No reply.
“Once again,” Annas said, “we face the same danger of rebellion against Rome. Your son does not claim to be the Messiah, but by refusing permission for any foreigners to make temple sacrifices, he has, in effect, declared war against Rome. We all know why, don’t we?”
Still no reply.
“Your son Eleazar believes that the Messiah is imminent. He believes that God will lead us to victory against Rome, because God has promised a Messiah to deliver us. And I say you must once more agree with the Great Sanhedrin that it would be better for one man to die than an entire nation. We who rule Jerusalem must show Rome that we will punish the rebel leaders.”
“We are the chosen people,” Ananias said. “God will spare us as He has done again and again throughout our history. The Messiah will come. That is the foundation of our faith.”
Annas the Younger pounced. “So you support your son.”
“I do not support rebellion against Rome.”
“Then promise to throw the first stone at his execution.” Annas paused. “Agree that once again it is better that one man die than an entire nation and do your duty. Or step down from your office.”
Ananias drew himself upright. “The rebels have no weapons. We are armed with royal troops. Soon enough we will have the Temple back and soon enough we will accept sacrifices from foreigners.”
“We have royal troops. But not Roman troops. Your other son, Simon, could not convince Florus to send help.”
“Florus is determined that a war start among us. You know that.”
“I know that both of your sons have failed the Jewish people,” Annas told the elderly man. “And it appears that you are willing to do nothing about it. As a father or a high priest.”
“The rebels have no weapons. They will lose sooner or later. Let us decide then what to do with their leaders.”
“So you are telling the Sanhedrin that you will not punish the leaders, among them your son.”
“I am telling the Sanhedrin that we are all Jews. We must reduce the division among us to remain strong against Rome. Jews killing Jews is not the solution.”
“Is that the advice of Ananias the high priest? Or Ananias the father?”
“It is the advice of a man who knows it is futile to fight Rome and who agonizes over the suffering of the Jewish people under the tyranny of Rome.”
Annas the Younger had not been prepared for the old man’s simple eloquence in that answer. He needed to get his answer immediately.
“Tell us,” Annas said, “for the scribes to record: are you prepared to throw the first stone at the execution of your son?”
Bound by duty, Ananias gave the only answer he could. “Yes.” He began to weep openly.
Annas sensed sympathy for the old man stirring among the Sanhedrin. He decided there was no sense in pushing any harder, nor in asking for a further vote to remove Ananias from office. Yet Annas was far from dissatisfied. He had gotten the answer he needed on the transcript of the proceedings.
And perhaps the old man’s weeping would work in Annas’s favor. For Ananias was right about one thing. The rebels would lose, probably sooner than later. That’s when Annas would be ready to help the members of the Great Sanhedrin remember the old man’s weakness, long after they’d forgotten the old man’s tears.
At the loud moans of anguish, Valeria hurried down the steps and inside the small house. She found Nahum, the glassblower she served, seated on a cushion, cradling his son, Raanan, in his arms.
Leeba, moaning in anguish, knelt in front of them, holding Raanan’s limp arms. A broken spear protruded from the blood-soaked tunic at Raanan’s abdomen, and his eyes were shut tight as his body shuddered in pain.
A trail of blood from the doorway told Valeria part of the story. Nahum had carried Raanan in from the street. It would have taken him great effort; Nahum was middle-aged and Raanan was almost into manhood, a large, strapping teenager known for practical jokes and an intensely competitive spirit.
“Royal troops,” Nahum explained to his wife, Leeba, in a broken voice. “Yet another street fight.”
“Run for a doctor!” Leeba said.
“A doctor can’t do anything more than we can.” Nahum caught Valeria looking down at them. “Valerius, find a blanket.”
She stood numbly for a moment longer, not responding to her assumed name. To both of them, she was Valerius, a boy slave who had watched the wealthy Greek family he served die to Roman soldiers among the thousands who had been slaughtered during the May riots.
“A doctor!” Leeba said again.
“We will remain with him to the end.” Nahum’s voice held a mixture of calm and rage and pain. “We make him as comfortable as we can.”
Nahum was the family’s patriarch, the man responsible for all family matters. Valeria wondered what effort it was taking him to remain in control.
“No!” Leeba wailed. “Our only son! Don’t let him die!”
Valeria was paralyzed by the scene.
Nahum looked at her again. “Please, a blanket.”
When Valeria returned, Raanan was still shuddering. There was a small wooden rod between his teeth, and he was clamping it hard against the obvious pain. His eyes were open wide. With one hand, he clenched his mother’s hand. When new spasms hit him, he would clutch his father’s neck with the other arm.
The agony left him briefly.
“I’m cold,” he said in a small voice. He looked down and saw the blood soaking his tunic and the cushion. “Mama, I’m cold and I’m afraid.”
She smothered his forehead with kisses. “My son, my son, my darling son.”
Raanan’s life left him as she was speaking.
The Sixth Hour
“Unless he’s killed by sentries on either side, the boy will arrive,” Joseph Ben-Matthias told his Roman visitor. They were on the rooftop of Joseph’s house in the upper city, shaded by the awning of an open tent set up for the daily purpose of enjoying the breeze that swept across Jerusalem.
Joseph Ben-Matthias had been surprised—no, astounded—when the man named Falco arrived at his mansion. While Falco’s escort of soldiers provided by the procurator, Florus, had certainly contributed to Joseph’s sense of surprise—what man received this kind of support when Florus wouldn’t send a single soldier to protect Jerusalem?—it was the man’s mission that had been most astonishing.
Falco, as he had pompously announced, had been sent to Jerusalem in response to a letter that Joseph had been hired to send to a senator in Rome a few months earlier, hired by a boy from the slums of the city. “How can you say he’ll be here with such certainty?” His visitor wheezed slightly after speaking and kept mopping his face with a piece of folded silk. “It’s been, what, nearly three months, since you dispatched the letter to my patronus in Rome? By your own admission, you still don’t even know the boy’s name.”
Joseph, in contrast to his visitor, was a tall, muscular man with a craggy but handsome face. He was not yet thirty years old. He was married, as any respectable Jew would be at his age, and had a young son and two younger daughters. Joseph was comfortable and content with his life and his status and, just as importantly, knew he was comfortable and content. While his marriage was more a marriage of convenience than love, he adored his children. He knew he was respected in the community, partly because of his royal descent, partly because of his business acumen and connections, and partly because he was known as a great thinker.
“I don’t need to know the boy’s name to see his determination,” Joseph answered. “Every day for the last month he’s arrived to inquire about his letter and every day refused to leave unless I gave him an answer myself.”
“Every day?” Falco raised an arm and gestured below at the buildings crowded along narrow, crooked streets. “It’s nearly civil war down there. I can’t believe Florus has not decided to intervene on your behalf.”
Joseph grunted but said nothing. An act of discretion.
When
Joseph did not speak, Falco gave him an exasperated look. “Florus gave me soldiers because of the senator I represent,” he said. “I’m no friend of the procurator’s, so feel welcome to speak freely.”
“I will say this,” Joseph said, still wary. Who really knew Falco’s allegiances? “Many in Jerusalem speculate that Florus wants a civil war to hide his abuses of the province from Rome.”
“Are you one of the many? I’m told you are a respected man with considerable influence.”
“My opinion,” Joseph said, “matters little. But here are the facts. A few months ago, in response to a mild insult as a result of stealing treasury money, Florus visited the city and ordered his soldiers into the marketplace to slaughter as many civilians as possible. Even with the pleas of mercy by Queen Bernice, a supporter of Roman policy, Florus ordered more slaughter on the second day. It was only because our people did not revolt—as begged by our leaders—that Florus had no excuse to mount a serious war against us. Civil war was narrowly averted, and for reasons known only to Queen Bernice, Florus withdrew from the city.”
Falco smiled wryly. “Bernice. Yes, I’ve heard stories about her. She’s not in the city, is she?”
“I understand many of the stories are exaggerations,” Joseph said. “I also understand she’s become a changed person of late, taking her royal responsibilities much more seriously than before. And no, she’s not in the city. She’s in Syria, I believe, trying to influence Cestius to remove Florus as procurator before civil war does start.”
“Does start?” Falco snorted again, waving his hand to take in the city. “What’s this?”
“Jews against Jews,” Joseph said. “Not Jews against Romans.”
“But I heard something about foreigners barred from the temple sacrifices. Isn’t that going to lead to—”
“When the wealthy upper city wins, temple sacrifices will be open again to Caesar, long before news of the transgression can reach Rome.”
Falco nodded with a smile of understanding. “Now I see. Florus is not sending you any help. He wants the lower city to gain and hold power until Caesar is provoked.”
Falco laughed lightly, shaking his head at the tactics of Florus. “Politics.”
Joseph spoke softly but intensely. “Friends of mine lost wives, children to the soldiers in the market. Holding a five-year-old daughter and having her bleed to death in your arms is not mere politics.”
“I’m sorry,” Falco said, meaning it.
“Florus is hated beyond anything you can understand, and by extension, so is Rome. It is all the ruling establishment can do to prevent rebellion. And rebellion will cost us more of our wives and children.” Joseph paused. “Do you have a boy or girl?”
“No.”
“When you do, you will understand what the loss or threat of loss means. And you will not treat this as politics.”
“I said I was sorry.”
Joseph reined in his flare of anger. “You did. Let me apologize in turn.”
The silence was awkward until Falco broke it. “You say the boy will come to see if there has been a response to his letter.”
Thinking about the difficulty of the boy’s journey, Joseph turned his gaze away from the visitor. He thought he heard a faint scream, but realized it could have been his imagination. Fighting between the royal troops and the rebels had become sporadic over the last few days and had settled into an uneasy standoff, the line of demarcation essentially an aqueduct that entered the city on the south side near the Gate of the Essenes and traversed the hillside of the upper city all the way to the Temple.
“Every day,” Joseph told Falco again. “The standoff has not stopped him from getting here, even though he lives in the lower city.”
“I’m astounded he takes those risks. I would not have entered the city myself without the armed escort Florus provided. As it was, soldiers sent out from the city to meet us had to fight through a rebel attack to get to the outer gates.”
An escort provided by Florus, Joseph thought. Very mysterious.
Florus was the Roman procurator of all Judea, fat and happy in Caesarea, safely away from the conflict in Jerusalem. This was the same man who had refused to send any Roman soldiers into Jerusalem to battle the rebels who held the Temple and lower city. Yet because of an unnamed boy from the poorest part of the lower city, Florus had arranged to secretly aid this man Falco during the height of the tensions. Why?
And Joseph had more questions.
Aside from Florus’s involvement, there was the determination of the boy. Every day he showed up to ask a simple question: was there any reply to the letter? Every day Joseph had replied there was not. Every day the boy had silently walked away, saying nothing else. What, Joseph constantly wondered, was driving the boy?
Then there was the fact that the boy’s letter—sent weeks earlier—had actually been answered by the arrival of Falco.
Falco was, as he had introduced himself, the representative of the senator addressed in the letter, a senator who was a friend of someone in Rome who owed Joseph a favor. Something, then, in the letter from the boy in Jerusalem had compelled the senator to send Falco across the world. Not only that, the senator had enough influence that Florus had been willing to intervene. How did the boy know someone in Rome with this kind of power? And why would that senator exercise his power on the boy’s behalf?
Joseph hoped that patience with this Roman would lead him to the answers.
Since the day his father, Ananias the high priest, had appointed him governor of the Temple, Eleazar could not recall a single moment when daily familiarity with the Temple Mount had led to the slightest loss of any of the sense of awe at the dwelling place of the one true God, the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob.
Anytime he walked through the immense Court of the Gentiles, Eleazar had a new appreciation for the workmanship. Under Herod the Great, the slopes of Mount Moriah had been flattened and extended as a foundation for colonnades that enclosed the inner Temple, paving it with the finest marble possible.
In the Court of the Gentiles, any direction he looked, he was filled with joy at the sights and sounds of thousands of worshipers and hundreds of attendant priests. The blowing of the shofars, the psalms of praise from the choirs of Levites, the smoke from the altar, the low murmurings of reverence, even the bleating of terrified lambs facing slaughter, and the smell of the blood that ran down from the altar—all of this enforced for him the greatness of the Temple, a physical reality that pointed to the greater spiritual reality of God’s glory and holiness.
As Eleazar stepped out of the shade of Solomon’s Porch, the portion of the colonnade opposite the Holy of Holies, he noted again with pleasure the burnished gold that plated the marble blocks of the sanctuary. There was profound truth in the saying of the rabbis: “The world is like an eye. The ocean surrounding the world is to the white of the eye; its black is the world itself; the pupil is Jerusalem, but the image within the pupil is the sanctuary.”
The holy dwelling place of the Lord God Almighty!
It was so sacred that no dead body was allowed to remain anywhere in the entire city overnight. No accident had ever interrupted the services of the sanctuary. Rain had not once extinguished the fire on the altar; no wind had ever blown the smoke back into the sacrifices; never had worshipers failed to bow at the massive altar.
Yet on this morning, the usual hum of activities was muted. The markets for the selling of animals for sacrifices had been closed. The temple police were standing guard along the tops of the walls and at all the entrances.
It wasn’t the muted activity that filled Eleazar with concern. Weeks earlier, he’d been deliberate in the act of rebellion that had led to this—prohibiting foreigners to make sacrifices in the Temple—and had no regrets at his course of action, nor at the consequences that, for the most part, he’d easily foreseen.
Indeed, he’d known well that by preventing foreigners from making sacrifices, he had in essence barred Caesar from the
Temple, and that the last sacrifice on behalf of Caesar meant war had been declared on Rome.
He’d expected, too, that the establishment of Jerusalem would beg and plead against this sedition. And, of course, he’d planned for the militant action against them: the taking of the Temple and the lower city.
Yet one thing concerned Eleazar.
Tomorrow, the fifteenth of the month of Av, was the Festival of Xylophory, the wood-burning festival. It was the last of nine occasions during the year when offerings of wood were brought to the Temple to keep the altar fire going. The first eight occasions were granted to certain families and all descendants with the family name, but in this, the month of Av, all the people were allowed to bring wood—even slaves, proselytes, and men and women born out of wedlock.
The altar fire had never been quenched since the rebuilding of the Temple. Eleazar had not expected a stalemate to go on this long, and if the Festival of Xylophory was disrupted, the fuel supply for the altar for the rest of the year would be threatened.
He could not let this happen.
Because of the standoff with the rebels, Boaz had not been able to secure robust men in their prime as an armed escort to the house of Ben-Aryeh. They were too valuable along the front lines of the standoff in the city.
Instead, Boaz entered the outer courtyard with two elderly men, two barely more than teenagers, and one with an obvious limp. The important thing, however, was the fact that Annas the Younger had used his connections to ensure they’d been loaned spears and shields for this.
Yet Boaz was not overly concerned that the escorts were not the finest of soldiers. What more could it take to evict Amaris and a couple of women servants?
Boaz was surprised, however, upon reaching the inner courtyard. Who is this? he wondered as a large man stood and blocked the door of the house. And what does the fool expect to accomplish?
Despite the looseness of the man’s tunic, he was obviously well-muscled. And he was holding an iron bar horizontally across his waist. He seemed relaxed. Too relaxed.
The Last Sacrifice Page 18
