Jerusalem's Hope

by Bodie Thoene

  He bowed his head but did not enter Jehu’s house. After a time some men came out. Zadok spoke in nearly inaudible whispers to those who gathered around him to express their terror.

  “Sabotage, the Romans say.”

  “They blame us! They’ll be coming for us all. Not only Lev!”

  “Lev’s doomed for certain!”

  “The boy of the master mason started it!”

  “Self-defense is what it was!”

  Zadok had no solution.

  The dust of chaos choked the air of Beth-lehem. Emet could smell it—acrid and thick. The horizon of the valley had changed. The proud Tower of Siloam was missing. A rubble heap of broken bodies, stones, and shattered timbers lay where it had stood.

  Nothing would be the same. Death had come secretly among them. From the cover of the familiar wood Evil had searched for weakness in the men of the valley and had found it.

  Emet had remained mute. Guilt threatened to crush his soul. Hours passed. In the late afternoon Zadok found the boys huddled beside the wall.

  Zadok’s back was to the sun. The blinding glare hid the old man’s face. Emet squinted up at him. The shepherd’s shadow over them seemed young and powerful.

  “Boys,” Zadok commanded. “Come home.”

  Red Dog nosed them to their feet. Zadok, his stride slower than usual, led them to the house. Following his example they washed hands, feet, and faces before crossing the threshold. This connection with ordinary routine after a day of confusion was a relief to Emet.

  With a ragged sigh, Emet inhaled the scents of lavender and thyme. He raised his eyes to focus on the bundles of herbs hanging from the ceiling.

  The trio stood, unmoving, in the center of the room as their mentor busied himself around them.

  Sticks on fire. Bread heating on the flat stone that rested on the coals. Hummus, olives, and dates removed from storage jugs and placed out in bowls for supper.

  At last Zadok spoke. “Well? Sit.”

  They obeyed. He sank down opposite them and blessed the bread, distributing it to each.

  “Today as you know I was called away to Yerushalayim.”

  Did he not want to know the details of the tragedy? Emet wondered.

  “Avel and I met with certain members of the Sanhedrin.” He gave Avel a hard look. “With Reb Gamaliel and his nephew Nakdimon ben Gurion. You know them?”

  Ha-or Tov nodded. “We traveled south from Galilee in Nakdimon’s protection.”

  Zadok clearly knew this already. “After today there is sure to be a trial of our shepherds before the Sanhedrin.”

  “Will Lev be crucified?” Ha-or Tov ventured.

  The old man stared out the doorway in the direction of Herodium. At last he drew a long breath. “Jehu paid the price for rebellion. For disloyalty. Perhaps the hand of the Almighty has also punished the men killed at Siloam Tower. But every shepherd of Migdal Eder may be accused of sabotage before the week is out. And all may stand condemned before the Roman judges and the council of seventy. Nakdimon was kindly disposed toward you. Perhaps you should go to his house in Yerushalayim.”

  Emet sensed the blood drain from his face. “But! No!”

  “The Holy City. For your own safety, boy,” the old herdsman instructed.

  Emet blurted, “But they aren’t guilty!”

  Zadok considered Emet’s response curiously. “It will take a court to sort that out,” Zadok countered.

  “I know who broke the scaffolding!” Emet declared. “I heard voices in the woods! I told Lev, and he said I was crazy.”

  “You heard . . . ?” Zadok leaned forward intently. “What are you going on about?”

  Emet began to weep as he confessed everything. The calamity was all his fault, he was sure of it! He alone should be punished, not the shepherds! Not Lev! He told about his encounter with Asher in the night beside the Tower of Siloam. Rebels! Men everywhere on the scaffolding! Asher’s knife. Emet’s terror of the darkness. The awful dream that Asher slit his throat like the throat of a lamb. Blood flowing from gaping wounds, soaking his clothes. At last Emet collapsed, sobbing.

  At first Zadok contemplated all this, saying nothing. He searched the startled faces of Avel and Ha-or Tov. The two elder boys clearly had not heard it before.

  Zadok inquired gently, “Emet? Did y’ know what they intended? To kill men and destroy the tower?”

  The boy shook his head. He knew only that they were up to something evil. “And I was too afraid to tell you. Asher said . . . I am bound by blood covenant . . . if I told . . . he’d slit my throat, cut me in two, and carry my blood in a golden bowl to the high altar!”

  “Do y’ understand the meaning of a blood covenant, boy?” Zadok asked.

  “No, sir.”

  At this the shepherd’s face flooded with compassion. He gathered Emet into his arms and held him close. “It’s the most sacred of all covenants between the Lord and the nation of Israel. Made on the day Adonai declared to Abraham that one day his children would be a great nation! From the seed of Abraham and Sarah one day a Messiah would be born to save and bless all the world. By this the promise to our nation was sealed in blood between the Lord and Abraham. The covenant passed on through Isaac, Jacob, to us, and the nation of Israel forever. It does not depend on Israel’s faithfulness to God, but upon God’s unfailing faithfulness to Abraham and the nation of Israel!”

  Avel piped, “But why would Asher use such a threat against Emet?”

  Zadok explained, “There are times of significance when men still perform the blood covenant with one another. If the vow is broken, then the life of he who breaks it is required as forfeit. The Lord pledged his own glory . . . his holy honor . . . in making his covenant with Abraham. Such a promise is too sacred to ever be used lightly or as a threat against a child.”

  “Have I broken a vow?” Emet cried in alarm.

  “No, boy. No covenant was made. False and hollow words binding you to silence through fear,” Zadok soothed. Then he whispered this prayer, “So, Lord!” He lay his cheek protectively against Emet’s head. “May he who falsely declared this vow to an innocent child pay the price for his words and deeds.” Then to Emet, “And by my own life, Emet, he’ll not harm a hair of your head. Can you believe me in this, child?”

  Emet rested his cheek on the old man’s chest and listened to the steady heartbeat. Relief. Exhaustion. “Yes,” Emet quavered.

  “All right, then. You’ll have to tell the whole truth to the Roman centurion at Herodium. Perhaps you’ll have to be a witness in Yerushalayim to others in authority as well. Truth is the only way.”

  In excited anticipation of the approaching Passover holiday, Nakdimon’s children built an open fire in the pit in the garden when Nakdimon came home. That evening they roasted apples on sticks and sat round it and asked a million questions about his discussions with Uncle Gamaliel and his trip to the Galil.

  The true reason for his quest remained a secret. To speak openly of Yeshua to his offspring would mean that his opinion would be known to their friends by tomorrow night. Bekah, the cook, would overhear and gossip with the servants of their neighbors. Nakdimon’s mother, Em, would complain about tradesmen running off to follow a teacher in the Galil. And hours later Jerusalem would be aware that Nakdimon ben Gurion had spoken with the man who might well be Israel’s Messiah.

  Holding his sleeping son in his arms, Nakdimon chatted instead about the little boats scudding across the Sea of Galilee. Of children working in the fields as he passed. Of kindnesses he encountered. Meals he ate. Places he slept. And stories he had heard.

  “Who then was the good neighbor? The cohen? The Levite? Or the Samaritan? . . .”

  Only a month had passed, and yet it seemed like such a long time to be away. Nakdimon drank the vision of his children like good wine.

  Hannah had blossomed. Soon enough she would be a woman ready to become betrothed. Nakdimon couldn’t look at her without thinking of Deborah, the daughter of Capernaum’s cantor, wh
o had been dead but was now alive by Yeshua’s hand.

  Susanna, ten this month, knelt and blew the embers into flame. She had become such a responsible girl. Ashes scattered. She brushed off Nakdimon’s sleeve and plopped down beside him.

  Ruth was not interested in her father’s tales. She had her own stories to regale him with. “. . . and the tower of Pilate’s aqueduct collapsed on the workers! We were in the souk with Em, and they brought the dead men right past us on stretchers! Bloody! Blood covered with dust, but blood all the same!”

  The twins, Deborah and Dinah, chimed in, “Everyone in the souk was saying it fell on them by the breath of the Almighty!”

  “That these were fellows who deserved to die because their wages were paid illegally by Korban!”

  Hannah tossed another log on the fire. “Still, they were men like anyone. I was talking to Bekah in the kitchen this morning. She says one of them leaves eight children!”

  Leah, the youngest girl, said sweetly, “I feel sorry for them. Who will tuck them in at night?”

  Who indeed? Nakdimon wondered.

  Nakdimon kissed the top of Samuel’s head. The sleeping boy did not stir, but lay contented in his father’s arms. It was times like this which made Nakdimon wish he had nothing to think about but these few.

  He caught himself staring at Hannah, and thinking then about Ya’ir, Deborah’s father.

  Would Nakdimon have brought Yeshua home after hearing his child had died?

  Or would he have given up and gone back to mourn alone?

  It was a question that had plagued him for days. The answer for Ya’ir was the right one. He had received his only child back from the grave.

  The apple juice hissed as it dripped on the coals. Nakdimon guessed that if it had been Hannah laying on the bier, he might have sent Yeshua away and gotten on with the burial.

  Nakdimon tested the apple with his tongue. Hot. Cooked through. He ventured a bite as Hannah asked, “So, Father, people are saying we’ll have a new king in Yeshua of Nazareth. Did you see him? What do you think?”

  Nakdimon shrugged and ventured a bite of his roasted apple. “What do the people think? What are they saying?” he asked, begging off the question.

  Hannah answered, “Some say he’s Elijah. Others say maybe even Moses. Everyone hopes he’s coming here for Passover.”

  Few within the fortress of Herodium were sleeping, it seemed. Eleven more bodies extracted from the rubble of the fallen tower lay on wood planks in a cellar morgue. They would be buried at first light tomorrow.

  The stonecutters, mourning in silence, separated themselves from the off-duty Roman soldiers whose bawdy drinking songs echoed through the corridors.

  Marcus leaned against the parapet of the highest tower and observed the winking fires of the shepherds. The moon had set. Starlight was a profuse web frosting the black face of heaven.

  This peaceful reality had been shattered today. By tomorrow it would be utterly destroyed . . . unless Marcus found a way to convince Pilate that the destruction of Siloam Tower was not what it seemed to be.

  An unwelcome voice interrupted his reverie.

  “We’ve got a muddle on our hands, eh, Marcus?” Centurion Shomron joined him. He smelled of wine. “Not unexpected. As long as I’ve been in the army there’s always something brewing with the Jews.” Drinking made the gruff, grumpy Shomron much more loquacious than usual.

  Marcus grunted his reply. Shomron, as a Samaritan, rejoiced in Jewish calamity. Marcus had never liked the old warhorse. He was too matter-of-fact about death, too ready to arrest any troublemaker and crucify him on a charge of maiestas, disrespect for Rome.

  Shomron drawled, “In my younger days, the old King Herod would have crucified the whole lot of them. Shepherds. Their kin. Everyone. And I would’ve been on the detail to complete the task.”

  “This place has a feel of death,” Marcus muttered.

  “And so it should. Herod murdered his two sons by Mariamme here, they say. Poisoned her, and she being the one who gave his line proper pedigree, you might say, back to Israel’s kings. Herod was no Jew. Idumean, he was. And oh how the Jews hated him!”

  “Even after he built the Temple?”

  “Yes, well. There’s more rotten about the man than the good he might have done. He burned all the records of Jewish genealogy stored at the Temple because he feared the day when some descendant of David would be born right there in little Beth-lehem and grow up to become King of the Jews.” Shomron scratched his beard. “Oh the slaughters of innocents that came about over that myth! I could tell you things! And the soldiers . . . young men we were. Just following orders. Worst duty in the empire. We rode from this very fortress and joined Herod’s personal guard to put an end to baby messiahs and future kings in Beth-lehem. Ask them. There’s no men there between the ages of thirty and thirty-three. A whole nest of little Jews . . .” He drew his finger slowly across his throat.

  Marcus snapped, “Worthy enemies, were they?”

  “Ah well. Gone and forgotten. Except the Jews have a day of remembrance to celebrate the day Herod died. Sure. All mourning is forbidden. A real butcher that one. But he was quite the builder, all the same.”

  Marcus was aware that Augustus Caesar had once remarked about Herod the Great that he would rather be Herod’s pig than his son. There was much about the past Marcus didn’t want to hear. Not tonight. There were present-day slaughters to avert. He couldn’t contemplate the inglorious past.

  “You’ll have to crucify them come morning. Young and old.” Shomron spit over the wall. “Teach them a lesson.”

  “It’s nearly Passover. Executing anyone right now could tip the scales toward riot and revolt in Jerusalem.”

  “You’ll have to kill these. Come what may. And Jerusalem? Packed with messiahs, they say. Maybe that Yeshua from Galilee. Or bar Abba, the rebel. Let them come, I say. From what I hear, Praetorian Vara and his cohorts will take care of any and all who raise their faces to defy Rome in Jerusalem this Passover. It’ll be a bloody holy day indeed. Who needs lambs, eh? They’ll get what they’ve got coming to them. One and all.”

  Marcus’ head throbbed. How could he keep Yeshua from walking into what was poised to be a wholesale massacre? Had the Master come south, even after refusing the crown?

  And what about Miryam and her family? Surely they planned to attend the ceremonies at the Temple in Jerusalem. With Vara in charge of maintaining peace, there would be no peace. Pilate, Herod Antipas, and possibly the members of the Sanhedrin were in no mood to indulge a hint of disagreement.

  Yes. The collapse of Siloam Tower was merely the warning of approaching disaster.

  Marcus bade Shomron pleasant dreams and retreated to the privacy of his own bedchamber. He held the light up to the corona obsidionalis, which hung on a dowel beside his sword. Surely it had been easier to face a howling tribe of Germans at Idistaviso than to deal with the convoluted intrigues of the stiff-necked children of Abraham.

  From somewhere in the enormous cone of Herodium Marcus thought he heard the muffled sound of a man weeping.

  LO VE-HAYIL

  At dawn the next morning Marcus emerged from the tunnel at the base of Herodium. In pale, shimmering light he made his way to the road circumscribing the hill. He was just outside the boundaries of the fortress grounds when he stopped.

  Beside him was Oren, his arm bandaged and hanging from a sling about his neck. Centurion Shomron and a decade of troopers flanked the two prisoners. Benjamin and Lev were chained hand and foot.

  Marcus observed others approaching from the direction of Migdal Eder. Even in the mist of early morning that hung about the slopes Marcus had no difficulty recognizing Zadok’s distinctive form. The old man was accompanied by three boys and a reddish-coated dog.

  Zadok looked weary, troubled by what had happened, and grim-faced about what would be the sequel. “You’re up early, Centurion,” he said to Marcus.

  “I knew you’d arrive at first light,” Marcus re
turned in a matter-of-fact tone. “Does it suit you to speak here?” Stepping closer and lowering his voice he added, “I know you cannot enter Herodium’s precincts without defiling yourself on almost the eve of your Passover.”

  Zadok’s eyes widened in surprise. Perhaps he’d never met a Roman officer who even understood, let alone cared about the scruples of religious Jews.

  “Yes, here, thank you,” Zadok replied. “I have news. The tower was sabotaged, but not by shepherds. This boy,” the flock master said, indicating Emet, “saw the perpetrators. Speak up, boy.”

  Marcus bent close to listen as Emet’s voice was reedy and barely above the level of his breath in volume. “It’s my fault. I saw them. Asher and the others.”

  “Asher of bar Abba’s men?” Marcus noted sharply.

  Emet’s head bobbed. “He said he’d kill me if I told anyone . . . so it’s my fault! It wasn’t shepherds. Please don’t kill Lev! I’m the one who should be punished.”

  Straightening up again, Marcus said, “Your punishment I leave to your master here.” Then to Zadok he added, “Gaius Robb and I reviewed the tower’s collapse. He and I agree that it was not an accident. Robb wanted me to arrest all of Migdal Eder, and without other evidence I might have had no choice. But I also believe your witness. These boys were with bar Abba’s band for a time . . . I overheard them. If Truth says it was Asher, I believe him.”

  Zadok regarded Marcus with curiosity. “You are an unusual man, Centurion. Why is that?”

  “Another time,” Marcus concluded gruffly. “Twenty-one men killed and twenty-five maimed in the tower’s collapse we can blame on bar Abba. But there remains the matter of two murders that came after. Your man, Jehu, and the stonecutter, Amos, were slain by these two captives. No one disputes their guilt. Shomron and Robb think I should crucify the two of them as examples.”

  “No!” Emet cried.

  Zadok grasped the boy by the shoulder and pulled him back. “You have that right,” the chief shepherd acknowledged.