The Betrayal

  Gruffly, Meridias pulled a small roll of papyrus from his cape pocket. He’d written down every word he’d gleaned from the library assistants he’d questioned. He shoved it at Macarios. “Are these the names he sent you?”

  Macarios took the papyrus and unrolled it. “Yes.”

  “I’m the one who provided Pappas Silvester with the list.”

  Macarios handed it back. “And where did you get it? It’s very interesting, but I don’t see how it could be important. We should focus—”

  “That list has existed for almost three centuries, Macarios. I suspect it was written by Ioses of Arimathaia, at least that’s what my sources suggest. It is important. Didn’t you have any significant observations to report to Pappas Silvester after you reviewed it?”

  Macarios flinched at his tone. For a time, he just stared at Meridias as though in a futile effort to peer past his eyes to locate a soul. Finally, he said, “I noted one thing.”

  “What was it?”

  Macarios reached out gently and tapped a word in the middle of the papyrus. “This word intrigues me.”

  “Selah? What of it?”

  “Well, the papyrus is written in Latin, but I wonder if the original Hebrew word wasn’t really Shelah, from Nehemiah, chapter three, verse fifteen.”

  Irritated, Meridias demanded, “What difference would that make?”

  Macarios drew himself to his full height and squared his shoulders. Apparently, knowledge had bolstered his courage. “A good deal, my brother. Since Shelah is located right there.” He thrust his arm out, pointing to the south.

  A strange, fiery sensation swelled around Meridias’ heart. He took a step forward and tried to see what Macarios was pointing at. “I can’t see anything through this haze. What’s down there?”

  “We call it the Pool of Siloam. Actually, there are two pools, an upper and a lower pool. They’re fed by the Gihon Spring mentioned in First Kings, chapter one, verse thirty-three.”

  “What would it have to do with the word Shelah?”

  “The pool has two names in the Hebrew holy books. In Isaiah it’s called Siloah, but that same pool is referred to as Shelah, in Nehemiah. The terms also clearly referred to the area around the reservoirs as, for example, Luke says, in thirteen-four, that there was a tower in the place called ‘the Siloam.’”

  “So, you mean”—he paused while he considered the implications—“the entire area near the pools may have been called Siloam or Shelah?”

  “Yes.”

  A gust of wind blew over the excavation and peppered Meridias’ face with sand. He turned away until it passed, then stared in the direction of the pool again. “Why would the area around the pools have been important?”

  Macarios opened his mouth to answer, but from behind Meridias, young Albion suggested, “Perhaps because of the tombs?”

  “What tombs?” Meridias swung around to peer at the boy. He’d forgotten he was there. Albion was biting his lower lip as though expecting a reprimand for speaking up.

  Albion looked to Macarios and softly said, “Forgive me, Pappas. I didn’t mean to—”

  “It’s quite all right, Albion,” Macarios said gently. “Go ahead and tell Pappas Meridias about the tombs.”

  As though excited, Albion broke into a silly grin. “They are everywhere, Pappas! The tombs fill every hole in the limestone, and we suspect there are many you can’t even see because Emperor Hadrian covered over so many when he was filling the Kraniou Topon. But we—”

  “Show me these tombs.” Meridias took off without further discussion, striding down the hill toward the Siloam.

  FORTY

  Melekiel

  NISAN THE 14TH, THE TWELFTH HOUR OF DAY

  I am standing in my home, sipping a cup of wine, surrounded by my four sisters and their families. The sun has set, but it is not yet Pesach. The Temple priests have not yet blown the horn to announce the arrival of the holy day. We are all waiting.

  My eight nieces and nephews are running about, playing. But for the rest of us, this is a somber gathering. I couldn’t bear to watch him die, to see the sacred light go out of his eyes, but as my sisters were preparing the Pesach meal, I watched the crucifixions from afar. Only Yeshua’s female disciples were brave enough to follow him to the cross: Maryam, and Yeshua’s two sisters, Mariam and Salome. They made certain that he did not die alone, but surrounded by people who loved him. They remained there, praying, through the entire terrible ordeal. It is perhaps curious that in Aramaic there is no feminine form of the word “disciple,” talmida, but through their deeds, Yeshua’s female followers have proven themselves disciples nonetheless, especially in light of the fact that his male disciples betrayed, denied, and abandoned him.

  Shortly after the ninth hour, Centurion Petronius sent word that I could remove two of the bodies. Dysmas and Yeshua were dead. Gestas was still alive, still suffering.

  A tremor goes through me. I only heard his voice once. At the end, he shouted, “My God, my God, why have you abandoned me?”112 While the Romans in the crowd, who didn’t understand Hebrew, began taunting him, saying that he was calling for Elijah to save him, I lifted my eyes to the heavens expecting to see a legion of angels descending, clothed in garments of pure light, or perhaps a pillar of fire, even a dove fluttering down to settle upon his head. A simple sign from God that he had not died in vain would have been enough.

  I saw nothing but clear blue sky.113

  I open my right palm and stare at it. I pulled out the nails myself, then lowered Yeshua’s limp body into the arms of Titus, who carried him to the horse-drawn cart where he gently laid him down. Then we repeated the process with Dysmas. Because of the crowds of pagans and Greeks on the streets, it took almost an hour to get the bodies back here and placed in the newly hewn tomb in my garden.

  Involuntarily, my eyes drift to the nails that rest in a pot upon my table. Nails removed from crucified victims are believed to have great medicinal value. They reduce swellings, inflammations, and fevers. Even the Romans hold that blood-soaked nails from victims of crucifixion cure epilepsy, and halt the spread of epidemics. Perhaps that’s why the only mode of crucifixion practiced by the Romans in Judea is crucifixion by nailing, not binding, the victim to the cross.114 If I were wise, I would carry one of the nails with me, to protect me from illness … but I cannot bear to touch them. Besides, I have already made arrangements to return them to Pilatos in fulfillment of our agreement. He will count them carefully, and hold me to blame if one is missing.

  My gaze moves to the window where a charcoal veil is settling over the land. In my mind’s eye, I imagine Maryam and Mariam in the tomb, preparing the bodies, annointing them with spices and oils, wrapping them in the finest linen I could afford … .

  “Yosef.” My sister Yuan touches my sleeve. “The woman, Mariam, is at the door. She requests to speak with you. I told her you were grieving and that she should come back after the holy days, but she said it was urgent.”

  As though waking from a terrible nightmare, I blink at her pretty face, actually seeing it for the first time today, and say, “Thank you.”

  I stride past her, through the middle of my confused family, and duck out my doorway into the gray gleam of dusk. Mariam is standing quietly, wringing her hands. She is Yeshua’s youngest sister, thirty-two, married to Clopas. They have two sons. The rest of her family is home celebrating, as best they can, the holy day. But she is here. She has her white himation pulled over her head and it accentuates the oval shape of her face and the size of her large, dark eyes. She looks very much like a female version of Yeshua.

  “What is it, Mariam?”

  “Forgive me for disturbing you, elder, but you must come. It—it’s Maryam. I swear she has lost her mind!”

  “What do you mean? What’s happened?” I close the door behind me, blocking out the sounds of the sacred evening, of children’s voices, and the smell of food. “Is she ill?”

  When we arrived with the bodies at the tenth ho
ur, we’d found Maryam standing by the tomb with a basket of spices. Her beautiful face had gone as pale as death. She hadn’t wept, or railed. She’d just watched us carry the bodies into the tomb as though her soul had long ago left her body and flown away. Mariam had arrived shortly thereafter with an amphora of oil.

  “Maryam asked me to go and fetch her himation. She’d left it near the cross today. She was getting cold. Even though I knew it was a long walk, I did it. It had been so hard to watch her, I actually welcomed the trip.”

  “Why was it hard to watch her?”

  Tears fill her eyes. She uses the hem of her himation to wipe them. “For the longest time, she wouldn’t let me near my brother’s body. She was h-holding him, crying against his shoulder, sobbing, ‘the light in the darkness shines, the light in the darkness shines.’ She kept repeating those words. She wouldn’t even let me wash the wounds in his hands and feet. Honestly, I didn’t know what to do to comfort her.”

  “What happened when you returned with her himation?”

  “She shouted at me to go away!” Mariam clutches Maryam’s himation to her chest. “I called to her several times, but she told me to keep out or she’d kill me! When I tried to force my way in, she ran at me with a dagger! I don’t know where she got it, but her eyes blazed as though her demons had returned.”

  “She’s overwhelmed by grief, Mariam. That’s all. I’m sure she isn’t possessed—”

  “You have to come and talk to her,” she pleads and tugs at my sleeve. “She’ll listen to you. She always has.”

  “I’ll help any way I can.”

  I lead the way across the courtyard toward the tomb where faint lamplight etches a golden line around the stone that, when Maryam is finished preparing the dead, will be rolled over the entry to seal it until the holy days are over. Then we can finish preparing the bodies in our traditional ways.

  Nearby, in the stable, lamplight also gleams. I try not to look at it, try not to draw Mariam’s attention to it. I know Titus is in there saddling our horses, readying our packs. We will leave just after supper, after the city has quieted—but Mariam does not know this—nor does my family. Our conspiracy is small, consisting of only myself, Maryam, two Essene brothers, and three of Yeshua’s most trusted apostles. Even Titus does not know the whole truth, just the necessary facts.

  The agonizing sound of muffled weeping reaches me long before I get to the tomb. She has always been brave. I am stricken to the heart by her cries. Not only that, the thought of arguing with a woman as grief-crazed as the one Mariam describes makes my soul shrivel. What can I do or say to ease her pain when my own is strangling me?

  I stop by the stone outside, and call, “Maryam? It’s Yosef. May I enter?”

  The weeping stops. Sandals scrape the stone floor.

  I stand irresolutely, wishing I could avoid this, then I brace myself and call again, “Maryam, please let me see him. I need to see him.”

  She appears, and stares at me with wide, burning eyes. Insane eyes. Without a word, she grabs my hand and pulls me into the tomb. The two bodies are already wrapped in white linen, and the intoxicating fragrances of myrrh and aloe are almost staggering.

  Maryam stands as though frozen, looking up at me with those wild eyes. “Yosef, please, I beg you. The savior himself must be saved. You understand that, don’t you?”

  I nod, endeavoring to appear calm. “That’s what we’re trying to do, Maryam. Tonight, we—”

  “If you love them that love you, what reward have you?”

  They are his words. I know, as well as she does, that Yeshua meant we must love our enemies. I stare into her strange eyes for a long moment. “Who are you talking about?”

  She steps forward, very close to me, and whispers, “He would want us to save him, don’t you see? And by saving him, we can save the savior.”

  I am totally confused now. “Maryam, please, slow down. I don’t understand anything you’re telling me. Yeshua would want us to save …”

  Outside, down the lane, I hear hooves pounding. In only heartbeats it becomes clear that the horses have turned onto the path to my home. Several men dismount.

  “Yosef Haramati?” an authoritative voice calls.

  “Here! I’m here.” I hurry across the floor and duck outside into the dusk. Four members of the Temple police stand holding their horses’ reins. The captain of the guard says, “You are under arrest by the order of High Priest Kaiaphas.”

  Gamliel was right. They are deeply afraid. They mean to stop me.

  All of my family rushes out of my house. My sisters begin shouting questions while my nieces and nephews bawl. My brothers-in-law tug their wives back as I am led away.

  I mount the horse they’ve brought for me, and as we ride down the path toward the Damascus Gate, the horn blows. The sound echoes from the walls of the city and floods out over the surrounding hills.

  The holy day has begun … it is Nisan the fifteenth.

  FORTY ~ ONE

  Following behind Albion and Macarios, Meridias tramped by the beautiful rocked-in Pool of Siloam with its intricate mosaic floor, and out of the city through the Dung Gate.

  Macarios extended his hand to the steep valley that dropped away in front of them. In the late afternoon light, the upthrust rocks and brush cast long, dark shadows over the limestone slopes now tawny with sparse grasses. What he could see of the far slope was dotted with small black holes, some in flats carved from the valley stone. Faint trails crisscrossed the slope as though woven between the features.

  Macarios spoke reverently. “This is the Hinnom valley.”

  Meridias studied the narrow gorge. The length of it curved along the west and south sides of Jerusalem like a V-shaped moat. “What is the name of the valley that the gorge intersects at the bottom?”

  “The Kidron valley.”

  Both the Hinnom and Kidron valleys were areas of exposed limestone ridges and wind-smoothed barren hillocks. If there ever had been any trees here, they’d all been cut down and used by the soldiers of the Tenth Legion to warm themselves, cook their food, and bake their bricks. Now only scrub brush and grass filled the spaces between the rocks.

  “Here, Pappas, let me show you some of the most interesting tombs,” Albion said, and started off down the slope at a fast walk.

  Meridias, careful of the footing, fell into line behind him. As they made their way along the precarious trail, he noted the numerous fragments of incised limestone slabs that had been scattered down the slope. Some of the stonework was extraordinary. “Macarios? What are these?”

  Macarios strode up beside him and looked at where Meridias pointed. “I’m afraid those are pieces of broken ossuaries, bone boxes. Grave robbers always come out after dark to plunder the tombs.”

  “Grave robbers?”

  “Yes, we post guards, of course, but it does little good. We don’t have enough people. They raid the tombs looking for precious jewels, gold, anything they can sell.”

  “They break into the tombs and drag out the ossuaries?”

  “Or crush them inside the tombs. But I suppose it’s easier to see the contents if you drag the ossuaries outside into the light.”

  The path down curved into a gorge where the walls of limestone rose three or four times their height. They passed several rock-hewn tombs with rectangular and T-shaped doorways blocked by stones.

  “How old are these ossuaries?” Meridias asked.

  “Ossuaries were used for burials for only a very short time—we suspect from about thirty years before the birth of our Lord, until the destruction of the Temple in the year seventy.”

  “So they date to the time of our Lord?”

  “Approximately, yes.”

  Albion called, “Here! Pappas Meridias, come and look at this one!”

  Meridias hurried to the place where the youth stood. The tomb facade was magnificent. The stoneworker had hacked a man-sized square at least three fathoms back into the face of the limestone wall, flattened it, and c
ut a T-shaped doorway, which had been sealed with a stone. Above the doorway three elaborate interconnected circles had been carved. Each circle had an incised border of triangles, and what appeared to be a large six-petaled flower in the middle.

  Meridias said, “It’s beautiful. I had no idea the Ioudaiosoi were such skilled stoneworkers.”

  Albion smiled, pleased by his response. “This is my favorite, but there are thousands of tombs here. Would you like to see more of the special ones?”

  “No. Not today. I’m tired. But perhaps tomorrow.”

  Albion said, “Yes, Pappas.”

  Macarios gave Albion a proud nod. “Thank you, brother, for your help today. Can you take Pappas Meridias back to the cell we prepared for him in the monastery?”

  “Of course. Please follow me.”

  Albion started back up the gorge trail and Meridias followed close behind Macarios. The sun had set, and dusk was descending over the city.

  The climb was strenuous. They were both breathing hard when they climbed out of the gorge and started up the slope for the city.

  Meridias stopped to catch his breath. While Albion continued up the hill, he turned to Macarios. “Tomorrow, first thing, I want to see the two tombs you found near Golgotha.”

  Macarios used his sleeve to wipe the sweat from his jowls and nodded. “Of course. Our workers should have more cleared by then. Perhaps we will be able—”

  “Pappas Macarios!” Albion cried.

  Macarios jerked his head up, strode past Meridias, and climbed the rocky slope toward the young monk who was standing bent over with his hands propped on his knees.

  As Meridias followed in Macarios’ footsteps, he saw the soft dirt pile before the freshly opened tomb. Broken fragments of ossuaries littered the ground in front, and he could clearly see the doorway, measuring about one fathom square.

  Macarios knelt and peered into the tomb, as though hoping to find one of the grave robbers still at work so he could arrest them.