But behind milled the mob that Judas had led to his master’s garden. As much as black remorse overwhelmed him, Judas could not turn back.
“My friend,” Yeshua said, “go ahead and do what you have come for.”
Judas was too stricken to reply.
**
I had been considering without much seriousness whether to try to help the prophet.
It wasn’t Pascal’s insistence that I be seen as Yeshua’s foe that stopped me from action. I did not care how my reputation might suffer among these Pharisees and Sadducees and curiosity seekers. As with possessions, a reputation is only worth something to a man when he is alive.
Instead, I held myself back because of logic. Pascal had persuaded me to accompany Caiaphas by telling me it was a way to prove—or disprove—the messiahship of the man of miracles.
I still wanted proof.
So I would watch.
If He failed to rescue Himself, I would know He was a fraud.
Yet if the miracle occurred and He proved that He was the Messiah come to deliver the Jews and He saved Himself from these soldiers, I wanted to stay within following distance. When the first opportunity presented itself, I would approach Him.
Yes, it was cowardly of me. But I was far beyond worrying about my own opinion of myself.
**
The Roman soldiers neared Judas and his teacher. Yeshua stepped around the betrayer to challenge the crowd.
As the soldiers arrived, Yeshua asked, “Whom are you looking for?”
“Yeshua from Nazareth.” The reply came from one with the bravado and contempt of a bully soldier facing an unarmed civilian.
“I am He,” Yeshua said.
His calm, regal assurance seemed uncanny to the soldiers. This was not a man frightened by the full authority of the Roman Empire but one who acted as if He, not they, controlled the situation. A man, then, who might have actually performed the rumored miracles that had reached their ears in the fortress above the temple. Their instinctive reaction might have been from a superstitious fear of some magical retribution, and the soldiers closest to Yeshua stepped back and stumbled on the feet of the soldiers directly behind.
Yet it was more than something human within them. I can explain it no other way than this: Filling the dark grove around us—in that moment that seemed to stretch and stretch—was an uncanny supernatural presence that brought chills to my skin.
I shared the fear that the soldiers showed as they lurched away from Yeshua. More than a few tripped and fell to the ground.
The moment passed. Like a wave of powerful sound, gone so completely it could have been imagined, leaving behind only its resonance in my soul.
Swords and shields clanked as soldiers scrambled to their feet. The rest of the mob had begun to press in, and there was no place for the soldiers to flee.
“Whom are you searching for?” Yeshua asked again.
“Yeshua of Nazareth.” This time, the answer was respectful.
“I told you that I am He,” Yeshua said. He swung His right arm to point at the disciples behind Him. “And since I am the one you want, let these others go.”
Lightning had not struck. No ghosts or demons had appeared. The soldiers’ fear passed, and Yeshua’s reminder of the other eleven men snapped the centurion from his brief paralyzation. His military mind assessed the immediate danger; if the eleven men rushed them, fighting would be difficult in the crowd. A Roman sword could easily strike one of the chief priests. Such a political disaster would end his career.
“Now!” the centurion barked. Once they held Yeshua, the others would not dare attack. “Seize Him!”
In the milling confusion of figures and shadows in flickering torchlights, Peter moved to the edge of the mob, surreptitiously withdrawing his short sword from his clothing. It would have been suicide to attack one of the armed soldiers and equally suicidal to injure anyone with the political standing of chief priest, so he moved toward one of the servants.
No doubt Peter did not want his defense to go unnoticed by Yeshua. Judas, who had taken the place of honor, had betrayed Yeshua. Peter, forced into the seat of least honor, would do the opposite.
“Lord!” Peter shouted as he swung. “Should we fight? We brought the swords!”
Peter’s target jumped sideways at his warning cry, and the sword sliced along the servant’s skull, shearing off part of his ear.
“Don’t resist anymore!” Yeshua commanded. Although a soldier was about to grab Yeshua, He stepped away unhindered. None made a move to stop Him as He reached the whimpering servant.
Yeshua put His left arm around the servant’s slight shoulders to comfort him. With His right hand, He touched the man’s ear. When Yeshua pulled His hand away to examine it in the torchlight, He saw blood.
“Put away your sword,” He said to Peter. “Those who use the sword will be killed by the sword.”
Yeshua’s irritation was obvious. That Peter had swung at a defenseless man instead of a soldier spoke plainly of the act’s true meaning. Did Peter not yet understand that Yeshua was not here to establish a kingdom on earth?
“Don’t you realize that I could ask My Father for thousands of angels to protect us,” He snapped at Peter, “and He would send them instantly?”
Quick as the irritation had struck, it left. Yeshua allowed that Peter still needed instruction, as did all children. “But if I did, how would the Scriptures be fulfilled that describe what must happen now?”
As calmly as He had stepped away from the arresting soldiers, Yeshua returned to them. Because all attention was on Him, none immediately noticed the servant He had left behind, who was touching his ear in great wonder, amazed that the bleeding and pain had ended.
The appearance of resistance had been enough for the centurion. He commanded the soldiers nearest him to immediately bind Yeshua.
Other soldiers moved to capture the disciples, but they fled into the shadows of the trees. One, John Mark, the son of the man who had given the use of his house for Yeshua’s Passover, twisted in the hands of a soldier and spun away only by slipping through his outer garment, expensive fine linen instead of the usual wool. That he had dressed in haste was obvious by the flashes of pale flesh that showed his nakedness as he ran.
A soldier began chase.
“We have who we need!” barked the centurion. “Return and regroup!”
The last thing he wanted was to have his soldiers running around in the confusion of the dark grove beyond the torchlights. He’d seen night battles where Romans actually attacked Romans, such was the adrenaline and panic of men fighting for their lives.
The soldiers returned as the ropes were tightened around Yeshua’s wrists.
“Am I some dangerous criminal, that you have come armed with swords and clubs to arrest Me?” As He spoke, Yeshua looked over the soldiers at the chief priests and their servants. “Why didn’t you arrest Me in the temple? I was there every day.”
He let the rhetorical questions hang briefly, then continued. “But this is your moment.” Another pause. “The time when the power of darkness reigns.”
Chapter Forty-four
I remained with the soldiers and the priests and the captive. I knew I would not sleep anyway in the solitude of my cousin’s guest chamber. And because I had watched the captive heal the lame—unless it had been fraud—I still believed there was the smallest chance that the man of miracles was biding His time, waiting for the moment when messianic drama would be its most impressive to the largest number of spectators.
The walk back from Gethsemane was hardly more than a mile. But uphill, at night, and with Yeshua stumbling at the prodding spears of the soldiers, it took close to an hour to reach the gates that led to the courtyards of the high priest’s palace.
Well behind us, John and Peter watched. They had not run far from the garden, and while their devotion did not extend to sharing captivity with their master, neither could they completely abandon Him.
**
“They know me there,” John said, pointing at the crowd as it disappeared through the gates. “My father does business with that family. I’ll go in and find out what I can.”
Peter nodded, dumb with fright and cold. He wanted to flee yet was drawn to stay with Yeshua. His helplessness and uncertainty made him miserable. He hung back while John walked ahead.
A cassocked priest passed by Peter, accompanied by a servant to guard him in the late night.
At the gate, John spoke briefly with a woman servant, and she opened it for him.
Peter stamped his feet, crossed his arms, and jammed his hands in his armpits for warmth. As the wait lengthened, more and more men began to pass him on the street, heading to the palace gate like dark, silent bats converging on a cave’s entrance.
The call had gone out. Yeshua was captured. Those of the leading priests, elders, Sanhedrists, and Pharisees who had not been part of the arrest were assembling to cast judgment on the carpenter from Galilee.
**
I had lost sight of Yeshua among the servants and soldiers and men of religion. More and more men arrived, so I assumed Yeshua was still somewhere within the palace. I had no worry that I was missing anything of significance; as all of these arriving men remained in the courtyard where I waited, it was doubtful that He was being tried.
At least not by the Jewish Sanhedrin. Not yet.
**
Annas, the former high priest, sat on an ornate chair in an inner chamber of his son-in-law’s palace. Beside him stood a personal attendant with the build and face of a gladiator. He had been a wonderful find; in the course of business, Annas often rankled others and found it convenient to have the protective cloak of this man’s intimidating presence.
Annas had been expecting the soldiers to arrive first. When they brought Yeshua to the inner chamber, he instructed them to wait outside the door. Because of the influence Annas had with Pilate, the soldiers obeyed without question. It was also a sign of the power of Annas that Caiaphas was not in attendance but was pacing a corridor of the palace.
When the door closed behind them, Annas examined Yeshua with the cynical eye of an experienced slave trader.
“Somehow, I expected more,” Annas said. “At Your touch, the lame walk and the blind see. Or so I have heard.”
Yeshua, hands still bound, gazed back at Annas without shame.
Annas lifted his tunic to expose his gnarled legs. He pointed at his knee. “I have an ache when I walk. Will You heal it for me?”
No nod. No shake of the head from Yeshua. Just calm dignity.
“Truthfully,” Annas said, “I admit to some curiosity. Show me a miracle, and I will do my best to save You from my son-in-law’s hatred. Indeed, perhaps we can join forces. With the reach of my influence, we could both profit magnificently.”
Yeshua closed His eyes briefly. Then opened them. Still silent.
“You cannot speak?” Annas asked. He dropped his tunic, suddenly embarrassed at his exposure. “Is it from shock that we have finally acted?”
Silence.
Annas curled his lips in a smile of derision. “I think of a monkey throwing sticks at an elephant, running up and down its back, shouting high-pitched taunts. It grows bolder and bolder because the elephant does not respond. And then suddenly the great beast swings around and grabs the monkey with its trunk.”
Annas laughed at Yeshua’s continued silence. “And as the elephant shakes the monkey in the air,” he went on, “the monkey discovers how insignificant it is and how powerful the beast it thought it could tame.”
Yeshua merely kept His eyes intently on Annas’s face.
The strength in His silence unnerved Annas. “Jibber, jibber, jibber,” Annas continued, unaware of the irony of his own taunting against Yeshua’s stoicism. “The monkey goes jibber, jibber, jibber until the elephant snatches it and squeezes it. And the monkey dies.”
Still no response.
Annas would never have admitted it to himself, but Yeshua’s dignified silence had become a power of its own. So, trying to establish his superiority, Annas leaned forward and pressed his interrogation. “Tell me, are there other little monkeys to throw themselves at the elephant?
“Let me translate for Your provincial mind,” Annas said, making his scorn obvious. “How many followers do You have? Do they contribute money to support Your cause? Are they armed?”
Annas had hoped he could anger Yeshua and, in so doing, trick Him into incriminating His disciples.
Yeshua smiled peacefully. He could have answered that a judge attempting to extort confessions to which he had no right was not a fair inquiry.
“And Your teachings,” Annas demanded, moving on so that the continued silence was not a victory for Yeshua. “What of them?”
“What I teach is widely known, because I have preached regularly in the synagogues and the temple.” Yeshua said slowly and clearly. “I have been heard by people everywhere, and I teach nothing in private that I have not said in public. Why are you asking Me this question?”
Yeshua’s simple logic caught Annas off guard. The old man could think of no sarcastic or cutting reply.
“Ask those who heard Me,” Yeshua continued, implying that if the inquiry had been fair, the judge would have sought witnesses. “They know what I said.”
It was not the craven servility that any other man would have offered the most powerful religious authority in the Jewish world. Annas’s attendant bore it no longer.
Stepping forward and lashing out at the same time, he swept the back of his massive hand in a crashing blow against Yeshua’s face. “Is this the way You answer a former high priest?” he snarled.
Yeshua’s top lip cracked, and blood began to film His teeth. When He spoke, however, His calm patience concealed any pain. “If I said anything wrong, you must give evidence for it.” Again, the challenge to produce witnesses in a fair trial, something both knew Annas could not do.
Yeshua spoke to the attendant. “Should you hit a man for telling the truth?”
It was enough for Annas. The superiority he had first felt in front of Yeshua had disappeared. He did not see any way to regain the upper ground against this man, and that realization, too, was further defeat. He was beginning to understand why Caiaphas had such a hatred for this carpenter from Galilee.
“If this man will not answer questions,” Annas said, “this hearing is finished.” He did his best to affect an air of boredom as the soldiers reentered the chamber to take Yeshua away.
**
Dozens of men had passed Peter, and seeking the safety of numbers, he had drifted closer to the iron bars of the gate. He was debating whether to bluff his way past the woman at the gate when John rejoined him.
“Enough of the Sanhedrin has gathered,” John said. “They are about to begin.”
“Begin what?” Peter said. “I know little about the law but enough to know any trial must take place during the day.”
“Better yet,” John grinned. “Much as they would like it, they can’t pass a death sentence on Yeshua. It’s a Roman prerogative.” He clutched Peter’s arm. “Even if somehow they convinced Pilate to crucify Him as our teacher predicted, there is not enough time before the Sabbath.”
He began to pull Peter toward the gate. “Think of it, my friend,” John said. “Whatever happens in there, we will have until the new week to raise the support we need to free Him. You just watch; everything will turn out right.”
Peter stopped. “What if they decide to kill Him themselves?”
“Sanhedrists?” John said. “Men who bind themselves with regulations? Much as they would like Him dead, they won’t taint themselves with something they cannot legally justify. We will have time to rally support.”
Much encouraged, Peter finally returned John’s grin. It did not dampen Peter’s spirits at all when the girl at the gate gave him a hard, questioning look before she let him in with John.
Chapter Forty-five
A charcoal
fire in the center of the inner courtyard threw a small glow on the bearded men as they talked in excited tones about the capture of a rebel messiah.
Peter sat among the servants at the fire and warmed his hands with them. Minutes later, he stood and began to pace. Despite the reassuring words of John, he could not calm himself.
His agitation drew the attention of the maid who had first admitted him to the courtyard. The fire’s light was uncertain, so she said to him, “You were one of those with Yeshua the Galilean.”
Peter thought of the servants behind him. One, a cousin to the man whose ear Peter had sliced, had spoken loud and long about what he would do to the Galilean coward who had attacked an unarmed man. What might happen if these Judeans realized Peter had wielded the sword?
Peter told himself, too, that it would hurt Yeshua’s case if he were brought forth as a witness to testify against Him, especially in light of John’s predication that they could rally support for Yeshua over the next few days. Not only that, he convinced himself, true denial would have been leaving the city instead of staying as near to Yeshua as possible.
Quick anger surged through Peter at the defensiveness he felt at her question. This was only a woman, and a servant at that. Who was she to expect Peter’s answer, needless and potentially harmful as it might be?
He drew himself tall with cold indignation.
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” he said, loudly enough for all those around to hear.
**
While Peter protected himself with his first denial, I remained in the great hall in the palace of Caiaphas with a couple dozen spectators. Naturally, I cannot say for certain what went through Caiaphas’s mind, but I saw and heard enough to feel confident my witness to the record is as close to truth as anyone might offer.
The great hall was not much more than an open court with an arched ceiling. Smoky torches along the walls blackened the limestone with oily resin. The light, although dim, was strong enough to give shadow outlines to the cracks of the flat, interlocked brick that formed the floor. Rows of mats had been thrown down in three semicircles to provide seats for the council members.
The Weeping Chamber Page 15
