Читать книгу All Who Came Before - Simon Perry - Страница 6

As the Egyptians fled, the distant stonework of Caesarea, still visible as an ornament upon the sea, finally found its voice. It called after them, proclaiming that the escape attempt would fail, that their victims would be avenged. The creation, which so recently had been their ally, now became an enemy who condemned their righteous act. Every tree and bush breathed out its scorn as the assassins hurried by. Each panting breath of fresh morning air filled their lungs with the toxic of contempt, slowing their escape.

The quiet town of Narbata was only eight miles east, but every anxious glance over the shoulder saw Caesarea no more distant than the last. Each new stretch of the track ahead drew Yeshua’s frantic visual search for the nearest means of cover should the thunderclap of angry hoof break from the track behind. Occasionally, the runners would quicken their pace to cross chasms of open road that offered no hiding place. Soon after the run would drop to the slow jog demanded by an exhaustion that seemed to draw them back towards the coast as they recovered their breath.

The sun had not yet risen above the distant ridge but the clamor of birds was beginning to fill the sky. Scattered patches of woodland that passed all too quickly echoed with the songs of the earliest lark, while the thin, exposed pastures hosted grazing sheep, too lazy to take heed of the murderers who rushed by. A raven squawked in a nearby bush, disturbed by the noise of the Egyptians as they ran. It sent a cold shiver through Yeshua, who was still convinced that all God’s creatures were pointing the finger of guilt towards him and his brother as they fled for the anonymity of the town. Before the assassins, the silhouette of the Samaritan mountains was sharpening, as daylight was about to break. From behind, the Mediterranean haze pursued them along the dusty track that crossed the Plain of Sharon. Gradually the climb towards the foothills began to take its toll on Egyptian limbs and the brothers’ pace began to drop.

“Stop!” Yeshua panted. “Can you hear that?”

“Above the sound of your breathing?” Theudas gasped, “I wouldn’t hear if they were chasing us on elephants!”

Yeshua held up his hand and gazed back along the track that had begun to wind itself around the contours of small hills, hiding itself from full view. “I thought I heard horses,” the Egyptian heaved as he gathered his breath.

“Only because you’re expecting to hear them,” his brother replied. “They’ll be lucky if they’ve found the bodies yet.”

“We need to keep moving,” said Yeshua, narrowing his eyes and facing east. “I don’t want to take any chances.”

Yeshua had been so obsessed with preparing for the worst outcome imaginable that it had become the only outcome imaginable. Every minute of his escape brought further disbelief that he was still alive. After countless further glances behind and several pauses to listen, the town of Narbata eventually unveiled itself through the widening gaps between hills that filled the view ahead.

“We’re going to do it,” Yeshua muttered to himself.

“Of course we are,” Theudas puffed as they ran. “Ten minutes and we’re there.”

Yeshua turned to notice with gratitude that the coastal haze had, at last, visibly retreated. No one had been passed on the road, and the companions reached the little town before the sun’s rays and prefect’s horses.

The assassins circled through the dry landscape south of the town so as to enter from the east, as though they were journeying toward rather than away from Caesarea. Today was market day, leaving the brothers to mingle easily in the early morning crowds. The plan was simple. Having collected their supplies, they would make the two-day journey south to Joppa from where they could take their return voyage to Alexandria.

Still, it was too early to enter Narbata without suspicion so the brothers sat under a fig tree, out of sight from the town’s eastern approach and hidden from the road behind the bumpy landscape.

“Er, Yeshua. Have you looked inside here?” Theudas was gazing into his newly acquired purse. “A week’s wages!”

“So you’re buying breakfast?” said Yeshua as his sweaty fingers explored the purse he carried. The coins were accompanied by a small piece of wood, which was brought out for inspection.

“What is it?”

“A figurine! Looks like a boy.”

“Money?”

“Yeh, ten denarii, probably about the same as you.”

“We are going to have such a party tonight.”

“Let’s get through today first.” He paused, and caressing the coins he had robbed asked Theudas, “You okay?”

Theudas shrugged his shoulders, as though the inconvenience of killing someone had merely robbed him of a little sleep. “Ask me over a cup of wine this evening.”

“They must have found the bodies by now. Do you think they’ll know where we’re going?”

“Yeshua! It could have been anyone from anywhere. We’ve done it. The prefect’s bowels are bursting. Justice is served. Job done.” With that, Theudas lay himself down, closed his eyes, and sighed.

“Don’t tell me you’re going to sleep!”

“We need rest. It’ll help us to think straight.”

“We’re not in the clear yet.”

“Yeh, well we can’t do anything for at least an hour.”

“Theudas! We are assassins. As far as Rome’s concerned, we’re murderers.”

“Tired murderers.” yawned Theudas, adjusting his back on his patch of stony ground. “Wake me up in an hour.”

“You’re not praying?”

“Suppose you’re right.” Theudas sat up and closed his eyes, “Lord of hosts, God of Israel, Almighty maker of heaven and earth. I beseech you, in your manifold and great mercy, close my brother’s mouth and let me sleep.” With that he reclined, placed his hands behind his head and after relaxing for a second, lifted his head just off the floor and added, “Amen.”

Yeshua smiled, shook his head and returned his attention to the figurine of the young boy. Had he made an orphan of this boy? Whoever he was, he would weep many tears on account of Yeshua’s deed. Before remorse could take root Theudas’ snoring interrupted him. The Egyptian glanced at his younger brother, sleeping just as he had since childhood. Eyebrows slightly raised, eyelids looking poised to lift, mouth open, his whole face relieved of all care and his limbs scattered at random. Yeshua sighed in envy and laid back to stare into the heavens.

The laughter of distant farmers and traders began to rise through the song of birds and the yawning of Theudas. The scent of fig leaves above, forced into transparency by the bright morning sky, fell upon Yeshua like a drug. As his breathing slowed, his spirit lightened. His brothers had been avenged. He didn’t feel it yet, but at least he knew it. All that now remained was the journey home.

Sleep would not give itself so readily to Yeshua. The weight of those amour-laden bodies still weighed down upon him. The horror he felt as the dagger had slipped from his hand. The relief he had encountered as his right hand grasped the fallen spear. And his brother’s rescue, redeeming himself from his apparent failure. He opened an eye to glance at Theudas who by now lay like a corpse himself. The sight carried Yeshua back to the moment that spawned this quest for vengeance. The sight of his older brothers’ lifeless bodies in the temple precincts. The final kiss he placed on their foreheads. But their memory brought little relief from the turmoil he felt at taking life in return. The two incidents were entirely disconnected. If only he could link them in his mind he would feel relieved, justified, unburdened. But it was too early for these fatal events to be wed to one another, or for the Egyptian to be reconciled to himself. These thoughts were not for today, he decided as he attempted the descent into sleep. In his agitated state he threw himself on the mercy of the fig tree to bring shelter, calm and rest. But the comfort brought by the tree was shallow and short lived. It did not approve of the foreigners’ actions, and yielded little to the assassin.

Yeshua rose from his unrest, seeking mental refuge instead in the practicalities that had now to be addressed. He concealed the swords in their rolled up cloaks, strapped and ready for carrying, and walked the several paces toward the ridge of a shallow hill. From here he could observe the business of the market, a mere five minutes’ walk away. The sweat of his hurried journey had turned cold but still clung to his skin, texturing his limbs with goose bumps while the growing warmth of the day was as yet too weak to penetrate his garments. He stood and watched and shivered. Another nervous prayer was offered as the prospect of entering the town as a murderer dawned on him. It was time to move.

Yeshua tapped his brother’s leg with his foot. “Feeling rested?”

Theudas screwed his eyes tight, drew an extended breath and puffed it out just as laboriously. “Mmmmmm” his voice spanned several pitches in random sequence. “What’s for breakfast?”

“Prison food if you don’t get a move on.”

The two returned to the road and Yeshua tried to look as unlike an assassin as he could. He glanced at his brother who harbored no such concerns. The road surrendered readily to the heel of Theudas’ sandals, which bore a conquering spirit through this piece of the Roman Empire. His feet crunched the gravel, as Adam’s accursed foot would crush the serpent. His unshaven face bristled with the suggestion of recent heroics. His dark hair was reddened by the early sky that brought it to life. Even the garments he wore hung about him in admiration. Undaunted by the risk of capture, Theudas entered Narbata as though he were its liberator.

Yeshua did not share this optimism. “Sacks, food, water, then we’re on our way.”

“So you don’t want breakfast?”

“We can eat outside the town. Let’s just get a move on.”

Narbata’s market was just like any other. No purpose built square as in the larger cities. Just busy streets cluttered with stalls, every trader’s voice dragged into disharmony by every other. Although Yeshua had no desire to linger in this place, there was something strangely welcoming about busy streets and human company.

The warm smell of fresh bread mingled with salted fish freshly brought in that morning. Children weaving their way through adults preoccupied with finding the best fruit, the finest wine, the choicest grain. Dozens of chickens waiting to be sold added their voice to the clamor, contributing to the anonymity that Yeshua so gratefully felt. Sunlight had still not penetrated the corner of the busiest streets where there stood a gathering of laborers who had so far failed to find their day’s work.

Theudas stopped to collect the bread for his breakfast while Yeshua gathered fruit for the journey. Within a few minutes the companions were fully stocked. All that remained was a quick visit to the well to fill new skins for the long walk south.

As Yeshua inspected his fruit, the noise of the market traders was drowned beneath a nearby commotion. His bowels plummeted the moment his eyes lifted. Cavalry. The market was surrounded by at least fifty horsemen. Every escape route was closed off. A dark-skinned centurion dismounted and climbed onto a low roof.

“People of Narbata!” A hundred busied individuals immediately became a single anxious crowd. “People of Narbata. Early this morning two soldiers were murdered in Caesarea. Shepherds on the plain saw two men fleeing for this town.” Expressions of horror echoed through the crowd, not so much at what had happened as at what would. “Your prefect, Pontius Pilatus, wishes it to be known that such acts of barbarism cannot be tolerated.” With that, a grey-haired market trader, still clinging to an earthenware jar, was thrown to the ground beneath the centurion’s platform. His face was full of pointless protest, but his eyes resigned to his fate. The chime of an unsheathing blade was followed immediately by the gasp of the spectators.

“It wasn’t me . . .” he sobbed. Yeshua hid his eyes. The now trivial sound of the ornamented jug, almost unnoticed as it smashed onto the gravel, spoke just loudly enough to foretell the horror that would inevitably follow. The marketer repeated his sentence with more emotion, but it was cut short. A moist thud echoed around the market. After a moment’s silence it was followed by another, and then a third and a fourth. The Egyptian’s eyes opened to see the soldier picking up the severed head by its curly grey hair and lifting it for the crowd.

“Let it be known, if you harbor murderers you share their crime and will suffer their fate.” He nodded at one of his soldiers, who brought forward another random crowd member. A young man, barely in his twenties, was dragged from the queue of would-be laborers and thrown onto the floor near the corpse of the market trader, his shattered jar and the reddening sand. His eyes declared that he was unable to comprehend what was happening to him. The crowd, still in shock, irrupted in a chorus of muted disbelief.

Yeshua couldn’t bear to watch the atrocity and scanned the people, every one of them innocent of his crime. In an instant, the spirit of the crowd became visible: its younger members had not yet learned the futility of a hope that had abandoned their elders, but all had been overcome by the same dark silence. Even the children’s previously carefree faces had aged an entire generation in a single moment. Their hollow gaze forced the Egyptian’s eyes back towards the soldiers.

Yeshua found himself possessed by a physical urge to confess his crime, but his body along with his tongue were paralyzed by the spectacle before him. The executioner’s sword was raised, but the soldier was distracted by a scuffle in front of him. A robed figure had burst through the mass and into the makeshift arena.

“Me for him,” shouted the Pharisee. “Me for him!” As silence spread through the crowd, he lowered his voice for one last offer. “Me for him.”

The centurion was as stunned as every other onlooker. This young Pharisee had momentarily seized control of the scene and glared up at the centurion in defiant humility. The executioner also looked up at his commander, who closed his eyes and threw his head to the right to gesture the laborer’s release. His attention then turned to this Pharisee whose childlike eyes looked as though he had merely issued a mischievous dare. He promptly dropped to his knees before the executioner.

“You for him?” he smirked. The centurion descended the rough worn steps to ground level, looked at the lowered head of the substitute, and addressed the crowd. “No deal.” With that, he mounted his horse, “Bloody Jewish market traders,” he grinned as his feet found their place. “Is there nothing you people won’t barter for?” The horses were gone as quickly as they had arrived, leaving the townsfolk to grieve their victim and celebrate their Pharisee.

Immediately the market became a place of wailing. The body of the fallen trader was swamped by companions, but one face remained painfully visible through the mass. A young girl, maybe ten years of age, was screaming. With one hand she caressed the chest of the severed corpse, the other clung to the side of her head. Screaming, screaming at the crowd, at the corpse, at the sky, at Yeshua. The girl’s wailing penetrated the Egyptian’s inner being, causing convulsions in his stomach. Yeshua’s body forced his hands to his knees, his stomach tensed up against his will, and he vomited.

He turned and, grabbing his brother by the arm, picked his way through the crowd that swept against them, away from the screams, away from that girl. No words passed between them as they hurried towards the eastern gate of the town. Before they emerged from the market stalls that had now fallen silent, they realized that not every soldier had departed Narbata. A hundred paces away sentries had been positioned at their exit point, ready to question those leaving.

Theudas halted, screwed his face up and looked toward the sun. “Now what do we do?” Silence followed. Covering his eyes he looked back towards the center of town. He sighed, paused, and spoke again. “That man. You know it wasn’t your fault.”

For the first time since this incident, the brothers made eye contact. Yeshua let his eyebrows express what he thought of Thuedas’ attempt to absolve themselves of this crime.

His little brother was undaunted. “It wasn’t our fault: an eye for an eye. We have not spilt one drop of blood too much. That man died because of Roman cruelty. They killed him. We didn’t.”

“Great. So what do we do next?” asked Yeshua. “Avenge that market trader as well to balance the books?”

“Well,” Theudas jested, “we are merchants!”

Yeshua grabbed Theudas by the shoulders, and bored his brown eyes into his brother’s. “From now on, I killed both of those soldiers! Do you understand? It was I.”

“Well, that’s almost true” Theudas frowned in confusion.

“I’m serious.” Yeshua shook him with covert violence. “If anything happens, if anyone asks us, it was me who killed them both. You had no part in this. Do you understand?”

Theudas looked vacant.

“Do you understand?” he repeated, trying to conceal his alarm from all but his brother.

“Yeshua!” Theudas looked embarrassed, and leaned forward to whisper. “I understand.”

“The next thing we do is dump the swords,” said Yeshua.

“Er—didn’t you want to keep them? Souvenirs of revenge . . .”

“What do you think’ll happen if we’re caught with them here?” The elder brother frowned.

“Fine. Shall we visit the well?” They turned to head back towards the wailing.

“Yeshua? Theudas? . . . Shalom! What brings you this far inland?” The brothers were speechless at being recognized. “Come to see how your cotton is selling? Or have you been murdering soldiers?” A tall, full-bodied, red-faced man clutching a hook full of fish smiled at them quizzically before he laughed and continued. “Not the best welcome to Narbata! Come on, let’s get out of here and celebrate being this far from the coast.”

“Yudah,” said Yeshua, as though he had no care in the world, “it’s great to see you, but . . . what’s all this about?” He gestured towards the sound of wailing? “Is Narbata always like this?”

“Not much trading here this morning. We can talk over breakfast.” The Egyptians looked at each other and shrugged shoulders. “Come on,” said Yudah, already disappearing into the crowd. “Come and see the house your cloth has built me!” They walked together through dusty streets still echoing with grief and distant wailing, towards a large house of grey stone turned into gold by the alchemy of morning sunshine. The dwelling was necklaced by a ring of palm trees that teased with the light above and bestowed gentle shade on the home below.

Yudah entered through his gate and sent his guests to sit in a small courtyard. “I won’t be a minute.” The garden excluded the eastern sunlight, but was designed to offer comfort to all who were invited in. Stone seats were positioned around a cistern containing water brought fresh from the well. This place retained the welcome aroma of the herbs that grew there, imposing a peace that only the most anxious guest could defy.

“Right,” Yeshua whispered hurriedly, “we’re on our way to Jerusalem to offer sacrifices.”

“Oh that’s convincing!” Theudas chuckled.

“So what do we say? Oh, we just popped in to murder some soldiers?” Theudas’ face emptied itself of all expression.

Yeshua’s thought was so frantic it was almost audible. He had failed to concoct an alibi before his host reappeared.

“Breakfast will be here soon,” Yudah called, rubbing his hands on a cloth as he marched briskly across the terrace to take a seat next to his trading partners. “Now, did you see what just happened?”

“The execution?”

“All too common with this idiot as prefect.” There was a warm familiarity to Yudah’s voice. His greying beard and rosy cheeks combined with a body that had enjoyed no shortage of fine food and drink, brought a surprising depth of relief given all that had happened on so young a day. Yudah was a fine host who thrived on the company of others. He perched his excessive body on a low stonewall and leaned towards the brothers.

“Just let me say, I was horrified to hear about your brothers. Please send my sympathy to your Father. That prefect’s determined to cause misery everywhere he goes. Still, at least his toilet will be seeing plenty of traffic this morning! Maybe justice is . . .” Yudah paused, and sent a serious but curious frown at his guests.

“What’s that wrapped up in your cloaks?”

“Oh, it’s . . .” Yeshua knew that there would be no fooling Yudah.

“Swords!” Theudas cut in with a flash of inspiration. Or so he thought. “We took them from the soldiers we killed before dawn,” he laughed.

Yudah also laughed, allowing Yeshua to gather his thoughts as he smiled. “We were on our way to Jerusalem,” he said “but I don’t think we’ll be getting there in a hurry now.”

“How are things with you?” Theudas asked in a manner so far out of character that even a stranger would have noticed. He knew it, and his eyes attempted to chase after his words and stuff them back in his mouth.

You may as well have asked if we could change the subject, thought Yeshua. It was a sentiment carried on a glance that was not missed by their host.

“What were you doing in Narbata this early if you’re traveling to Jerusalem? Have you just left Caesarea?” Yudah frowned. “And . . . what have you got in those packs?” The brothers exchanged another frown that rendered futile any further attempt to conceal the truth. Yeshua lifted his hands to mark the end of the charade.

“Yes, we left Caesarea long before dawn this morning,” Yeshua confessed, leaving Yudah to work the rest out for himself. Every corner of the trader’s friendly face was besieged with a confusion, which eventually gathered at the side of his mouth, where a mild but restrained grin was slowly taking form.

“Please don’t tell me . . .” said Yudah, who paused again before composing himself. “But they were professional soldiers. You boys are traders.”

“Angry traders,” Theudas objected.

“Amateur soldiers,” added Yeshua.

“No . . . Seriously,” Yudah smiled as he shook his head. “You wouldn’t do that.” Yudah laughed. Then he stopped laughing. “You’re not rebels. You’re not violent. You’re not desperate . . .”

“We’re bereaved,” Yeshua interrupted, looking a little offended. “Our brothers have been taken from us. An eye for an eye.”

Yudah continued to shake his head. “This isn’t you,” he said, standing up and looking towards the sky. “You don’t do this,” he said to the brothers but addressed only himself. He turned to look at Theudas, who was losing the battle to contain his pride at the morning’s achievements. “Your father’s a rabbi,” Yudah frowned, “a rabbi who preaches peace . . . He wouldn’t support this.” He looked back to the brothers, expecting their look to confirm his denials. Their demeanor forced him to pause. “You wanted revenge. And you took it.”

Yudah was unable to conceal his admiration, “Mmmarvelous!” he declared with grave sincerity. Immediately the warmth returned to his face, “You’ll be sure to let me know if I start to get on your nerves.”

“We’re on our way to Joppa,” Yeshua explained, “but we weren’t expecting to get trapped here.”

“You really haven’t thought this through have you, boys. Our prefect’s going to be looking for you. He may be an atrocious prefect, but revenge is one thing he’s good at. He excels at it! You’ve seen that with your own eyes.”

“How could he possibly find us?” asked Theudas.

“Well, how long did it take me to force a confession out of you? At the very least you’ll need to stay with me and hide until the guards have left. All I can say is that you’re lucky you bumped into me.” Yudah shook his head and grinned at the heavens. “What is your father going to say about this?” He looked back at the brothers, abandoned his grin and paused. “You’re defying him.”

The late morning conversation in Yudah’s garden was interrupted by shouting from his gate. “Yudah, Yudah,” a voice short of breath bellowed from beyond and sent panic bouncing around the warming stonework of the haven.