Jerusalem's Hope

by Bodie Thoene

  Any show of resistance guaranteed carnage.

  But surrender conferred no safety, no escape.

  Marcus drew his own sword from under his tunic.

  But who to strike? How to defend anyone in this wild melee?

  Upon seeing another Roman display a gladius, those nearby clawed one another in a futile attempt to escape from him.

  None of the protestors seemed to have any weapons. The only blades Marcus observed were in the hands of legionaries. Could it be there were no rebels in the throng?

  The trumpets blared again from the battlements. It was now a true call to arms. From side corridors leading off the courtyard, still more legionaries emerged. These made no attempt to hide their enjoyment as they waded into the clash. Short swords whistled overhead as they split skulls and hacked faces.

  Marcus caught a glimpse of Pilate, his cadre of bodyguards wrapped around him like living armor. The governor scampered away from the carnage he had unleashed.

  The frenzied crowd broke for the gate, crushing scores against the beams on either side, trampling others in the turmoil. No one gave ground for anyone else. More were killed by panic than by the legionaries.

  The thousands outside the gate who had been pressing inward turned and sprinted back the way they had come: east, toward the Temple.

  A knot of struggling people jammed the gate. Pressure from others climbing over their backs bore them to the ground. They were crushed to death.

  The mob burst from the courtyard.

  Vara whirled his sword around his head. The Praetorian shouted, urging his men to pursue the Jews.

  Across this sea of chaos Marcus caught sight of Nakdimon ben Gurion. The huge man shielded Gamaliel with his own body as panic broke against him like waves against a rock.

  Nakdimon spotted Marcus. His expression deepened with revulsion and shock as he took in the sword in Marcus’ hand.

  No time to explain.

  Pulling back the cloak and revealing his features, Marcus ran toward the gate. As he went he snarled orders at the legionaries, batting down their weapons. He threatened them with crucifixion if they did not put away their weapons and return to their barracks at once.

  Only a few obeyed.

  Vara and two cohorts of the most murderous were among the throng. The trail of blood and dead bodies at Pilate’s door stretched toward the Temple Mount and the altar of sacrifice.

  Nakdimon couldn’t believe his eyes. Marcus Longinus was one of the disguised Roman soldiers carrying out the assault on unarmed Jews! As he watched, the centurion bolted in pursuit of more victims.

  Bellowing, Nakdimon shouted for Pilate to call off his troops.

  But the governor had already retreated into his palace.

  Left behind was a carpet of bodies: some writhing in pain, others lying ominously still.

  Nakdimon let Gamaliel out of his protective embrace. Together the two men stared at the carnage, even as the horns on the walls continued to blare.

  The scene near the platform was horrifying. It was still worse closer to the exit. The cobbles of the butcher king’s courtyard were slippery with blood.

  Hundreds of wounded, dozens of dead.

  Kneeling, Nakdimon offered assistance to a man with a sword wound on his head and a fractured collarbone.

  Many victims had been stabbed or clubbed, but many more bore the unmistakable imprints of having been crushed in the mass terror.

  How could this have happened? It was the very tragedy that he and his uncle had tried to prevent. It was the worst disaster in Nakdimon’s memory. Much worse than the Purim bread riots.

  The disguised soldiers had been there all along, expecting and eager for trouble. The fervor of their attack underscored their fanatical hatred of the Jews.

  And the governor had unleashed them with a gesture.

  Pilate had known what the result would be. He must have known.

  There would never be another Passover as grim as this one. No future disaster could ever eclipse the horrors of this day.

  Shouts of fear continued to rain down on Jerusalem as the butchery continued outside the gates.

  “Rouse yourself, man,” Gamaliel urged, grabbing Nakdimon’s shoulder. “Go see if you can stop this! Go! I’ll organize help for the wounded.”

  Shaking off his stunned dismay, Nakdimon charged out of the courtyard.

  Beside the sheep pens, Emet deciphered the sounds of the day. To his hearing, something was off. There was a discordant note in the plaintive symphony of the Passover sacrifices. What was it?

  To be sure, the trumpets of the priests continued to proclaim their calls to remembrance, participation, and expectation. Past, present, and future were all extolled in the music of the day. The notes jangled, breaking and rebreaking over the sanctuary.

  But that wasn’t the error reaching Emet’s ears.

  Nor was the problem with the singing of those participating in the first division of the sacrifices.

  Hallelu Jah! the Levites sang.

  Hallelu Jah! the worshippers responded.

  Praise the Lord, you servants of the Lord!

  Praise to the name of the Lord!

  Some of the singers had no musical ability. That much was evident even to Emet’s untutored hearing. Particularly guilty of murdering the pitch were the throngs of Galileans with their twang. Of course they made up in fervor what they lacked in ability, and their passion only made matters worse.

  But no, that still wasn’t what was wrong.

  Perhaps it was Emet’s nervous search for Avel? The boy never stopped seeking and worrying about his friend. Could that anxiety explain why the harmony of the day felt off?

  Then there came a moment when the first division completed their sacrifices. There was a lull in the hymns. Trumpeters fell silent.

  Then Emet heard it: the strident notes of Roman horns, blowing the alarm. It was a signal for battle. War, bloody war, the heralds of the empire announced!

  Growing louder, approaching nearer, were human voices crying in alarm. A wail swelled up from the city to crash against the Temple Mount, drowning the bugle calls of Rome.

  Like the bleating of thousands of sheep being ravaged by wolves, the clamor of panic overwhelmed all other noises.

  Nor was Emet the only one to take note of the disturbance.

  The uproar of distraught thousands stunned those participating in the Passover ceremonies. What’s happening? Do you hear it? What is that? Babbling inquiries posed many questions, gave no answers.

  Like a stone thrown into a placid pond, the ripples of destruction rapidly neared the Temple gates.

  It resembled a flock of sheep herded by dogs, Marcus thought.

  The difference was every time a straggler fell behind, the dogs pounced on him and beat him into the pavement.

  At the corner of the old Hasmonaean Palace a brave group of Galilean pilgrims clustered. With their bare hands they tore apart a discarded barrel to use the broken staves for defense.

  Opposing swords with splintered lengths of timber was heroic.

  Heroic, but futile.

  Their resistance infuriated the legionaries and they hurtled into the group. One of the Jews went down at once, stabbed and beaten. Three of the protestors managed to knock one of the troopers off his feet.

  Another Galilean was struck down.

  Then another.

  The Roman troopers advanced relentlessly. The Jews’ courageous stand couldn’t last much longer.

  The confrontation blocked the street, momentarily keeping the bloodthirsty pursuers from more victims. Woman and children darted into houses and down alleyways.

  Marcus pounced on the first trooper he reached. Seizing him by the neck, Marcus heaved him against a wall.

  The Samaritan turned with his club raised, ready to shatter a Jewish skull. Instead he met the fiery gaze of the infuriated centurion.

  At his throat was the point of Marcus’ sword. “Drop it!” Marcus demanded. “Who are these others? The
ir names?” He gave him a shake. “Call out their names!”

  Sullenly the legionary did as ordered.

  A fraction of a lull presented itself. Marcus thrust himself into the middle of the fight. He beat down the weapons of the assailants.

  Without regard for his personal safety, he planted himself facing the troopers. He hoped the Jews would not hammer him in the back with the barrel staves.

  “Get to the barracks!” Marcus commanded the soldiers.

  “We’re following Praetorian Vara’s orders,” a surly Idumean growled.

  “Now you’re taking orders from me,” Marcus corrected. “I have your names. I’ll flog the hide off any who disobey. Go!”

  Marcus watched their retreat to see that they complied.

  The Passover pilgrims offered their thanks, but Marcus only shook his head. “Help where you can, but stay away from the Temple,” he warned. “This isn’t over!”

  Ignoring his own advice, he sprinted onto the elevated causeway, following the trail of wounded left in Vara’s wake.

  The upheaval reached into the courts of the sanctuary as the whole city convulsed.

  Emet heard another trumpet blast add its shrill racket to the chaos. On top of the Antonia fortress, just outside the sanctuary, signal flags fluttered in the breeze.

  A cauldron of tumult poured out across the Temple Mount from the west. Knots of fleeing pilgrims appeared in the midst of the sacrifices. Close after these were others waving clubs and brandishing blades.

  The shrieking became general. Consternation was replaced with panic. The Passover ceremonies exploded in mayhem.

  Thousands of lambs bolted, adding to the confusion.

  “Hang on to me!” Zadok ordered “Keep close.” Until now the area inside the sheep pens felt like a refuge, a place of security from which to search for Avel.

  Not any longer.

  The overpowering peril Emet sensed had arrived.

  Running from the attackers, bands of worshippers fled toward the Temple, crying out for protection.

  The stricken pilgrims reached the greater mass of worshippers, trampling the older and weaker of their number underfoot.

  A panicked surge carried hundreds toward the altar, where they slipped and fell in the puddles of gore.

  Onrushing troopers clubbed them where they lay, mingling their blood with the blood of the sacrifices.

  A man with a dagger flashed toward Zadok.

  Emet and Ha-or Tov huddled behind the shepherd.

  As the attacker neared, Red Dog flung himself forward, leaping into the man’s face with snapping jaws.

  Distracted, the assailant thrust out his hands to protect himself.

  With a whistle that cut through the surrounding clamor, Zadok’s staff whipped toward the man’s head, connecting with a crack.

  In the midst of all the confusion Emet spotted Avel.

  Across the square, being dragged by his arms, was the missing apprentice shepherd. Kittim yanked him forward. Asher was close behind.

  Yelling, Emet pointed this out to the old shepherd.

  Grimly Zadok shouted back, “Don’t let go!”

  Then they plunged into the combat to rescue Avel.

  Avel’s heart pounded.

  One of Kittim’s hands gripped his hair. The other held a dagger in readiness to stroke. No one would intervene to save his life when Kittim decided he was too much trouble to drag along.

  And that end could come at any time.

  Whatever assassinations the rebels had planned for this Passover, the wholesale slaughter happening in the Temple courts threw even them into consternation. Armed men stabbed and beat all those around them.

  It was utter madness.

  Now was the moment, Avel thought, as two Galileans collided directly in front of them. Another knot of confusion separated him from Asher, a few paces behind.

  As Kittim lunged in one direction, Avel wrenched himself free.

  He didn’t know which way to run. It didn’t matter so long as he could lose himself in the turmoil.

  Amazingly he heard someone call his name.

  A corridor through the mob opened for the space of a breath.

  Zadok strode toward him, knocking aside all in his path.

  Then Avel’s head was yanked backward.

  Kittim’s fingers dug into Avel’s hair again. A knife flashed in the afternoon sun.

  Marcus reached the Temple Mount and emerged from the porticoed gate at the top of the causeway.

  What met his eyes was a nightmare beyond his wildest fears, a massacre of incredible proportions. Demons had flocked to Jerusalem to inhabit the bodies of ferocious Roman troopers.

  Marcus saved countless lives, but the ripples of carnage spreading out in front of him seemed unstoppable.

  Then the centurion caught sight of Praetorian Vara.

  The man’s brutish features were streaked with blood. His sword arm rose and fell relentlessly.

  The chief of the demons, without doubt.

  Stop him and stop the butchery?

  Marcus fought his way toward Vara, but it was like wading through quicksand.

  Emet screamed. But his high voice had no strength amid the din. He couldn’t hear his own words of alarm. It was as if he’d been struck mute again in the second he saw the knife poised over Avel.

  Zadok’s arm shot out. The crook on the end of the shepherd’s staff plucked Kittim’s elbow in mid-swing, tugging the rebel off balance.

  The dagger flew end over end through the air.

  Avel ducked around Zadok. Emet clutched him tight.

  Every time Kittim tried to loose himself from the crook of Zadok’s staff the old shepherd yanked him sideways again.

  A fresh wave of rioting swirled toward them. Avel, Emet, and Ha-or Tov sheltered behind Zadok.

  There was no such refuge for Kittim.

  With a final heave on the staff, Zadok lifted Kittim completely off his feet.

  The rebel fell amid the stampeding throng.

  For an instant his fingers reached up. Then his anguished cry was abruptly cut off as he was trampled.

  The cause of the heightened terror was revealed. A frightening figure loomed up close to Kittim’s pulverized body. Gore-spattered bald head and vicious eyes were matched by ferocious swings of a short sword. The shadow of a bulky, coarse-featured man fell across Zadok.

  Emit heard the voice of Marcus yell the name Vara!

  Vara’s blade hacked up and down, wounding and then batting out of the way.

  Zadok’s white-haired head rose over the other worshippers like a bastion of resistance. With an animal-like noise, Vara locked his attention on the shepherd as his next target.

  The first blow of Vara’s sword was caught on Zadok’s staff. The tough acacia wood rod bounced with the strike, but did not shatter.

  Zadok jabbed at Vara’s face, just as he would have repelled an attacking wolf.

  The blade was the superior weapon, the longer reach of the staff Zadok’s sole margin of safety.

  Red Dog, who protected the boys against attacks coming from other directions, responded to Zadok’s command. Barking and snarling, Red Dog raced toward Vara, biting him on the leg.

  Vara struck downward at the dog, who twisted sideways, out of reach.

  Sparks erupted as the tip of Vara’s sword scraped the paving stones. He raised his blade for another swing, only to miss again as Zadok’s staff snatched Red Dog out of the way.

  But in protecting the dog, the shepherd had used up his last bit of luck.

  Vara’s next blow came from Zadok’s blind side, catching the shepherd’s crook just above where Zadok gripped it.

  The staff was knocked to the ground. Vara shouted in victory as he raised his weapon high to finish the old man.

  Across the battlefield of the Temple Mount Marcus rushed to intervene in just one fight—Vara’s assault on Zadok. Pure evil and lifelong righteousness confronted each other in human forms . . . and evil was poised to win.
r />   Marcus was too far away! The shepherd was already disarmed, the fatal blow already descending.

  The centurion screamed—a cry of outrage!

  Between Zadok and Vara something moved. A boy—it was Avel—lifted the shepherd’s staff. Jabbing it upward, he struck Vara in the throat.

  From a stooped position, in the hands of a child, it could not have carried much force. But it threw off Vara’s killing stroke.

  It delayed Zadok’s death for half a second.

  Long enough for Marcus to barrel into Vara from behind.

  Vara and Marcus, tangled together, rolled heavily onto the pavement.

  First to regain his feet, Vara had not lost his weapon.

  From his knees, Marcus raised his sword in time to block a thrust sweeping toward his head. Parried, Vara’s blow rebounded in his hand, and Marcus recovered his stance.

  Rushing on him, Vara used his compact bulk. Anticipating such a move of brute force, Marcus deliberately gave up a pace of ground. Their swords rang together.

  Again the two blades met.

  Again Vara charged.

  Marcus once more stepped back . . . and tripped over Kittim’s body. The centurion stumbled, his guard flinging wide, opening his neck to a killing stroke.

  Vara stormed in.

  Unable to counter, Marcus flung his sword at Vara’s face, then rolled to the side as the thrust descended.

  Disarmed! There were no options left.

  Marcus tackled Vara around the knees, bringing the Praetorian crashing down.

  The two fought for possession of Vara’s sword. Marcus closed his hands around the grip, while the fingers of Vara’s other hand clawed at Marcus’ face.

  Driving his elbow into Vara’s jaw, Marcus gained control of the weapon.

  The gouging at his eyes stopped.

  Marcus heard Avel shout, “He’s got a dagger!”

  A glimpse of the new threat gave Marcus no time to think. He spun away from the thrust, at the same instant tugging sharply upward on Vara’s wrist.

  The dagger tip struck Vara’s sword, glanced off, and sliced into Vara’s own arm.