Hanan shook his head. His green eyes narrowed. “No... No, don’t answer that. You’ve already given me too much to consider.”
“As you wish,” Yeshua replied and softly nodded. He exhaled deeply, stretched his back and tapped the table with his right hand. “Thank you for the food, drink, and conversation, but I must be going. Father will wonder why I haven’t returned from a simple errand. Peace be upon you, my friend.”
They rose from their chairs, hugged, and Yeshua left. Hanan watched him. His heart grew heavy, confusing him.
“Yeshua?” Hanan called out. His friend paused at the edge of the canopy and looked back.
“Pray for me—please.”
A sincere smile formed on Yeshua’s lips. “I always do.”
Chapter Eight
24 A.D.
Caesarea Maritima, District of Samaria
The transition from winter to spring gave the days warmth but left the nights with sufficient chill to warrant a thick robe for late hour travels. Hanan adjusted the hood of his brown robe and glanced skyward as he walked, glad to have a moonless evening. It made trailing his prey easier.
For the last four evenings Basim ben Haim had followed the same path home, walking along major streets until arriving at a dark, fifty feet long alley that cut between buildings. From there he was only minutes from home, a residence that wasn’t palatial yet envious to own in Caesarea.
Hanan kept his distance from the Jewish merchant until nearing the narrow passageway, then increased his pace to be close behind when Basim made the final turn. Following him wasn’t difficult. The stubby built, squatty man had a rather odd waddle as he made his way along the street, making him easy to distinguish from within any crowd.
Collaborators should know better than to walk through dark alleys, Hanan thought, steadily gaining on his quarry. With practiced ease he ran through a mental checklist of how he would approach, and the best part of the body to strike since Basim had little neck and wore a thick outer robe. No, it will have to be the heart to ensure death. He’s ignored our warnings about helping Gentiles steal prized land from Jewish families. There will be no more empty threats.
Basim turned and entered the black alley. His sandals clacked against the stone pavement, and he shivered as the night’s breeze funneled between the buildings. Within fifteen steps of walking into the alley, he heard his name whispered. Startled, he spun, looking about him. The figure of a wide-shouldered, cloaked man silhouetted against the street he had come from, stood mere feet away. A strong hand clamped over Basim’s mouth, muting his scream, and next came the feel of metal driving deep into his chest. Eyes flared, body shuddering as the blade twisted within him, Basim rose onto his toes from the pain and the ruthless thrust. His legs failed him, and his knees buckled. Life began to drain from him. No screams passed his lips, only choking, gurgling mutters came. The last thing he felt was his body falling, sliding off the blade. Basim ben Haim, traitor to his own people, died within a minute of striking the stone pavement.
Hanan wiped his Sica clean on Basim’s robe, stepped over him and started toward the end of the alley.
***
Abaddon stood in the black shadows of the passageway, intently watching the assassin. He nodded approval of Hanan’s deftness with the knife and grinned as the twenty-eight-year-old moved quickly past him.
Oh, Hanan... You’ve become a perfect executioner...No conscience, the strength of an ox, the stealth of a lion, and able to flow through the night like a desert wind, the demon thought with glee. You are ready for what I need. His yellowish eyes narrowed, lips parting into a smile of rotted teeth. Long bony fingers rose and pulled his cloak’s hood tighter about his bald head as he unhurriedly turned to follow his protégé. There was no need to rush. He knew Hanan’s destination; the same place he regularly went to for the last five years after every mission—the only difference was the city.
***
Three hours after the mid of night, Abaddon watched the last Roman soldier leave the brothel in a drunken stumble. The owner of the sinners’ house shook his head as he stood holding the door, observing the legionnaire, helmet tucked under his arm, stagger from one side of the street to the other. Rising from the bench seat after five hours of sitting motionless as a marble statue, Abaddon walked across the street and entered the brothel as the owner eased the door closed.
Abaddon let the hood of his cloak slide off his bald head as he glanced left and right at the small rooms he moved past. Their linen curtain doors were drawn back, open to see within. Prostitutes lay sprawled on their beds, wrapped in cloaks as blankets, snoring loudly, exhausted from their night’s work. He paused at a wooden door, looked to both ends of the long hallway, then eased it open. This was a more private room, one which only higher paying clientele used—one which Hanan always favored.
An oil lamp burned low in a corner, leaving the room dimly lit with wavering shadows. The odor of strong wine permeated the air, mixed with the dismal stench of unwashed bodies. In the middle of the dirt floor room, atop the wood-framed bed with rows of wide leather straps to support a sleeping mat lay Hanan on his back between two olive-skinned, black-haired women draped over his torso. Their scattered clothes lay across the floor and the three slept, covered by the assassin’s dark brown cloak. A Sica lay within reach near Hanan’s head.
Walking to a stool, Abaddon carried it back to the bed, positioning it close to the sleeping man’s head. He settled his weight upon the stool as his yellowish eyes glanced over the outline of the prostitutes’ bodies beneath the thick wool cloak. Abaddon grinned when his gaze drifted to the four large, empty wine jugs beside the crowded bed.
“Hear my words as you rest, Hanan. Listen well so you will remember them tomorrow after you awaken,” the demon whispered close to the assassin’s ear. “You’ve done well today and earned tonight... But there is a man in Nazareth who speaks to you as a friend yet is not. He spreads sedition with his talks of peace toward all men, especially the Romans... There will never be peace with the likes of them as long as one legionnaire remains in this country. They spawn children and abandon them as happened with you. They murder and butcher Jews regardless of age... Don’t allow yourself to be deceived by the one who calls you friend. You’ve been misled by his words and naïve manner. The day will come when Yeshua must be eliminated for the good of the people—and you cannot turn away from that duty when the time arrives.”
Hanan groaned in his sleep and shifted his weight upon the bed. The nude women wrapped themselves about him like constricting serpents, adjusting to his movement but never waking. Abaddon wickedly grinned as he gazed at Hanan’s muscled shoulders and thick, rock-like arms draped across the sinners. The sight of the long scar along Hanan’s left forearm brought a wide smile to the demon’s lips.
All of my children bear the same mark as you, Hanan, Abaddon thought.
***
Jerusalem, District of Judea
The mid-day heat baked the land. Dust choked the people as a gust of wind swirled through the marketplace in a spiraling pillar the height of a man. Micah sat at his usual table beneath the porch awning of Mohamed al Ibrahim’s wine shop. He squinted against the thick dust in the air then his cough came, fiercer than all the times before. His chest hurt, feeling as if it were about to explode, and his throat grew raw from the harsh coughing. The dust devil passed, but he covered his mouth with the sleeve of his robe to mask the coughing. Lowering his arm, he saw sizeable specks of blood dotting the cloth. As the coughing spell dwindled, he breathed deeply to recover from his chest pain then drank his remaining wine mixed with honey to ease the ache in his throat. He’d been adding honey for the last three months as a physician in Cyprus had advised. But the honey did less each week to soothe the rawness, and as his physician warned, the disease had spread within him beyond anyone’s control.
“Don’t turn around,” a man said in a stern, wh
ispering voice from close behind Micah.
Micah stiffened, not knowing what to expect next. He heard a chair being dragged on the half stone and dirt floor. The unknown man was at the table directly behind him.
“That’s a bad cough you have. I knew a man once that had such a cough. He died within a year of contracting it. No appetite, sweating profusely at night...a cough that only grew worse each day.”
“You didn’t come to discuss my health. What do you want?” Micah asked, wondering if the stranger poised a knife at his back.
Micah heard a low, dispassionate laugh then silence followed for several seconds.
“I am told you are the leader of the Sicarii. Your assassins have performed well all across the land and driven fear into the minds of the Sanhedrin and Gentiles.”
“You must have me confused with another man. I’m a simple merchant that trades in everything from olives to textiles and—.”
“And murder.”
The mysterious man’s haunting laughter sent shivers up Micah’s spine.
“Now, let’s quit playing this foolish game of words and move on to business.”
“I’m listening.”
Sharp fingernails clicked against the table’s top in drumming manner then stopped when the man spoke. “In Nazareth is a young man named Yeshua. Have you heard of him?”
Micah tensed and stared at his empty wine cup. The young man that’s the same age as Hanan, Micah thought. The one everybody in Nazareth, except for Hanan, considers strange because of his continual debates with the Rabbis.
“I may know of him. Why do you ask?”
“He must die. Rather than incite the people to rise against the Gentiles, he speaks of living in peace with one another. He stands in the way of revolts against the Roman oppressors.”
“I’ve heard all of that. But Yeshua has no followers and only a handful of Nazarenes’ believe what he says.”
The guttural growl of a wolf came from behind Micah.
“The cough must have weakened your spine. I’d been told you were a dauntless man, wanting to do what’s right for your country.” The man spoke with a hint of condescension.
Micah didn’t reply immediately to the stranger. He needed a moment to control his anger.
“I can pass your request along to the right people.”
“You do that, Micah ben Netzer. And for your efforts I’m leaving a small token of my appreciation to ensure the Sicarii make this a priority mission.”
Micah felt a coughing spell coming and fought to suppress it. “You know my name, but what is yours?”
No reply came.
“Your name? What is it?” Micah asked once more, turning upon his chair to look behind him.
No one was there. Micah glanced at the other tables and about the area. He saw the back of man dressed in a long black robe with its hood pulled over his head, passing beneath the edge of the wine shop’s awning and out into the sun. Returning his attention to the table behind him, Micah lifted a large leather pouch. It was heavy and gave muffled clinks as he sat the pouch in his lap and opened it. A king’s treasure in silver coins and precious jewels shined at him.
“That’s a tidy sum. Did someone pay their contract?” Yosef asked, his bushy eyebrows rising as he approached the table.
Micah raised his worried gaze to Yosef before letting it drift to the street in the direction the cloaked man had gone. “Did you see the man sitting at the table behind me? You would have seen him stand and walk away.”
Yosef glanced about the area and shook his head. “I saw you from the street and have seen no one sitting behind you. Are you sure someone was there?”
Micah slowly nodded but kept staring at the street. Turning to face Yosef as his aide was taking a seat at the table, Micah paused then explained what had happened. When Micah finished, Yosef looked about the wine shop and the street before leaning close.
“How did the man know who you were—or about the organization?” Yosef’s dark eyes narrowed. His stare grew intense. He motioned to the leather pouch. “That’s a great deal of money to pay for an unknown young man in a small town who does nothing more than debate the Torah with Rabbis.”
Micah nodded and remained silent.
“Do you intend to fulfill the request? If so, expect problems from Hanan. Yeshua’s his friend—good friend.”
Gaze rising from the table’s top, Micah barely shook his head. “Hanan confides in you more than he does with me. Talk with him. See if there is something about Yeshua we don’t know. I won’t make a decision about Yeshua until after you’ve talked with Hanan.”
Yosef was about to reply when another severe coughing spell struck Micah. He motioned Mohamed’s servant to bring more wine mixed with honey. The servant brought a jar rather than a cup. When Micah recovered from the brutal coughing session, he drank deep gulps straight from the jar and sat back in his chair, exhausted, one hand resting on his chest.
“You need to talk with Hanan about your sickness. He’s seen your health steadily decline and told me he’s worried about you,” Yosef said in a gentle tone. “I’m concerned about you.”
“Listen, old friend, when I die, you and Hanan will have more money than you both can spend for the rest of your lives—you more so than him because you served my father and served me with equal trust and loyalty.” Micah paused, his eyes taking on a despondent look. “Yosef, there’re times when I feel as if I’ve done a great injustice to Hanan these last sixteen years he’s been with us. In my haste to drive the Romans out, I’ve created a merciless, cunning beast with the intelligence of a philosopher. Reports I’ve received about him going to the brothels after every mission makes me wonder if I’ve pushed him too hard, if he’s now at war with himself. It’s one reason I’m not leaning toward a mission involving his friend. Yeshua’s death might push him over the edge and turn him against us. I’d rather pull him from the organization for a year then gradually allow him to return.”
Nodding his head, Yosef toyed with an empty wine cup. “We’ve both grown attached to him. I’ve learned the same thing about his visits to the brothels. He doesn’t go to the houses where Jewish women are, only to those that use foreign women. That alone tells me he may be in conflict about his mother’s heritage. Let me talk with him about Yeshua.”
“Good... And don’t worry, Yeshua is safe from the Sicarii for now. I’m not eager to start a private war with our nephew unless there is truly a definite reason.” Micah wearily rubbed his face with his right hand and let his gaze drift to Yosef. “When you talk with Hanan, don’t speak of my illness. I need to tell him myself.”
***
Nazareth, District of Galilee
Dawn’s serene tiers of the retreating black night atop faded blue and golden yellow stretched across the horizon. With each passing minute the colors were dissolving into the bright light of day as the sun readied to break over the distant mountains.
Sitting on the terrace in his favorite chair, wrapped in a wool blanket against the slight morning chill, Micah stared at the sunrise. The morning air was crisp and clear, permitting him to breathe without coughing. Entrenched in thought, he never heard Hanan approach.
“Micah?” The tone held an uneasiness in it.
Micah slowly turned his head and looked up at his stout built, young ward dressed in a linen tunic and tattered outer robe. He gazed at Hanan for several seconds then let his eyes drift back to the sunrise. “You’re up early.”
“I’m sorry to disturb your prayers, but you were sitting so still I was afraid you might be—.”
“Dead? No. I wasn’t in prayer, only watching the arrival of another day.”
Glancing across the land, Hanan stood enjoying the moment with Micah.
“Why are you wearing those old clothes?” Micah asked in a fatigued voice.
Hanan looked over Micah’s frail
features. His uncle no longer resembled the handsome business man that once turned women’s heads and made hearts beat faster. Since the coughing had come, more gray painted his hair, and his pale cheeks and eyes kept a sunken appearance. With Micah’s loss of appetite came a deterioration in his weight, and lately, he had grown quieter, never indicating why.
“Yosef wants me to meet him in the pomegranate orchard. I don’t know why because I’ve already carried all the big rocks out of that field and every other field on the entire estate.” Hanan chuckled but Micah only smiled and nodded.
“After you have finished with Yosef for the day, I would like to talk with you about several matters.”
“Yes, sir,” Hanan replied uneasily. “I’ll be back as soon as Yosef releases me.”
***
The rays of the morning sun were shining through the branches as Yosef walked among the pomegranate trees, examining them and touching their fist-sized fruits. He saw Hanan strolling toward him along the dirt road and quickly pulled two from a tree. When Hanan drew close, Yosef tossed a fruit to him. With cat-like reflexes Hanan caught it with a single hand.
“We will break our fast with these and enjoy a morning walk,” Yosef said. “There will be no training today because we need to talk.”
Hanan had broken his pomegranate open to get at the delicious red beads within it but stopped. A curious look spread across his face. “What’s wrong? I saw Micah earlier. He wants to talk with me after I leave you.”
Motioning to Hanan’s fruit, Yosef returned his attention to his own. “Eat then we will talk.” He broke the palm-sized pomegranate open further and used a finger to hook and scoop the red beads into his mouth.
Hanan did the same, only faster. He was more eager to hear what his uncle wanted to talk about than eat.
Both men tossed the empty rinds to the ground. Yosef turned and walked toward the road with Hanan following.
“One thing I admire most about you, Hanan, is that you’ve always spoken the truth to us regardless of what we asked. The other thing I’ve always liked is that no matter how hard I trained you through the years, you never complained. You’re a remarkable man.”
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