Authors: Brock Thoene

Jerusalem's Hope (44 page)

BOOK: Jerusalem's Hope

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Nakdimon couldn't believe his eyes. Marcus Longinus was one of the disguised Roman soldiers carrying out the assault on unarmed Jews! As he watched, the centurion bolted in pursuit of more victims.

Bellowing, Nakdimon shouted for Pilate to call off his troops.

But the governor had already retreated into his palace.

Left behind was a carpet of bodies: some writhing in pain, others lying ominously still.

Nakdimon let Gamaliel out of his protective embrace. Together the two men stared at the carnage, even as the horns on the walls continued to blare.

The scene near the platform was horrifying. It was still worse closer to the exit. The cobbles of the butcher king's courtyard were slippery with blood.

Hundreds of wounded, dozens of dead.

Kneeling, Nakdimon offered assistance to a man with a sword wound on his head and a fractured collarbone.

Many victims had been stabbed or clubbed, but many more bore the unmistakable imprints of having been crushed in the mass terror.

How could this have happened? It was the very tragedy that he and his uncle had tried to prevent. It was the worst disaster in Nakdimon's memory. Much worse than the Purim bread riots.

The disguised soldiers had been there all along, expecting and eager for trouble. The fervor of their attack underscored their fanatical hatred of the Jews.

And the governor had unleashed them with a gesture.

Pilate had known what the result would be. He must have known.

There would never be another Passover as grim as this one. No future disaster could ever eclipse the horrors of this day.

Shouts of fear continued to rain down on Jerusalem as the butchery continued outside the gates.

“Rouse yourself, man,” Gamaliel urged, grabbing Nakdimon's shoulder. “Go see if you can stop this! Go! I'll organize help for the wounded.”

Shaking off his stunned dismay, Nakdimon charged out of the courtyard.

Beside the sheep pens, Emet deciphered the sounds of the day. To his hearing, something was off. There was a discordant note in the plaintive symphony of the Passover sacrifices. What was it?

To be sure, the trumpets of the priests continued to proclaim their calls to remembrance, participation, and expectation. Past, present, and future were all extolled in the music of the day. The notes jangled, breaking and rebreaking over the sanctuary.

But that wasn't the error reaching Emet's ears.

Nor was the problem with the singing of those participating in the first division of the sacrifices.

Hallelu Jah!
the Levites sang.
Hallelu Jah!
the worshippers responded.
Praise the Lord, you servants of the Lord!
Praise to the name of the Lord!

Some of the singers had no musical ability. That much was evident even to Emet's untutored hearing. Particularly guilty of murdering the pitch were the throngs of Galileans with their twang. Of course they made up in fervor what they lacked in ability, and their passion only made matters worse.

But no, that still wasn't what was wrong.

Perhaps it was Emet's nervous search for Avel? The boy never stopped seeking and worrying about his friend. Could that anxiety explain why the harmony of the day felt off?

Then there came a moment when the first division completed their sacrifices. There was a lull in the hymns. Trumpeters fell silent.

Then Emet heard it: the strident notes of Roman horns, blowing the alarm. It was a signal for battle.
War, bloody war,
the heralds of the empire announced!

Growing louder, approaching nearer, were human voices crying in alarm. A wail swelled up from the city to crash against the Temple Mount, drowning the bugle calls of Rome.

Like the bleating of thousands of sheep being ravaged by wolves, the clamor of panic overwhelmed all other noises.

Nor was Emet the only one to take note of the disturbance.

The uproar of distraught thousands stunned those participating in the Passover ceremonies.
What's happening? Do you hear it? What is that?
Babbling inquiries posed many questions, gave no answers.

Like a stone thrown into a placid pond, the ripples of destruction rapidly neared the Temple gates.

It resembled a flock of sheep herded by dogs, Marcus thought.

The difference was every time a straggler fell behind, the dogs pounced on him and beat him into the pavement.

At the corner of the old Hasmonaean Palace a brave group of Galilean pilgrims clustered. With their bare hands they tore apart a discarded barrel to use the broken staves for defense.

Opposing swords with splintered lengths of timber was heroic.

Heroic, but futile.

Their resistance infuriated the legionaries and they hurtled into the group. One of the Jews went down at once, stabbed and beaten. Three of the protestors managed to knock one of the troopers off his feet.

Another Galilean was struck down.

Then another.

The Roman troopers advanced relentlessly. The Jews' courageous stand couldn't last much longer.

The confrontation blocked the street, momentarily keeping the bloodthirsty pursuers from more victims. Woman and children darted into houses and down alleyways.

Marcus pounced on the first trooper he reached. Seizing him by the neck, Marcus heaved him against a wall.

The Samaritan turned with his club raised, ready to shatter a Jewish skull. Instead he met the fiery gaze of the infuriated centurion.

At his throat was the point of Marcus' sword. “Drop it!” Marcus demanded. “Who are these others? Their names?” He gave him a shake. “Call out their names!”

Sullenly the legionary did as ordered.

A fraction of a lull presented itself. Marcus thrust himself into the middle of the fight. He beat down the weapons of the assailants.

Without regard for his personal safety, he planted himself facing the troopers. He hoped the Jews would not hammer him in the back with the barrel staves.

“Get to the barracks!” Marcus commanded the soldiers.

“We're following Praetorian Vara's orders,” a surly Idumean growled.

“Now you're taking orders from me,” Marcus corrected. “I have your names. I'll flog the hide off any who disobey. Go!”

Marcus watched their retreat to see that they complied.

The Passover pilgrims offered their thanks, but Marcus only shook his head. “Help where you can, but stay away from the Temple,” he warned. “This isn't over!”

Ignoring his own advice, he sprinted onto the elevated causeway, following the trail of wounded left in Vara's wake.

The upheaval reached into the courts of the sanctuary as the whole city convulsed.

Emet heard another trumpet blast add its shrill racket to the chaos. On top of the Antonia fortress, just outside the sanctuary, signal flags fluttered in the breeze.

A cauldron of tumult poured out across the Temple Mount from the west. Knots of fleeing pilgrims appeared in the midst of the sacrifices. Close after these were others waving clubs and brandishing blades.

The shrieking became general. Consternation was replaced with panic. The Passover ceremonies exploded in mayhem.

Thousands of lambs bolted, adding to the confusion.

“Hang on to me!” Zadok ordered “Keep close.” Until now the area inside the sheep pens felt like a refuge, a place of security from which to search for Avel.

Not any longer.

The overpowering peril Emet sensed had arrived.

Running from the attackers, bands of worshippers fled toward the Temple, crying out for protection.

The stricken pilgrims reached the greater mass of worshippers, trampling the older and weaker of their number underfoot.

A panicked surge carried hundreds toward the altar, where they slipped and fell in the puddles of gore.

Onrushing troopers clubbed them where they lay, mingling their blood with the blood of the sacrifices.

A man with a dagger flashed toward Zadok.

Emet and Ha-or Tov huddled behind the shepherd.

As the attacker neared, Red Dog flung himself forward, leaping into the man's face with snapping jaws.

Distracted, the assailant thrust out his hands to protect himself.

With a whistle that cut through the surrounding clamor, Zadok's staff whipped toward the man's head, connecting with a crack.

In the midst of all the confusion Emet spotted Avel.

Across the square, being dragged by his arms, was the missing apprentice shepherd. Kittim yanked him forward. Asher was close behind.

Yelling, Emet pointed this out to the old shepherd.

Grimly Zadok shouted back, “Don't let go!”

Then they plunged into the combat to rescue Avel.

Avel's heart pounded.

One of Kittim's hands gripped his hair. The other held a dagger in readiness to stroke. No one would intervene to save his life when Kittim decided he was too much trouble to drag along.

And that end could come at any time.

Whatever assassinations the rebels had planned for this Passover, the wholesale slaughter happening in the Temple courts threw even them into consternation. Armed men stabbed and beat all those around them.

It was utter madness.

Now was the moment, Avel thought, as two Galileans collided directly in front of them. Another knot of confusion separated him from Asher, a few paces behind.

As Kittim lunged in one direction, Avel wrenched himself free.

He didn't know which way to run. It didn't matter so long as he could lose himself in the turmoil.

Amazingly he heard someone call his name.

A corridor through the mob opened for the space of a breath.

Zadok strode toward him, knocking aside all in his path.

BOOK: Jerusalem's Hope

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