Jerusalem's Hope

by Bodie Thoene

  Oren, who had been listening intently, surged forward. “One of the condemned is my son,” he pleaded. “He was angry because of what happened to me. He did wrong. But if you must make an example, use me! Don’t take my son’s life!”

  “You see where it stands,” Marcus added. “Two dead, two to be punished. A stern warning to any who would disturb the peace. That would be the simplest course . . . unless you can think of another way to guarantee calm between the aqueduct workers and the shepherds.”

  Oren fell to his knees. “Please,” he begged. “In the heat of anger blows were struck on both sides. Hasn’t there been enough killing already?”

  “Perhaps there is a way,” Zadok said carefully. “A blood covenant. A life for a life is demanded, but we have a fearful vow that may serve the purpose. It will only cost the lives of two lambs and not two more men.”

  Marcus listened as Zadok explained. At the conclusion he said, “You understand that I only accept this proposal if two of high standing will act as guarantors. Their lives are forfeit if there is any further violence. Is that clear?”

  With dignity Zadok said, “I, myself, will represent Migdal Eder. Does that suit you?”

  Even before Marcus agreed Oren implored, “Use me for the stonecutters’ vow! My life for my son’s if there’s any more fighting.”

  Marcus stood for a time, stern and implacable. He knew Shomron and Robb believed that the guilt lay with the shepherds for their hostility toward the aqueduct. In their minds Jews were either totally acquiescent to Rome’s authority or they were rebels. Shomron in particular would have crucified them all. Any leniency shown by Marcus would be equated with weakness. The least response required was a double execution.

  Marcus made up his mind. “I’ll spare them,” he said. “But the ceremony must take place today, soon! I’m riding after the rebels who carried out the attack.”

  Emet waited beside the Tower of Migdal Eder, together with Avel and Ha-or Tov. A phalanx of shepherds was drawn up around Zadok, who was dressed in white robes, almost like a priest. Wives and children, friends and neighbors from Beth-lehem, were all on hand as witnesses.

  The mood was somber and angry, fearful and mournful, all mixed up together. Sorrow at the loss of Jehu mingled with apprehension that Lev would yet be executed. Indeed there was concern that Roman justice would reach out and strike others of Beth-lehem’s shepherd community.

  There was also a simmering undercurrent of animosity. The aqueduct was an abomination; the misuse of Korban, a sacrilege. The Jewish laborers, being paid out of stolen Temple funds, were traitors and blasphemers.

  Emet overheard some say the Almighty brought down Siloam Tower on apostate heads as a fitting punishment. Besides, how could Migdal Eder be blamed? It was none of their doing, even if they approved the collapse. Nor had they started the battle that resulted in the death of the stonecutter.

  But you couldn’t expect a Roman to understand. Quick to condemn, quick to punish. That was the Roman vision of justice when it came to Jews.

  Emet knew some of the shepherds carried skinning knives in the sleeves of their robes. If the centurion had lied . . . if he came to arrest and punish . . . then Migdal Eder would in fact join the rebel cause and fight back!

  As for Emet himself, he recognized the confusion of emotions while experiencing only the sorrow. He alone possessed one sentiment not shared by anyone else: guilt.

  By not telling anyone about the rebel saboteurs, Emet was responsible for Jehu’s death, for the mason’s death . . . for all those killed by the fall of the Tower of Siloam.

  It was a crushing burden for a five-year-old to carry.

  The detachment from Herodium arrived early, but Zadok was prepared. “Oren, representing the masons, and I, on behalf of the shepherds, will go alone to select the lambs for the covenant. By the sacrifice of innocent blood, we bind ourselves to keep the peace, or else our own lives are forfeit. Y’ understand that they cannot be Passover lambs, because then we would be compounding bloodletting with sacrilege.”

  Marcus signaled his acceptance. “We’ll remain here with the pris oners.”

  Emet observed the trudge of Zadok and Oren up the hill toward the lambing caverns. In the perfectly clear, bright daylight, it was easy to watch them all the way to the cave entrance. He imagined what Zadok was feeling. Lev was chained between a pair of Roman legionaries and under sentence of death. Zadok had one chance to get this right; one opportunity to hold at bay the malice of Rome.

  And what was in Oren’s heart? It was his own son who was threatened. Emet had heard him welcome the opportunity to put his own life on the line . . . to publicly announce his willingness to be crucified . . . in order to save the life of his boy.

  Emet shivered, despite the warm sunshine.

  Silence fell over the witnesses as Zadok entered the lambing barn first. Moments later he emerged with a lamb cradled in his arms.

  Then Oren disappeared into the cave.

  No one spoke. The chief mason was gone for several minutes.

  When he reappeared it was difficult to see the lamb he carried, though it should have been easily identified by the contrast of its fleece with his dark brown tunic.

  Where was it? Wrapped in his cloak?

  Then the creature struggled in Oren’s unfamiliar grasp. Ha-or Tov, evidently seeing the truth before anyone else, reached out for Emet’s hand. Next, Avel gasped.

  And Emet knew.

  Bear bleated helplessly, the black limbs futilely resisting.

  Emet cried out, an incoherent expression of grief and pain. But there was nothing to change the outcome. The choice of the beloved black lamb had been made. Bear would pay the price for transgression.

  The sun stood directly overhead.

  There were no shadows, neither of men, nor of hills, nor even of the Tower of Migal Eder.

  The earlier mist had dissipated, and no clouds marred the brilliance of the blue sky.

  It was, Marcus thought, as if nothing that could obscure the coming ceremony was allowed to remain. There would be no excuses that anything had been done in secret or left questionable in any way.

  And there were ample witnesses: hundreds of shepherds, aqueduct workers, townsfolk from Beth-lehem, and Roman soldiers, planted as mute, motionless onlookers to the unfolding scene.

  A level space in front of the tower of the sheepfold had been swept clean to bare turf. A plot, forty paces in length and outlined with white stones, pointed directly from Migdal Eder toward the fallen structure of Siloam.

  The carcasses of the slaughtered lambs had been divided and carried in procession around the rocks marking the covenant path. Portions were placed between the markers, on either side of the lane.

  The blood that dribbled from the slain crisscrossed the bare ground. It was so intermingled that no one could say which drops came from which animal.

  Opposite the crowd, at the head of the track, stood Zadok and Oren. Zadok’s bloody hands were folded across his chest. Oren held up the weight of his injured arm. Both men’s features reflected the solemnity of their task.

  Marcus stood at the head of the contingent of legionaries flanking Benjamin and Lev. If all went well, blood of lambs would be all that was spilled today. If not . . .

  Zadok spoke. In the unnatural silence his voice boomed. Marcus imagined it could be heard in Herodium. “The blood covenant is a sign so ancient that its origin is from a time out of remembrance. Oren, on behalf of the stonemasons, and I, on behalf of the shepherds of Migdal Eder, have each selected a lamb. We have laid our hands on the animals and then killed them, pledging that the innocent blood shed here wipes out the debt of blood between our two peoples. What we do now is to bind ourselves by this most compelling vow to keep the peace. We pledge our own lives to this promise, recognizing that our lives are forfeit if anyone . . .” Zadok’s piercing eye pinned each shepherd and each stonecutter before he continued, “if anyone raises his hand against another.”

  Last of a
ll, Zadok looked at Marcus, who nodded his acceptance of the proposal. “Moreover,” Zadok boomed, “the centurion has agreed that Lev and Benjamin shall not die if we keep our promise.” That was all the acknowledgment of the Romans that Zadok intended. Resuming his speech, he said, “We descendants of Abraham are the children of the promise made to him by the Most High. He brought Abraham from Ur of the Chaldeans to give him this land. And when Abraham asked how he was to know that he should possess it, the Almighty performed a blood covenant as proof. The animals of sacrifice were cut in two, just as we have done. A deep, terrifying darkness fell on Abraham, and then he saw a smoking brazier and a flaming torch pass between the halves of the sacrifice. El’Elyon, God Most High, unlike what we do here today, needed no partner to his covenant but himself. He made his promise unconditional, swearing by his holy honor and his own glory. And the Lord God said, ‘To your descendants I give this land, from the River of Egypt to the great river, the Euphrates.’ ”

  It was a call to all Jews to remember their heritage, to recognize that the bonds connecting them were more powerful than any dividing them. It was a challenge to the stonemasons to remember that they were Jews first and employees of their Gentile masters after.

  Marcus wondered if the other non-Jews present in the throng recognized the import of those words. Zadok asserted that the God of the Jews had made an eternal, unbreakable pledge. On His very honor and glory, the Almighty had promised this territory as a Jewish homeland forever. How would Pilate have responded to those words? Would Tiberius view them as a challenge to his rule, or as a historical curiosity? In the mouth of a rebel chieftain they could be interpreted as a rallying call to revolt: drive out the foreign invaders!

  What did Yeshua of Nazareth think of that ancient vow?

  Oren and Zadok clasped right hands. At a slow, deliberate pace, they walked together between the stones of remembrance, between the bodies of the innocent slain, treading in the path of blood.

  When they reached the end of the forty paces, they stopped, but still no one spoke.

  Marcus glanced down. A thin crescent shadow cast by his crested helmet lay at his feet. The sun had moved; the moment suspended in time was over. “I agree to the terms of the covenant,” he said. “Lev and Benjamin are released. Unchain them.”

  Marcus heard Shomron grumble at how soft Marcus had gotten. Marcus was sure the events of the past day and how he’d handled them had done him no good with Governor Pilate. How much damage to his career he’d managed was still to be determined.

  “Release them!” Marcus repeated.

  Freed, Benjamin ran toward his father.

  Lev, head down and hands clasped together, stumbled away from the scene toward the pen housing the culled, imperfect lambs.

  “We march at once after the rebels who caused the collapse of Siloam’s tower and brought about injury and death,” Marcus concluded.

  At least he’d gotten to say that in front of hundreds of witnesses . . . not that it would do any good. Marcus had met just one man who could truly change hearts and minds. And for that unique ability the Teacher, Yeshua of Nazareth, was hated by those in authority and plotted against for his very life.

  The search for the rebels who sabotaged the Tower of Siloam yielded nothing immediate except the fact they had left the area. In a bare, waterless canyon that was of no interest to either shepherds or aqueduct workers, Marcus found evidence of their encampment. It had been hastily vacated, which was no surprise. After tampering with the scaffolding and causing death and destruction, they never intended to remain behind and fight a pitched battle. Their weapons were night attacks and terror; they were cowards, not soldiers.

  The deserted camp showed the rebels had been living well indeed. There were enough charred lamb bones for the meat to have fed an army for a month. Clearly this was where the stolen sheep had ended up. There was even a curious weapon dropped and abandoned in the hurried departure: a three-pronged instrument designed to cause wounds like the slashing attack of a wild beast.

  The rebels had taken no particular pains in covering their tracks. They headed north toward Jerusalem.

  This also made sense to Marcus. With the Passover crowds swelling Jerusalem to twice its normal size, bar Abba’s men could disappear into the throngs without fear.

  The teeming streets and the abundance of unknown pilgrims swarming the city also suggested more attacks, assassinations, and insurrection. Since the rebels had shown themselves willing to cause the deaths of Jews as well as legionaries, anything was within their scope.

  Governor Pilate and Tribune Felix were certain to be in the Holy City by now. Marcus would carry the warning of his suspicions to them there, in addition to delivering his report on what had happened at Siloam’s tower. “Form half the men into patrols to guard the line of the aqueduct day and night,” he told Shomron. “I don’t think they’ll hit it again, but we’ll take no chances. Then take the other half and march to Jerusalem. I’ll ride on ahead.”

  From Shomron’s expression it was clear he didn’t envy what Marcus faced when he made his report. The tower had been attacked only shortly after Marcus’ arrival. Although there were not enough troopers to guard the full route all the time, Rome would not take that as an excuse.

  The Roman army was not known for tolerating failure. When a tree branch once brushed against the emperor’s carriage, he had ordered a halt. The centurion in charge of the road-clearing detail had been flogged to death while Tiberius applauded.

  No, Shomron wouldn’t envy Marcus his trip to see the governor.

  On Marcus’ part, he steeled himself for what lay ahead. With the certainty of an old campaigner, he knew that something was going to happen in Jerusalem. Now that he had concrete proof the rebels were headed there, he hoped his warning would be in time to thwart their plans.

  But most immediately he had another warning in mind, and it was toward Bethany that he rode.

  There was plenty of time on the journey to recall Miryam. Would she be at El’azar’s home, or was she back at her estate in Magdala, tending young, needy mothers and children? Or was she off somewhere else quite unknown, following the Rabbi from Nazareth, possibly into the teeth of coming disaster in Jerusalem?

  Marcus convinced himself that his travel to Bethany had the best possible motives, but his bluff honesty wouldn’t allow him to dissemble, even to himself.

  He longed to see her again.

  Truthfully Marcus wanted to marvel at the light in her hair, inhale her perfume, touch her hands.

  He spurred Pavor forward.

  The aged retainer who answered the gate at Marcus’ knock acted addled in his wits as well as deaf. After Marcus hammered loudly on the entry, a quavering voice finally inquired about his business. “A Roman centurion with an important message for Master El’azar,” he shouted.

  “You’ll have to speak up,” the servent directed.

  Marcus repeated his request twice more, only to be told that the household had all the provisions it needed, as if Marcus were a traveling peddler.

  “I’m a centurion!” he roared. “Open this door!” Marcus wondered if he would have to break it in to gain admittance or if vaulting the wall would be faster.

  Just then the door swung back and Miryam stood before him.

  “Marcus?” she called in a mixture of pleasure and amusement.

  The old servant stood nearby, an upraised hoe in his hands to defend against marauders, until Miryam dismissed him.

  “Is Rome attacking us?” Miryam asked.

  A number of rejoinders occurred to him, but his changed relationship with her made him stop his tongue before any of them popped out.

  “I’ve come to warn you,” he said. “You and your brother, that is. Not to go to Passover, to Jerusalem during Passover. It isn’t safe. Rebels and . . .” Since his adolescence in Rome he’d never felt shy in the presence of a woman, but in front of Miryam he was absolutely incapable of coherent speech. “Look,” he said finally. “Is
Yeshua here?”

  “No,” Miryam replied. “I came south with my family, remember?”

  Weighing the fact that he was a Roman officer in uniform against the dread of offending her by questioning her truthfulness, he asked carefully, “Has he been here? Does he have any plans to be here or in Jerusalem soon?”

  “What’s this about?” Miryam asked. “First Nakdimon ben Gurion and now you?”

  Nakdimon?

  “Is your brother at home?” Marcus inquired. “Perhaps I’d best explain this all one time.”

  “Of course,” Miryam said, leading the way into the house.

  Over the course of the next hour Marcus sat with El’azar, Miryam, and Marta. El’azar welcomed him warmly. Marta was decidedly cool toward him, but not as violently antagonistic as on previous occasions.

  Marcus told what had happened to the tower and what he suspected of the rebel plot against Jerusalem. He hinted at the violent response planned by Pilate without actually revealing any details of Vara’s operation. Then he concluded by saying, “It’s not just Yeshua’s safety that concerns me. If he’s present in Jerusalem and anything happens there . . . and I’m certain trouble is brewing . . . then he’s sure to be blamed. He might be arrested and tried for conspiracy. After what’s happened with the Korban funds and the aqueduct, the first person who acclaims Yeshua as king may be driving the nails through his hands.”

  It was a harsh admonition, the bluntest Marcus had ever delivered.

  Marta looked shocked; Miryam pale, but calm.

  El’azar spoke. “We don’t know where he is. But if we hear of his whereabouts, what’s to be done?”

  “Convince his talmidim to bundle him over Jordan and back north as fast as possible. Barring that, keep him away from Jerusalem . . . here, if you can . . . at least until after Passover.”

  Marta opened her mouth to speak, then shut it abruptly at a glance from her brother.

  Now there was a real change, Marcus thought.

  “We’ll do what we can,” El’azar promised.