The Daggerman

by Glenn Starkey

  “Our Master, the lamb of our God, Elohim, will rise again in three days. He told us so. We must have faith he will.”

  Gaze sweeping over Yeshua’s tortured body, the horrid spear wound in his side and thorn gashes, Hanan shook his head. “No man can rise from this,” he replied. Looking skyward, he closed his eyes and breathed deep, besieged with anguish. He glanced at his friend once more and left.

  ***

  Abaddon canted his head left, then right, studying the two criminals that had been crucified beside Yeshua. The bodies hung slumped on their crosses. He grinned and walked to where Joseph and Nicodemus watched servants clean Yeshua’s face as best they could. The demon’s yellowish eyes scanned the gaping wounds and flesh ripped by the whip. Moving around the servants Abaddon saw Yeshua’s punctured rib and nodded in satisfaction. He raised his gaze to Yeshua’s solemn death mask.

  Leaning toward the corpse, Abaddon’s grin spread across his thin lips to become a cruel smile. “It took longer than I wanted, but your death finally came... Oh, and what a spectacular ending it was with everyone beating and spitting on you, mocking you. But you certainly received your comeuppance with that flogging. The lictors put their backs into every lash they gave you. Yes, today was a splendid day, so much pain and suffering.”

  The demon walked a few steps away and stretched his arms in delight. He saw the centurion marching his squad down the hill. Letting his gaze drift, he caught sight of Hanan’s wide back as the man made his way along a trail leading to the city.

  Abaddon’s long, bony fingers tugged at his cloak and eased its cowling over his bald head. “Oh, what a life,” he said, smiling in self-satisfaction. “My work will never end.”

  He started after Hanan knowing wherever the man went, death followed.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Jerusalem, District of Judea

  Friday, Month of Nisan, Day 14

  Hanan arrived at Yosef and Sarah’s wine shop an hour before dusk. At nightfall, unlike other countries and by Jewish custom, the new day began and lasted until the next day’s evening. He ordered a jar of wine and sat beneath the awning, brooding as he watched passersby in the street. The shop’s young servant asked if he wanted food as well, but he had no appetite except for revenge against everyone who hurt his friend.

  Easing back in his chair, he wearily rubbed his face with both hands, unable to recall when he last slept. Fatigue had settled over him, but he knew if he found a bed now, he would only stare at the ceiling and relive the day.

  The jar was brought, and an alabaster cup was filled. Hanan downed it and waved the young man away when he attempted to refill the cup. “I’ll pour my own wine. Leave me so I may drown my misery in solitude.”

  His thoughts wandered to Joseph of Arimathea and Nicodemus, hopeful they were able to prepare Yeshua for entombment before the sun set. By tradition, a corpse had to be buried the same day of death. Leaving one unburied by nightfall was thought to be sinfully disrespectful to the dead.

  Pilgrims still flowed along the city street, but the crowds were thinning as everyone hurried to their homes or inns to prepare for the first night’s meal of Passover. While some spoke in low voices, others were boisterous, caring little if they were overheard.

  “Did you know the Romans whipped the rabbi this morning?”

  “The temple priest say he was nothing more than a false prophet—a magician...”

  “Where were you today when the storm struck and the earthquake came?”

  “Barabbas’ release was rigged. Temple priests stood in the crowd and ordered everyone to shout for the criminal’s life and to crucify the prophet...”

  “Caiaphas ordered the arrest of the teacher’s disciples for inciting rebellion...”

  With each person walking past, Hanan heard something about the day. He drank heavily yet no amount of wine could stop his mind from replaying every heartrending moment. Reaching for the wine jar to refill his cup, he caught sight of a slender man slinking through the crowd, glancing about as if wary of being recognized. But Hanan knew him. It was the traitor Judas.

  Hanan tossed a coin on the table for his wine and raced out into the congested street. He scanned the crowd where he had last seen Judas then started along the street in the same direction. Pushing his way through the pilgrims he lost sight of the traitor but saw him again moving through the market. Passing a merchant’s stall, Hanan deftly grabbed a thick rope and slid it beneath his robe without the merchant having seen. He quickened his pace until he was within arm’s reach of Judas.

  “Why are you in such a hurry, my friend,” Hanan said with a wide smile for the benefit of the people walking around them. He laid his right hand on the nape of Judas’ neck and squeezed with might. Judas abruptly stopped, and winced, unable to move.

  “It’s you—his friend?” Judas nervously asked. Eyes wide with fear, he wet his lips with his tongue. He tried to move away, but Hanan’s hand was clamped about his neck like iron. “I saw you both talking by the sea that morning. He told us later that you were almost a brother to him.”

  “Yes, he was my friend, and was alive until you sold him out for thirty pieces of silver.”

  “Who told you?”

  Hanan could feel Judas tremble. He shook his head. “Does it matter? Because of your lies the priests gave him to the Romans to torture and crucify.”

  “No...” Judas tried to shake his head but couldn’t. “No, it wasn’t supposed to be like that. They told me he...” The traitor’s gaze lowered. “They lied to me. I took their money back and threw it in their faces. I didn’t keep the blood money.” His eyes glistened from the tears building along their rims.

  “Because of you he was beaten and scourged all morning, then they drove stakes into him and stabbed him with a spear.” Hanan’s rage made him fiercely shake Judas.

  “I’m sorry... I’m sorry.” Judas wept uncontrollably.

  “Don’t worry, though. He made me promise not to kill you. But we’re going to take a nice walk outside the city.”

  The traitor cried and mumbled as they made their way along the street and through the eastern city gate. They took the dirt road leading to Jericho and after a mile, Hanan turned off the road and pushed Judas onto a narrow trail leading out into the wilderness.

  The sun was ready to descend behind the distant mountains and Hanan knew darkness would soon be upon them. “This is far enough,” the brawny man ordered as they stopped beneath a tree with a large boulder by it. He released his hold on Judas and pulled the rope out from beneath his cloak.

  Judas looked at him, then to the rope, but didn’t try to flee.

  Tying one end about the base of the tree, Hanan flung the remaining amount of rope over a branch and held it out to Judas. “Here, I promised not to kill you, so you’re going to do it yourself. Climb onto that rock and make a noose about your neck.”

  Hesitating, Judas looked at the rope then slowly took it.

  Hanan drew the Sica from beneath his cloak and held its blade up for Judas to see. “You will hang yourself or I’ll gut you and leave you alive for every animal to eat.”

  Rope in hand, Judas made his way onto the boulder and once balanced, adjusted the length and tied the end in a noose. He slipped it over his head.

  “Pull the rope tight. I don’t want it coming off.” Hanan stood calmly watching, holding the Sica in his right by his side.

  Judas tugged at the noose, coughed from its tension, and lowered his trembling hands to his stomach. His gaze carried to Hanan. “I never meant for him to die.”

  Hanan didn’t speak.

  “May our God, Elohim, forgive me,” Judas said in a faint voice, tears trailing down his cheeks.

  “God might, but I never will.” Hanan’s words were as cold as a desert night. He stepped back to wait.

  Judas raised his face to the night sky, closed his e
yes and stepped off the boulder. His neck stretched and his eyes bulged. He quivered and shook, legs wildly kicking the air. Grunting, gagging sounds were heard. His hands reached upward for the rope, but his thrashing body made the noose draw tighter.

  Watching until Judas’ body no longer shook, and he swayed slowly above the ground, Hanan slid his dagger back into its sheath beneath his cloak. He spat on the dead man and started back to the city. He was thirsty, and his appetite had returned.

  ***

  In the two days following Yeshua’s crucifixion, the Zealots used the opportunity to recruit and incite loyal pilgrims to harass the temple priests and Romans. Random fires were set in the streets, and angry protesters bellowed in the marketplaces about the injustices the temple condoned. Caiaphas forbid his priests to leave the temple for the remainder of the Passover week until tempers settled, fearing the assassinations would renew.

  Hanan was inundated with requests from subordinate Sicarii leaders across the country to strike while the people’s anger mounted, but he refused. Pilate had placed his soldiers on their highest alert, preparing them for rebellion, and Caiaphas’ guards waited at every gate for an attack.

  “What you want is suicide. Taking any action now will only result in our men being slaughtered. No, let the Zealots keep the Romans and priests on edge while we remain out of sight. Once this passes and Caiaphas no longer feels threatened, we will decrease the number of priests—and Romans,” Hanan said in a clandestine meeting far outside of Jerusalem.

  The disgruntled leaders argued with Hanan but obeyed and returned to their homes to once again blend into their communities until summoned. Hanan took note of the young cubs that had grown into lions within the organization. They were not quite ready to challenge him for the right to rule the Sicarii, yet he felt the day swiftly approaching.

  But another thought existed in Hanan for not wanting to retaliate so soon. It was a reason he believed and doubted within the same breath. Yeshua had said he would return on the third day to fulfill the prophecy, and Hanan was waiting. There were doubters too among his friend’s own followers; the one named Thomas that Simcha had spoken of. Armed with that knowledge, Hanan’s conscience was eased.

  ***

  By the end of the third day word spread amongst believers throughout the city that the Christ had risen. Whether it was fact or rumor was unknown, but Hanan paid a herd of street urchins to search for Simcha. If anyone knew the story, the little man would. He had befriended the disciples and assisted in finding a house where they could safely hide from both the temple guards and priests who searched for them.

  The evening breeze gently flowed through the streets, a fine balance between the day’s warmth and the night’s coming chill. Dusk was a peaceful time with everyone setting their day’s trepidations aside until dawn.

  At his usual table, Hanan sat with Sarah reminiscing about his uncle Yosef and how the man enjoyed relating history while the young Hanan sweated and toiled at carrying large rocks. She smiled at the tale, held the sling on her left arm which was slow to heal, and gazed with a hint of sadness at the darkening sky.

  “I was twelve when I first came to Jerusalem. My fondest memory is of strolling about the city with Yosef, talking while Micah busied himself with the affairs of trade,” he said, kindly smiling. He found no reason to state the journey’s true purpose.

  “I believe you have your own business to attend to,” Sarah remarked, motioning to the stair-stepped children tugging a short man along with them as they strode toward the wine shop.

  A dirty-faced boy of no more than eight years halted beside Hanan. “Here he is, master.”

  “What have I done wrong, Hanan?” Simcha asked with a wry grin, glancing at his escorts. “These ruffians fell upon me and demanded I come with them if I valued my life.”

  The gang of children proudly smiled, many displaying missing teeth.

  Bearing a solemn expression, the muscled man nodded sternly. “You’ve all done well and earned your money. Tell me, is there anyone among you who is hungry?”

  Their eyes shot wide and heads eagerly bobbed. Several of the children raised hands to ensure they were seen.

  “Sarah, I’d liked to buy all the leftover loaves of bread you may have so my trusty companions may fill their stomachs after a hard day’s labor,” he said, trying not to laugh.

  She rose from her chair and warmly smiled. “Your money is no good in this wine shop, Hanan. I have a dozen loaves they may have.” Motioning them to follow, she led the way into the shop.

  When the last child was gone from sight, Hanan carried his gaze to Simcha who wore the ragged tunic and robe of a beggar. His stained headdress hung past his shoulders.

  “At least you don’t smell like sheep.” Hanan shook his head. “But why the role of a beggar today?” He pointed to a chair across from him.

  Taking a seat, Simcha glanced about their table to note who was close and may be listening. “There are still many pilgrims in the city and Passover week makes them quite generous to the underprivileged.” He held his robe out for Hanan to see the bulging leather pouch tied to his rope belt.

  Hanan ordered a jar of wine and saw a gleam in Simcha’s eyes.

  “Tell me about Yeshua. People say he’s risen, but I haven’t seen him. We were close friends and I thought, surely of all people, he would show himself to me. Has anyone seen him or is that another useless rumor?”

  The jar was brought, and the shop servant filled their cups. Simcha immediately took a drink and sighed in delight. Servants carried oil lamps from the shop and placed them about the terrace where patrons sat. The little man shook his head as he leaned toward Hanan.

  “It’s no rumor, sir. The woman with Yeshua’s mother the other day, Mary Magdalene... She went to his tomb this morning. The heavy stone sealing the entrance had been rolled away. She entered and found his burial shroud, but not his body. A man appeared outside of the tomb, dressed in pure white with a bright light about him and asked why she was looking for the living among the dead. It was—him! They talked. She said it was Yeshua.”

  Hanan sat back in his chair, stunned by the revelation. Yeshua’s body had been tortured and lifeless when he last held him in his arms but hearing that his friend had risen from the dead was too much to fathom. He had wanted to believe Yeshua would return yet doubted its truth.

  “Do you think the disciples stole his body during the night?”

  Simcha barely shook his head. “No, they are in hiding, afraid to go out of their house. Caiaphas had pleaded with Pilate for Roman soldiers to guard the tomb so the body couldn’t be stolen. From what I’ve heard, the soldiers are saying they fell under a spell and woke to find the tomb empty. They have probably been executed by now. Romans do not take kindly to failures of duty.”

  Hanan emptied his cup and set it on the table, toying with it as he thought. Without waiting for permission, Simcha poured and drank two more cups of wine quickly while Hanan stared at the table’s top.

  “Maybe I’ll see him tonight or tomorrow. I’m sure he will seek me out,” Hanan said as if speaking his thoughts aloud. Disappointment hung heavy in his voice. His gaze never rose from the table.

  “Did you know one of the disciples, the one they call Judas, is missing?” Simcha watched Hanan closely for a reaction.

  The leader of the Sicarii raised his eyes and locked gazes with Simcha. “I’m sure he’ll be found. He’s probably hanging around somewhere.” A smile slowly formed then vanished.

  ***

  The third day led to the fourth, then the fifth, and the sixth. Soon Hanan lost track of the days that Yeshua had not appeared to him. Frustration set over him. Despondency came, followed by a heart wrenching hurt that evolved into anger. Whenever Hanan heard of a sighting, he raced to its location to find his friend, but Yeshua was already gone.

  Hanan sent food to the disciples through Si
mcha so the little man would stay in their good graces and they would speak freely. Mary Magdalene had seen and talked with Yeshua at the tomb. He had visited the disciples at their house, told them to pray for the arrival of the Holy Spirit, and even let the doubting follower named Thomas touch his spear wound and brush fingertips over the stake holes in his arms. There were reports of seeing the Messiah on the road to Emmaus and crowds listening to him preach on a hillside. But where ever Yeshua appeared, Hanan could not find him.

  The High Priest Caiaphas kept his guards searching for the disciples, but Yeshua’s thousands of followers refused to speak of them. Saul of Tarsus, a half Roman, half Jew devotee to the temple had become their persecutor. Through force and intimidation, backed by Caiaphas’ money and brutal temple guards, Saul became a relentless hunter of Yeshua’s believers and disciples. The day after the Holy Spirit came upon the disciples, empowering them with truth and abilities to heal and lead others to the way of Elohim, the disciples had no choice but to flee Jerusalem or face arrest. Word had come that Saul was closing in on them.

  “Have they already left the city, Simcha?” Hanan stood in the street looking north as if expecting to see the disciples.

  “Two days ago, sir. The one called John thought they were going to Damascus and once there, each would go a different direction to preach their master’s teachings.”

  “Then I will follow them. If they are leaving Jerusalem it may mean Yeshua will never return here. My best chance to see him again may be where ever they are.”

  Simcha sadly shook his head. He had been looking at the ground but let his gaze drift to Hanan’s face. “Saul left yesterday for Damascus to apprehend them. But there’s something else you should know.”

  Turning to face the little man, Hanan’s brow lowered. He didn’t speak and only waited.

  “Sir, you may never see Yeshua again. The disciples told me that he has ascended. Even they will not see him again.”