The Daggerman

by Glenn Starkey

  Eleazar stroked his long beard as he watched Yeshua leave the water and start along the river bank toward the Judean desert. Men fell in behind him. The Sadducee had heard of Yeshua’s followers, the ones he called his disciples, but until now, Eleazar had never seen them. He turned to his companions and spoke in a voice so only they could hear.

  A piecemeal grin formed on the demon’s lips as he watched Eleazar and his priestly band talk and nod in agreement. He waited until Yeshua walked over the hill before trailing after him.

  ***

  On the third day after Yeshua’s baptism, the Sadducee, Eleazar ben Makim, was found with his throat slashed in an alley near the Jerusalem temple. Two months later, at the goading of Herodias, Antipas ordered his soldiers to arrest John the baptizer. They cast him into the tetrarch’s dungeon cells at Machaerus in the District of Perea.

  Chapter Twelve

  27 A.D.

  Machaerus, District of Perea

  He sat leaning on the right armrest of his gilded throne, lethargically watching his guests dressed in their finest robes and sparkling jewels as they entered the palace courtyard. They laid gifts on an elongated table then made their way to the dais to bow and pay homage to the tetrarch on his fiftieth or fifty-first birthday. No one was sure of which age, but none dared to ask. As each approached, Herod Antipas offered a partial nod and raised his right hand in limp manner to acknowledge their presence. There was only one gift he desired—one he was anxious to receive, and the minutes passed like hours as he awaited Salome’s Dance of the Seven Veils.

  Beside him sat his wife Herodias, regal as always in her sea blue silken robes and headdress adorned with rubies and emeralds. Her expression was impassive, yet her coal-black eyes were alert to everyone that drew near. For weeks she had prepared for this night, coaching her daughter Salome in the performance to give her step-father. Herodias knew her husband’s thoughts; had caught him spying from behind curtains on the young girl as she bathed in the mikveh, the ritual pool, and seen the way his hungry eyes devoured Salome’s body when she strolled past him. Tonight, though, Antipas would willingly give Herodias what she wanted in exchange for the hope of a moment’s lust with the dancer.

  The musicians played throughout the evening, but few people paid heed to their efforts. The din of talk and laughter blended with the strums of the zither, the beating of drums, clanging cymbals, and piercing flutes to create a deafening chaos in the lamplit courtyard.

  Herodias glanced at her husband and struggled not to laugh at his anxious shifting upon the throne. As she had ordered, servants never let his chalice go empty, and a light rosiness highlighted his cheeks. His gem encrusted, gold crown had slipped slightly on his head and he nervously tugged at the front of his robe, a sign she knew meant his passion was rising. She glanced at the musicians, raised her hands into the air and clapped twice. By the time her hands lowered to her lap, a new song began, one more vibrant and flowing. The audience grew silent as the beat of a drum started, slow and light, building to a harder, primal throb.

  Curtains parted to the left of Antipas and the slim, lithe figure of Salome slipped out into the flickering light cast from the flames of a dozen large oil lamps. Transparent veils of different colors shrouded her head and body, floating through the air with each step she took before the tetrarch. Herodias wickedly smiled as her husband leaned forward on his throne, eyes wide as he watched the undulating body flow left and right, then spin and bend before him.

  The music’s tempo increased, became intoxicating, and the pounding of the drums matched the hammering beats of his heart against his chest. Throwing herself to the marble floor, Salome thrashed about and rolled onto her hands and knees, pitching her magnificent body like a mating animal, swinging her long, raven-black hair in wide circles. She flung the veils away one by one as she swirled and caressed herself. With each crash to the floor, cymbals clanged as she spread her legs for the tetrarch’s private view. Antipas’ eyes were flared, and his mouth remained agape. His hands gripped the throne’s armrests and squeezed until his knuckles were white. He was oblivious of everyone and everything in his palace except for the sinful flesh before him.

  A black-robed man behind the throne edged closer to Antipas, his vile smile displaying rotted teeth as his yellowish eyes focused on the dancer writhing across the marble floor.

  “She is yours to command. You are the tetrarch. Order her to your bed. Mount her. Take her. It’s what she wants,” Abaddon whispered in a low, guttural voice. “Think of the pleasures she will give you.”

  The demon glanced at Herodias who sat maliciously smiling, watching her husband’s sanity shatter more with each beat of the drums and sway of her daughter.

  “Offer her whatever she wants. Do it! Reap your rightful reward!” the demon whispered with urgency. Looking at Herodias, his mischievous smile grew before stepping back from the throne. He spread his black robe and vanished within its dark shadow.

  The music reached its crescendo at the moment a drum was violently struck. The musicians stopped. Salome spun to a halt with arms opened wide before Antipas, her final transparent veil wrapping her sweating body as if it were her flesh, leaving nothing hidden from his sight. Her breasts rapidly rose and fell with each blast of air she took, and her vixen gaze locked with his wanton stare.

  “Tell me what you want, Salome, and I will give it to you up to half of my kingdom. Tell me and I will grant it now,” the tetrarch said, breathing as heavily as the dancer.

  For Herodias, her moment of revenge had come, and she basked in it with spiteful pleasure. She glanced at her daughter and lightly nodded.

  Salome lowered her arms and stepped close enough to Antipas to slide her right hand along his thigh.

  “Bring me the head of John the Baptist on a plate,” she said in a whispery voice.

  ***

  28 A.D.

  Caesarea Maritima, District of Samaria

  Pontius Pilate, known in Rome by his Latin name Marcus Pontius Pilatus, was the fifth Roman Prefect of Judea. Lucius Sejanus, the chief administrator and favorite of Emperor Tiberius had appointed him to the post. Pilate was of the Equestrian Order of the Samnite clan of Pontii. From this order came political and military leaders from Roman citizens of wealth and station, yet not always of the highest heredity. But moving through the ranks and becoming a prefect afforded a military officer such as Pilate the opportunity to advance into the senate.

  His career path weighed heavily on him this cool evening. He lay wrapped in thought, stretched upon his dining couch next to his wife’s. Their arms and heads almost touched, and with the slightest turn, he could face her. Their evening meal of assorted fruits, fish, olives and olive oil, breads and wine were within arm’s reach upon the short table before them. Slave servants scurried about their master and mistress, ensuring every need was met.

  Freshly bathed in scented water and clothed in a fine maroon robe with subtle designs in golden threads, Pilate wore his dark hair short and was clean shaven in the Roman style of the day. But it was his hard-set features of a furrowed brow over a penetrating gaze, a firm jaw, and cold demeanor which set him apart from all others. The muscles in his taut arms flexed as he reached out for food, his body kept strong by a daily regimen of sword training and strenuous exercise with his legionnaires. And his rulings with the Jews were as sharp, swift and merciless as his sword.

  Holding a grape to his mouth, staring at the food on the table, Pilate’s day-dreaming broke when he realized his wife was watching him. “What?” he asked, brows rising.

  Claudia Procula faintly smiled and glanced at the servants in the room. Waving them away, she waited until they left before speaking.

  “What bothers you, Pontius? Please, do not say ‘nothing’ because something is on your mind,” she asked. “You’ve held that grape to your lips for five minutes without moving.”

  Amused, the prefect
quickly ate the grape as he looked at her. “I must have been thinking about how the gods favored me with such a beautiful wife. How can a man consider food when a woman like you is near?”

  Pilate’s rare boyish moment was truthful. Claudia was an educated, stunningly attractive woman from a highborn, wealthy family in Rome. Her self-confidence equaled her beauty, yet all knew her to be a ruthless lioness in the protection of her husband’s career. Pilate was no fool though. He knew without her and her father’s influence, he may never have been considered for the equestrian order.

  Long black hair fell about her soft shoulders and bare arms as she rolled her head back in laughter. Returning her gaze to him, her golden honey-brown eyes were mesmerizing. Jewels gleamed in her earrings. A silver necklace hung low from her neck and laid atop her deep cut, emerald green robe. She lovingly smiled as his gaze drifted to her cleavage.

  “First, tell me what bothers you then we may discuss other matters,” Claudia said in a teasing tone.

  Pilate reached out and lifted a wine cup from the table. He sighed hard and glanced about the lavish dining room of the palace that had once been Herod the Great’s residence while in Caesarea Maritima.

  “I was wondering how soon we may leave this wretched posting for one better suited to a prefect’s wife. Not this barren land where dust constantly flies, and barren desert is at every turn. Each day the Jews grow more rebellious and the political environment becomes tenser. I could easily squash the problems by making examples of a few hundred troublemakers, but it would only push this forsaken country to the verge of a multi-sided revolt—and we both know how that would infuriate the Emperor. Every time one of these bickering Jewish factions writes a petition to him denouncing my orders, I receive a letter stating his displeasure and concern over my ability to control the land. He doesn’t understand these people or their strange laws yet insists on me following religo licita which binds my hands.”

  The prefect paused long enough to empty his cup. His gaze remained fixed on the food table as he toyed with the alabaster cup. Julius Caesar had originally created the policy of religo licita allowing the Jews to follow their traditional religious practices in Rome, and the following emperor permitted it to continue. Now Judaism had such status throughout the empire, and every complaint from the various Jerusalem factions argued that Pilate had violated the policy.

  “The Sadducees rule the Sanhedrin Council and can’t stand the Pharisees and the Essenes. The Pharisees hate the Sadducees and the Essenes, and the Essenes loathe the Pharisees and Sadducees—then atop that, you have the Zealots who dislike them all for attempting to coexist with us and urge the people to rebel. Oh, and I can’t overlook the dozen or more prophets that pop up at every turn claiming to be a messiah.”

  Taking her wine cup from the table, Claudia lightly sipped it. She lowered the cup to rest on her couch as she leaned closer to her husband. “How is Tiberius to know what the truth is when he’s hidden himself away on an island fortress at Capreae and left the empire in the hands of his chief administrator?” she whispered.

  Pilate nodded once. “Sejanus’ hands are tied in this mess. He’s tried to explain our situation to Tiberius but now has too many wolves in Rome nipping at his heels and is busy defending his own self. The Senate may not like taking orders from the emperor, but they surely dislike taking orders from the emperor’s chief administrator even more.”

  Sipping her wine again, Claudia paused. “Speaking of prophets, I understand that after Antipas cut the Baptist’s head off, another named Yeshua replaced him. He supposedly has been traveling about performing miracles, curing the blind, healing the sick—even raising the dead.”

  “You never cease to amaze me. Between your dreams and your network of informants, I wish I had a dozen advisors as knowledgeable as you,” Pilate said, smiling and shaking his head in admiration. “Antipas is a fool and should have his own head cut off. As for this new prophet you speak of, I’m sure his miracles are nothing more than magicians’ tricks. My spies say he goes about in dirty clothes and relies upon handouts from people so he and his little group may eat. He preaches about the love of some invisible god they cannot even make an image of—but he speaks nothing of sedition. No, he’s certainly not the kind to lead a revolt against the Roman Empire.”

  Claudia set her wine cup on the table and rose from her couch. “Still, my love, keep a watch on him. The numbers grow each day of those who believe in him,” she said, moving to stand in front of her husband. Allowing her emerald robe to slip from her shoulders and fall about her ankles, she stood nude except for her earrings and necklaces. “Now, let us talk of other matters and forget your worries for the night.”

  From his dining couch Pilate looked up and let his gaze drift over her supple body.

  “The goddess Venus has truly blessed you,” he whispered, pulling her down onto his couch.

  ***

  29 A.D.

  Hanan and Yosef sat across from one another at their favorite table beneath the weathered awning of Uriah’s wine shop in Nazareth. The afternoon sun was hot, yet a pleasant breeze flowed in the shade of the awning. With one man facing north and the other facing south, they could keep watch on the road for strangers entering the town as they talked.

  The wine shop owner set a plate of grilled meat and honey-soaked dates on their table, refilled their cups and stepped back, wiping his hands clean on a cloth hanging from his belt.

  “It will soon be time to steal another awning for you, Uriah,” Hanan said with a wry grin, glancing at the faded blue stripes decorating the beige covering. “It’s held up good, though, through the years.”

  Uriah squinted his eyes as he studied the awning. “That is the difference in quality between those made in Jerusalem and the ones you find around here. The colors may have faded but there are no rips and tears from the wind like the one before. This awning should last a few more years.” The shop keeper smiled wide, politely nodded and returned into his shop.

  “So, tell me, uncle. What is this talk you say we must have?” Hanan gazed at the gray sprinkled throughout Yosef’s hair, his wild growing brows and thick beard. His uncle’s rough features had grown haggard, and his once barrel chested, bullish frame had dwindled with age, yet Hanan knew immense strength remained in the man.

  “I’ve decided to retire from the organization, move to Jerusalem, and set up a little wine shop of my own. I’ve already secured a shop and made arrangements for my shares from Micah’s businesses to become yours. Don’t worry though, I’ve kept a sufficient amount. Aside from some thieving king, you are now the richest man in all the land.” Yosef sat back, appearing relieved at finally telling Hanan of his plans.

  Resting his muscled arms on the table, Hanan took on a somber look. “I’ll miss you. You and Micah have been the only true family I’ve known since I was nine. When you leave, who will be around to badger me and make me move mountains of rocks?” A forced smile broke on Hanan’s lips. “I would feel better if you kept your part of our trading business. You may need the money to open more wine shops someday.”

  Yosef adamantly shook his head. “No, it’s yours. I have enough for what I want to do.”

  Hanan sat back slowly and gazed at his uncle. “You mean, like marrying the widow Sarah who bakes and sells bread in the Jerusalem markets?”

  Bolting upright in his chair, Yosef’s brows rose. He hammered the top of the table with a knotted fist. “Have you had your men following me?”

  Hearty laughter poured from Hanan. He lightly slapped the table. “I’ve known for months. As you once told me, information about the activities of prominent rich men quickly spreads—and when I learned it was you always buying up all of her bread and giving it away to the poor, well, I knew there must be a reason.”

  Yosef groaned and appeared flustered. “I’ll be sixty next year. I’m not getting any younger, not becoming better looking, and I’m tir
ed of being alone. Oh, I’m not tired of being around you, but—.”

  “I understand, and you deserve to be happy. But let me ask a question. Would you mind if I sold our entire trading empire? I’d give you half and keep half.”

  “What of the organization?”

  “One thing at a time, uncle,” Hanan replied. “I’m still considering what I should do. We’ve grown to almost three hundred operatives spread out across the country and I can pay them from my money for years—and still do as I desire.”

  Yosef cast him a suspicious look. “Like going to the brothels and drinking heavily after a mission?”

  “I haven’t done that for a week or more.”

  Grinning, Yosef shook his head. “You’ve been home for a week or more.”

  The two men laughed, shook hands and returned to their food and wine.

  “I’ve heard strange tales about your friend Yeshua,” Yosef said between bites of goat meat. “People say he’s cured lepers, raised the dead, and has a dozen men that follow and call him Teacher and Master.”

  Hanan quickly downed another cup of wine and shook his head. His lips formed a thin line as his brow lowered into an intense stare. “What if he’s the Messiah the scriptures say is coming?”

  A light laugh came from Yosef as his eyebrows rose. “You don’t seriously believe Yeshua is The Anointed One, do you? A carpenter’s son?”

  Silence passed between them for several seconds. Yosef’s eyebrows gradually lowered. He leaned forward, resting his weight on his forearms on the table.

  “You do believe it,” he whispered.

  “Since Yeshua and I were boys, I always thought he was odd, then everything about him fell into place and—.” Hanan lowered his gaze to the table’s top then raised his eyes to look at Yosef. “I was there the day the Baptist immersed him in the river and said Yeshua was the Lamb of our God, Elohim. The man is like an unblemished lamb—I’ve never known him to become angry, speak ill of anyone or become drunk and do reckless things. I doubt if he’s ever had a woman. When we were twelve, I watched him in the temple arguing scriptures with the priests. Words, educated words, flowed from him without hesitation. There was a light on his face and about him I’ve never forgotten to this day.”