“Shout all you wish. We are far below the city in the old tunnels. No one will ever hear you.” Hanan paused then spoke again. “Did the Sadducee priest, Eleazar ben Makim, go to Caiaphas and say the rabbi Yeshua must die?”
“Eleazar is dead,” gasped Daimyan.
“I know. I slit his throat. But before he died, did he say Yeshua must die? You would have heard them talk. You’re always in the room to protect the High Priest.”
“Yes. The Sadducees want the false prophet eliminated because he is a threat to them and the temple.”
Hanan nodded. “What does Caiaphas intend to do? Has he talked to others about harming Yeshua?”
Daimyan remained silent and looked away.
The Sica’s blade drove deep into the captain’s left thigh and struck bone. Daimyan shuddered, mouth agape and eyes flared. He gasped for breath as sweat streamed down his face, mixing with the blood of his head wound. Hanan jerked the dagger free and stared at him.
“Answer the question.”
“Yes... Yes, he talked to Matthias, Annas, and Nicodemus about eliminating Yeshua.”
“Did they agree with him?”
“Nicodemus didn’t. He said he wouldn’t have any part in it and left.”
Hanan nodded and stood in thought a moment. He walked to the far wall where the house owner had placed buckets of water to clean with, and a large jar of wine. Drinking his fill, he wiped his mouth on his forearm and returned to his captive.
“What does Caiaphas intend to do?”
“All he said was that Yeshua must be eliminated.”
But Daimyan had answered too quickly and wouldn’t look at Hanan. Something was lacking.
The Sica’s blade drove deep into the captain’s right thigh and struck bone. A howl of agony burst from him, carrying through the tunnel. He screamed again when Hanan yanked the dagger free.
“Try again,” Hanan said in a low voice.
Daimyan briefly closed his eyes and fought to control his breathing. He looked at Hanan. “Caiaphas has the name of a follower he will pay to testify against Yeshua. The Romans will have no choice but to execute him.”
Jaw muscles twitched as Hanan gritted his teeth. He squeezed the grip of his Sica until his knuckles turned white and his arm became hard as iron.
“Give me the name of the follower,” Hanan said, raising his knife and pressing its tip into the captain’s left forearm. He drove the dagger through until the blade touched the rock wall behind the arm, then pulled it free.
“Judas!” Daimyan shouted, tears flowing from his eyes. “Judas Iscariot... Release me now. You have the information you wanted.” He wept, unable to stop himself.
“Which priest gave Caiaphas the name? Annas or Matthias?”
Shaking his head, the captive whispered in an exhausted tone. “I did.”
Rage twisted Hanan’s stomach into an iron knot. His mind flashed images of Yeshua being skewered by Roman swords. He glanced about the tunnel, stared at the flame of a large oil lamp then walked to the jar of wine again. Drinking in gulps, he set the jar aside and returned to Daimyan.
“If you will not release me, then kill me. Make it swift as you promised. I answered your questions. You have what you want. Do it!”
Hanan stared at his prisoner. No emotion showed as he stood before the captain.
“I lied. You will die slowly, screaming in anguish until you’re hoarse, begging me to end your life because your suffering is too great.” Hanan paused to watch Daimyan’s terror filled face. “Do you want to know why I intend to torture you?” He didn’t wait for a reply. “Because you and your men speared my uncle to death and broke his wife’s arm in the market—and you gave Caiaphas a name to help kill my friend.”
Daimyan pleaded for mercy, wept, and pulled at his restraints to free himself.
“Have you ever hunted a ya’el in the mountains, those goat antelopes the Gentiles call an ibex?” Hanan asked, brows rising. “When you kill one, it must be prepared...”
“You’re insane... Possessed! Kill me now and be done with this game,” Daimyan cried out.
“No, I’m a Sicarii, trained to show no mercy to my prey nor ask for any. I bear a mark of evil and will never know peace in this world or the next.” Hanan held his left forearm up for Daimyan to see the long, jagged scar.
Pressing the Sica’s sharp blade against his captive’s right breast, Hanan sliced away a strip of skin. The bellow of anguished screams echoed throughout the tunnel, bombarding his ears, but he never stopped.
***
Hanan lost track of time. He stepped back, mind numb, gaze drifting about the tunnel. Turning away from his work, he walked to the jar of wine and drank until it was empty. He looked at his hands, arms and body, unable to recognize himself from the blood covering him. The oil lamps were burning low. Lifting the first bucket of water, he poured it over his head and let it cascade down his body, washing the gore away. He repeated it with the second bucket and poured over half of the third bucket onto himself. The remaining water was used to clean his Sica. He dressed in silence, took Daimyan’s leather coin bag in his left hand, and carried an oil lamp in his right to see by as he walked along the tunnel. At the trap door he climbed the makeshift stairs, tapped lightly on the wood and waited. When the door creaked open, the owner of the house stood outlined against the dawn’s glaring light.
Squinting until his eyes adjusted, Hanan left the tunnel and gave the old man the oil lamp and the bag of coins. “Dispose of the clothes and body so no trace of him will ever be found.” Hanan motioned to the leather bag. “This will pay for the cleanup.”
Exhausted, he turned to the front door and walked out into the crowded street to join the pedestrians, donkey-drawn carts, and shepherds taking their animals to market.
I’ll send the woman a bag of coins after I’ve slept, he thought.
***
The old man barred the door after Hanan and hid his money. He returned to the tunnel door and stood gazing into the black hole. Fresh oil lamp in hand, he cautiously made his way down the stairs, and once in the tunnel, followed it until light appeared from the few lamps that remained burning. Holding his lamp high, he approached the area and slowed to a halt. The light was dim, but enough for him to see the scattered water buckets, wine jar, and pile of clothes and armor. A pool of bloody water had spread across the middle of the tunnel floor. Nearby lay a small mound of bloody flesh.
He turned to his right, startled then stumbled back, almost dropping his lamp. Regaining balance, he stood wide-eyed with his mouth open, gazing at the hideous crimson creature bound to the wall’s iron rings. A white-hazed eye stared at him, and little more was left to show this had once been a living man.
Nausea rose into his mouth; stomach violently churning. He spun and vomited until only dry-heaves came.
In his lifetime the old man had never seen the raw meat remains of a skinned man.
Chapter Sixteen
Capernaum, District of Galilee
“By the Way of the Sea’ was an ancient trade route running eastward from Egypt, along the shores of the Mediterranean, and on to Syria’s Fertile Crescent. It ran parallel to, and often overlapped, the ‘King’s Highway,’ another major trade route linking Africa to Mesopotamia. The routes followed a path through Galilee, Tiberias, Capernaum and Kinneret on the west side of a thirteen-mile-long freshwater lake. Each town claimed naming rights to it; Lake Kinneret, Lake Tiberias, and so on. But travelers referred to it by the district, the Sea of Galilee, and the designation remained.
Hanan had broken his fast and sat relaxing at the shore-side wine shop in Capernaum. An hour had passed since daybreak, and the sun on his back grew warmer by the minute, but the breeze off of the Sea of Galilee was as soothing as its view from his table.
Little wonder why Yeshua moved here from Nazareth, Hanan thought, gaze drifting
across the wide expanse of blue water to the distant mountains of the far shore. The warm sun and the soft melody of gentle waves breaking on the shoreline grew hypnotic and against his will, his eyes closed as his spirit was calmed by nature’s music.
Opening his eyes, he abruptly straightened in his chair, embarrassed at finding a group of men standing before him that he had not heard approach. Yeshua gently smiled at him.
“I thought it was you. We were taking our morning walk when I saw a mountain sitting upon a chair. Only my old friend Hanan is that big, I told my disciples,” he said, smile growing.
Glancing at Yeshua’s followers, Hanan was curious which was Judas. He stood, hugged his friend, and motioned toward his small table. “Here, join me. Have your men sit and break their fast. I may have a coin or two to pay for their food.” Jovial words came as they thanked him and took seats beneath the wine shop’s awning.
“You’ve been a busy man, Yeshua, traveling about and talking to the people,” Hanan said, glancing at the men as servants brought them food. He looked at Yeshua’s weary expression and the brown eyes that held deep worry as if a great responsibility rested upon his shoulders. His dark hair was uncombed and hung to the collar of his one-piece tunic that was in need of washing. “You look tired, my friend, and you’ve lost weight since we last met. Is your ministry going well?”
An assortment of fruits, grilled meats, and a cup of wine was set on the table before Yeshua. Hanan watched him dip his hands into a water bowl, clean them, then give thanks in prayer for the food.
Yeshua nodded between bites. “There’s much to do and Passover is coming.” He ate but drew solemn. His gaze rose to Hanan then drifted to his followers. “We leave tomorrow for Jerusalem.”
Watching Yeshua devour the food as if he hadn’t eaten in two days, Hanan waited to talk and sat enjoying the morning with his friend. He glanced at the men accompanying Yeshua. They were a mixed lot, varying in build and appearances, their tunics and robes all of modest make from the region. Most were engaged in light talks of no importance, laughing as traveling friends do once bonds of trust are made. To the far side of the disciples sat one man alone at a table, his dark eyes cutting to the others in glances, smiling only when spoken to. His thick, dark hair held slight curls and his hook nose and scrubby beard gave his face an elongated appearance. The man’s tunic was plain, yet of a better-quality weave than his companions, and he wore his himatia wrapped tighter about his body. The differences told Hanan what he needed to know. An assassin tracked his prey by minute details.
“How is Miriam?” Yeshua asked, finished with his meal.
“You mean, your mother?” Hanan’s brows slightly rose. He was a bit shocked at Yeshua not calling her mother. “She’s fine. You should go visit her—and your family too. They would enjoy seeing you.”
Shaking his head, Yeshua grew sullen. “Thank you for looking after her.” He paused and gazed out at the lake. “All is in motion now as my Father wishes and I must continue the path he has set for me.”
Glancing at the disciples, Hanan turned to Yeshua. “I need to talk with you in private. Can we go walk along the shore?”
Yeshua nodded and they rose from their chairs. He looked at his twelve followers, told them to return to Peter’s home, then started toward the lake while Hanan paid the wine shop’s owner.
The two friends walked thirty feet before anything was spoken between them. Hanan was the first to break their silence.
“I’ve learned you’re considered a threat by the Sadducees, Pharisees and the Sanhedrin council. They are afraid of losing their political and religious controls and want you dead.”
One hand cupped in another behind his back, Yeshua nodded and continued his ambling walk along the shore. Hanan watched his friend’s face and grew frustrated at his tranquility.
“Yeshua, are you listening to me? I’m not making this up. The information is reliable. The Sanhedrin intend to have someone give false testimony so they may turn you over to Pilate for execution.” Hanan halted and stood with the lake’s light shoreline waves lapping onto his sandals. He gazed at Yeshua’s placid expression, growing angrier by the second that his friend wasn’t disturbed by the news. “Did you hear me? They plan to kill you—and the betrayal will come from one of your followers!”
Looking across the water, Yeshua inhaled deeply and gave a slight nod. “I’ve heard every word you’ve spoken, my friend, and know you speak the truth.” He let his gaze drift to Hanan. “Yes, Judas will betray me. The devil has his ear and convinces him of the need to do so. The devil has followed me my entire life trying to bring harm to me and those I know. He followed me into the desert and tempted me every day. Yes, my Father has told me of these things. What has begun cannot be stopped until the prophecies are fulfilled. I am in my Father as He is within me.”
Shaking his head, Hanan walked a step then angrily spun to face Yeshua. “I cannot say that I understand all of this. I can’t believe Elohim would willingly let you go to your death like a lamb to the slaughter. Let me stop Judas from betraying you. I have men that can protect you—.”
“No, Hanan, that is not Elohim’s way. My Father sent me here for a purpose and I have accepted that fact. I am the Messiah, but I did not come to free the people and lead them to my Father through violence... The way to Elohim is through me, believing in me, because I will take on everyone’s sins so they may enter the house of our God, Elohim.” Yeshua’s face grew somber and he remained quiet, looking out across the lake.
“My sins are for me to bear, no other... Because of them I will never see the heaven of Elohim, but if anyone should, Yeshua, it should be you.” Hanan’s voice trailed to silence as he lowered his gaze to the water’s edge. He was lost for words. His friend truly held an innocent soul. Then the words of John the Baptist, standing in the Jordan River, rose in his mind: The Anointed One to come is the lamb of Elohim who will take away the sins of the world.
“In time, my friend, you will be with me in my Father’s house. Within you is a great battle. Darkness struggles to defeat the good in your heart. I have prayed for you since we were boys in Nazareth, but Elohim will not allow me to cast out the evil that has marked you. He says if your victory is ever to come, you must find it yourself in the living water. Such is the word of my Father and I must obey.”
Yeshua warmly smiled and turned to walk back along the shore of the lake toward Peter’s home. Emotions churning, Hanan felt as if a red-hot iron had punctured his chest. His mind became a maelstrom of sorrow. He knew the punishment Yeshua would receive at the hands of the Romans. A sense of helplessness flooded him.
***
It was midafternoon of the second day after visiting Yeshua when Hanan returned to his home in Nazareth. Benjamin and Elizabeth, the elderly couple that had served his uncles as long as Hanan could remember, were at their home on the estate, and the large house was quiet. They kept everything clean and orderly but Hanan didn’t require them to remain at the residence while he was away. There was no need. Walking through the house, its silence grated his nerves more whenever he saw Micah and Yosef’s personal effects that remained in their rooms. His thoughts wandered from them to Yeshua then to the men of the Sicarii, the organization he now led, and what their future held.
Cup in hand, he found a jar of Micah’s favorite Damascus wine and walked to the veranda to relax. The view was magnificent with the shadow-painted, distant purplish mountains, the rolling landscape of green olive and fruit orchards, and large expanses of open land wherever his gaze drifted. The chair he chose was next to Micah’s favorite. He still couldn’t bring himself to sit in it and didn’t know if he ever would. Being next to it was good enough for now.
He finished his first cup of wine and leaned back against the chair, dozing when a man shouting his name jarred him awake. The urgency in the voice made Hanan rise and from habit, check the position of his Sica beneath his robe.
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“Here,” Hanan yelled. “I’m on the veranda.”
The visitor stopped shouting. When he came around the house into view, Hanan recognized him as one of his men and waved him to the porch.
Simcha ben Mudash was a weasel of a man; almost skinny in build, short, with dark narrow eyes, a flattened nose, and a chin that protruded more than it should. He always wore a desert styled headdress, dirty tunics and oversized, ragged robes. But for a thief working the crowded markets and festivals, stealing whatever caught his eye to resell, it was easier to conceal property beneath his clothes. He bought and sold information to the highest bidder, often to opposing parties, yet Hanan was the one man he never sold information about. Simcha knew his master would track him down if ever a suspicion of treachery arose.
“Don’t you ever bathe, Simcha?” Hanan asked, shaking his head. “I could smell sheep long before you came around the corner.” A friendly grin flashed to make the little man believe he was kidding, but Hanan’s true thoughts were worse.
“I bathe once a month, master, whether I need to or not. In my line of work, people speak more freely around me when they believe I am nothing more than a beggar.”
“Stop calling me master. I’m not your master or some religious teacher. Call me Hanan as everyone else does.”
“Yes, master—I mean Hanan.”
Hanan motioned him to wait, entered his home and returned with a cup.
“Here, have some wine. I’m sure the journey here has made you thirsty.” Hanan filled his cup and motioned the man to take a chair. But when Simcha was about to lower himself into Micah’s chair, Hanan brusquely grabbed it and ordered him to choose another.
The operative sat across the table from Hanan, drank half of his cup, and smiled wide at the wine’s flavor and smooth taste.
“Why are you here?” Hanan bluntly asked, no longer feigning the role of a gracious host.
“Problems are rising within the organization, Mas—Hanan. There are men who say we have done little more than trim branches off a tree, and it is time we begin to chop the trunk itself, with or without you.” Simcha finished his wine and set the cup on the table, sliding it toward his employer as he glanced at the jar. But Hanan made no move to refill the cup.
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