Part III
22 months after the beginning of the Tribulation
AD 66
Jerusalem
Province of Judea
Now learn this lesson from the fig tree: As soon as its twigs get tender and its leaves come out, you know that summer is near. Even so, when you see all these things, you know that it is near, right at the door.
—Matthew 24:32-33
13 Av
The Tenth Hour
Quintus began to stalk the soldiers just after they crossed the moat that protected the vulnerable north and east walls of Antonia Fortress.
He had waited on the flat roof of a nearby wool shop for three hours for this opportunity, rising and dashing down the steps on the outside of the building on sturdy little legs as soon as the massive fortress gates had begun to swing open. His patience in the late-summer heat was all the more remarkable because he was only seven years old. He was small for his age but intelligent and quick—two qualities that, along with his newly learned patience, had served him well during weeks of foraging the crowded market streets of Jerusalem.
Quintus had known there would be time to find a hiding spot in an alley near the moat before the soldiers passed by. The troops would assume a protective formation on the bridge until the gate closed behind them again, a military procedure that Quintus had observed previously and understood and appreciated without needing anyone to explain.
The smell of dye permeated the hot, calm air of the alley, along with faint traces of the stench of curing hides from the tanning factories past the clothes market and blacksmith shops that lined the street farther down. There had been a time when Quintus would have curled his nostrils at the slightest of smells, but he was past that now. The expensive laced boots of leather that he’d been so proud of in the days of servants and hot baths were cut open at the toes to allow room for his growing feet, and by necessity he’d long since discarded the blue tunic that would have marked him as a spoiled Roman boy. Now he wore rags he’d found in a garbage heap.
As the soldiers marched past him, heading west into the afternoon sun, Quintus counted. A dozen soldiers were mounted on horses, wearing the colors of the royal troops sent by King Agrippa. Another dozen were on foot, obviously part of the Roman garrison stationed in Antonia Fortress.
This was good, he thought. Not too many to discourage an attack by the rebels but enough troops to defend themselves well. With luck, there would be serious casualties on both sides and sufficient chaos to take advantage of it.
Yes, Quintus told himself, definitely worth the risk.
He waited until their long shadows disappeared from the cobblestones in front of him and then scurried out of the alley to follow.
It didn’t matter to him why they’d left the safety of the fortress. Only that there was a good chance the rebels would learn of it soon enough to attack.
“Why the delay?” Falco asked the centurion. In the shade at the base of a small cliff, he was tired of travel and still far too hot. Ahead would be rest and food and a place to bathe himself of the wretched Judean dust.
The cliff was just off the road that came from Caesarea, near the crest of a broken hill that gave travelers their first view of Jerusalem.
“If you’d been to Jerusalem before, you would understand.” The centurion normally would not bother to explain himself, but if Falco was important enough to command this escort from the procurator, there was no sense in offending the man.
“What’s to understand?” Falco said. “We’ve stopped when I’d rather finish this hellish journey.”
“This.” The centurion, a hulking man who limped heavily, led Falco away from the twenty soldiers under his command, along the last few paces of the road to the crest.
Falco sucked in a breath of surprise at the vista ahead. In contrast to the reds and browns of the other hills, the Temple Mount seemed to blaze as the gold-plated marble bounced sunlight in all directions. Other blocks of marble, brilliant white, formed the mansions of the upper city. Rooftop gardens made jewels of emerald green.
“It’s a shame, isn’t it?” the centurion said. “Such a quarrelsome people and such a beautiful city.”
“This doesn’t explain our delay.” Although Falco was balding and pudgy and wheezed continuously like a sweating peasant, he was a sophisticated man who lived in Rome. He refused to echo the centurion’s grudging admiration for Jerusalem.
“I’ve been commanded to take you there,” the centurion said, pointing at the western wall of the city. “Herod’s palace. It’s in the upper city and safe from rebels, but if we go through the city itself, we expose ourselves to attack.”
The centurion pointed at hills west of the city. “If we detour to come in from the west, we may not make it before sunset, and besides that, I’m sure you don’t want an extra couple hours of travel.”
Falco grunted. “I trust, then, you are suggesting a safer alternative.” He mopped his forehead with a square piece of silk.
“Along the top of the second wall of the city,” the centurion explained. “It leads to the palace. There may be trouble from catapults, but it’s unlikely. The rebels are poorly armed and poorly trained. To this point, their limited success has been the result of enthusiasm rather than skill.”
“The second wall?”
“The outer wall in front of us,” the centurion explained, “is one of three. It protects the new portion of the city that’s expanded beyond the second wall. The only danger we face is along the market street from the gates of the third wall to the tower at the Damascus Gate at the second wall inside.”
“Danger? I was promised a secure trip.”
“Which is why we’re waiting. With luck, the runner I sent ahead has already delivered my request for reinforcements from Antonia to meet us at a gate of the third wall. If we form a large enough group, the rebels won’t dare to attack as we travel from there through the city to the second wall.”
So this, Boaz thought with a sense of triumph as he stepped through the doorway into opulence, is the mansion that I’ve legally stolen for one month of a tradesman’s wages. Boaz allowed his gaze to move leisurely from one object of luxury to another. Tapestries. Bowls of colored glass. Ornate tile flooring. All of it so very, very beautiful. But not as beautiful as the one object in front of him that had filled him with lust for years.
Amaris. The wife of Simeon Ben-Aryeh. Wearing a simple tunic and a shawl.
“Greetings,” he said to her. They were not alone. A woman servant had escorted him here to the center of her upper-city residence and stepped to the side of the room.
Amaris nodded. Not suspicious. Not friendly. But neutral.
This was a woman worthy of glory, the kind Solomon praised with his songs of love. A woman who carried herself with a grace that promised much to the man who could conquer her. Dark thick hair that would brush a man’s face as he held her close on hot summer nights. Lips with a hint of pout, and eyes that seemed to look into a man’s heart. Sensual, but not brazen.
How Boaz wanted her. His mouth was dry with this desire, but at the same time he resented her. Because he knew how he appeared to her and all other women. Short. Clumsy. A bulbous nose and little hair, except for a straggly beard. He knew it was more than his appearance, however. It was as if women sensed his hungry appraisal of them.
Yet they could never show revulsion, because of his wealth and high standing. Even now, he wore phylacteries fastened by long leather strips to his forehead and around his left arm, near his heart. These were small scrolls of parchment in square capsules, covered with leather, containing sections of the Law of Scripture. They constantly rustled against the expensive fabric of his robe. Wherever he walked in the city, people knew he was a Pharisee of great stature.
“This visit is unexpected,” Amaris said, “but certainly not unwelcome.”
The female servant hovered nearby, but Amaris did not dismiss her. Decorum. Without a husband in the household, it would not be prope
r to be alone with another man.
Boaz didn’t mind that their conversation would not be private. The servant would stay with the household and would have soon enough learned the reason for his visit anyway. He didn’t waste time with chitchat. No amount of charm would win Amaris, so why embarrass himself with something he did badly anyway?
“It’s unfortunate,” he said. “Not only has your husband deserted you, but he also made no arrangements to honor his debts in his absence from Jerusalem. I’m here as an unsatisfied creditor.”
Aside from a widening of the eyes, Amaris gave him no response. It was far less satisfying than he’d expected.
“Your husband has defaulted on several contracts that I own.” This close to her—this close to possessing her—Boaz ran a dry tongue against the equally dry roof of his mouth. “As a result, I am here to claim this house.”
“My husband never borrowed money from you.” Amaris actually stepped forward.
“I doubt you’re familiar with all his financial affairs.”
“Of course not. Neither are you.”
Despite his discomfort, Boaz found it fascinating that she refused to be intimidated. It added to his desire to possess her. How much sweeter, then, to make her beg to stay with him.
“But I’m sure you know my reputation as a businessman,” Boaz said. “And I know far more about finances than nearly any man in the city. There are complicated matters beyond your understanding.”
“I understand that wealth does not make a man happy.”
If she meant that as a taunt, it was masterful. Boaz was not a happy man. Not yet. But did she know she was the solution?
“In the archives,” Boaz said, “the record keepers have several contracts that your husband set up with various merchants. These merchants, in turn, have secured loans from me by using those contracts as assets. The terms are due.”
“Then I shall reimburse you.”
Boaz smiled. “It is too late. According to the terms of the contracts, the debts were not paid in a timely fashion.”
“How could I pay those debts if I was unaware of them? Surely—”
“A judge has already decided in my favor. This house is the settlement. See how little understanding you have of the matters of men?”
“What I understand,” she snapped, “is that you are a puppet for Annas the Younger.”
Boaz shrugged. Puppet or not, a close business relationship with Annas the Younger had proven lucrative over the years. Like this situation, for example. Because of the turmoil in the city, Annas had suggested it was the opportune time for Boaz to take advantage of a lenient judge. Whatever outrage the friends of Ben-Aryeh might raise about this would be lost in the greater troubles inflicted on the upper city by the rebels.
Amaris continued, her eyes blazing. “We all know how pleased Annas was to threaten my husband with execution. Let me guess: Annas arranged for you to purchase these contracts and then sent you here.”
“Your husband,” Boaz countered, upper lip curled in a sneer, “raped a woman. Then fled before he could be put on trial for the capital punishment he deserved. He chose to abandon you, leaving behind these debts.”
Let her consider that, Boaz thought. Perhaps then a short man with a lot of money might seem very attractive in comparison.
“Leave,” she said. “I will not allow my husband’s character to be slandered in his own house.”
“It is no longer his house,” he said, not moving, “but mine.”
“Leave.” Her arms were crossed. The bare flesh of her forearms against her shawl was very attractive.
“It doesn’t have to be like this.” Boaz licked his upper lip. “We could make an arrangement. You are not a young woman by any stretch. And neither are you a virgin. But I am willing to overlook that to allow you to stay in my house.”
“You poor man,” she said. “You poor, poor man.”
“It’s simple,” Boaz said, pretending her opinion did not matter. “You stay in the house. Or you leave. Ask yourself how long it will be until you are selling your body in the streets. And you certainly won’t get what women twenty years younger than you command for a price.”
“I’ve seen you on public corners,” she said. “Your prayers are long and extravagant.” She moved closer and reached for him.
He flinched, but she was only pointing to the phylacteries hanging from his forehead.
“You have adorned yourself with God’s words, but you do not bear the mark of God. Your actions reveal the true condition of your heart. You neither believe God’s Word nor obey it.” She stepped back. “Is this what you really want to do?”
“This means you agree to my terms?”
“This means it’s not too late for you to walk out of here and ask God for forgiveness.”
They stared at each other.
She was such a force that for a moment—a very brief moment—a faint echo of conscience touched his heart. But the roar of greed and lust drowned it out immediately.
“I will let you pack personal belongings,” Boaz finally said. “This house is mine and I command you to leave.”
“No.”
“No?” He smirked. “Then I will leave. And in the morning I will return with men authorized to remove you from this house.”
“How long can we sustain the standoff?”
Eleazar’s question caught Gilad by surprise. As governor of the Temple, Eleazar was a man of such piety and faith that despite his youth and the politics that had given Eleazar his position, he’d earned the respect of all the priests. Surely, Gilad hoped, of all men, Eleazar does not wrestle with doubts about the course of action that he began.
A month earlier, Zealots had attacked Masada, one of Herod’s fortresses to the south, and had killed all the Romans there. Eleazar had proclaimed this victory a sign from God and persuaded the priests who officiated in divine service to unite in refusing to accept sacrifices from foreigners. Eleazar’s zeal and reputation were such that not one of those priests had broken rank since, despite all the pressures that followed.
“We have food,” Gilad said. “We have water. We have the entire lower city. And most importantly, we have the Temple. Nothing can get through the walls or over them.”
They stood in Eleazar’s apartment in the inner court of the Temple. It was sparsely decorated; on his first day as governor, Eleazar had removed all the luxuries installed by the previous governor. Whether it had been a calculated political move or a reflection of his true desire to serve God did not matter. The bold symbolic gesture had immediately alerted the temple priests that this governor was different. Every action Eleazar had taken since confirmed it, especially his leadership over the last weeks.
“We don’t have swords, shields, or military training,” Eleazar said.
Gilad stared at him as if seeing Eleazar for the first time. A young, bold man, Eleazar was slim and muscular, with oddly angled cheekbones and eyebrows that added to his charisma. Was this doubtful man the same Eleazar who had decided to defy the Roman procurator Florus, Herod the Great’s direct descendant King Agrippa, and the entire ruling establishment of Jerusalem?
Gilad protested. “We have hundreds of priests inside the Temple. And we have Zealots in the lower city. All are ready to die for God.”
“And the Roman soldiers garrisoned in Antonia are ready to kill them. As are the three thousand cavalry sent by Agrippa.”
“Florus refuses to send reinforcements.”
“Only because he wants civil war and chaos to hide his atrocities from Rome,” Eleazar said. “We are playing right into his hand. Serving the most evil procurator that Rome has ever inflicted on our people.”
“I . . . I . . . don’t understand.” Gilad could not help but waver. “Are you suggesting that we give up?”
“I’m suggesting you’re the man I trust most. Tell me why we should continue.”
Gilad straightened. He was a decade older than Eleazar and one of the chief priests. He was widowed an
d childless. Temple service and its importance were all he had.
“We continue,” Gilad said, echoing what Eleazar had repeated again and again in different speeches, “because despite all the odds against us, God has promised a Messiah and will not desert His people. His covenant with His people will not be broken.”
“What if God’s people desert Him?” Eleazar asked. “What if they break the covenant?” Eleazar shifted and began to pace, throwing his arms out to gesture. “Who in Jerusalem have been most oppressed by the Jews who serve Rome?”
“The lower city.”
“Yet they are the very people indifferent to our fight.”
“At least they don’t help the troops,” Gilad said.
“Don’t try to fool me. I’ve heard the complaints. They are losing husbands, fathers, brothers, and sons. Each night we force them to remove the bodies of their loved ones to keep from defiling the Temple. So many have died that we cannot give them funerals. They know we have no training or weapons. They no longer see any chance of victory. So why take our side to be punished later when the upper city triumphs?”
To this, Gilad had no answer.
Unexpectedly, Eleazar smiled. “See? My argument is correct.”
“You take satisfaction in this?”
“Iron sharpens iron, as you well know,” Eleazar said. “I wanted to see if I had assessed the situation correctly.”
“You think we will be defeated?”
“How many times in the past,” Eleazar said, “has it looked so bleak for our people that, indeed, many lost hope? And how many times has God triumphed?”
“At Jericho,” Gilad said, catching Eleazar’s fervor, “the walls came crashing down. Again and again, King David defeated far greater armies. Angels struck dead the Assyrians.”
“As long as we honor the covenant with God, He will honor us.” Eleazar paused. “That’s why I’m worried that the temple fire might stop burning.”
The Last Sacrifice Page 16
