Jerusalem's Hope

by Bodie Thoene

  “I’ll be right there,” Robb returned. “Join me, Marcus? You might find this interesting.”

  Square-based, tapering pyramids were the architectural wonder of Egypt. Graceful marble columns were the peculiar contribution of the Greeks. But the most memorable achievement of Roman design was surely the arch. Using soaring, buttressed parabolas, Roman engineers were able to suspend spans higher over obstacles with less visible support than any civilization’s previous efforts.

  Though so far only outlined in timber scaffolding, it was already clear that the new project would be a swan to old Herold’s ugly duckling.

  “This is the time when the outward pressure of the existing structure is transferred to the temporary bracing,” Robb pointed out. “There’ll be a momentary shaking, and then it will come to rest.”

  Nodding to one of his assistants, Robb signaled for the work to proceed. By use of a flag system and shouted orders, the command was relayed to men atop the scaffolding. The workers there were poised with heavy hammers.

  The resulting crash of stout clubs against wooden beams sounded like a colossal drumbeat, the call to arms of a phantom army.

  There was a corresponding thump as the bracing dropped only a matter of inches into the joints and grooves prepared for it. This secondary vibration was not as loud as the first, but much more powerful. As the shock transferred to the ground, Marcus noticed it in the soles of his feet.

  A cheer went up from the stoneworkers and laborers.

  Shepherds in the nearby pasture turned to see the cause.

  An insignificant cloud of dust at the base of the column was easily dissipated by the morning’s breeze.

  But not the tremor. Marcus sensed it rising up, as if the earth itself were trembling.

  “Robb,” he said with concern, but that was as much as he managed before the air stretched with creaking and groaning . . . the screeching of straining timbers. Massive planks corkscrewed, as if a giant unseen hand twisted them like wisps of straw.

  The scaffolding shuddered.

  The top of the existing tower bowed outward, visibly overhanging the workmen underneath, who scattered in alarm.

  Gaius Robb, heedless of the danger to himself, ran toward the structure shouting, “Get clear! Get out, now! It’s not going to hold!”

  A block shattered at the top of the arch. Fragments struck a worker in the head, knocking him off the construction and propelling him sixty feet to the ground.

  Another fleeing mason looked up. The far end of a ten-foot beam dropped loose, pivoted, and swung free, clouting the man as he hung from a ladder. The blow batted him away like a swatted fly.

  Marcus tackled Robb. “Get back!” he yelled. “The whole thing is coming down!”

  Arms flailing in a futile attempt to fly, a stonecutter jumped clear of the collapsing tower. He plummeted through the air and landed atop a heap of sand.

  The arch leaned still further, lumber cracking louder than whips as eight-inch-thick planks snapped like twigs. Then, roaring like an avalanche, a rockfall of hewn stones and tree-trunk-sized planks poured across the pastureland.

  Marcus sheltered the diminutive Robb as best he could, while trying to get as much of himself under his helmet as possible.

  A jagged shard struck him in the back, then a blast of choking dust, roiling outward from the destruction, swept over him like a black sand-storm.

  LEMOR

  Emet was the first to catch the shuddering. His head snapped up.

  There was no wind, no hint of cloud. What was that sound? He experienced the grumble in his chest, the same way he had sensed vibrations back before Yeshua gave him sound.

  The rumble rolled over the pastures of Migdal Eder like thunder out of a cloudless sky.

  Others noticed the sensation too and looked around with alarm.

  Jehu pointed toward the line of Herod the Great’s aqueduct. The three pylons within sight swayed, bits of mortar flaking off.

  Emet read the man’s lips: earthquake, he said.

  A half-dozen lambs guarded by Ha-or Tov while awaiting Lev’s inspection bolted in fright and disappeared back into the flock.

  A swirl of dust rose up in the direction of the Tower of Siloam, blocked from Emet’s view by an intervening knoll. “That’s not just an earthquake,” he heard someone shout. “The tower’s collapsed!”

  Emet was the last of the shepherd band to reach the top of the hill. The others from Migdal Eder already stared at the destruction.

  Stones and timber lay everywhere. Where the scaffolding had been was a heap of rubble. Some blocks lay a great distance away, as if trying to return to the quarry from which they were mined. Emet recalled a time when his sister was beaten for dropping a skein of yarn and tangling it up. This disaster was that sort of snarled confusion on a colossal scale.

  Wails of pain reached Emet’s hearing. Around the scene men stirred, picking themselves up slowly. Some had dangling, useless arms. Others limped as they walked.

  Dust-covered, many of them bleeding, workmen tore into the rubble.

  Then Emet realized that the horror had not ended: there were men trapped under the ruins.

  Marcus jumped to his feet. His bruised back arched in a spasm that made him grit his teeth. Seizing Robb by the collar of his tunic, Marcus hauled the engineer upright. “Are you all right?” he asked.

  Wiping dust from his eyes, Robb replied, “Yes . . . yes, I think so.”

  “Come on, then,” Marcus urged. He approached the debris and immediately located a worker half-pinned underneath. When Marcus grasped the man under the arms and attempted to drag him free, the fellow screamed in pain and fainted.

  “Here,” Marcus ordered, grabbing Amos and another dazed laborer. He thrust a beam into their hands. Locating a hollow at the base of the heap, Marcus planted the end of his makeshift lever. If anything went awry it would be the centurion’s hands crushed under the stone. “On three, push with all your weight and hold it till I get him clear. One! Two! . . .”

  The quarter-ton weight raised bare inches, but enough for Marcus to draw the pinned man toward release.

  The pry bar slipped and the load wobbled.

  “Can’t hold it!” Amos shouted.

  “A couple of seconds more!”

  The rock slithered sideways.

  With a tremendous backwards heave, Marcus dragged the injured worker loose . . . an instant before the mass slid off the lever and dropped with a crash.

  Marcus gazed down at the man he’d rescued.

  “What can we do, Centurion?” Amos asked urgently.

  “Nothing,” Marcus said dully. “He’s dead. See to the others.”

  Benjamin rushed up to the centurion. “Over here! Help me!” he pleaded. “It’s my father.”

  Marcus found Oren caught between two timbers. The master mason was conscious despite a gash on his scalp that bled profusely. There appeared to be room for Oren to slip out between the imprisoning beams. “Can’t you move?” Marcus asked, fearful that the man’s spine was broken.

  “It’s my arm,” Oren replied, panting. “Plank splintered when it hit. Think . . . something went through . . .”

  Crawling around behind the wreckage to Oren’s other side, Marcus located the truth of the stonecutter’s words. A wooden shard, as sharp as a spear and as broad as a man’s palm, had pierced Oren’s left arm. The point had emerged from Oren’s flesh and was wedged in the debris, pinning the man to the ground.

  Benjamin stood nearby, crying out that his father was killed.

  “Benjamin,” Marcus snapped. “He isn’t dead! Get me a saw! Jump to it.”

  When Benjamin didn’t respond, Amos brought the requested tool.

  Determined not to lose another life to the tragedy, Marcus worked feverishly, bracing his back and legs against another canted fragment of scaffolding. He pressed upward to give himself some working room as he sawed at the wooden barb to cut it loose from the beam.

  All the time Marcus could hear Benjamin
muttering, “It’s those shepherds! They’ve killed my father! They did this! They caused this! I’ll make them pay.”

  As the saw chewed through the splinter, Marcus heard Jehu’s voice.

  “Do you need help?” the shepherd called.

  With a jagged chunk of rubble, Benjamin gave an incoherent yell and rushed toward Jehu, his weapon ready to strike.

  Marcus was caught. Oren’s arm was almost free, but not quite. Worse, the bulk of the plank pressing on Marcus’ back had to be shifted to prevent it from falling and further injuring Oren.

  The centurion needed to intervene between Benjamin and Jehu, but could not.

  He couldn’t prevent what was about to happen.

  Jehu, Lev, and five other shepherds were in the front rank of those who arrived on the scene of the tower’s collapse.

  Ha-or Tov and Emet were ten paces back.

  All looked stunned at the ferocity of Benjamin’s attack.

  Jehu warded off the first blow with an upraised shepherd’s crook, but Benjamin’s assault didn’t stop. In a frenzy he slashed right and left. As he did so, he yelled for the other workmen to come help him kill the saboteurs!

  “Are you crazy?” Jehu demanded.

  Benjamin paid no heed. A swipe of his weapon sliced open the back of Jehu’s hand. Another wallop creased Jehu’s forehead, and he dropped to one knee.

  Lev swung his crook at Benjamin but missed, and then the battle was truly joined.

  Roaring about revenge for their comrades killed in the tower’s fall, nine laborers swinging mallets and grabbing up rocks waded into the outnumbered shepherds.

  Blue Eye snarled and rushed forward.

  The mason named Amos struck at the dog. Blue Eye dodged, snapped at Amos’ leg, and connected. Off balance, Amos tried to push the dog away.

  Lev struck again, hitting Benjamin in the shoulder.

  Two workers belabored Jehu, who from his kneeling posture defended himself one-handed against their blows.

  Running between Jehu and his attackers, Emet yelled, “Stop! It wasn’t shepherds who did this. Stop!”

  A sweeping backhand clout of Amos’ callused hand knocked him aside.

  Blue Eye pounced on the hand, sinking his teeth into bone.

  Even as Emet cried out, Amos smashed his hammer against Blue Eye, killing the dog.

  With Lev assailed by three other aqueduct workmen, Benjamin returned to the assault on Jehu.

  Emet saw the Roman centurion rush forward, but Marcus was too late.

  Raising his clenched fists for a two-handed blow, Benjamin brought his stone spike down on Jehu’s head.

  Lev escaped his attackers and sprinted toward Jehu’s defense, but Amos intervened. The shepherd swung his staff at Amos’ neck.

  Emet heard something snap, then Amos toppled to the ground, falling across the lifeless Jehu.

  The boy was shocked into muteness . . . as if he’d never learned to speak a word.

  Marcus batted at Lev’s staff, knocking the crook from the shepherd’s hands. With the point of his sword at Lev’s throat he bellowed, “Down weapons, all of you!”

  A shepherd ignored the command, acting as if he would strike Benjamin. But the shepherd stopped when Marcus threatened to kill Lev. “If one more blow is struck, this man dies,” Marcus said. “And whoever doesn’t obey will be crucified! I’ll take this scaffolding apart and use it for crosses!”

  Cursing and jostling continued as the panting groups of bloodied men separated, but with Marcus’ threat the fight had gone out of them. All knew that a Roman centurion was as good as his word when promising punishment.

  All could visualize a line of crosses paralleling the aqueduct and bearing their tortured and dying selves.

  Marcus looked in their eyes and saw it: naked fear had replaced the rush of anger.

  He shook his head at the absurdity of this senselessly compounded disaster. His own wrath rose up, and he tasted bile in his throat. At that moment he could easily have ordered twenty crucifixions and had no remorse.

  But he did not.

  Even though he was but a lone man, easily overpowered, such was the authority of Rome that not one of them offered to resume the violence by challenging Marcus. These were not rebels, not assassins, and they had no desire to be martyrs.

  Violence ceased as self-preservation came to the fore.

  Blame, however, was another matter.

  “We came to help!” a shepherd protested. “And he,” the man argued, leveling his staff at Benjamin, “he killed Jehu! They started this!”

  “You caused it!” Benjamin said, sweeping his hand toward the ruins of the scaffolding. “You cursed us, and then you made it happen. You killed my father.”

  Cries of protest from the shepherds made no impression on the angry masons, but Marcus said, “Oren’s not dead. He and the other injured need help.” Then he added bitterly, “Help! Not more bloodshed! I will investigate this, and the guilty will be punished.” After pausing to let the full weight of the implications sink in, he resumed. “You,” Marcus said to a herdsman, “take Jehu’s body. Get your men out of here. Send Zadok to me. Tell him I have Lev at Herodium. He and Oren’s son are being held for murder.”

  The men of Migdal Eder bore the body of Jehu away on a broken gate.

  Excluded from the tight ring of grief, Emet and Ha-or Tov followed at a distance. They were newcomers. Outsiders.

  Jehu’s eyes were wide, fixed in horror. Blood flowed down his left arm and dripped from his index finger. With each jarring step the dead man seemed to beckon them to follow, first pointing at Emet, and then at the sky.

  Emet looked up. The soul of Jehu must still be just a little above them. If the dead suddenly gained insight, did Jehu blame Emet for this?

  Emet stepped cautiously around the gruesome trail. Hands trembled. He tucked them into his sleeves. He felt sick. He was to blame for everything. Everything. The sabotage and collapse of Siloam Tower. The death of the stonecutters. The fight.

  And this.

  Hadn’t he heard the voices of watchers in the woods? On the dark hillside hadn’t Asher cowed him to silence by threatening to kill him if he told? Now Jehu was dead. Lev in prison. Certainly Lev would be condemned to be crucified. And it was Emet’s fault for remaining mute.

  “Blue Eye.” Ha-or Tov mourned the dog.

  Yes. Yes. And Blue Eye too. The dog was almost a person, wasn’t he? Kinder than Lev. Braver than any man. Loyal to old Zadok when Jehu had been a secret complainer.

  And yet the carcass of Blue Eye was left in the field. At the thought of their four-legged guardian Emet began to weep quietly.

  He tried to say, “My fault,” but his voice would not form the words.

  Ha-or Tov attempted to spit. “My mouth. I’ve got no spit.”

  Emet kept his gaze on the path as they dodged red droplets. He lagged farther behind, unwilling for his friend to see that the responsibility for this rested on his shoulders.

  “Come on,” Ha-or Tov urged him impatiently.

  A messenger was sent ahead to notify Jehu’s wife that he was killed.

  What would Zadok say when he came back to find everything had gone wrong?

  Wailing commenced in the City of David. Emet recognized the sound of keening for what it was, though he had never heard it before.

  Strange: the sheep of the doomed flock grazed on, as if nothing had happened. And yet the world of Migdal Eder was shaken.

  Women dashed from the houses and ran down the path to meet the procession. Emet raised his eyes long enough to see a woman supported by two others. Jehu’s wife. She screamed the name of the fallen man. At the sight of Jehu’s body she fell to the ground and flung dust into the air.

  Ha-or Tov said, “If Yeshua was here, this wouldn’t have happened.”

  But Yeshua was far away in the north. Death was unrestrained. Violence unhindered. Men were given over as playthings of fury and sorrow. Heads cracked like ripe melons and life spilled out in the blink of
an eye. And there was no putting it right.

  Only Jehu was serene.

  The killing was not done. They all felt it, knew it. Death whispered in their ears that the men crushed beneath the stones of the shattered tower and this lifeless remainder of a shepherd were glimpses of each living man’s destiny.

  Emet thought of Lev sharpening his knife on the whetstone in the stable. Soon he too would be dead!

  And the son of the stonecutter? Young Benjamin, who had slaughtered Jehu! He would die with Lev!

  The makeshift bier was carried above the heads of the shepherds toward Beth-lehem and to Jehu’s house.

  The pair of boys remained outside as the shepherd was placed solemnly on the floor of the cottage and the sounds of mourning increased.

  So many colors of green on the hillside. Flowers bloomed beside the doors of little houses. Terrace gardens, newly planted for summer, were littered with tools flung away at the instant of calamity. Shovels and hoes and sacks of seed among the half-dug furrows identified the moment when everything changed.

  There the stones and timbers of the tower collapsed.

  There the first blow was struck.

  And there Jehu’s brains spilled out.

  There Lev killed a man and thus put an end to his own future.

  Emet, sinking down beside a stone fence, covered his face with his hands. Frail shoulders were racked with sobs. He could not make himself think about Jehu, a man. No. His heart cracked for Blue Eye.

  Ha-or Tov awkwardly put an arm around him. “Emet! Brother! Brother! Go ahead. Cry. Go ahead.” Yes. There was relief in tears, but Ha-or Tov could not know the reasons Emet wept.

  Zadok and Avel returned to Beth-lehem with the sound of mourning ringing in their ears. Red Dog, panting alongside, scanned the scene in search of Blue Eye.

  After the old man received details of the tragedy from a shepherd outside Jehu’s house, he seemed to shrink within his frame. It was as if there were room for two inside his huge hide but only one remained.