Second Touch (7 page)

Messiah. Antipas and Caiaphas plot to kill Yeshua and others who oppose their plan.” Zadok grasped the twin corded braids of his coarse white beard and nodded. “I expected it. I saw it in that jackal Eglon’s face at the sheep pens. Didn’t have a chance to thank y’.” Slowly, measuring his words, Marcus continued, “Pilate restored my rank. But he refused to intervene for you. Said he had no authority to interfere in Judean religious squabbles.” Avel was surprised to see Zadok’s chest swell up. “And right he is too! Do y’ think I’d take something offered by the hand of Rome? Y’ wrong me if y’ think that, Marcus Longinus. More than thirty years have I been shepherd here with the Temple flocks—five and twenty of them as Chief. I never sought Rome’s endorsement, and I would not take it now!” “Then where’ll you go?” This was exactly the question Avel was aching to pose. Since being sent to Zadok by Yeshua, Avel had found in the grizzled shepherd a protector and grandfather, whom he vowed never to leave. Wherever Zadok went, Avel and his two friends would be going too. “I shall go to him, of course,” Zadok said quietly. “To Yeshua.” Avel watched the Roman officer indicate his acceptance. “¬I’m thinking of resigning my commission,” Marcus said. “So I can do the same.” To Avel’s disbelief Zadok contradicted Marcus. “Don’t give up your office lightly,” he argued. “Y’ do more good where y’ are.” Further discussion had to be postponed because of Ha-or Tov’s treble cry, “In sight now: two columns of men marching. Round helmets, brown tunics. One man on horseback.” Temple Guards. Avel had many times ducked away from the cuffs and slaps of such men while he was a Jerusalem Sparrow, one of the orphan boys who nightly carried torches to earn their daily bread. Marcus stood up. “You won’t accept the hand of Rome,” he repeated, “but I trust you’ll accept my hand, though it is a Roman who offers.” As Zadok stood, Avel saw the two men grasp each other by the forearm. Father and son they could have been, Avel thought. One looked the way prophets of old were described: visage like a mountain thunderstorm, implacable, able to speak to and for the Almighty with equal assurance. The other was short-haired, clean-shaven, and exuded physical confidence and courage. They were a formidable pair, corresponding in both integrity and force of will. The sound of tramping feet approaching up the dusty lane echoed between the rock walls of the sheepfold. “Troop halt!” Avel heard the shouted command. Then, “Zadok of Migdal Eder, show yourself!” “They ¬don’t know ¬I’m here,” Marcus noted. “Let’s see what they say before they know a Roman officer is a witness.” To Avel, Zadok said, “Hand me my staff, boy. And stay close to me.” Avel

retrieved Zadok’s fire-hardened rod of almond wood. With it in hand the Chief Shepherd looked even more like the stories told of Elijah or Moses. “Who calls for Zadok?” the man rumbled as he emerged from the tower. Blinking in the sunlight, Avel stood behind him. The other shepherds still stood in postures of nervous defiance. The one called Lev had a sling dangling at his side. A rock the size of Avel’s fist protruded from the leather pocket hanging by Lev’s knee. Lev could knock a quail out of a tree or hit a badger in the eye; Avel had seen him do both. At this range at least one of the Temple Guards would fall as hard as Goliath before David. There was a captain at the head of the marching columns of men, but he ¬didn’t speak. Instead the lone mounted man demanded again, “Chief Shepherd Zadok?” “Eglon,” Zadok identified in a voice dripping with disdain. “Y’ have no business here. Go back and tell that old fox, your master Antipas, that the Chief Shepherd of Israel ¬doesn’t come when a butcher’s son calls him.” “I’ll have you dragged back in chains,” Eglon blustered. “¬I’m here by special request of my lord Caiaphas. You’re discharged.” “Where the body is, there will the vultures gather,” Zadok said. “So Herod Antipas, the viper of the Galil, has taken refuge with the whitewashed tombs of Yerushalayim.” Eglon nudged his horse forward a half-dozen paces, flicking the quirt in his hand as if he would lash Zadok in the face. Avel saw Zadok reach and restrain Lev’s sling arm, though Eglon appeared not to notice. “Old man, you’ve insulted the tetrarch for the last time!” Marcus stepped into the sunlight. “C-centurion,” Eglon stammered with surprise, “I ¬didn’t know—” “Obviously not,” Marcus intoned sternly. “¬I’m aware of your orders. The Chief Shepherd is correct. You’re a messenger boy . . . nothing more.” Then rejecting any further conversation with Eglon, Marcus addressed the captain of the Temple Guard. “Master Zadok will obey the command of the high priest. He’ll leave here when he’s ready . . . and in my company. You may go.” Avel saw Eglon’s face tighten with rage. The man’s hands clinched on the whip handle, and his body betrayed the temptation to spur his horse into Marcus. Avel sensed the danger was not over yet. If Eglon led a charge, would the Temple soldiers follow? Then the herdsmen would certainly resist and blood would flow. Marcus advanced quickly toward the side of Eglon’s mount before Antipas’ hired killer made up his mind what to do next. The centurion beckoned for a private conference and said something too low for Avel to catch. Automatically Eglon bent forward from the waist to hear better. In that instant Marcus reached upward with both hands, grasping Eglon by the lapels of his robe. The startled bay mare assisted by skittishly prancing sideways. With a twist of his shoulders and a jerk backward, Marcus lifted Eglon bodily out of the saddle. In the next instant Marcus

slammed Eglon into the ground. A puff of dust rose from the impact. This seemed to Avel to be the visible expression of the strangled explosion Eglon made when all his air abruptly left his lungs. No one else moved a muscle. Now Marcus spoke loudly enough for ¬everyone to hear. “I said, ‘You may go.’ Or ¬didn’t you hear me the first time?” Though Eglon was nearly as big as Marcus in height, the centurion easily swept the other man up from the ground and back onto his feet. “Be very clear about something,” he said to Eglon, who wobbled visibly. “Zadok and any who choose to leave here with him are ¬under my protection. And that means they are ¬under the seal of Rome. Remember that and tell your keepers the same. Now go.” Though Eglon appeared manifestly furious, Avel knew Eglon was unwilling to openly tackle an Imperial officer. Remounting and wheeling his horse around, Eglon galloped off, leaving the captain of the Temple Guard to salute Marcus, then order his men to march away. “Y’ just made powerful enemies in Caiaphas and Herod Antipas,” Zadok suggested to Marcus. “And I doubt Eglon will ¬ever be your friend, either.” “One more thing you and I have in common,” Avel heard Marcus reply. “But I’ve got to make use of Pilate’s sense of obligation while it lasts. Doesn’t your holy writ say not to trust in the goodwill of princes? Anyway,” Marcus concluded thoughtfully, “Pilate wants me out of the way. ¬I’m leading the diplomatic envoy to Nabatea the end of the week. No more use of you, ¬I’m afraid.” “Then Shalom till we meet again,” Zadok said, grasping Marcus’ arm again. “We both serve as we’re called.”

Sweet breezes from the Great Sea of Middle Earth, urged eastward by the ginger and saffron rays of the setting sun, curled over the heights of Jerusalem. The prevailing wind kept the stench and squalor of the Lower City away from those who dwelt in the Upper City. The palace of High Priest Caiaphas was well placed to take advantage of both the views and the cleansing drafts. Here, near the summit of the highest of the western hills, his three-story mansion was more imposing than any of its neighbors. The structure’s grandeur was diminished ¬only by its proximity to the sprawling palace built by Herod the Great. Taken together, the high priest’s mansion and Herod’s citadel, now home to the Roman governors of Judea, stood in opposition to the Temple of El’Elyon, God Most High. His home lay on the Temple Mount promontory to the east. Simon ben Zeraim turned his head to peer toward the marble of the sanctuary. His reception at the high priest’s manor had been cordial. But the attentive slave’s washing of his feet in perfumed waters had not completely alleviated the Pharisee’s misgivings. Once more Simon looked longingly toward the Temple, where the cohens, or priests, were lighting

the lamps and shutting the gates for the evening. Pharisees had been pious keepers of the strict laws of Moses during the two centuries since Judah Maccabee cleansed and rededicated the Holy Mountain. They had little in common with the Temple authorities or others of their sect, the Sadducees. Sadducee to the core, High Priest Caiaphas had married into a politically well-connected family. His name was derived from a Hebrew word meaning “low place,” like the sink of a swamp or a valley where refuse was dumped. Caiaphas often joked about the reference, saying that it was proof how far above his origins a man of ability and ambition could rise. Simon performed a quick mental calculation. Caiaphas had been raised to the high priesthood by Governor Pilate’s predecessor, Gratus, about the third year of the reign of Tiberius. So Caiaphas had held the office for some eleven or twelve years now. Evidently his ability and ambition were satisfactory to the Roman overlords. Simon wandered among rooftop gardens surrounding an expansive courtyard. Planter boxes encouraged fig, citron, and orange trees to flourish in the heart of the Holy City. Carefully tended miniature arbors produced grapes for the high priest’s table. The clatter of tramping feet from the quadrangle proved to be the sunset changing of the cohen hagadol’s personal squad of Temple Guards. For several months rumors had circulated throughout the province. They said Caiaphas allowed sacred korban funds from the Temple to be used unlawfully by Governor Pilate. Since then the high priest had received an increasing number of death threats. With Zealot rebels coming out of the hills to murder those they called collaborators, this was no time to be seen as working hand in glove with the Romans. At the mental image Simon tugged at his own soft leather glove, then absentmindedly scratched his left ear . . . and jumped when Caiaphas spoke suddenly from behind him. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” the jovial voice of the high priest boomed broadly. “My secretary always pesters me for just one more letter . . . you know how it is.” Caiaphas gestured with both hands. He included Simon in his portrayal of important men of affairs bearing up ¬under the cares of their duty. Everything about Caiaphas was done broadly. Whether he spoke to one man or a thousand, his speech had the quality of a lecture from a tutor to a class of simpleminded children. Pay attention, his manner implied. I realize this is hard for you to grasp, but try, because ¬everything I say is significant. “¬I’m sorry I ¬can’t invite you to stay to supper,” Caiaphas added. “¬I’m entertaining the ambassador of the Nabatean king, Aretas. Diplomacy, you see, is one of the unexpected additional requirements of my office.” Inclining his head to one side and tapping the side of his ample nose with an imperial forefinger, he added in a lower tone, “Te¬trarch Herod Antipas needs my assistance in smoothing over some . . . but ¬can’t go into that,

can I?” Simon ¬wasn’t certain if he should nod or shake his head, so he merely responded with dignity, “I ¬understand. You asked for my help?” “Right to the point,” Caiaphas rumbled. “I like that. Too many men want to know what’s in it for them before they act as all good citizens should. All right, here it is: The troublemaker Yeshua of Nazareth has to be dealt with. Too many of the common people—” Caiaphas managed to make common sound synonymous with defiled—“flock to his speeches, neglecting their work. They give too much attention to his message, which, as we know, ¬undermines proper submission to proper authority. You should know: Your father-in-law has been expelled from his post because of his support of Yeshua.” “The old man is nothing to me. Always was pigheaded. I’ve not allowed my wife to see him in years. Our son has never met him.” “It’s a wise man who keeps a rebel from his door,” Caiaphas counseled. “The old man talks too much.” Simon nodded his agreement with the high priest. For generations the Pharisees struggled to teach suitable piety to the masses, and in two short years Yeshua had convinced many of them that it ¬wasn’t all that important, that religion had more to do with the condition of the heart than a proper regard for the 613 dos and ¬don’ts. “Now many say this Yeshua is a rebel,” Caiaphas continued, “and should be turned over to the Romans as a traitor. But I cannot in good conscience do this, for he is a Jew after all. We are a people of law and proper procedure, and he must be given a fair hearing. I never wish to act without giving an adversary a fair hearing.” The weight of the warning hung in the air like an executioner’s blade suspended overhead. “So ¬I’m gathering all the information I can before proceeding further. ¬I’m told you met this so— called rabbi in person . . . that you had him as a guest in your home?” Simon recognized in this statement a demonstration of the high priest’s network of informants. Since this event was exactly what he’d expected to be queried about, he felt no fear. “A year ago it was, and more,” he admitted, “closer to two. Yeshua had been teaching in the synagogue in my hometown of Capernaum. At that time he had a decent enough reputation, performing healings and such.” Caiaphas narrowed his eyes and frowned. “Done, of course, either through trickery or black magic,” Simon added hurriedly. Caiaphas nodded. “At any rate, a story went round the Galil that Yeshua had brought a young man back to life . . . impossible, of course, but so ran the tale. Probably spread deliberately to make him sound like a prophet—Elijah or Elisha, I expect. I wanted to see for myself what the truth was, so I invited Yeshua and his followers to supper, and he agreed.” “Go on.” “Several of my brother Pharisees also attended, as well as other leading men of the Galil. Right from the first I wanted it to be clear that I was

acting ¬only as a concerned citizen, not out of some misguided personal interest.” “Unlike others of your faith, who have not been so cautious,” Caiaphas muttered. “Nakdimon ben Gurion would do well to take a lesson from you.” Simon agreed. “So when I welcomed Yeshua I was cordial but reserved, proper but wary. You ¬understand?” “Perfectly.” “Supper passed pleasantly enough. Yeshua made several remarks about . . . oh, I ¬don’t know . . . inconsequential sayings about faith, not judging others, loving your enemies. The kind of philosophical twaddle that is of no practical value. Not straightforward, like a good set of rules and guidelines.” Simon noted that Caiaphas looked impatient so he hurried on. “Then quite unexpectedly, this woman appeared in the dining room. I ¬don’t know how she got in the house. I’ve since discharged my steward, because I think he lied about being ordered to admit her by some Roman officer. Anyway, there she was: a notorious sinner, a true harlot, a jezebel of scandalous reputation for her loose living. Why, even if I hadn’t known her, it was clear from her manner and dress what she was! I was dumbfounded. And then before I could order her to be thrown out, the matter got even worse. She circled the tables to where Yeshua was reclining and stopped beside his feet. Great tears flowed down her cheeks. In her hands she carried an alabaster jar of perfume. I was stunned, stunned at her effrontery! This harlot let her tears fall on Yeshua’s feet . . . on his feet, while he remained perfectly still, saying nothing.” Simon sensed the return of the same righteous indignation he had experienced when the event was in progress. “Unbinding her hair—masses of curly chestnut hair—she bent over Yeshua’s feet and washed his feet with her tears and her hair!” Simon shuddered at the recollection. “She kissed his feet! Put her filthy, degraded lips on him. Laid her cheek against his feet! He gave no sign that anything was amiss; barely moved. Then she uncorked the bottle of ointment and poured the entire contents over his feet. Spikenard it was, hugely expensive.” Simon drew in a long breath, as if the air were again scented with the costly unguent. “Well, right then I thought to myself, If this man is ¬really a prophet, he’ll know who is touching him and what kind of woman she is—that she is a sinner of the worst kind.” “He let her touch him like that?” Caiaphas inquired. “Did not rebuke her? Showed no revulsion?” “None,” Simon affirmed. “In fact he ¬didn’t even speak to her just then. Instead, turning to me he said, ‘Simon, I have something to tell you.’ With great difficulty I kept my composure, not wanting to make a dismal scene even worse, so I replied, ‘Tell me, Teacher.’ So he told me a story:15 ‘Two men owed money to a certain moneylender. One owed him five hundred denarii and the other fifty.’ ” “Was he trying to bribe you to keep quiet about what you saw?” Caiaphas