by Scott Baker
All over the city, people were awake. It was no more than two hours before dawn when we reached the city walls. The Roman guards fought with the zealots. We took advantage of the fray and slipped through the gates unnoticed, entering the city proper. I knew that in about a hundred years from now, the zealots would incite a massive Jewish uprising and the Romans would put it down in the most definitive way. I knew this from my history lessons, but I also wondered if that history could be changing right now. If this assassination was successful, the history I knew might not exist at all.
‘Where to?’ Hamza asked.
‘The north. Jesus and his followers stayed in the hills to the north.’ I only hoped that Barishnikov or Delissio’s agents hadn’t got there first.
At that moment a mob of people, jeering and screaming, exploded around the corner. They came from one of the narrow city streets to our right. These were not zealots, but Jews and Romans alike. Citizens of Jerusalem. We moved back into a side street to let the rabble past when the most curious thing struck me. Women and men were crying.
‘What’s going on?’ Malbool asked. The crowd was thick in the narrow streets and growing steadily all the time. I could not see what was happening through the impenetrable throng.
Hamza and Malbool stayed close behind me as we were engulfed by the mass of people.
‘Hamza, what day is it?’
‘What do you mean? It’s Friday morning.’
‘Are you sure? Are you sure!’
‘Of course I’m sure.’
A flash of horror waved through me. Friday? I had lost track, and was a day behind myself. Not in the same way you were, Shaun, but it was already happening. A woman screamed off to my left, then started to wail hysterically.
‘Look! They’ve got him! They’ve got him!’ she cried. It could not be. I reached my tongue to the back of my mouth and flicked the small switch to start the camera.
I reached out to a woman close to me. ‘What’s happening?’
With tears in her eyes she gripped my robe as if begging me to help. ‘They have him. They’ve arrested him.’ No sooner had she spoken the words than I was torn from her grip and carried along with the growing mass.
I grabbed a man next to me as we moved and jostled down the street. He looked panicked, and struggled in my grip.
‘What’s happening? Do you know?’
The man fought free of my grip. ‘I tell you, I don’t know him! I do not know him!’ He pushed his way through the crowd, insane with grief. In the distance, a rooster signalled the coming of the new day. The man stopped and turned back to me, wide-eyed and staring. Then a strange look crossed his face as understanding dawned. His head hung low as the crowd bustled and carried him further on. I froze, realising I had just met the first Pope – Peter, apostle of Christ.
I turned back and tried to see further up the rising path into the crowd, now illuminated by torchlight. Too fast, it was happening too fast. We were supposed to have a whole day. It could not be.
‘Get to the temple!’ I called to Hamza, who was quickly being squeezed away from me as I was jostled along. ‘Get to the temple and look for Barishnikov. Get ahead of the crowd.’ He was swallowed by the noise and mass of people and forced out of my sight. I turned once again and gripped Malbool by the arms as we were both swept along.
‘Stay with me,’ I said in Roman. ‘The man I told you about, the one I have to interview, it’s him they are talking about. He’s been arrested. They’re taking him to trial now. We have to find Barishnikov and the Romans who want to kill him. I have to get to him before he goes to trial.’
Malbool nodded and kept his eye on me as we moved. Eventually, the crowd fanned out into a larger street and I worked my way forward. I could not get near the source. The most influential figure in the modern world was being led to a defining moment in history. I had to speak to him before that. I had to keep him from being killed prematurely. I was going to be too late. Just a day; but a day that would change everything.
All around me people called out, some crying, some cursing, but all filled with emotion. The rocks and sand beneath my feet were kicked along by the shuffling crowd until finally, after moving slowly in the mass through the city we came to the courtyard of the high priest. Some of those who had joined the throng filtered inside, and the rest of us jostled for position by the gates. It was still dark and the only lights were those cast by burning torches. I called to Malbool and he knelt down. I sat on his shoulders. The big African then stood to his full height and I was raised above the masses.
I still could not see Jesus, but in the distance stood a ring of men in robes and headdresses of brown and yellow. There must have been twenty of them, standing in an organised court. There was no doubt that this was premeditated. Malbool continued to push his way forward, people growling as his wide frame shoved them out of the way. I listened hard and reached down to my side, adjusting the knob on the camera to boost the sound amplification. At last, we came to a ring of soldiers who would let us go no further. They pulled me roughly down from Malbool’s shoulders. I did not resist them, and I could finally see into the courtyard.
Then, it began. There before my eyes I saw the sight no modern man had seen, but millions imagined: the ring of priests, the soldiers and a crowd of followers and accusers alike, all crammed into the high priest’s courtyard. There had been stories, films and stage plays – but this was the real thing. Right here, right now.
All around were elders, scribes and chief priests. Standing in front of them, with his back to me, was a hunched man. One shoulder was dropped slightly, and a mass of hair, matted from blood and sweat, hung about his shoulders. His hands and feet were bound and he did not move, the weight of the chains pulling on him.
Finally, one of the men spoke in a deep baritone voice and the crowd hushed. ‘Who is this beggar? Who is this man bound before me? Why is he chained?’ the man said in a show of ignorance, as if he had no prior knowledge of the events taking place.
‘He is the trouble-maker they call Jesus!’ one of the other priests replied. Instantly cries of fear and anger erupted from the crowd once more. The smell of the crowd filled my nostrils, the unwashed morning sweat of what looked like thousands of bodies.
The deep-voiced man spoke again, continuing his rehearsed charade. ‘Ah! So this is Jesus of Nazareth! This is the man causing so much trouble for the people?’
As he said this, one of the guards holding Jesus drove an elbow deep into the prisoner’s stomach. I winced, seeing him double over in pain.
‘Look at Master Caiaphas when he addresses you, dog!’ The high priest smiled a little, and held up his hand; the show of nobility was barely attempted. I could not believe how blatantly they abused this man. My blood ran cold.
‘They say you’re a king?’ the deep-voiced man continued. ‘So tell me, where is your kingdom?’
Then, before the prisoner had a chance to answer, a second priest spoke. ‘Which line of kings is it that you descend from?’ the man asked, smiling and playing to the crowd.
The chained man did not answer. The jeers rose again. Yet another of the priests called out. ‘Speak up!’
‘Are you not a Galilean? Are you not the son of a carpenter? Yet you say you are a king? Some say you are Elijah. How do you answer?’
Still the man said nothing.
‘Why do you not speak? You have been brought here as a blasphemer, how do you respond?’
Yet another of the priests said, ‘Defend yourself!’
The crowd again began to raise its collective voice as the man stayed silent. I tried to push my way past a guard who seemed to have been distracted by the proceedings, but he moved to block my step. Almost on cue, the crowd hushed, and I looked past the guard to see the man raise his head. He straightened and stood at his full height, perhaps a little less than six feet. Then, he spoke.
‘I have spoken openly. I have spoken for all to hear. I have taught in the temple where we all gathered. Ask those
who have heard what I have had to say.’
The high priest looked around uncomfortably. Then one of the guards responsible for the prisoner’s injuries, spoke.
‘Is this how you speak to the high priest? You speak with such arrogance?’ He accented his point by smacking the prisoner across the face. The blow sent the man to the ground, and those assembled voiced their anger. When the man rose, it was slowly. He breathed deeply, then spoke again.
‘If it is …’ He groaned, then continued. ‘If it is evil that I have spoken, tell me what evil. What evil have I said? But if you cannot, then why is it that you hit me?’ It was said plainly, highlighting the abuse without a hint of aggression.
As the priests surveyed the crowd I scanned their faces, my eyes coming to rest on a stocky, broad-nosed priest. One hand clutched a staff, the other hung loosely by his side. He looked around at the gathering with a crooked smile, pleased with himself, proud of his piece in the show. Then something twigged. I looked hard at the man. He was dressed in the same manner as the others, long robes of ornate brown and yellow stripes, and a headdress that stood high and fanned out, falling down past his waist at the back. He looked across those gathered, and our eyes met for an instant.
Then it happened. The man’s smile vanished. His face dropped, and his eyes widened.
Suddenly he threw his head back and screamed, clutching his temples. The high priest had begun to speak again, and the crowd yelled. The noise was so loud that the man now curled over on his knees in agony drew no attention.
‘Then we will listen to those who have heard you. Bring those who have witness against this man,’ said Caiaphas, the high priest of the Pharisees. But I was not watching him. My eyes were locked firmly on the kneeling priest, a man who was clawing at his head with his fingers. Then suddenly, he vomited.
Those around him stepped back but paid the man little attention. In another circumstance it would have been a cause for alarm, but everyone here was filled with emotion, absorbed by the trial. The priest wiped his mouth and looked up, his eyes wide, comprehension dawning on his face. He looked first at the prisoner, who was now being accused of using devils to drive out devils. Then up the hill beyond the courtyard walls, over to the Roman district. Finally his eyes came to settle on me. Recognition.
Beneath the dark-bearded face and headdress, there was no doubt whose eyes they were. Vladimir Barishnikov. For a brief moment our eyes locked, and then, with the speed of a snake, he shot up and ran back through the crowd.
I knew that what I had just seen was an awakening, a dawning of understanding and a barrier being broken in the brain. By my presence I had woken the dormant memories within the Russian agent. By jostling through the crowd, by showing my face, I had set his plan in motion. I had caused the very thing I was here to stop. I cursed myself and then turned to Malbool.
‘The Russian. That priest who ran off, that’s him. That’s Barishnikov.’
Malbool shook his head, indicating that he hadn’t seen the man. ‘We must stop this!’ he then said to me as yet another guard open-handedly slapped Jesus across his already beaten face.
‘We cannot. We cannot change this.’
‘What do you mean? They are beating this man for no reason. He’s chained up and they are beating him in front of a crowd. They are humiliating and knocking him senseless. What has he done?’
I tried to separate the scene in front of us from my knowledge of the event, and I saw how it looked. ‘You must stay with him,’ I said. ‘You have to make sure they don’t kill him. There are two Roman agents here who don’t want him to survive till morning. Stay with him and watch. Intervene only if they are going to kill him. He will be beaten savagely, but do nothing unless it looks like death. You have to trust me. Do you understand? He has to die on a cross, no other way.’
Malbool stared at me, not comprehending. But then slowly he nodded. I gave a curt nod in return and set off after Barishnikov.
Freeing myself from the crowd, I looked around desperately. The courtyard was surrounded by high walls, and I assumed it was from here that Barishnikov would strike. The crossbow would not be invented for a thousand years, but from the top of these walls it would be no trouble to launch a spear into the centre of the prisoner’s back.
After circling the perimeter of the sandstone structure I still had not caught a glance of the Russian. Where was he? He had nowhere to go.
It was then, almost by chance, that I glanced towards the western road. Like a man possessed, Barishnikov sprinted. I took off after him, hearing the howls from within the courtyard – cries of, ‘These proceedings are a mockery!’ and, ‘Where are the other councillors?’
My heart pounded as I steadily gained on the Russian, knowing that I had always been faster than him. But a disconcerting thought crossed my mind: he was the only agent who had beaten me in combat. Recruited from Spetsnaz, the Russian SAS, Barishnikov was an expert in unarmed combat. So, what would I do when I caught him?
Where was he going? I examined the path we were taking and concentrated. Instantly I was transported to my subconscious, planted with every element about this place during my training at The Facility. Imprinted as I slept. He was heading west. I suddenly knew to where: the Governor’s house. The trial of Jesus would move there soon. He was getting ahead of the crowd.
I drew closer to the stocky Russian with every step.
‘Vladimir! Stop!’ I called in English. He looked back but did not reply as he continued to huff and puff up the winding stone pathways of the city. Who knows how long he had been here, living the life of a priest? His age was hard to guess, but he was clearly not in the same physical shape as when he left The Facility. Behind me, torchlights started to snake a path away from the temple. They too were on their way to the house of the Roman Governor.
The road wound back on itself and dropped a level as we started to descend the mountain. As soon as Barishnikov rounded the bend, I leaped towards him from above, crashing down on him. We rolled off the path and tumbled down hard on the stone another level below. The fall knocked the breath out of me as I landed, and streams of blood pulsed from my finger stumps like water out of a severed hose.
Barishnikov began to scramble to his feet, but I reached out and pulled him down. He lashed out with his leg and caught me square in the face, knocking two teeth from my mouth. My grip loosened on the Russian’s robes and he slid out, but he did not run. He knew he had to deal with me here and now.
‘You came along just in time. I have been in a dream, and you have wakened me,’ he said, still in Hebrew.
‘Even your Hebrew has a Russian accent,’ I replied in English. ‘You can’t do this, Vladimir. Delissio is dead. You have failed.’
‘Failed?’ Barishnikov raised an eyebrow. ‘On the contrary, if it were not for you, I may well have failed. But now you have come along and saved me. You have saved Our Lord.’
‘Saved Our Lor—’
His boot raised straight up into my groin, and I dropped to my knees, my eyes bulging in that sickening agony known by all men. Intense nausea shot into my stomach, and I barely noticed the blade being pulled from under Barishnikov’s robes as it flashed in the moonlight. Incapacitated, I waited for the blow. When it came, it decapitated Barishnikov cleanly.
His head bounced twice before his body fell.
Hamza stood behind him, his blade coated in Soviet blood. I did not understand, nor did I complain. I smiled up at my friend, but the smile he returned was full of sadness.
‘Hamza?’ I asked, not bothering to thank him, a gesture and its gratitude immediately understood.
The Jordanian who had been my friend and confidant let the tears well in his eyes even as his smile broadened. I did not understand how he knew to be here. He answered before I could ask.
‘My mission was you. It was always you, my brother. And now it is done.’
‘What? What are you talking about? Barishnikov said something. He said that I had saved Our Lord. Do you know what
that means?’
‘I know,’ Hamza said, the tears now freely flowing down his face. ‘I have a message for you from the professor,’ he said, referring to our project leader at The Facility who had taken a particular liking to me for a reason I could not fathom at the time.
‘The professor? What? What message?’
‘He said to remind you: “Write it down. Everything you have seen here; everything you have done.”’ I stood for a moment, I did not understand. Obviously now I do. But Hamza had not finished.
‘And I have a message from me: I love you, my brother. As salamu aleiykum. Thank you.’
In that instant, a spear slammed into Hamza’s chest. The force of the blow drove his body backwards and off the path. It was gone. Hamza was gone. It had all happened too quickly. Far too quickly. I was not ready for it. I had not had a chance to prepare, not even a chance to register surprise before I heard the voices of guards from the street above me.
‘They have killed a priest! They have killed a priest!’ The second spear flew, giving me barely enough time to roll out of the way. What was happening? Still suffering from the agonising pain in my groin, I half-fell, half-leaped to the next street level down. I landed next to the body of my friend. He lay with an accepting face and a wooden shaft growing from the centre of his chest. He was dead. Just like that. I did not have time to contemplate the insanity that had just taken place as I set off running into the darkness.
I ran blindly, heading west. To kill a priest in Jerusalem earned an instant death penalty. I did not understand what was happening. One minute my friend saved my life, the next he was dead. And the thing that disturbed me the most was that he knew it was going to happen.
I rounded a bend and ducked into an alcove. The sounds of the rabble further back along the street began to intrude on my sanctuary. There was too much happening that didn’t make sense.
Barishnikov had told me I had ‘saved Our Lord’, and I did not understand what he meant by it. In my mind I replayed the moment before Delissio was killed. It was a moment of uncanny resemblance to the one that had just taken place. Just seconds before he was shot with the arrow he had said: ‘And with you dead, there will be no one to stop them. I’m afraid you’ll never get your interview with Christ.’ I had taken it to mean that I would never get my interview because they were going to kill Jesus, but he had meant I would not get it because he was going to kill me. Realisation dawned. They had never meant to kill Jesus; they had meant to save him from crucifixion. Then, who? Who were they going to—
