Behold the Man

by Bodie Thoene

  Philo’s chin quivered as he and his mother shared their last breakfast with the big man.

  Tears traced the ravines of his ebony face. “You have been in my arms since you were a frail infant.” Jono struggled to speak. He looked at Claudia. “As if he were my child . . . Oh, forgive me if I am too bold in speech, but my broken heart overflows like waters.” He wiped his tears with the back of his hand.

  Philo laid his cheek against Jono’s hand and kissed it. The two embraced. “Oh, who will carry me here and there, Mother? With Jono I was not a cripple. I walked and ran faster than any other boy.”

  Claudia said, “Look. Starling’s wing is healed. She can fly, but we keep her locked in this cage. How will she ever find her children? Her family?”

  The boy was silent as he studied the little bird. “Then Jono should take Starling with him on his journey. And when he finds her flock, he must let her go.”

  The big man nodded. He sniffed and choked back sobs. “Oh, my dear, dear boy! I will do this. She will keep me company and sing to me on my way home.”

  The parting was hard. Philo, seated by the parapet, watched as Jono, carrying Starling’s cage, strode from the palace gates and out into the crowds of Jerusalem. His shoulders were above the heads of the tallest Jews. Philo called out, “Jono!”

  The Ethiopian prince stopped and looked back. The citizens of Jerusalem flowed around him as though he were a boulder in the center of a vast river. Lifting Starling high, he waved at the little boy on the parapet and placed the birdcage on his shoulder.

  “Always remember I love you,” Jono boomed. Then he turned and walked away, vanishing around the corner.

  Satisfaction flowed over Claudia. No matter what she suffered as a result, she had done what she could now to ensure the safety of their beloved Jono. But not a day would pass that she and Philo would not miss his gentle, comforting, and strong presence.

  Chapter 29

  Jono, prince and mighty warrior of Ethiopia, strode across the face of Israel with Starling’s cage dangling from his index finger.

  How long had it been since he was permitted to speak in his own language? To speak Amharic in the presence of his captors was forbidden, lest he speak treason against Rome. It had been ten years since he had heard his own voice utter even one familiar word in his mother tongue. But now he was a free man. The scroll of his freedom was safely tucked into his belt.

  What Amharic word would he speak first? What phrase could contain the fullness of his joy?

  He pondered this as he studied the little bird in her cage. What did Starling long for more than anything else?

  The word broke forth from Jono’s throat unbidden.

  “Amarachi!” he cried in his own language for the first time since his exile. “God’s grace!” Then he laughed and shouted, “Abidemi! I have seen the world!”

  Yes, he had seen the world and survived, and now he would come home again, where every spoken word was like an old friend.

  He had one promise to keep before he set his face toward Ethiopia.

  Jono stopped at a well in Galilee. He drew water and drank deeply, then offered drops to Starling until she was satisfied.

  Climbing the highest knoll, he shaded his eyes against the sun to find his bearings. There was the Sea of Galilee, shining like a silver plate beneath the blue, blue sky.

  “Ah. Wazzala—beautiful and elegant!”

  And then he spotted something above the western bank. In the far distance rose a dark spiral cloud, like living smoke. It was the starling flock, spinning synchronized patterns in the sky.

  The little bird at the end of Jono’s great arm sang and ruffled her inky feathers. She shook herself and hopped onto her perch in excitement. Hope!

  Jono held her up to see and put his lips to the cage. He smiled broadly. “You hear them too? So these are truly your own family, Starling? They speak your language. I see. I see. They have flown from Rome to the skies above Galilee, and now, at last, we come upon them perhaps only twenty miles from where we stand. Since you are alone, if I turn you loose now, perhaps some hawk will spy you as you sit upon a rock and you will be eaten. No. I will carry you to the flock as I carried your little master. And I will open the cage door only when you are safe and you may fly to your family.”

  Twenty miles was a small distance for the legs of Jono. A day’s journey at most. He took off his head covering and tied it around the metal bars to give Starling shade against the heat.

  Singing a song of freedom and hope, he set out.

  Hours later Claudia sat before her mirror, brushing her hair and aching from the beating Pilate had given her after discovering she had set Jono free. Even her status as Tiberius Caesar’s daughter had not saved her this time. Her clothing would have to be chosen carefully for Herod’s birthday feast that evening to hide the marks of the deep bruises that were immediately apparent. Knowing Jono was safe and free, though, dulled the pain.

  Pilate had railed at her. “Imbecile. Worthless woman! What made you think you could thwart my desires? You are powerless. Under my control.”

  Yes, he had made her pay. And then, when he hadn’t crushed her spirit along with injuring her body, he’d threatened to send his soldiers after Jono.

  Claudia’s heart had quickened in dread, but she had steeled her expression. An idea flickered. “Herod’s feast. We must not be late,” she had reminded him from where she lay prone on the floor.

  He had paused over her, foot poised to deliver another kick. “There’s that.” Then he’d stepped back, scowling in disgust. “He was just a slave. Not worth fretting over. Other things have precedence. Get up. Get dressed. We have Herod’s birthday to attend.”

  Claudia had never been so thankful for an event she hated.

  Chapter 30

  The rainy season had watered the dust in the streets of Jerusalem and reduced the smell of sheep and camel dung. But the change of weather had done little to improve the aroma of Herod’s palace, Claudia thought. Damp and drafty, the odors of mold competed with overused incense to create a sickly, stinking atmosphere.

  The celebrants of Herod’s birthday feast were mostly already too drunk to notice. Claudia and Pilate, along with visiting dignitaries from Nabatea and Parthia, were seated in places of honor near Herod, his wife, Herodias, and her daughter, Salome. Wealthy merchants and prominent Temple officials received special treatment as well.

  Pilate, his usual morose self, stared into the ruby-hued wine as if using it to divine his future in the region he hated.

  His reverie was interrupted by Herod, who raised a glass and loudly called, “To our friend. My friend. The governor. A true friend of Caesar. To Pontius Pilate.” The entire company echoed the sentiment, drinking deeply.

  Pilate, his words already slightly slurred, responded to Herod’s toast. “And to our friend and Caesar’s, Herod Antipas! A man of action who has no fear as he rids us of troublesome prophets! The tetrarch Herod Antipas!”

  Pilate’s sarcasm seemed not to register with Herod at all, Claudia noticed. But with Herodias, it was otherwise. If possible, Herodias’s features sharpened and her eyes took on a dangerous gleam. Claudia watched her whisper something to Salome, receive a quick nod in return, then quietly address Herod.

  Herod clapped his hands. “Now, for our pleasure and the pleasure of our distinguished guests, my daughter, Salome, will dance for us . . . as Queen Esther danced before her king to save her people.”

  Salome stood, swayed slightly until every eye was on her, then addressed Herod. “As Queen Esther was granted her wish, I expect a reward from my father.”

  Herod replied, “Anything for you, sweet Salom
e! Your heart’s desire. Up to half my kingdom.”

  Claudia had read the story of Esther. She recognized these exact words from that account, but she doubted that a motive like Esther’s existed in Salome’s wicked little heart. And, clearly, Herod had already drunk too much wine.

  Herodias and Salome exchanged evil, devious smiles. Something bad was happening, but what?

  “For my reward,” Salome said, “all I want is . . . the head of John the Baptizer, on a platter!”

  Herod guffawed loudly. Some in the crowd laughed nervously.

  Claudia’s heart pattered. This could not be real.

  Still chuckling, Herod turned to see his wife’s eyes boring holes into him.

  “Well?” Salome demanded. “Is this not a small gift to restore the honor of my mother?”

  The audience held its collective breath.

  Fear, guilt, and pride chased each other across Herod’s yellow skin. Herod’s gaze darted about the room, but he found no assistance for his dilemma. In an almost inaudible voice he said, “Let it be done.”

  Herodias summoned one of her husband’s soldiers while Herod drained a cup of wine, refilled it, and drained it again.

  Claudia felt sick. Couldn’t Pilate do something to stop this?

  Raising her slender arm in a triumphal wave, Herodias directed the musicians to play. A drum began to pound and Claudia’s head throbbed in time with it. Layers of mind-numbing sound were added—flutes, lyres, horns . . . and tambourines that hissed like snakes.

  Salome danced her way around the room, lingering near the most attractive unmarried men to run her hands over their shoulders. When the cadence of the music slowed, Salome slithered back to her place beside her mother. A servant, bearing a large silver platter, entered the chamber, accompanied by the Herodian soldier.

  Claudia looked everywhere at once, not wanting to experience what was about to happen. No emotion she witnessed mirrored her own. Herod looked fearful, Herodias victorious, Pilate between bored and amused.

  Her thoughts flickered to Marcus. How would he respond if he were here? He’d be angry—angry enough to draw his sword and kill the whole Herodian clan. Perhaps it was best he’d been banished to a far outpost.

  The platter was placed before Herod, who turned away. Herodias waved for the cover to be removed. It was.

  Claudia was nauseated. Overwhelmed with shock and revulsion, she gasped. Tears streaming, she did not wait for Pilate but stumbled blindly from the palace.

  As Herod’s party continued as though nothing unusual had taken place, Claudia wept in the garden beneath the stars. She knew that the beheading of a prophet for the pleasure of a spoiled girl and her plotting mother would be forgotten tomorrow. Such executions happened in the court of Tiberius with some regularity. Herod was, after all, modeling his rule after the customs of his Roman patron. Still, the savagery of life was something Claudia could not get used to.

  Marcus was right. Nowhere was safe. The Baptizer had died for speaking his mind about Herodias. Even while he’d been standing in the middle of a river in the wilderness, it seemed she heard every whisper. Finally she had taken her revenge. As more prophets arose, such as the Baptizer’s cousin, where would the bloodshed end? Was Jesus of Nazareth next?

  She would do as Marcus had suggested—keep Tiberius informed. She’d tell him about what had happened at the feast tonight. The senselessness of Herod’s behavior. That Herod as tetrarch was a disaster to the Jews . . . to anyone who wished to live in peace. That it was no surprise rebellion brewed among the common folk as a result of such treatment.

  Claudia walked beside Josephus the Elder in the palace garden in Jerusalem the next day. The courtyard in which they strolled had a massive central fountain made of white marble with gold veins, set off by a diamond pattern of inlaid onyx. Jets of water spurted from the mouths of gracefully carved dolphins.

  The plaza was ringed by pomegranate, olive, and fig trees. Birds sang in the branches.

  Stopping where a fine mist from the fountain cooled the heat of the day, Claudia asked, “On the ship you spoke of another prophecy. A Jewish king, suffering for his people, the glory of the Lord revealed . . . the Messiah.”

  Josephus laid his hand on the surface of cool stone encircling the fountain and gestured toward the pool. “I went to see John at the Jordan before his arrest. I saw him baptize a young rabbi . . . a tzadik.”

  “Tzadik?” Claudia repeated. “What is the meaning?”

  “A righteous man,” the scholar explained.

  “Is there such a thing?” Claudia challenged. “A righteous man? Truly righteous?”

  “Perhaps one,” he returned.

  “And do your prophecies name him?” Claudia asked. “How will he be known? When will he come?”

  “He will be called Immanuel, which means ‘God with us.’ But that is not his name. He will be called Son of David, but that is not his name, either,” Josephus explained.

  “If you know, please tell me,” Claudia urged. “I must learn it.”

  “I believe . . .” The elderly man pursed his lips in thought. “His name is Jesus. A Nazarene. Yeshua in Hebrew. And his name means ‘salvation.’ He is a descendant of Israel’s greatest king, David. They are saying by the many miracles he performs that this Jesus may be the savior the prophets foretold. It is written of the Messiah by the prophet Isaiah, ‘Then the eyes of the blind will be opened and the ears of the deaf will be unstopped. Then the lame will leap like a deer.’ ”5

  “Yes!” Claudia said eagerly. “What else?”

  “Say to those with fearful hearts, ‘Be strong, do not fear.’6 Messiah will bring salvation from heaven to all people. He will freely offer mercy, forgiveness, and eternal life to all who believe in him.”

  Claudia stared straight into the old man’s eyes. “Do you believe this? Truly?”

  Josephus took a deep breath before replying. “It is written in the Holy Books. When the Son of David reigns as king in Jerusalem . . .”

  Philo, released from his lessons in Latin and Greek, limped painfully into the sunshine of the garden.

  “When that day comes,” Josephus continued, “he will heal every sickness and the lame will leap and dance for joy.”7

  Another servant, leading Philo’s pony, brought boy and horse together. Philo’s face lit up with purest joy as he stroked the animal’s nose.

  “To dance,” Claudia said with longing in her voice. “A beautiful dream.”

  Lifting his lined face toward a bird singing in the nearest olive tree, Josephus observed, “Do not lightly dismiss dreams. Sometimes dreams are the bright shadows of reality.”

  Claudia straightened her back and shoulders. “Where is this man whose name means Salvation?” she asked firmly.

  “Galilee, they say.”

  “I want to meet him.” She gazed wistfully at her son. “If only it were true . . . and the lame could dance.”

  Part Four

  “I will restore you to health and heal your wounds,” declares the LORD.

  JEREMIAH 30:17

  Chapter 31

  Marcus thundered on Pavor toward his Capernaum home, driven by an uncanny sense that something was amiss. As soon as he reached it, a little after sunrise, he unbridled the horse, let him drink from the watering trough, then led him into the pen. A minute later, he plunged his head and shoulders into the same trough to remove the sweat and dust of Galilee.

  When he called for Carta, though, the boy didn’t come. Instead his friend Kuza emerged from the house.

  “The boy is . . .,” Kuza began haltingly.

 
Marcus strode toward Kuza. “Carta is what?”

  “The boy has been hurt . . . badly. Joanna is with him.”

  The sense of dread that had grown on the journey from Machaerus weighed Marcus’s next words. “Hurt? How?”

  Kuza beckoned Marcus. “Look inside.”

  Marcus was stunned. The small front room was a mess—cooking pots overturned, burst wineskins. He moved to his bedroom. The door hung from one hinge, and his clothing was flung around the room. The stand that held his corona obsidionalis was broken. Red splotches were scattered over the floor and walls. Marcus knew blood when he saw it.

  “You don’t want to see this,” Joanna warned when he moved toward the doorway of Carta’s cubicle.

  What Marcus saw next shocked him to the core. The figure that lay on the cot was barely recognizable as Carta, he was so beaten.

  Carta started to sob. “I tried, Master, to fight him. But he was too strong . . . hurt me, bad.”

  Marcus whirled on Kuza. “Did anyone see who did it?”

  “Some say a Roman wearing black rode away after they heard screams.”

  Vara!

  Joanna’s anger glimmered in her eyes. “Yes, it was Vara. A beast did these things, not a man. An animal that could do unspeakable things to the boy.”

  At those words, Marcus’s gut wrenched. He understood what she meant. Carta had been not only battered but horribly violated. He was likely crippled . . . if he lived.

  “And now his neck is broken,” Joanna continued. “He cannot move arms or legs.”

  Marcus could not stand to hear any more. He had only one mission now—revenge. He would find Vara and make him pay.

  He pushed out of the house, despite Kuza’s pleading, and ran straight to the pen to saddle Pavor.

  The twenty miles had passed pleasantly for Jono and Starling the first day of his freedom. When dusk had settled in, they had made their bed in the fields, and both had slept soundly. It was the first time since Philo’s babyhood that Jono had not awakened during the night to be the boy’s legs.