Jerusalem's Hope Read online

  Why indeed?

  Marcus had experienced respect for brave enemies before and yet remained remorseless when battling them. Yeshua was a Jew . . . a race despised and ridiculed throughout the empire. It was Marcus’ sworn duty to uphold the authority of Rome, the prestige of Rome, the superiority of Rome.

  Why should he risk his career and his life to shield a Jewish preacher?

  “Because he is more than a mere man,” Marcus said at last. “Felix, I once heard him pose this question: ‘Which is harder to heal, a broken body or a broken soul?’”

  “So?” Felix scoffed, tossing back half a cupful of wine. “Greek philosophers say such things all the time to their admiring lackeys. Isn’t this just a Jewish version?”

  “No,” Marcus replied slowly. “The difference is . . . he can do both. It’s not simply word games.”

  “You mean you think the business with the bread was real? On the journey from the Galil I thought about trying to explain that to Pilate and knew I couldn’t. It’s part of the reason I drew back from denouncing Yeshua. Why should he suffer for something I can’t understand?”

  “Nakdimon ben Gurion, the Jew you met who is on their supreme council . . .”

  Felix acknowledged that he remembered Nakdimon’s credentials.

  Marcus continued. “Nakdimon is also studying Yeshua’s claims. I’d like to speak to him more about it.”

  Shrugging, Felix said, “You don’t need my permission for that. Our job is to see that Governor Pilate’s aqueduct gets built and that bar Abba’s rebels are either captured or driven into their caves. As long as Yeshua speaks no treason he can be whatever kind of miracle worker he fancies. But he should stay away from Jerusalem.”

  “Pilate still doesn’t understand the Jews,” Marcus said at last, unwilling to unveil any further his thoughts about the Rabbi of Nazareth.

  “What makes you say that? Their own Council voted him the money from their Temple treasury to complete the aqueduct. Everyone knows how badly Jerusalem needs it. He’ll be a hero.”

  Shaking his head, Marcus disagreed. “Nakdimon told me the money was Korban, sacred to their God. Hear me, Felix. It will cause more turmoil than hanging the face of the emperor over their Temple Mount.”

  “But they need the water . . . and their own leaders agreed to the arrangement. Surely the rabble will see reason!”

  “I hope you’re right,” Marcus conceded. Then as an afterthought he asked, “Did you get one of the new coins?”

  Felix nodded.

  “May I see it?”

  Felix fished in a leather pouch hanging from his belt. He retrieved a circular, stamped bit of bronze, no bigger than his thumbnail. On the far horizon the sun, which had plunged into a thin layer of cloud, emerged just above the sea. A beam of light reflected off the shiny copper surface of the penny as Felix handed it over.

  Marcus studied one face of the coin and then the other. “Three years,” he said. “Three years as governor, and he’s learned nothing.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Tracing the engraving with his finger, Marcus described what he found there. “A sheaf of barley. Around the rim the words Tiberius Caesar.”

  “What’s wrong with—”

  Waving his friend to silence, Marcus reversed the image and continued. “And on the other side . . . a simpulum beneath a lituus. A cup for pouring wine onto an altar and the spiral-topped rod of a diviner when he reads the entrails of a goat!”

  “So? They aren’t images of men or beasts. Just things!”

  Marcus shrugged. “Then you don’t understand either. Since before the time of Alexander the Great, through all the wars with Antiochus and the Maccabees, the quickest way to rouse a Jewish mob was to threaten their beliefs. Pious, peace-loving Jews will regard these coins as rude, an affront to their faith. The more rebellious will use them as one more proof that Rome wants to destroy their faith altogether.”

  “All that from a penny?” Felix said incredulously. “It takes two of them just to buy a man entry to a public bath. Why would anyone take offense at something so minor?” The sun slipped beneath the sea, announcing its departure with a final greenish flash. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Pilate is ready for trouble, be it aqueduct or coin. He’s given Vara the special assignment of riot control. The governor is determined not to lose either control or dignity ever again.”

  “A bloodbath in the making?”

  “Vara has strict orders about how much force . . .” Felix’s words trailed away. Both men knew Vara was a raging wild animal. Certainly not noble, like a lion. More like a hyena, pulling down the weakest prey, and insatiable. “You stay away from him,” he said in warning. “He’s planning to destroy you.”

  “Just as well that I’ll be heading off to the wilds of Beth-lehem then,” Marcus joked. “Or would be if that barber ever showed up!”

  “Ah,” Felix said with a guilty start. “I forgot. I sent him away. I want you to keep the beard so you can go back into disguise if needed.”

  The caravansary outside the town of Salim had sleeping accommodations and prepared food for those who could pay, as well as heaps of straw and access to common cook fires for those who could not. The inn was really only an open courtyard surrounded by a porticoed terrace. Families who arrived early in the day sheltered in the alcoves in a semblance of privacy; latecomers shared the central square with hundreds of strangers, donkeys, and oxen.

  There had been no more alarms or close calls during the rest of the day’s journey. Avel hadn’t seen Kittim or Asher, or any other rebels, but that fact had not allowed him to relax. Being taken so completely off-guard earlier made him anxious. Avel was afraid to enter into any more conversations for fear of being distracted. Only by keeping his nerves balanced on a knife’s edge could he stay alive. He had spent the entire afternoon glancing behind him and ducking around rocks to see if anyone was following or even staring at him.

  Given the oddity of his behavior, it wasn’t surprising that everyone did seem to be staring.

  Avel was doubly desirous of nightfall, and unhappy that Ha-or Tov and Emet turned into the caravansary’s entrance. He would have preferred finding a secluded spot away from the other pilgrims, perhaps up the nearby streambed, but in any case away from prying eyes. Besides, the inn’s entry was also its only exit; it was too easy to be trapped there.

  In the end, Avel had no choice but to follow. After lurking opposite the gate for a time, like a recently beaten dog skulking beyond the fire’s light, Avel finally darted across the open space and into the thickest shadow he could find.

  Expecting his friends also to be tucked back in a sheltered corner, Avel was surprised to hear his name called from one of the brightly lit recesses. There, beside a fire, reclining on straw, were Emet and Ha-or Tov. Emet was unwrapping a length of bloody rag from his left foot; Ha-or Tov was drinking from a jug of water.

  “Where’ve you been?” Ha-or Tov greeted him. “We were worried about you.”

  “What are you doing?” Avel hissed. “Get out of sight!”

  Ha-or Tov shook his head. “We have a protector,” he said, gesturing with the clay container. “Nakdimon ben Gurion. He’s over there talking to the fellow with the donkey.”

  Because of the crowd it took Avel several tries to locate the man. Eventually he spotted Nakdimon. His back was to Avel, but he appeared to be bargaining with the owner of a dun-colored swaybacked animal.

  “It’s the man we saw at Deborah’s house in Capernaum,” Ha-or Tov added unnecessarily. “He said for us to stay with him and he’d look out for us.”

  Emet’s blistered feet.

  Nakdimon approached the problem brimming with good intentions after his long conversation with Yeshua of Nazareth. But in spite of his original plan, execution of the deed had taken on an extremely unpleasant aspect. The simple act of hiring a donkey to carry beggar boys to Jerusalem had become an arduous process.

  “I won’t take a penny less.” The traveling hawker
ponderously wagged his massive head atop narrow shoulders. Tugging the drooping ear of his half-starved donkey, he added, “I took him in as payment of a debt. He’s been useful. Gentle. Dependable. You wish to hire him, you say. To carry the boys to Yerushalayim, you say. Well, then. All right, I say. But what if he dies on the way? What if you are not truly Nakdimon ben Gurion, the nephew of Gamaliel? And when I go to the address you give me in Yerushalayim to get my donkey back you have absconded with my beast and I am left with nothing but what you paid to hire him?”

  “For that price, he should be mine. Three times over!”

  The hawker reddened. Clearly he was losing patience. “Not during Passover week! Two silver shekels for the hire of him! Two more in deposit, or your boys can walk on bloody stumps.”

  “If you were a righteous man, you’d offer me the use of your beast for no pay whatsoever.” Nakdimon’s ire was roused. “This is Passover. Such a deed is a mitzvah, is it not?”

  “I’m a hawker, not a priest. With a donkey for hire!”

  “Two shekels for the hire? And two shekels more for deposit! On a normal day I could buy three donkeys for that much. And in better condition!”

  “In Yerushalayim he’ll fetch twice what I’m asking.”

  Nakdimon peered into the animal’s mouth. “If he lives that long.”

  A shrug. The hawker whined, “He’s practically a colt. Five. Maybe six.”

  Nakdimon knew the long yellow teeth indicated the animal had been carrying burdens for at least twenty years. “He’s old enough to pay taxes.”

  The hawker feigned injury. He sucked his blackened teeth petulantly. “Suit yourself. No one else in the khan is hiring out livestock. No one is selling. I happen to have taken a liking to your boys. That’s why I make you this offer. The little lad with the bloody feet. How else will you carry him to Yerushalayim? He is your son. You must think of such things.”

  “He’s not my son,” Nakdimon started to explain but caught himself.

  “Not your son? Then who . . .”

  Nakdimon snapped a reply he had learned in Torah school. “Haven’t you heard that to care for travelers is as great a matter as the reception of the Shekinah?”

  The peddler fleetingly considered this wisdom and then shook his head. “No.”

  “Or whenever a poor one stands at your door, the Holy One, blessed be his Name, stands at the right hand?”

  “A lovely sentiment.” The fellow applauded weakly. “So. These boys are nothing to you. Just beggars, are they? A ticket to get in good standing with the Almighty?”

  “What does it matter to you who they are? We are speaking of the price of your animal’s hire. Here to Yerushalayim. You retrieve it at the end at my house. Nakdimon ben Gurion. You know my name. And everyone is satisfied, eh?”

  “Pay me what I ask.”

  “This will not stand well in the eyes of the Lord.”

  “I’ll take my chances.”

  “The hooves are split.”

  “If you are who you claim to be, you are a rich man. You can afford to hire ten donkeys. I’m a poor man. I offer you this deal and you insult my animal. As a matter of fact, according to your own proverb you insult the Almighty. You don’t know. I may be an angel sent to travel to this khan to meet you! To test your generosity.”

  Nakdimon knew well that the khan was packed to the brim with angels, prophets, holy men, pilgrims, rabbis, peddlers, spies, rebels, bandits, and thieves—all on their way to Passover. Whatever this fellow might be, he was not an angel.

  But there was the donkey. A much more attractive creature than its master. Better teeth anyway. It was probably the lone beast of burden for sale or hire between Galilee and the Temple Mount.

  “Last chance,” the thief bargained.

  Nakdimon dipped into his purse and removed the coins. “You leave me no choice. For the sake of the boy’s feet. But it’s robbery.”

  Decayed teeth flashed a solicitous grin. Grimy palm extended to collect the cash. “May the Eternal bless your honor! May you enjoy prosperity all your days for your generosity toward a poor man! You won’t regret this! I will come to your door and collect my little beast.”

  “And refund my two-shekel deposit.”

  “Yes. Yes. Until then may he serve you well.” Thrusting the lead rope into Nakdimon’s hand, the fellow scurried away to bilk another traveler out of hard cash.

  “Religious holidays bring out the best in people,” Nakdimon grumbled. His uncle Gamaliel often said it was the duty of a righteous man to consider all men as if they were robbers but treat them as if they were the Messiah himself. Well, there was no doubt about this hawker. He was not the Messiah. But his donkey might well save some battered soles.

  Nakdimon absently stroked the pitiful creature’s thin neck as he gazed around the khan for the two boys for whom he had become protector and traveling companion. Then Nakdimon would go home to his children in Jerusalem. It really was not a bother. Probably not worth an honorable mention in the record book of the Almighty.

  Never mind.

  And there they were. Huddled beside a pillar. Striped robes as obvious as the clothes of a jester in the court of Herod Antipas. The Good Light and Truth. How could a man with any religious training turn away from performing a good deed on behalf of children with such names as these?

  Hadassah would have taken them for angels. Human and grubby though they might have been, they would have been swooped up and bundled home for supper. She would have made certain they were apprenticed to an artisan in the market of Jerusalem before she let them go!

  Two boys. Yes. Not angels. Yet the two had become three. Three dressed alike. Nakdimon clearly recognized the newcomer as one of the Jerusalem link boys! He was a Sparrow! A bit cleaner than when Nakdimon had last seen him. Yes. Better dressed too. But there was no doubt it was The Mourner. The boy who had refused to light his torch on the night of Purim after his friend Hayyim had been killed. How had he come to be in a khan filled with thieves and rebels this far north of Jerusalem?

  Never mind. Avel was here. Avel was there. He shared the bread of Ha-or Tov and Emet. The trio were boon companions; that was plain enough.

  With a practiced swipe along the sagging spine of the donkey, Nakdimon judged that the pathetic creature could carry three.

  At least the straw for sale as bedding in the khan was fresh. New bundles had been brought in, in anticipation of the thousands who would pass through on the way to Jerusalem. Torches burned brightly, as if in welcome, but latecomers were turned away. There was no room left in the inn tonight.

  Nakdimon would have received preferential treatment had he let it be known that he was one of the rulers of Israel. Instead he chose obscurity. Clothed in the garb of a commoner, he was able to listen in on the conversations of those around him. So far all popular sentiment focused on the hope that the Carpenter from Nazareth would wrest control from the high priest, the Sanhedrin, and Rome.

  Nakdimon purchased a bushel of clean straw and sat down to share bread with Ha-or Tov and Emet. Avel was introduced as a brother who had been separated on the road.

  Nakdimon warned them that tomorrow would be a long day if they were to make it all the way to the ford of the Jordan. The donkey would speed them along somewhat, but they would have to be on the road before first light. Emet and Ha-or Tov seemed content with this. They spread the additional bedding and were out cold the minute they lay down.

  Avel stared at Nakdimon with suspicion and did not go to sleep with the others. At last the boy challenged Nakdimon. “I was a quarry Sparrow.”

  “Yes,” Nakdimon acknowledged. “I remember. The Mourner. Avel. You carried a light for me on Purim.”

  “Along with the other Sparrows.”

  “So. You remember me as well.” Nakdimon was caught.

  “I couldn’t forget. You paid us all a penny each. Even me.”

  “It was Purim.” Nakdimon leaned back against the wall. “What did you do with your penny?”

>   “Kittim, chief of the Sparrows, beat me and took it from me. So I left the quarry.” The boy’s tone was one of unconcern. “I’m glad I left.”

  “But you’re going back to Yerushalayim?”

  “No.” Avel considered him frankly. “Why are you dressed like a laborer?”

  “It’s safer.” Nakdimon pulled the hood of his cloak over his head against the chill.

  “Safer than what?” Avel challenged.

  “There are bandits on the road.”

  “Why travel alone?”

  “My companions left the Galil ahead of me. I stayed behind awhile.”

  “You were in Capernaum. You were in the Galil. I saw you with Ya’ir, the father of Deborah. You were at the house when Deborah . . . fell asleep. You were there when Yeshua came and woke her.”

  “How do you know this, boy?”

  “We were in the barn . . . hiding. Deborah fed us. Hid us.”

  “Hid you? From whom?”

  “Bar Abba’s men.”

  “The rebel?”

  “Deborah hid us from Kittim, Asher, and the others. Then she got sick. I climbed a tree and saw it. Saw you. The others. I saw what happened.”

  “You were with the rebels?” Nakdimon studied this young witness in the flickering firelight. Perhaps it would be wise to keep tabs on him, in case testimony was needed before the council.

  “Kittim was the one you drove away from Emet and Ha-or Tov today.”

  “Bar Abba’s men? Heading south?”

  “What did you think?”

  “Why did you leave bar Abba’s gang?”

  “We found Yeshua.”

  “Yes. Everyone in the Galil has found him. And what did you see?” Nakdimon inquired.

  “Deborah got sick. Yeshua came with his talmidim. He put everyone out of the house except her mother and father. A handful of others. And then she woke up.”