The Wolf and the Lamb (14 page)

YOM SHLISHI

Chapter XXVII

Yehudah had come to be known to his comrades as the Thief. For some it meant only that he had an uncanny way of producing large results at small cost. Later it would carry a darker connotation. He had not slept, and the sun glimmered on the edge of the horizon. Another dawn to contemplate, only this time from a crude cell in the depths of the High Priest’s dwelling. Perhaps this dawn would be his last. Somehow, everything he’d worked on, his plans, hopes, certainties, had soured like wine to vinegar. What had he missed? Clearly, there were people of influence who wished to help. He thought he’d understood them. He’d been wrong—dangerously wrong and instead of helping, he had brought on the destruction of the one man, the only man, who’d ever called him friend.

After the fiasco with the ass on the Mount of Olives, Yeshua had proceeded to cause a near riot in the court of the money exchangers. It had been awful, outrageous even. Yehudah smiled at the memory. Coins had clanged and skittered across the stone floor and into corners. Opportunists scrambled after them shoving and cursing one another. Tables overturned, doves flapped to the ceiling, lambs bleated and Peter, whose years of hauling nets has given him arms like posts, tossed anyone with designs on the Master out the door like so many barrels of salt fish. His own contribution had been less dramatic, but he’d gotten in a few good licks and had managed to escape in time to avoid the Temple Guards and avoid arrest. It had been an amazing departure from Yeshua’s usually serene nature. It had been exciting. In retrospect, it had been ill advised. It seemed Yeshua was determined to provoke the Temple party. Had he wanted them to arrest him all along? Why had he done those things just now when the movement seemed to have gained momentum? Such a stupid waste. Well, he had done so and the consequences followed as day follows night, or the other way round in his case. They were here in prison waiting for the officials to determine their end. Exile, proscription, a trial for blasphemy he’d heard the High Priest mutter.

In spite of assurances that his name and role would not be revealed, he’d been forced to lead the Temple Guards to the olive grove and betray Yeshua. At the last moment he’d hoped that, with the second sense Yeshua seemed to possess, he would feel the approaching threat and escape. Wouldn’t you think a man who could raise the dead would be aware of impending danger? If he had, then all this crashing around in the darkness would have been for nothing. But that had not been the case. Rounding a clump of figs, there he was. Yeshua had looked right at him and knew. “Yehudah, is it with a kiss, then, that I am to be handed over?” he’d said and added, “Do what you must do.” So, almost as if it had been preordained, he’d kissed Yeshua, and the guards seized his arms. Some of the others rushed in and there for a brief moment chaos reigned. Peter drew the sword he kept tucked in his tunic and took a swipe at one of the guards. Had the old man really believed that he could lead a group of fishermen and their odd-lot companions and beat back armed and armored guards?

Yeshua had raised his hands and everyone froze in place.“Why here, High Priest?’ Yeshua said. “Why this way? I have been out and about in the city and in plain sight. You could have asked anyone where I might be found and arrested me. Yet, here you are in the dark and in the small hours of the morning when darkness is deepest. And so the dark, not the light, is your preference, is it not?” It had been a very good question, but the more important one would have been, “Why, Yehudah, why you and why now?” Indeed, why had it been him and not one of the others? Any of them could have fallen into this trap the Temple people laid. Why not Simon, the hot headed Zealot? He would have been the logical choice, or Tomas, whose belief in the mission seemed to waver from one crisis to the next. But no, it had to be “the Thief.” So now all sat waiting for the doom Caiaphas has planned. Yehudah couldn’t bring himself look at Yeshua.

***

The middle of the week and Gamaliel had reached a point in his investigation only marginally closer to solving the murder than when he’d started. Progress made certainly, but new questions to be asked. What do the wits say? Two paces forward, one back. Still, one thing seemed certain, the visitors from Rome had an interest in taking the Prefect back with them in a few days time. Before they parted, Loukas said he would have a good think on what he had heard. For Loukas, a “good think” usually involved large quantities of wine, so the probability of his arriving at the meeting place on time seemed slim.

The High Priest called on him early. Not a welcome sight. Binyamin ushered him in, and Gamaliel offered him some cool water.

“Good morning, Gamaliel,
Ha Shem
. You will be pleased to know we took the Galilean into custody last night.”

“What makes you think I am pleased at that? I am not. I have disputed this point with you for nearly three years. I could not have been clearer. The man is radical and unorthodox, but at the same time, harmless. So now what? You have him you say? I do not care, High Priest. I have important things on my mind at the moment truly and—”

“Gethsemane, Rabban, you should have been there.”

“No, High Priest, I should not. If you are planning to put this man on trial in a few weeks, then I, as one of his judges, should not have had any contact with him and certainly not have taken part in his arrest.”

“Nonsense. You are splitting hairs, as usual. You need to know this. You know Gethsemane?”

“No.”

“It is one of those newly planted olive groves in the Kidron Valley. Because the cuttings are still tender, the owner of the plot does not allow pilgrims to camp there, so it remained mostly deserted. When we arrived—”

“High Priest, I do not wish to hear this.”

“Bear with me, Rabban. You will see. My telling will help you understand.”

“But I do not wish to understand.”

“Only the Yehudah person…that’s the disciple I told you about, the one who sold his teacher to us for a year’s wages—not that he will ever get to spend it—only he seemed to have any idea where to find Yeshua. ”

“High Priest, I am sure that this is very interesting to you and others who share your dislike of Rabbi Yeshua, but it does not interest me. I have important things to attend to and must be off.”

“Wait. Hear me out for a moment longer. Yeshua looked straight at me and said, ‘Why this way? I have been in plain sight for days. No, here you are when darkness is deepest. You could have found and arrested me then.’ I must confess to have been momentarily flustered by his scolding.”

“As well you should have, and it is a pertinent question. Why
did
you wait until dark and so late to arrest him?”

“Prudence, Rabban, I was exercising prudence. He has many followers and at least one of them is a known Zealot. They are like rats. You see one Zealot, you have a hundred more lurking about nearby. So, we waited until most of his people were asleep, not dancing attendance on their hero. Now we will wring a confession from him that even you, Rabban, could not refute.”

“You might and you might not. I will be surprised if he is so obliging. If you want him dealt with in any real way, you will have to do better than that.”

“You can’t know that.”

“He does not strike me as just another of your wild-eyed radicals. He has
gravita
s, High Priest, and that distinguishes him from the rest.”

***

The boy stood in the archway of a shop, ignoring the glare from its shopkeeper, watching and waiting. He had been tracking the Rabban for days now. Just when he thought he had the man’s intentions figured out, something happened to cause him to hesitate. The High Priest had arrived, and they were having a long conversation about something. What was it between the High Priest and the Rabban? Were they both in it together? He’d been told the High Priest could not be trusted, so he guessed the two of them together made sense. He would have to report this.

The Rabban came out with the High Priest, but they set off in different directions. He followed Gamaliel. He did not fear being spotted today. There was no way the old man would guess who dogged his heels, not in this crowd, not dressed this way. His own mother would not recognize him today.

The Physician waited for him at the Hulda Gates. Where were they off to today? Pilate again? Should he try to reengage with the Prefect? How could he manage that? He really needed to find out what the two men had uncovered. He hesitated, glanced around, and in that brief moment of inattention, lost his prey in the crowd. He hurried in the direction he’d last seen them headed.

They were gone.

***

As Gamaliel suspected, Loukas showed the signs of a misspent night. His friend glared at him, so he said nothing. Loukas turned and jerked him into a shop and signaled for him to sit.

“What’s this?”

“In spite of what you are thinking, I did not spend my evening with a skin of wine.”

“I wasn’t thinking that.”

“You were.”

Loukas proceeded to tell him of his relatively early night which had been interrupted in the early hours by a group of men seeking medical attention. Yakob had woken him and he’d spent the next two hours attending the group of men who’d fled up from the Kidron Valley where they had been involved in some sort of fracas. There had been an incident involving the Temple Guards they said. Some of the men had bad abrasions and cuts. They’d told him that guards had attacked them when they tried to defend their teacher or something. Loukas said he did not have the details as he was too busy applying poultices and bandages to listen. By the time they’d left, the sun was nearly up, and he’d given up hope of resuming his rest. Yakob had made him an early meal, and he had spent the rest of the morning trying to make sense of what Pilate told them the day before, and Gamaliel should not jump to conclusions based on his fatigued look.

“You don’t believe me, do you?”

“Oh, but I do. I know what happened in the valley and why. Some of Rabbi Yeshua’s minyan ended on your doorstep last night.”

“Yeshua?”

“Caiaphas’ favorite, yes. He had him arrested last night and there was a scuffle. So there, I do believe you. We must move on, Physician. I need to revisit Agon, and then there is one more stop I wish to make. What do you know about Greek drama?
Clytemnestra
for example”

“Greek drama? You jest.”

Gamaliel shrugged and stepped into the crowd.

Chapter XXVIII

Three men sat in a rough semicircle and stared at the boy.
Menacing
would be the best descriptor. They told him to sit down and be still. He’d done so and now occupied a stool opposite them, mouth shut tight. The room had no window and only a small doorway let in air and light. Today, a rough fabric curtain covered it limiting both. A lamp set to one side on a plain plank table provided the only illumination. Its wick had been improperly trimmed and it sputtered and smoked. The air was close and reeked of unwashed men and burning oil. The boy pulled his frayed cloak closer in spite of the heat. He no longer knew what these men wanted or expected of him. He had done everything they’d asked yet he sensed he’d somehow failed them. How their failed plan could fall to him, he did not know, but he’d discovered that these men were not reasonable. Either way, no good could come from this gathering. The men murmured among themselves as if he were not sitting in front of them, as if he did not exist. Lately he had become accustomed to being treated as if he were invisible by men who ruled his life. But unlike the Prefect and his Roman friends, these men were not rich and powerful. They were hardly more elevated than he in the layered society in which they all struggled.

The discussion swirled around the effectiveness of assassinating one or more additional men. The boy assumed they were speaking of Gamaliel or possibly the High Priest. He wondered why those two. He could name half a hundred men, and a few women, who were more deserving of this group’s justice. He’d spent enough time in the presence of the Prefect and his people to know who could and who could not be labeled a collaborator. But his opinion would not be solicited by these angry men.

He heard his name spoken and tuned his ears more sharply. They argued about his abilities. Could he be entrusted with a new assignment? What if he were captured? Would he betray them to the Romans? What assignment? Then he understood. They were arguing whether he could be trusted to slip a dagger into one or the other of the men about whom they’d just spoken. Was it the Rabban they wanted dead? Could he stab Gamaliel? Could he stab anyone? It is one thing to pretend to be someone else, to lie, steal, or arrange a meeting, quite another to assume the role of assassin. This had started because one of them had treated him with kindness—a rarity for someone like himself—but then it had spiraled out of control.

***

When Gamaliel reached the Souk, he sent Loukas off to the amphitheater with questions for the person who managed it. Loukas started to object. He had no interest in the theater. He considered it a poor substitute for the world of letters. He could not imagine how one could possibly mount the
Odyssey
, for example, on the stage or why anyone would want to. The stories that were acted out were either low comedy or bloody tragedies.
Clytemnestra
, for example, why had Gamaliel mentioned that piece? Murder and revenge. Gamaliel reminded him that because of his affectation in Greek dress and manners, he could pass as a pagan and gain entry to the inner workings of the company, and he had a question or two he wanted answered. Loukas heard him out and shuddered at the thought of mingling with people he considered lower in status than gladiators and tax gatherers, both of which he despised.

Gamaliel, in turn, entered Agon’s shop once more. The jeweler’s delight at seeing him soon disappeared when he heard what Gamaliel wanted from him. They argued for nearly an hour and then the shopkeeper relented and produced a wax tablet and began to write. He glowered at Gamaliel after each entry. Gamaliel merely shrugged and repeated his apologies for having forced the information from him but assured him it was for Israel and not Rome that he asked.

When Agon finished, Gamaliel thanked him. The jeweler nodded but said nothing. Gamaliel asked if he knew of a bladesmith, particularly one who specialized in creating dress daggers, the knife Romans called a
pugios
. Agon thought a moment and then gave him directions to two. Gamaliel once more reassured him that he had not betrayed anyone and might even have saved a life. He failed to mention that the life that might be saved was the hated Pontius Pilate.

The first bladesmith said he did indeed know the Prefect’s dagger. He had fitted new leather to the hilt a year ago, but, no, he had not made it. He thought it might have come from Hispania originally. Gamaliel next asked if he were commissioned to do so, could he reproduce it and was told he could but he would need the original to copy, and he couldn’t guarantee the quality of the iron. The bladesmiths in Hispania had secrets when they worked the iron that so far no one else had been able to replicate. Bronze, on the other hand, he could match easily. He couldn’t remember from which metal the Prefect’s
pugio
had been fabricated.

“How long would it take? If I had the original to work with, two weeks, perhaps sooner.”

The second bladesmith told him the same thing. Two weeks? That would require more than short term planning. No clear answer to the time of premeditation. But the question remained: who lifted the original from the Prefect’s effects? Gamaliel thanked him and went in search of Loukas.

***

The boy relaxed. They weren’t asking him to kill anyone, only to maintain his surveillance. They were not happy that he had lost Gamaliel and the Physician, earlier. He was told to resume his post that evening and stay on it until he heard from them. There was no mistaking the consequences that would follow if he were to fail again. The room was now filled with smoke, and the boy suppressed the urge to cough. It would not do to attract attention.

The fact that the boy had not known what the Rabban had planned for the hippodrome they thought most unfortunate, although the fact that the Rabban had apparently killed one of the Roman’s favorite horses pleased them. The Roman’s horses, women, and riches were hated equally. One of their number reported what the Prefect had told Gamaliel the previous day. The boy had not known that his ears were not the only ones busy in Pilate’s lair. Pilate had revealed to the old man that the dagger, his
pugio
, went missing the day a woman visited his apartments. Did the Prefect know who took it and why? If he did, there would have be no meeting here this day. Multiple crucifixions, but no meeting.

***

Loukas had less luck with Mordekay, the amphitheater manager. He turned out to be one of those men who, despite his very Hebrew name, had suspect origins as to his birth and lineage, and whose affected demeanor bordered on the insufferable. No cast members were about when Loukas arrived. He found Mordekay lounging in the staging area inspecting some masks. He did not look happy. Loukas supposed he did not like the condition of the masks which were badly worn, one or two past redemption.

The manager started at the sight of Loukas. Jumpy sort of man, Loukas thought. Jumpy people, he believed, were usually guilty of something. What did this gilded lily hide, he wondered. He asked him about players and if any were missing. The man hesitated and then said, no there weren’t any missing players. Loukas knew he lied. His knowledge of the theater might be thin, but he knew that players were always going missing. Loukas asked about the night of the banquet. Had any of his players been hired to perform, perhaps? Were any hired the day before, perhaps, to amuse the Prefect’s wife. No? Could Mordekay suggest anyone else in the area who might supply players, singly or in a group to entertain at a banquet? No, he could not. Would he like to have a talk with the legal authorities about these matters? Was there anything he would rather not come to light in that regard?

The man’s panic was very real, and Loukas tried to exploit it and asked his questions again. He received the same answers. Loukas realized Mordekay, quite out of character, told the truth. He shifted to the other topic Gamaliel wanted him to explore. Were any trappings, costumes, that sort of thing missing? Mordekay hemmed and hawed and then conceded that yes, some items were, but that was not unusual. Actors, he said, were never far from their craft. They would turn up eventually. Any that he might have noticed especially? A pause and eyes rolled right to left—a bad sign—finally, yes, some outfits that might be worn to designate an upper class servant and a soldier, Anything else? Another pause accompanied with the glazed look that signified another lie and a shake of the head. One would think an actor would be a more accomplished liar. At least he had something to tell Gamaliel. Loukas thanked his reluctant witness and left for home. Gamaliel would most likely be waiting for him in his courtyard.

The sun had nearly set when he exited through the Sheep Gate and made his way down the hill to his home. As he’d expected, Gamaliel waited for him in his usual place under the olive tree.