The Daggerman

by Glenn Starkey

  “Father, I am weak and frightened, and may fail you. My strength has left me. If it is possible, let this cup pass from me. If this cannot pass unless I drink it, let it be as you, not I, would have it so.”

  Yeshua drew still with head bowed then rose and walked to his waiting three disciples. They were fast asleep, and he woke them with scolding words.

  “You couldn’t keep watch with me for one hour?”

  Returning to the clearing, Yeshua repeated his earlier prayer twice more, and upon finishing each time, went to Peter, James and John. He found them asleep.

  “In my need of prayers, you fail me. Your spirits are willing, but your flesh is weak,” he said, then left them. Again, they promised to stay awake and pray for him.

  Hanan watched and when about to go talk to Yeshua, moonlight bathed his friend in a wide beam that grew brighter by the second. He remained behind the tree as Yeshua raised his face and spoke to someone standing on the large boulder where he knelt. But to Hanan’s eyes, no one was there.

  The brilliant beam of light dimmed until the moonlight returned to normal. Head bowed, Yeshua wept from his agony, his shoulders visibly shaking.

  The voices of arguing men carried through the orchard from where the first group of disciples had remained. Their words grew more distinct and Hanan rushed to Yeshua. Little time could be spared before the unknown men began their search of the area.

  “Yeshua,” he said, touching the praying man’s shoulder. When Yeshua raised his face, Hanan was shocked at the stream of tears and large beads of sweat that drenched him.

  “Why—why are you here?” Yeshua sluggishly rose to his feet, but at hearing the angry voices he glanced in their direction.

  “I don’t have time to explain. We must go. You’ve been betrayed. I believe those are temple guards coming to arrest you.” Hanan pulled his friend’s right arm to lead him away but Yeshua refused to move. “Yeshua, please, you must come with me!”

  “It has begun,” Yeshua said in a troubled voice. He gazed at the fiery torches near the trees where the three disciples had slept. “My betrayer is at hand.”

  Withdrawing the Sica from beneath his robe, Hanan spun in the direction of the torches. He held the dagger in his right hand and took a defensive stance. “Leave this place. I’ll kill anyone that attempts to follow you. Go, Yeshua, run,” he pleaded.

  Yeshua shook his head once and gently laid a hand over Hanan’s muscled forearm.

  “This is not the way of my Father nor mine. Put away your dagger. You must not obstruct what will come. You are my dear friend, a true friend, and one day we will meet again... But I must leave, and you cannot follow. Promise me you will not interfere regardless of what you witness. Promise me, my friend.”

  Sheathing his Sica, Hanan glanced at the fast-approaching men now less than one hundred feet away. He turned to Yeshua and gazed at him, lost for words. An intense pain stabbed his heart. Tears trailed down the cheeks of the broad-shouldered, heavily muscled man.

  Yeshua stepped forward and wrapped his arms about his friend. Hanan laid his head on Yeshua’s shoulder and wept.

  “You there,” a burly temple guard shouted. “Remain where you are.” The guard began to walk faster and the armed guards, priests, Pharisees, and Yeshua’s disciples were close behind.

  “Leave me, my friend, and don’t look back.” Yeshua pushed him away, and bravely stepped in front of Hanan to partially block him from view of the approaching guards.

  “Forgive me,” was all Yeshua heard before his friend fled into the night.

  ***

  Racing through the orchard, blending with the shadows of the trees, Hanan didn’t halt until he was confident no one followed him. He moved between the trees and stopped when he found a clear line of sight to the crowd. The mob’s torches lit the area with enough light to distinguish faces.

  Hanan felt his heart pounding against his chest as he watched. Judas embraced Yeshua then kissed him on the cheek. The guards seized Yeshua and a scuffle broke out between the disciples and the guards. A knife blade flashed in the torch light, a man screamed and grabbed his ear. Yeshua waved his followers back then cupped his hand over the bleeding wound. The temple guards swarmed forward with spears leveled to arrest Yeshua, and the disciples bolted in all directions.

  Consumed with rage at Judas’ betrayal and the cowardice of Yeshua’s men for not defending their leader, Hanan readied to leave when a bullish-framed guard drove a fist deep into Yeshua’s stomach, doubling him over. He fell to the ground and two guards laughed as they kicked him.

  Drawing his dagger, Hanan prepared himself to charge the guards, but Yeshua’s earlier words sounded in his mind: Promise me that you will not interfere regardless of what you witness.

  His grip on the Sica tightened until his knuckles grew white. Nausea rose into his dry mouth and his stomach churned. Backing from the tree that had concealed him, Hanan wheeled and left the Garden of Gethsemane.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Jerusalem, District of Judea

  Friday, Month of Nisan, Day 14

  At an hour past the mid of night Hanan strode through the city’s outer wall gate, rage still fueling the inferno within him. He’s like a lamb being taken to slaughter, he thought, recalling the way the temple guards had arrested Yeshua. The tension in his body felt like an iron fist squeezing his chest. He wished a gang of robbers would leap now from the shadows so he could release his fury upon them. But the image of Yeshua bravely awaiting his captors, rose in Hanan’s mind, dispelling his thoughts, shaming him for his want of vengeance.

  Pilgrims without rooms laid in clumps, sleeping next to closed businesses along the city streets. Hanan’s mouth was as parched as a desert and though he found wine shops, none were open. Halting in the middle of a street, he looked about in frustration then realized where to go to quench his thirst at any hour of the day or night.

  ***

  The alley was dark but Hanan knew his way. At the third door in the narrow passage, he stopped and hammered its wood several times with his fist. A man within the two-story house grumbled about the late hour, then latches clacked as they were unlocked. A stubby, scowling man in a dirty tunic and robe swung the door open but quickly smiled at recognizing his frequent patron. Hanan entered without waiting for an invitation from him.

  “You are fortunate, master. The room you prefer has just been vacated,” the brothel keeper said, wryly smiling as he closed the door behind Hanan. “We’ve been quite busy with the festival, and I’m sorry but I do not have two women available at the moment as you normally wish. I do have a young, fresh flower, though, that I’ve recently taken in. You will not be disappointed.”

  Hanan was in no mood for conversation. The moans and cries from the carnal pleasures of patrons in other rooms carried down the long hall. A scowl crossed his face. He dropped coins in the stubby man’s waiting palm and started for the stairwell leading to the second floor.

  “Have two of your biggest jars of wine brought to me,” he said, turning his back to the keeper and walking away. “And make sure it’s none of that donkey piss you sell to the Romans.”

  The room was the largest in the brothel, though, it could only hold an oversized wood-framed bed with woven leather straps to support the working women, a low stool, and a bowl of fresh water for patrons to wash before leaving. A three feet wide walk space lined the bed. Oil lamps at opposite ends of the room cast light throughout it, showing the dingy stone walls and their peculiar stains. The room’s musty odor was strong upon walking through the door but grew bearable as the minutes passed. Only one window existed, and it was shut. Hanan shoved its wood panel away to let the night’s cool air in then flung his brown cloak onto the bed.

  A faint knock came and a young woman with chin lowered to her chest entered the room, attempting not to jostle and spill the two jars of wine she carried in her thin a
rms. Observing her difficulty in setting the jars on the floor, Hanan grabbed them by their lips. He turned to the window and set them on its flat, recessed windowsill. With his back to the woman, he raised a jar and drank in deep gulps to quench his thirst. He heard the door close. Silence returned to the room. Staring out the window at the dark buildings across the street, he stood quiet, trying not to think about the suffering Yeshua may be undergoing. When he turned with jug in hand to sit on the stool, he paused, surprised by the woman still in the room.

  Straightening his posture, he stood with the jar in his right hand, hanging by his side. No emotion shone on his face as his green eyes stared at the nude woman standing beside the bed. His gaze drifted over her lean body, the small mounds of her breasts, and the dirty tunic hanging from her hands to cover her womanhood. Her head was even with his chest and long, raven-black hair fell about her downturned face as she awaited his orders. At best he believed she was no older than fifteen or seventeen years but knew she would soon grow old before her time in a brothel.

  “What is your name?”

  “Rebekah, master,” came a soft reply.

  “Look at me when you speak,” he ordered, more gruffly than he realized.

  Rebekah’s head sluggishly rose. The innocence of her simple, yet comely face, and the fear in her black pearl eyes disturbed him. Without reason, his shameful past in brothels rose in his mind.

  “What do you wish me to do, master?” Her eyes cut to the bed then back to him.

  “Put your clothes on—and stop calling me master. My name is Hanan,” he said, taking a seat on the stool. He lifted the wine jar and drank as she dressed in her tattered tunic. When finished, she stayed by the bed. A glimpse of fear still shone in her eyes, but it was gradually being displaced by confusion.

  Shaking his head, he motioned to the bed. “Sit. This will be an easy night for you. All I want is wine.” A sad expression appeared as she sat on the edge of the bed.

  Hanan cynically grinned. He reached into the money pouch beneath his robe and withdrew several coins. “Here,” he said, tossing them onto the bed. “In the morning, tell the keeper you earned your money. He has no need to know otherwise.”

  She gathered the coins, placed them by her side and let her gaze drift to him. The mountainous man sat with the wine jar raised, drinking in loud gulps. Lowering the jar, he wiped his lips clean with the back of a hand and stared across the room with dead eyes.

  “Right now, my only friend is being beaten by temple guards. He told me it was the will of Elohim... and that the prophecies must be fulfilled. What kind of god lets an innocent man be beaten?” Hanan’s head turned to her. A dark mood painted his face. The emerald green eyes narrowed as his brows lowered. “What kind of a man abandons his friend to be beaten?” he asked in disgust.

  Hanan raised the jar and drank deeply. The young prostitute watched but said nothing. One hour then two passed with him drinking and speaking in riddles that were little more than puzzling confessions of his soul. She listened and nodded at times, although, he appeared oblivious of her presence. Then silence filled the room. He sat gazing at her with the second empty wine jar resting on his lap.

  Shivering, she rubbed her bare arms for warmth against the cold night air.

  “Wrap yourself in my cloak. I’ll not have you freeze to death and it be added to the list of my sins.”

  The feel of the thick wool cloak about her brought a smile to her pretty face as she eased further back on the bed and drew her slender legs up into the cloak. “Thank you,” came her weak reply.

  “Is Rebekah your true name?” Hanan set the empty wine jug beside him on the floor. “Are you a Jew?”

  Lowering her gaze to the bed, she nodded.

  “How old are you?”

  “Sixteen in a few months.” She raised her big round eyes and saw him staring at her with no indication of his thoughts.

  “Leave this place, Rebekah. Go far away and start a new life.” Hanan’s voice trailed to silence. He glanced at the ceiling and let his gaze drift about the room.

  “A woman with a child by her side does not go far before hunger stops their journey,” she replied. Fire filled her dark eyes. “Why does every man believe that sinners in the brothels want this life? Who enjoys stinking, drunken pigs defiling them all day and night? I’m here so my son doesn’t starve. The keeper takes most of the money I make and leaves me barely enough to buy food.”

  “How old is your son?”

  “Two.”

  “And the father, is he one of the soldiers that comes here?” Hanan asked in a fiery tone.

  Rebekah shook her head. “I was a servant in a Gentile’s house until the master raped me. When his wife learned I carried his child, she threw me out saying I had offered myself to him to become his mistress.” Her eyes momentarily grew wet, but no tears fell. “My family was ashamed and refused to let me return. But I kept my son and will do whatever I must so he may live.” She defiantly stared at Hanan for several seconds then lowered her chin to her chest.

  “You’re brave. Not all women love their children as you do.” The thought of his mother abandoning him, wanting him dead crossed his mind adding to the conflicting emotions he already had this night. “If you and your son had a place to live, would you go?”

  The prostitute raised her head and studied his face. “Do not make such jokes. I may be a sinner as the people call us, but I still have some pride left in me.”

  “I am many things, Rebekah, but I do not lie. My home is in Nazareth and my servants have grown old. They are in need of help to keep my house in order and cook for me when I am there. My home is big enough for you and your son to have a room. I will give you money so you may leave in a few hours once the sun rises. Now tell me, is it yes or no?”

  A smile appeared on her lips as she listened, but it began to fade.

  “Cook, clean, and warm your bed when you wish? Is that what you are saying? I only want there to be no confusion about my duties.”

  Rage exploded within Hanan. He grabbed the empty wine jar beside him and threw it across the room as he leapt to his feet. The clay jar shattered as it loudly smashed against the stone wall.

  “Did I say spreading your legs would be part of your duties?” he yelled, face flushed from anger. He stood like a furious wild beast ready to fight. “I offer safety to raise your son, and you insult me by thinking I have need of a personal whore?”

  “I apologize, master. Please do not be mad. I wanted no misunderstanding between us. Please, I meant no disrespect. I believe you are a good man.”

  Hanan settled himself back onto the stool and looked at her. “I’m not a good man, but you will never have to fear me raping you.”

  “Then I wish to be your servant as you have asked, if you will still allow me.”

  His rage slowly diminished and he exhaled hard. He reached into his money pouch, removed five silver coins and dropped them on the bed. Motioning to the money, he said, “That is more than enough for you and your son to find passage to the estate of Micah ben Netzer in Nazareth. Tell my servants, Benjamin and Elizabeth, to let you have Yosef’s room. Tell them Hanan sent you but do not speak of your time in this house. What is your son’s name?”

  “David.”

  He nodded and gave a hint of a smile as he thought a moment. “That’s a good name. But when you arrive at my home, tell them your name is Ruth. Elizabeth will like that. Ruth was King David’s grandmother.”

  Happiness shone in Rebekah’s face.

  “Has David been circumcised?”

  “Yes, mast- I mean Hanan.”

  “Good, that is in keeping with the Laws of Moses and he will have no problem entering the Nazareth synagogue.”

  Shouting voices rose in the street, echoing between buildings. Hanan stood from the stool and looked out the window. The faint light of dawn was appearing on the
horizon. He listened to the people’s frantic words and glanced at the street below. Small groups of men and women raced along it. He heard a woman say, ‘the Nazarene,’ as she passed below the window.

  “Something is wrong. I must go,” he said, pulling his cloak from Rebekah’s body. He paused at the door. “After I leave, make the keeper believe I slept with you and give him his usual money, but don’t let him see the silver. Make some reason to go home then never return here. Follow the instructions I gave you. My servants will take care of you.” Hanan looked at her dirty, stained tunic and gave her more coins from his pouch. “Buy clothes for you and your son. You will need new clothes for your new life.”

  He started for the door, but a small hand squeezed his forearm. Rebekah stepped close, softly crying as she took hold of his large hand. She raised her face to gaze into his green eyes.

  “Truly I have been blessed this night. I will be a faithful servant. May our God, Elohim, protect you wherever you go.” Rebekah kissed his hand.

  Hanan stood still, unable to speak. Her words tore at his soul. He glanced at his hand then to her but left without a reply.

  Chapter Twenty

  Jerusalem, District of Judea

  Friday, Month of Nisan, Day 14

  The blush of dawn lay across the city, making the streets faintly visible without a need for torches. Hanan no longer felt a chill in the air as he half-walked and trotted to keep pace with the growing crowds that hurried through the streets. News of the young rabbi’s arrest by temple guards was sweeping through the city like a sandstorm. Women wept and men argued over his innocence or guilt. The crowds followed a twisting path but Hanan felt confident they were headed to the prefect’s palace, one of Herod the Great’s former residences.

  The praetorium, Pontius Pilate’s stately home while in Jerusalem for festivals, was second in size only to the great temple complex, but first in extravagance. He and his wife Claudia had quarters if they wished in the Antonia Fortress, but Pilate refused its usage, complaining of the military conditions being an insult to his wife.