Walking through the throngs of Passover pilgrims, Yeshua waved and greeted them with kind, encouraging words. Some within the masses surged forward, reaching out to touch his garments and plead for his blessings. He paused at an aged woman who knelt beside his path, crying as she held her hands up before her face in supplication. Leaning close he listened to her whispers in his ear. When she finished, he straightened his posture and laid his hands on her head. Eyes closed, his face rose to the sun and he spoke in a voice so low that none near him could hear his words.
“Rise and go home. The power of your faith has healed your grandson,” Yeshua said, helping the elderly woman to her feet. She wept and kissed his hand before hurrying away.
Watching her leave, Peter kindly smiled and was about to speak but Yeshua had renewed his walk.
At the temple they entered the Hulda Gate and started the upward walk through a long, wide tunnel and staircase until coming out in the sunlight bathed Court of Gentiles with the colonnaded structure behind them. They were greeted by the chaotic, wavering bleat of sheep and goats, flapping dove and pigeon wings, and a din of people’s chatter as crowds of pilgrims moved to and from the money-changer tables. The pungent odor of manure hung in the air.
Two Sanhedrin priests of the higher ranks, their black robes flowing as they walked, moved along a line of sheep held with ropes by their owners. The priests paused at times to inspect an animal for the slightest blemish that would bar them from being sacrificed. Upon approval, the priests arrogantly waved a hand over the creatures without a glance at their owners. But Yeshua frowned when he saw their swaying hands stop and the animal’s owner laid coins in the priests’ palms.
Lips pressed into a thin line, brows drawing downward, Yeshua’s brows drew downward as he watched a priest’s fingers curl about a coin. Peter turned to speak to Yeshua but stopped at the rage he observed burning wildly in the young rabbi’s eyes.
Where the balustrade had once separated the Court of Gentiles from the wide, open courtyard leading to the Holy of Holies, tables now sat beyond that short wall for money-changers to embrace the overflow of pilgrims.
“They are nothing more than thieves,” the young rabbi said in a tone of disgust.
Never having seen Yeshua so infuriated during their time together, Peter glanced back at his fellow disciples and motioned them to watch Yeshua. Confused, they stepped forward and looked about the area to see what their leader had focused on.
A stoop shouldered, elderly woman wrapped in a tattered robe stood holding two cooper coins out to a lanky, dark-skinned, dove seller dressed in a white tunic and blue robe of excellent quality. The contemptuous expression on the seller’s face as he reached for a pigeon instead of a dove, drove Yeshua furious. The young rabbi’s hands curled into knotted balls as he spun to face Peter.
“The poor cannot afford grander sacrifices. These robbers steal their money by selling them pigeons at the price of doves.” Yeshua scowled and pointed to the robed men sitting at the money-changer tables. “They collect Greek and Roman coins here in my Father’s house in exchange for Jewish coins.” Spinning about, he stared at the animal-sellers who tugged at ropes to drag their sheep and goats from rickety pens to waiting buyers. Dung littered the stone floor and smeared in streaks beneath the hooves of animals struggling against the ropes. “They defile this house of prayer!”
Strong cords, three feet in length and used by the buyers to lead their purchases away, hung draped over the top railing of a nearby goat pen. Yeshua strode to the cords, grabbed a handful and tied them into a knot on one end. Holding the knotted end, he swung it once through the air like a Roman nine-tailed-whip then smashed the top rail of the goat pen, snapping it in two. The support railings fell, and the entire pen crashed to the stone floor. Frightened goats spun in circles, bleating then burst from the pen and ran into the crowds.
“You’ve made my Father’s house a den of thieves!” Eyes wide, the veins of Yeshua’s neck protruded like brass cords as he shouted. “You prey upon the poor!” Grabbing a large birdcage, he flung it to the ground. It crashed into the stone and shattered. Pigeons and doves flapped their wings to get airborne then flew in all directions.
Pilgrims ran from the madman, crying out in fear. Money-changers rose from their chairs, scraping coins from the table into their hands, but they were too slow. Yeshua ran to them and overturned their tables. Coins fell, bounced and rolled across the stone floor, kicked away by the sandals of fleeing people. One table after the next was knocked over by the furious young rabbi as he whipped people who blocked his path.
Peter swung an arm at his fellow disciples. “Help our teacher,” he yelled, and the twelve men smashed bird cages, ripped open the sheep and goat pens, and flung bags of coins into the air from one end of the Court of Gentiles to the other. Mayhem broke out as women screamed and men bashed into one another trying to escape.
Sanhedrin priests raced from their temple offices to find pandemonium spreading across the entire courtyard. Yeshua whipped the money-changers away from their overturned tables, refusing to allow them to retrieve their fallen money. Bleating sheep and goats fled through the crowds, tripping people, and feathers floated through the air as doves and pigeons soared to safety.
“Stop this madness now,” ordered a black-robed priest who stood pointing a finger at the rabbi. But Yeshua spun, wheeling the makeshift nine-tailed-whip through the air. He swung and struck the priest’s arm, knocking coins from his hands.
“Do not speak to me of madness, you pious thief!” Yeshua shouted, his brown eyes burning wild with fury. “My Father’s house will no longer be defiled by you.”
A squad of temple guards rushed into the courtyard with spears at the ready, but a ranking priest standing to one side of the melee quickly raised a hand, halting their advance.
The chaos dwindled and quiet followed. Yeshua and his disciples stood throughout the Court of Gentiles, breathing heavily as they watched the guards. Smashed bird cages, cracked pieces of wood from the animal pens, bags of spilled coins, and broken tables lay scattered about them on the stone floor. Several of the money-changers laid on the floor where they had fallen from Yeshua’s whip. They scurried on their hands and knees toward the temple guards, glancing over their shoulders at the band of twelve men and their madman leader who stood with his whip in hand.
The line of temple guards parted, and the slender High Priest Caiaphas stepped into view. His face remained stoic as his dark eyes swept the calamity and ruin of the courtyard. The gold trimmed, black robe fell about him, draping from his mitre and over his shoulders then down to the floor. What little that could be seen of his black tunic beneath the robe showed embroidered designs in gold thread, and a thick grayish-black beard partially covered the multi-jeweled breastplate of office that hung from about his neck.
“Rabbi,” Caiaphas called out, staring at Yeshua. “By what right do you enter the temple and disrupt it as you and your men have?”
“By what right?” Yeshua asked in a mocking tone, tossing his whip onto the polished stone floor as he took a step forward. “It is written, my house shall be called a house of prayer, but you have made it a den of thieves.”
The public affront struck the high priest harder than a slap of the face. Muscles twitched in his jaw from gritting his teeth. His nostrils flared, and his lips pressed into a thin line. He stared at the young rabbi and was about to speak when Yeshua turned and started toward the tunnel leading out of the temple. Caiaphas watched the twelve men back away, their eyes cutting to the temple guards as if expecting an attack. When they were gone, the high priest gazed at the destruction in the Court of Gentiles.
The money-changers crawled about the courtyard to retrieve coins. Animal sellers rushed forward, capturing loose sheep and goats, arguing with one another over their rightful ownership. The bird sellers waved their hands through the air, crying out about their losses. Priests stood in gr
oups, some angry while others were stunned.
“Don’t stand there running your mouths and gawking... Clean this courtyard!” the high priest yelled as he strode away.
The demon kept the cowl of his black cloak pulled over his head and moved beside Caiaphas, keeping step with him. Abaddon’s long, skeletal fingers gripped the front of his cloak to keep it closed as they hurried through the courtyard.
“Now you’ve witnessed how truly dangerous this false-prophet is to the temple—to the faith of the people,” the demon whispered only for the high priest to hear. “You know what must be done to save the faith and the temple from him. What is the life of one man when compared to saving a nation? Or would you prefer the Romans rule this temple?”
The black cloaked man abruptly stopped and watched the high priest walk on. His yellowish eyes gleamed and a contemptuous vile smile formed when Caiaphas paused to talk with the priest Matthias. The smile grew and rotted teeth appeared at hearing the high priest whisper, “Find the man Judas. Bring him here and make the offer as we discussed. One man’s life to save our faith will be silver well spent.”
***
Jerusalem, District of Judea
Thursday, Month of Nisan, Day 13
The afternoon sun baked the masses edging along the street and through the market. With each day the city grew more congested with pilgrims as the Passover drew close. Tomorrow afternoon the temple priests would slaughter the lambs for sacrifice to mark the festival’s official opening, and each following day would bring a different ceremony.
Sitting at the last open table beneath the awning of Yosef and Sarah’s wine shop, Hanan studied the people and wondered if any of his rebellious Sicarii would attempt an assassination against his orders. He had stopped several plots of men wanting to strike out on their own, but the numbers of the restless steadily grew. He knew one day it would take more than words to control his men.
A short, skinny man in a clean headdress, crème tunic and robe approached his table. Hanan only recognized him by the dark, narrow eyes, flattened nose and protruding chin. Leaning forward onto the table, Hanan squinted as he let his gaze drift over his operative.
“Simcha?”
“Yes, of course it’s me.” Simcha ben Mudash curiously looked about himself then at Hanan. “What’s wrong, master?”
Hanan lightly laughed. “You bathed and are wearing clean clothes.”
The operative rolled his eyes and exhaled in frustration. “May I sit with you?”
Motioning to an empty chair across the table, Hanan grinned. While Simcha eased into the chair, Hanan gestured to a shop servant for more wine. The operative gazed at the pedestrians out in the street until the wine was brought. Lifting his cup in gratitude to Hanan, Simcha drank several gulps and smiled as he wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his robe.
Hanan glanced at the wine shop patrons sitting near and when satisfied no one was eavesdropping, he nodded to the informant.
“You were right, master. I bribed a guard and was told the disciple Judas was secretly summoned to the temple. He met with three priests behind closed doors, so I don’t know what they discussed, but he left with a bag of coins. The guard saw the bag and believes it was the thirty silver coins he’d earlier been ordered to take to the three priests from the treasury.”
Hanan emptied his wine cup and refilled it, then poured Simcha’s cup full.
“And what of the other matter I asked you to look into?”
Simcha quickly downed his wine and lightly belched. His brows pulled together as he pointed to his empty cup. “That wine tastes like the same kind I drank at your home.”
“It’s from my uncle’s personal stock that is kept here... Now, what about the other matter?”
“I followed the rabbi as you ordered. He secured a room on the second-floor of a house for a meal with his men tonight—only tonight. It must be something special because there are no rooms available in the city with thousands of pilgrims wanting every space to be found,” Simcha said in a low voice, leaning toward Hanan to emphasize his words.
Hanan gazed at the masses moving through the street, watching them yet deep in thought. He heard Simcha speaking and faced him. “What? I didn’t hear you.”
“I asked if you heard what the rabbi did in the temple the other day?”
Hanan shook his head and was pouring more wine for them when Simcha spoke.
“He and his followers destroyed the Court of Gentiles and—.”
Wine spilled across the table as the wine jar slipped in Hanan’s hands. He grabbed it and sat motionless, staring at Simcha with flared eyes. “They destroyed it? The rabbi destroyed it?”
“Yes. The story spread like wildfire after it happened last Tuesday. Naturally, everyone adds to the tale, but from what I was told by a guard who witnessed it, the rabbi whipped the money-changers, and with his men, smashed cages and released all of the animals. He even told the high priest that the temple had become a den of thieves.”
Hanan handed the wine jar to Simcha and sat laughing. “Yeshua whipped the money-changers—and called the temple a den of thieves!” His laughter grew so hearty that patrons about him turned to see what had occurred. When he regained control of himself, everyone returned to their own affairs.
A confused expression crossed the informant’s face, but it didn’t slow his drinking. He poured a cup, gulped it down, and refilled it while his master was in such good humor.
“Sorry... If you knew how peaceful that rabbi normally is, you would laugh as well at hearing he became violent.” Hanan shook his head as he warmly smiled. “But I’m afraid that didn’t win the rabbi any friends in the temple. If anything, he made more enemies than he already had there.” The realization of the truth in Simcha’s words made Hanan grow depressed.
Simcha nodded. “There is something else, master, that I’m sorry to have to bring up.”
Hanan’s face grew stern.
Simcha swallowed as if the words were stuck in his throat. “I had to pay highly for the information from the guard, and—.”
Relieved at there being nothing further about Yeshua, Hanan reached into a bag beneath his robe. “You’ve done well, Simcha. Here, this should help you for a few days.” He laid a handful of silver coins in front of his operative and watched the man eagerly sweep them off the table into his hand.
“Thank you, master.” Simcha finished his wine. “Is there anything else I may do for you?”
Resting his muscled forearms on the table, Hanan cupped one hand into the other as he looked at the operative. “Yes. Stop calling me master.”
“Yes, mast—I mean, Hanan.” Simcha nervously grinned.
***
Thursday night, Month of Nisan, Day 13
The hour had grown late and where the light of the full moon didn’t fall, black shadows shrouded alleys and portions of the streets. Hanan patiently sat within a shadow, his gaze drifting to the two-story house across the street. Wavering light from oil lamps and men’s silhouettes could be seen moving in its high windows. Three hours had passed and Hanan wondered if Yeshua and his disciples had decided to stay the night. He wanted to talk with his friend once more and attempt to convince him of the pending danger.
The night air of the cloudless sky held a piercing chill. Tugging his cloak tighter about him, Hanan thought of leaving. A weariness had set over him from sitting so long on a cold stone bench. But the creak of a door broke his doldrum. He looked to the stairwell on the outside of the house that led from the street to the second-floor room where the lone figure of a man stood. The man closed the door behind him and waited, framed in the moonlight as he glanced about the area. Hanan recognized him. It was Judas Iscariot.
Yeshua’s betrayer started down the steps, appearing nervous as he looked up and down the street. Once off the steps he turned northward and raced away in the direction of the temple.
Hanan thought of following him, catching him in some desolate area and eliminating the threat to his friend, but Yeshua had adamantly spoken against the action when it was suggested. Watching the traitor leave was difficult, but Hanan sat upon the stone seat again and chose to wait.
***
Less than an hour passed before the second-floor door opened again and men filed out. In the moonlight Hanan recognized Yeshua in the lead as they came down the stairs. Once together on the street, the men adjusted their cloaks and solemnly walked eastward.
Hanan listened but could not hear any words they spoke. He trailed them as they left the city, crossed the short length of the Kidron Valley then on to the Mount of Olives, a mile-long ridge paralleling the eastern part of Jerusalem. There Yeshua left his disciples to wait for his return, but told Peter, and the sons of Zebedee, James and John, to accompany him. They walked a brief distance to the Garden of Gethsemane, an ancient olive orchard where Yeshua often came for spiritual solace.
“Wait here for me. Pray that Elohim will give me strength for what is to come,” Yeshua said. “I will be no more than a stone’s throw from you.” He walked between the old, gnarled trees, moonlight falling on him as he passed from one tree to another.
Hanan crept around the first group of disciples, eased past the second group then stopped when he observed Yeshua kneeling against a large boulder in a clearing. Standing behind a tree, Hanan kept watch over his friend and the area.
The bright moonlight blanketing the abandoned orchard left dark shadow circles beneath each tree. No breeze blew yet the chill in the air penetrated robes and cloaks, at times sending a fierce shiver through the body. But the sense of helplessness flooding Hanan’s soul as he gazed at his praying friend left him feeling like a man adrift in a sea with mountainous waves crashing upon him. He heard faint crying and realized it came from Yeshua.
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