“That may well be the first time you’ve ever complimented me,” Hanan replied with a soft laugh.
“Probably so. I’m not one for flowery words to swell your head.” Yosef nodded and kicked a small stone off the path as they walked. “After every mission you head to the brothels, drink heavily and—well, do what a man does with two or three women.”
Hanan’s pace slowed. A stunned look filled his eyes. “You had me followed? I completed my missions and—.”
Hand rising to interrupt Hanan, Yosef came to a halt and stared at him. “No, you’ve not been followed. We pay women in those houses to keep us informed of what they see and hear while with their lovers. With the money you spend each time on wine and multiple women to lie with, you’ve become well known—especially since they learned you are our nephew. Other than the obvious reasons for going to a brothel, is there any reason you’ve been drinking so heavily?”
Yosef’s words were upsetting to Hanan but logical. He hadn’t considered spies working in the houses or that he would become so prominently known. Yet Hanan couldn’t truthfully answer Yosef’s question as to the reason for washing away the missions with jugs of wine and flesh. He was still trying to understand what bothered him.
“I’ve found that the brothels help close out my missions... a cleansing of sorts that leaves me ready for the next.”
Staring at Hanan for several seconds as if judging his honesty, Yosef renewed their walk. “Are you having second thoughts about what we do?”
A long pause passed between them before Hanan answered.
“Not about eliminating traitors and unethical priests, but I wonder with as many assassinations I’ve performed, if it’s doing any good... I kill one and a dozen more still await me. That’s about the best I can answer. Is Micah upset with me over the drinking and women?”
Yosef shook his head. “No, he admires you as I do and is thinking about having you work more in the family business than the organization. But I’ll let him talk to you about that.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I need to ask you about another matter.” Again, Yosef kicked a small rock with his sandal as they walked. “Tell me about Yeshua.”
Hanan halted. “If you’re going to make him my next mission, I won’t do it.” His hands clenched into hard knots and his jaw tightened as he gritted his teeth. “He’s my friend.”
“I asked you to tell me about him.” Yosef’s voice was calm yet firm.
“He’s peculiar but has always been that way. He cares nothing about material things and only speaks of peace and quotes passages from the Torah. He’s nothing like the people I’ve killed.” Hanan thought a moment then decided it was best not to mention Yeshua’s references to ‘my Father.’”
“Does he suspect you are a member of the Sicarii?”
Hanan shook his head. “If he knows, he’s said nothing. We’ve never discussed the organization. I doubt if he even knows of it.”
“Do you know of any reason why someone would want him dead? Does he have enemies?”
“He’s a carpenter like his father, Josef. They work together and I’m probably Yeshua’s only true friend. Why would anyone want him dead?”
Yosef gazed at the ground as if looking for another stone to kick. He raised his eyes to Hanan. “Someone wants him dead,” Yosef said, his bushy eyebrows rising. “A man approached Micah in Jerusalem and gave him enough money to pay for the assassination of three kings. But all the person wanted was Yeshua’s life.”
“Nothing makes sense. Why Yeshua of all people—and so much money?” Hanan grew aggravated. He shook his head and glanced about the surrounding orchards. His brows drew downward. But a disturbing dream came to mind, one which warned him of Yeshua’s deceptive friendship, his talks of peace, and the day to come when Hanan couldn’t turn away from his duty as a Sicarii.
“We don’t know why. Matter-of-fact, we don’t know who wants him killed because the unknown man remained behind Micah as they talked and left without being seen. Now you understand why I wish to know more about your friend. As you said, ‘Nothing makes sense.’ But Micah has given it all thought and doesn’t intend to fulfill the request regardless of the money he received.”
***
Micah still sat on the veranda, blanket tucked about him with a cup of wine and honey within arm’s reach. He appeared no healthier in the morning sunlight than he had in the shadows of dawn. His gaze followed the young man walking up the road to their home. It was clear by Hanan’s downtrodden look and slow pace he had discussed Yeshua with Yosef. Or have they talked of Hanan’s involvement with the organization and a problem exists, Micah asked himself.
“Your training finished early,” Micah said, watching Hanan walk up the veranda’s steps. He motioned to a stool beside him.
“Yosef gave me a day off,” Hanan replied, sitting on the stool. “He wanted to talk instead, but I believe you already knew that.”
A slow nod came in answer. “Did he mention that I am pulling you from the missions to work with the family business? It’s nothing to do with your performance of the missions, but I’ve reached a point where I need help. Our trades have grown beyond my control. Never thought this day would come, but it’s true. Anyway, your health is good, and most of our contracts require travel, so this works best for both of us.”
The coughing began, light at first before increasing until the severity of pain painted Micah’s flushed face and his hands pressed against his chest to ease the ache. Wiping specks of blood from his lips, he gulped down the cup of wine and honey, and sat breathing heavily. His eyes softly closed as he rested, then he opened them and looked at Hanan. Lightly shaking his head, Micah tried to smile. “I believe you understand the reason why I need help.”
“Is there no cure?”
Staring at Hanan, Micah weakly shook his head. He set his empty wine cup on the table. “Death, but Elohim will decide when that time comes.”
“I’ll do as you wish, Micah, but tell me... Is Yeshua safe from the Sicarii?”
“Whatever harm comes to him will not be of my doing.”
***
Micah’s words, ‘will not be of my doing,’ kept replaying in Hanan’s mind after leaving Yeshua’s home. The threat to his friend still existed, and the two most important questions remained unanswered; why was Yeshua targeted, and who wanted him dead? Hanan had intended to warn his good-hearted friend to be cautious, although, he knew it would serve no purpose. Yeshua never saw the worst in people, only their best. But Hanan had experienced the worst and grew more worried at learning his friend had left for Jericho two days ago through the Wadi Qelt—the Valley of Death.
“A man summoned us for work in Jericho, but his message was confusing. Yeshua thought it best he go talk with him since my old bones don’t allow me too many long journeys anymore,” Josef had said. “If I know Yeshua, he’ll go through the Wadi Qelt to stop and pray by every pool.”
The Wadi Qelt was a seven mile, heavily traveled route from Jerusalem to Jericho. Cut deep in a winding serpentine path through steep sloped canyons of the Judean desert mountains and hills, the route was called a valley because of its vegetation yet was only a hundred feet wide in few parts. On the western half of the route were soothing waterfalls of varying sizes, scattered pools of clear, cool water, tall palm trees, wild growing fruit trees, and vines of vibrant red and yellow flowers hanging from the cracks of the rock-lined walls. The eastern half of the trek through the valley was more rugged, narrower and lacking in water until it reached Jericho and the Jordan River. But the constant shade along the entire route, provided by the sheer height of the walls to both sides, was what made the path highly favored by travelers. Regardless of the hour of the day, except for noon when the sun was at its zenith, shade and deep shadows protected the people from the baking rays.
Water and shade were its allure, but robbers infested the
route and validated its name—the Valley of Death. With severe turns and dark shadows throughout the route, bands of robbers laid in waiting along its midway point, watching for travelers foolish enough to walk alone. Such was the thought raging through Hanan as he envisioned his nonviolent friend praying at the quiet pools.
Yosef was entering their home as Hanan rushed past him heading to the road.
“I’ll be back in a few days,” he called out, never looking back at his uncle. A goat-skinned water bag draped from his left shoulder.
Chapter Nine
Wadi Qelt
The Valley of the Shadow of Death
Judean Desert
Hanan knew the advantage of catching up with Yeshua was that his friend never hurried wherever he traveled. Walking at a grueling pace day and night the first two days, even trotting, Hanan pushed himself mentally and physically to cover the eighty-five miles to Jerusalem and draw closer to his friend. Reaching the junction of the path into the Wadi Qelt valley and the Roman road that lay parallel to it atop the hills, Hanan washed dust from his face and drank from his water bag. He stared at the two routes, debating which to take.
If Yeshua is being followed, I may come up behind the assassin too fast... If he’s waiting ahead of Yeshua, I could be too late, Hanan thought. He gazed at the Roman built road, knowing he could use it to race ahead of his friend. But if I find the killer, there may not be a way to descend into the valley because of the canyons’ severe sloping walls. Either route holds risks.
The sun was within two hours of setting when Hanan started along the Wadi Qelt path. Traveling as far as he could until the dark canyons forced him to stop, Hanan bathed in a pool of water he came upon. He wrapped himself within his wool cloak, nestled his body among boulders and ate the meager food he had bought in Jerusalem. When exhaustion overcame him, he slept his first full night since leaving Nazareth.
***
Hanan awoke before sunrise, eager to leave but couldn’t until enough sunlight shown in the valley to see where he walked. The majority of the path on this western end was easy to follow yet there were sporadic areas that required climbing stair-stepped rocks. One misstep could cause a twisted ankle or broken leg.
When faint light permitted him to see his surroundings, he found a mature fig tree and broke his fast with a handful of its delicious fruit. He ate while gazing at the north canyon wall and the three black spots gouged into it at different levels. As more light painted the valley, he recognized them as caves, similar to others dug into mountains and hills throughout Judea. While some were barely large enough to protect shepherd boys from the sun as they watched over their herds, other caves could house a Bedouin family during their travels across the desert. Religious sects often left relics and scrolls in large vases concealed in the backs of the caves as protection against plundering Roman soldiers. And always, Hanan realized, every cave was in the most obscure location with few means to get to them.
Filling his water bag, he waited another thirty minutes then set out again, walking eastward to Jericho.
Every rock that slid and clacked against another beneath his sandals seemed to reverberate through the valley as the least sound bounced off the canyon walls. The echoes were not as loud as he believed, but with his nerves growing more tense with each step, and his concern mounting of blundering upon a robber or unknown assassin that lay waiting, Hanan removed his sandals to continue bare-footed.
His green eyes swept the valley ahead in search of the least movement. Every twenty or thirty feet, he paused long enough to listen for the least click of rocks being stepped on, a cough, or the whisperings of hidden men. At such a sluggish pace he wondered if he would ever find Yeshua or an assassin in time to prevent a murder, but if he increased his speed, he might sound an alarm to robbers. Frustration set in yet Hanan knew all he could do was push ahead with the greatest caution. His taut nerves were taking a heavy toll on his energy. Never had he experienced such a problem on his missions, yet this was different. If his gut instincts proved true, his friend’s life was at stake.
The ground grew warmer as the sun rose directly overhead, forcing him to wear his sandals again. Twenty feet ahead the valley twisted to the right. He found a rocky overhang to sit beneath and slip his sandals on but drank first from his water bag. Wiping beads of sweat from his face, his eyes were closed when he heard the faint click of rocks bumping rocks. The sound stopped, but it was enough for his keen ears to hear. Glancing at the dirt and shrubs about him, he realized he was nearing the midway point of the Wadi Qelt. Vegetation grew sparse; the valley path had becoming narrower, and small rocks littered the ground as if from an ancient riverbed.
Wrapping one end of his keffiyeh headdress across his nose and mouth until only his eyes were visible, he gently set his water bag on the ground and withdrew his dagger. His assassin’s training took control, settling his nerves as he left the overhang and crept forward, walking on bare feet to mute his steps. At the turn in the valley’s path, he remained near the canyon wall then sank behind a chest high boulder. The silence in the canyon was deafening and for a second, he wondered if the unknown man ahead could hear the beats of his heart. Rising to look over the boulder, Hanan saw the back of a gray-robed man of average height and slender frame, peering over a boulder, cautiously watching someone in front of him.
There was nothing to show whether the man was watching Yeshua or another innocent traveler. When the man withdrew a Sica dagger from beneath his robe and held it close with his left hand, Hanan couldn’t wait any longer.
Twenty-five feet of open ground lay between the two men. Glancing at the ground, Hanan crept along a stretch of softer soil to come up within arm’s reach of the unknown man’s back. The man was so intent on watching his prey he never heard Hanan’s approach.
Hanan’s urge to kill him was overpowering yet he wanted information, and for that the man must live. The strength in Hanan’s arm was greater than he realized. He struck the would-be assassin on top of the head with the brass hilt of his dagger. The man’s knees buckled, dropping him like dead weight. Catching him with one hand before he crashed into the dirt, Hanan knocked the assassin’s dagger away from the boulder to avoid it repeatedly clinking metal against rock as it fell. Only a single, light clink came as one dagger struck another.
Lowering the assassin to the ground, Hanan waited, listening for Yeshua or anyone’s footsteps. He heard nothing, sheathed his Sica and waited. After a few minutes passed he stood and looked over the boulder. He smiled inwardly at seeing Yeshua walk toward Jericho as if he didn’t have a care in the world. Returning his attention to his unconscious captive sprawled on the ground, Hanan pulled the man’s keffiyeh from his face.
Moshav ben Ami, a professional temple beggar by trade and one of Micah’s two hundred operatives, lay spread-eagled in the dirt with blood oozing from his head where the dagger struck him. He groaned and rubbed his head with a hand. His eyes gradually opened, and he groaned once more when he saw the blood on his fingertips.
Hanan found no additional weapons on the assassin but removed Moshav’s dagger sheath and slid his Sica into it. Kneeling at Moshav’s right side, Hanan was staring at him when the man regained his senses. The two men had never met but Hanan knew him. He knew a majority of the operatives by sight and name from being at Micah’s house, passing along information they had learned in their respective areas.
Turning the dagger and sheath in his hands as he studied them, Hanan recognized the weapon as one of many special made in Damascus for Micah’s operatives. The leather-wrapped handle was its trademark.
Moshav attempted to sit upright, squinting against the sunlight but Hanan pushed him back onto the ground.
“Who ordered you to kill the Nazarene?”
Silence was the only reply Hanan received. He slowly withdrew Moshav’s Sica from its sheath and let him see it.
“I am Hanan, nephew of Micah
and Yosef, and next in line to lead the Sicarii. Who ordered you to kill the Nazarene?”
Again, no answer came. Hanan sniffed and rubbed his nose as if it itched. He let his gaze drift about the valley then looked down into Moshav’s wide eyes. “I’ve told you who I am so you will know I speak the truth. Having such knowledge means you must die, but I can do nothing about that. What I can do for you is this—if you wish a quick death, answer my few questions. If you wish a long, lingering death, remain silent.” Hanan shook his head in irritation. “If I were you, I’d take the quick death. The slow death involves fire, vipers, scorpions, and a second circumcision with your own dagger... And trust me, I know for a fact that being circumcised hurts more when you’re older.”
“Micah gave the order.”
The words caught Hanan off guard. He never expected to hear his uncle’s name. He stared at his captive with a puzzled look. “Were you told face-to-face?”
Moshav shook his head. “A man I never saw, came from behind me and said Micah ordered the assassination. He gave me information about the Nazarene and when I turned, he had gone.”
“Do you remember anything else about this stranger?”
A slow nod answered Hanan. “The man’s breath upon my neck smelled like a decayed corpse—and I kept hearing a low growl as if a wolf were near me.”
Brows pulled down hard, eyes narrowed as he looked at Moshav, Hanan was deep in thought when he realized a long scar ran down the man’s left forearm. He let his gaze drift to his own. Both scars were identical.
***
Abaddon stood at the edge of the canyon’s cliff, observing the two men in the valley below. He pulled at his cloak’s hood to keep his pale, leathery face protected from the sun. His dark yellowish eyes squinted against the harshness of the sunlight as he watched the men with idle curiosity.
The Daggerman Page 9