Messiah: The First Judgement (Chronicles of Brothers) (32 page)

Jether looked at Him a long moment, his expression filled with tenderness and love. From the folds of his robe he removed a small silver vial, then poured the thick, clear elixir over Jesus’ head. It ran down His forehead onto His robes.

Instantly Jesus was transported away from the ancient olive grove in Jerusalem. He flew upward through the heavens and solar systems and still upward, past planets and galaxies, and onward still upward, past golden walls and seven spires, until He caught sight of the twenty-four ancient kings, kneeling in a semicircle beneath the magnificent hanging blossoms of the Gardens of Fragrance, their crowned heads bowed, their mouths moving silently in supplication.

Jesus gasped, looking around at the eight olive trees of His garden, drinking in the tangible glory of the First Heaven. Ahead of Him, across the vast cavern, shafts of light blazed from the immense golden Rubied Door embedded in the jacinth walls of the tower. He stumbled down onto His knees, His face raised to the blazing crimson light, tears coursing down His face.

‘Father...,’ He wept.

Slowly the colossal Rubied Door opened. Jesus flung Himself prostrate on the ground as a great thundering erupted and the rainbow around the Holy Mountain ruptured into lilac and intense blue lightnings that appeared to illuminate every universe in the galaxy. And then, through the thunder and the roaring, through the lightning ... a voice resonated. A voice that shook the very heavens and the universe in its wake.

Jesus stood, His arms outstretched, His eyes closed in ecstasy, as the voice echoed through the fibres of His being to His very core like a thousand softly flowing waters – a sound infinitely more beautiful than imagination had ever the capacity to conceive: gracious, noble, valiant. The voice of His Father. Intense with yearning, filled with grace and exquisitely tender – Yehovah.

‘Beloved Son...’

Jesus lifted His face to the gentle, shimmering, all-consuming light, His face enraptured in the presence of His beloved Father.

‘I have not forsaken You.’

Jesus sobbed in esctasy as Yehovah’s voice saturated the pores of His being.

‘Your eternal sacrifice is for the Race of Men.’ The crimson shafts grew more intense. Jesus inhaled sharply. Through the shafts of light, at the entrance of the Rubied Door, on the very edge of the great chasm, stood a form of immense stature, swathed in a blazing wreath of light, His arms outstretched towards Jesus.

‘That they, too, may know Me.’

And then, through the light, in the place where the form’s countenance would be, what seemed like two immense shining black orbs became visible, gazing out of the brilliance. Gazing ... gazing ... gazing with intense adoration and yearning upon Jesus. And then a tear fell from Yehovah’s eyes, down ... down ... towards Jesus.

Slowly the Rubied Door faded from Jesus’ sight, and the lightnings subsided, and the soft, warm breezes of the First Heaven transformed into the chill winds of the Kidron Valley.

‘That they, too, may know Me...’
The words echoed gently in Jesus’ soul. Jesus closed His eyes. ‘Your will be done,’ He uttered.

He raised himself unsteadily from the dirt, then gazed around in the darkness.

Only Peter, James, and John still lay against the gnarled trunks of the olive trees, sleeping, their heads on the damp grass.

The silence was shattered by the sounds of breaking undergrowth, accompanied by hushed voices coming towards them, the darkness broken by the glare of swinging lanterns and torches on poles. Peter shot to his feet, his expression fierce, staring towards the lights. John and James stirred.

Judas strode towards them, holding a lantern at his face, freshly bathed, his raiment crisp and clean, his companions hanging far back in the semi-darkness.

‘Hail, Master!’ he called, walking directly up to Jesus.

But Jesus’ attention was drawn to the silhouette of a tall, cloaked figure who stood in the shadows, just paces behind Judas’s right shoulder.

Lucifer stood haughty, triumphant. He stared at Jesus intently, an iniquitous smile on his face.

Jesus lowered His eyes from Lucifer’s gaze as Judas leaned over and kissed Jesus lovingly, first on the right cheek and then on the left.

Jesus stared at Judas. ‘Would you betray and deliver up the Son of Man with a kiss?’

Judas lifted his right hand to his own cheek. On Judas’s fingers lay a strange crimson liquid. He fell back. Ashen. Trembling.

Jesus raised His eyes to meet Lucifer’s.

‘Remember, Lucifer.’ His voice was soft as a breeze but razor sharp. ‘Your kiss on My cheek, many moons past, in the First Heaven, when we walked together in My garden.’ Lucifer stared down in dread at the darkening crimson stain on his hand, his features contorted in agony from the sharp burning sensation in his right palm.

‘...When many worlds have long risen and fallen,’ said Jesus, His voice barely audible, ‘the Lamb will be slain.’

Lucifer stared steadily at Jesus, his face twisted with trepidation and loathing.

‘I shall separate You from Yehovah. You shall share my fate – an eternity away from Him. The vaults of hell await you, Nazarene.’ Then he wrapped his cloak tightly around him. And vanished.

A band of Jewish officers and servants from the high priest’s palace broke clumsily through the undergrowth. They were followed closely by a Roman detachment, armed with swords and staves. A riotous, disorderly crowd of volunteers and curious strangers followed.

Jesus sighed. ‘Whom do you seek?’ He called out.

‘Jesus the Nazarene!’ one called out.

‘I am He,’ Jesus said softly.

A raucous uproar erupted from the officers and the unruly rabble as a mob of surly looking men advanced towards Him, their staves upraised. The chief priests followed behind them.

Jesus lifted His hand, and immediately a strange power fell over the advancing throng. They fell back in dread.

‘Whom are you seeking?’ Jesus reiterated patiently, as though addressing slow children. ‘I told you, I am Jesus of Nazareth,’ He continued. ‘If you seek Me, let these go on their way.’

The head of the Roman detachment seized Jesus roughly by the shoulders. Immediately Peter let out a loud roar and recklessly drew his sword, striking Malchus, body servant of the high priest, and slicing off his ear. The whole party erupted and in the ensuing uproar, the Roman captain loosed his hold on Jesus.

‘Peter,’ Jesus laid His hand on Peter’s arm steadily, ‘permit them to seize Me,’ He said quietly, placing His hand on Malchus’s ear.

Malchus backed away from Jesus in terror, feeling his healed ear in astonishment.

Peter lowered his sword, stared wildly at Jesus, confused, then tore frantically through the trees. James stood trembling, rooted to the ground, then lifted his robes and fled after Peter, followed immediately by John.

Jesus stood alone. ‘And you...’ He turned His fierce gaze onto the chief priests, who stood staring at Him, petrified, their eyes filled with hatred.

‘Why have you come to arrest Me as some wild, bloodthirsty insurgent, wielding swords and clubs? I taught in your temples and synagogues every day, in full view of you. You could have arrested Me at any–’

A burly Roman soldier savagely threw Jesus to the ground. He nodded, and six of his detachment seized Him brutally.

Zahi stood trembling, hovering on the outskirts of the belligerent mob. His linen garments had been hurridly flung around him after Joanna had hastily roused him from his slumber. He stood, trembling behind the tree, watching as the crowds seized Jesus, pushing Him mercilessly down the ravine, east towards Jerusalem. An uncouth youth glared at him and ran towards him.

Zahi fled in terror. The Hebrew was in grave danger; He needed allies. He would send Fariq, royal messenger, at once to Aretas’ spring encampment; His father had protected the Hebrew once. As an infant.

Zahi would appeal to Aretas.

Chapter Thirty-four

The Witness

King Aretas and his entire royal household were encamped at the Nabatean city of Mampsis in the central Negev. He and his compatriot kings and caliphs of Persia, Edessa, and Arabia were holding royal summit for the spring, with the blessing of Rome, to Aretas’ satisfaction and Herod Antipas’ fury.

Jotapa pushed past Ayeshe, into Aretas’ festival tent. She was out of breath, dishevelled, and her black hair flew loosely escaping from its braids.

‘Papa! Papa!’

Aretas looked up from his ornately carved desk, weary from his royal papers.

‘Fariq, your royal rider – he eats with Ghaliya in the kitchen tents, exhausted. There is news from Jerusalem?’ Jotapa asked. Aretas nodded. Grave.

‘Zahi?’ Jotapa trembled.

Aretas shook his head. ‘The Hebrew,’ he said quietly, laying his quill down. ‘The councils meet in Jerusalem.’ Jotapa drew up a velvet bolstered chair next to his and earnestly took his old hands in hers. Aretas continued. ‘They would condemn the Hebrew to death.’

Jotapa stared at her father. Apalled.

The king took a deep breath and stood. He paced up and down, then stopped next to the tent entrance. ‘Fariq rode these past hours with the royal missives. His stallion recovers in the royal stables. They have arrested the Hebrew; it is certain. I was not going to alarm you till it was confirmed.’

Jotapa stared up at him, trembling. ‘It is
rumours
– propogated by the enemies of the Hebrew – those fat-jowled Sadducees!’ she exclaimed.

Aretas shook his head sadly. ‘Alas, it is no rumour, Jotapa,’ he said softly. ‘Zahi was there. He saw it all first-hand.’

‘Zahi...,’ she uttered. Ashen. ‘He was there ... at the Hebrew’s arrest?’

Aretas held out a missive to Jotapa, written in Zahi’s meticulous italic script. She tore it open and read the first lines, devouring each word.

Gently Aretas wrested it back from her grasp. ‘He says they seized the Hebrew as though He were a wild vagrant...’ Jotapa gazed at her father bewildered. ‘An insurrectionist...’

Aretas folded the missive and placed it in a leather pouch. ‘At the Valley of Kidron. Zahi was a witness. He fled. He asks for my intervention with Rome and the Jewish authority on the Hebrew’s behalf.’

‘But Zahi is
wrong
, Papa!’

‘My mind is set.’ Aretas walked down a path lined with rows of date palms. ‘The Hebrew was sent bound to the Sadducee Annas after midnight, then to the halls of his son-in-law, Caiaphas. A private interview was conducted. At dawn He was led to that lavish architectural monstrosity the Praetorium ... But Pilate has washed his hands of the matter.’

Jotapa ran to catch up with Aretas. ‘The Hebrew does not need your intervention,’ she cried, breathlessly.

‘Jotapa – do you not grasp the severity of the situation? Your brother and the Hebrew are in grave danger.’ Aretas stopped dead in his tracks. ‘My daughter, I did not want to tell you this, but you have forced my hand.’ He sighed. ‘At this very moment, the Hebrew stands before Herod Antipas.’ Jotapa started to shake violently from head to foot.

‘But Herod loathes the Hebrew,’ she whispered. ‘It is certain?’ Jotapa gasped, hardly able to speak, for the ice-cold vice that gripped her heart. Aretas nodded. ‘The wicked prince that once was my husband will slay Him in cold blood, just as he did the Baptist.’

‘No.’ Aretas shook his head firmly. ‘The coward Antipas suffered a great political setback from murdering the Baptist. He will be more circumspect with the Hebrew. Indeed, he may well revert the whole matter back to Pilate. Zahi is still free, as are the others of those they call His disciples ... But the Hebrew has many powerful enemies, both among the Sanhedrin and in Rome. You must be brave, Jotapa. Yohanna prepares the horses as we speak. I leave for Jerusalem with my royal guard to consult with Pilate immediately.’

‘No, Father!’ she cried. ‘The Hebrew would not want you to use your influence.’

‘I swore to protect Him!’ Aretas roared. ‘And I would protect Zahi!’ Aretas’ hands trembled violently.

‘My son...’ Aretas took a deep breath, fighting for control of his emotions. ‘My son ... is an academic, a studier of scrolls. He is no warrior. The rabble who follow the Hebrew are no match for the Roman armies. I will send my royal guard.’ He turned his back on Jotapa and walked back towards his royal tent. Then stopped in mid stride. Haggard. ‘I
must
send my royal guard,’ he whispered.

Jotapa looked after Aretas, a terrible sorrow on her face. ‘Papa,’ she cried, ‘do you still not know who He is – the Hebrew, the one you so loved?’

Aretas shook his head wearily and continued walking; he turned at the tent entrance.

‘Jotapa, this talk of miracles and wonders and blind eyes that see – my child...’

Aretas looked at her almost pleadingly. Suddenly older, much older than his sixty-seven years.

‘I am a pragmatic man, Jotapa. I am confused. Thirty years is a long time not to see and yet still to believe. You tell me that my first-born, the son of my loins, is healed, but I have not seen Zahi. I know not whether it is myth or something more – whether the Hebrew is man or more.’