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Authors: Brock Thoene

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BOOK: Jerusalem's Hope
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Darting onto the first switchback, Avel caught sight of Kittim racing down the trail, cutting across corners in his haste to overtake Emet and Ha-or Tov.
And what could Avel, commanded by Yeshua to care for Emet and Ha-or Tov, do to stop their capture?
Kittim was almost upon Avel's unsuspecting friends. Asher was only a few paces behind.
If Avel called out the warning that there were rebels on the road, would anyone believe him? And how many would be hurt when Kittim and Asher drew their knives?
Too late!
In his second of indecision Avel saw Kittim reach out and grasp Ha-or Tov's collar. Ha-or Tov's curly red hair flung wide from his head as Kittim spun the boy around to face him.
Emet's mouth was open. He was shouting something. Shouting to be left alone! Shouting that they were being attacked by robbers! It was an unlikely scenario: two young boys being robbed. But it was effective nonetheless.
A broad-shouldered, bull-like man reared up from his lunch in the grass and boomed into the dispute with a roar of indignation.
Avel recognized Nakdimon ben Gurion! Dressed in a commoner's clothes, the black-bearded member of the Sanhedrin was taking the part of the two boys!
Asher turned from his path and slunk off, evidently not wanting to encounter a foe as formidable as Nakdimon. Kittim blinked down into the eyes of Ha-or Tov, released his grip, raised his hands in a sort of apology, and backed away.
As abruptly as it began, the encounter was over.
To Avel's surprise Kittim thrust Ha-or Tov aside and yelled back at the big man. Asher, hood over his head, jogged past. Kittim joined him, and the two rebels disappeared in the distance.
What had happened? How had tragedy been averted?
Realizing that rejoining his two companions wouldn't be sensible at the moment, Avel forced himself to calm his heart, his breath, and his pace.
Ha-or Tov and Emet trailed close at the heels of Nakdimon the rest of the journey to the next caravansary.
Avel kept his distance and considered the danger that lay ahead on the road to Beth-lehem.
ADONAI
B
athed, dressed in the red tunic of a soldier, his hair washed and lightly oiled, and his feet in clean sandals, Centurion Marcus Longinus felt more relaxed than at any time in weeks. Ever since Felix had suggested Marcus discard his uniform and pass as a civilian in order to investigate Yeshua of Nazareth, the centurion had been uneasy.
Marcus had gained a reputation for heroism at the battle of Idistaviso, where he had saved the left flank of the Roman army from disintegrating. He was a man of honor who kept his vows and spoke the plain facts as he saw them. Spying had not come naturally to him, nor had the assignment been to his liking.
He was grateful to be getting back into uniform. He was not ashamed to be a Roman centurion, so let his appearance announce the truth. All that was left of his disguise was his beard and untrimmed hair, and both those items would be attended to presently.
Felix joined him an hour before sunset on the curving promenade connecting the officers' quarters to the harbor. The breeze from the sea was bracing.
Extending a cup of wine, Felix indicated a stone bench. “Marcus,” he said, “I value you as a veteran and loyal officer with fifteen more years' experience than me. I have learned a great deal from you. Unlike some political appointees, I don't think instant wisdom comes with my lineage, or that the ability to lead is automatically conferred with a purchased insignia of rank. I also think of you as a friend.”
Marcus sipped the wine. It tasted of dark cherries and summer hay fields and warmed his throat and stomach. He waited to see where this speech led.
“You're riding south tomorrow,” Felix continued. “But before that happens, I know you have a few questions for me . . . and I have things to say to you as well.”
“Why did you spare Yeshua?” Marcus asked, taking the invitation at face value. “You had the power to condemn him with a single word, yet you didn't. Why not?”
“Because I'm not Vara,” Felix said. “Killing people doesn't amuse me. Don't misunderstand . . . I think the Rabbi may be a danger to Rome, and if I'm right, he'll have to be crushed.” Felix stared across the rim of his silver goblet into Marcus' eyes. “And if it comes to that, you'll have a tough choice to make. Why do you want to save him?”
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.”
BOOK: Jerusalem's Hope
12.74Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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