Leaning forward in his chair, pulling at his long gray beard, Annas nodded. “I’ve heard he makes disparaging comments about the Court of Gentiles and the money-changers there. My sons control those tables and the sacrificial animal sellers. They’re concerned this diviner will disrupt business.”
Shadows danced along the walls from the wavering flames of the oil lamps. Caiaphas watched the shadows as he listened to his father-in-law speak. Although, Annas’ sons were Caiaphas’ brothers-in-law, he held little pity for their greed. For years without the slightest remorse, they had milked their wealth from the money-changers who in turn milked the poor with no regrets.
Matthias straightened the pleats of his fine white robe and brushed a wrinkle from the cloth covering his left leg. His murky brown eyes rose to gaze at Caiaphas. “There’s more at stake than his sons’ profits. If the people turn away from us to follow Yeshua and his teachings of the Law, our treasury will be destabilized by the loss of offerings.”
“Losing offerings is not the concern here today. We have sufficient funds in the treasury to maintain us for several years, even with the loans we make to the wealthy.” Caiaphas shook his head slowly and let his gaze drift to each man. “Yeshua is undermining our rule of the people and control of Judaism. His blasphemous statements of being The Chosen One are turning people away from our temple, not drawing them closer. He is a threat, one we should eliminate before it’s too late to save our faith.”
“You mean, save yourselves,” Nicodemus said, raising a wrinkled hand to point at each man. The elder’s gray eyes narrowed, and the lines across his face deepened. He twitched his nose as if a fly had landed upon him and gradually lowered his hand to stroke his silver beard.
“You’ve become a zaken mamre in your dotage,” Annas said, shaking his head in disdain.
“Better to be a rebellious elder than a greedy thief, Annas!” Nicodemus shook from his anger and rose from his chair. But Caiaphas intervened by holding an arm out to prevent the furious priest from leaving.
“Please, Nicodemus, take your seat.” Caiaphas let his gaze drift over the men. “Let’s have no more bickering amongst us. I summoned each of you to this meeting because of your wise counsel.” The High Priest turned to face the aged man on his right. “You do not see this false-prophet as a threat to the temple?”
Slowly rubbing his right hand with his left, Nicodemus sadly looked at his fellow priests.
“I will not be a part of eliminating Yeshua. Who here but me has heard him speak? Who here but me has witnessed his miracles such as letting the blind man see again or healing the leper? I tell you, they are not the cheap tricks of a magician. His healing touch and wisdom comes from our God, Elohim. He is only a threat to the hypocrites of this temple.” Nicodemus paused while the other men shook their heads and feigned insult. Several seconds later he spoke again.
“One day a woman ran to Yeshua and fell at his feet, begging for mercy. Someone had caught her in the act of adultery and men of the village were chasing her. With the villagers gathered around Yeshua and the woman, ready to stone her, do you know what he did?”
The High Priest remained still but Annas and Matthias shook their heads.
“Yeshua held a rock out to them and said, ‘Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.’ There he was, surrounded by an angry mob, most of which were probably adulterers too, but no one took the rock from him. They turned and left... And do you know what Yeshua did with the woman?”
Again, came slow shakes of the priests’ heads.
“He helped her from the ground and said, ‘Go and sin no more.’ That’s all... ‘Go and sin no more,’ then he left.” Nicodemus let his gaze drift from man to man. “Does this sound like someone you must kill to save the temple? I remind you that the law requires a man be heard before being judged—and judging him is what you’re doing now.”
The aged man gradually rose from his chair, glanced at Caiaphas, and started toward the door. Daimyan didn’t move until he observed the High Priest wave approval. At Nicodemus drawing near, the Captain of the Temple Guard opened the heavy door and held it until the old man walked out. The door closed behind him and Daimyan slid the latch back into place.
“Nicodemus doesn’t understand the true threat Yeshua presents against the temple,” Annas said, looking from one man to another. “If we allow Yeshua’s influence to spread, the people will believe in him, not us. The next thing will be the Romans destroying both our temple and our nation.”
“The Romans removed our right to carry out capital punishment so we must eliminate this false-prophet from within his circle of followers—find a weakness to exploit—someone to testify against Yeshua, then find a reason for Pilate to sentence him to death,” Caiaphas said, massaging his forehead as he stared at the floor in thought.
“To break a rock, you must first find its weakest point, then hammer a wedge into it until the rock splits,” Matthias remarked, looking at Caiaphas.
Daimyan lightly coughed for attention. “Sir?”
The High Priest raised his face and looked about the room. He saw Daimyan step away from the door.
“Yes, Captain?”
“Sir, I may know where to find the weak point you seek,” Daimyan said, his one good eye scanning the three priests.
Stepping back from the Captain of the Guard, Abaddon stood in the shadows with his black cloak wrapped about him. He smiled as Daimyan walked to Caiaphas.
***
Caesarea Philippi, District of Batanea
Philip II, the Tetrarch of Batanea and one of Herod the Great’s numerous sons, set his administrative capital at Paneas, once a cult center dedicated to the lecherous Greek God Pan. Priests from Paneas’ pagan temple practiced their debaucheries in a cave and sacrificed newborns in the spring that gushed from it and flowed down the Hula Valley to marshes and on to the Jordan River. In 14 A.D., the Tetrarch named his capital Caesarea to honor Emperor Augustus, but later the city became Caesarea Philippi to avoid confusion with Herod the Great’s Caesarea Maritima, the port on the Mediterranean coast.
Yeshua sat on the veranda with a full stomach, cross-legged on a thick wool blanket, enjoying the evening breeze as he gazed at the sunset’s spectrum of colors. His twelve disciples lounged about him, content from the textile merchant’s meal. Several of the men were silent while others engaged in talks about witnessing the day’s miracles. Their host, Mulheim, had offered the evening meal in gratitude after Yeshua raised the daughter of Jairus, a patron of the Galilee synagogue, from the dead and healed a woman’s twelve yearlong bleeding sickness.
Accepting the merchant’s hospitality as they did with all offers of food, Yeshua and his followers dined on a stone veranda larger than most Hebrew homes. But Yeshua had surprised his band with one stipulation before agreeing to the dinner: “Where is the man’s home? I will not enter Caesarea Philippi, but I will go near. Evil remains there.” Fortunately, for Yeshua and his hungry followers the merchant’s house sat far from the city walls.
Once Mulheim’s servants cleared away the empty dishes, brought fresh wine and lit the veranda’s oil lamps for the coming dark of night, the merchant excused himself and retired for the evening to allow them privacy. Each man rose, acknowledged his generosity and expressed their gratefulness then relaxed upon blankets to watch the fading sunset until stars flooded the sky.
Lowering his gaze from the stars, deep in thought, Yeshua slowly looked at each of the twelve men seated about him. His brown eyes were wet and glistened in the light cast from the oil lamps. One by one the disciples realized they were being watched and turned toward Yeshua.
“Is something wrong, Teacher?” Andrew asked, looking over James’ shoulder to see Yeshua. Bartholomew’s brows lowered in worry. He glanced at Matthew, the former tax collector from Capernaum who had given up everything in his life to be a follower. Matthew shrugged his shoulders and waited.
The other men sat still, gazing at their leader, but Peter leaned toward Yeshua, unsure of what was happening. Judas, who the disciples’ thought had been a thief from Kerioth, a town in Judea, sat off by himself to the side of the band, looking from man to man, his black eyes filled with curiosity. He alone was the only non-Galilean among them and always felt as if he were an outsider.
“Who do men say I am?” Yeshua asked, his tone as gentle as the night’s breeze upon their faces.
Each of the disciples appeared stunned. They sat like mutes with no tongues, but gradually their voices returned.
“There are those who believe you are John the Baptist returned in flesh. Some say Elijah while others say Abraham, Jeremiah or another of the prophets,” they answered, all speaking at once.
“But what about you? Who do you say I am?” Yeshua asked, brows rising, face etched with concern.
Silence fell among the twelve men as the weight of the question settled over them.
“You are the Christ, the Messiah... The Son of the living God, Elohim,” Peter calmly replied, looking into Yeshua’s eyes.
Yeshua warmly smiled. “You are blessed, Peter. This was not revealed to you by flesh and blood, but by my Father in heaven...” Letting his gaze drift over the disciples, his eyes filled with the sadness of a man who knew more than he could say at the moment. Then he warned them.
“Do not tell any man I am the Christ... The Messiah. In time I will explain.”
***
Yeshua drew silent and looked skyward. Judas Iscariot knew this meant there would be no further discussions tonight, although questions remained. He also knew Yeshua would soon leave the group to go off to pray in seclusion.
Rising from his blanket, Judas walked out into the surrounding darkness, away from the oil lamps. He found a large rock and sat staring back at the veranda, wanting time alone to think about all that had weighed heavily upon him the past three weeks.
“You’re disappointed in him, aren’t you?” a voice in his head whispered.
Judas shook his head, but Yes rose in his mind.
“He’s not the Messiah you expected to come and free the country. He’s either a false prophet or has grown hesitant to lead the people against the Romans.” The words swirled within Judas. “Maybe something must happen to force him into action. Maybe that’s all he needs—a slight push to fight.”
Judas watched Yeshua rise and leave the veranda.
“Maybe something is needed,” Judas faintly said, gaze following the slender man until he vanished into the night.
Abaddon rose from beside Judas, glanced in Yeshua’s direction then let his yellowish eyes drift back to the disgruntled disciple on the rock. An evil smile formed on his lips.
“Maybe,” he whispered in a voice that came like the wind moving through trees. He pulled his dark cloak about him and started toward Caesarea Philippi.
Chapter Fifteen
Jerusalem, District of Judea
On the fourth night of waiting outside the temple’s south gate, Hanan wondered if his operatives had mistakenly given him wrong information. But they had remained adamant about Daimyan leaving the temple tonight. Their informant knew the man’s habits well and harbored a grudge against the captain.
“His quarters are in the temple but almost every fourth night, exactly at the mid of night, he goes to a woman in the city and returns at dawn,” the bribed temple guard had told Hanan’s men before drawing a map in the dirt to the woman’s house.
Hanan traveled the route to her meager home several times, searching for the best location along the way to kidnap the captain. At first, he assumed Daimyan’s late night treks were to a prostitute or an adulteress, then later learned she was of some family relation. The woman and the visits were not important to Hanan. He wanted the captain. Yet there were questions Hanan needed answers to before killing him. That created a problem, but one resolved with a handful of coins.
Kidnapping the captain meant taking him through the city to get to the wilderness, risking a chance of prying eyes watching from surrounding houses. The maze of the old underground tunnels beneath the city solved the dilemma. A house along the captain’s route had a door in the floor leading down into a tunnel, and after paying the owner to assist him, all lay in waiting for Hanan’s arrival.
As his operatives believed, at midnight a short door opened next to the massive south gate and a stout-framed, uniformed man walked out, silhouetted against the temple’s interior lamp lights. Hanan hurried down the street to the area he had chosen for concealment. It appeared black as a moonless night between the buildings, though, once his eyes adjusted to the dark, he could make out the form of the walking man.
Within three minutes Hanan heard Daimyan’s sandals crunching against pebbles in the dirt. Sica knife drawn, holding it ready, Hanan relaxed and listened to each footstep grow louder in the still night. When the captain drew even with him, Hanan swung the hilt of the knife into his prey’s forehead, smashing him with such force Daimyan’s feet flew out from under his body. He crashed into the dirt with dead weight. Hanan followed him to the ground, dropping onto the man to tear his helmet away. He struck the captain’s head again with the hilt of the Sica. Daimyan was dead or unconscious, but Hanan didn’t wait to learn which. He grabbed the guard’s wrists, wrapped a rope about them and dragged him to the nearby house. The owner stood waiting and within five minutes, the assassin and his captive were in the labyrinth below the house, and the owner had covered the trapdoor with blankets.
***
Daimyan’s right eye partially opened, but he remained half-dazed. He winced and drew a deep breath when his bleeding head moved. A groan escaped his lips from the shooting pain in his shoulders at being bound against a wall with arms stretched wide and high. Raising his head, he blinked blood from his good eye, and looked at rough, jagged rock walls about him, trying to make sense of his whereabouts. Wavering flames from a dozen oil lamps cast contorted shadows on the stone walls and ceiling. The eerie shadows danced as a breeze drifted through what he thought to be a tunnel. He stood spread nude in the shape of an X, bound at the wrists and ankles to thick, iron rings driven into the rock. Against a far wall lay his leather coin bag, clothes, sword and armor in a pile, and as his senses returned, he realized another mound of clothes were beside his. Turning his head to the left, he saw a heavily muscled man, nude and squatting near a large oil lamp, hands extended to its flame as if warming them. On the ground by him lay a Sica dagger free of its sheath.
The man watched him with a cold stare. Devoid of emotion, he rose to his bare feet, knife in hand, muscles rippling across the massive chest, shoulders and arms as he moved. Thick brown hair fell about his face, highlighting the emerald green eyes that shined in the light from the oil lamps. Walking to the prisoner, the man halted in front of him, face and body half covered in shadows. He remained silent and watched blood trail down into Daimyan’s face from the head wound.
“Why am I here? Return my clothes and release me before you create further troubles for yourself,” Daimyan demanded, struggling to show courage though his body trembled. “Are you one of the Zealots? What is your name?”
Hanan raised a finger to his lips, motioning the man to be quiet. Letting his gaze drift over the captain’s nude body, he grinned. “You’re as hairy as a baboon I once saw in the market.” He raised his Sica and laid its blade horizontally on Daimyan’s forest of black chest hair. With ease Hanan slid the sharp edge of the blade downward, shaving a long, wide path clean of hair. Finishing, he tapped the blade against the captain’s manhood. “Sharp, isn’t it?” he casually said.
Daimyan drew in his breath as his stomach tightened. His brows rose. “Why are you doing this?” He struggled to remain still. “Why did you remove your clothes?”
“I don’t want your blood all over my clothes. Now, listen, I have a question. Slow or fast? Wh
ich will it be?”
“What? Slow what?”
“Your death. Do you wish to die slow or fast?”
“Neither... I want my clothes and to be released.”
Shaking his head, Hanan’s eyes narrowed. “Those are not your options. You will die. Answer my questions and when the time comes, I’ll make your death swift.” He watched the white haze over the left eye move as the captain looked left and right. “Can you see out of that thing?”
Daimyan’s body shivered as fear mounted within him. “Let me go and I’ll pay whatever price you want. Look, over there, in my bag. There’s twenty silver coins. You can have them and be on your way.” He tried to nod toward the leather bag at the far wall, but a fierce pain in his head forced him to stop.
“I found it while cutting away your clothes. Stolen from the temple treasury, isn’t it?”
The captain’s lips formed a thin line. He looked away.
“Is it for the woman you were going to tonight?”
Daimyan’s face became a mask of fury. Eyes narrowed from his rage, he glared at Hanan. “Leave my sister out of this. Kill me and steal the money but leave her alone.”
The money was of no significance to Hanan, and upon hearing their relationship, his first thought was to leave the money on her doorstep. But the gratification he felt from tormenting Daimyan with lies in his final hours was exhilarating. He grinned.
“She’ll receive it. After I’m through here, I’ll go take my pleasure with her and when finished, leave the silver on her stomach. She will have well earned it.”
The captain screamed and lunged at his captor, hands curling into knotted fists, but his restraints held fast. He fell back against the rocky wall, breathing hard with head hung down.
Wrapping his left fingers in a handful of Daimyan’s hair, Hanan whipped the head back, smacking it against the wall. The guard cried out in agony.
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