Jerusalem's Hope (35 page)

Did she sense the same imminent danger he felt? “Miryam, promise me . . . promise! That you won't go into Jerusalem this Passover! You must not! No matter who would ask you . . .”

“I promise.”

Marcus exhaled loudly, resisting the urge to take her in his arms. Was this good-bye? He searched her eyes and for an instant thought he saw a familiar longing. He swallowed hard. “I'd like to come back, when this is over.”

“It's just beginning, Marcus.” Miryam touched his wrist. “It's not likely to be over in our lifetime. But . . . yes. Please, there's much I want to say.”

“There's no time,” he put in regretfully.

“None to waste.”

“A dark hour for the world.”

“Then we must be a candle,” Miryam said softly.

“There's been no flame to warm my heart since you—”

She silenced him with a finger on his lips. “Not now. Not yet.”

“Later?”

“Marcus.” She glanced away. “So much more I need to explain . . .”

And so they came full circle. He closed his eyes briefly, as if he could shut out every longing. “There's no time. I have to go . . . Jerusalem is . . . I can't stay.”

“Then
shalom
, Marcus.” She stepped away from him and closed the gate gently.

Herod the Great's Jerusalem palace was marvelous to behold: a wondrous place of artificial lakes, manicured gardens, gleaming marble sculptures. It had enough gold leaf on ceiling and trim to finance a centurion's wants for several lifetimes. Only on this visit, Marcus had neither time nor inclination to admire any of it.

Governor Pilate was in his audience chamber, attended by Tribune Felix and consulting with Praetorian Vara. The meeting was already in progress. There was no opportunity to make his report to Felix privately beforehand. To test the waters, so to speak.

Nor was there any chance to draw back. His arrival had been announced, and Pilate had ordered him shown in.

Helmet under his arm and armor buffed as best he was able, Marcus squared his shoulders and marched toward what might be his death sentence.

The governor was seated in the curule chair, the X-shaped seat of judgment used when making proclamations, issuing pronouncements, and passing sentence.

Marcus put no stock in omens, but it seemed a bad sign.

From the elevated platform on which he sat, Pilate peered down on Marcus, making it difficult to judge his expression properly.

Felix kept his gaze turned floorward, not meeting Marcus' eyes.

Vara, bearded as was Marcus and dressed in the robes of a Syrian merchant prince, smirked openly.

Perhaps sentence had already been passed, and Marcus was late for his own execution.

“Come in, Centurion,” Pilate remarked.

The words echoed around the emptiness of the hall.

“News has reached me of an attack on the aqueduct project. Is this true?”

The information had indeed traveled to Jerusalem faster than Marcus. Pilate had probably been informed of the disaster within hours of its occurrence. What he could not know and was undoubtedly waiting to hear from Marcus was what had been done about it.

So Marcus told him. Without offering excuses, without embellishing or trying to spread the blame to others, Marcus explained. He recounted the whole sequence of events, including the evidence that pointed toward bar Abba, the arrest of Benjamin and Lev, and their release after the blood covenant ceremony.

Vara scowled and shook his head in apparent disbelief. His visage suggested that Marcus was even more stupid than he'd previously thought.

Marcus ignored him. “There is every indication the rebels are in Jerusalem right now,” he concluded. “It is my opinion they will strike here. Who or what will be their targets is not clear.”

Pilate coughed and raised an eyebrow. “According to High Priest Caiaphas, it is extremely clear! He and the Sanhedrin are frightened out of their wits. Word has spread on the streets that bar Abba is going to avenge a sacrilege against their God. Caiaphas is certain he is the next target!”

“It seems easy enough to guard the members of the Jewish council until the danger is past,” Marcus ventured.

Vara snorted. “Let them fend for themselves. Our only concern is protecting the governor.”

“And maintaining the peace,” Pilate added. “No riots! There will be no uprising! Vara, you have enough men in disguise to prevent any mob from getting out of control. Isn't that what you promised?”

Vara nodded. “My troopers will be part of every crowd, every gathering, from here to the Temple Mount.” Clapping his jewelry-encrusted hand against his leg produced a metallic ring as he struck a concealed sword.

“Keep the bloodshed to a minimum!” Pilate cautioned. “Clubs and whips, not blades, are called for.” Turning toward Felix, Pilate asked, “You received a message from Caiaphas moments ago. What does he want now?”

“He's thought of a way to defuse the aqueduct issue, he says,” the young officer related. “He wants you to receive a delegation of leading citizens who will spell out their grievance in regard to the Korban funds. These are . . . men who were not consulted before the project was approved.”

“Never!” Vara vowed. “They have no right to question His Excellency's orders.”

Marcus remained silent, recalling that the aqueduct scheme had been rammed through the Jewish council when more than half of them were absent.

Felix continued, “Caiaphas feels that by giving them a chance to air their complaints, and by giving the governor opportunity to detail the excellent reasons behind the plan, much of the anger will be defused.”

“Caiaphas,” Pilate commented dryly, “doesn't always say everything he means! By sending the delegation here he expects to shift the focus of the blame from himself to me! But I will oblige him. He'll be more in my debt than ever. Vara, you and your men will of course be here as well.”

Vara bowed.

Then Pilate said to Marcus, “Why didn't you crucify the two men involved in the brawl?”

The governor liked to display his political skill at keeping others off balance, Marcus thought. After the conversation had gone well beyond the Tower of Siloam, Pilate abruptly brought it back front and center, trying to catch Marcus off-guard.

It didn't work.

Since Marcus had no intention of making excuses or lying, he had no reason to hesitate. “Because I judged it to be the best way to prevent a bad situation from getting worse,” he said. “Two more deaths would only have kept the anger between herdsmen and stoneworkers simmering and led to more bloodshed. The destruction was caused by the rebels. What followed was unfortunate, but not deliberate. If things now remain calm, the damage can be repaired in a matter of weeks at most and the project not further delayed by more trouble.”

Vara's expression was maliciously eager, like a vicious dog awaiting the signal to attack.

Pilate rested his chin on the tips of his index fingers and stared at Marcus. After several beats passed in uncomfortable silence the governor observed, “Quite right too. It has always been my custom to release a prisoner at Passover as a sop to the mobs. Let it be announced that the two men at Herodium were freed by my order. Have that proclaimed in the streets so when the pilgrims hear about the attack on my tower, they'll also hear about my mercy in the very next breath. That's enough for the moment. You are dismissed.”

Vara appeared disappointed. Clearly he'd expected to arrest Marcus, if not to be ordered to organize an execution.

Eyeing his enemy, Marcus waited for Vara to leave first, then he and Felix saluted and turned to go.

VE-LO

T
he open scroll of Isaiah was on Nakdimon's desk. Every passage seemed laden with prophecies about the Messiah, Jerusalem, and the future of Israel. The scroll itself appeared to be a jumble of contradictions. By Messiah's wounds the transgressions of Israel would be forgiven? And yet Messiah, as the promised shoot from the family tree of Jesse and David, would rule as King in Jerusalem? Here he was servant of the Lord; there he was given authority over Israel and all the nations! Could the book of Isaiah be speaking of one Messiah and yet two separate events in future history?

Gamaliel believed this was the case. And coupled with the prophecy in Daniel about the Anointed One being cut off, Gamaliel believed the first prophecy concerning Messiah as Redeemer was within a year of being fulfilled.

It was a frightening possibility. All the passages that described the death of the Messiah were followed by further predictions that the nation of Israel would then be broken by its enemies and scattered to the far corners of the earth! The people of the covenant would live in lonely exile until the last days when the Lord, Immanu'el, would shout from heaven to the north, south, east, and west, “Give them up!” At the command from heaven the children of Israel would come home to Jerusalem and once again Israel would become a nation! When that was finally accomplished, Messiah would return to Jerusalem as King to judge the earth and rule over the nations.

Could it be?

The final fulfillment of hope for the Jewish nation would not come to pass until years, possibly centuries, of suffering!

Nakdimon closed his eyes and prayed that none of this would come to pass in his lifetime or the lifetimes of his children. The prospect of judgment on this beloved Eretz-Israel was almost too much to bear.

Only days now before Passover.

Jerusalem resounded with the bawling of sheep and cattle passing through the gates and into the pens of the Temple. The streets smelled of cow dung and hummed with the buzzing of flies.

This year it was expected that the city would be more packed than usual. The buzz everywhere was about the Prophet from Galilee. Would he come to Jerusalem for the Passover? Or would he remain in hiding since the death of the Baptizer? Pilgrims had begun arriving to find a place to stay. Signs suddenly appeared, advertising room rental in private homes for the holiday.

Nakdimon had never much liked the city during this season of the year. This year he dreaded what might happen.

He told his mother, “This year we stay behind these gates. What I mean, Em, is this: lay in all the supplies we'll need, then bar the doors.”

At first she stared at him as if he were joking. Then with a harsh glare she said, “You're expecting it to be that bad?”

He nodded. “Almost a certainty.”

“What? Over the Korban funds?”

“That. And more.” He wouldn't tell her all that he envisioned.

His mother drew herself up. “Then let's go to my house, Nakdimon! The sea air will do the children good! Come! We can be packed by morning and on the road. . . .”

“I can't go, Mother. You know that. As a member of the Sanhedrin, I have to stay. Especially now.”

“Stubborn! Like your father! The family times he missed because of this . . . politics! And don't tell me you're doing this for the sake of
HaShem!
The Almighty has nothing to do whatsoever with the inner workings of the Sanhedrin! Caiaphas and his tribe are Roman puppets. You know it, and so does everyone from here to Rome!”

“You're right. That's why I must stay. Gamaliel and I . . . a few others—”

She interrupted him with a dismissive wave. “Please. Spare me your noble causes. You and Gamaliel. Your children grow up, and you're so busy searching the Scriptures for the answers to life that you miss life. Miss it altogether! So! Let me take the children to Joppa. Hannah is trying so hard to fill the empty space left by her mother that she's forgotten how to laugh. And Samuel has never met your sisters. You stay in this sweltering sheep pen if you like. With the flies! The Romans! The
cohanim
and sicarii. But the children could use a lot of fresh air and a whole lot less intrigue. I'm getting old in this dreadful city! My bones ache for a day at the beach. White sand between my toes.”

She was right, of course. Nakdimon
was
missing life. Hadassah had always kept him balanced. But no more. Since he had come home from the Galil, he had been obsessed with searching Torah and the
Tanakh
for answers to his questions about Yeshua. He had hardly left his study.

“Yes, Em. You're right. Of course. You're right. I left Yerushalayim hoping to find answers. Instead I've come home with more questions. I . . . fear . . . this is a dangerous time for us all.”

She gazed at him with pity. “You've always been a good boy, Nakdimon. But you need . . . a wife . . . a good woman to steer this ship away from the shoals.”

“I had Hadassah. I can't let myself love any other.” He did not tell her that the only other woman who had sparked his imagination would be unacceptable as a wife. What would his mother say if she knew he had regarded Miryam, sister of El'azar of Bethany, with more than passing interest? Best to say nothing. Best to steer clear of that particular reef altogether.