Jesus Christ: A Fictional History. Chapter 5.
The preparations for the Passover continued. Men grumbled their hatred of Rome and their bitterness that the holiest of festivals would be so desecrated. Boys issued unrealistic threats against the Romans, and women scolded. Jesus and James went with Lazarus and his lamb into the temple, Judas and Simon having disappeared.
The inspectors charged a fee of two shekels, and they found a discoloration the size of a small coin on the lamb’s belly. Lazarus couldn’t see it.
“Where?” he said. “That’s just the light.”
“It’s a dark spot, very clearly a blemish,” said the inspector.
“There isn’t. Move the lamp closer.”
“I don’t need to move the lamp closer to know a blemish when I see one. Move along.”
“How much?” Lazarus said.
“Pardon?”
“How much do you want to pass it? How big a bribe?”
The man drew back his chin in indignation. Jesus nudged Lazarus, nodded with his head. “Look.”
James had knelt beside the lamb and was stroking its head. “I think maybe it’s just as well,” Jesus said.
Lazarus made a face.
“It would be hard on the boy to watch you kill it. I’ll pay for the Passover lamb.”
“No need,” Lazarus said. “I’ve brought money.”
Though the plumpest of lambs would have brought only two shekels outside the temple, inside a lamb of comparable quality cost twenty. Of course, the lambs on sale at the Bazaars of Annas (owned by the high priest’s family) had already passed inspection. “It’s an outrage; that’s what it is,” Lazarus said, as he left with his purchase, the ammonia-like fumes of the animal dung still fresh in his nostrils. “And what am I going to do with that one?”
“Keep it, for now. James will carry it home for you.”
There was an edge to Jesus’ voice, despite his mild words. Lazarus looked more closely at his face. “You’re as angry about all this as I am,” he said.
“Yes. The temple is being systematically defiled. The day is coming when it will be destroyed. Not one stone will be left standing upon another.”
Lazarus drew back, suddenly uncomfortable. Jesus had a habit of making unexpected pronouncements only loosely related to the subject under discussion. It was as if a door opened at the back of his mind just long enough to give him a glimpse of something that no man could see.
“When?” Lazarus said.
“Pardon?”
“When will the temple be destroyed?”
Jesus smiled sadly at him. “I don’t know,” he said. “Not my lifetime or yours, I think.” He indicated James. “Perhaps in his.”
It was as Lazarus suspected: Jesus knew no more than he had said. It was disconcerting, even eerie, and Lazarus had never gotten used to it.
They left the court of the Gentiles and all its commerce, passing through the elegant stone partition through which none but a Jew could pass. Pillars at equal distance were inscribed in both Greek and Roman letters: No foreigner may enter the Sanctuary on pain of death. Fourteen steps led up to the Beautiful Gate, more than ten times the height of a man and plated with Corinthian brass. This gate opened into the court of the women. The temple proper was still higher up and further in.
The Nicanor Gate, named after a wealthy Jewish donor from Alexandria, was five steps above the court of the women. Jesus and James and Lazarus passed through it into the court of Israel, forbidden to women. Black smoke poured off the altar just beyond a low wall. To their right, lambs bawled in panic as they were pinned to the floor by means of an iron ring. The stones about them were stained dark with the blood of a thousand sacrifices, of a thousand thousand. Lazarus joined the line, the sacrificial lamb caught up in the crook of his arm. Jesus and James stayed back, James with Lazarus’s lamb.
A horn was blown, and Lazarus went with a group of twenty and, kneeling, fastened his lamb in the iron ring so that its body pointed north and south, its head toward the holy house itself, which was beyond the altar. He drew a bronze knife from his belt.
Jesus, seeing James’s eyes fixed on Lazarus and his knife, said, “Look up into the temple. Do you know why the first gate has no doors?”
James looked up through the massive gate, plated with gold, into the vestibule of the sanctuary. He was the son of Alpheus, the keeper of a synagogue. “As a symbol of the universal visibility of heaven,” he said, “and of the nature of the Lord God, who can be neither shut in nor closed out.”
Another gate, smaller, was visible within it. It too was plated with gold, with gold vines above it and clusters of grapes as tall as a man. Within that gate was visible the seven branched candlestick with its candles continually alight, the table of shew bread with its twelve loaves, and the altar of incense with thirteen kinds of sweet-smelling spices. Beyond all of that, invisible in the gloom, was the gate into the Holy of Holies, its doors closed and covered by a great Babylonian curtain, embroidered with blue and flaxen and scarlet and purple, the design suggestive of the very image of the universe. Beyond that veil, entirely empty and totally dark, was the dwelling place of God.
James turned back just as Lazarus was holding up his lamb so that the blood ran out into the silver vessel held by a priest. When the vessel was full, the priest threw the blood onto the altar, and a cloud of smoke rose up. The hissing of the blood on the altar was barely audible over the chanting of the Levites, “Praise the Lord! Praise him, O servants of the Lord, praise his holy name,” over the creaking of the ropes drawing up buckets of water from the great cistern far below, over the sloshing of the water on the stone floor to wash away the blood. Mingled with all the sounds was the endless bleating of the terrified lambs.
“Do you remember the words of the prophet Hosea?” Jesus said.
James looked up. “What words?”
“I desire goodness and not sacrifice; the knowledge of God more than burnt offerings.”
James frowned.
“The old things are passing away. God will establish a new covenant with his people.”
The hair lifted at the nape of James’s neck. Jesus, discerning the effect of his words, laughed affectionately and slapped James’s back.
Simon and Judas reappeared at the home of Lazarus in time to help prepare the lamb for the feast. They built a fire in a pit lined with stones, impaled the lamb on a spit, and stood turning it over an open fire. Inside, Lazarus’s sister Martha was scouring the metal dishes they would use, dipping them first into boiling water and then into cold. When she was done, she sent her sister out to get a stone from the fire; all the wooden dishes had to be rubbed with a red-hot stone. When Mary didn’t come back immediately, she sent James after her.
“Doesn’t she realize all there is to be done?” she scolded. “I declare, sometimes I can’t imagine what’s going on inside the head of that sister of mine.”
James found her standing by the fire, across from Jesus, watching the light of the fire playing over his features in the deepening twilight as he bantered with Lazarus. Though Lazarus and she were brother and sister, they were separated in age by several decades. Mary had always been the baby of the family. Though now in her twenties, in many ways she still was.
“Martha needs that hot stone from the fire,” James said at Mary’s elbow, and she started, almost surprised to see that she still held the clay vessel in her hands. Smiling sheepishly, she tugged at her brother’s robe.
“A hot stone with which to rub the wooden bowls,” she said.
As Lazarus bent over the fire to retrieve it, James said, “It’s almost a shame we can’t linger over this meal and enjoy it.” The smell of the meat was inviting, and the juice of the mutton dripped, sizzling, into the fire.
Lazarus eyed him. “We eat in remembrance of what the Lord has done for his people Israel,” he said sternly.
James looked anxiously at Jesus. Jesus winked at him, and James face relaxed into a relieved smile. “We’ll get to the history of the occasion at the proper time,” Jesus said. “James, as the youngest present, will ask the prescribed questions.”
And he did. When time came for the celebration, they stood about the table wearing their cloaks and sandals, Jesus and Lazarus holding their staves in hand. They ate ready for travel, as the Israelites had done at the first Passover when God freed them from the Egyptians. Jesus raised his cup of wine and said a prayer. All dipped their hands into a bowl of water for ritual cleansing, and Jesus presented to each a piece of raw celery, dipped in a bitter mixture of crushed fruits and wine.
Jesus nodded to James, and he asked the first of the prescribed questions: “Teacher, why does this night differ from all other nights?”
And Jesus told the story of Israel’s captivity in Egypt, of the tenth plague inflicted on the Egyptians, the deaths of their firstborn, and the sparing of Israel’s when God’s angel “passed over” their households.
“On all other nights,” James said. “We eat either leavened or unleavened bread; why on this night only unleavened bread?”
When the ritual was concluded, when all was eaten, each carried his own scraps out to the fire and burned them, all in accordance with Moses’ command.
“Some day, son,” Lazarus told James. “God will deliver us from these accursed Romans just as he delivered us from the Egyptians.”
Far to the east, on the other side of the Jordan River, was another village known as Bethany. The town was largely deserted at this time of year; nearly everyone who could travel had gone to Jerusa¬lem for the festival. The Baptizer, John, had remained, according to Herod’s reports, and Herod elected to take advantage of the relative quiet to arrest him. That night Herod’s soldiers entered Bethany guided by the light of a single sputtering torch.
There were only five of them, their dark faces bearded and their helmets bearing the insignia of Herod, tetrarch of Galilee and of Perea. It was the beginning of the fourth watch, and no one was awake to mark their progress down the wide, dirt-packed lane.
The soldiers, despite their weapons and armor, made little sound beyond the occasional creak of leather until they reached the small, mud-brick house where John the Baptizer reportedly spent the night.
The officer in command of the group held up a hand, and they all stopped.
“Remember,” the officer said in a whisper. “Three people, an old man and his wife in addition to the Baptizer. None must have the opportunity to sound the alarm.” He tapped shoulders and pointed, sending one to the back of the house, one to the small window at the side of the house, a third to the outer stairs that led to the roof. He and the remaining soldier approached the front door, the officer counting softly. On ten, he pushed through the door, which creaked softly on leather hinges as it opened and, when they had passed through, swung gently back into place.
On the last day of the Passover, after sundown when it was again permissible to work and to travel, Jesus and his disciples sat on the roof of Lazarus’s house, enjoying the pale light of the half moon and the gradual sharpening of the faded stars.
“Pilate returns to Caesarea today,” Judas said. “He has persisted in displaying his graven images within the city walls.”
He had hoped to provoke a response from Jesus, but Jesus continued to look out into the darkness, almost as if he were expecting someone, though it was too dark to see his face distinctly. James stood beside him, following his gaze, glancing at him occasionally as if trying to attune himself to Jesus’ mood.
“Annas has organized a response,” Judas said. “When Pilate goes tomorrow, the high priests’ households will follow, and with them hundreds of Jews.”
“Many hundreds,” said Simon, standing as a taller shadow beside Judas. “Thousands. The people are outraged as they have not been since the time of Antiochus Epiphan¬es.” Antiochus Epiphanes had been the Syrian ruler who tried to stamp out the Jewish faith and to impose Greek ways. The result had been a full-scale revolt and the (brief) liberation of Israel.
“I think we should go with them,” Judas said. “Annas and his ilk are interested primarily in appeasement. The people are looking for a leader.”
It was as if Jesus hadn’t heard.
“A lantern,” James said, pointing.
Simon and Judas, instantly alert, stepped to the edge of the roof to peer into the darkness, but only the lantern itself was visible, bobbing and swaying as it came toward them.
“A ghost might carry it, for all I can see,” Judas muttered, and his hand strayed to the hilt of the sword beneath his cloak.
Jesus, moving beside him, laid a hand on his arm. “Peace, my friend. There is no need to fear.”
Judas turned his head to meet Jesus’ gaze. “Your eyes are sharper than mine, Rabbi.”
“Indeed,” Jesus said peaceably. “Indeed.”
When the light of the lantern had come to the very edge of the yard, and the point of a beard was just visible beneath the hood of a cloak, Judas called, “Who is it? Who comes to us under cover of night?”
The head came up, and the lantern, but little more was visible of their visitor than before.
“I seek Jesus of Nazareth,” said a voice. “Is he here?”
“He is,” called Jesus.
Judas said, “Who seeks him?”
“My name is Nicodemus. I seek an audience with Jesus of Nazareth.”
“Audience granted,” Jesus called. “Wait there for me; I’ll come down.”
“Rabbi,” Judas began, concern in his voice.
“Peace, Judas.” Jesus went to the corner of the roof and began descending the stairs.
“I’m not sure I like this,” Judas said to Simon. “It’s an uneasy time. He should be careful.”
“Did you note the richness of our visitor’s robe? You don’t suppose this might be the Nicodemus?”
“The member of the Sanhedrin?” Judas’s eyes strained at the darkness, where, below them, Jesus stood close to his visitor. Judas could hear the rumble of their voices, but not the words that were said. “I wonder,” he murmured.
The lantern moved to and fro across the field in front of the house as Jesus and Nicodemus walked together.
“What do you suppose it’s all about?” Judas said several times.
James, finally, impatient with the fruitless speculation, said to Judas, “Why does Simon call you Iscariot?”
Judas looked at him sharply.
“I never . . .,” Simon began, but he trailed off as awareness dawned in his shadowed eyes. “Sicarius,” he said.
“What does it mean?”
“A Roman soldier called him that once. It means daggerman.”
“Because he carries a sword?”
“No, no. Haven’t you ever heard of the sicarii? Of Jesus Barab¬bas, who patrols the road between Jerusalem and Jericho? He is the most famous of them. They’re outlaws who claim they must steal even from their own countrymen in order to support their attacks on the Romans.”
“Zealots,” James said.
“Not quite. Not all Zealots are outlaws.”
“Are you outlaws?” He looked from one to the other of them.
“No,” Judas expostulated. “No! It is a lie with which the Roman dogs attempt to brand all Jewish patriots.”
“Look, he’s coming.” Simon gestured. A dark figure was striding toward them across the yard, the lantern already small in the distance.
Judas and Simon and James crowded together at the top of the staircase. “Well?” Judas said, as Jesus mounted the stairs. “Well?”
“John’s been arrested.”
“The Baptizer?”
Jesus nodded. “It’s time for us to leave Jerusalem.”
“To follow Pilate to Caesarea?”
“No.”
“Perhaps it’s as well,” said Simon. “It’s a dangerous time.”
Judas exhaled sharply. “Yes.” He walked to the edge of the roof, looking out. The lantern of Nicodemus was no longer visible in the darkness. “We knew it was coming, John’s arrest.”
“His work is finished,” Jesus said.
“It’s too bad. He could have been useful.”
“He was useful.” Jesus’ tone was sharp.
“I meant —”
“I know what you meant.”
“What were the two of you talking about for so long, you and Nicodemus?” James said, anxious to avoid an argument. “Did you spend the whole time talking about John?”
Jesus turned to him and smiled. “No. Not the whole time. We spent most of the time discussing childbirth.”
His disciples, puzzled, exchanged glances.
“Some day I’ll tell you about it,” Jesus said.
“Why did he come to you at night?” Judas said. “Does he too fear arrest?”
“No. Nicodemus is a theologian; such men think more clearly at night.”
“The night air?” James asked.
“Or the absence of the crowds, particularly the absence of his peers.”
“The crowds are enough to keep any man from thinking,” Simon said, thinking of the days he had spent sitting among them on the hard stone in Solomon’s Portico, the air close because of the press of people and his joints growing stiff.
Jesus laughed. “Yes, it’s hard to keep your head in the midst of a crowd.”