Jerusalem's Hope (41 page)

Passover was the counterbalance to the year, the twin of the set of hinges on which Jewish life pivoted. Just as the Day of Atonement occurred in the first month of the civil year and the seventh month of the religious cycle, Passover took place in the first month of sacred time and the seventh of the secular calendar.

But the stipulation that each family must slaughter its own lamb was a significant one: every household in Jerusalem on Passover would see its representative come home with innocent blood on his hands, spilled by his own hands.

It reminded the Jews that back in Egypt no firstborn escaped the Angel of Death by proxy or good intentions. Every household had to be marked by the blood of the lamb.

Despite the importance of the day, Avel was glad to be leaving. There had been enough of blood and slaughter, he thought. And in their small circle a lamb had already been sacrificed.

It seemed more than enough for one Passover.

Recrossing the Temple Mount platform to exit by way of either the Sheep Gate or the Golden Gate was out of the question. It would take hours to fight through the crowds in that direction.

Zadok aimed their course toward the nearest exit. “Keep close together, boys,” he urged. “Don't get separated. But if y' do get lost, go to the sheep pens in the Temple Court. I'll find you there.”

Even though Passover was a time of celebration the atmosphere among the pilgrims remained full of political discussion and unpleasant speculation.

“It's the truth!” Avel overheard a Galilean swear to his fellow traveler. “Some of the Sanhedrin are going to apologize to Pilate for making trouble about the Korban. I tell you, this bar Abba fellow has it right! There
is
a conspiracy between the council and the empire.”

So word of the meeting between the governor and the council members was already out on the street. But somehow it had been twisted. The elders were somehow in a plot with Pilate against the
am ha aretz.

But was the speaker really so stupid as to shoot his mouth off in public? Or was he an agent sent out by Caiaphas as a spy?

Red Dog barked sharply, and Avel looked up.

The animal seldom made noise except to warn of danger. What . . . or who . . . was he reacting to?

Who could tell? Avel was surrounded by a solid wall of humanity. He might be no more than one layer of pilgrims away from bar Abba himself and never see the man.

Parting the multitudes was like swimming upstream. In all Jerusalem it seemed only Zadok and his companions were going away from the sanctuary.

Avel scanned the nearby faces but didn't recognize any in the mob. Of course there were so many that they all blended together.

Zadok held Ha-or Tov's hand, who held Emet's hand, who held Avel's hand. In this way they snaked through the jostling swarm.

Red Dog did his best to herd them, running forward and back, circling around his little flock of humans. But his appearance no longer seemed to intimidate the determined pilgrims. Nor was Zadok able to clear a path with his staff. The mood in the populace was turning more hostile as frustrations mounted. “Watch who you're poking, old man,” someone complained.

“I hear there are soldiers in disguise ready to catch the rebels,” another Galilean ventured.

“Watch what you say,” his companion noted. “They'll arrest anyone they
think
is a rebel.”

“Have you looked around you?” suggested the first. “We are millions! If only Yeshua of Nazareth had come south with us. He would have been crowned king before the day was out!”

At the name of the Rabbi of Nazareth, Avel turned to study the speaker. The man appeared vaguely familiar. Had he been in the crowd when Yeshua fed the thousands with his barley loaves? Had he come to Ya'ir's house to see the miraculously raised Deborah, or in the Capernaum synagogue to hear Yeshua preach?

The horde was too thick, the glimpse too fleeting.

A ponderous fat man waddled between Avel and Emet, forcing Avel to let go of the smaller boy's hand. It was no matter; Avel would link up again as soon as the fellow moved out of the way. Avel heard Emet calling, “Wait! I've lost Avel!”

“It's all right,” Avel shouted back. “I'll catch up.”

The heavyset traveler stopped to wipe his brow, then turned in place as if unsure of his direction. All he had to do was let the multitude sweep him along, Avel thought. How could he have mistaken the path?

Avel squeezed around the roadblock by fitting behind a brace of jars outside a shopfront.

Congratulating himself, the boy emerged on the other side, expecting to see Zadok's white hair shining like a beacon above the rest.

But the chief shepherd was nowhere in sight.

Where had they gone so fast?

Avel darted out into the stream, dodged a pair of villagers in matching saffron-colored robes, was screeched at when he stepped on a matron's toe . . . and still couldn't spot Zadok.

Had Avel missed a turn somewhere? How had the others disappeared so quickly?

He wasn't overly concerned. Avel was confident he could find the Valley Gate on his own; he'd catch up to them once out of the crush.

Scurrying through every opening that presented itself, Avel found himself in a narrow lane that curled around toward the northeast.

This couldn't be right; it was taking him back the wrong direction.

He turned about, intending to retrace his steps.

As he passed an alleyway, an arm shot out from behind him. A sweaty palm clasped itself across his face. When another arm grabbed his midsection, Avel was rudely and silently jerked back into an alcove.

He couldn't breathe! The hand was pressed so tightly on his nose and mouth that he was suffocating. Thrust farther into the dark recess, he felt a brick's sharp corner stick him in the side.

Then he felt the tip of a dagger on the back of his neck. “If you cry out, you're dead!” Asher's voice hissed. “Will you keep quiet?”

Avel nodded frantically and the pressure on his mouth and nose eased. The boy gasped for air as his death was discussed.

Kittim flanked Asher! “Just kill him now,” Kittim urged. “He's already been more trouble than he's worth.”

“Listen, boy,” Asher said. “You're lucky it's me as caught you or you'd have a hole in your windpipe already. Don't give me any trouble or I won't have a choice, see?”

Avel agreed.

“What do you want him for?” Kittim demanded. “We know he's already been to the council and talked about us. Kill him!”

“Not so fast,” Asher retorted. “He can be useful, can't you, boy? You were a Sparrow here, eh? You can show us around, yes? Take us by the shortest way?”

Avel nodded again. Anything to keep alive until Zadok came looking for him.

“That's good, then,” Asher said. “No tricks!”

The moment Nakdimon and Gamaliel left the Sanhedrin chambers they were surrounded by the crowds going up to the Temple. Gamaliel, accompanied by nine other elders of obvious dignity and rank, was instantly recognized by Jerusalemites. Since the delegation moved counter to everyone else, the question of their destination was instantly raised.

Though they walked purposefully and without speaking, it was not long before speculation surrounded them.

Rumors of a meeting involving Pilate and some of the council were already on the streets. Making the connection between that report and these men was a simple matter.

Many in the throngs were curious, but others were openly hostile.

“Walk on,” Nakdimon urged the more timid of the group, who wanted to scurry back to safety. “Walk on. We have nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Going to bow and scrape to the Romans?” one bystander jeered, planting himself across their path. “It's bad enough for Rome to have its hands in our pockets, but you have to help it dip into the Korban too! Blasphemers!”

Before the file of men had crossed the elevated viaduct connecting the Temple Mount to the city near the Gennath Gate, the process of tale-bearing threatened to overwhelm the truth.

Around the core of ten elders an accompanying mass formed.

Like repeatedly dipping a candlewick in hot wax, the column grew, adding more and more numbers of followers until the flow down the causeway was entirely reversed.

Pilgrims, anxious to see the confrontation between Gamaliel and Pilate, were swept along toward the palace.

This too was enhanced and embellished by rumor and conjecture.
“Pilate has ordered all who oppose the aqueduct scheme to surrender!”

“These honorable men are going to be arrested and put in prison for speaking out against the aqueduct,”
another added.

The indignation that bubbled in the populace increased in fervor; only now it was directed at Pilate and not at the elders.

“
No rebellion,”
someone urged.
“No violence! Don't give them any excuse to shed blood. Remember what day it is.”

“Gamaliel says he's afraid Pilate plans to spill his blood!”
a Galilean shouted.

“Not if we all go with them,”
his companion retorted.

By the time the deputation reached the outer courtyards built by the butcher king and now occupied by the Imperial governors, it had grown a thousandfold.

At the rear of the throng were hundreds who had no idea what the procession meant. From across the Holy City residents and pilgrims joined the assembly. Some were excited holidaymakers. Some were eager to protest against Rome. Some had heard there was going to be another distribution of coins and bread, as Herod Antipas had provided in the city merely a little over a month earlier.

And mingled with the rest were two groups of tense men, who clasped cudgels and daggers under their robes: Vara's men and bar Abba's.

Frantically scanning the faces in the multitudes, Avel hoped to spot someone to whom he could appeal for rescue.

He saw no one he recognized.

Perhaps it was for the best. Kittim had replaced Asher as Avel's guard. Not only would Kittim be quick to strike if Avel cried out, but such an appeal might cause the death of another as well.

Avel could only try to stay alive until a chance for escape presented itself. Remembering what Zadok said about meeting at the sheep pens, Avel believed he would be safe if he could get back there.

Kittim dragged Avel into a squalid house in the Valley of the Cheesemakers, below the southwest corner of the Temple Mount.

Inside were bar Abba and others of his band.

“So one of our runaways has turned up,” bar Abba said, staring at Avel. “I hear you've been talking about me to the Sanhedrin.”

“Let me kill him,” Kittim suggested. “I'll use his blood to paint more slogans. The fat, pious council members are already quaking.”

“Not now,” bar Abba corrected. “He couldn't tell the Sanhedrin anything they didn't already know. And I hear he came south with Nakdimon ben Gurion. Perhaps we can sell the boy's life to him for a ransom.”

“But I thought we planned—” Kittim began.

“Enough!” bar Abba said, raising a cautioning hand. “I know what I said.”

It was at that instant Avel realized Nakdimon was one of the rebels' intended victims. Bar Abba planned to use Avel as a ruse to get close enough to kill Nakdimon!

“The crowds on the Temple Mount are perfect for what we have in mind,” bar Abba added. “Pilate thinks we'll fall into his trap since he marched a cohort of legionaries out of the city. The Romans are pretending the city is undefended! All right, here's the plan: I've already sent others to join the pilgrims outside the Temple and rile up the crowds about the Korban money. They'll encourage the mob to go and protest at Pilate's palace. When the authorities hear how angry the people are, Pilate's disguised soldiers will have to go along too. Only we won't be there! We'll be on the Temple Mount. Wait for the last of the ceremony, when it's closest to sundown. Then when the council members attend to their sacrifices, that's when we'll strike!”