“No?” he barked. “Well, when we asked him to give us some sign of his authority, he said, ‘Destroy this temple and in three days I shall raise it up again.’”
“What?” Marcus blurted. “He actually said that?”
“Really?” Miriam said, as shocked as Marcus.
“Yes. We’ve been building this complex for forty-six years, several years even before I was born.” He shook his head, thoroughly disgusted. “And he says he can rebuild it in three days? He’s mad, I tell you.”
“Then why didn’t you arrest him?” Marcus asked quietly.
There was silence. Finally, Miriam’s father sighed. “A lot of his sympathizers were in the crowd. The Council feared that we might start a riot if we tried to arrest him. And besides, we couldn’t get any witnesses to testify against him. They said he hadn’t stolen any of the money.”
Miriam stirred, but Marcus cut her off. “He did not. Not while I was watching.”
Her father muttered something that Miriam missed, his brows deeply furrowed.
“What did you say, Father?” Miriam asked.
He glanced at Marcus before he looked directly at her. “I said, this is a man we are going to have to watch very carefully.”
III
Mordechai saw Marcus out to the gate of his courtyard, where Sextus Rubrius and a squad of four legionnaires were waiting for him. As the Romans marched away, he motioned to the servant who waited at the main entrance to the house. The man trotted over.
“Tell Miriam that I have some business with Caiaphas and not to wait up for me.”
“Yes, Excellency.”
Mordechai waited until the servant had gone back inside; then he went to a pot that was hid behind an olive tree and reached inside. He drew out a long hooded robe made from dark brown material. Slipping off his own outer robe, he put the other on, becoming all but invisible. Looking around to be sure he was alone, he slipped through the gate out into the street. He didn’t turn to the left, however, which would have taken him to the house of Caiaphas. Instead, he turned right, pulling the hood up over his head. Then he hurried along, staying close to the buildings.
At the next street, he turned right, then right again. Five minutes later he was at Zion’s Gate, which led through the south wall of the city. He stopped and waited a few moments, watching, but the hour was getting late and only one man with a donkey loaded with firewood came through. Satisfied, he walked swiftly through the gate and out into the night.
Circling around the south side of Mount Zion was the Valley of Hinnom. As he began to feel the path drop sharply, Mordechai could see the dull glow of smouldering fires down below him. At the same moment he smelled the foul stench of burning garbage.
The Valley of Hinnom, or Ge Hinnom in Hebrew, gave its name to Gehenna, the world of departed spirits or the world of the damned souls. Though theologically this was a concept that Mordechai and the other Sadducees rejected, he had to admit that if there were some kind of hell after this life, the image of Gehenna was a vivid one. The Valley of Hinnom was Jerusalem’s garbage dump. From time to time someone would bring burning coals or hot ashes along with their garbage, and the refuse piles would catch fire. Except in the rainy season, the fires would burn for weeks, even months, fouling the air and providing the perfect symbol for the fires of hell that would torment the souls of the wicked forever and ever.
He smiled wryly. It was his own private little joke that this should be the meeting place tonight. It was the perfect irony.
He rounded a bend in the path and passed a large outcropping of rock. Now he could feel other eyes upon him. That was good. He expected nothing less. At the far end of the rock, he stopped, pulling back his hood. Then he settled down to wait.
He had figured it would take about half an hour before his “guest” would know for sure that he came alone and this wasn’t a trap. In reality, it was a full three-quarters of an hour. Mordechai was half-pleased—none of them could afford sloppiness at this point—and half-irritated, for he prided himself on being punctual. But finally he heard the soft crunch of footsteps on the path, and then saw a dark shape standing about twenty feet away from him.
“Erev tov. Good evening,” Mordechai said easily.
There was a barely perceptible nod. “I have three bowmen with arrows trained on your heart. If you plan to betray me, then also prepare to say the Sh’ma, for you shall never leave this place alive.”
“If I planned to betray you, you would never have made it this far safely.”
The figure stepped forward, stopping now just five paces away. “I’m listening.”
Mordechai began to speak in a low voice. He spoke for almost five minutes, not pausing for questions or comments. When he finished there was a long silence. He smiled in the darkness. It was always so satisfying to sense when the bait was being taken.
“And what am I supposed to do while the Romans take the Zealots?”
“I am surprised that the fox would ask the weasel how to suck eggs.”
There was a muffled laugh in the darkness.
Mordechai reached inside his robe and withdrew a leather pouch. He bounced it softly in the darkness, making the gold coins clink audibly. “Half now, half when the job is completed.”
“All now,” came the quick retort. “We would both be fools to meet again. Ever.”
“Agreed.” Mordechai pulled another bag from his cloak. He had assumed as much, but it was always worth a try to start with less. He didn’t worry much about this man keeping his bargain. There was the heavy smell of booty in this deal, enough to keep this man to his bargain. When the fox realized that he was wrong, it would be far too late.
“How many others know of this?”
“Two on the Council besides myself, the governor, and a Roman tribune.”
“Too many. It doesn’t take a thousand tongues to lose a battle.”
“Only five in all know of the plan. Only one knows your name. Myself.”
“Not even Pilate?”
“No. He asked, but I refused. I have as much to lose in all of this as you do.”
“You have only your reputation at risk here. You may think that is as valuable as my life, but it is not. Swear by the temple that no one but you knows about me.”
Mordechai wanted to laugh. As if that romantic notion of what made an oath binding would make a difference. “I swear by the temple. I swear by my head. No one but me will know who you are. I suggest you be just as careful on your side of things. The tongues that lose battles can be on both sides of the line.”
Again silence. Finally. “When?”
“At least a month, maybe longer. This is going to take some time to arrange so that all appears perfectly natural.”
“Good. That’s how it must be. By the way, no decoy.”
“What?”
“These Zealots are fanatics, but they are not idiots. Either that Roman column is completely legitimate or they will smell a trap.”
“I don’t know what the governor will say to that. Some legionnaires might get killed.”
There was a snort in the darkness. “You think Pilate cares about that? Just tell him if he wants to end his problem in the Galilee, it has to be the real thing.”
“You make it difficult. Do you think I can just tell the Romans what to do?”
“Yes, if the Romans want what you have badly enough.” There was a momentary silence, then a soft hoot in the darkness. “You think I worry too much, don’t you?”
“The idea crossed my mind.”
“Do you know the story of the fox and the lion?”
“No.”
“This is told by the great Roman poet Horace. The lion was sick and asked the fox to come and administer to his needs. When the fox arrived, he did not draw close but stayed his distance. ‘But why are you so frightened?’ the lion asked. ‘Because,’ said the fox, ‘on my way to see you, I saw many footprints leading this way and none coming back.’”
Mordechai laughed i
n spite of himself. “So, who is the fox here, and who is the lion?”
The man gave an answering laugh; then, suddenly, he moved across the space between them. His hands reached out and snatched the two purses from Mordechai’s hand. “Then it’s done.”
He leaned closer, peering at Mordechai in the darkness. There was a quick intake of breath. “You?”
Mordechai nodded. “Yes. Surprised?”
“But why? Of all men, why would you choose me?”
“Because,” Mordechai said with only the barest trace of sarcasm, “I needed a man I could trust.”
Moshe Ya’abin threw back his head and roared. Then as silently as he had come, he disappeared again into the night. “Give us twenty minutes before you leave,” he called back. “And give my best regards to your beautiful daughter for me.” There was a cackling laugh.
“I will see you in Gehenna first, my unsavory friend,” Mordechai muttered. “Enjoy your gold while you can.”
IV
4 April, a.d. 30
“He must be stopped!” Azariah the Pharisee was on his feet, punching the air with his fists. “We cannot have any more of this.”
Miriam’s father blew out his breath in disgust. He sat beside the chair of Caiaphas, the high priest, four seats away from where Azariah was pontificating. “You have control of more of the temple police than anyone else on the Council,” he snapped. “Wasn’t it your men who had him at spear point yesterday, then turned tail and ran away like two puppies facing a lion?”
He turned to Caiaphas and under his breath added, “The old hypocrite.”
Miriam, who sat in a small vestibule behind her father at the rear of the apse, was making a private record of the proceedings so her father could review it later. She heard the comment clearly. She wanted to smile. It was always interesting to watch the sparks that flew between the Pharisees and the Sadducees during the meetings of the Great Sanhedrin in Jerusalem.
“Mordechai knows as well as the rest of the Council what happened yesterday,” Azariah shot back. “The people were in an uproar. They were pleased with what this man was doing. And that was the problem.”
“And why shouldn’t the people be pleased?” That came from Annas, father-in-law to Caiaphas. “We lost about four or five thousand shekels yesterday, thanks to this Jesus. It was as though the people had stumbled and fallen down a gold mine.”
“Well, whatever the reason,” Azariah muttered, “the guards could have started a riot if they had pressed ahead with the arrest.”
“And so now, when this Jesus has doubled the size of his following,” Caiaphas said sourly, “now you want us to fix what your people could not do yesterday.”
“The temple police do not represent the Pharisees alone,” a voice said quietly. “They represent all of the Council.”
Miriam leaned forward to see who was speaking. It was Nicodemus. Miriam had always liked and respected this member of the Council. Like her father, he was a man of great means, but he was a Pharisee and one of the more moderate voices among the rulers. Unlike his fellow colleague, Azariah, Nicodemus did not speak up very often, but Miriam had noted that when he did his was a respected voice, even by her father.
“Whether the two guards acted wisely or in fear,” he went on, “is not worthy of our debate. The question before the Council is, what shall we do now about this Jesus of Nazareth?”
“That is not a question,” Azariah snorted. “He must be stopped.”
Now Zarak, another Sadducee and one of the more powerful voices on the Sanhedrin, came in. “And how do we do that? It is the time of the feast here in Jerusalem. That is always a dangerous time. The multitudes can easily be aroused and break out in riot.”
“Why are we saying he must be stopped?” Nicodemus answered. “We have teachers and rabbis come onto the Temple Mount all the time and try to get people to listen to them. We don’t try to stop them.”
Caiaphas leaned forward, peering at Nicodemus coldly. “None of them have braided themselves a whip and taken it upon themselves to drive out the moneychangers without authorization.”
“None of them claim to be miracle workers, either,” Azariah cried out.
“I have inquired about that,” Nicodemus replied. “Jesus himself does not claim to be a miracle worker, but others are saying that with their own eyes they have seen him do remarkable things—heal the sick, give sight to the blind, and so on.”
Azariah was livid. Here was one of his own party directly opposing him on the Council. “People are starting to say that this Jesus is the Messiah. Do you know what that means? Is that what you want?”
That sent a ripple of shock through the assembly. Miriam sat straight up in her chair, listening intently now. The Messiah? Here was a whole new development.
Nicodemus seemed to have been caught completely by surprise by that as well. “Who is saying that?” he said.
“The people! The mobs. That wild man, John the Baptist.”
Nicodemus sat down slowly. He turned to the man seated next to him. “John said that?” he said, looking almost bewildered.
One man near the end of the long table jumped to his feet. He was newly appointed to the Sanhedrin, and Miriam didn’t know his name yet. He was a scribe and therefore likely aligned with the Pharisees. “Our esteemed chairman notes that the overturning of the tables of the moneychangers was not authorized,” he said tartly, “but perhaps it was necessary. Allowing those people into the temple itself is an outrage.”
That did it. The whole Council erupted. Men were on their feet shaking their fists, yelling and shouting and bellowing. Miriam sat back and set her pen down. There was nothing to record out of this melee, but she was secretly pleased that someone had finally said it. It was the Sadducean party that controlled the priesthood and therefore all of the temple revenues. Therefore it was the Sadducees who had lost most heavily when the Galilean had driven the merchants out of the temple courtyards. Several on the Council clearly objected to that blatant merchandising within the temple precincts, whether or not they agreed with the actions of the teacher from Nazareth.
Then she turned and looked at Nicodemus. He was watching the pandemonium around him but seemed oblivious to it. His eyes were troubled, his face filled with questions. He wrote something quickly on a small piece of parchment and handed it to a man two seats down from him. Curious, Miriam watched to see what his reaction might be. There was too much noise to hear anything now, but she kept her eyes fixed on the second man. He read the note quickly, then looked at Nicodemus and nodded firmly. She couldn’t get it all, but she clearly saw his lips form the words John the Baptist.
V
5 April, a.d. 30
Miriam slipped through the wall of partition, past one of the signs that warned all Gentiles to go no farther, and climbed up the five stairs to the top of the first platform. That put her about three feet higher than the rest of the Court of the Gentiles. She went up on tiptoes, searching the crowded square for any signs of an assembly. Seeing nothing, she slowly came back down the stairs and rejoined Livia. She shook her head.
“It’s the last day of unleavened bread,” Livia said. “Perhaps he won’t come to the Temple Mount today. Many people are staying home getting ready for Passover tomorrow.”
It was a gentle rebuke, and Miriam understood it for what it was. They had guests coming for Passover. Even though Miriam’s mother had died some years before, her younger sister still came from Joppa with her husband and four children and stayed with them at Passover each year. One was a cousin Miriam’s age. They would be arriving sometime this afternoon. “We’ll leave shortly, Livia. There will be time to get everything in readiness.”
“Why are you so set on finding this man?” her servant asked. “Is this an assignment from the Council?”
Miriam was aghast. “No, Livia! I have no official role with the Council. And if my father knew I was trying to find Jesus and listen to him, he would be furious. No. No one on the Council knows anything
about this.”
To her surprise, Livia seemed relieved.
“Is that what you thought?” Miriam asked. “That I was doing this for the Council?”
Livia looked away. “Well, you came home yesterday, and all you could talk about was how angry the Council was about Jesus. Then this morning, the moment your father leaves, you come up here and start looking for this Jesus.”
“No, Livia! After what happened the other day with the moneychangers, I want to hear this man for myself. They say he has been working miracles. Some even think he might be the Messiah.”
Livia merely nodded. Not being Jewish, that didn’t electrify her like it had Miriam. “I’m glad, Miriam,” she said. “I would like to hear him too.”
“Let’s go around to the north side of the temple. We can see the rest of the courtyard from there.”
They stayed near the wall of partition, making their way slowly through the throngs. Suddenly Miriam stopped. She went up on her toes again. “There’s Nicodemus.”
“Who?”
“Nicodemus. He’s the one I told you about, who spoke up in defense of Jesus.” She grabbed Livia’s hand. “Come on.”
As they drew close, Miriam hesitated. Then seeing that the member of the Council seemed to be alone, she stepped forward. “Excuse me. Nicodemus?”
He turned; then his eyes widened in surprise. “Miriam?”
“Good morning.”
He looked around quickly, acknowledging Livia with his eyes but obviously looking for someone else.
“May I speak with you a moment?”
He nodded, clearly wary. “Concerning what?”
“Jesus of Nazareth.”
He visibly started, and again his eyes darted past her.
“My father knows nothing of this,” she said quickly. “He would be angry if he knew I was asking.”
He took her by the arm and moved over to the wall of partition where there was an open space with no one close by. Livia followed behind. “Why are you asking?” he asked suspiciously.
She too looked around to make sure no one was watching or listening. “Because,” she said quietly, “Livia and I were there when Jesus drove the moneychangers out.”