daylight.

  Emet brooded throughout the morning, wondering if he should tell what he had seen at Siloam Tower. And who would he tell? Zadok and Avel, accompanied by Red Dog, had left before sunlight for Jerusalem and a meeting with Rabbi Gamaliel.

  Perched on a boulder, Emet observed the final selection of lambs for the next shipment to the Temple. Blue Eye operated at Jehu’s commands. The dog separated out those animals who had torn an ear, were lame, or exhibited any sign of sickness. Migdal Eder had a carefully guarded reputation to maintain: no imperfect creatures would be part of the Passover sacrifices.

  Lev was charged with examining each suspect animal to see if its defect could be corrected. All these lambs had earlier passed muster as unblemished, but the flock was subdivided into three: those ready for Jerusalem, those to receive immediate attention, and a final third that would be permanently culled from the rest.

  It was difficult work keeping the three factions from coalescing back into one. Ha-or Tov aided Lev, but the lambing barn attendant had roughly rejected Emet’s offer to assist, telling him to keep out of the way.

  Dejected, Emet stared in the direction of Siloam Tower and listened to the sounds of hammering coming from there.

  There was little that Roman ingenuity and willpower could not accomplish in short order, Marcus thought as he studied the changed landscape around the Tower of Siloam. In just a day the supply yard was visibly more ordered and a single wagon track was clearly delineated. The scarred pasture yet exhibited its wounds but would heal up after another rain.

  The work on the new supporting structure for the juncture of the two aqueducts was proceeding nicely.

  There was still no love lost between the shepherds and the masons, but at least today’s exchanges were in words and not blows.

  Oren and his son, Benjamin, brought a report to Gaius Robb as Marcus stood nearby. “We’re ready to remove the last of the old buttressing and let the bracing take the load,” Oren said. “Ahead of schedule.”

  “And no more riots,” Marcus put in. “And no more stolen lambs. Peace comes to Siloam, which they tell me means ‘sent.’ Do you know why it’s called that?”

  Robb didn’t look up from the wax tablet of computations over which he muttered to himself, but Oren seemed surprised that a Roman would be interested in Jewish customs. “Everyone knows,” Oren said, “how parched Yerushalayim is for water. We’re especially grateful for it and regard it as divinely ‘sent’ to the Holy City. That’s why the pool at Yerushalayim is called that. At the fall festival the cohen hagadol sends for a golden pitcher of water to be brought from the Pool of Siloam to the altar of sacrifice. Then the high priest gives thanks and prays for rain for the coming year.”

  “I’ve seen a man who said he was the water of life,” Marcus noted. He recalled when Yeshua of Nazareth stood up at the Jewish Temple and made this puzzling announcement just as the water from Siloam was being poured out. “What do you think he meant? Was he claiming to be sent from your God?”

  Oren’s face clouded, and his expression grew guarded. “I can’t imagine.”

  Ruefully Marcus interpreted the change in mood. Oren must suspect all Romans of trying to implicate Jews in rebellion. Given the
machinations of Pilate, Herod Antipas, and the high priest, Caiaphas, there was ample reason for him to be suspicious.

  Robb contributed, “Says he’s water, eh? Probably a madman. This country has more than its share of crazy holy men.”

  “What kind of . . . ,” sputtered Benjamin angrily. After silencing his son with a look, Oren visibly stiffened. There would be no further open discussion of Jewish beliefs.

  Marcus tried to recapture the friendliness. “At least you and the shepherds have worked out your differences. Like water from the Tower of Siloam is sent to Jerusalem, perhaps we can send peace from here to the city of peace, eh?”

  It was a wasted effort. When Oren spoke again, his tone was markedly cooler. “Centurion,” he resumed, “you may think things are settled, but you’re wrong. Just this morning my son was accosted by a pair of shepherds and accused of stealing more lambs.”

  Marcus glanced up sharply. “He didn’t, did he?”

  As Benjamin blustered Oren snapped, “Of course not! What reason would he have? The shepherds hate us because they hate the aqueduct. They’re trying to start more trouble. You should hear them muttering about earthquakes and curses and the stones tumbling down on our heads.”

  “Do you frighten that easily?” Robb inquired dryly. “Because that’s what the herdsmen want.”

  Oren ignored the jibe. “Don’t try to play peacemaker here,” he warned Marcus. “Some of them really wish we were dead. It’ll be enough to do our jobs and get the water for Yerushalayim. Then I can go home and forget about the Tower of Siloam.” With that he gave Marcus a cursory salute, snubbed Gaius Robb altogether, and, with Benjamin, exited the tent.

  “These Jews.” Robb sniffed. “Did you ever see a people more prone to argument and controversy? It’s lucky for them we’re here to keep order.”

  Robb wasn’t expressing any unusual sentiments as far as Roman attitudes toward Jews, so Marcus didn’t bother to reply. Instead he asked, “What about the threats? Is there any reason to take them seriously?”

  “You mean sabotage?” Robb pondered. “Surely not.”

  The workman named Amos poked his head through the tent flap. “Pardon, Engineer,” he said, “but you asked to be alerted when the final braces were moved to take the weight atop the wood scaffolding. We’re ready now.”