Jerusalem's Hope

by Brock Thoene

  “But it was addressed to you, signed by me, and suggested that you and I keep secret what we knew about the use of Korban for the aqueduct. I think I said the use of the money could not be prevented, but to a rebel eagerly seeking a mark for assassination, it’s ambiguous enough to be misconstrued.”

  A light of comprehension flooded Nakdimon’s face. His eyebrows shot up. “So the rebels think you and I are key figures in the sacrilege?”

  Gamaliel nodded without speaking, then continued, “Still game to go with me to Pilate?”

  “Of course,” Nakdimon said stoutly. Then he added, “But I’m more glad than ever I sent my family out of the city.”

  Turning back to the council, Gamaliel suggested to Caiaphas, “Can the learned council select eight more members to join the delegation with Nakdimon and me?”

  “Only ten?” Caiaphas responded questioningly.

  “If we are at risk, then why expose more lives to danger?” Gamaliel retorted, “and if the words of ten men are not enough to appeal to Governor Pilate, then more may seem a mob instead of a delegation.” He added thoughtfully, “And we know how the governor feels about Jewish mobs.”

  BE-RUHI

  Ouside the Great Hall of the Sanhedrin, at the foot of the Temple Mount steps where he could in no way defile or interfere with the religious ceremonies, Red Dog was waiting. Avel watched worshippers heading up toward the sanctuary detour around the animal, though Red Dog never snarled, barked, or showed his teeth.

  There was something in the alertness of the dog’s keen eyes, Avel thought. He appeared to scrutinize each passerby . . . and it was unnerving.

  The bubble of clear space where Red Dog sat was a welcome respite for Zadok and the boys to regroup and organize themselves for taking leave of Jerusalem.

  The crowds coming toward the Temple were growing ever thicker. Avel, who had begun the day wishing he could stay in Beth-lehem, was more eager than before to get back there again.

  On the Day of Preparation for the Passover the time of the evening sacrifice was moved up and performed earlier in the afternoon. This was to accommodate the slaughter of a hundred thousand Passover lambs, which had to be carried out well before sunset.

  A representative of each family—or group of ten, which the Law prescribed could share a single lamb—made his way to the holy precincts. Previously selected lambs had to be identified, claimed, and readied for slaughter. A hundred thousand lambs meant a hundred thousand worshippers . . . minimum, not including all the priests and Levites who assisted, or the onlookers from faraway who had no intention of missing the ceremony.

  Passover was the one observance of the year where each head of a household performed the sacrifice himself, unless he were traveling, unwell, or ritually unclean and unable to do so.

  More even than the Day of Atonement, Passover brought every family directly into contact with the commandments, provisions, and decrees of the Most High. It linked the history of Israel with its present-day inhabitants and their longing to be free. It connected God’s divine intercession in the life of the nation with His particular involvement in the lives of individual believers.

  It was a reminder that God’s promises were forever and His memory also. Sworn judgments might be postponed . . . but never escaped.

  Passover was the counterbalance to the year, the twin of the set of hinges on which Jewish life pivoted. Just as the Day of Atonement occurred in the first month of the civil year and the seventh month of the religious cycle, Passover took place in the first month of sacred time and the seventh of the secular calendar.

  But the stipulation that each family must slaughter its own lamb was a significant one: every household in Jerusalem on Passover would see its representative come home with innocent blood on his hands, spilled by his own hands.

  It reminded the Jews that back in Egypt no firstborn escaped the Angel of Death by proxy or good intentions. Every household had to be marked by the blood of the lamb.

  Despite the importance of the day, Avel was glad to be leaving. There had been enough of blood and slaughter, he thought. And in their small circle a lamb had already been sacrificed.

  It seemed more than enough for one Passover.

  Recrossing the Temple Mount platform to exit by way of either the Sheep Gate or the Golden Gate was out of the question. It would take hours to fight through the crowds in that direction.

  Zadok aimed their course toward the nearest exit. “Keep close together, boys,” he urged. “Don’t get separated. But if y’ do get lost, go to the sheep pens in the Temple Court. I’ll find you there.”

  Even though Passover was a time of celebration the atmosphere among the pilgrims remained full of political discussion and unpleasant speculation.

  “It’s the truth!” Avel overheard a Galilean swear to his fellow traveler. “Some of the Sanhedrin are going to apologize to Pilate for making trouble about the Korban. I tell you, this bar Abba fellow has it right! There is a conspiracy between the council and the empire.”

  So word of the meeting between the governor and the council members was already out on the street. But somehow it had been twisted. The elders were somehow in a plot with Pilate against the am ha aretz.

  But was the speaker really so stupid as to shoot his mouth off in public? Or was he an agent sent out by Caiaphas as a spy?

  Red Dog barked sharply, and Avel looked up.

  The animal seldom made noise except to warn of danger. What . . . or who . . . was he reacting to?

  Who could tell? Avel was surrounded by a solid wall of humanity. He might be no more than one layer of pilgrims away from bar Abba himself and never see the man.

  Parting the multitudes was like swimming upstream. In all Jerusalem it seemed only Zadok and his companions were going away from the sanctuary.

  Avel scanned the nearby faces but didn’t recognize any in the mob. Of course there were so many that they all blended together.

  Zadok held Ha-or Tov’s hand, who held Emet’s hand, who held Avel’s hand. In this way they snaked through the jostling swarm.

  Red Dog did his best to herd them, running forward and back, circling around his little flock of humans. But his appearance no longer seemed to intimidate the determined pilgrims. Nor was Zadok able to clear a path with his staff. The mood in the populace was turning more hostile as frustrations mounted. “Watch who you’re poking, old man,” someone complained.

  “I hear there are soldiers in disguise ready to catch the rebels,” another Galilean ventured.

  “Watch what you say,” his companion noted. “They’ll arrest anyone they think is a rebel.”

  “Have you looked around you?” suggested the first. “We are millions! If only Yeshua of Nazareth had come south with us. He would have been crowned king before the day was out!”

  At the name of the Rabbi of Nazareth, Avel turned to study the speaker. The man appeared vaguely familiar. Had he been in the crowd when Yeshua fed the thousands with his barley loaves? Had he come to Ya’ir’s house to see the miraculously raised Deborah, or in the Capernaum synagogue to hear Yeshua preach?

  The horde was too thick, the glimpse too fleeting.

  A ponderous fat man waddled between Avel and Emet, forcing Avel to let go of the smaller boy’s hand. It was no matter; Avel would link up again as soon as the fellow moved out of the way. Avel heard Emet calling, “Wait! I’ve lost Avel!”

  “It’s all right,” Avel shouted back. “I’ll catch up.”

  The heavyset traveler stopped to wipe his brow, then turned in place as if unsure of his direction. All he had to do was let the multitude sweep him along, Avel thought. How could he have mistaken the path?

  Avel squeezed around the roadblock by fitting behind a brace of jars outside a shopfront.

  Congratulating himself, the boy emerged on the other side, expecting to see Zadok’s white hair shining like a beacon above the rest.

  But the chief shepherd was nowhere in sight.

  Where had they gone so
fast?

  Avel darted out into the stream, dodged a pair of villagers in matching saffron-colored robes, was screeched at when he stepped on a matron’s toe . . . and still couldn’t spot Zadok.

  Had Avel missed a turn somewhere? How had the others disappeared so quickly?

  He wasn’t overly concerned. Avel was confident he could find the Valley Gate on his own; he’d catch up to them once out of the crush.

  Scurrying through every opening that presented itself, Avel found himself in a narrow lane that curled around toward the northeast.

  This couldn’t be right; it was taking him back the wrong direction.

  He turned about, intending to retrace his steps.

  As he passed an alleyway, an arm shot out from behind him. A sweaty palm clasped itself across his face. When another arm grabbed his midsection, Avel was rudely and silently jerked back into an alcove.

  He couldn’t breathe! The hand was pressed so tightly on his nose and mouth that he was suffocating. Thrust farther into the dark recess, he felt a brick’s sharp corner stick him in the side.

  Then he felt the tip of a dagger on the back of his neck. “If you cry out, you’re dead!” Asher’s voice hissed. “Will you keep quiet?”

  Avel nodded frantically and the pressure on his mouth and nose eased. The boy gasped for air as his death was discussed.

  Kittim flanked Asher! “Just kill him now,” Kittim urged. “He’s already been more trouble than he’s worth.”

  “Listen, boy,” Asher said. “You’re lucky it’s me as caught you or you’d have a hole in your windpipe already. Don’t give me any trouble or I won’t have a choice, see?”

  Avel agreed.

  “What do you want him for?” Kittim demanded. “We know he’s already been to the council and talked about us. Kill him!”

  “Not so fast,” Asher retorted. “He can be useful, can’t you, boy? You were a Sparrow here, eh? You can show us around, yes? Take us by the shortest way?”

  Avel nodded again. Anything to keep alive until Zadok came looking for him.

  “That’s good, then,” Asher said. “No tricks!”

  The moment Nakdimon and Gamaliel left the Sanhedrin chambers they were surrounded by the crowds going up to the Temple. Gamaliel, accompanied by nine other elders of obvious dignity and rank, was instantly recognized by Jerusalemites. Since the delegation moved counter to everyone else, the question of their destination was instantly raised.

  Though they walked purposefully and without speaking, it was not long before speculation surrounded them.

  Rumors of a meeting involving Pilate and some of the council were already on the streets. Making the connection between that report and these men was a simple matter.

  Many in the throngs were curious, but others were openly hostile.

  “Selling us out?”

  “Sacrilege, that’s what it is!”

  “Walk on,” Nakdimon urged the more timid of the group, who wanted to scurry back to safety. “Walk on. We have nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “Defilers of the Temple!”

  “Going to bow and scrape to the Romans?” one bystander jeered, planting himself across their path. “It’s bad enough for Rome to have its hands in our pockets, but you have to help it dip into the Korban too! Blasphemers!”

  Before the file of men had crossed the elevated viaduct connecting the Temple Mount to the city near the Gennath Gate, the process of tale-bearing threatened to overwhelm the truth.

  Around the core of ten elders an accompanying mass formed.

  Like repeatedly dipping a candlewick in hot wax, the column grew, adding more and more numbers of followers until the flow down the causeway was entirely reversed.

  Pilgrims, anxious to see the confrontation between Gamaliel and Pilate, were swept along toward the palace.

  This too was enhanced and embellished by rumor and conjecture. “Pilate has ordered all who oppose the aqueduct scheme to surrender!”

  “These honorable men are going to be arrested and put in prison for speaking out against the aqueduct,” another added.

  The indignation that bubbled in the populace increased in fervor; only now it was directed at Pilate and not at the elders.

  “No rebellion,” someone urged. “No violence! Don’t give them any excuse to shed blood. Remember what day it is.”

  “Gamaliel says he’s afraid Pilate plans to spill his blood!” a Galilean shouted.

  “Not if we all go with them,” his companion retorted.

  By the time the deputation reached the outer courtyards built by the butcher king and now occupied by the Imperial governors, it had grown a thousandfold.

  At the rear of the throng were hundreds who had no idea what the procession meant. From across the Holy City residents and pilgrims joined the assembly. Some were excited holidaymakers. Some were eager to protest against Rome. Some had heard there was going to be another distribution of coins and bread, as Herod Antipas had provided in the city merely a little over a month earlier.

  And mingled with the rest were two groups of tense men, who clasped cudgels and daggers under their robes: Vara’s men and bar Abba’s.

  Frantically scanning the faces in the multitudes, Avel hoped to spot someone to whom he could appeal for rescue.

  He saw no one he recognized.

  Perhaps it was for the best. Kittim had replaced Asher as Avel’s guard. Not only would Kittim be quick to strike if Avel cried out, but such an appeal might cause the death of another as well.

  Avel could only try to stay alive until a chance for escape presented itself. Remembering what Zadok said about meeting at the sheep pens, Avel believed he would be safe if he could get back there.

  Kittim dragged Avel into a squalid house in the Valley of the Cheesemakers, below the southwest corner of the Temple Mount.

  Inside were bar Abba and others of his band.

  “So one of our runaways has turned up,” bar Abba said, staring at Avel. “I hear you’ve been talking about me to the Sanhedrin.”

  “Let me kill him,” Kittim suggested. “I’ll use his blood to paint more slogans. The fat, pious council members are already quaking.”

  “Not now,” bar Abba corrected. “He couldn’t tell the Sanhedrin anything they didn’t already know. And I hear he came south with Nakdimon ben Gurion. Perhaps we can sell the boy’s life to him for a ransom.”

  “But I thought we planned—” Kittim began.

  “Enough!” bar Abba said, raising a cautioning hand. “I know what I said.”

  It was at that instant Avel realized Nakdimon was one of the rebels’ intended victims. Bar Abba planned to use Avel as a ruse to get close enough to kill Nakdimon!

  “The crowds on the Temple Mount are perfect for what we have in mind,” bar Abba added. “Pilate thinks we’ll fall into his trap since he marched a cohort of legionaries out of the city. The Romans are pretending the city is undefended! All right, here’s the plan: I’ve already sent others to join the pilgrims outside the Temple and rile up the crowds about the Korban money. They’ll encourage the mob to go and protest at Pilate’s palace. When the authorities hear how angry the people are, Pilate’s disguised soldiers will have to go along too. Only we won’t be there! We’ll be on the Temple Mount. Wait for the last of the ceremony, when it’s closest to sundown. Then when the council members attend to their sacrifices, that’s when we’ll strike!”

  AMAR

  Nakdimon, bullnecked and powerful, shuddered as the delegation approached the triple towers of the city wall. How many thousands trailed along behind them?

  As he and the noisy, wrangling mob passed under the arch of the first parapet, he suddenly remembered its title: the Mariamme Tower, named after Herod’s favorite wife . . . the one the butcher king murdered in a fit of jealousy and suspicion.

  Yet Nakdimon’s sense of danger was not fear for his own safety so much as a premonition, a dread of something yet unknown.

  Imperial Rome and her servants, like Herod, w
ere also jealous and suspicious. The Romans had the will and the disposition to be as vengeful as a woman scorned.

  Governor Pilate, in the matter of the military standards bearing the face of Tiberius, had first shown incredible insensitivity to Jewish beliefs and values. He had then backed down in front of the mob, but afterward used every excuse to hunt down and execute those who had embarrassed him.

  It was said that even bar Abba had not started as a bloodthirsty assassin, but had been hounded to it by the legions of Rome.

  Nakdimon and his compatriots were again approaching Pilate with an explanation of how and why Siloam Tower had fallen. Not by the consent of the Sanhedrin. Not by the hand of the shepherds. But by the will and design of revolutionaries. This was something no Roman official suffered easily from a conquered people. Pilate feared only one thing: that a bad report of his ability to maintain order would be conveyed to the emperor.

  If a Roman prefect failed miserably enough, he would be branded “no friend of Caesar.”

  At that point a graceful exit by way of suicide was the best outcome for which the ruined politician could hope.

  The aqueduct scheme had been a joint undertaking of the high priest and Pilate. Caiaphas had assured the governor that his actions in bringing fresh water to the Holy City would meet with widespread approval in Judea and improve his standing with the Jews.

  With the sabotage of Siloam Tower, would Pilate react with suspicion and anger at what he might regard as betrayal?

  How could he not?

  And now Nakdimon was approaching at the head of an army. The thousands on his heels were not followers of the Sanhedrin. This rowdy demonstration was not of Nakdimon’s doing, but would Pilate stop to think of that?

  Or would his natural wariness lead him to feel threatened?

  Rome, when pushed, always pushed back . . . harder and fiercer than they were challenged.

  Nakdimon glanced up again at the looming height of Mariamme Tower.