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Authors: Brock Thoene

Jerusalem's Hope (43 page)

BOOK: Jerusalem's Hope
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Pilate seated himself in the chair of judgment. The aide unrolled the scroll. Another produced a wax taper. Pilate readied his signet ring to press into the decree.
There was a fraction of a second when it appeared that calm and reason would triumph.
Then from somewhere in the center of the mob a voice called out,
“What about the Korban?”
“What about sacrilege?”
“Stealing from the Almighty!”
Pilate waved his hand to the walls. There was another blare of trumpets, drowning out the sounds of protest.
Emet heard yet another ringing flight of trumpet calls resound across the city of David. Like the other two, this third also came from the direction of Herod's palace. The host of pilgrims gathered at the sanctuary were waiting for trumpets to issue a signal. But it wasn't a Roman signal, not the shrill note of the foreigners occupying the land of Israel.
Among those packed into the course of the Temple there was much speculation about what the signals meant.
No one knew.
Emet paid them scarcely any heed. His whole attention, his ultra-sensitive hearing, his every nerve, were tuned to any sign of Avel.
Where could Avel be? Emet's fears grew with each passing second. With Zadok plunging headlong through the crush, they had searched every bit of the return journey to the Temple Mount without finding the boy. He was not on the steps leading to the Sanhedrin chambers. He was not near the pens holding the lambs. He was not in the gallery watching the preparations for the Passover sacrifices.
Because of the vast number of lambs to be killed in the space of a few short hours, every last detail was prepared in advance.
A hundred thousand lambs.
Three courses of worshippers would bring their lambs to the altar. Since each head of a household would perform the sacrifice himself, the Court of the Priests was already packed with the first division of the worshippers. The doors to the court were already shut behind them.
A double file of priests were stationed at arm's length up to the altar of sacrifice. Every priest held either a golden or a silver bowl.
When the signal was given, the blood of the first sacrifices would be caught in the bowls and the containers passed by hand up toward the altar.
Empty vessels traveled down the other file.
A continuous fountain of blood would pour out at the base of the altar, until every lamb in the first course had been slain.
The worshippers readied themselves to sing hymns of deliverance and praise.
The time was fast approaching when the first of the three courses of slaughters would begin.
Emet could not keep dread from his mind and heart. At every turn he visualized the dead hawker, his throat slit. It was the fate awaiting every lamb presented here today . . . as it had been Bear's fate.
He prayed it would not be Avel's!
On the parapets of the sanctuary a column of priests appeared, carrying silver trumpets.
The crowd hushed expectantly.
All eyes turned upward to watch.
All except those of Zadok, Ha-or Tov, and Emet, who continued to search everywhere for Avel.
The moment had arrived.
The first blast of the trumpets was a short, sharp sound, demanding attention.
Take notice, the commands of the Almighty are before you!
“Thekiah,”
Emet heard Zadok murmur. “The prophesied Messiah is coming.”
The next skirl of notes was a warbling cry of alarm.
“Theruah,”
Zadok remarked. “God's special providence. A nation of priests before the Most High.”
Another curt, emphatic blare of the horns.
“Thekiah,”
Zadok repeated. “Our king will soon appear. Judgment comes with him!”
In Nakdimon's ears the din was deafening. The Roman trumpets on the ramparts of the governor's palace continued to resound. Call after call rang out: not of alarm, but in recognition of the special favor offered by Governor Pilate to his ungrateful and undeserving subjects.
The crowd around Nakdimon surged forward, up to the very edge of the podium on which Pilate sat.
The front rank of the horde had witnessed Pilate's words of pardon for Lev and Benjamin. They had seen the imprint of the Imperial signet into the smoking wax.
But all they could hear were the blaring trumpets competing with the jeers of the hecklers coming from behind them.
“Sacrilege!”
“Blasphemy!”
“Idolators!”
Were these inflammatory words shouted by rebels, intent on rousing the mob to insurrection?
Were they the deliberate incitements of agent provocateurs, planted in the horde to give Pilate an excuse to fall on them and arrest them?
Or were they the sentiments of roused members of the
am ha aretz,
the people of the land, determined to show Pilate they had no fear of either him or Rome? Were they relying on Pilate's forbearance, his regard for the emperor's displeasure?
As for the governor himself, he sat stiffly in the judgment seat. His expression was frozen on his face, halfway between the self-congratulatory smile of a minute earlier and a frown of severe displeasure.
Like the danger of the moment, it could go either way.
Life or death was in his hands.
From the right side of the multitude a handful of men sprinted forward and gained the stage. A squad of obviously frightened young troopers crossed their pilums to block the access toward Pilate.
The gesture was more ritual than real.
The javelins in their hands looked puny compared to the seething force in the thousands of onlookers.
Nor were the more zealous of the new assault frightened of the legionaries.
In the faces of the armed guards they shook their fists at Pilate. They harangued him. They called him
blasphemer, defiler of the Temple.
Another swarm of hecklers rushed on the dais from the opposite side.
Pilate rose from his chair, genuine alarm in his eyes, though his face remained a mask of icy, emotionless bravado.
He despised them . . . and feared them.
A deadly combination.
The Roman horns stopped playing in confusion. Their bright, cheery chorus died in a futile cacophony of squawks and groans.
The Roman trumpet calls were replaced by warbling notes that struck the ear like a battle cry heard from far off. The first echoes of the Temple Mount services reached all the way to the palace of the butcher king, to the ears of the crowd in front of Pilate.
Thekiah! Theruah! Thekiah!
Kingdom! Providence! Judgment!
The impassioned ranting grew louder and more heated.
Spittle flew from the lips of the foremost in the rabble. A fleck landed on the hem of Pilate's robe.
Nakdimon saw Pilate take a step back, as if he would withdraw from the scene.
Perhaps it was not too late. Perhaps all could still end peacefully.
Then Nakdimon saw Pilate raise his hands from his sides. With deliberation he grasped the lapels of his toga. It was a Jewish gesture, as if the Roman would tear a strip from his garment in token of mourning.
But the governor did not tear the cloth.
Nor did he withdraw into his private chambers.
With his left palm still planted on his chest, he made a slashing motion through the air with the other hand.
The cutting stroke of a Roman blade.
Cries of alarm erupted from the crowd as clubs, knives, and short swords flashed into view from under hundreds of robes.
ADONAY
A
ll around Marcus Longinus the terrified assembly tossed and rolled like the ocean.
In the first flash of panic, when swords and cudgels appeared, the mob surged backwards and forwards, with no clear direction in mind and no clear desire except escape.
What had they expected, these momentary heroes?
Their numbers had given them false courage that evaporated at the first display of Roman force.
It was too late for them now.
Marcus watched, helpless.
Protestors, jammed together, trampled one another to get out of reach of Vara's men. The rank smell of fear rose up from the mass of frantic pilgrims in a choking torrent. With it was the hot odor of spilled blood . . . and the stench of death.
Troopers indiscriminately slashed with swords and crushed heads with clubs.
Pilate may have ordered the guards to act solely for his defense. He may truly have desired to limit the bloodshed. But even that was now out of his hands.
A Samaritan legionary caught a wild-eyed Galilean on the point of his dagger. He thrust it upward into the man's midsection, twisting the blade as he drew it back. The wounded man howled, clutched his stomach with his hands, and fell lifeless to the pavement.
Gangs of Vara's soldiers gathered around defenseless men, chosen seemingly at random. After clubbing them into unconsciousness, they surrounded the others and repeated the brutality.
Any show of resistance guaranteed carnage.
But surrender conferred no safety, no escape.
Marcus drew his own sword from under his tunic.
But who to strike? How to defend anyone in this wild melee?
Upon seeing another Roman display a gladius, those nearby clawed one another in a futile attempt to escape from him.
None of the protestors seemed to have any weapons. The only blades Marcus observed were in the hands of legionaries. Could it be there were no rebels in the throng?
The trumpets blared again from the battlements. It was now a true call to arms. From side corridors leading off the courtyard, still more legionaries emerged. These made no attempt to hide their enjoyment as they waded into the clash. Short swords whistled overhead as they split skulls and hacked faces.
Marcus caught a glimpse of Pilate, his cadre of bodyguards wrapped around him like living armor. The governor scampered away from the carnage he had unleashed.
The frenzied crowd broke for the gate, crushing scores against the beams on either side, trampling others in the turmoil. No one gave ground for anyone else. More were killed by panic than by the legionaries.
The thousands outside the gate who had been pressing inward turned and sprinted back the way they had come: east, toward the Temple.
A knot of struggling people jammed the gate. Pressure from others climbing over their backs bore them to the ground. They were crushed to death.
The mob burst from the courtyard.
Vara whirled his sword around his head. The Praetorian shouted, urging his men to pursue the Jews.
Across this sea of chaos Marcus caught sight of Nakdimon ben Gurion. The huge man shielded Gamaliel with his own body as panic broke against him like waves against a rock.
Nakdimon spotted Marcus. His expression deepened with revulsion and shock as he took in the sword in Marcus' hand.
No time to explain.
Pulling back the cloak and revealing his features, Marcus ran toward the gate. As he went he snarled orders at the legionaries, batting down their weapons. He threatened them with crucifixion if they did not put away their weapons and return to their barracks at once.
Only a few obeyed.
Vara and two cohorts of the most murderous were among the throng. The trail of blood and dead bodies at Pilate's door stretched toward the Temple Mount and the altar of sacrifice.
BOOK: Jerusalem's Hope
3.24Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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