Jerusalem's Hope (11 page)

The courtyards and terraces of the Temple were packed with worshippers and sightseers, as were the streets of Jerusalem. The approaching Passover celebration was one of the pilgrim feasts, gathering whole families of Jews from all over Judea and the Galil. Indeed from other parts of the empire many had started on their journeys weeks earlier. The number of people crammed into the Holy City doubled at this time of year, with every house swarming with friends, relatives, and even total strangers who could by Jewish religious laws of hospitality claim lodging.

Guard Sergeant Quintus, old enough to be Marcus' father, was at his side. “Sorry you're not back in command here, sir,” he offered sympathetically. “Just a month ago you stopped a riot, that's certain, where Praetorian Vara would have killed thousands to accomplish the same thing.”

Quintus had been with Marcus through many years of their service to Rome. He didn't understand Marcus' sympathy for the Jews, but he respected Marcus as an officer and a warrior. Clearly, Quintus argued, it was misguided politics to send Marcus off to supervise a building project when the larger need was here.

As tesserarius of First Cohort, Quintus had risen as far as his ambition, education, and intellect could take him. But Marcus found his insights invaluable. Marcus was anxious to hear everything Quintus suspected but had no wish to openly encourage disloyalty. “Praetorian Vara has the confidence of the governor,” he said simply.

Quintus spat a date seed over the battlements, but in deference to Marcus, aimed it to fall outside the Temple Mount platform. “He must,” Quintus agreed. “Two full legions posted here in the last month. Half the whole force in the province, and they say another legion is coming with the governor and Tribune Felix. Scarcely enough left elsewhere to guard caravan routes and such, and them the dregs. All the best cohorts are here.”

“Expecting trouble, then?”

Quintus gestured toward the city, where the first lighted torches of the Jerusalem Sparrows were appearing. “A million Jews. Those from foreign parts just now hearing about the execution of their holy man, the Baptizer. Others up in arms about some sacrilege to do with Temple money. The place is ripe for rebels and assassination and riots. You can feel the tension everywhere.”

The bustle echoing up from below faded as the crowds drifted away from the Temple. Previously masked noises replaced it: the bawling complaints of legions of lambs. The holy mountain was always partly a stockyard because of the ongoing sacrifices, but this time of year the pens were full to bursting.

Jewish law required that one sacrificial lamb must be provided for every ten to twenty worshippers for the Passover supper. That obligation meant that in addition to the usual flocks of animals the number of lambs for this one ceremony would increase by thousands and thousands. Twice as many as Marcus could see would . . . every one . . . have their blood spilled before the week was out.

Marcus hoped the Jewish God would confine the bloodshed only to lambs, but he doubted it. He too had noted the strain in the atmosphere.

“Two whole legions?” Marcus queried. “I haven't noticed anything like that number of troopers. Where are they?”

“That's just it,” Quintus explained, pointing toward his own red tunic. “First Cohort is in uniform . . . some others too. But fully a legion and a half are wearing cloaks over their swords and going about in disguise. Vara says he's got a surprise ready for any rebels who show up; that he's ready for anything that might go wrong.”

“Vara is
hoping
for something to go wrong,” Marcus declared in an unguarded moment. “Watch yourself, Quintus,” he added. “Something bad is coming. I can feel it.”

“Needn't worry about me, sir,” Quintus returned stoutly. “The back of my neck has been prickling this week, same as it was before the Cher usci came howling out of that German forest. But you're right. Let any Jewish prophet or rebel leader speak a single word of revolt, and he'll find a Roman boot on his throat double-quick.”

Marcus did not feel reassured. Quintus was a good man who did not go about looking for trouble, but all the Roman troopers in Judea and many of their commanders were Syrian, Samaritan, Idumean, or of other nationalities equally hostile to Jews. Given Vara's ruthless leadership, such men might quickly decide that
all
Jewish throats needed to be stepped on. Marcus hoped again that Yeshua of Nazareth would stay far away from Jerusalem for at least the next week.

“Tomorrow I'm taking a detail to Jericho,” Quintus noted. “Would you care to accompany us?”

Since Marcus had no authority over any of the soldiers in Jerusalem, it was a courteous gesture meant to show Quintus' respect for him.

“No, thank you, Quintus,” Marcus replied. “My orders are to inspect the aqueduct project. Tomorrow I'm riding to the far end of the construction. I'll work my way back from there . . . in time to return to Jerusalem by Passover,” he added significantly.

This warranted a tightened jaw and a quick gesture of approval. “I'm glad of that, sir,” Quintus said.

Nakdimon came to the house of El'azar of Bethany after sundown.
Better not to travel on to Yerushalayim in the dark,
he reasoned, and besides, there were important matters to discuss.

He was welcomed and offered quarters for the night. It was as if the siblings wanted to reconnect with someone who had also experienced the wonder of events in Galilee.

He sat down to supper with El'azar, Marta, and Miryam. They had not been on the hillside when Yeshua fed the multitudes, so Nakdimon repeated the story. Details were being passed on from person to person and village to village throughout the land. No doubt the tale would reach the ears of the Sanhedrin and High Priest Caiaphas before Nakdimon arrived in Jerusalem.

Nakdimon shared with the siblings what had unfolded before his eyes: the feeding of thousands on what had been five barley loaves and two fish. There followed a cry from the people that Yeshua should be King! But he denied the offer and disappeared into the hills at dusk.

Miryam, her deep brown eyes shining when she spoke, recounted, “It's been half a year since he changed my life and I first followed him. And there isn't ink enough to record what Yeshua has done and said.”

Short, plump Marta and lean El'azar exchanged looks. It was clear the most amazing miracle in their lives had been the beautiful Miryam's change of heart. And perhaps, Nakdimon thought, the radical difference in their own attitudes.

“I was a cynic.” El'azar dipped his bread into the sauce. “But no more.”

His openness brought Nakdimon to the point. “Would you be willing, if called upon, to share what you witnessed before the council? Even if it cost your standing among the elders?”

“I'll tell what I saw! What really happened,” El'azar declared, scratching his wiry, reddish beard. “Anywhere. To anyone. It doesn't matter what it costs.”

At this Marta's thin lips pressed together in a tight line of disagreement, but she said nothing. Instead she rose from the table and cleared the dishes. It was plain that the dowdy, middle-aged spinster was not quite willing to throw everything out the window and follow the Master.

Miryam, on the other hand, smiled and placed her hand on her brother's sleeve. “So, El'azar! You're willing to give everything you have to follow him. To speak the truth bravely, even if it means losing all? Reputation? Position? Respect of others?”

“A small price compared to what this may mean to Israel, isn't it? The restoration of our people to freedom.” El'azar's clear green eyes blazed with determination. “The return of righteous rule in Yerushalayim? Sending Herod Antipas and the Roman governor packing once and for all? Yes! I'll risk everything for that!”

“Treason, brother,” Miryam said. But she was smiling, evidently pleased at her brother's change of heart.

“Here's to treason then,” he said, gulping his wine.

“Then you've come to it at last,” Miryam added softly. “As I did.”

“Yes,” El'azar replied, seeming surprised by his sister's assessment. “It's too important, isn't it? We'd better get it right the first time.”

Nakdimon informed them, “The Sanhedrin has hired fellows to move with Yeshua's followers. Spies. Unsavory sorts. All of them. Twisting what they've seen and heard into something false. Accusing Yeshua of wanting to overthrow Rome and the rulers of Israel. Ominous threats. I've heard their testimony. We need men of standing to speak the truth.”

“There'll be many who stand with us,” El'azar declared. “There are men of intelligence and honesty on the council. Your uncle, Gamaliel? What's he think about this?”

Nakdimon hesitated before answering. “He's wise to be cautious. I'll give him my report tomorrow when I get home. The
cohen hagadol
's party is in opposition to Gamaliel. Looking for a way to discredit him. Yes. My uncle will require proof. He'll need to see a sign for himself. And Yeshua doesn't give signs for the sake of proving something to someone. Only to touch on a need, I think. Gamaliel may want to meet with you ahead. That is, if your testimony is accepted before the council.”

Miryam beamed. This cause of proclaiming the unarguable power of Yeshua of Nazareth had clearly united two parts of the estranged family.

Nakdimon observed Miryam. She was so utterly changed inside that even her physical appearance seemed altered. What had been hard and seductive before now had softened into a quiet beauty. Desirable in a different way, and yet . . .

Nakdimon guarded his thoughts. No. Miryam's history remained a subject of gossip. Changed though she might be, she could never again be considered respectable among polite society. No acts of charity in faraway Magdala could restore what people knew about her past.

His hand touched hers as they dipped their bread. Warm color climbed into his face.

She averted her eyes. There was an awkward pause. Did she know what he was thinking?

Marta returned, her heavy face puckered in disapproval. Had she seen the way Nakdimon looked at Miryam?

As if to put an end to speculation, Miryam excused herself and retreated to her room.

Marta followed shortly after.

Discussion of politics and Israel's future continued into the late hours between El'azar and Nakdimon.

Nakdimon was keenly aware when the light shining from Miryam's slatted door finally went out. Only then did he excuse himself and wearily trudge upstairs to bed.

DAVAR

T
he rattle of dishes and the smell of food roused Nakdimon from his dreams. He washed and changed into clothing more suitable to his rank than the traveling clothes he had been wearing. Covering his head with his prayer shawl he began morning devotions.

He heard the light tread of a woman's footsteps on the balcony outside his room. Moments later the scent of perfume drifted in through the slatted door and lingered like a feminine presence in the chamber, clouding his focus. “Blessed are You . . .”

That would be Miryam, he thought. The notorious. The beautiful. And now the follower of the Rabbi of Nazareth. “O King of the Uni verse ...”

Her voice answered the call to breakfast from her sister, Marta. “I'm coming! No. I don't know if he's up yet.” Then a tentative rapping at his door. “Reb Nakdimon?”

He inhaled her fragrance, then cleared his throat gruffly. “A moment please . . . morning prayers,” he informed her.

“Pardon,” she whispered, and he did not hear her retreat.

He attempted to resume, but his thoughts were far from prayers. There were many things to think about: the certain conflict in Jerusalem, Yeshua of Nazareth, the response of the Sanhedrin and his uncle Gamaliel when he brought his report from Galilee.

And yet despite these weighty matters, Nakdimon was thinking about finding a mother for his children. Thinking about a wife. Remembering what it had been like to wake up beside Hadassah. And now imagining he might be able to wake up next to another woman and find the same measure of contentment.

He was, in spite of his recitation of the words of praise and blessing, thinking about the woman exuding the aroma of a garden as she walked past his door, enticing in her newfound innocence.

Except that her past put her beyond reach.

But not beyond dreaming.

Certainly Marta might make a more suitable mother for his seven offspring. But then he had servants to help with the children. And there was always his mother.

This morning his prayers were a jumble of once-again-awakened longings. Not for Hadassah, who was beyond his reach, but for someone very much alive.

He folded his tallith and left the bedchamber. Miryam was in the atrium, gazing into a pool of water. Long dark tresses cascaded over her shoulder.