by Brock Thoene
The Praetorian howled and his grip loosened.
Marcus wrenched the sword free and jumped up while Vara was still prone.
Putting the tip of Vara’s blade at the man’s throat, Marcus commanded, “Drop the dagger! Call off your men! Now! Or you’re dead!”
More trumpet calls echoed from the Antonia. The rhythmic tramp of marching feet accompanied by the pounding of drums reverberated across the Temple Mount.
“You better kill me,” Vara said through gritted teeth. “Either way you’ll be crucified for this.”
“Legionaries!” Tribune Felix shouted from the head of a column of uniformed soldiers. “Put down your weapons! By order of the governor, you are to cease fighting at once!”
Stepping back, Marcus gratefully lowered the sword.
The Passover massacre was finally at an end.
ZEVAOT
And so that day the blood of the multitudes was mingled with the blood of their sacrifices on the Holy Mountain of Zion.
Zadok, chief shepherd of the flocks of Israel, wept.
The Messiah had not come. Had there ever been such a day of mourning?
Emet, gathered in Zadok’s arms, was carried from that place out through the Sheep Gate and beyond the walls of the city. Avel and Ha-or Tov walked beside the Roman centurion who had saved them.
The three boys were lifted onto the back of Marcus’ great black horse and led away from Jerusalem along the deserted highway south toward Beth-lehem.
In the west, the sun was setting. A single shaft of light shot up like a pillar and pierced the clouds. Zadok watched it for a long time and then, at last, he spoke. “In the day when our fathers left slavery we came to the sea and could go no farther. The chariots of Egypt and all her armies were at our backs. God set a pillar of fire between us as the waters parted and we crossed over. So we were saved.”
The sun pillar hovered above the earth like a beacon for a time and then began to fade as the world darkened.
“See how the Shekinah glory stands far away,” Zadok said sadly. “The Lord did not come again to the great city. We are forsaken.” Tears clung to his white beard. His staff was stained with blood. “Immanu’el, they told me! I was a young man then with sons of my own to hope for! Rachel and I had much to hope for. What was it about? What did such sacrifice mean? Immanu’el, they told me! And . . . I thought this year he would come to Yerushalayim! But it was not to be.”
By this, Emet knew the old man’s hope had died today. There was no remedy for his grief. They passed the miles in silence, each remembering the day.
Where was the Messiah the Jews longed for? Marcus pondered. Where was the Deliverer? Savior? King of the Jews who would set Israel free from its array of enemies?
Bar Abba had fled to the wilderness in defeat. He was no Messiah.
But what about Yeshua of Nazareth? Where was the one from Galilee who could heal the sick and feed the multitudes by a word and raise the dead back to life? What about him? Why was he not here in Jerusalem on such a day, wading in the blood of his broken kinsmen, restoring them to mothers, sons, fathers, brothers, who wept for their loss?
Wisely, Marcus thought, Yeshua had stayed away. Had the Master known what calamity was to come on a city impatient to be free? It was fortuitous that Yeshua had chosen to remain in the north on such a wretched Passover as this. The events of this day would long be remembered and recited by those who witnessed them. Some would blame Pilate. Others, bar Abba. Some would curse the Sanhedrin. Many would declare that this was the hand of Yahweh, passing judgment for the violation of Korban. Yes. Perhaps they would comfort themselves that this was the fault of a transgression of the laws of Moses.
Marcus was certain that if Yeshua had been here, somehow he would have been blamed with bar Abba and the rebels for inciting the mob.
The boys dozed while the two men, oppressed by visions of slaughter, reached Beth-lehem at last. Watch fires of the shepherds winked on the hillsides. Flocks and herds slept. The place seemed peaceful, unchanged, though everything had changed.
Hope for the promised Kingdom had perished on the bloodstained cobbles of Jerusalem.
Outside the low garden wall of Zadok’s house, Marcus halted Pavor and lifted the weary boys to the ground. A lamp burned in the window. The fragment aroma of the old man’s garden mingled with the scent of roasted lamb. Surely at such a late hour the seder supper had been eaten by everyone in Israel except Zadok and the boys.
The shepherd asked Marcus, “Our people are enemies, yours and mine. But you . . . you . . . proved yourself to be . . . not what I thought you were. Will you, then, join us for the meal of remembrance?”
The full moon was high, lighting the Valley of the Sheepfold like a torch.
Marcus considered the invitation. Then he raised his eyes toward the brooding outline of Herodium. What would the people say after the Jerusalem massacre if the chief shepherd of Israel’s flocks broke bread with a centurion of Rome? “It would not be proper, sir,” Marcus replied. “But I thank you for the invitation.”
“Perhaps one day it will be put right, all of this. Peace on earth, they told me. Peace, they promised. But it was so long ago. Maybe I didn’t understand,” Zadok whispered. “I had hoped. Hoped! That maybe this year the hour would come when it would be as our prophet Isaiah saw in his vision. That swords would be beaten into plowshares and . . . and . . . redemption . . .” The old man seemed to shrivel as the words and the hope died in his throat.
Marcus extended his hand. “Perhaps one day Jews and Gentiles will break bread as brothers, sir. Until then, I will watch and wait with you. I will hope with you that the vision of your prophets is coming and that we will live to see it.”
He waited at the wall as the boys and the dog followed Zadok into the house. The door closed solidly behind them.
Marcus hesitated, wishing that the old man would emerge again, compel him to come in and break bread with them.
But the bolt slid into place with a loud and final thud.
Marcus did not belong here. He knew that. Still, he longed for a nation, a homeland, a woman . . . Miryam . . . to love him. His heart yearned for the child they might have had. And perhaps other children. He could be content in a one-room house clinging to the hillside of this troubled backwater called Israel . . . if only! If only!
He inhaled the fragrant scent of the garden. And there was something else on the breeze. What? Perfume? Not here. Not here.
He remembered the night in Galilee when Miryam had bravely entered the house of Simon the Pharisee and anointed the feet of Yeshua. The night had been filled with an aroma like this . . .
He closed his eyes and breathed in again. And then it was gone. Just a memory made more intense by loneliness.
As he mounted Pavor and spurred the black horse on toward Herod’s fortress, Marcus knew he could never have what his heart desired most.
It seemed to Emet that Zadok was breaking apart before their eyes.
For a few minutes after they entered the house Emet thought perhaps everything would be all right. They were home. Safe. So many others would never go home again. But here they were, alive and well. It was reason to rejoice, wasn’t it? They would eat the meal of remembrance and go on with their lives. That was best, wasn’t it?
Zadok and the boys washed hands and feet in the basin by the entrance.
At the snap of Zadok’s fingers Red Dog lay obediently in the corner.
In a subdued tone Zadok thanked Adonai for watching over their going out and coming in. He took the clay lamp from the window ledge and held it up to examine the room.
Everything for the seder was ready for their return—just as Zadok had commanded.
The Paschal meal was complete. Every morsel meant something. First was matzah, three cakes of unleavened bread, the bread of affliction. There was a bowl of Haroseth, the mixture of nuts and dates meant to symbolize the mortar with which the slaves had built their oppressors’ cities. And there was a heap of boiled
eggs, symbolizing the eyes of Hebrew slaves searching for a deliverer. A bowl of salt water represented inconsolable tears. Besides that the plate of bitter herbs memorialized the bitterness of bondage. A pitcher of wine was near the head of the table. And finally there was the fire-roasted shank of lamb, remembering the lamb of God’s covenant with Israel whose blood, when sprinkled on the doorposts of the Hebrews, was a signal that the Angel of Death should pass over this house.
By this sign the firstborn of Israel were spared.
It was as fine a banquet as Emet had ever seen! It was to be his first real Passover meal partaken among those who loved him. Almost as if he was part of a real family! The table was set with plates, cups, and seating cushions for five guests.
Why five, Emet wondered, since there were only four of them?
They stood silently gazing down at the feast. Zadok seemed to consider it as though it was meant for someone else.
What were they waiting for? What thoughts passed through the shepherd’s mind? Why did they not sit and begin? It was late, after all.
Was Zadok expecting another guest? The centurion had gone away. Why five?
Zadok stooped and placed the lamp beside the bread, like a mourner puts a pebble on a tomb. Then he straightened, clasped his hands before him as if he would pray again. He murmured, “Yes. Yes. It’s fine. Wonderful. Yes. A lovely supper, Rachel.” His face clouded with grief as he stared down at the feast.
Suddenly startled, Zadok stared into the faces of the boys. “Where is Rachel?” he asked.
They did not dare reply. He might as well have asked, Where is hope? Where joy?
With a gasp, remembering, the old man covered his face with his hands.
“Oh Rachel! Rachel,” he moaned softly. “My children! My sons!” A single plaintive cry escaped his throat as Emet, Avel, and Ha-or Tov rushed to embrace him. “My sons! My boys!” He sank to his knees and sat for a long time like a man sitting shiva. Tears streamed down his face. He did not move or speak.
Red Dog whined and stood, worrying. Emet lay his cheek on the old man’s head. Ha-or Tov gazed sadly into the light and said nothing.
Avel patted Zadok’s back, as if he were comforting a child.
What a day it had been. Tragic. Shattering. So many fallen. Beyond comprehension. It was not playing out the way Emet had expected.
Zadok checked his emotions and commanded them at last. “Please. Sit. It’s late and there’s much to explain. Everything means something. . . .”
They obeyed, leaving the one place at the head empty.
Emet asked, “What makes this night different from all the rest?”
“Avadim hayinu. We were slaves to Pharaoh in Egypt. Tonight,” the old man explained haltingly, “all Jews, sons of the Covenant, remember our years of slavery in Egypt and how the Lord commanded us to believe his promise of salvation and put the blood of the lamb upon the doorposts of our houses. The Egyptians, who did not believe, lost firstborn of their children, flocks, and herds in all the land. We were spared from death on that horrifying night. By that sacrifice and sign the Lord brought our fathers out of bondage.” Zadok’s voice caught. “And yet we must . . . grieve . . . how can we not . . . for the death of other . . . sons. Children. And . . . and . . .” Tears welled up again. Chin sank to chest. In a barely audible whisper he spoke again to someone not there. “Rachel. I’m sorry. . . .”
Perhaps Avel and Ha-or Tov did not hear him. There was an uneasy silence. Could Zadok go on?
Emet shuddered as he exchanged a look with Avel. What should they do? There were songs to sing! Prayers to be prayed! The stories of passing through the sea and dozens of other wondrous miracles to tell! The table was set. The meal ready. Bread to be broken. The cup to be filled and passed and shared. But Zadok could not speak, and none of the three boys knew what came next.
“How can we help?” Avel asked.
“What should we do?” Ha-or Tov queried the shepherd.
Zadok raised his head, slowly examining the trio. “Immanu’el, y’ said. You came to Beth-lehem to tell me. As . . . others once came. And I dared to hope again. I had hoped before. Long ago. You see? I’ve looked for him every year since the first. But now . . . how can I go on hoping for one who promised to come but never comes?”
Avel repeated Yeshua’s message. “Maybe soon . . .”
Zadok shook his head. “I’ve become an old man waiting for his arrival. I had hoped to share this seder with him.”
Emet asked boldly, “But how do you know him? Were you in Galilee?”
Zadok’s lips turned up in an enigmatic smile. “Perhaps one day I can speak of it.” With that Zadok exhaled loudly and seemed to remember his place in the ceremony. Aged hands trembled as he reached out for the middle piece of matzah and held it up before the flickering flame. Light shone though its fragile, pockmarked surface. He intoned, “The lehem oni, the bread of affliction, is pierced and scarred. By its marred visage we remember the lash of our oppressors. But when it is broken and part is put away till the end of the meal, it becomes for us the hope that our Messiah will come to each of us in the future . . . to truly set our hearts free. He is the Hidden One who will come as our Redeemer. . . .”
“Soon.” Emet focused on the tiny pinpoints of light that emanated from the surface. Yeshua had called himself the bread of life. Yes. Was this what he meant?
Zadok blessed the bread and broke it. A portion he hid in a napkin and the other he distributed to the boys. He placed a morsel on the plate before the empty seat.
“Whose place is this?” Ha-or Tov asked. “Who was meant to sit there?”
Zadok held the answer close for a moment. Then he said slowly, “One who has decided to wait awhile longer before he comes.” He hesitated. “But tradition says that on this night Elijah or the Messiah himself in the disguise of a sojourner may be standing outside at the door waiting to be invited in. We are commanded to remember that we were also sojourners and to treat such a one kindly. And so we set an extra place. Just in case.” He cupped Ha-or Tov’s chin in his hand. “You, boy. Since y’ asked. Go on now. Open the door.”
Emet’s breath caught with expectation. Would he be there?
With a self-conscious shrug Ha-or Tov climbed to his feet. He smoothed his tunic. “What do I do?”
“Open the door and ask him to come in.” Zadok handed him the lamp.
Ha-or Tov’s red locks shone in the light. His gaze was intent. Lips were pressed tightly together. Jaw was set.
Avel clasped Emet’s hand as Ha-or Tov threw back the bolt.
What if . . .
Red Dog, expecting to be let out, got up and padded over to escape. He waited at Ha-or Tov’s heel as the boy slowly cracked the door and extended the lamp through the opening. He peered into the night. Red Dog whined.
What if . . .
Emet strained to see. But there was only darkness, an empty space beyond the threshold.
Ha-or Tov grinned sheepishly and said to the air, “Shalom. Welcome. The table is set for you. Come in and break bread with us.”
Red Dog pushed past him, escaping. And then . . .
Beyond the reach of the circle of light came a familiar call. “Shalom! Shalom! Good Light! Are your brothers inside? And Zadok as well?”
Ha-or Tov’s mouth fell open. His eyes widened. So he had come!
“It’s . . . it’s . . . you!”
Emet and Avel hugged each other and shouted for joy as they charged to greet Yeshua! Baruch HaShem! Blessed is He who comes this terrible night to Beth-lehem to share the Passover lehem oni with us!
Yeshua had come for them!
The door swung back, revealing the Master as he strode up the path through the garden. Red Dog danced before him, as if greeting a familiar and well-loved shepherd. Yeshua smiled broadly, patted the canine, and embraced Emet, Avel, and Ha-or Tov. Then he took the lamp and entered the dwelling as if he had been here before. Ducking his head, he crossed the threshold.
In confusio
n Zadok tried to get up and knocked over the bowl of bitter herbs. He clambered to his feet and gawked at the tall, swarthy stranger.
Yeshua pronounced a blessing on Zadok, the house, Migdal Eder, and all who lived in Beth-lehem.
Zadok stammered, “Who . . . who are you?”
Mischievous light glinted in Yeshua’s warm brown eyes as he asked, “Don’t you know me, Zadok? Old Zadok, shepherd of the flock? Don’t you remember me?” And then Yeshua approached the old man and enfolded him in his arms as one coming home after a long journey. And Yeshua said, “Ha lahma anya. . . . This year we are slaves, next year we will be free. This year we are here. Next year in Jerusalem!”
All time seemed to stop. Zadok, like a blind man who had just received his sight, raised his fingers to touch the cheek of Yeshua. Hands shook with emotion. He kissed the Master on one cheek and then the other. “So,” he said. And then again, “So . . . it is true!” He dropped to his knees, bowed his head, and cried loudly, “Blessed is the Lamb of God who has come to take away the sins of the world! Lord, I am not worthy to receive you! I am a man of unclean lips and a doubting heart!”
Yeshua placed both hands on Zadok’s grizzled head. “Get up. Stand up, friend.” Another touch on the old man’s shoulder. “You are released from your vow.”
“All these years? Released?” Zadok struggled to rise. He led Yeshua to the table and showed him the place where he could sit. But Zadok could not speak. Emotion stopped his voice. Each time he opened his mouth to say a word, tears of happiness broke loose.
Emet, giddy with relief at Yeshua’s arrival, crowded into the space between Ha-or Tov and Avel.
Then Yeshua began to explain the story of Zadok. “For nearly thirty-two years you haven’t spoken of it, Zadok. Now should I tell these three what a friend you are?”
Zadok nodded, blinked in wonder at the pierced bread on Yeshua’s plate, and wiped his eyes with his hand.
Yeshua gazed only at Zadok as he told the story. “You were a young shepherd of the Temple flock in Beth-lehem, in the year of the census of Rome. Crowds flooded in, packing every room and inn. There came late a young woman from Nazareth and her betrothed. No place to stay. No room. She was great with child and there was no place for her to deliver. So you cleaned a stall in the lambing barn and gave her fresh straw. You hung curtains for her privacy and your wife sent soup. You knew what was coming . . . a lamb.
