by Wendy Alec
‘Hail, Master!’ he called, walking directly up to Jesus.
But Jesus’ attention was drawn to the silhouette of a tall, cloaked figure who stood in the shadows, just paces behind Judas’s right shoulder.
Lucifer stood haughty, triumphant. He stared at Jesus intently, an iniquitous smile on his face.
Jesus lowered His eyes from Lucifer’s gaze as Judas leaned over and kissed Jesus lovingly, first on the right cheek and then on the left.
Jesus stared at Judas. ‘Would you betray and deliver up the Son of Man with a kiss?’
Judas lifted his right hand to his own cheek. On Judas’s fingers lay a strange crimson liquid. He fell back. Ashen. Trembling.
Jesus raised His eyes to meet Lucifer’s.
‘Remember, Lucifer.’ His voice was soft as a breeze but razor sharp. ‘Your kiss on My cheek, many moons past, in the First Heaven, when we walked together in My garden.’ Lucifer stared down in dread at the darkening crimson stain on his hand, his features contorted in agony from the sharp burning sensation in his right palm.
‘...When many worlds have long risen and fallen,’ said Jesus, His voice barely audible, ‘the Lamb will be slain.’
Lucifer stared steadily at Jesus, his face twisted with trepidation and loathing.
‘I shall separate You from Yehovah. You shall share my fate – an eternity away from Him. The vaults of hell await you, Nazarene.’ Then he wrapped his cloak tightly around him. And vanished.
A band of Jewish officers and servants from the high priest’s palace broke clumsily through the undergrowth. They were followed closely by a Roman detachment, armed with swords and staves. A riotous, disorderly crowd of volunteers and curious strangers followed.
Jesus sighed. ‘Whom do you seek?’ He called out.
‘Jesus the Nazarene!’ one called out.
‘I am He,’ Jesus said softly.
A raucous uproar erupted from the officers and the unruly rabble as a mob of surly looking men advanced towards Him, their staves upraised. The chief priests followed behind them.
Jesus lifted His hand, and immediately a strange power fell over the advancing throng. They fell back in dread.
‘Whom are you seeking?’ Jesus reiterated patiently, as though addressing slow children. ‘I told you, I am Jesus of Nazareth,’ He continued. ‘If you seek Me, let these go on their way.’
The head of the Roman detachment seized Jesus roughly by the shoulders. Immediately Peter let out a loud roar and recklessly drew his sword, striking Malchus, body servant of the high priest, and slicing off his ear. The whole party erupted and in the ensuing uproar, the Roman captain loosed his hold on Jesus.
‘Peter,’ Jesus laid His hand on Peter’s arm steadily, ‘permit them to seize Me,’ He said quietly, placing His hand on Malchus’s ear.
Malchus backed away from Jesus in terror, feeling his healed ear in astonishment.
Peter lowered his sword, stared wildly at Jesus, confused, then tore frantically through the trees. James stood trembling, rooted to the ground, then lifted his robes and fled after Peter, followed immediately by John.
Jesus stood alone. ‘And you...’ He turned His fierce gaze onto the chief priests, who stood staring at Him, petrified, their eyes filled with hatred.
‘Why have you come to arrest Me as some wild, bloodthirsty insurgent, wielding swords and clubs? I taught in your temples and synagogues every day, in full view of you. You could have arrested Me at any–’
A burly Roman soldier savagely threw Jesus to the ground. He nodded, and six of his detachment seized Him brutally.
Zahi stood trembling, hovering on the outskirts of the belligerent mob. His linen garments had been hurridly flung around him after Joanna had hastily roused him from his slumber. He stood, trembling behind the tree, watching as the crowds seized Jesus, pushing Him mercilessly down the ravine, east towards Jerusalem. An uncouth youth glared at him and ran towards him.
Zahi fled in terror. The Hebrew was in grave danger; He needed allies. He would send Fariq, royal messenger, at once to Aretas’ spring encampment; His father had protected the Hebrew once. As an infant.
Zahi would appeal to Aretas.
Chapter Thirty-four
The Witness
King Aretas and his entire royal household were encamped at the Nabatean city of Mampsis in the central Negev. He and his compatriot kings and caliphs of Persia, Edessa, and Arabia were holding royal summit for the spring, with the blessing of Rome, to Aretas’ satisfaction and Herod Antipas’ fury.
Jotapa pushed past Ayeshe, into Aretas’ festival tent. She was out of breath, dishevelled, and her black hair flew loosely escaping from its braids.
‘Papa! Papa!’
Aretas looked up from his ornately carved desk, weary from his royal papers.
‘Fariq, your royal rider – he eats with Ghaliya in the kitchen tents, exhausted. There is news from Jerusalem?’ Jotapa asked. Aretas nodded. Grave.
‘Zahi?’ Jotapa trembled.
Aretas shook his head. ‘The Hebrew,’ he said quietly, laying his quill down. ‘The councils meet in Jerusalem.’ Jotapa drew up a velvet bolstered chair next to his and earnestly took his old hands in hers. Aretas continued. ‘They would condemn the Hebrew to death.’
Jotapa stared at her father. Apalled.
The king took a deep breath and stood. He paced up and down, then stopped next to the tent entrance. ‘Fariq rode these past hours with the royal missives. His stallion recovers in the royal stables. They have arrested the Hebrew; it is certain. I was not going to alarm you till it was confirmed.’
Jotapa stared up at him, trembling. ‘It is rumours – propogated by the enemies of the Hebrew – those fat-jowled Sadducees!’ she exclaimed.
Aretas shook his head sadly. ‘Alas, it is no rumour, Jotapa,’ he said softly. ‘Zahi was there. He saw it all first-hand.’
‘Zahi...,’ she uttered. Ashen. ‘He was there ... at the Hebrew’s arrest?’
Aretas held out a missive to Jotapa, written in Zahi’s meticulous italic script. She tore it open and read the first lines, devouring each word.
Gently Aretas wrested it back from her grasp. ‘He says they seized the Hebrew as though He were a wild vagrant...’ Jotapa gazed at her father bewildered. ‘An insurrectionist...’
Aretas folded the missive and placed it in a leather pouch. ‘At the Valley of Kidron. Zahi was a witness. He fled. He asks for my intervention with Rome and the Jewish authority on the Hebrew’s behalf.’
‘But Zahi is wrong, Papa!’
‘My mind is set.’ Aretas walked down a path lined with rows of date palms. ‘The Hebrew was sent bound to the Sadducee Annas after midnight, then to the halls of his son-in-law, Caiaphas. A private interview was conducted. At dawn He was led to that lavish architectural monstrosity the Praetorium ... But Pilate has washed his hands of the matter.’
Jotapa ran to catch up with Aretas. ‘The Hebrew does not need your intervention,’ she cried, breathlessly.
‘Jotapa – do you not grasp the severity of the situation? Your brother and the Hebrew are in grave danger.’ Aretas stopped dead in his tracks. ‘My daughter, I did not want to tell you this, but you have forced my hand.’ He sighed. ‘At this very moment, the Hebrew stands before Herod Antipas.’ Jotapa started to shake violently from head to foot.
‘But Herod loathes the Hebrew,’ she whispered. ‘It is certain?’ Jotapa gasped, hardly able to speak, for the ice-cold vice that gripped her heart. Aretas nodded. ‘The wicked prince that once was my husband will slay Him in cold blood, just as he did the Baptist.’
‘No.’ Aretas shook his head firmly. ‘The coward Antipas suffered a great political setback from murdering the Baptist. He will be more circumspect with the Hebrew. Indeed, he may well revert the whole matter back to Pilate. Zahi is still free, as are the others of those they call His disciples ... But the Hebrew has many powerful enemies, both among the Sanhedrin and in Rome. You must be brave, Jotapa. Yohanna prepares the horses as
we speak. I leave for Jerusalem with my royal guard to consult with Pilate immediately.’
‘No, Father!’ she cried. ‘The Hebrew would not want you to use your influence.’
‘I swore to protect Him!’ Aretas roared. ‘And I would protect Zahi!’ Aretas’ hands trembled violently.
‘My son...’ Aretas took a deep breath, fighting for control of his emotions. ‘My son ... is an academic, a studier of scrolls. He is no warrior. The rabble who follow the Hebrew are no match for the Roman armies. I will send my royal guard.’ He turned his back on Jotapa and walked back towards his royal tent. Then stopped in mid stride. Haggard. ‘I must send my royal guard,’ he whispered.
Jotapa looked after Aretas, a terrible sorrow on her face. ‘Papa,’ she cried, ‘do you still not know who He is – the Hebrew, the one you so loved?’
Aretas shook his head wearily and continued walking; he turned at the tent entrance.
‘Jotapa, this talk of miracles and wonders and blind eyes that see – my child...’
Aretas looked at her almost pleadingly. Suddenly older, much older than his sixty-seven years.
‘I am a pragmatic man, Jotapa. I am confused. Thirty years is a long time not to see and yet still to believe. You tell me that my first-born, the son of my loins, is healed, but I have not seen Zahi. I know not whether it is myth or something more – whether the Hebrew is man or more.’
He sat heavily on a stone chair, ran his fingers through his greying hair. ‘At times, Jotapa,’ he murmured, ‘my imagination runs away with me.’
He turned to her. ‘But I am a king. Kings of Arabia dare not trust their imagination...’ He stared out to the Negev, past the royal hunting parks, to the horizon. ‘...I cannot.’
‘Father,’ Jotapa grasped his arm, ‘remember that day, the day you talked of incessantly when I was but a child – the day the Hebrew took your hand as a babe, and you lost your sight?’ Aretas growled.
‘You used to say, Papa, when you taught me at bedtime when I was a child, that you lost your sight but gained your inner soul.’
Aretas sighed deeply. ‘He will be safe,’ Jotapa declared. ‘It will be a miracle, just like the healing of Zahi and your compatriot, King Abgar of Edessa, and all the other miracles He has wrought. Her eyes glittered with conviction. ‘Let this be your sign, Father.’ She looked into Aretas’ eyes pleadingly.
‘You wear me down, Jotapa!’ he glowered, though the severity of his features gradually softened.
‘Very well.’ He rose wearily to his feet. ‘Let it be as you declare. Let the Hebrew defeat the Roman Empire with His strange powers,’ he proclaimed. ‘I shall tell Zahi that I stay in the North. He and Duza must return here at once under my protection.’
Aretas walked over to the carved altar at the back of the tent and picked up the small wooden cross. ‘The Hebrew shall prove He is a worthy King. I, Aretas, king of Arabia...’ he held the cross high in his right hand, ‘put the King of the Hebrews to the test!’
* * *
Jotapa sat fidgeting, mounted on her black Arab stallion. Next to her, on a second stallion, sat Ayeshe. Ghaliya had packed provisions and water into four saddlebags.
‘Ayeshe...’ Jotapa lowered her voice. ‘You should not ride! My father will have you whipped for accompanying me.’
The old man gave her a broad, toothless smile. “I nursed your father since he was an infant.’ His face was stern. ‘He will not dare have me whipped. I am ninety years old. I was there at his side when the Nazarene healed his soul. He became a great king of Arabia, Aretas the Just, lover of his people, because his soul was clean.’ The old man’s voice softened. ‘Your father is ailing, princess. You go for Zahi and the Hebrew; I go for a king’s soul. I will go with you – I have chosen.’
Jotapa nodded. ‘You have chosen well, Ayeshe. Zahi waits for us in Jerusalem.’
Ghaliya’s hands trembled as she curtsied to Jotapa. Jotapa took her servant’s hands in hers; Ghaliya’s eyes were wet with tears. ‘Go, my princess. Be an eyewitness. Return to your father with the stories of our Lord’s victorious armies. He will believe then, and all Arabia will be saved.’
‘I go to Zahi and to the Hebrew, Ghaliya. I will bring back such a report, my father will never doubt again!’
The two stallions raced off into the night. Ghaliya wiped her eyes. Then she turned. Far in the distance, in front of the royal festival tent of meeting, a lantern burned, and a figure stood in the darkness, watching as the stallions galloped away. The light from the moon fell across his face.
It was King Aretas.
Chapter Thirty-five
Antonia – AD 30
The dusty, overcrowded streets of Jerusalem were heaving with the news of the dynamic young prophet’s arrest. Jesus of Nazareth, darling of the masses, was to be crucified. The horrifying whisper had reverberated through the bustling Passover crowd like a blazing wildfire. Women threw their aprons over their heads and wept unashamedly in the streets; crowds of strong men picked up their staves and swords, all making their way through the crammed Passover streets to the Praetorium.
It was barely dawn. The agitated mob of men, women, and children that congregated outside the judgement hall was swelling rapidly. Weeping old women had spun cloth for Jesus; harried young mothers had risen at dawn and baked bread for Him. They held their babes to their breasts, praying fervently for Him. Paunchy middle-aged men who saw their own lost fire of youth in Him clutched swords and clubs, ready to protect Him with their lives.
But the largest of the multitude were the swarming horde of youthful zealots, who, away from the rigid oversight of the Sadducees and Pharisees, all aspired to be like the young prophet from Nazareth. He was their hero. They were determined: today Rome must go. A new and powerful revolution was stirring in the streets of Jerusalem – one that would overthrow Rome. This was their moment; they would fight for Jesus of Nazareth.
Accompanying these youths were thousands from the provinces, who had journeyed to Jerusalem for the Passover, each with a tale of how they had been healed, delivered, touched, transformed, regaling the clamouring crowds with their stories of blind eyes being opened, lame limbs walking, diseased flesh made new.
The youths’ incessant roar rose through Jerusalem’s reddening dawn skies. ‘We want Jesus!’ they cried. ‘Give us Jesus!’
All at once, the glowing skies grew dark with clouds as a freezing wind sprang up blowing eeriely across the mob. Thousands of macabre black chariots surrounded the judgement hall. Invisible to the Race of Men. A hundred of Lucifer’s satanic militia stood, towering at each side of the crowd, led by Folcador and his dark legions. Silence fell upon the crowd as the Roman procurator, Pontius Pilate, dressed in his lavish robes, strode out and sat down in a carved, cushioned chair. He sighed deeply, then nodded to the soldier at his right.
Zahi watched, hardly daring to breathe as Jesus stumbled out for the third time that dawn, shoved roughly from behind by a Roman soldier. Zahi paled in shock. Stunned beyond belief. The crowd stared transfixed in revulsion and horror.
Jesus of Nazareth stood silent under the Praetorium’s colossal wings of white marble. Silent. His chest and limbs an unending mass of bloodied, purple open welts. Blood seeped from His open wounds dripping fresh onto the marble floor next to Pilate’s golden-shoed feet. The once dark, handsome features were battered and bruised, marred beyond comprehension, the high cheekbones bloody and grazed, and Jesus’ eyes, which once held such beauty, were purpled and swollen to almost twice their size. The vibrant, handsome young prophet from Nazareth was almost unrecognizable.
Pilate beckoned Him forward. ‘I find no fault in Him,’ he declared. The procurator nodded once more, and this time a scowling insurgent was dragged onto the podium, next to Jesus.
‘It is your custom that I release one prisoner for you at the Passover.’ He hesitated, surveying the crowd before him. ‘So shall I release for you this “king of the Jews” ... or this murderer, Barabbas?’
Huldah, ove
rlord of the Shaman Kings, signalled to the shaman drummers encircling the arena. In compliance, as one the macabre shamans placed black shofars of rams’ horns to their lips and blew. A low decadent subliminal aria sounded across the crowd, and immediately a strange weblike substance enveloped the young zealots as thousands of minuscule bat-like demons the size of locusts flurried out from the blaring shofars. Their bloodsucking talons ripped into the youths’ scalps, slashing at their ears, noses, eyes. The youths stood, in a trance, oblivious to the demons’ harrassment.
Hundreds of bat-like locusts landed on Zahi’s hair, their talons digging into Zahi’s scalp. Zahi shook himself as if in a strange fog. His mind suddenly filled with strange and unsolicited thoughts. The Hebrew must have lied. He was just a jumped-up prophet from Nazareth, a failure. Why had Zahi left treasuries, a palace, a kingdom, for this failed prophet from Nazareth?’ He clasped his hands over his head. His mind felt numbed, drugged.
Then he stared down at the perfectly formed soft, pink flesh of his hands. This was no figment of his imagination. He shook his head as if to dislodge the errant thoughts. He yearned for the strong, disciplined armies of Arabia to burst through the streets of Jerusalem and carry the Hebrew and His followers away to the sanctuary of Petra. Aretas would not fail him. He would wait. He looked around him, perplexed, at the youths around him who a minute ago had been demonstrating furiously against Caiaphas and the Jewish leaders, screaming for Jesus’ release. One by one, the screaming, passionate voices had quieted as though afflicted with a strange stupor.
An ugly roaring grew from another large group of the gathered youths near where the demons had landed. A belligerent raucous chanting.
‘Not this man,’ they began to hiss in derision. ‘...Bar-Abbas! Give us Bar-Abbas!’ ‘Bar-Abbas! Give us Bar-Abbas!’
Bar-Abbas ... Bar-Abbas ... Bar-Abbas...’ the chanting became inflamed by the hundreds of curious onlookers lingering about the Praetorium grounds in hopes of witnessing some gruesome spectacle. A strange unholy smog filled the atmosphere, and as the crowd began to inhale the tepid air surrounding them, their eyes glazed and their faces grew pallid and grey. Then thousands of dark, hunched wort devourers swarmed like a pack of wolves among the crowd and as the clawed demons spewed a sticky tarlike substance from their fangs, whispering satanic enchantments, a horrifying, new chanting began.
