Jerusalem's Hope

by Bodie Thoene

  There, despite being under the watchful eye of the Roman fortress of the Antonia, a tightly packed, excited mob had gathered.

  With Zadok leading, using timely nudges of his staff to part the multitude, they advanced toward the gate until Avel was near enough to see what the excitement was about.

  Graffiti was scrawled on the walls of the passage: Death to the Korban traitors! The fall of Siloam’s tower is the punishment of the Almighty! Be ready to strike!

  In reeking letters that dripped onto the paving stones, the messages appeared to be written in blood.

  Animal, or human? Avel wondered.

  The tension in the archway and in the surrounding passages was not the convivial enthusiasm of Passover! The air, rank with anger, smoldered with talk of rebellion.

  “The tower proves the anger of the Most High against traitors and blasphemers,” Avel heard a man announce.

  “The tower’s collapse was caused by rebels,” retorted another.

  “Then the rebels are doing the work of the Almighty” was the reply.

  These were not the wealthy of Jerusalem doing the talking. Avel was not hearing the sentiments of the ruling class. The agitated sounds of hostility came from the working men of Jerusalem, augmented by the country twang of villagers from the Galil.

  “They killed the prophet and some of us,” proclaimed a cobbler, referring, Avel surmised, to the death of Yochanan the Baptizer and the violence at Purim. “And they think we’ve forgotten already.”

  “Come along, boys,” Zadok ordered, jabbing left and right with his shepherd’s crook. “Make way there!”

  They were able to make better progress then, but only as far as the Sheep’s Gate Inn.

  A solid wall of pilgrims blocked further motion while leaving a space in front of the hostelry’s entry.

  “What’s this, then?” Zadok demanded. “We have a delivery to make.”

  “Hold on, old man,” snapped a burly Galilean. “They’re bringing out a dead body.”

  That explained why everyone kept back. There would be no Passover celebration for anyone defiled by contact with the dead.

  Avel scrambled up on a balcony. He got a glimpse over the crowd as the corpse was brought out. At that instant Avel recognized two faces below him. He saw the features of Zacharias, the Ethiopian servant of Nakdimon ben Gurion, frozen in shock and horror.

  The boy also identified the body: it was the hawker from whom Nakdimon had rented the donkey. His throat was slashed from ear to ear.

  Outside the Sheep Gate was a pool of water for the flocks and herds coming to the Temple. Beside this pond was Marcus. The centurion was in disguise and had the hood of his cloak flipped up over his head. He leaned against a broken column left over from some ancient ruined structure. The looming height of the Temple Mount bathed both the pool and Marcus in shadow.

  A decade of legionaries led by Guard Sergeant Quintus double-timed up from the Kidron Valley. Shouting, “Get out of the way!” Quintus led his men toward the scene of the hawker’s death.

  As the troopers passed, Marcus called out to Quintus, then stepped back into deeper shadow.

  With the stump of the pillar between them, Marcus carried on a conversation with Quintus while remaining unseen by passersby. “You’re too late to do him any good,” Marcus informed him. “The man murdered in Sheep’s Gate Inn.”

  “Who was he?”

  “A traveling hawker. Nobody seems to know his name.”

  “Killed in a brawl?” Quintus said hopefully.

  “Assassinated,” Marcus corrected. “Murdered in his sleep and the room smeared with his blood. They’re here. Keep your eyes peeled for bar Abba and others. And keep marching up and down. The more your men are seen in the streets, the better.”

  Quintus swore, “There’s precious few of us for it. Praetorian Vara has more’n half my men out of uniform and wandering about in the crowds. And Vara’s own soldiers are playing at provoking trouble, shouting traitorous slogans and the like, to see who agrees. Can’t tell who anybody is! Had two men from different cohorts denounce each other as rebels! What about you, sir?”

  “Right now I’m following a servant of Nakdimon ben Gurion. The man was near the Inn when the murder was discovered.”

  “Are you thinking he’s a rebel?” Quintus asked. “Or his master? What’s the connection?”

  “Right now I’m just watching,” Marcus retorted sharply. “And trying not to jump to conclusions. Will your squadron be at Pilate’s audience this afternoon?”

  “We’ve been ordered to keep away so as not to antagonize the delegation of Jews,” Quintus replied scornfully.

  “That’s dead wrong,” Marcus concluded. “But too late to change it now. Do your best.”

  “And you, sir,” Quintus returned. Then he added, “And watch your back too, sir. A rebel’d just love to put a blade between your ribs . . . or Vara, who could blame the rebels after. But here, I almost forgot a message. Governor wants to see you . . . right away.”

  A faithful servant was better than a well-paid informant. Zacharias the Ethiopian was Nakdimon’s eyes and ears on the street.

  “And, sir.” Zacharias trembled as he described the scene at the Inn of the Sheep Gate to Nakdimon. “The hawker’s throat was cut from ear to ear! The words death to all apostates and traitor were scrawled on the walls in his own blood. The innkeeper showed me the bloody bedchamber himself. And there was more written boldly beneath the arch of Sheep Gate!”

  Nakdimon pressed his fingers together in thought. “What word of this man’s murder on the streets?”

  “That the hawker, like the dead stonemasons crushed by the Tower of Siloam, has received a just punishment from the Almighty!”

  “The people are against the Sanhedrin then?”

  “Oh sir! All! All of them! And those who aren’t are afraid to speak! There’s not a word of support for our rulers that anyone dares to whisper!” Zacharias mopped sweat from his brow, “They’re all saying death should come to any who spent the Korban funds for Rome’s projects! Every mouth contains a curse against Caiaphas and the Sanhedrin. Some openly proclaim that the time is right to restore a righteous king to Yerushalayim. That any who gives information to the Sanhedrin has become apostate! And by the blood that flows from the hawker’s throat, they vow that this is the fate of all who oppose righteousness.”

  Had the hawker been a member of the rebel band, after all? Otherwise how had his assassins known that the hawker had offered information to Nakdimon and thus to the Sanhedrin?

  “Who do they say will overthrow the council?”

  The old servant shook his grizzled head from side to side. “Many say by the sword of bar Abba.”

  “And?”

  “Others proclaim Yeshua of Nazareth will come to Jerusalem and call down fire on the council chamber and the Temple Mount! He’ll destroy the Temple, they say, the same as he drove out the money changers last year!”

  “Do they say he’s in league with bar Abba?”

  “Some say there’s a secret alliance between the two. I’ve heard that bar Abba’s rebels are all Galileans. Like the talmidim of Yeshua. Violent, uneducated men.”

  “Yeshua is neither violent nor uneducated,” Nakdimon countered.

  “Still the people remember how Yeshua drove out the money changers from the Temple in his rage. There’s speculation that he’ll avenge the murder of his cousin, Yochanan the Baptizer, this week! Slaughter Herod Antipas and restore the throne of David!” Zacharias declared. “They twitter about it. They look for it! Hope that blood will run!”

  So already the mob had perverted the message of Yeshua. Blessed are the peacemakers.

  “Yeshua has nothing to do with bar Abba,” Nakdimon claimed.

  “The people aren’t convinced of that, sir! They’ll acclaim him if he comes! With one voice they’ll shout the hosanna! They’ll gladly stand by and cheer when he brings judgment and vengeance upon the rulers of Rome and Israel together!” The servant
glanced nervously toward the barred gate of the house. “Your name is among the seventy.”

  “I’m not afraid of the mob.”

  “The mob didn’t slit the hawker’s throat. But an assassin through the window of the inn at night.”

  “The walls of this house are high.”

  “Be glad the children are away with your mother, sir. As for me, I’ll be sleeping light.”

  “I’ll sleep with a clear conscience and a sword by my side. So I’ll sleep soundly no matter what happens.”

  “You should have Temple bodyguards here at the house, sir. And so should every cohen and member of the Sanhedrin until the holy days are over. I tell you! The people are praying for revolution! Hundreds of thousands have come expecting it! Rome can’t kill them all. They’ve not been so stirred up since the days when the Maccabees stormed the gates and recaptured Yerushalayim from the Greeks!”

  The domed hall of the Sanhedrin council chamber was a bigger vault than any Emet had seen, apart from the arch of the sky. Many of the elders displayed sternly critical faces. They represented more wealth and more learning assembled in one place than Emet knew existed.

  The boy had seen death up close in the face of the murdered hawker. He sensed the nearby existence of Kittim. The memory of Asher’s knife at his throat lingered.

  He was afraid, and even in this room his foreboding had substance.

  When the disapproval he sensed from the elders was added to his apprehension, it was almost more than the five-year-old could bear.

  It all made him feel very small and frightened. It was good to have Zadok’s hands resting on his shoulders. He appreciated the friendly presence of Nakdimon ben Gurion. Otherwise Emet would have bolted and run out of the hall.

  “What’s this?” demanded Caiaphas. “Nakdimon ben Gurion, is there a reason to bring these street rats into our meeting?”

  Nakdimon, flanked by his uncle Gamaliel, nodded toward Zadok. “I’m certain the chief shepherd of Migdal Eder appreciates the warmth of your greeting,” he commented with sarcasm.

  Grudgingly, the high priest started over. “Zadok of Migdal Eder is welcome.”

  Emet’s eyes widened and his heart beat faster. He’d known that Zadok was someone extraordinary. To be chief shepherd of the Temple flock made Zadok important, but the high priest of Israel recognized him and called him by name!

  Nakdimon continued smoothly, “These apprentice shepherds are the important witnesses I mentioned. They know bar Abba’s band and can tell about the destruction of Siloam’s tower.”

  Peering down over his long nose like a bird of prey, Caiaphas fixed his gaze on the boys. “Which of them will talk first?”

  At the same moment that Emet was gently pushed forward by Zadok’s hands, he felt warmth flow into him. “This boy, whose name is Truth,” Zadok replied.

  “He’s scarcely bigger than a lamb,” Caiaphas remarked scornfully.

  “I can tell what I know!” Emet asserted, remembering Zadok’s words: there is a time to speak. “I saw rebels doing things to the Tower of Siloam. I saw Asher of bar Abba’s band.”

  “How do you know him?” another of the council inquired.

  “Because we were with them for a while,” Emet said. “We lived in their camp.”

  At this a few of the Sanhedrin twitched aside the hems of their robes, as if Emet were indeed a rat. Others looked nervous; among these was the cohen hagadol himself.

  “And where are they now?” Caiaphas inquired. His voice was not altogether steady as he spoke.

  “I don’t know,” Emet said truthfully, “but I think they’re here in Yerushalayim. I feel it.”

  “What’s their intent?”

  “They want to kill you,” Avel added helpfully.

  “First the tower and then us!” another of the council stressed. “The killing has already started . . . at Sheep’s Gate Inn! Where will they strike next?”

  The orderliness of the proceedings dissolved into a babble of worried voices.

  Evidently the story of the murdered hawker had already reached into the council chamber. Emet examined the costly drapery and polished furnishing. He observed the faces of grown men contorted with anxiety.

  So wealth and learning did not eliminate fear.

  Much of Emet’s sense of unworthiness evaporated.

  “It’s worse than you think,” Nakdimon commented. “The dead man was another who was coming to give testimony about bar Abba.”

  The hubbub in the chamber increased. Many of the members shouted that the contingent of Temple police delegated to protect the council must be increased. Some suggested that the Roman governor should provide extra legionaries to assist the Temple guards.

  “That move would certainly send a message to the am ha aretz,” Gamaliel observed wryly. “The common people already believe that this body and the Romans speak with a single voice.”

  “At the urging of Nakdimon ben Gurion and Reb Gamaliel I’ve brought my apprentices from Migdal Eder,” Zadok said loudly, but with dignity. “Do y’, or do y’ not, have any more questions for them? It is the eve of Passover.”

  “Yes,” Caiaphas said, controlling himself with difficulty. “We know bar Abba was seen in the Galil . . . near the charlatan Yeshua of Nazareth. Do these boys know anything about that?”

  By common consent Emet spoke first for the group. “Yeshua fixed my ears. And I can speak.”

  “And I see,” Ha-or Tov said.

  “Bar Abba wanted to make Yeshua king,” Avel added.

  “Ha!” exclaimed Caiaphas, pouncing on the words. A murmur of satisfaction buzzed in the chamber.

  “But so did everyone!” Avel explained, shouting over the din. “Yeshua wouldn’t! He left them all!”

  “How can this testimony be trusted?” one of Caiaphas’ cronies retorted. “The boys admit they were with the rebels. They might still be secret spies for bar Abba!”

  Nakdimon declared forcefully, “I myself was in a Galil. I saw the occasion of which the boy speaks. I verify his story completely. Yeshua absolutely refused any suggestion that he would lend his name to rebellion!”

  “So now Nakdimon is also Galilean?” the high priest noted scornfully. “Have you become one of his talmidim?” And then, “Is Yeshua here in Yerushalayim?” He pinned Emet in his glare. A crafty note had entered the high priest’s tone.

  “We left him in the Galil,” Avel spoke up. “Walking across the sea.”

  Scoffing and harsh laughter greeted these words.

  “The great Nakdimon vouches for the testimony of children?” jeered another of Caiaphas’ associates.

  Nakdimon swelled up at the mocking. Emet saw Gamaliel lay a restraining hand on his arm. The boy understood that most of these men had already made up their minds about Yeshua. Nothing anyone said could convince them otherwise.

  “Enough,” the high priest concluded. “Master Zadok, you and your charges may go. We still have to discuss the delegation to Governor Pilate.”

  A chorus of “Not me” and “Let someone else” echoed in the room. The prevailing sentiment was that no one wanted to be connected with the aqueduct and the anger it generated.

  Not when rebels with daggers roamed the streets of Jerusalem!

  Caiaphas didn’t suggest he would personally head the mission to Pilate. However, he still managed to sound peeved at the reluctance of others. “Come, gentlemen,” he demanded. “Governor Pilate must be reassured. It’s merely the rabble of the am ha aretz who object to the aqueduct. The issue has been used by traitors to harm the peace of our land. We must convince the governor we’re not rebels, while our protest to the governor will show the common people that we share their concerns. Now,” Caiaphas continued, “who’ll take on this important task?”

  None of the elders was convinced.

  Emet heard the protests: none of the Sanhedrin wanted to go anywhere except with a great many guards. No one was eager to go clear across Jerusalem where sicarii in the Passover crowds could attack them
.

  “My nephew and I will,” volunteered Gamaliel, “even though we tried to warn you against the scheme.”

  While the debate continued as to which other members should be part of the deputation, Zadok ushered his young charges out of the chamber.

  Suddenly Avel appeared to be struck by an idea. He tugged at Zadok’s sleeve. “I’ve thought of something else.”

  “Then speak up,” Zadok encouraged. “A moment more, Lord Caiaphas. This boy has one thing to add.”

  “The rebels attacked a caravan.” Avel stepped forward. “We didn’t see it. But afterward someone brought a leather pouch into the rebel camp. He said it must have come from one of the travelers. They found a note telling about a conspiracy among the rulers. Defiling the Temple. Stealing the Koban money. Giving it to Pilate.”

  “This isn’t news,” Caiaphas said.

  Emet thought the high priest sounded nervous, despite his indifferent words.

  “It’s on all the lying lips in Yerushalayim,” someone scoffed.

  “But bar Abba also said it gave the names of two key conspirators on the Sanhedrin,” Avel added. “He didn’t mention names, but I thought you should know.”

  Silence fell over the council. Faces, ashen and fearful, reflected uncertainty as to what should be done.

  Zadok and his apprentices closed the doors to the Sanhedrin chamber. Even the solid oak panels didn’t entirely shut out a rising flood of babbling apprehension and mutual recrimination, led by the high priest himself.

  Gamaliel drew Nakdimon aside into a space between two pillars of the Sanhedrin meeting hall. “Did it cross your mind we might know the identity of the two council members chosen as rebel targets?” he inquired in a hushed voice.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The message I sent you on the eve of your departure for the Galil.”

  “I read it and tucked it safely . . .” Nikdimon clapped his hand to his side where his purse hung.

  Gamaliel correctly interpreted the response. “And you lost it when you were attacked on the road.”

  “Yes,” Nakdimon concurred. “Yes! That pouch didn’t contain money, only your message. What with the blow on my head, I didn’t think about it, but . . .”