Second Touch (6 page)

Peniel? Did you know the Temple Guards are looking for you?” Like an arrow leaving the bowstring, Peniel flew down the street. “Stop! Here, stop you!” he heard Eglon yelling behind him. The clatter of Eglon’s feet sprinting after him was joined by another and then another as more sentries took up the chase. Beside the fruit seller’s Peniel turned left; beside the tanner’s, right. Run! “Catch that boy! Grab him!” Think, Peniel urged himself. Think! Can’t head toward Damascus Gate. Too many guards there. Which are the dead-end lanes? Mustn’t turn up one of those. Double back? Run, dodge pedestrians! Eglon, puffing, no longer had voice to shout to passersby. Peniel’s legs started to ache, his chest to burn. Years as a blind beggar had not prepared him to race through Jerusalem. Deepening blue sky gave way to purple. Peniel closed his eyes and saw the route ahead clearer than before. The next fork led to a blind alley, but Peniel took it anyway. The wall across the end had a drainage ditch running ¬underneath it. Peniel threw himself headlong into the channel, wriggled through, popped out the other side. A yell of triumph turned to a yelp of dismay from the pursuers. Eglon shouted at his companions to boost him up, boost him up! The officer cursed when he landed on Peniel’s side of the wall. Eglon now ran with a limp. Peniel pulled ahead. Darkness closed in around the city, and into it, Peniel disappeared. The sounds of the chase faded in the distance.

Eglon returned to the Hasmonean Palace, which was the Jerusalem home of his master, Tetrarch Antipas. There he found Antipas at supper with the high priest. “Well?” Antipas demanded. “Have you taken care of the problem?” “The boy. Peniel,” Eglon said, “is still at large.” Antipas grimaced, so Eglon added hurriedly, “But I’ve seen him now and can recognize him.” Eglon had no intention of admitting that Peniel had been in his grasp. “He had help with his flight,” the officer lied. “Surprised you came back simply to admit another failure,” Antipas remarked coldly, unhappy that Caiaphas was present to hear more of his retainer’s ineptitude. “Go away, Eglon,” Antipas said, waving a jeweled wine goblet. “If your news is all bad, there’s no reason to bore our guest with it.” “Your pardon, lord,” Eglon corrected, “but the rest of the news is of concern to the cohen hagadol and why I returned at once: Chief Shepherd Zadok is aiding the fugitive.” Caiaphas, whose eyes were bleary from too much drink, pushed himself up from the couch on which he reclined. “Zadok? How’d you know?” “My sources,” Eglon hedged. “Peniel ben Yahtzar is disguised as a shepherd. Put himself ¬under Zadok’s care.”

“This morning you reminded me that Zadok was your problem,” Antipas drawled to the high priest. “Well, Caiaphas? Are you going to do something about him, or ¬only call another session of the council at which Zadok can spout more fables about Yeshua of Nazareth?” Caiaphas was known for watching the direction of the winds of popular opinion before making any decision, but this time he was trapped. By his own decree, speaking well of Yeshua was grounds for excommunication. It was bad enough when the am ha aretz supported the carpenter, but a high religious official helping the fable grow larger by protecting the miraculously healed beggar? Enough! Though both men were puppet rulers propped up by Rome, Caiaphas framed his next words as a formal request, one potentate to another: “By your leave, Lord Antipas,” he requested portentously, “let Eglon go to Beth-lehem with a company of my Temple Guards. On my order Zadok is removed from his post. If the boy is there, Eglon will arrest him, and two problems will be solved at once.”

Even by flickering torchlight, Pilate had visibly aged, Marcus thought. The governor’s eyes appeared hollow, as if he was not sleeping well. His graying hair showed more silver. It was thinner too. Marcus appeared before him in dress uniform, polished and shining. “Welcome, Centurion,” Pilate said, inviting Marcus into his private chambers at Herod the Great’s Jerusalem palace. “Wine for the centurion.” He snapped his fingers. An uneasy silence passed while goblets were filled and the servants dismissed. “¬I’m glad . . . ,” Pilate began awkwardly. Then, more stiffly formal, “Congratulations, First Javelin of Judea.” “Thank you, my lord,” Marcus acknowledged. “A threat to the Empire has been removed,” Pilate said, alluding to the removal of Sejanus and the Praetorian conspiracy. “A shadow over the sun, gone.” What else could a Sejanus appointee do but act shocked, appear grateful, and hope for the best? “The emperor is well?” Marcus inquired. “Well!” Pilate agreed. “Well and reasserting his control over the Imperial provinces.” Some of the conquered territories were administered by the Senate of Rome, but others, like Judea, were expressly reserved for the emperor himself. Till lately that distinction had meant the rule of Sejanus, but no longer. Small wonder Pilate was anxious. “Affairs of state call me,” the governor said. “I must return to Caesarea.” After the season of ¬Pass¬over and certainly by Pentecost the weather was settled enough for safe sea voyaging. Official visitors from Rome could be expected at any time. Pilate needed to get the provincial capital in proper order to receive them. He would try to anticipate any challenges to his performance record he might face. And, of course, he would write glowing

letters to the emperor, thanking the gods for Tiberius’ deliverance from danger. “Your job,” Pilate said, “is to keep order, ¬under Tribune Felix as your commander. First duty: King Aretas of Nabatea is acting uppity because of our . . . troubles here. Call on him within the week. Remind him not to interfere with the power of Rome. Make some examples: Round up rebels, put down insurrection, but keep the peace! No more riots!” Then, as if taking Marcus into his confidence, Pilate said, “These Jews! Cantankerous lot! Impossible to please them! Argue about anything and ¬everything and then threaten to complain to Rome!” On two previous occasions Pilate had made bad decisions that led to unrest in Judea. Unleashing Vara’s malicious brutality had been the third mistake. He could not afford any more. “I have some questions, my lord,” Marcus said. Pilate looked peevish. He waved a hand for Marcus to wait. “Don’t think I ¬don’t know what’s happening here,” he said. “Herod Antipas would love to rule all Judea again, like his father. Happy to see unrest so he can tattle to Rome. Don’t give him any excuses! He needs to go back to the Galil and keep his nose on his own affairs!” This was also a tacit warning to Marcus. The governor knew Marcus and Felix had communicated with Caligula, who might one day be emperor. Don’t do it again, Pilate’s message insisted. But perhaps here was the opening Marcus wanted. If Pilate was already suspicious of Antipas, maybe Marcus could use that distrust as a device to protect Yeshua. Remembering Felix’s warning about not pushing Pilate too hard, Marcus first tested the water by asking about Zadok. “There is a matter in which Herod Antipas is already meddling here in Judea,” Marcus suggested. “He’s urging the high priest to expel a good, upright man, Zadok of Bethlehem, the Chief —” The warning palm lifted again. “I won’t get in the middle of a ¬Jewish religious squabble,” Pilate instructed. “Had enough of that for life! You ¬don’t get into that mess either, Centurion! Keep the roads and cities safe, and taxes flowing. Anything else offends somebody, no matter how hard you try not to!” Pilate was bitter, afraid, and eager to hole up in Caesarea, the least ¬Jewish city in the ¬Jewish province. He would leave Marcus to face the blame for anything else that went wrong. “I’ll do my best, sir,” Marcus offered. The governor scowled and dismissed Marcus. There was no mandate from Pilate that Marcus could claim in order to protect Yeshua from the envy and hatred of the religious leaders. But for the moment he could extend the power he’d been given as best he could. Marcus saluted and left.

4 It was early morning. Before the heat of the sun awakened the flies and made the stench unbearable. Lily, Cantor, Rabbi Ahava, and three other volunteers entered the large cavern that housed the dying of the community. There were thirty-six hopeless patients within, ranging in age from nine to seventy-one. Leprosy in its last stages stole the senses incrementally. Taste, smell, sight, touch all vanished until finally ¬only the sense of hearing remained. A dozen among the victims had reached this phase. They lay helpless, unmoving, listening to their own breathing and the voices around them. Death would very soon press even breath from them. Lily knew them all by name. Most were blind, yet they recognized her voice. She cleaned their sores and spoke to each as if she were mother, sister, daughter, or long-gone wife come to make these last days more bearable. ¬I’m praying again, Compassionate One. Oh, be here! Be here with them through my touch! Few could taste the broth she spooned into their mouths. And yet they could hear Cantor singing softly to them, feeding their ravaged souls with Hope. “I sought the Lord, and He answered me; He delivered me from all my fears.”12 The greatest battle for Lily was the fight against flies and maggots that hatched and swarmed in putrefied flesh from one day to the next. She covered her nose and mouth to keep from gagging. She picked them out of the sores one by one, then anointed the wounds with wine and oil. Lily reapplied the dressings day after day in a battle that could not be won. ¬I’m praying again, Creator of Me and Them and Us! Help me! Help me see them, not with my eyes, but as you see them. Faces featureless now. But you formed them body and spirit in your likeness. Do you suffer too? Is this your faceless face? your handless arm? Cantor sang on and on, his voice a prayer for those who had no strength to pray. “This poor man called, and the Lord heard him; He saved him out of all his troubles.”13 ¬I’m praying again, Inventor of the Senses! How good of you to leave their hearing till the last. How good you are to bless Cantor with the sickness so he can sing to them in their darkness! How great is your wisdom to bless Rabbi Ahava with this suffering so he can be here with them! Rabbi Ahava, always disregarding the levitical laws about who was unclean, embraced each patient. He spoke words of encouragement. “It will be over soon. Soon. Rest. It’s all right to let go. But ¬don’t give up hoping. Yes! Messiah waits at the end of life to welcome us! Don’t be afraid of darkness. There is light at the end of the dark journey!” Lily scooped up the featherlight body of a small boy named Shalom. He could say ¬only two words distinctly when he came: Shalom and Mama. Shalom was ¬only eight or nine. He had entered the Valley last summer. For

years he had lived among the gravestones Outside. Then somehow he had come here. Dragging himself on stumps where feet should have been. Covered with disease. No face. He called Lily Mama. Imagine. She let him call her Mama. Didn’t mind. Embraced him like his mama should have . . . if ¬only . . . “Shalom! Good morning, love,” she whispered in the hole where his ear had been. “The sun is shining outside. Bright. I saw pink flowers blooming on the high slopes. We’ll go hawking later. Catch a rabbit or a pigeon to feed you tomorrow. What do you think?” The child replied with a moan of acknowledgment. “When you get to heaven, you’ll run through the fields. Would you like to fly with the hawks too?” Another moan. Yes. Yes. He would very much like to fly. “You will. You will. Angels fly. You have an angel, and soon he’ll take you flying like a hawk. Put in a good word with the Almighty for me, love.” She kissed his scab-covered head, then began to clean the filth from him. “The angel of the Lord encamps around those who fear Him, And He delivers them.”14 Cantor sang. Rabbi Ahava spoke the psalms. Lily cleaned what remained of the calves of his legs. Tears. Tears. Her tears. Little boy. Never had a chance to live. So near to flying away. Someday they would fly together in heaven. But for now the earth held her here, rooted like a tree. ¬I’m praying again, Soaring One. Do you remember what he looked like before? All of them? Me? Us? Will you restore us? Do the souls of children grow more beautiful in this refiner’s cauldron? Am I seeing myself in these? And you? Are you here with him? in him? Am I tending your wounds? The visit ended after two hours. “No one dead today,” Cantor said. “I think little Shalom will leave us soon,” Lily murmured. Rabbi Ahava remarked, “There are always more to take the places of those who leave us. So many.” Then, “How is Deborah? Is the baby due soon?” “Any day,” Lily told him. “I think she’s somehow holding off until Jekuthiel ¬comes back. She wants him with her when the baby’s born.” “So long, he’s been gone. So long.” The rabbi shook his head slowly from side to side.

Avel stood on the pinnacle of the Tower of the Flock. The boy recognized the black horse pounding toward Migdal Eder. He likewise recognized its rider. Avel’s heart drummed in his nine-year-old chest with violence equal to the thumping hoofbeats. Good news never traveled this fast. To Ha-or Tov, his friend in the pasture below, Avel shouted, “Centurion Marcus is coming!” Then he leapt for the ladder and disappeared into the upper story of the tower. Avel’s feet did not touch the rungs. He

controlled his descent solely by oak banisters polished smooth by generations of shepherds. The lord of Migdal Eder, Chief Shepherd Zadok, was deep in conference with several of his deputies. “Master Zadok,” Avel interrupted, panting, “Marcus Longinus is coming . . . and in a terrible hurry!” Regarding the apprentice herdsman from ¬under bushy brows topping one piercing eye and one menacing black patch, Zadok remarked, “Did y’ think I ¬didn’t hear y’ bellow, lad? Likely folks in Beth-lehem took note as well.” “Sorry,” Avel said, ¬only momentarily subdued before resuming the urgency of his report. “But he’s in armor! Riding like the wind too! No mistaking that black horse. What should we do?” Low growls from the others present greeted these words. Avel heard the men suggest staves, rocks for their slings. The boy’s excitement grew. Battle could be coming to Migdal Eder! “Aye,” the shepherd named Lev agreed. “Shall I sound the alarm? Gather the men in from the far pastures?” Zadok snorted. “Roman officer Marcus may be, but the man’s a friend. Proved it more’n once. We’ll wait for his news before yellin’, ‘All I feared has come upon me,’ eh?” the Chief Shepherd scolded. “Go back up and keep watch, boy.” Avel stood his ground. “Let me send Ha-or Tov. His eyes are better than mine . . . and I want to hear what the centurion says.” Regarding his protégé shrewdly, Zadok acquiesced. They had not long to wait for the news. Moments later the centurion’s mount thundered into the yard, setting Red Dog barking violently. Zadok stood in the doorway to greet him. Files of grim-faced shepherds flanked their chief on either side. Without dismounting Marcus announced, “Zadok, there’s a company of Temple Guards on the way, forty of them. For supporting Yeshua of Nazareth you’re to be turned out.” Avel noted the muttered concerns of the others. Forty was a sizable number when swords could ¬only be opposed by wooden shepherd’s crooks. The boy’s anxiety mounted when he saw the tension in their faces. It was unsettling to witness consternation on the visages of sturdy, hardened men who slept rough most nights and encountered wild beasts alone. On Zadok’s face he saw resignation but no fear. “It’s the right of the high priest to put me out,” Zadok said simply. “But I gather that’s not all yer news. Come in. Lev, water the centurion’s horse.” Avel saw tension ease in the broad shoulders and grim face of the centurion. The boy guessed the Roman expected bloodshed. Had he come to again fight alongside the Chief Shepherd of Israel? While the other shepherds remained in a defensive ring outside Migdal Eder, Zadok and Marcus held a quiet discussion inside. Avel looked on from the corner by the fireplace, his presence uninvited but accepted. Marcus explained: “I have a . . . source in Antipas’ household. You already know your high priest has made it a crime to speak of Yeshua as the ¬Jewish