Messiah: The First Judgement (Chronicles of Brothers) (33 page)

He sat heavily on a stone chair, ran his fingers through his greying hair. ‘At times, Jotapa,’ he murmured, ‘my imagination runs away with me.’

He turned to her. ‘But I am a king. Kings of Arabia dare not trust their imagination...’ He stared out to the Negev, past the royal hunting parks, to the horizon. ‘...I cannot.’

‘Father,’ Jotapa grasped his arm, ‘remember that day, the day you talked of incessantly when I was but a child – the day the Hebrew took your hand as a babe, and you lost your sight?’ Aretas growled.

‘You used to say, Papa, when you taught me at bedtime when I was a child, that you lost your sight but gained your inner soul.’

Aretas sighed deeply. ‘He will be safe,’ Jotapa declared. ‘It will be a miracle, just like the healing of Zahi and your compatriot, King Abgar of Edessa, and all the other miracles He has wrought. Her eyes glittered with conviction. ‘Let this be your sign, Father.’ She looked into Aretas’ eyes pleadingly.

‘You wear me down, Jotapa!’ he glowered, though the severity of his features gradually softened.

‘Very well.’ He rose wearily to his feet. ‘Let it be as you declare. Let the Hebrew defeat the Roman Empire with His strange powers,’ he proclaimed. ‘I shall tell Zahi that I stay in the North. He and Duza must return here at once under my protection.’

Aretas walked over to the carved altar at the back of the tent and picked up the small wooden cross. ‘The Hebrew shall prove He is a worthy King. I, Aretas, king of Arabia...’ he held the cross high in his right hand, ‘put the King of the Hebrews to the test!’

* * *

Jotapa sat fidgeting, mounted on her black Arab stallion. Next to her, on a second stallion, sat Ayeshe. Ghaliya had packed provisions and water into four saddlebags.

‘Ayeshe...’ Jotapa lowered her voice. ‘You should not ride! My father will have you whipped for accompanying me.’

The old man gave her a broad, toothless smile. “I nursed your father since he was an infant.’ His face was stern. ‘He will not
dare
have me whipped. I am ninety years old. I was there at his side when the Nazarene healed his soul. He became a great king of Arabia, Aretas the Just, lover of his people, because his soul was clean.’ The old man’s voice softened. ‘Your father is ailing, princess. You go for Zahi and the Hebrew; I go for a king’s soul. I will go with you – I have chosen.’

Jotapa nodded. ‘You have chosen well, Ayeshe. Zahi waits for us in Jerusalem.’

Ghaliya’s hands trembled as she curtsied to Jotapa. Jotapa took her servant’s hands in hers; Ghaliya’s eyes were wet with tears. ‘Go, my princess. Be an eyewitness. Return to your father with the stories of our Lord’s victorious armies. He will believe then, and all Arabia will be saved.’

‘I go to Zahi and to the Hebrew, Ghaliya. I will bring back such a report, my father will never doubt again!’

The two stallions raced off into the night. Ghaliya wiped her eyes. Then she turned. Far in the distance, in front of the royal festival tent of meeting, a lantern burned, and a figure stood in the darkness, watching as the stallions galloped away. The light from the moon fell across his face.

It was King Aretas.

Chapter Thirty-five

Antonia – AD 30

The dusty, overcrowded streets of Jerusalem were heaving with the news of the dynamic young prophet’s arrest. Jesus of Nazareth, darling of the masses, was to be crucified. The horrifying whisper had reverberated through the bustling Passover crowd like a blazing wildfire. Women threw their aprons over their heads and wept unashamedly in the streets; crowds of strong men picked up their staves and swords, all making their way through the crammed Passover streets to the Praetorium.

It was barely dawn. The agitated mob of men, women, and children that congregated outside the judgement hall was swelling rapidly. Weeping old women had spun cloth for Jesus; harried young mothers had risen at dawn and baked bread for Him. They held their babes to their breasts, praying fervently for Him. Paunchy middle-aged men who saw their own lost fire of youth in Him clutched swords and clubs, ready to protect Him with their lives.

But the largest of the multitude were the swarming horde of youthful zealots, who, away from the rigid oversight of the Sadducees and Pharisees, all aspired to be like the young prophet from Nazareth. He was their hero. They were determined: today Rome must go. A new and powerful revolution was stirring in the streets of Jerusalem – one that would overthrow Rome. This was their moment; they would fight for Jesus of Nazareth.

Accompanying these youths were thousands from the provinces, who had journeyed to Jerusalem for the Passover, each with a tale of how they had been healed, delivered, touched, transformed, regaling the clamouring crowds with their stories of blind eyes being opened, lame limbs walking, diseased flesh made new.

The youths’ incessant roar rose through Jerusalem’s reddening dawn skies. ‘We want Jesus!’ they cried. ‘Give us Jesus!’

All at once, the glowing skies grew dark with clouds as a freezing wind sprang up blowing eeriely across the mob. Thousands of macabre black chariots surrounded the judgement hall. Invisible to the Race of Men. A hundred of Lucifer’s satanic militia stood, towering at each side of the crowd, led by Folcador and his dark legions. Silence fell upon the crowd as the Roman procurator, Pontius Pilate, dressed in his lavish robes, strode out and sat down in a carved, cushioned chair. He sighed deeply, then nodded to the soldier at his right.

Zahi watched, hardly daring to breathe as Jesus stumbled out for the third time that dawn, shoved roughly from behind by a Roman soldier. Zahi paled in shock. Stunned beyond belief. The crowd stared transfixed in revulsion and horror.

Jesus of Nazareth stood silent under the Praetorium’s colossal wings of white marble. Silent. His chest and limbs an unending mass of bloodied, purple open welts. Blood seeped from His open wounds dripping fresh onto the marble floor next to Pilate’s golden-shoed feet. The once dark, handsome features were battered and bruised, marred beyond comprehension, the high cheekbones bloody and grazed, and Jesus’ eyes, which once held such beauty, were purpled and swollen to almost twice their size. The vibrant, handsome young prophet from Nazareth was almost unrecognizable.

Pilate beckoned Him forward. ‘I find no fault in Him,’ he declared. The procurator nodded once more, and this time a scowling insurgent was dragged onto the podium, next to Jesus.

‘It is your custom that I release one prisoner for you at the Passover.’ He hesitated, surveying the crowd before him. ‘So shall I release for you this “king of the Jews” ... or this murderer, Barabbas?’

Huldah, overlord of the Shaman Kings, signalled to the shaman drummers encircling the arena. In compliance, as one the macabre shamans placed black shofars of rams’ horns to their lips and blew. A low decadent subliminal aria sounded across the crowd, and immediately a strange weblike substance enveloped the young zealots as thousands of minuscule bat-like demons the size of locusts flurried out from the blaring shofars. Their bloodsucking talons ripped into the youths’ scalps, slashing at their ears, noses, eyes. The youths stood, in a trance, oblivious to the demons’ harrassment.

Hundreds of bat-like locusts landed on Zahi’s hair, their talons digging into Zahi’s scalp. Zahi shook himself as if in a strange fog. His mind suddenly filled with strange and unsolicited thoughts. The Hebrew must have lied. He was just a jumped-up prophet from Nazareth, a failure. Why had Zahi left treasuries, a palace, a kingdom, for this failed prophet from Nazareth?’ He clasped his hands over his head. His mind felt numbed, drugged.

Then he stared down at the perfectly formed soft, pink flesh of his hands. This was no figment of his imagination. He shook his head as if to dislodge the errant thoughts. He yearned for the strong, disciplined armies of Arabia to burst through the streets of Jerusalem and carry the Hebrew and His followers away to the sanctuary of Petra. Aretas would not fail him. He would wait. He looked around him, perplexed, at the youths around him who a minute ago had been demonstrating furiously against Caiaphas and the Jewish leaders, screaming for Jesus’ release. One by one, the screaming, passionate voices had quieted as though afflicted with a strange stupor.

An ugly roaring grew from another large group of the gathered youths near where the demons had landed. A belligerent raucous chanting.

‘Not this man,’ they began to hiss in derision. ‘...Bar-Abbas! Give us Bar-Abbas!’ ‘Bar-Abbas! Give us Bar-Abbas!’

Bar-Abbas ... Bar-Abbas ... Bar-Abbas...’ the chanting became inflamed by the hundreds of curious onlookers lingering about the Praetorium grounds in hopes of witnessing some gruesome spectacle. A strange unholy smog filled the atmosphere, and as the crowd began to inhale the tepid air surrounding them, their eyes glazed and their faces grew pallid and grey. Then thousands of dark, hunched wort devourers swarmed like a pack of wolves among the crowd and as the clawed demons spewed a sticky tarlike substance from their fangs, whispering satanic enchantments, a horrifying, new chanting began.

‘CRUCIFY the Nazarene!’ they cried. ‘Crucify the Nazarene!’ The demonized creatures clawed more deeply into their skulls. ‘Crucify Him ... Crucify Him...’ the macabre mantra rose through the skies.

Jesus stared, through bloody, glazed eyes, far in the distance towards the monstrous black chariot that was descending swiftly through the darkening clouds over Jerusalem.

Lucifer lifted his visor, his eyes glued to Jesus’ blood-spattered face. And smiled in triumph.

Chapter Thirty-six

The Place of the Skull

The skies of the First Heaven were eerily silent. Deserted. Nothing stirred save for the eastern horizon that was completely filled by Yehovah’s white-feathered warrior eagles hovering over the steep onyx foundations, under the heights of the clouds.

In supplication. Silent. Waiting.

The twenty-four ancient Kings of Yehovah lay prostrate, their faces flung to the ground in the Gardens of Fragrance. In supplication. Silent. Waiting.

Jether the Just knelt at the entrance to the throne room, his head flung on the jacinth floor. In supplication. Silent. Waiting.

A vast, stormy whirlwind blew from the entrance of the great rubied throne room, and out of this whirlwind burned a great, blazing cloud of blue fire, filled with flashes of lightning. Rumblings and thunderings emanated from its centre. The Great White Throne of incandescent light descended in the Holy of Holies. Seated on the throne was the One whose unspeakable brilliance of His being shone as the blinding radiance of a million, million suns of the brightness of jasper and fiery sardius – the Ancient of Days, Yehovah.

Silent. Waiting. For His only begotten Son. The Prince of Glory. To be crucified at the hands of the prince of the damned.

* * *

Ten thousand times ten thousand of heaven’s great angelic company were gathered in formation on the vast onyx plains of the Mount of the Congregation on the farthest sides of the north of the First Heaven, their heads raised, right hands on their chests, kneeling before their commander-in-chief.

‘My noble Angelic Warriors.’ Michael’s tone was fierce but measured. ‘This day, we face the most exacting undertaking of our Angelic Chronicles. What you are to witness will test your mettle to its very core. We patrol the Place of the Skull as observers. Provocation, no matter how brutal or vile, serves as no justification for reactionary behaviour.’ Michael paused. ‘Discipline. Restraint.’ He paced back and forth, his fist clenched around his sword. ‘Precision. Lucifer and his hordes’ provocation this day will without doubt inflame even the toughest of angelic champions. Draw on every ounce of your rigorous training.’ Michael dropped to one knee. ‘For you will surely need it,’ he whispered. He raised his head to Gabriel, who stood far off on the very top of the gleaming onyx mount, the Sword of Justice raised.

‘Rise, fearsome dread warriors of Yehovah’s armies!’ Gabriel declared.

As one, the Hosts of Heaven rose. Silent. Their noble, burnished faces grim.

Michael lifted the Sword of State and leapt into his chariot. Michael saluted, drew his silver helmet down over his face, then rode followed by the First Heaven’s fearsome angelic legions in their War Chariots.

To the Place of the Skull.

Golgotha.

* * *

Michael rode through the strangely deserted skies of the First Heaven, the First Heaven’s armies thundering behind. His soul was filled with a terrible foreboding.

Swiftly he left behind the shimmering indigo horizons of the Second and Third Heavens, riding the dark flashing thunderbolts, at last entering the strange swiftly falling dusk that was descending over Golgotha like a thick, shadowy veil, drawing ever closer to the Place of the Skull. His angelic host hovered well back in the murky skies.

The sweltering Palestine heat hung heavily in the darkening sky. Through the descending gloom, Michael’s gaze was drawn to three figures nailed to three wooden crosses on the enormous stark boulder. A lone, frail figure was nailed to the centre cross, His hair matted with congealed sweat and blood. Michael stared, horrified, unable to lower his gaze.

Jesus’ head was bowed, His tangled, bloody hair was fallen over His bruised face, His body covered in wounds and putrefying sores, marred beyond recognition, His eyes stared ahead, listless and dull, unseeing, His tendons crushed, His veins lacerated by cruel iron nails. Jesus of Nazareth.