The Daggerman

by Glenn Starkey

  “All that means little. So, he was a good boy growing up, smart, and has an excellent memory for our Laws. That doesn’t make him the one we’ve been waiting for,” Yosef said, keeping his voice low even though they were the only patrons of the afternoon in the wine shop. “Maybe he’s had a woman you don’t know about or maybe he likes—.”

  “No, sir,” Hanan said, vigorously shaking his head. “No. From what he’s said, it’s something about his destiny that doesn’t permit him to take a wife and have a family. He speaks in riddles about his life being short because of the prophecies—and that he’s following the will of his father, Elohim.”

  Pouring himself more wine, Yosef emptied his cup in one continuous drink. He gazed at his adopted nephew and pursed his lips. Finally, he spoke. “What does his mother, Miriam, think of all this? I know you’ve been watching over her.”

  “Now who’s been spying?” Hanan chuckled. “I know she’s gone to him and asked for him to return home, but he refused. He calls her ‘woman’ rather than ‘mother’ as if they are not of the same blood. Says he has not finished his father’s work.” Letting his gaze drift to the street, Hanan sighed. “I’ve had men trailing Yeshua. When they come to report his doings, they are in awe and speak of him with reverence. Not just one man, but several returned and told me they witnessed the miracles he’s performed. My men, trusted men in the Sicarii, have told me they believe Elohim’s hand is upon Yeshua.”

  Hanan paused and stared into Yosef’s eyes. “I believe them because I followed him in secret. With my own eyes I witnessed Yeshua lay his hand on a demon-possessed man who was also mute.” Raising his right hand up before Yosef, Hanan gazed at it several seconds then solemnly looked at his uncle and spoke in a calm, sincere voice.

  “The man was lost within his mind, a crazed creature, drool dripping from his mouth, eyes glazed over, making bizarre sounds as he fought and tried to bite those who held him. Then without the least fear, Yeshua touched him, spoke—and the demon fled. The man became as normal as us, and he wept and cried out giving thanks to Elohim.”

  Yosef sat listening, staring at his nephew.

  “I questioned people about the man, curious whether he may have been acting, but everyone said the demon had afflicted him for over ten years. Later when I saw Yeshua, though, it was at a distance, I could tell he’s different from when we last talked—I tell you truthfully, he is different. Elohim’s hand is upon him.”

  “I believe you,” Yosef said with a soft nod, gazing at his nephew.

  Chapter Thirteen

  30 A.D.

  Caesarea Maritima, District of Samaria

  The dawn was breaking when Hanan walked out of the brothel, his head muddled, mouth as dry as the Judean desert. His body still ached from the blows he had taken a day ago from the soldiers, and his steps were slow and wobbly from the jars of wine he’d drank last night.

  A sharp chill hung in the air, yet it felt good and helped to clear the fog from his head. He wrapped his cloak about him and began the walk to Jerusalem, deciding to break his fast later at a shop further along the road. He coughed and a piercing pain shot through his left side, but he laughed inwardly knowing a squad of legionnaires had suffered worse.

  Three days before, a Sicarii operative had botched his mission and was arrested. By the time Hanan received word, legionnaires were already on the road to Caesarea, escorting their prisoner to trial and execution. But before his death, Hanan knew the Romans would torture the operative, and the soldiers were experts at extracting information. Gathering fifty of his men, Hanan waited until the mid of night before ambushing the sleeping squad along the trail. Over half of the legionnaires had died swiftly from Sicarii archers, yet near the end of the short battle, the fighting had become hand-to-hand. It was then two soldiers tackled and beat Hanan until they died by his dagger. Stripping the squad’s bodies, they were abandoned in the desert for the hyenas and vultures. But before Hanan’s men left, they executed the captured assassin for failure to complete his mission and allowing himself to be arrested. Wrapping his body in a cloak, they placed him in a cave along a mountainside. No matter that the man had failed, Hanan refused to leave him with the Roman dogs.

  Now, as Hanan walked in the crisp morning air toward Jerusalem, his thoughts shifted to surprising Yosef and Sarah at their wine shop and bakery. Unfortunately, his stay would be short. Hanan had other matters to address yet seeing the married couple so happy in their work and life together, always warmed his soul when visiting. He was glad his uncle had at last found peace and a woman to love. Hanan envied him.

  ***

  Jerusalem, District of Judea

  The journey took longer than Hanan intended but stopping for several days to allow his side to further heal was necessary. If Yosef greeted him with a bear hug, his ribs would assuredly crack.

  Wiping sweat from his face, he glanced at the position of the afternoon sun and let his gaze drift to the horizon ahead. The towering walls of the city and temple were at last in view. He smiled at the thought of sitting with Yosef as they dipped Sarah’s freshly baked bread into a plate of olive oil from Micha’s orchards, and all while downing a jar of the finest Damascus wine to wash the day’s dust from his throat.

  His thoughts renewed his energy and lengthened his stride, and with each step, the walls rose higher.

  ***

  By late afternoon Hanan had made his way through the congested city streets, burgeoning markets and around the temple to the former wine shop of Mohamed al Ibrahim. The shop was easy to remember. After his first mission, it had been the location where he met Micah to report the corrupt priest’s death. But never did he imagine Yosef one day buying the well-known establishment for an outrageous amount to serve wine to patrons and have an outlet for his wife’s baked goods.

  Taking a seat with his back to a wall, he wearily rubbed his face and stretched the fatigue from his body. He glanced at the scattering of patrons beneath the shop’s awning, saw no one that gave him grave concerns, and summoned a willowy servant to him.

  The man’s grayish tunic displayed several dots of wine stains across the chest and marks along his waist where he wiped his hands. He wore his headdress in the fashion of a desert dweller, but the long cloth ends were cast back over his shoulder to avoid falling into wine as he bent to fill cups. His face was weather-worn from days in the sun, as if he had at one time been a shepherd, and the carved wrinkles about his cheeks and light brown eyes set his age near Yosef’s or a few years younger.

  Approaching the brawny patron sitting by the wall, the servant’s eyes widened in recognition of him. “Master Hanan, you’ve come at last. We’ve been expecting you.”

  Confused, Hanan leaned forward onto the table. “You know me?”

  “I remember you from your last visit to see Master Yosef.”

  Hanan’s green eyes narrowed. Confusion held him.

  “What did you mean when you said, ‘come at last’ and that you’ve been ‘expecting me’? Where is my uncle and his wife, Sarah?”

  The servant’s eyes revealed sorrow. His gaze lowered to the table. “You do not know?”

  Hanan leapt to his feet. “Speak up. What are you talking about?”

  Voice laden with remorse, the man raised his eyes to Hanan. “Our master is dead, killed by the Temple guards in the market two days ago. His wife is injured too and remains at their home to recover.”

  Hanan stood unable to move then rage engulfed him with the ferocity of a desert sandstorm. A maelstrom of questions swirled in his mind yet all he could do was squeeze his hands into balled fists. Pressure built within him to the point he wanted to scream at the top of his lungs and smash something, anything until he destroyed it. He glanced about the area, a fiery inferno blazing in his green eyes.

  “I’m sorry to be the one to have told you. I thought the messenger had reached you and you already knew but�
��.”

  “Sarah’s at their house now? Is she alone?” Hanan asked, knowing his uncle had moved into Micah’s home after the wedding.

  “She is with the servant Master Yosef gave her,” the old man replied in a weak voice. “She is in mourning, but otherwise well. The broken arm will—.”

  “Broken?” Hanan shook his head in dismay and drew a deep breath. “I’m going to her.”

  Before the servant could reply, Hanan left.

  ***

  In his own insensibility, Hanan brushed, bumped, and pushed people out of his way as he hurried toward the house. A part of him wanted to deny Yosef’s death, yet he knew the servant wouldn’t tell such a lie. Why would they kill him? How did Sarah’s arm break? Questions jumbled his mind.

  At the home, he had walked partially through the open door before a young woman servant jumped to block his way.

  “Who are you to enter this house without permission?” she adamantly asked, head canted far back to look up at Hanan’s face. It was an odd sight, her slender frame against his wide-shouldered, stout body; her shawl covered head barely reaching his chest. She stood her ground with lips pressed into a thin line and black eyes in mere slits to show her defiance.

  “I’m—I’m Hanan, nephew—nephew of...” Hanan stuttered, eyes spread wide as he lowered his chin to look down at her. His earlier rage left him when surprised by the diminutive lioness.

  “He’s Yosef’s nephew, Jamila. You may let him in,” a woman said, making her way down the narrow stairs from the second floor, cautiously watching each step she took. Her right hand brushed the wall to help her balance.

  The servant respectfully bowed and moved out of Hanan’s way. The pain in Hanan’s heart returned as his gaze drifted to Sarah on the stairs. Seeing her left arm in splints and wrapped in a cloth sling that hung from about her neck, forced the reality of his uncle’s death into Hanan’s mind once more.

  “I knew you would come, Hanan. Thank you,” she said, stepping onto the level dirt floor and slowly making her way to him. Her brown eyes were blood-shot, and a weariness was about her like someone who hasn’t slept in days. Gray streaked the black hair free from her linen headdress, and though she was fair-skinned, the creases of time were growing more visible, especially from her sorrow. It was clear by her round face she bore a few additional pounds, but she carried herself well, her tunic and robes concealing her weight.

  Removing his sandals, Hanan walked to Sarah and lightly kissed her cheek. She guided him to a stool and looked at the servant.

  “Jamila, we have family visiting. Please bring some of Yosef’s finest wine for our guest.”

  The servant rushed away as Sarah eased herself onto a chair, holding her left arm with the right to prevent it from moving too much. Her red eyes rose to look at Hanan and he could see a thin line of tears building on the rims. She wiped them dry with the sleeve of her right arm then bravely returned her gaze to him.

  “Will your arm heal in time?” Hanan’s voice held sincere concern as he motioned to the sling.

  “My arm, yes, but my heart, no. I never thought I would love again after my husband died years ago... Then your crazy uncle came along, fumbling about me like a love-struck boy who has never been kissed, following me through the market while I tried to sell my bread. He would shout ‘Come buy the best bread in all of Jerusalem!” and he would buy all of my loaves and pass them out to the poor so we could talk.”

  Hanan warmly smiled and gazed at the floor for several seconds. He lifted his eyes to her. “You saw a different side than I did,” he said as he grinned. But the memory of sitting with his uncle in the orchard, Yosef providing encouragement to a small boy plunged into an abyss of depression and rage over being a bastard child with a mother who wanted him left in the desert—those memories and more flooded Hanan’s hurt soul.

  Jamila brought cups and a small jar of wine, but Sarah refused any when offered. Hanan observed the servant’s disappointment and assumed Sarah had probably been turning away all food and drink.

  “He talked about you often, telling me how you and Micah were the only family he’d known since he was an orphan,” she said, her gaze gently drifting over the brawny man sitting across from her.

  “Orphan?” Hanan’s posture straightened and his brows rose.

  “You didn’t know?” she asked, appearing fearful she’d given away some secret. “Micah’s father found him living on the streets, took him in, provided an education, and later kept Yosef on to work for him.”

  Hanan exhaled a long breath and lightly shook his head. “That explains why he was always so loyal to Micah’s father and Micah,” Hanan remarked, more to himself than to Sarah.

  “One thing I remember well was Yosef saying how he always worried while you were away on business for the organization. I think he was referring to you overseeing Micah’s trading contracts,” she remarked.

  Hanan stammered a moment then agreed, not wanting her to know about the Sicarii. He felt as if a burning sword had skewered his chest from hearing so much about his uncle he’d never known, especially how much he cared.

  “Sarah, please... If you will, tell me what happened. Why did he die?”

  Lowering her face, she covered it with her right hand and wept. In time she sniffed and wiped her nose and the tears from her eyes before raising her gaze to Hanan.

  “He’s dead because of me. We were in the market, the larger one on the east side of the temple. While Yosef was busy talking with a merchant, I looked back and saw two boys fighting with a smaller boy. Yosef didn’t see me walk away, but all I intended to do was make them leave the younger boy alone.”

  Hanan nodded. The story sounded all too familiar.

  “The crowd gathered about them encouraged the brawl. While I was trying to pull one of the bigger boys away, a temple guard appeared out of nowhere and shoved me aside to reach the boys. I fell, broke my arm, and the next moment saw Yosef bursting from the crowd like a madman. More guards arrived and all I could see in the cloud of dust was Yosef struggling with them. He pulled an odd knife from within his robe and stabbed several of the guards... that was when their captain drove a spear into him, and the others did too...” Sarah’s voice trailed to silence. She lowered her face to her hand, crying once more. “We placed Yosef in a tomb near here as he wanted,” she said, never lifting her head.

  Hanan rose from the stool and stood as motionless as a bronze statue with only the fire burning in his eyes to show he was human. Quiet filled the room for several seconds, broken by the servant Jamila rushing to her matron’s side to comfort her.

  “Do you know the captain—his name?” Hanan asked in a cold voice.

  “It was the pig Daimyan...” Jamila’s tone held contempt. Her eyes narrowed.

  Hanan acknowledged with a slow nod and reached out, gently laying his right hand on Sarah’s shawl covered head. She took his hand and pressed it to her face. He could feel her tears on the back of his hand. When she released her hold, he sat back on his stool. Her shoulders shook from her sobbing. Feeling his heart rip apart, he rose from his stool and looked out into the street. Glancing at Jamila holding Sarah, comforting her, Hanan spoke in a gentle voice to the grief-stricken widow.

  “I will see that this house and the wine shop will always be yours. Keep all the staff and servants you wish. You will never want for anything.”

  Sarah gradually raised her face to look at the mountainous man. Tears trailed down her cheeks.

  “But I want Yosef...” she said, voice breaking as she wept.

  Hanan stared at her, struggling to control his grief.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Jerusalem, District of Judea

  Escorted by Captain Daimyan of the Temple Guard, four elders of the Sanhedrin Council walked in silence through the cavernous grand hall, the Chamber of Hewn Stone. At the bronze-plated door of an adjacent ro
om, they waited until Daimyan entered and lit large oil lamps before proceeding in. Compared to the Chamber of Hewn Stone, the room was small. Ten oversized chairs sat in a wide arc for council members to face one another as they talked, and to have an unobstructed view of anyone addressing them. From this secluded room the High Priest Joseph Caiaphas discussed matters of the most sensitive nature to the priesthood and Judaism.

  While the four priests took their seats, the captain latched the door and turned to stand inside the room guarding it. He would permit no one to enter or leave without Caiaphas’ permission. Leaning his stout frame against the door, Daimyan adjusted the sword on his belt, then crossed his hefty arms over the leather chest-armor covering his brown tunic. A thin scar trailed from beneath his round helmet, over his white-hazed, left eye and down his pock-marked cheek. As Captain of the Guard, only he could remain in the priests’ presence while precarious discussions transpired.

  Caiaphas sat in the curve’s center with Nicodemus to his right, and Matthias, and the former High Priest Annas, often called the Great Hoarder of Money, to his left. From Daimyan’s position at the door, the captain looked directly at Caiaphas, and had a clear view of all. The priests glanced at one another, stone-faced, waiting for someone to speak. Finally, Caiaphas broke the stalemate.

  “I’m tired of hearing about Yeshua. Every day someone tells me of a new magician’s trick he’s performed, and the crowds this false prophet draws when speaking.” The High Priest shot a look of frustration at the men about him. “I’m told his followers are mostly Galileans... Galileans of all people! Only ruffians and rebellious dissenters ever came from Galilee, which tells me he’s preparing trouble for the temple.”