The Daggerman

by Glenn Starkey

Hanan stood unnoticed behind them, still leaning against a wall. He listened to Yeshua’s father explain how the boy learned from many sources, yet Hanan’s attentive ear told him Josef’s reply was as sound as a reed basket filled with water.

  The priests left, shaking their heads and talking in low voices.

  Yeshua’s mother brought her weeping under control and stood with an arm wrapped about her son’s shoulders. Josef stood with arms crossed over his chest, sternly staring at his son.

  “Why were you worried, mother? You know I would be in my Father’s house.”

  Miriam’s gaze drifted to her husband, knowing how such words hurt him. Josef’s eyes briefly closed. His shoulders slumped. He drew a breath, glanced about them and returned his gaze to Yeshua.

  “Son, Elohim is your heavenly father. I am your father on earth and love you. It is my responsibility to watch over you and your mother and ensure no harm comes to either of you. For three days we worried about you until we grew sick... You know the scriptures better than me and what do they say about a mother and father?”

  Lowering his face in shame, Yeshua nodded. He raised his eyes to gaze at his father. “Honor thy mother and father... I’m sorry. I will never disobey you again.”

  Josef smiled and let his gaze carry from Yeshua to Miriam. “Let’s go home,” he said, reaching out to embrace his wife and son.

  They walked from Solomon’s Porch but Yeshua abruptly halted at seeing Hanan. “Mother, there is my friend from Nazareth!”

  Hanan stood surprised by Yeshua calling him a friend. He’d never had a friend or even thought of anyone as a friend. But hearing Yeshua call him such spread warmth through Hanan’s soul and left him with a sense of confusion.

  I like him... He’s smart, but odd, Hanan thought, watching the family walk away. Why would he say the temple was ‘my Father’s house? Questions rose in his mind for which he had no answers, yet he knew one thing—he had enjoyed being called Yeshua’s friend.

  Chapter Seven

  15 A.D.

  Nazareth, District of Galilee

  The slightest wind caught the frayed gashes in the linen canopy of Uriah’s wine shop and made it flap like the sail of a Galilean fishing boat. The rips had grown through the years guaranteeing that as the sun trekked across the sky, patrons at the stone tables would have sunlight upon them.

  The young man of nineteen bent his head to walk beneath the ragged awning and take a seat at a table that allowed his muscled back to rest against a wall. He laid a large, square bundle on the table’s stone top and as Yosef’s training had engrained into him through the years, let his green eyes casually sweep the surrounding area for anyone following him.

  “Uriah,” Hanan bellowed as if irritated. “Must a man die of thirst in the noon sun before he is served in this shop?”

  A willowy built man in his mid-thirties slowly walked out of the wine shop and stood with hands on the hips of his knee-length, cotton tunic, his haggard face turning left and right in search of whoever had called him. He kept his gaze focused on the street although he grinned, knowing Hanan sat at the table near him.

  “What son of a motherless camel shouts my name?”

  “This son of a motherless camel,” Hanan replied, smiling wide. “I have something for you—if I can ever get a decent cup of wine.”

  Feigning surprise at Hanan’s presence, Uriah spun, his grin spreading into a wide smile. He flung his arms out into the air then bowed. Rising, he snapped a finger and ordered a servant to bring wine.

  “Where have you been these last weeks? I talked with your uncles the other day and they said you were in Caesarea Maritima,” Uriah said, bushy eyebrows rising.

  “Business for Micah,” Hanan replied. He shrugged his shoulders. “A minor problem he wanted me to address, but let’s not discuss such boring things. Here, this is a gift for you, so your patrons do not get burnt from the sun as they attempt to enjoy their wine.”

  Uriah’s eyes sprang wide. He eagerly opened the bundle and lifted the bulk of a new cloth canopy into the air. Lowering it, he softly brushed his fingers along the wide, royal blue stripes decorating the beige cloth.

  “A beautiful awning like this is only found at the finest shops of great cities. It’s of the best weave and far more expensive than I can afford. It—.”

  Raising a hand to stop the shopkeeper, Hanan warmly smiled and shook his head.

  “A gift is a gift, not something you pay for. My uncles and I have come here since I was a boy. We’ve seen you give food and drink to those that were in need. Now, take this and let’s speak no more of payment. Anyway, I can’t return it to the wine shop I stole it from.” Hanan gave a sharp nod, grinned and glanced about him. “But if I don’t get a cup of wine soon, I may die of thirst.”

  Uriah’s eyes were wet as he gazed at the generous gift. “May Elohim bless you and your family.” Having spoken, he carried the new awning into his shop, shouting orders for his servant to hurry with Hanan’s wine.

  Nazareth was a small community and few strangers ever entered the town without being reported to Micah. It was one reason Micah lived here even though his vast wealth allowed him to have a palace wherever he wished. The solitude of the countryside and his expanses of vineyards, olive and fruit orchards provided tranquility when he sought refuge from the world of commerce. But now, with hooded men arriving at his home on moonless nights to speak in whispers with Micah then leaving like stars melting into the dawn’s light, there was a need for isolation.

  Waiting for his wine, Hanan sat thinking of the faceless spies who came, and once they left, a new mission awaited him. While the Zealots burned carts at random and harassed the Gentiles with protests and minor disturbances, the Sicarii, the dagger men, as Micah said his assassins were named because of their Sicas, didn’t play such games. They attacked cruel soldiers, corrupt administrators, priests that dishonored the Laws of Moses, and Roman sympathizers with the lethal stealth of a desert cobra, all in the open at religious festivals under the eyes of legionnaires.

  Some missions took the assassins into guarded homes, but those were few and only to show everyone that no one was safe if the Sicarii wanted them dead. Such had been the reason for Hanan’s recent trip to Caesarea Maritima. He had left a thieving Roman tax collector in bed, throat sliced through, for the man’s Jewish mistress to find when she returned minutes later to his bed. The mission was two-fold; stop the Gentile from pocketing the people’s money and leave the woman a warning about her choice of lovers.

  Absorbed in thought, Hanan reached beneath his robe and adjusted the grip of his Sica at the small of his back so it didn’t rub against the wine shop’s stone wall. He never kept count of the missions he had undertaken with the knife since the first one at age twelve. Micah justified each as cleansings of the poison Gentiles were spreading with their occupation. But after each assassination, Hanan returned home to purge his mind and body of any slivers of guilt through Yosef’s rigorous training.

  The innocent faced boy of nine, standing with arms full holding a bowl of water, a cup of wine and a small platter of freshly grilled lamb, bread and olive oil, broke Hanan from his thoughts.

  “Here, sir. My master hopes you will enjoy the meal. He says it is a gift.” The dark-skinned boy nodded and was about to leave when Hanan touched his arm.

  “If the meal is a gift, then this coin must be yours,” Hanan said, dropping the money into the boy’s palm. A beaming smile spread across the servant’s face. He bowed and raced away.

  “You realize, my friend, that is more money than the boy will receive from Uriah in a year.”

  Hanan recognized the voice before ever raising his gaze to see who spoke. He smiled inwardly. There was only one man who called him ‘my friend’ with heartfelt sincerity.

  Yeshua stood out in the sun, his dark, thick hair brushing his neck. He was as slender and plainly dressed in
a one-piece, cream colored, linen tunic, sandals and tattered shoulder bag as the last time Hanan saw him. Only now, the faint shade of a beard tinted his jaw and chin.

  “Yeshua! Come sit with me,” Hanan said, standing as he eagerly motioned to a chair. “Would you break bread with me and share my wine?” He smiled warmly when Yeshua walked to him. They hugged and washed their hands in the bowl of water before sitting at the stone table.

  Seeing Yeshua pray, Hanan laid aside the bread he had taken from the plate and lightly closed his eyes until he heard ‘Amen.’ Before Hanan could call Uriah, the shopkeeper had seen Yeshua’s approach and sent the servant boy out with a full jar of wine and an additional cup to the young men.

  “Your mother and father? Are they well?” Hanan asked, pouring wine for his friend.

  Nodding his head as he dipped bread into the olive oil, Yeshua grinned. “Yes, mother is fine... Always busy, though, circling about my brothers and sister like a hawk. Father has more work than ever. He complains of always being tired but would have it no other way. Antipas’ palace in Sepphoris has kept us busy for years. The king always wants some change made which only pays father more and extends its completion date.” Eating the bread, Yeshua closed his eyes and lightly moaned in delight before washing it down with a sip of wine. “This oil must have come from your uncle’s orchards. Only his trees produce such a delicious flavor.”

  Hanan slid the plate of grilled lamb closer to Yeshua, took a slice and leisurely sat back to eat it.

  “And what of your uncles?” Yeshua asked. “Business must be good. You’re never home. I always say a prayer for your safe journeys.”

  Hanan made a nod of gratitude. “Micah still mourns the passing of his parents four years ago but is doing well. He too has more work than hours in the day but would want nothing else. As for Yosef, well, Yosef is Yosef, and I doubt if he will ever change. He’s a good man but takes delight in finding some new torture for me to endure during our training sessions.”

  Yeshua used his cup to motion toward Hanan. “Whatever he does appears to suit you. Your arms are as big as my thighs and your muscles look like rocks. Your tunic is stretched tight like a man who works in a quarry lifting boulders.”

  “I have been working in a quarry. If you saw the boulders that Yosef makes me move from our fields, you would understand!”

  They laughed and drank their wine, talking as old friends do who have been apart too long. But Hanan drew serious at the thought of how opposite they were and the separate paths they followed in their lives. He was about to speak when a rising dust cloud to the south caught his attention.

  Yeshua followed his friend’s gaze, and both sat staring until a centurion riding a tall, prancing black horse came into view. Behind the granite-faced centurion who eyed the town with contempt marched a lengthy column of fierce appearing legionnaires with large, curved rectangular shields on their left arms and spears clutched in their right hands. Their rhythmic cadence as they marched grew louder, more defined, and the dull clack of swords bumping shields became stronger. Dust rose like a pale fog about them and carried through the town.

  Hanan recognized them by their chest armors and transverse, the horsehair crested helmets, as a detachment of blooded warriors from the Tenth Legion in Caesarea Maritima. Are they here to arrest me or have they come for Micah? Has an operative been captured and tortured until he told all? No, Micah only allowed me and Yosef to know who others were among the Sicarii, Hanan thought as his right hand eased along his thigh to his hip in preparation of drawing the Sica. I’ll kill the first filthy dog that lays a hand on me.

  The centurion raised his vine stick cudgel, the symbol of his rank, and harshly reined his sweat drenched horse to a halt. Seeing the cudgel, a soldier behind the prancing animal shouted an order and the column of soldiers abruptly stopped. When the dust cleared, the commander sat upon his horse staring at the two men seated beneath the torn canopy.

  Hanan let his gaze drift over the beautiful animal and to the soldiers standing with eyes looking forward, awaiting their next command. Beige dust blanketed their dark maroon armor and shields. Like the centurion’s horse whose frothy sweat captured the dust and turned it brown, a mixture of dust, dirt and sweat streaked the soldiers’ faces and dripped from their jaws.

  At the wine shop’s doorway, Uriah groaned as he stepped out and observed the elongated line of soldiers. Yeshua glanced from Uriah to Hanan who sat poised, ready to leap from the table. Taking up the half-filled jar of wine, Yeshua rose and walked to the man who glared at them from atop his horse.

  “Centurion, you must be thirsty. We have little, but offer you what we have,” Yeshua said in a kind voice. He raised the wine to the officer.

  At first the stern commander didn’t move, then leaned from his saddle to take the jar. He curtly nodded and after straightening himself on the horse, drank deep from the jar. Wiping his mouth with the back of his right hand, he turned and looked at the soldier standing behind his horse. “Varus, here, clean the dust from your throat.”

  The soldier walked forward, took the jar and drank in loud gulps. When empty, he handed it to Yeshua and returned to his former position.

  “Have you come far?” Yeshua asked.

  “From Jerusalem and we still have forty miles to go before reaching Tyre,” the centurion replied, his gaze drifting about the town.

  At hearing their destination, Hanan relaxed and sat listening.

  “We don’t have enough wine to share with all of your men, but we will give what we have if that will help,” Yeshua said, patting the horse’s neck. He paused and squinted against the glare of the afternoon sun as he looked up at the centurion. “Ahead you will find water for your horse and enough area for your men to rest if you wish.”

  Glancing at Hanan, the centurion’s gaze remained on him several seconds, studying the muscular man, but he returned his attention to Yeshua.

  “Thank you for the wine and information,” the commander said in a courteous tone. Before he gave the order to march, he glanced a final time at Hanan as if trying to remember where he had seen him.

  Uriah removed the dishes from Hanan’s table. “I’ll bring fresh wine,” he whispered, disappearing into his shop.

  Sitting once more near Hanan, Yeshua scratched his thin beard and watched the legionnaires until the last man was gone from sight.

  “You were friendly with that dog.” Hanan’s words slipped from him more confrontational than he realized.

  Yeshua didn’t appear disturbed by his friend’s tone or usage of the Hebrew’s derogatory nickname for the Romans. He kindly smiled.

  “It is better to pet a dog and become friends than to strike a dog and suffer its bites.” Yeshua gazed at Hanan for several seconds. “What bothers you? That they are soldiers—or Gentiles?”

  “Both. They occupy our land and leave it stained with their pagan ways. Have you ever witnessed a man scourged or crucified by the Romans? If you had, it would make you reconsider extending any benevolence to them, my friend. The scriptures tell us of a Messiah that is coming to deliver us from evil. When He arrives to fulfill the prophecies, I will be ready to march with Him and run those dogs from our land.”

  Walking out of the wine shop with cups and a jar of wine in hand, Uriah glanced down the road where the soldiers had gone. “Good riddance,” he mumbled and poured the two men’s cups full. Yeshua thanked him and turned to Hanan.

  “What if the Messiah comes but brings a different message of deliverance, one other than the war you wish? Would you still be so eager to march with him?”

  Hanan shook his head in dismay. “I wish I could see good like you do where there is evil, but I can’t. The day you leave this quiet town, you’ll see how badly our people suffer.” Frustration mounted and steadily became an all-consuming rage. Not toward his friend, but at himself for the way his life began and the mixed blood that coursed his
veins. He’d overheard Micah and Yosef talking. Truth was a bitter morsel to digest. But now, as an assassin, through one mission at a time, he was righting wrongs in his land—and serving vengeance whenever he slew a Gentile... especially if they were a Roman soldier as his unknown father had been.

  They spoke nothing more between them for several minutes as Yeshua sipped his wine and watched Hanan. He set his cup aside and leaned forward, resting his weight on his forearms, fingertips touching fingertips.

  “Each morning in prayer I ask my Father to show me the way to follow. I receive glimpses of the future which make no sense and are often frightening, yet I must trust that His will be done in me. In time our God, Elohim, will make all clear.” Yeshua slid back in his chair and let his hands rest on his lap. He lowered his gaze as if saddened by something deeply personal. Eventually, he looked up at Hanan and spoke.

  “How can I blame the Romans for bringing their pagan ways and cruelties with them to our country when the scriptures tell of our own people having done worse? At the end of Solomon’s life, civil war divided our nation into the northern kingdom of Israel and the southern kingdom of Judah. The monarchs of those kingdoms were far more wicked than the Romans. The Gentiles haven’t forced our people to worship their gods, but the kings of old did. They planted the seeds of idolatry and watered them to maturity. They murdered without conscience and appointed priests to worship false gods. Ahab and his wife, Jezebel, raised sinful temples to Baal and our land became one of unbelievers and ungodliness by the hands of our own kings—abominations to my Father.”

  A mask of confusion covered Hanan’s face. He glanced at the sunbaked street and let his gaze drift back to Yeshua. He raised a hand to stop his friend from speaking further.

  “I’ve heard you say ‘my Father’ several times, but whom do you mean? Your father, Josef, or—Elohim?”

  A serene expression flowed over Yeshua’s face as his dark eyes locked upon Hanan.

  Uriah’s canopy flapped from a light breeze and a stream of sunlight shone on Yeshua through a gash.