by Brock Thoene
Marcus did not feel reassured. Quintus was a good man who did not go about looking for trouble, but all the Roman troopers in Judea and many of their commanders were Syrian, Samaritan, Idumean, or of other nationalities equally hostile to Jews. Given Vara’s ruthless leadership, such men might quickly decide that all Jewish throats needed to be stepped on. Marcus hoped again that Yeshua of Nazareth would stay far away from Jerusalem for at least the next week.
“Tomorrow I’m taking a detail to Jericho,” Quintus noted. “Would you care to accompany us?”
Since Marcus had no authority over any of the soldiers in Jerusalem, it was a courteous gesture meant to show Quintus’ respect for him.
“No, thank you, Quintus,” Marcus replied. “My orders are to inspect the aqueduct project. Tomorrow I’m riding to the far end of the construction. I’ll work my way back from there . . . in time to return to Jerusalem by Passover,” he added significantly.
This warranted a tightened jaw and a quick gesture of approval. “I’m glad of that, sir,” Quintus said.
Nakdimon came to the house of El’azar of Bethany after sundown. Better not to travel on to Yerushalayim in the dark, he reasoned, and besides, there were important matters to discuss.
He was welcomed and offered quarters for the night. It was as if the siblings wanted to reconnect with someone who had also experienced the wonder of events in Galilee.
He sat down to supper with El’azar, Marta, and Miryam. They had not been on the hillside when Yeshua fed the multitudes, so Nakdimon repeated the story. Details were being passed on from person to person and village to village throughout the land. No doubt the tale would reach the ears of the Sanhedrin and High Priest Caiaphas before Nakdimon arrived in Jerusalem.
Nakdimon shared with the siblings what had unfolded before his eyes: the feeding of thousands on what had been five barley loaves and two fish. There followed a cry from the people that Yeshua should be King! But he denied the offer and disappeared into the hills at dusk.
Miryam, her deep brown eyes shining when she spoke, recounted, “It’s been half a year since he changed my life and I first followed him. And there isn’t ink enough to record what Yeshua has done and said.”
Short, plump Marta and lean El’azar exchanged looks. It was clear the most amazing miracle in their lives had been the beautiful Miryam’s change of heart. And perhaps, Nakdimon thought, the radical difference in their own attitudes.
“I was a cynic.” El’azar dipped his bread into the sauce. “But no more.”
His openness brought Nakdimon to the point. “Would you be willing, if called upon, to share what you witnessed before the council? Even if it cost your standing among the elders?”
“I’ll tell what I saw! What really happened,” El’azar declared, scratching his wiry, reddish beard. “Anywhere. To anyone. It doesn’t matter what it costs.”
At this Marta’s thin lips pressed together in a tight line of disagreement, but she said nothing. Instead she rose from the table and cleared the dishes. It was plain that the dowdy, middle-aged spinster was not quite willing to throw everything out the window and follow the Master.
Miryam, on the other hand, smiled and placed her hand on her brother’s sleeve. “So, El’azar! You’re willing to give everything you have to follow him. To speak the truth bravely, even if it means losing all? Reputation? Position? Respect of others?”
“A small price compared to what this may mean to Israel, isn’t it? The restoration of our people to freedom.” El’azar’s clear green eyes blazed with determination. “The return of righteous rule in Yerushalayim? Sending Herod Antipas and the Roman governor packing once and for all? Yes! I’ll risk everything for that!”
“Treason, brother,” Miryam said. But she was smiling, evidently pleased at her brother’s change of heart.
“Here’s to treason then,” he said, gulping his wine.
“Then you’ve come to it at last,” Miryam added softly. “As I did.”
“Yes,” El’azar replied, seeming surprised by his sister’s assessment. “It’s too important, isn’t it? We’d better get it right the first time.”
Nakdimon informed them, “The Sanhedrin has hired fellows to move with Yeshua’s followers. Spies. Unsavory sorts. All of them. Twisting what they’ve seen and heard into something false. Accusing Yeshua of wanting to overthrow Rome and the rulers of Israel. Ominous threats. I’ve heard their testimony. We need men of standing to speak the truth.”
“There’ll be many who stand with us,” El’azar declared. “There are men of intelligence and honesty on the council. Your uncle, Gamaliel? What’s he think about this?”
Nakdimon hesitated before answering. “He’s wise to be cautious. I’ll give him my report tomorrow when I get home. The cohen hagadol’s party is in opposition to Gamaliel. Looking for a way to discredit him. Yes. My uncle will require proof. He’ll need to see a sign for himself. And Yeshua doesn’t give signs for the sake of proving something to someone. Only to touch on a need, I think. Gamaliel may want to meet with you ahead. That is, if your testimony is accepted before the council.”
Miryam beamed. This cause of proclaiming the unarguable power of Yeshua of Nazareth had clearly united two parts of the estranged family.
Nakdimon observed Miryam. She was so utterly changed inside that even her physical appearance seemed altered. What had been hard and seductive before now had softened into a quiet beauty. Desirable in a different way, and yet . . .
Nakdimon guarded his thoughts. No. Miryam’s history remained a subject of gossip. Changed though she might be, she could never again be considered respectable among polite society. No acts of charity in faraway Magdala could restore what people knew about her past.
His hand touched hers as they dipped their bread. Warm color climbed into his face.
She averted her eyes. There was an awkward pause. Did she know what he was thinking?
Marta returned, her heavy face puckered in disapproval. Had she seen the way Nakdimon looked at Miryam?
As if to put an end to speculation, Miryam excused herself and retreated to her room.
Marta followed shortly after.
Discussion of politics and Israel’s future continued into the late hours between El’azar and Nakdimon.
Nakdimon was keenly aware when the light shining from Miryam’s slatted door finally went out. Only then did he excuse himself and wearily trudge upstairs to bed.
DAVAR
The rattle of dishes and the smell of food roused Nakdimon from his dreams. He washed and changed into clothing more suitable to his rank than the traveling clothes he had been wearing. Covering his head with his prayer shawl he began morning devotions.
He heard the light tread of a woman’s footsteps on the balcony outside his room. Moments later the scent of perfume drifted in through the slatted door and lingered like a feminine presence in the chamber, clouding his focus. “Blessed are You . . .”
That would be Miryam, he thought. The notorious. The beautiful. And now the follower of the Rabbi of Nazareth. “O King of the Uni verse ...”
Her voice answered the call to breakfast from her sister, Marta. “I’m coming! No. I don’t know if he’s up yet.” Then a tentative rapping at his door. “Reb Nakdimon?”
He inhaled her fragrance, then cleared his throat gruffly. “A moment please . . . morning prayers,” he informed her.
“Pardon,” she whispered, and he did not hear her retreat.
He attempted to resume, but his thoughts were far from prayers. There were many things to think about: the certain conflict in Jerusalem, Yeshua of Nazareth, the response of the Sanhedrin and his uncle Gamaliel when he brought his report from Galilee.
And yet despite these weighty matters, Nakdimon was thinking about finding a mother for his children. Thinking about a wife. Remembering what it had been like to wake up beside Hadassah. And now imagining he might be able to wake up next to another woman and find the same measure of contentment.
&nb
sp; He was, in spite of his recitation of the words of praise and blessing, thinking about the woman exuding the aroma of a garden as she walked past his door, enticing in her newfound innocence.
Except that her past put her beyond reach.
But not beyond dreaming.
Certainly Marta might make a more suitable mother for his seven offspring. But then he had servants to help with the children. And there was always his mother.
This morning his prayers were a jumble of once-again-awakened longings. Not for Hadassah, who was beyond his reach, but for someone very much alive.
He folded his tallith and left the bedchamber. Miryam was in the atrium, gazing into a pool of water. Long dark tresses cascaded over her shoulder.
At the closing of his door she glanced up and smiled at him. “Good morning, Reb Nakdimon. Did you sleep well?”
“Yes,” he lied, not telling her that his sleep had been filled with visions of her.
It was near evening on the third day of their journey when Emet, Avel, and Ha-or Tov reached the outskirts of Beth-lehem. The boys were tired from the long hike up from the ford of the Jordan near Jericho. Emet’s feet were again raw and bloody.
Avel had set the rapid pace. Since their destination was in sight he now seemed willing to rest. “Ready to eat?”
Emet put a grubby hand to his empty stomach in reply. Hunger tore fiercely at his insides. “Please.”
Ha-or Tov grumbled. “About time, I’d say.”
Avel made for a large flat boulder where they could scan the horizon for the tower and finish the last of their barley loaves.
It was, Emet thought as they divided their supper, a kind of celebration. They had made their pilgrimage safely, and they would find the man they sought at Migdal Eder. They would give him Yeshua’s message. Zadok would be their protector until Yeshua came for them.
“What does a tower look like?” Ha-or Tov queried.
“Tall and round like the trunk of a giant hollow tree. Made of stone.”
Emet breathed a sigh of relief as he ate his meager supper and studied the landscape below them.
Beth-lehem, “the House of Bread,” was appropriately named. The town was made of neat, whitewashed little dwellings with domed roofs that resembled loaves of unbaked dough on a baker’s slab. The village had once been the home of Ruth, Boaz, Obed, Jesse, and David. It was surrounded by rich fields of winter wheat and threshing floors, like the one where Ruth had first spoken to Boaz, her kinsman redeemer.
Along the more precipitous slopes were terraced vineyards and almond orchards. Vast flocks of sheep grazed on the stubble of recent grain harvested in the valley nearby.
It was Avel who first spotted the Tower of the Flock. “There. Look there! Migdal Eder.”
At the center of the pasture was the round stone structure. It was from this watchtower that Temple shepherds tended thousands of sheep purchased with sacred Korban money. These were the animals destined for sacrifice at the high altar in Jerusalem. All firstborn male lambs born in Beth-lehem within the vicinity of the Tower of Migdal Eder were set apart as offerings to the Most High.
The earth undulated like the surface of the Sea of Galilee.
“Sheep?” Ha-or Tov asked.
Emet nodded. He had never seen this many creatures in one place. “Thousands.”
“Almost Passover,” Avel explained. “Every day they’ll take some of them from here to Yerushalayim for sacrifice.”
Ha-or Tov gestured past the herd toward an enormous castle high on a hill beyond Beth-lehem. “But what’s that?”
Avel explained, “Herodium. The fortress of the old dead king. The butcher king. They say it has ghosts. Haunted by the spirits of people he murdered. Demons dance on the walls, they say. Also, there are gardens and ponds where you can sail a boat. Marble and ivory on the floors, they say. A Roman garrison stays there. And the men who work on Pilate’s aqueduct.”
“I wouldn’t sleep in such a place.” Ha-or Tov’s eyes grew wide, as if he was contemplating a night with devils dancing on the walls. “And I wouldn’t want to be one of the traitors building Rome’s aqueduct, either! It’s cursed. I heard the rebels say it! It’s cursed of God.”
Emet could see the elevated arches of the aqueduct, which would carry water northward to Jerusalem when it was completed.
Compared to Roman building projects and the glowering palace of Herodium, Migdal Eder appeared insignificant.
Emet stared at the heights of Herodium. A chill coursed through him. It was an evil place, casting a long shadow over the peaceful valley of the sheepfold.
Avel wiped his mouth nervously on the back of his hand. Had he also sensed the darkness? He leapt to his feet. “Finish your bread,” he ordered Emet and Ha-or Tov. “It’ll be night soon. There’s more than a mile to go. We stayed too long.”
Twilight pursued the boys down the slopes and into the Valley of the Sheepfold. From high atop the tower a shofar blared a signal that resounded across the swale.
Rousing, as if it recognized the meaning, the flock began to stir. The smell of dung grew strong as the animals were brought in from their pastures for the night. The racket of bleating drowned out other sounds. Dust choked the air.
As Emet, Avel, and Ha-or Tov approached Migdal Eder on a path between two pastures, Emet could see that vast acres extended out of sight. The near fields were divided by stone walls the height of a man’s hip.
Pregnant ewes, sides bulging with imminent birthing, were nearest the Tower of Migdal Eder. Fat, woolly mothers with tiny, newborn lambs inhabited the next ring of pastures.
There were lambing stables built into caves along the limestone cliffs, stocks for shearing and castrating, and sheds for bales of wool. Beyond these was pasture for recently weaned lambs and fields where the ewes grazed freely with a ram picked for qualities to breed the finest offspring.
On the other side of the tower were holding pens to fatten the unblemished male lambs. There they awaited the journey up the road to Jerusalem.
Overseeing the sheep-rearing operation was an army of weather-hardened herdsmen. Crooked staffs in hand, they were accompanied by fierce-looking, sharp-fanged dogs. To Emet, the canine assistants looked as if they were merely one step removed from wolves, yet they trotted attentively at the sides of their masters. Commands were issued to them in the language of whistles, which instantly sent dogs to circle the herds and nip at the heels of reluctant sheep.
“Get up! Up! Up, I say! Return! Return! Return!” came the call from the tower, echoed throughout the valley by the throats of scores of shepherds.
Why had the Master sent the boys here? Emet wondered. And how, in this bustle, would they find the man named Zadok?
Avel, more confident than the other two, led the way. He had a strange smile on his lips, Emet noted. Avel marched toward Migdal Eder like someone coming home after a long journey.
Migdal Eder loomed five stories high. It had one door, and above the second story windows were set around at regular intervals.
Emet raised his face as a figure moved on the rooftop and leaned slightly over the parapet. A white-haired shepherd raised a shofar to his lips and issued one short, sharp note. This was followed by a series of calls, like a warning, and concluded with another clipped, emphatic blast. The signal reverberated in the hills as the gates of each sheepfold slid into place for the night.
After spending the day in further discussions with El’azar, Nakdimon finally arrived at the gates of Jerusalem that night. He hired a pair of link boys to lead him home with their blazing torches.
Business was good, they told him when he asked. The country bumpkins in town for pesach needed guides to take them from one place to another. Yes, the Jerusalem Sparrows were enjoying a boom in business.
Nakdimon ventured, “Do you know a Sparrow named Avel?”
The two exchanged wary looks. “He’s long gone.”
“What happened to him?”
“Went to find the Messiah and kill Romans,
last we heard.”
“Who is the Messiah?” Nakdimon tested.
“Does it matter? As long as he sets Yerushalayim free. Kills our enemies! Everyone’s looking for him to come this Holy Day. We’ll join him and fight with Avel.”
“A daunting task for one so young.”
“He’ll grow up. We’ll grow up. Messiah will lead us, and then they’d better watch out!”
This was the sentiment on the streets. Remembering Avel and the poverty of the Sparrows, Nakdimon paid them twice the set fee for a link and sent them away.
At the sound of Nakdimon’s voice, Zacharias, the elderly Ethiopian servant, threw back the gate and cried like a baby as Nakdimon entered.
“Oh, Master Nakdimon! We heard you’d been hurt! I told herself it was a rumor, but just the same we were worried! The children looked for you to come each day! Your uncle Gamaliel sent your servant Eli to the Galil yesterday to seek you. I suppose since you’re here, he’ll come back without you. The whole world is boiling like a stew. Not a time for a man to be away from his family. Your dear mother has been . . .”
“Nakdimon!” Nakdimon’s mother, wrapped in bedclothes, scurried into the courtyard. She scolded, “Where have you been?”
He embraced her, kissed her cheek. “How are the girls?”
“All six of them . . . in need of a mother.”
“And little Samuel?”
“In need of a mother.”
“Well, Em, I’ve come home empty-handed this time. Nothing in my satchel could remotely pass for a female. A grandmother will have to do for a while longer, I suppose.” An image of Miryam flitted through his mind. But no. Not Miryam either. Not unless they closed the Yerushalayim house and moved to Gaul.
Em patted his cheek. “You need a bath, son.” She flicked her fingers, sending Zacharias off to deposit the donkey in the stable and heat water for Nakdimon. “Are you hungry?”
