The Daggerman

by Glenn Starkey

  Instinctively, Hanan’s right hand shot beneath his robe, fingers wrapping about the leather handle of his knife at the small of his back. Time felt as if it were slowing to a halt. He was no longer shocked by the priest’s actions. Like a morning fog rising within his mind, Hanan knew what should be done, yet he paused.

  “Kill him, Hanan. Kill him,” came the cold, haunting voice of a tall, clean-shaven man in a noble tunic and robe standing beside Elias. A dream like world existed where no one bumped against them and Hanan could only hear the man’s voice.

  “Kill him,” the man growled, his yellowish eyes flaring with delight of the moment. A malevolent smile displayed rotted teeth. A hand of long, slender fingers with sharp nails rose, closed into a tight fist, and swung before him.

  “Kill him now!” the man yelled, casting his head back as he cried out in ecstasy. Time sped up, gradually returning to normal.

  The priest leaned forward to Hanan then his face transformed from an angry mask to one of astonishment. Eyes flared wide, mouth agape, Elias shuddered and tried to speak but nothing passed his lips. He lowered his head and gazed at the crimson stain spreading across his chest, and the Sica buried to the hilt in him.

  Hanan’s training took control. Leaving the knife in the priest’s chest, Hanan twisted the handle about to carve a circular path within the man, feeling its curved tip hook and slice through vital internal organs. With the crowd so close about them, no one could see what was happening. The shepherd boy withdrew the knife, wiped the blade across the priest’s chest, then returned the Sica to beneath his robe.

  He glanced at the tall man beside him whose yellowish eyes gleamed in approval.

  “Good, now go! Have no fear, the priest will die... Good work, Hanan.”

  The last thing Hanan saw before turning to dive between people to escape was the large, deep red, polished jewel hanging from a necklace about the unknown man’s neck.

  Abaddon watched the priest crumble to his knees, hands futilely pressed against chest to halt his death. Elias fell forward, smashing face first into the dirt street. Looking up at the Roman archers atop the wall, Abaddon saw them staring further down the street. They had witnessed nothing of the disturbance. A malicious smile formed on his lips. Abaddon stepped over the body and left with the maddening throng parting a wide path for him without looking his way.

  ***

  Hanan wasn’t sure how far he had traveled before stopping. He glanced about the crowd but couldn’t see Yosef. People blocked his view at every turn. Working through the wall of festival goers he made his way to the vendors along the side of the road. Asking directions to Mohamed al Ibrahim’s wine shop, Hanan flowed with the people until the shop came into sight. He paused, gaze drifting over the patrons then saw Micah resting in a chair, sipping wine. Across from him sat a white bearded, aged man dressed in a purple robe and white headdress of a rich Bedouin chieftain, nodding slowly to their conversation.

  Sweating profusely and breathing hard, Hanan walked between the tables and stopped at Micah. He stood quietly until Micah turned his attention from the chieftain to him. Micah’s eyes widened as he glanced over the shepherd boy, then self-composure returned. For the first time since killing the priest, Hanan lowered his gaze and observed dried blood on his hands, and his robe speckled with dark stains.

  Hanan breathed deep, tried to speak but his mouth was as dry as the desert, and Micah could barely hear him.

  “Here, boy, have a drink of wine then tell me what you want,” Micah said kindly, his gaze anxiously racing over Hanan for signs of injury.

  The shepherd boy emptied the cup and handed it back to Micah.

  “May I have a coin for the temple, sir?”

  Sighing in relief, Micah lifted a coin from the tabletop and gave it to him. “Here, now run along—and may Elohim bless you.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Hanan wearily turned and walked away.

  Micah’s gaze followed the boy. He looked for Yosef but didn’t see him and turned back to the Bedouin.

  “May Allah, the merciful and benevolent, bestow blessings upon you for your kindness to the poor,” the chieftain said, nodding in admiration.

  ***

  Two hours passed before Micah rushed through the door and raced up the narrow stairs of his home. At the room Hanan used, Micah found him sitting beneath the window, cross-legged on the floor, with his keffiyeh rolled into a ball in his hands resting on his lap. The boy gazed downtrodden at the floor, washed and dressed in a fresh tunic.

  Beside Hanan sat Yosef, face calm yet with a look of concern in his eyes. Micah was about to speak but Yosef raised a hand for him to wait.

  “Rest for now, Hanan. You did well today. We will talk more later,” Yosef said, his wild brows drawing together. After the boy eased onto his bed, Yosef pulled a light blanket over him and motioned Micah to follow downstairs.

  Yosef and Micah sat facing one another on blankets spread over the dirt floor. Pulling his headdress from his head and running rows through his thick black hair with his fingers, Micah had wine brought for them. They sat in silence collecting their thoughts until a servant brought the wine and cups, yet even then they didn’t know where to begin.

  “The priest is dead, right?” Micah asked in a low voice.

  “Yes, Hanan killed him.”

  Micah was sipping wine but stopped. “Why the boy? What went wrong? He was only to observe.”

  Yosef shrugged his shoulders and glanced about the stone-walled room. He let his gaze settle on Micah and explained that the crowd of festival goers was far larger and stronger than they expected in the mission’s planning. The boy had followed as best he could, staying back, but for a boy his size and age to keep proper pace was almost too difficult in such a jostling crowd. The assassin could never act because a gang of street children kept attempting to steal from Elias’ bag, alerting the priest to be on guard. The mission was cancelled but by the time Yosef reached Hanan to call him off, the throng pushed the boy into the priest. When the priest spun and grabbed Hanan, the boy took action as if he were a professional assassin then blended into the thousands of festival goers.

  Micah exhaled in a long blast. “When he came, blood was on his tunic and I thought someone had hurt him. I must tell you it worried me...”

  Yosef sat solemn, making Micah stare at him in wonder of what else was involved.

  “As you suspect, there’s more. Hanan believes he has disappointed you because he killed the man and you had told him to only observe. He thinks he failed you,” Yosef said with a light smile. “He doesn’t understand that he performed well under the conditions.”

  “I will talk with him and let him know he didn’t fail me,” Micah replied, shaking his head as he grinned.

  But Yosef’s expression turned as stern as a granite statue. He leaned forward and in a whispering voice explained about the unknown man and the order given to Hanan.

  “I made it through the crowd just as Hanan was escaping. There was no clean-shaven, well-dressed man as Hanan described standing beside the priest.” Yosef paused. “One thing Hanan told me about the man was his yellowish eyes, rotting teeth, long bony hands—and a large, well-polished red stone on a necklace.”

  Micah straightened his posture and remained motionless. He was about to speak but Yosef interrupted him.

  “The day we brought Hanan from Caesarea to live with us... Do you recall the man we found behind the vendor’s stall—the man with the large red stone necklace? I’ve never forgotten his yellowish eyes. I believe Hanan about the man who gave the kill order today. The boy has never lied to either of us,” Yosef said.

  Tapping a finger lightly on his wine cup, Micah gazed out the front door in deep thought at the passing people. In time he turned back to face his aide.

  “Yosef, do you remember the night we took Akiba into the desert after we retrieved Hanan’s money?”


  A slow nod and frown answered Micah. “How could I forget? The Syrian babbled like a hysterical child.”

  “Do you remember the story he told us about what the woman Johanna said concerning Hanan? The odd star that appeared the night of his birth? He was born in a brothel and to be abandoned in the wilderness by Johanna to die except that some evil man stopped her? The same man who marked Hanan with a scar on his left forearm.”

  “Those are things Hanan doesn’t know about,” Yosef whispered, not wanting the boy upstairs to hear them talking.

  “Let’s keep an eye out for this strange man. If he’s been following Hanan all this time and was present today, there must be a reason. I’m curious how he knew about today. Meanwhile, I’ll talk with the boy and let him know he has not failed us,” Micah said, his worried gaze flowing across the floor.

  Chapter Six

  The spring sun was descending from its zenith on the third day after Passover as Hanan wandered the streets of Jerusalem. There were no more struggles to walk where ever he wished. The suffocating crowds had gone; the streets appeared deserted compared to only days before, and everyone in the city seemed to breathe easier in the absence of the masses of pilgrims.

  As Micah had said would occur, he remained away from dawn to dusk, completing negotiations for new contracts. In his absence, though, Yosef had strolled the city with Hanan, pointing out the various buildings Herod the Great ordered rebuilt before his death, telling the young man tales of their ancient destructions by foreign invaders.

  “Only the eastern boundary line out of the entire temple complex has not changed,” Yosef said the day they stood gazing at the towering, white stone wall. “For a man who never spared money with his constructions, the king refused to change this wall due to the expense. All else was rebuilt, but the eastern wall was not touched.”

  The two had walked the streets as historian and student though no one would have ever suspected the depth of their discussions by their appearances; Yosef with his barreled chest, short height, and bearded, rough face with wild brows, and Hanan beside him, slender and youthful with wind-ruffled brown hair and alert dark green eyes.

  Today there were no history lessons or training of any sort. Hanan was free to go where he pleased and enjoy himself as a reward for the mission he had performed for his uncles. Yet as odd as it would seem to others having such a choice, Hanan walked along the street bordering the temple. The immense stones that comprised the walls, some weighing sixty tons Yosef had said, fascinated the boy. How were they moved, lifted and stacked upon one another so high? And the arched gates? What keeps the stones in place above the colossal Corinthian brass, double gates plated with gold and silver that requires more than a dozen priests to open them each day? A hundred questions about the architecture raced through Hanan’s mind as he gazed at the wonder of the temple.

  Glancing at the top of its southern wall, he saw no Roman archers and walked on until arriving at the wide steps of the Hulda Gate that led into the temple. Never having seen the temple’s interior and not knowing what to expect, he followed worshippers that appeared to know their way.

  Once through a wide tunnel that angled upward, he walked out into the sunlight again. Behind him, running the length of the southern wall, stood a huge colonnaded structure. He left his sandals with others, studied the shaded area of the structure and the large courtyard before him, and listened to the robust calls of temple merchants. Dressed in his plain gray tunic and robe of rough wool, Hanan looked no different from all the other faithful of Jerusalem in the Court of Gentiles. Stones of various colors paved the massive court and its activity was lively with bearded, shawl-covered men who sat grumbling at tables stacked with coins, passing money back and forth to people who approached their tables, exchanging one coin for another, which made no sense to Hanan. To the far end of the Court of Gentiles walked two Sanhedrin priests along small pens of bleating sheep and goats, inspecting the animals for blemishes, approving them for sale to the rich making offerings and sacrifices. Doves and pigeons flapped their wings and cooed in cages as the poor eyed them to purchase for offerings and the women’s purification ceremonies.

  Hanan eased his shawl over his head as everyone in the court had done. He strolled among the merchants’ tables of money, pens and cages, confused by such activity being permitted in the temple. Observing a short balustrade behind the Court of Gentiles that no one seemed to dare pass, Hanan was staring at the open space beyond the wall when a voice came from behind him. The young man turned to find a solemn-faced elder in the white tunic and robe of a mid-level priest gazing at him.

  “All may enter the Court of Gentiles but upon penalty of death, no one that is uncircumcised may cross into that area which leads to the Holy of Holies and other courts such as the Court of Women.”

  Thinking as he glanced back at the sizeable crowd in the Court of Gentiles, Hanan shook his head. His first thought was of Johanna never having taken him to a rabbi for the procedure. “Do you mean that all of these men are uncircumcised?”

  The priest laughed aloud at the innocence of Hanan’s question. “No, they probably all are—but they don’t want to lift their tunics and prove it in front of everyone.” The priest continued to laugh as he ambled away.

  Hanan moved through the people of the court toward the temple’s eastern wall where at ground level stood the sixty-foot wide, magnificent ‘Gate Beautiful’ used for morning and evening sacrifices and as a place of public worship. The gate’s stairs also led up to the Court of Women, where no woman could go beyond, and where the temple housed its treasury. Seven treasure chests sat in front of towering columns near the Court of Women. These were for the voluntary offerings of money as well as the mandatory half-shekel tax the Sanhedrin priesthood used for temple maintenance. Once a chest filled, temple soldiers carried it away to the treasury, leaving an empty one in its place.

  Signs posted on several columns and interior walls provided directions to the faithful in Greek, Latin and Hebrew. Leaving the Court of Gentiles, Hanan paused to regain his bearings. Men’s voices carried from further down a walkway, rising and falling as they debated scriptures with someone Hanan could not see. A nearby sign written in Greek displayed ‘Solomon’s Porch’ noting the area where the men gathered.

  Eight elderly Sanhedrin priests in flowing white robes of quality material and square headdresses with black-striped shawls draped over their priestly hats stood in a semi-circle around a young man who calmly sat listening on a stone bench fifteen feet before them. The priests turned to one another, pulled at their long gray beards in thought, spoke and anxiously waved their hands through the air in emphasis of their words. Their ornate jeweled necklaces gleamed when sunlight splashed across them. Hanan assumed the men were of high rank, teachers or Rabbis of the temple, but knew nothing more. He remained behind them and off to the side, listening, not wanting to interrupt their discussions.

  Hanan leaned against the wall and canted his head to look around them. A stream of sunlight shined upon a young man in a simple tan tunic and robe with a time-worn tallit gadol, a prayer shawl, over his head. When the young man turned his face to glance across the priests, Hanan’s mouth went agape and his eyes widened. Yeshua, he thought, catching himself before speaking the name aloud.

  “But what distinguishes a hypocrite among men?” a priest cautiously asked. His tone of voice and narrowed eyes conveyed a belief that the young man would finally be lost for words.

  For a young man of twelve engaged in a scholarly discussion with learned men at least five times his age, Yeshua appeared as relaxed as the day he sat with Hanan in the olive orchard. Gently stroking a tzitzit of his shawl, one of the twined and knotted fringes attached to its four corners, Yeshua softly smiled and gazed at the priests.

  “A swine doesn’t chew its cud, yet has hoofs which are cleft through,” he said, pausing for the men to digest his words. “When the pig
stretches itself out to rest, its legs are out for all to see the cleft hoofs. The pig seems to be saying, ‘I am kosher, am I not?’ yet fails to mention that he does not chew the cud. He parades his virtues and conceals his faults. Such an action symbolizes the hypocrite.”

  The priests stood stunned, unable to think of a response. They nervously glanced at one another, their eyes displaying hope that one among them would speak. But silence hung heavy in the air and several of the priests shook their heads in dismay.

  “Yeshua!” The woman’s terrified voice carried from the far end of the hall nearest the Court of Gentiles. “Yeshua, we’ve been searching for you for three days.” She ran with tears trailing down her youthful face toward Yeshua, clutching her shawl at the throat to keep it on her head. Her bare feet lightly slapped the smooth stones of the long hall. Close behind her walked a slender, bearded man in a tunic, robe, and head shawl of a quality slightly better than a shepherd’s clothes. Concern painted his dark eyes.

  The priests breathed sighs of relief and stepped back to permit the woman to hug the boy. She kissed her son’s forehead and squeezed him to her, unable to speak.

  “My name is Josef, and this is my wife, Miriam. We apologize if Yeshua has disturbed anyone. Our son has been missing for three days and we had grown frantic, searching everywhere for him,” Josef said, bowing respectfully to the esteemed Sanhedrins.

  “The boy has been here from dawn to dusk the last three days, asking questions and discussing the scriptures,” stated a priest whose wrinkled face displayed delight that the boy would soon be leaving. “Tell me, who is his Rabbi? His teacher is to be commended for having instructed him so well.”