Jerusalem's Hope (45 page)

Then Avel's head was yanked backward.

Kittim's fingers dug into Avel's hair again. A knife flashed in the afternoon sun.

Marcus reached the Temple Mount and emerged from the porticoed gate at the top of the causeway.

What met his eyes was a nightmare beyond his wildest fears, a massacre of incredible proportions. Demons had flocked to Jerusalem to inhabit the bodies of ferocious Roman troopers.

Marcus saved countless lives, but the ripples of carnage spreading out in front of him seemed unstoppable.

Then the centurion caught sight of Praetorian Vara.

The man's brutish features were streaked with blood. His sword arm rose and fell relentlessly.

The chief of the demons, without doubt.

Stop him and stop the butchery?

Marcus fought his way toward Vara, but it was like wading through quicksand.

Emet screamed. But his high voice had no strength amid the din. He couldn't hear his own words of alarm. It was as if he'd been struck mute again in the second he saw the knife poised over Avel.

Zadok's arm shot out. The crook on the end of the shepherd's staff plucked Kittim's elbow in mid-swing, tugging the rebel off balance.

The dagger flew end over end through the air.

Avel ducked around Zadok. Emet clutched him tight.

Every time Kittim tried to loose himself from the crook of Zadok's staff the old shepherd yanked him sideways again.

A fresh wave of rioting swirled toward them. Avel, Emet, and Ha-or Tov sheltered behind Zadok.

There was no such refuge for Kittim.

With a final heave on the staff, Zadok lifted Kittim completely off his feet.

The rebel fell amid the stampeding throng.

For an instant his fingers reached up. Then his anguished cry was abruptly cut off as he was trampled.

The cause of the heightened terror was revealed. A frightening figure loomed up close to Kittim's pulverized body. Gore-spattered bald head and vicious eyes were matched by ferocious swings of a short sword. The shadow of a bulky, coarse-featured man fell across Zadok.

Emit heard the voice of Marcus yell the name
Vara!

Vara's blade hacked up and down, wounding and then batting out of the way.

Zadok's white-haired head rose over the other worshippers like a bastion of resistance. With an animal-like noise, Vara locked his attention on the shepherd as his next target.

The first blow of Vara's sword was caught on Zadok's staff. The tough acacia wood rod bounced with the strike, but did not shatter.

Zadok jabbed at Vara's face, just as he would have repelled an attacking wolf.

The blade was the superior weapon, the longer reach of the staff Zadok's sole margin of safety.

Red Dog, who protected the boys against attacks coming from other directions, responded to Zadok's command. Barking and snarling, Red Dog raced toward Vara, biting him on the leg.

Vara struck downward at the dog, who twisted sideways, out of reach.

Sparks erupted as the tip of Vara's sword scraped the paving stones. He raised his blade for another swing, only to miss again as Zadok's staff snatched Red Dog out of the way.

But in protecting the dog, the shepherd had used up his last bit of luck.

Vara's next blow came from Zadok's blind side, catching the shepherd's crook just above where Zadok gripped it.

The staff was knocked to the ground. Vara shouted in victory as he raised his weapon high to finish the old man.

Across the battlefield of the Temple Mount Marcus rushed to intervene in just one fight—Vara's assault on Zadok. Pure evil and lifelong righteousness confronted each other in human forms . . . and evil was poised to win.

Marcus was too far away! The shepherd was already disarmed, the fatal blow already descending.

The centurion screamed—a cry of outrage!

Between Zadok and Vara something moved. A boy—it was Avel—lifted the shepherd's staff. Jabbing it upward, he struck Vara in the throat.

From a stooped position, in the hands of a child, it could not have carried much force. But it threw off Vara's killing stroke.

It delayed Zadok's death for half a second.

Long enough for Marcus to barrel into Vara from behind.

Vara and Marcus, tangled together, rolled heavily onto the pavement.

First to regain his feet, Vara had not lost his weapon.

From his knees, Marcus raised his sword in time to block a thrust sweeping toward his head. Parried, Vara's blow rebounded in his hand, and Marcus recovered his stance.

Rushing on him, Vara used his compact bulk. Anticipating such a move of brute force, Marcus deliberately gave up a pace of ground. Their swords rang together.

Again the two blades met.

Again Vara charged.

Marcus once more stepped back . . . and tripped over Kittim's body. The centurion stumbled, his guard flinging wide, opening his neck to a killing stroke.

Vara stormed in.

Unable to counter, Marcus flung his sword at Vara's face, then rolled to the side as the thrust descended.

Disarmed! There were no options left.

Marcus tackled Vara around the knees, bringing the Praetorian crashing down.

The two fought for possession of Vara's sword. Marcus closed his hands around the grip, while the fingers of Vara's other hand clawed at Marcus' face.

Driving his elbow into Vara's jaw, Marcus gained control of the weapon.

The gouging at his eyes stopped.

Marcus heard Avel shout, “He's got a dagger!”

A glimpse of the new threat gave Marcus no time to think. He spun away from the thrust, at the same instant tugging sharply upward on Vara's wrist.

The dagger tip struck Vara's sword, glanced off, and sliced into Vara's own arm.

The Praetorian howled and his grip loosened.

Marcus wrenched the sword free and jumped up while Vara was still prone.

Putting the tip of Vara's blade at the man's throat, Marcus commanded, “Drop the dagger! Call off your men! Now! Or you're dead!”

More trumpet calls echoed from the Antonia. The rhythmic tramp of marching feet accompanied by the pounding of drums reverberated across the Temple Mount.

“You better kill me,” Vara said through gritted teeth. “Either way you'll be crucified for this.”

“Legionaries!” Tribune Felix shouted from the head of a column of uniformed soldiers. “Put down your weapons! By order of the governor, you are to cease fighting at once!”

Stepping back, Marcus gratefully lowered the sword.

The Passover massacre was finally at an end.

ZEVAOT

A
nd so that day the blood of the multitudes was mingled with the blood of their sacrifices on the Holy Mountain of Zion.

Zadok, chief shepherd of the flocks of Israel, wept.

The Messiah had not come. Had there ever been such a day of mourning?

Emet, gathered in Zadok's arms, was carried from that place out through the Sheep Gate and beyond the walls of the city. Avel and Ha-or Tov walked beside the Roman centurion who had saved them.

The three boys were lifted onto the back of Marcus' great black horse and led away from Jerusalem along the deserted highway south toward Beth-lehem.

In the west, the sun was setting. A single shaft of light shot up like a pillar and pierced the clouds. Zadok watched it for a long time and then, at last, he spoke. “In the day when our fathers left slavery we came to the sea and could go no farther. The chariots of Egypt and all her armies were at our backs. God set a pillar of fire between us as the waters parted and we crossed over. So we were saved.”

The sun pillar hovered above the earth like a beacon for a time and then began to fade as the world darkened.

“See how the Shekinah glory stands far away,” Zadok said sadly. “The Lord did not come again to the great city. We are forsaken.” Tears clung to his white beard. His staff was stained with blood. “Immanu'el, they told me! I was a young man then with sons of my own to hope for! Rachel and I had much to hope for. What was it about? What did such sacrifice mean? Immanu'el, they told me! And . . . I thought this year he would come to Yerushalayim! But it was not to be.”

By this, Emet knew the old man's hope had died today. There was no remedy for his grief. They passed the miles in silence, each remembering the day.

Where
was the Messiah the Jews longed for? Marcus pondered. Where was the Deliverer? Savior? King of the Jews who would set Israel free from its array of enemies?

Bar Abba had fled to the wilderness in defeat. He was no Messiah.

But what about Yeshua of Nazareth? Where was the one from Galilee who could heal the sick and feed the multitudes by a word and raise the dead back to life? What about him? Why was he not here in Jerusalem on such a day, wading in the blood of his broken kinsmen, restoring them to mothers, sons, fathers, brothers, who wept for their loss?

Wisely, Marcus thought, Yeshua had stayed away. Had the Master known what calamity was to come on a city impatient to be free? It was fortuitous that Yeshua had chosen to remain in the north on such a wretched Passover as this. The events of this day would long be remembered and recited by those who witnessed them. Some would blame Pilate. Others, bar Abba. Some would curse the Sanhedrin. Many would declare that this was the hand of Yahweh, passing judgment for the violation of Korban. Yes. Perhaps they would comfort themselves that this was the fault of a transgression of the laws of Moses.

Marcus was certain that if Yeshua had been here, somehow he would have been blamed with bar Abba and the rebels for inciting the mob.

The boys dozed while the two men, oppressed by visions of slaughter, reached Beth-lehem at last. Watch fires of the shepherds winked on the hillsides. Flocks and herds slept. The place seemed peaceful, unchanged, though everything had changed.