The Last Sacrifice (23 page)

But surely neither Joseph nor Falco knew these details. Valeria and Quintus had dared not leave hiding to publicly accuse Maglorius of this.

“You see,” Joseph said, once again anticipating the questions that he implicitly raised, “a man like Florus does nothing unless it serves him. All of this city knows he has withheld Roman troops from helping us because he wants civil war to hide his atrocities from Caesar. Yet in the middle of this, he sends soldiers with Falco. Perhaps Florus seeks to curry favor with the senator in Rome helping Valeria and Quintus, but I argued otherwise with Falco. I believe that Florus wants the Bellator children in his possession.”

Valeria had been unaware of how much she’d been hoping her letter to Rome would save them until this moment, with the black despair that filled her when it appeared all was lost.

“Understand this,” Joseph said. “Anything that denies Florus is something that helps the Jews. So I’ve made a proposal to Falco.” He gazed steadily at Valeria. “But for it to work, you’re going to have to convince the Bellator children to trust me.”

What choice did Valeria have? She nodded.

“Good,” Joseph said. “Come with me and let me introduce you to Falco. He’ll tell you about our plan to escape the soldiers.”

“I want to end the standoff too,” Ananias said to Eleazar. “Yet I cannot shake my questions. If the Nazarene was who he claimed to be, then I foresee that bringing down the wrath of Rome may turn their entire military might against us in fulfillment of his prophecy. Rebels have won battles against Rome in the past, but never wars. Allow the foreigners to sacrifice at the Temple. Help me unite the city.”

“No. The Nazarene was not the Messiah. Therefore his prophecy cannot be fulfilled. Jerusalem and the Temple will not fall. God will preserve His people until the Messiah arrives. He did it when He brought us out of Egypt into the Promised Land. When He sent an angel of death to kill the Assyrians. God is faithful to His covenant. He will vindicate His people and His Temple. All through our history, God has saved us and will do so again.”

“What if the covenant was fulfilled with the Nazarene? What if he was the Son of God and truly the last sacrifice? Then those in the city now selling their land because they believe his prophecies will be fulfilled in this generation will be the only ones preserved.”

“Who has filled your head with these ideas?”

“You and I are not the only father and son divided,” Ananias said ruefully. “Your friend Mordecai is a Zealot, but his father . . .”

Eleazar showed astonishment. “Phinehas most surely is not a Nazarene!”

Ananias nodded. “They live in houses side-by-side. At night, Phinehas has secret meetings with Nazarenes on his roof, while next door, Mordecai plots against the Romans, sharing your belief that the cause is holy.”

“How do you know this about Phinehas?”

“Before the standoff separated our city, I went to him many times. He’s a wise man, and I wanted counsel and solace on how to deal with this division between you and me. He told me about his own problem. Above all, remember that I am your father and you are my son, and my heart breaks because of my love for you.”

Silence again fell upon them.

Eleazar lowered himself to his knees and bowed. “Father,” he said, without raising his head, “I love you too. And I wish we could be on the same side. But I must do what God has called me to do. Remember Judas Maccabeus and the abomination of desolation in the Temple that Daniel predicted. Remember how God gave him victory.”

Ananias thought of how Annas the Younger had used this love against him earlier. It brought tears to his eyes again, and he was glad that Eleazar did not see his face.

Ananias leaned forward and placed a hand on his son’s shoulder. “I only pray that you are right. Remember, though, Judas Maccabeus led our people after Antiochus inflicted the abomination upon us. What I fear is that this war will lead to the ultimate abomination that the Nazarene predicted.” Ananias helped his son to his feet. “We are here, meeting in secret, because you sent me a message. I doubt you wanted or expected a conversation like this.”

“No, Father,” Eleazar said. “I have a request.”

“A father will always listen to a son’s request. Whether I can grant it in this situation . . .”

“Tomorrow is the Festival of Xylophory. We must get enough wood to last until the end of the year.”

Eleazar didn’t have to explain more. Ananias immediately understood the consequences. And the predicament. “You are asking me to ensure that the royal troops let in those from the countryside.”

“It is the festival. You know full well that thousands upon thousands have been traveling for days to bring wood in service to God.”

Ananias did. The festival was a popular and joyous occasion, where maidens dressed in white and sang and danced in the vineyards around Jerusalem. As for the wood, the people flooded the Court of the Gentiles, depositing their offerings in an outer temple chamber, where priests disqualified from more important service by skin blemishes were sent to pick out wood that wasn’t worm-eaten or otherwise unfit for the altar.

“Many of those thousands upon thousands will be sympathetic to your cause,” Ananias said. “I’m not sure I can convince those in the upper city to allow them into the Temple.”

“This is not about politics,” Eleazar said. “The altar’s fire must burn forever in honor of God.”

“If it is not about politics,” Ananias said, “then allow citizens of the upper city to enter the Temple to honor God as well.”

Eleazar shook his head. “I cannot. The upper city has the wealth. Which means you also have the weapons. These peasants are poor, fortunate to own a hoe. They are no danger to anyone.”

“You are asking too much and giving too little in return.”

“This is not politics.”

Ananias sighed. “This is not politics.” A moment later he said, “How do I know you won’t take advantage of this in some way?”

“All I want is one day of truce to ensure that the altar has sufficient wood and that faithful Jews are not disappointed in their service to God,” Eleazar said. He, too, paused briefly. “You have my word, Father. As your son, I promise I will not betray you.”

Finally Ananias nodded. “All right then. Because I trust and love you, I will pledge my honor and my position and the Sanhedrin will have no choice but to grant the truce. Service to God is more important than our politics.”

The door opened in front of Boaz.

Maglorius stepped outside. Without the scrolls. “There’s another problem,” he said.

“Let me guess,” Boaz said. “Amaris doesn’t read either. Nice try. Well, let me tell you, the judge was able to read those contracts. Very plainly. That’s why the house was provided as a legal settlement for the debts of Ben-Aryeh.”

“Amaris can read,” Maglorius said. “That’s not the problem.”

Boaz found himself grinding his teeth again. He spit out each word. “What, then, is the problem?”

“She finds it too hot outside at this time of day.”

“I fail to see how—”

“That’s exactly it,” Maglorius said. He was grave, almost sanctimoniously troubled. “She fails to see in the dimness inside.”

“She’s not blind.”

“No, not at all. But the scrolls have such dense handwriting that it was difficult for her to see the writing very clearly.” Maglorius paused. “As you pointed out to her earlier, she’s no longer a young woman.”

“Once again, I fail to—”

“It was my suggestion, and I’m very sorry for it. I take full blame.”

“For what!” Talking to this ex-gladiator was like dealing with a village idiot.

“I brought over an oil lamp. I told her I would hold it steady so that the light would help her vision.”

“She could have stood by a window.”

“Yes,” Maglorius said. “I understand that now. In the moment, I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

“So you helped her read the contracts with an oil lamp. Good. I’m sure she explained to you that the contracts are valid. Step aside and let us in.”

“She didn’t get a chance to read the contracts. It really was my fault. I apologize sincerely to you.”

“For what!”

“There’s no other way to tell you this. I burned the scrolls. Held the lamp too close and just like that, they caught fire.” Maglorius held up his hand to forestall any protest from Boaz. “Fortunately, I threw them in an urn so that nothing else could catch on fire. The house is fine. Amaris is upset, but other than that, she’s fine too. I know you’d want to know that.”

“Put them in an urn,” Boaz repeated dully. “And let them burn.”

“There wasn’t any water nearby.”

“You could have dropped them on the floor and stomped the flames out!”

“I understand that now,” Maglorius said. “As I mentioned, in the moment, I wasn’t thinking clearly. To tell you the truth, I made a choice to let them burn. I know the contracts were upsetting to Amaris and . . .”

“The contracts are gone,” Boaz said. Believing, yet not comprehending. “You burned them.”

“If it helps,” Maglorius said, “I’ll apologize again.” He looked at the five armed men behind Boaz. “It’s embarrassing. I’m much better at fighting than dealing with scrolls.”

He received several nods of sympathy from the men. As if they were comrades in the same trade.

“It shouldn’t inconvenience you too much, should it?” Maglorius asked Boaz. “It’s not too far back to the archives. Right? Amaris and I will wait for you, of course. It’s the least we could do.”

“You are an idiot,” Boaz said. “If the keepers of the records made duplicate contracts of everything, there wouldn’t be any room left in there.”

“Oh.”

“Don’t think this means the contracts are void,” Boaz said, starting to recover. It wasn’t possible, was it, that this man had been smart enough to do all of this deliberately? Because if he was that smart, he would have known he would only accomplish a delay at best, for the final result would be the same. “I’ll find the merchants and have them witness new contracts.”

“I knew it would only be an inconvenience for you,” Maglorius said. “I feel much better.”

Was the man trying to hide a smile? Boaz couldn’t decide.

Nor was he given much time to examine Maglorius. The ex-gladiator again moved with alarming quickness behind the door and barred it shut. Which, again, left Boaz staring at the door.

It wasn’t until Boaz was following his armed guards through the arches of the inner courtyard to the outer courtyard that he realized one important detail.

All of the merchants he needed as witnesses kept their shops in the markets of the lower city. The same lower city that had been held by the rebels for six days already, rebels who allowed no access to anyone from the upper city.

There was no sign of the standoff and siege ending soon. Nor any guarantees that the merchants would survive the battles that the city faced in the near or distant future.

In sudden rage, Boaz kicked a nearby clay pot filled with soil and flowers.

And broke his big toe.

The Tenth Hour

“I want to talk about the boy,” came the voice that broke in on Malka’s thoughts as a shadow fell upon her.

She sat on a stool in the street in front of the doorway to her shack, where she’d been waiting for Quintus to return. Instead, the footsteps Malka had recognized belonged to the other, the one who looked out for him. The one who claimed to be an older brother, but was not.

“He’s not here.” Malka tilted her face upward as she spoke.

“I know. That’s why I want to talk.”

“I told you everything I could yesterday. I don’t know where he goes and—”

“Listen to me. Tomorrow, I am going to come to take him away. I want to prepare you for that.”

Malka had been preparing for this almost since the first day Quintus had been placed in her care. Still, it felt like a heavy hand squeezing her heart, like the weight of all her years pushing down on her bones.

“He’s a fine boy,” Malka said. “I will always remember his kindness to me.”

“We will remember your kindness too.”

Malka smiled, but it was merely a tightening of her lips to hide the pain she felt. This one blocking the sun and standing above Malka as she spoke down, this one had always been formal and distant, emphasizing the employer position.

“There is one thing I need of you,” the voice above Malka continued.

Whenever this one spoke, Malka tried to imagine the face that went with the words. From the first day, Malka had known it was a young woman. Malka’s vision was gone, but her sense of hearing and smell were heightened. However the one above her disguised herself to the rest of the world, she was unable to fool Malka.

“You must not say good-bye,” the voice said. “When I come to get him tomorrow, pretend it is like any other day. He can’t know it will be his last day with you.”

The hand clenching Malka’s heart seemed to squeeze harder. As the days with Quintus had become weeks, and the weeks had become months, the presence of the innocent young boy and his questions and his tears and his laughter had added joy to Malka’s life beyond anything she’d expected might ever happen to her again. She’d never had a child of her own.

“Not even good-bye?”

Malka felt air shift around her. Sunlight on her face. The young woman had squatted, Malka guessed.

“Tomorrow Quintus will be able to escape Jerusalem,” the voice said, much nearer. Yes, the woman had squatted. Malka felt the young woman’s hand on her shoulder. Gentle. “But I’m worried he will want to take you with him.”

“I’m blind and I’m old,” Malka whispered. “I’m not fit to travel.”

As Malka spoke, she realized the implications. If the young woman and Quintus took her, she would be too much of a burden. She would be endangering the boy’s freedom. Yet to set him free, she must choose loneliness, made that much more poignant because memories of Quintus would haunt her tiny, impoverished home.

“If there was any other way . . .” The voice trailed off. “So you understand the importance of pretending tomorrow is no different than any other day with Quintus?”

“Yes. Of course.” Malka heard the dullness in her own voice.

“You will be rewarded for this,” the voice said. “I will make sure that money is sent back to you.”

Money would not replace laughter, not in an old woman’s miserable shack.

“He is going to a better place?” Malka asked. Then immediately thought how stupid that must have sounded. Any place would be better for the boy than this squalor in the lower city.

“Yes,” the voice said. “He is going home.”

Malka nodded. Quintus had never spoken about his home, and Malka could only imagine what it might be. But if leaving was going to make the little boy happy, then Malka would set aside her own sorrow and rejoice for him.

She would hide her tears until he was gone.

“One last thing,” the voice said. “Don’t tell Quintus I was here this afternoon.”

“Phinehas will lead a meeting of the Nazarenes tonight,” Olithar told Annas the Younger. “A sacramental supper, if I understand it correctly.”

Olithar was a tall, skinny man with a sparse beard. He had his arms crossed and quietly slapped his right hand against his left forearm. It was a nervous habit that Annas detested as much as the sight of Olithar’s straggly beard.

The scrolls that Annas had been studying when Olithar arrived were still open on a table. They were in a chamber in the household of Annas that he had temporarily set up to deal with his business matters. In the stalls at the Court of the Gentiles—controlled by his family for two generations now—it was much more convenient. But the rebel takeover of the Temple had forced him out. The inconvenience was nothing compared to the staggering loss of daily revenue now that Annas could no longer oversee the buying and selling of the animals for sacrifice.

“Does Phinehas suspect you have a spy among them?” This was an important question for Annas to ask. The city was dangerous now. He did not want to risk a trip into the lower city alone if there was any chance the Nazarenes would not be gathered.

“No,” Olithar answered without hesitation. “Nor does the spy suspect I report to you.”

“What does he look like?” Annas asked and then listened as Olithar described the man.

“Tell your spy not to be there tonight,” Annas said. He most definitely did not want this spy telling Olithar later about the meeting. While the spy would eventually hear about it from the other Nazarenes, Annas wanted at least a day or two to pass before Olithar found out. Annas trusted no one, least of all Olithar; Olithar had betrayed Ben-Aryeh to Annas for very little money. Annas well knew that a man unfaithful to one master would just as likely be unfaithful to his next.

“Are you having them arrested?”

“What I intend is my business.” Annas glared at Olithar and made a dismissive motion.

Olithar stared at his feet but, surprisingly, did not leave. “I only ask,” he said, “because of the brother of the Nazarene.”

Annas was curious as to what had motivated Olithar to this feeble defiance. Usually Olithar scurried away at the earliest opportunity. Annas liked his subordinates to be fearful.

“The brother of the Nazarene—James? He doesn’t matter anymore.”

“That’s why I ask,” Olithar said. “You had him stoned to death when you were . . .”

Olithar looked up, guilty, then down again.

“Yes,” Annas said, his voice icy. “When I was high priest.”

How he hated any reminder that he’d lost his position. Olithar was fortunate that he’d helped engineer the downfall of Ben-Aryeh; otherwise Annas would be in full rage.

“I have a nephew among those Nazarenes tonight,” Olithar said. “If you’re going to have them killed too, I would like your permission to warn him away.”

“A nephew? You haven’t told me this before.”

“I . . . I . . . just found out,” Olithar answered.

In content and presentation, it was an obvious lie, but Annas decided to let it pass. Once he ruled the city, he’d find a way to make sure Olithar could present no future problems.

“Who is your nephew?” Annas demanded. “Give me his name and description.”

Once again, Olithar supplied the information.

“You had better pray he does not take ill or find another reason to be away tonight,” Annas told Olithar. “Because if he is missing from the gathering, I will conclude that you warned him away.”

If Olithar gave warning to his nephew, then that warning would reach all the other Nazarenes.

Olithar spoke with his head down. “If he is executed, it will break my sister’s heart.”

“If he is missing from the meeting,” Annas said, “you will pay whatever punishment he would have faced. Do you understand? Now go.”

Olithar hesitated. “There’s one other thing.”

“Is it something more you’ve kept from me about the Nazarenes?” Annas could feel his rage building.

“No,” Olithar said quickly. “Ananias has called for another council of the Great Sanhedrin. He wishes to get agreement to allow peasants into the city for the wood-burning festival. I’ve been requested to see if you will attend.”

Annas considered this briefly. More than likely, Ananias was proposing it as an effort to ease hostilities. As such, the Great Sanhedrin would probably agree. Which would put Annas in a position of showing support for Ananias by casting his vote in favor or of alienating his own support in the Great Sanhedrin by voting against Ananias.

“No, I will not,” Annas said, making an easy decision. It would be much better to abstain. The rebels were so entrenched that offering an olive branch would certainly not end the standoff. And if his own efforts worked among the Nazarenes this evening, Annas would be that much closer to removing Ananias from power anyway.

Eleazar was alone on the top of the western temple wall when Gilad approached him.

“There is something important we need to discuss,” Gilad said. “And I knew I would find you here.”

“Am I that predictable?” Eleazar had been leaning on the balustrade. He straightened as he spoke to his friend.

“Hardly. But I know how much you love the city. . . .” Gilad gestured to take in the view. If there was one spot in all of Jerusalem that encompassed its diversity and glory and squalor, this was it.

The wall guarded the top of the plateau that had been leveled by Herod’s workmen for the Temple Mount. It overlooked the lower city nestled in the Tyropoeon Valley directly below. Eleazar and Gilad stood halfway between the northwest and the southwest corners of the mount. To their right, the much-hated Antonia Fortress rose above the wall, giving the Roman garrison a clear view down into the Temple area. To their immediate left, connecting at right angles to the temple wall, was the bridge that straddled the valley, connecting the temple wall to the tower of a city wall on the other side of the valley. At least fifty priests manned the barricaded entrance to the bridge, ensuring that troops from the tower would not attempt an attack on the Temple at one of its few vulnerable points.

Beyond, to the north and west, a hill rose, giving sight to the second wall of the city, and beyond that, higher on the hill and almost at the horizon, was the third wall, encompassing and protecting Bezetha, the new section of Jerusalem.

To the south and west, flanking the same hill, was Zion, the upper city with its collection of palaces, mansions, and private guards. Herod’s palace, an almost impregnable fortress that the hated king had built along the far western wall of the city to protect himself from his own people, dominated the view.

The lower city itself crammed the valley; the roofs of all the tiny houses made it seem like a collection of boxes riddled by a confusing maze. Cutting through it, halfway up toward Zion, was the aqueduct that now served as a line of siege between the upper and lower city.

Gilad joined Eleazar in a pensive moment of gazing across the city.

“‘It is beautiful in its loftiness, the joy of the whole earth,’” Gilad said quietly. “‘Like the utmost heights of Zaphon is Mount Zion, the city of the Great King. God is in her citadels; he has shown himself to be her fortress.’”

Eleazar smiled sadly and recited more of the psalm of David. “‘Walk about Zion, go around her, count her towers, consider well her ramparts, view her citadels, that you may tell of them to the next generation. For this God is our God for ever and ever; he will be our guide even to the end.’”

Eleazar had hoped his time of peace and contemplation would last longer than this, but he knew there was no sense in avoiding whatever Gilad needed to discuss. “Is it good news or bad news?” he asked.

Gilad shook his head. “For me, good. For you?” A pause. “You’ll have to decide.”

“Anything that isn’t clearly good news is not good news.”

“Manahem.”

“He’s decided against joining our battle?”

“Hardly. He and his men are only a few days away.”

Eleazar relaxed somewhat.

“We need control of the gates of the city,” Gilad said. “You’ve known this all along.”

“No,” Eleazar said. “What I’ve argued is that the mere knowledge that Manahem is outside the city should be enough to encourage all the people to join with us.”

“That remains to be seen. Besides, I have a better idea on how to win the hearts of the people.”