Jerusalem's Hope

by Brock Thoene

  But how could he explain his failure to deliver the basket?

  Avel would be ashamed of him. When the story got out, Lev would make his life miserable.

  He pressed ahead.

  The walking got easier, but Emet’s sense of terror didn’t abate when the canyon opened out into a flat. Ahead of him, looming over the distant slopes, was the broken fang of Herodium. Its turreted windows smoldered with orange lights, but there was no comfort in gazing at the brooding castle of the butcher king.

  Even worse, reaching toward him like an outstretched tentacle, was the sinuous line of the aqueduct, ending in the claw-shaped Tower of Siloam.

  Was he hopelessly lost? How could he go so far astray when all he had to do was walk down a hill and find men gathered around a fire?

  Then he spotted a momentary gleam at the base of Siloam Tower. A blue spark appeared, flickered, then disappeared almost before Emet was certain he’d seen it.

  It came again. Someone striking a flint, trying to light a flame.

  He’d found the camp after all, Emet thought, flooded with relief. Perhaps the shepherds had followed a lost lamb, or perhaps Avel hadn’t really known where the night watch was located. But no matter, Emet had succeeded.

  Marching toward the structure, Emet observed the shadowy forms of dark-clad men against the lighter expanses of stone. A half-score or more he saw when their lumpish forms marred the clean, straight lines of the scaffolding.

  What were they doing?

  A groaning sound reached his ears. It came from the timbering near the top of Siloam Tower. It sounded as if the structure itself moaned and screeched.

  He froze.

  A hand grabbed him by the hair. The prick of a knifepoint gouged his throat. “What’re you doing here?” a guttural voice demanded.

  Asher!

  Would he be recognized? Was Kittim nearby?

  “Speak up!” Asher ordered. “Who sent you?”

  “I . . . I’m lost,” Emet said. “Nobody sent me. I’m lost.”

  There was an instant when his head was tugged backward. Emet expected the sweep of the blade across his neck. He cried out, but instead of his throat being cut, a palm clapped across his mouth.

  “Quiet!” Asher commanded.

  Emet had not been recognized. He blessed the Almighty for the darkness! Nor could his words give him away; he’d had none when he and Asher had last met.

  Asher hissed horrifying visions into Emet’s ear.

  “Don’t tell anyone!” Asher warned, snarling hot breath against Emet’s cheek. “If you tell, I’ll come for you. You won’t see me, but I’ll see you. I’ll come in the night and . . .” Asher made a gurgling sound, then shoved Emet away. “Go!”

  Dropping the basket, Emet escaped.

  The orange eyes of Herodium watched him flee. Every time he stumbled into a thornbush and scrambled upright again, its gaze followed him. He didn’t stop running until he reached the rendezvous where Avel and Ha-or Tov awaited him.

  They teased him for running, teased him for being frightened, then stopped teasing when they saw his hands and face streaked with the blood of puncture wounds and heard his breath coming in painful gasps.

  Emet, so grateful for his newfound voice, did not speak all the way back to Migdal Eder.

  ADONAY

  The note from Zadok arrived at Herodium by the hand of a sullen messenger just after dawn.

  Marcus studied its contents with concern:

  To Centurion Marcus Longinus; Gaius Robb, engineer of the Roman aqueduct; and Oren of Jerusalem, foreman of the masons;

  from Zadok of Migdal Eder, chief shepherd of the flock:

  Gentlemen, contrary to our original agreements regarding the sanctity of Beth-lehem pastures, your stonemasons continue to destroy our grazing land with callous disregard. I myself have visited the most fertile land of our valley and found it trampled and destroyed by those who carry stones onto our field. These grazing grounds have been considered holy to the flock since the days of our ancient shepherd King David once watched over his father’s sheep. The land you defile is more than simply a pasture, just as the sheep your men have stolen were more than sheep. The Tower of the Flock was in place long before this new Roman tower that destroys our valley. The sanctity of our purpose on this land supercedes the outrage you inflict on sacred ground. Please see to it before further damage takes place.

  I look forward to a speedy resolution to this matter. I have sent a copy of this letter, as well as further elaboration of the violations by your workmen, to the Sanhedrin for their consideration.

  Signed, Zadok, chief shepherd of Migdal Eder

  So. The old man had found something to complain to the elders in Jerusalem about in spite of Marcus’ meeting and payment for the stolen sheep?

  So be it.

  Now the focus had shifted to trampled grass, had it? Well, then.

  Angry at the charge, Marcus skipped breakfast and unrolled the plans for the aqueduct.

  In reviewing the schematic representation Marcus quickly spotted its most important feature: the junction between the existing water supply route and the new one. This would also be the edifice most crucial to engineer properly.

  The surrounding land was at the heart of Zadok’s grumbling.

  Marcus mounted Pavor and rode out again from Herodium.

  On the way he passed a line of drovers goading their oxen toward the same place. Their carts were loaded with building materials for the work.

  It was these carts that had become the focus of controversy between the shepherds and the stoneworkers. Marcus was in a foul temper. Most likely there would be a fresh complaint every day. When Marcus had accepted the assignment, he hadn’t expected a constant stream of unpleasantness. He had thought perhaps he could, on occasion, find a reason to ride to Bethany.

  After all, Miryam of Magdala was at Bethany with her brother.

  Miryam had been uppermost in his mind as he rode south.

  He knew well that he had been picked by Pilate for this assignment in Beth-lehem for two reasons. First, he had managed to get along with the Jewish leaders of Capernaum. He had helped them build their synagogue, hadn’t he? But could he also tame the ire of the wild shepherds of Beth-lehem? They were a different breed than the Galileans he had come to know and respect. Second was the belief that perhaps Marcus was too sympathetic toward the Jews. After all, Marcus had taken a Jewess as his lover, had he not? And was he not supportive of Yeshua of Nazareth in his reports? Did the record not show that Centurion Marcus Longinus had a certain compassion toward the Jews?

  Compassion in a centurion wasn’t a quality valued by his superiors.

  Well, today whatever sympathy Marcus had arrived with vanished! This obscure assignment was bound to be a position rife with trouble and complaint every moment! Chasing bar Abba and the bandits in the wilderness of Jericho seemed like a peaceful stroll through the Lyceum compared to controlling the simmering hatred in this stinking, woolly stockyard!

  The problem stretched across the valley below him.

  East of Beth-lehem, not far from the trade route connecting Jerusalem and the Dead Sea fort of En-gedi, was the reservoir feeding the aqueduct built by Herod the Great. It was at this point that Pilate’s project and the existing water supply route would unite.

  Herod’s aqueduct, ponderous and ungainly by Roman standards, carried the precious fluid simultaneously on two levels. The higher channel had enough elevation to supply the Temple Mount. Once it reached the Holy City, conduits of fire-hardened clay conveyed the water into the cavernous cisterns beneath the platform of the sanctuary. There the liquid was in constant use, both for the ritual bathing required of the priests and, more prosaically, for cleaning up after the countless sacrifices and sluicing thousands of gallons of blood into the Kidron Valley.

  The lower channel answered the secular purposes of Jerusalem’s population. When it arrived at the city, it delivered its water into the Pool of Siloam at the city’s southern
extremity.

  Because of this ultimate destination, the structure built to unite the new aqueduct with the old was to be called the Tower of Siloam.

  Seeps and springs spilling into Herod’s reservoir made the land around the tower site extremely fertile, some of the best pastureland for the flocks of Migdal Eder. Even in the dry season, and indeed during dry years, the natural bowl provided feed in plenty.

  In the wet season, like the one just ended, it was lush with green grass higher than a lamb’s back. By judicious rotation of pasturage, the shepherds were able to preserve the bountiful nature of the area, using it specifically to fatten lambs destined for priority transport to the Temple.

  The first thing Marcus noticed when he arrived on-site was the new tower rising adjacent to the existing aqueduct. There was as yet no connection between the two structures, but three courses of mammoth foundation stones were in place. Above these a timber scaffolding outlined the location of the graceful arches that would eventually stand there.

  The second thing he noticed was hundreds of sheep contentedly munching their fodder, seemingly oblivious to the construction.

  These were both positive notes automatically filed by Marcus for his report to Pilate and defense against any further accusation.

  But the situation was not all good news.

  Ringing the inner and outer slopes of the lake basin were wagon tracks . . . lots of them. Heavily laden with blocks from quarries miles away, the wheels of the oxcarts and the hooves of the beasts themselves had ground the precious pasture into the mud. Even worse were the marks left by the passage of wheel-less sledges. Dragged along the ground, they had planed the hillside like a carpenter smoothes the edge of a beam. Loads of cut stones, heaps of timber, and mounds of sand and lime for mortar indiscriminately littered the landscape.

  The scene resembled a city fallen to a siege and knocked to pieces by its conqueror.

  All right then. The old one-eyed shepherd had validity to his complaint.

  The unnecessary destruction of much valuable grass would not go unchallenged. Perhaps, Marcus thought, this was fodder for insurrection. This possibility was evident from the sour looks Marcus received from the shepherds he passed.

  On-site Marcus spotted Gaius Robb, chief of the surveying crew. He was discussing a feature of the construction with the Jewish stonecutter Oren and Oren’s apprentice son, Benjamin. “You see where we had to remove the wings buttressing the existing primary arch,” Robb said, “in order for the tower to form a proper connection. I cannot stress strongly enough how crucial the scaffolding is at that point and how fast your men must work. Until the new structure is properly braced, the weight of the old will be pushing outward . . . a dangerous situation.”

  Oren’s reply was confident. “I understand. The way the work is arranged there will be no more than one day’s danger . . . two at most. Thereafter the tower will be more solid than Herod’s builders ever imagined.”

  Marcus observed, not wishing to interrupt such a pivotal discussion. After a moment Gaius Robb saw him.

  “Centurion,” Robb said, inviting him to join them. “An interesting problem, this.” He flipped over several charcoal-on-parchment sketches, giving details of props, bracing, and reinforcement. “Meshing two different styles of building is always a challenge, eh?”

  “We have another problem,” Marcus said bluntly, passing Zadok’s message to Robb. “Is there a reason the material is scattered all over? And why wasn’t a proper road staked out?”

  Robb scanned the note but seemed baffled by the criticism. “Does it matter?” he asked. “There’s nobody here but sheep. What’s the value of a bit of grass more or less?”

  Marcus studied Oren. It was clear the stonecutter knew instantly what was at issue. Even his son, Benjamin, shifted his weight from one leg to the other and stared uneasily at the rubble heaps in the field.

  Finally Oren claimed, “I asked about making a road and laying out a supply depot, but was told those would cause unnecessary delays.”

  Marcus said sternly, “Even though you knew anything less would destroy the pasture? Who prevented you?”

  “Praetorian Vara,” Oren admitted.

  Vara again! At best the man had a callous disregard for the concerns of others. But Marcus believed the man made most decisions affecting the Jews out of deliberate spite.

  Many Roman officers and their mercenary troopers felt the same.

  “Robb,” Marcus said, “we need to consolidate the blocks and timbers and mark a road that the wagons must keep to.”

  “Over a bit of grass?” Robb repeated obtusely. “Aren’t you making—”

  Robb’s statement was interrupted by the sounds of shouting from outside the tent. More ominous still was the whiz of stones flying, followed by exclamations of pain.

  Drawing his sword, Marcus rushed outside. The caravan of blocks had arrived. Not only did the convoy of oxcarts cut another swath through unspoiled pasture, but at the construction site each had turned aside to park, crushing fifteen separate spokes of fan-shaped desolation.

  The herdsmen had had enough! Over thirty shepherds, slings in hand, advanced on the wagons!

  The drovers were clearly getting the worst of the confrontation. Several shepherds used their slings to good advantage. While the stone-haulers cowered behind their loads, oxen bellowed as missiles aimed at their masters hit the animals instead. One beast, startled into sudden motion, attempted a tight circle to escape, and the heaped-up load of timbers overturned. Eight-inch beams scattered like straws.

  Clambering down from the scaffolding, laborers wielding hammers leapt to the defense of the drovers.

  It was a near riot.

  “Stop this!” Marcus bellowed. A stone whizzed past his helmet, striking Benjamin in the head.

  From behind him Oren gave a cry of alarm and rushed forward.

  Marcus tripped him, making the mason sprawl on his face.

  Recognizing Jehu among the herdsmen, Marcus shouted, “Jehu, stop your men!”

  A stonecutter charged toward the shepherds, wooden maul in one hand and the spike of a chisel in the other. Marcus leapt in front of him! The man raised his club to strike down Marcus.

  Unwilling to kill if it could be avoided, Marcus reversed his blade and drove the hilt of his sword into the man’s nose, felling him.

  He then confronted three more aqueduct workmen with a flashing sweep of naked steel. “Back off!” he snarled.

  From the other side Jehu barked, “Stop! Ephraim, drop that sling! Meshach, put down that rock!”

  From his knees on the ground Oren called out, “Enough! Benjamin, Amos, stop!”

  Bleeding from a cut over his eye, Benjamin struggled angrily to rise and continue in the fray. “But they started it, Father! The shepherds attacked us!”

  “They’ve no cause to ruin the pasture!” retorted the shepherd Jehu. “This abomination is bad enough without deliberately spoiling the rest! We asked you to stop, to listen to reason.”

  “And when they didn’t, you attacked them with slings?” Marcus demanded.

  Jehu and his men stared defiantly.

  “Now listen, all of you!” Marcus roared. “I’ve given orders to organize the building material into a single location and to stake out one single road. Jehu, will this solve the problem?”

  The shepherd grudgingly admitted that it would.

  “Then you are bound to keep the peace. Oren,” Marcus said, turning toward the stonecutter, “see to it. There will be penalties for any willful destruction of pasture.”

  “But my son!” Oren challenged, pointing to Benjamin’s blood-smeared face.

  “Enough!” Marcus concluded. “What’s done is done. But whoever disturbs the peace again . . . or interferes with the building . . . will have me to answer to!”

  The arrival of the hawker to reclaim his spavined donkey surprised Nakdimon. He had expected the fellow to vanish with his two-shekels deposit, which was far more than the worth of the beas
t.

  Nakdimon was lost in study in his second-story library when he heard Zacharias arguing in the courtyard.

  “No need to disturb my master. I’ll fetch your donkey, sir, and receive from you the two-shekels deposit.”

  The hawker was insistent. “No. I must speak to Reb Nakdimon myself. In person. Face-to-face, as it were. I’ve got intelligence he must hear from my mouth to his ears.”

  “I’m acting steward of his household,” declared the Ethiopian. “I myself am most trusted to carry messages to my master. Tell me your business, and I will convey it to him.”

  “What I have to say I’ll not say to any but your master.” The hawker was adamant. “It’s a matter of life and death what I have to say, and I’ll not repeat it to anyone but himself. And here I’ll stay until I see Nakdimon ben Gurion.”

  Nakdimon laid down his stylus and went to the balcony. The hawker had stubbornly seated himself on the rim of the fountain. Crossing his arms, he acted immovable.

  “You can’t stay here.” Zacharias scowled. “You seem a dangerous sort. Get up, sir. Or I’ll fetch the cook to help me remove you.”

  “And what will he do if I won’t go? Roast me for supper?”

  “Stand and kindly wait outside the gate while I fetch your donkey!”

  Nakdimon interrupted the confrontation. “Zacharias, I’ll see to this. Retrieve this fellow’s animal. I’ll have a word with him myself.”

  The hawker smirked.

  Zacharias, with dignity, bowed and shuffled off to find the animal as Nakdimon descended the stairs.

  “What is this?” Nakdimon demanded.

  The hawker, more filthy than before, grinned obsequiously. “Ah, your honor! So it was truly you yourself who hired my little beast! And all this time I thought perhaps some villain had used your name and rank to get a better price from me.”

  Nakdimon, frustrated at the disruption of his studies, frowned. “And I thought you would run off with my deposit and leave me with a creature who is on its last legs.”