Chapter 1

(1)

Vitellius awoke with a start. Fragments of a vague dream gave way to a moonlit landscape. Against the night sky, he saw the outline of his companion, who had nudged him. As he sat down beside him, the situation dawned on him.

"Ridiculous mission," he muttered softly.

His companion chuckled and made himself comfortable in the long grass.

"The fourth watch, your turn," he whispered, and turned onto his side.

A few moments later, snoring was already audible.

Still lying on his back, Vitellius scanned the starry sky. The bright moon told him that the night was already well advanced and that it was his turn indeed. With considerable reluctance, he slowly stood up. His limbs were stiff and clammy. He paced back and forth a few times to loosen them and shake off the sleep completely. Vitellius wrapped the sagum (cloak) around himself and secured it with a fibula (pin). He girded himself and readied his weapons. Then he surveyed his surroundings. Halfway under the shadow of a tree, he saw the enormous stone. In the bright light of the full moon, its curve was clearly visible. Something moved just before the stone. After a moment of squinting, he spotted one of the other soldiers on guard.

Vitellius walked toward the stone and nearly tripped over one of the soldiers scattered on the ground. The soldier mumbled something, turned over, and thankfully continued sleeping. There were sixteen of them in all. Twelve of them had been on guard for the first three watches of the night. The four of them were to stand guard for the last part of the night. "On guard for what?" Vitellius scorned in his mind. The other three were already waiting for him at the stone for a brief meeting.

“Crazy, this guard,” muttered Vitellius, as he walked up.

The others laughed.

“More dangerous than you think,” replied one of them. “That Rabbi’s disciples are capable of anything.”

Vitellius laughed: “They don’t even have weapons.”

“Yes, one of those fishermen from Galilee was waving a sword around.”

“I heard they ran away like rabbits.”

“At his entrance into Jerusalem a week ago, there were crowds cheering the Rabbi loudly. Suppose they all mobilized them.”

“Not a chance. Where were those crowds when He hung on the cross?”

“Yes, who wants a crucified man as king?” one of the others chimed in, supporting Vitellius.

“The greatest danger is that they’ll make a martyr of him.”

“Oh, those Jewish troublemakers will all be completely forgotten after a few months.”

“You forget that He was welcomed as a king.”

“Yes, that’s right, son of David,” someone shouted, the fourth soldier joined in the conversation.

“Ha, yes, a king, crowned with thorns and enthroned on a cross,” Vitellius countered. “Rome has ruined his reputation.”

“No king but the emperor,” the other soldier chimed in.

“I think his followers have learned their lesson.”

“Then why were we put here?”

“That’s what I’m saying, it’s a mad mission.”

The others were silent. The conversation was back where it started. But Vitellius continued:

“They’ll be caught before they even get this monster an inch from its place,” he said, simultaneously striking the enormous round stone in front of the tomb with the flat of his hand.

“Apparently, the Jewish leaders are deeply ingrained in their fear of Him,” one of the others began again.

“Yes, even after His death, they want to keep Him guarded.”

“And for whom?”

“If His followers know what happened to Him, they’ll forget it,” was Vitellius’ reply.

“Were you there then?”

“Yes.”

There was a moment of silence. Then Vitellius resumed:

“Blasted to pieces on all sides.”

He was silent again.

“From head to toe.”

“Then there’s little to be had here.”

“Yes, there’s little left of Him. Hail, King of the Jews!”—Vitellius’ voice shattered the night’s silence.

A few birds flew away in fright.

The soldiers made graceful bows toward the tomb, one after the other, laughing at their own mocking behavior.

Then they dispersed into the garden.

 

(2)

The magnificent patrician residence of the high priestly leadership in northwest Jerusalem was bathed in the bright moonlight. That night, in one of the rooms, Annas suddenly sat bolt upright in his bed, startled. Annas was at the center of power. He had once been high priest of Israel, and now his son-in-law held that position. With several sons as potential high priests, he had even more irons in the fire. Behind the scenes, he pulled the strings. He could make or break the authorities around him.

But in the dead of night, the spiritual leader was at his wits' end. The last fragments of the horrific nightmare from which he had been startled awake, were still visible in the retinas of his wide-open eyes.How long he sat staring into space afterward, he didn't know. He didn't dare go back to sleep. But he also didn't dare get out of bed, for fear of discovering he was still dreaming. Or worse: that the bad dream matched reality.

He remembered only the last horrific details of his nightmare. It was above all the chilling atmosphere of the dream that held him in a steely grip. He fervently hoped that the first signs of day would soon announce themselves and that the first light of dawn would dispel the dark memories of his dream. But no matter how long he waited, it remained dark. He looked around but could detect no sign of the time. All he saw was a faint sliver of moonlight. He tried to think of something else, but his mind was constantly drawn back to the terrifying dream.

He lay back down and stared into the darkness. In the darkness, he saw the vague outlines of the room. He closed his eyes and tried to go back to sleep. But a moment later, sweat broke out all over him. The suffocating dream haunted him. Sounds and voices echoed in his ears. Annas sat up again, sweating all over.

It was impossible. He could forget about sleep for the rest of the night. But even though he was awake, the nightmare enveloped him on all sides. He felt the urge to scream. But he couldn't possibly call for help. Who would come to his cries? Was he perhaps bringing new terrors upon himself? Imagine if he only dreamed he was awake, but his dream still held him captive! And if he were awake and his servants came rushing to him, what would he say? That he was afraid of his own dream, he, the great power behind the scenes of the Sanhedrin?

Annas summoned all his courage and threw back the covers. He let his legs slide down from the bed. His hot feet cooled on the cold tile floor. After sitting like that for a long time, he ventured out of bed. He stood and, step by step, shuffled to the small window through which the moonlight still filtered. He paused at the window. The moon stood, a faithful witness, comforting in the sky. Annas breathed in the cool night air. The stillness of the night made the memory of his dream fade. He turned over and tried to get back into bed. But then fragments of his nightmare came rushing back at him with full force. His hands were sweating. It seemed as if his bed were cursed. Would he ever be able to sleep again?

 

(3)

Someone else who couldn't sleep was Saraf. The boy tossed and turned in his bed. The more Saraf tried to fall asleep, the more awake he became. He felt increasingly warm and threw off the linen sheet. He dozed off for a moment, but a sound in the street suddenly jolted him wide awake again. It was the expectations for the next day that kept him awake. He tried to imagine everything he had to do the next day, but it remained vague. He was very much looking forward to the task he would be performing for the first time in his life, but he didn't know exactly what he would encounter. This made him uneasy.

Saraf was a boy from the lineage of priests who served in the temple. His family belonged to the priestly division of Jakim. The Feast of Unleavened Bread had begun two days earlier, meaning that all twenty-four priestly classes would perform their duties together. Daily, lots were cast among all the young priests his age for various minor tasks to be performed in the temple. He had been assigned one of these tasks. The following night, it was his turn to stand guard above one of the temple gates. His station would be the gate, also known as the chamber of the flame. For the first time in his life, as a twelve-year-old boy, Saraf would perform a task in the temple. For the first time in his life, he would also have to stay awake all night. Staying awake was crucial. The task of guard had to be taken very seriously. His older brother had told him a story that terrified him. All sorts of questions raced through his mind.

Saraf sighed and gave up the struggle. He got out of bed and tiptoed to the window of his room. A sound behind him startled him. Startled, he turned his head. He could rest assured. It was his little brother, turning in his bed—thankfully, sound asleep.

Saraf stared out the window. Above the houses across the square, the gigantic temple building loomed in silver moonlight. It stood out against the dark night sky. Although he had known the enormous building all his life, it still made a deep impression on the boy. Tonight, that was truer than ever. At the sight of the stone colossus, questions welled up inside him. Was he going to stand guard on this side or the other tomorrow? How high above the ground was his guard post, anyway? How cold would it be, standing outside all night? Would he have much trouble staying awake?

Suddenly, his father stood behind him. He was startled.

"What are you doing out of bed so late?" he said sternly.

Saraf said nothing but quickly jumped past his father and back into bed.

Instead of answering, he asked his father a question:

"Were you allowed to stand guard in the temple when you were younger?"

His father hesitated for a moment and sat on the edge of his bed.

“When I was your age, large parts of the temple were still under construction.”

With a sense of relief, Saraf noticed his father joining in his diversionary tactic.

“There were fewer places where guards were kept,” his father continued.

“So you never stood guard?” Saraf asked, half disappointed, half proud that he was allowed to do so.

“Yes, I did,” his father replied.

“Oh, where were you stationed then?”

“Avtinas’ room. It had just been finished.”

“Where is that room?”

“On the south side of the forecourt, directly above the Water Gate. It’s the room where the Avtinas family prepares the incense for the incense offering every day.”

“The south side—is that the side of the temple we see from here?”

“Correct. But you will be keeping guard on the other side of the temple tomorrow.”

“Yes, the flame room.” What happens in that room?

“In the Gate of the Flame, the eternal fire is kept burning. It is a fire that must never go out, just like the fire on the altar. It is a kind of backup fire for the altar. The priests, who serve in the gate, keep it constantly burning.”

“Why must the fire not go out?”

“The fire is a symbol of God and of his love for his people. Many waters cannot extinguish love, and rivers cannot wash it away. Therefore, the fire, as a sign of Him and his love, must not be extinguished.”

Saraf looked into his father’s eyes for a moment. He sensed in his voice that the words meant a lot to him. Then another question occurred to him.

“Should I help with the fire?”

“No, you are on a kind of balcony above the gate. That is the room of the fire.”

“There is no fire there?”

“No, but you do have a good view of the north side of the outer court from there.”

"How high am I then?"

His father looked out the window and thought for a moment.

"A little over twenty yards."

"Is that higher than my window?"

His father burst out laughing.

"That's higher than our house!"

Saraf looked at his father in disbelief.

"That high?"

He felt a pang for a moment, and then something else occurred to him.

"What happens if I fall asleep?"

"And I'm discovered?" his father finished his question.

"Yes, what happens then?" He didn't dare use the word "punishment."

"That certainly won't happen to you," his father replied, not wanting to frighten his son.

"Yes, but...suppose it does happen, what then?"

His father looked out the window again and said nothing. That worried Saraf. He had heard ominous stories from his brother and hoped his father would contradict them.

"Come on, Dad, tell me, what will happen then?" he urged.

His father's eyes were fixed on him again, a serious look on his face. "You'll be beaten with rods and your clothes will be burned before your eyes."

Saraf swallowed and concluded that his brother hadn't made empty threats.

"That's why it's important that you go to sleep right now. Otherwise, you'll fall asleep on watch tomorrow night."

Saraf nodded and said nothing more. He obediently lay down and pulled the sheet back over himself.

"Layla tov" (good night), he said as he turned over.

 

(4)

The chill of the early morning was gathering. A thick layer of morning dew lay over the fields of Jerusalem. Vitellius rubbed his hands together to warm them. His eyes turned to the sky to gauge the time. He had the impression that it was getting lighter and that day was about to break. Disciples, or what was left of them, were nowhere to be seen. He fixed his gaze on the massive round stone in front of the tomb and shook his head with a grin. He was baffled by the Jewish authorities' need for their watch.

Then something happened that would stay with Vitellius for the rest of his life. He was terrified. Several flashes of light shot from behind the massive tombstone across the rock face behind it. The light pulsed in very brief bursts across the irregular rock. Vitellius had never seen such a phenomenon before. The large tombstone blocked the light, but the little that could be seen through the irregularity was still there. The light that escaped through the cracks behind the stone was almost blinding in the dark night. Vitellius covered his eyes with his hands and stood motionless for a few moments. With his hands still over his face, he opened his eyes, afraid they would be affected by the bright light. But there was no light at all. Carefully, Vitellius lowered his hands. The morning darkness had completely returned. He rubbed his eyes. Had he been dreaming? No, that couldn't be, because he was still so blinded that he couldn't see anything in the dawn twilight.

Slowly, his eyes adjusted to the returned darkness. A short distance away, he also saw his three companions standing. He couldn't tell which way they were looking. They must have noticed the flashes of light, too. One of them started and walked toward the stone. Suddenly, he stopped. Vitellius was startled again. High in the sky, he saw something moving. When he looked closely, it looked like a star, drawing ever closer. As the star approached, the surroundings visibly brightened. His heart pounded in his throat as the light grew larger and brighter. He could no longer think clearly and didn't know how to react. With wide eyes, he stared at the light. It kept coming closer, and he saw a figure within it more and more clearly. Frozen with fear, he made out the figure of a man in the brilliant light.

The garden was now bathed in a sea of light. It seemed like a permanent flash of lightning. Instinctively, Vitellius wanted to reach for his sword, but he could not move and stood rooted to the spot. The spear, which he had been clutching tightly, slipped from his hand. Vitellius gasped for breath. He had forgotten everything around him: his comrades, his mission, his place in the Roman army. He felt only the fear of survival and wanted only one thing: to flee, as quickly as possible. But his legs refused to cooperate. As if paralyzed, he stood motionless, watching.

The luminous figure from the sky came very close and touched the ground. Immediately, Vitellius felt a tremor. The ground began to shake. Vitellius could no longer stand and sank to his knees. The earthquake grew more intense. A deafening rumble rose from the earth's crust. The trees swayed wildly, and rocks came crashing down the mountainside. Vitellius tried to stay upright on his hands and knees, wondering if the tremor would ever end. From his kneeling position, he saw the man of light walking toward the large tombstone. It seemed as if he was causing the tremor with pounding footsteps.

Suddenly, the earthquake stopped. The man of light had reached the stone. The entire rock face was bathed in the dazzling light. With the greatest of ease, the man rolled the stone aside, the enormous stone that could barely be moved by ten men. He did so with such force that the stone detached itself from the rock face and rolled for a moment. Vitellius was startled as the stone rolled toward him. Not far from him, the stone toppled over onto its side. Again, he felt the ground tremble. The lightning-like figure turned, walked toward the stone, and sat down on it. Vitellius, seeing the man approaching, dropped flat on the ground, frozen with fear, hoping not to be seen by that terrifying figure. All his strength had drained from him. He lay hidden in the half-tall grass like a dead man. The fact that he was there to guard the grave never occurred to him again.

After lying there for a while, with nothing further happening, the fear slowly subsided. Vitellius dared to raise his head slightly and look around to see if, lying in the field, he could see any of his companions. He saw no one. Like him, they were probably all lying flat on the ground, as if they were the dead, meant to be in the grave.

 

(5)

A cool morning breeze blew in through the window of the high priest's palace, carrying the rustling sound of spring greenery that covered the gardens around the buildings like a beautiful carpet. Malchus was suddenly awake. But it wasn't the rustling breeze that had awakened him. It was something else. The sound came again! It was a mournful wailing that had awakened him. He had never heard anything like it before. Malchus thought he could distinguish a man's voice. He wondered where the sound was coming from.

Malchus was the high priest's most important servant. He had supreme oversight of the palace and was in the service of Caiaphas, the high priest. He also took orders from Annas, Caiaphas's father-in-law, and several other chief priests. Most of his responsibilities were standard, which he had been dutifully performing for years. The entire palace household was meticulously organized. He was rarely called upon for a special assignment, and that was a good thing, because keeping the entire high priestly palace running was a full-time job.

Malchus sat up to listen carefully. But apart from the soothing whisper of the morning wind in the bushes, there was nothing more to be heard. As he listened intently to the strange sound that had awakened him and then disappeared again, his thoughts involuntarily drifted back to what had happened recently. He could still hear, and he was fortunate for that. Three nights earlier, things had looked bleak for him in that regard. Images of that night flashed through his memory. A ribbon of torches through the Mount of Olives—Flickering light reflecting off the swords, spears, and staves of temple servants and legionaries—Whimsical flames illuminating the face and stately attire of the popular Jewish Rabbi—The Rabbi's unexpected action, stepping forward instead of fleeing—The shock that ran through them as He revealed His identity—The utter chaos as they all fell backward. The Rabbi, who, when they had all recovered, spread his arms, requesting safe conduct for his disciples.

Malchus sighed and looked out the window, where the cool air still breathed. He would have preferred to erase the rest of that fateful night from his memory. But he couldn't. In fact, it was precisely those memories that stuck most vividly in his mind—Suddenly, that enormous blow to the right side of his head. He had no idea where it came from—Then that numbness—Then that thundering, throbbing pain—The panic with which he clutched his ear—The search for his ear, the emptiness he felt, and the blood gushing down his hands.

A feeling of nausea washed over him again at the vivid memory. He didn't want to think about it anymore. Involuntarily, he touched his right ear again. As if to check if it was still attached. He still couldn't quite believe what had happened. It was impossible. Nothing like this had ever happened before. But the intense pain, the blood gushing down his hands, and that terrible feeling of numbness had been very real.

The whole incident left him feeling extremely dissatisfied. It bothered him that the matter had gotten out of his hands. His inattention had seriously jeopardized the mission. It was a good thing the Roman legionaries were with him. Otherwise, they might have let the Rabbi go in gratitude for the miracle of his ear. In any case, as the high priest's chief slave, he had completely lost all control at that moment.

Malchus decided to lie down again. He didn't want to think about it anymore and would try to fall back asleep as quickly as possible. Just as he began to doze off, the same groaning sound reappeared. Malchus was instantly wide awake and decided to get out of bed and investigate. He opened the door to his room and walked into the hall. There he paused to listen for the source of the sound. For a moment, he heard nothing. Then it began again. It came from the priests' quarters. To reach them, he had to go down a floor and cross the forecourt to the other side of the palace. The plaintive wailing continued, and Malchus rushed down a flight of stairs and across the forecourt.

He stopped at one of the doors. For a moment, he heard nothing. When it began again, it turned out to be coming from two doors away. It was the door to Annas's large frescoed room. As he stood at the door, he hesitated. Could he simply enter the private chamber of the most important religious man in the country? The groaning continued. One of the other doors opened. It was Jonathan, one of Annas’ sons, who had also woken up by the mournful sounds. Jonathan stood for a moment, listening at his father’s door. Then he opened the door. Malchus followed him. Together they stared at the man, drenched in sweat, his face contorted with fear, gripped by a nightmare. He shook his head wildly and jerked his arms convulsively. “Father!” Jonathan shouted. He tried to rouse him. He finally succeeded with a few short taps on the face. Annas looked at his son with wild eyes. Then he let out a scream of terror and threw the sheet over himself. The nightmare had completely taken possession of him.

 

(6)

Saraf found himself on a huge square platform. Smoke rose on all sides around him. Through the wisps of smoke, he could make out the faint outline of the massive temple building. The air was stifling, and he struggled to breathe. The fires were slowly dying down. Suddenly, Saraf knew where he was. A wave of joy streamed through his heart. He was standing atop the great altar in the temple courtyard, where sacrifices were continually offered.

Sarah walked to the edge of the altar, where he had seen a pile of wood. When he ventured to peek over the edge, he saw a dizzying depth. He quickly pulled his head back. He grabbed a log from the pile and walked through the choking smoke to the smallest of the fires, which was almost out. He placed the log on the smoldering sparks. It began to hiss. The wood was damp.

"What are you doing out of bed so late?" a stern voice sounded behind him.

Sarah turned around. There stood his father in his white priestly robes.

"This fire must not go out," Saraf replied. "It was lit by God Himself long ago and must always burn."

"You don't have to interfere with that!" his father replied.

"The wood is wet." "I need dry wood," Saraf ignored his father.

"We'll do it, you need to sleep," his father admonished.

"Isn't the dry wood in the wood storage?" Saraf continued to ignore his father.

"I'm warning you once more, go to sleep!" his father threatened.

His father walked over to him and tried to grab his arm. Saraf ducked under his father's arm and ran down the slope of the altar. At the foot of the altar, he glanced around. His father had suddenly disappeared again. Only smoke rose from the altar. A sense of urgency washed over him. The fires were all going out. He had to hurry. The wood storage was somewhere in the women's courtyard. He flew up the steps of the Levite choir and ran through the gate of Nicanor. With great leaps, he sped down the semicircular staircase and reached the women's courtyard.

He had to be in one of the four large corner rooms, but which one? There was no one in sight. He heard loud laughter. It came from above. When he looked up, he saw the balustrade surrounding the forecourt packed with women, all laughing at him. Something was wrong. He felt it. The sacrificial fires were going out, and it was his fault. A cold sweat broke out. He looked around wildly. The women kept laughing. Where was he? Which room was it?

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a door open and then close again. A man stumbled out. He walked with a limp, only one eye, and a face shrivelled by fire. Saraf almost dared not look at him when he asked about the wood. Immediately, the man burst into a fit of laughter. His hysterical laughter mingled with that of the women. It was deafening. Saraf fled and flew back through the gate of Nicanor, to the safety of the altar. On his way, he remembered the chamber of the flame. There was the eternal fire. There was solid wood.

Suddenly, he was there. He stood directly above it, on the balcony. Here he would keep watch. And somewhere below him was the eternal flame. He leaned far over the balustrade to see if he could spot the fire anywhere. Suddenly, he lost his balance. He fell. Deeper and deeper he sank. It was as if his fall would never end. With a start, he woke. He lay on the floor next to his bed.

 

(7)

Vitellius still lay flat on the ground near the tomb of the crucified Jewish Rabbi. The mocking humor of earlier that night had turned to fear and terror. He estimated he had lain in the same position for half an hour. His motionless position close to the ground made him easy prey for the morning cold, which found its way to his cramped body through mist, dew, and wind.

Every now and then, Vitellius ventured to peek above the grass to see if the terrifying man of light was still sitting on the tombstone, which had rolled away from the grave. Disappointed, he had already discovered several times that the situation was unchanged. The circumstances were more dire for him than for the others on the guard. He lay closest of all to the stone where the luminous figure had installed itself, and moreover, it was facing him. The soldiers who had been sleeping must have all been startled awake by the earthquake. They had been lying a little further away, and he had already heard at least ten of them running away. Probably everyone had already run out of the garden tomb, and he was the only one left here in the cold.

Suddenly, he heard women's voices. They gradually grew louder. The women seemed to be getting closer. They were probably on their way to the Rabbi's grave. As he carefully lifted his head to see where the voices were coming from, he saw the group of women standing some distance from the tombstone. They lowered their voices and began to confer in whispers. Apparently, they were impressed by the man of light. Unlike the Roman soldiers, however, they did not run away. With his head above the grass, Vitellius saw that the luminous figure turned toward the women. He heard him begin to speak with them. He couldn't understand what he was saying, and at that moment, he didn't care. What mattered was that the mysterious figure was distracted and that he had a chance to escape unnoticed. After first trying to regain some movement in his limbs, Vitellius slowly stood up. He remained crouched, however, as it was already starting to get lighter. Crouched down, he cautiously circled the group of women in a circular motion toward the exit of the garden tomb. Then he broke into a run.

A few minutes later, Vitellius, panting, walked along the eastern city wall. He had stopped running due to severe pain in his side. Never in his life had he felt so miserable. The fear gradually began to give way to a sense of shame. How was it possible that an entire Roman guard would flee from a figure with whom a group of Jewish women were having a friendly conversation moments later? Vitellius stood there, panting. The shooting pains still pierced his side. Never before had he made such a long sprint with the heavy equipment. For a moment, with a pained expression, he peered eastward across the Kidron Brook. The sky was already beginning to turn red. Soon the sun would cast its rays over the edge of the Mount of Olives. He couldn't move fast enough, because despite his vigorous running, he was still numb and chilled. And it wasn't just the cold that was causing it. Fear also still gripped him deeply. In his memory, he saw again the heavenly figure, radiating like lightning, causing an earthquake and brutally opening a tomb. The fear it instilled in him had completely displaced his sense of duty as a Roman legionary. The mission of guarding the tomb had faded completely into the background. There was no way he would ever return to that terrible, fateful place. When the stitches in his side subsided, his first instinct was to find his comrades, who had witnessed the same horrors as he had. To dispel the cold, he made a few sweeping movements with his arms around his body. The trauma was harder to dispel. The memory of the lightning-struck figure filled him with horror again and again. He shifted his thoughts back to his comrades. They had been able to escape the garden tomb earlier because they had been further away from the lightning bolt. He had hoped to encounter them at the garden's exit, but they were nowhere to be seen. They had, of course, been at least as terrified as he was. The question was where he was most likely to encounter them. Surely they weren't foolish enough to report to the Praetorium. Running away from an unfinished mission was practically equivalent to signing a death warrant. Vitellius strongly suspected they had headed for the Jewish priests. After all, they had given them the order. The sheer insanity of that order indicated that the Jews suspected something might happen that night. More leniency could be expected from them than from the Roman tribune. With that thought, Vitellius continued his early morning walk along the city wall.

 

(8)

“Romans.”

“Romans, is that all? Is that what upsets you so much?”

Jonathan sat next to his father’s bed. Behind him stood Malchus, his arms folded. For some time, Jonathan had been trying to figure out what his father had dreamed that night, but the old man seemed to find it difficult to talk about it.

“What kind of Romans? Where were they? What were they doing?” Jonathan asked for the umpteenth time.

Looking away, Annas sighed deeply. Nothing came out. The reluctance to talk about his dream was difficult to overcome.

“If you don’t talk about it, we can’t help you,” Jonathan tried.

Annas continued to stare away. For a few moments, the frescoed room was silent. Slowly, Annas's head turned back towards them. He looked past Jonathan, his face stern, at Malchus. Jonathan also turned his head towards the slave standing behind him. Malchus looked a little surprised at first. Then he shrugged and left the room, closing the door behind him. Apparently, they didn't need him for this. At first, he wanted to run away and prepare for his day's work. But when he realized from the dim morning light that it was still quite early and the sun hadn't even risen yet, he reconsidered. He turned and pressed his ear to the door. Without thinking further, he focused completely on his hearing. But as he strained to hear what was being said in the room beyond the door, the fragment from a few nights ago flashed through his mind. The organ he was now holding against the door lay shattered in the darkness on the floor.

"Roman...dates...temple...angel..."

Malchus had to strain to catch a few words from the room. He couldn't make sense of them. It seemed like an incoherent dream.

"...corridors...ark..."

"Malchus, are you eavesdropping on the high priest?" came a sudden voice behind him.

Malchus was startled. He jumped up immediately and turned his back to the door, looking in the direction of the voice. Maria looked at him with a mocking smile. It was one of the maids, who was already busy with breakfast. From her twinkling eyes, Malchus's gaze drifted to the well-filled tray balanced on her hand. There Malchus saw a Sabich, a dish of eggplant, hard-boiled eggs, hummus, tehina, salad, and parsley, flanked by matzos and olives and a carafe of water.

“This is not for you, but for the high priest,” said Maria when his gaze lingered on the tray for too long.

Malchus didn’t answer and looked at her with a slightly disturbed expression.

“Shall I just let you know right now that you were standing here with your ear to the door, listening in?” Maria continued.

Knowing that she knew as well as he that this was an empty threat, Malchus didn’t react and leaned back in with his ear to the door.

“Put that food down and help me hear what’s being said,” he ordered.

Maria knew her place and listened obediently. A moment later, they were standing together with their ears to the door.

“… my… ark… temp…’

They couldn’t make out much of a story in the few syllables they caught. After listening for a moment, they suddenly heard nothing. Then the door swung open. Malchus and Maria jumped up and were immediately engaged in conversation about breakfast.

“If you have another nightmare like that, you must tell me right away,” Jonathan heard them say to his father over his shoulder. Apparently, he hadn’t noticed they’d been eavesdropping.

“Malchus, can I talk to you for a moment?” Jonathan asked.

“Yes, of course, right now?”

“No, we’re going to have breakfast first. Come to my room right after breakfast.”

“Okay. What’s it about?”

“You’ll hear it soon.”

With that, Jonathan walked back to his room.

 

(9)

“Nathan, are you coming to the table?”

The priest family was reclining for breakfast. On the table lay a loaf of bread, some cheese, a bowl of assorted vegetables, and a knife. Each table had a cup of water. Two seats were still unoccupied.

"Where's Saraf?" Reuben asked.

"What's that to you?" his father asked.

"Am I not my brother's keeper?"

"You're joking. You know he's on guard duty at the temple tonight, right? He's sleeping in this morning. So we won't see him at breakfast this morning."

"Oh, yeah. I forgot."

"And you're your brother's keeper?"

"I told him what happens when he falls asleep."

"Yes, and he was quite impressed."

"Ha, that's the point." We don't want him to get beaten.'

'You could have said it a little more gently.'

'Cry aloud, don't hold back, lift up your voice like a trumpet,' says Isaiah.'

'But doesn't Solomon say something about a wise rebuker for a listening ear?' his father replied.

'I don't know, it's possible. Saraf's ear isn't that listening, after all.'

'He usually listens better than you do,' his mother replied.

'Well, at least he won't fall asleep tonight,' said Reuben.

'Did you fall asleep last year?' his father asked sharply.

Reuben didn't answer immediately.

'Yes, so. That took too long,' his father concluded.

'Just for a moment...', Reuben defended himself, '...and I didn't get caught.'

'Then you were lucky. "I really should give you a good beating now," his father laughed.

Ruben laughed, but not heartily. "Are we even starting yet? I'm starving," he joked.

"We're still waiting for Nathan," his mother replied. "Where's that kid?"

Saraf's family consisted of a daughter and three sons. Saraf was the middle son. His quick-witted older brother could really get on his nerves, but if necessary, he would go in front of the fire for his younger brothers. All that was left was for the youngest member of the family.

"Nathan, where are you?" his mother said impatiently.

"Yes, Nathan, we want to start!" Ruben chimed in, supporting his mother.

Finally, eight-year-old Nathan walked into the room. He sat down and instinctively held his hands over the basin while his father poured water over them from a large jug. Finally, they were ready for the blessing. All five of them raised their hands and heads as Father said,

“Blessed are you, Lord our God, Ruler of heaven and earth, who brings forth the bread of the earth.”

Then he looked happily at his children and said, “Mother, bring the surprise.”

“Mmm… eggs,” said Ruben when she returned.

"Today is a holiday," said Father. "Matilda, can you tell us what holiday we're celebrating today?"

"Bikkurim!" Ruben shouted.

"Very good, Matilda," said her father, turning his head towards Ruben. He blushed because he had spoken out of turn. Looking at Ruben for a moment longer, Father broke off a piece of bread first.

Then Father's gaze shifted back to Matilda and he asked:

"Matilda, do you also know what this holiday means?"

"Matilda shook her head."

Patiently, Father waited a moment for an answer while he topped his piece of bread with cheese and vegetables. The others in the family followed suit, one by one, and soon the family would be enjoying the simple Priest's Breakfast.

When Matilda remained silent, Father said, "Well, Reuben, you tell me then."

"You mean what Bikkurim means? That's that, uh..." Chewing on a piece of bread, he looked up thoughtfully for a moment. When he had finished his mouth, he resumed:

"Yes, that the farmers bring the first fruits of their land to the temple."

"Exactly. And do you remember what they say at the temple?"

"Yes, I remember," Reuben nodded.

"Well, what do they say?"

"Let me think..." To give himself time, he took another bite and looked up again. When the bite was gone, he said, "My father was a lost Aramean. He went to Egypt and grew into a great nation, and then Pharaoh came to harm us, and then the Lord delivered them, and... uh... oh yeah, then the Lord brought us to the land of milk and honey." Something like that?

"You're forgetting something."

"I wouldn't know what," Ruben replied, surprised.

"And look, Lord, the fruits of the land you have given me," came unexpectedly from his younger sister's mouth.

"Well done, Matilda, you've completed that perfectly," Father responded, happily surprised.

"Matilda looked at her older brother with a smile."

He looked back scornfully and said, "That's how I can do it, even when almost everything has already been said."

"And do you know who that 'father' is in that Scripture passage, Matilda?"

Ruben wanted to speak out of turn again, but Father said sternly, "Quiet—I asked Matilda."

"Jacob," Matilda said proudly, his radiant eyes still fixed on Ruben.

"Well done, Matilda," her father complimented. "And you gave a fine introduction," he said to Ruben.

"That was more than just an introduction," Ruben thought. Then he pointed across the table and said, "Hey, there's Saraf!"

They all looked in the same direction. "Hi Saraf, are you awake yet? Don't you have to sleep in tonight?" his mother asked.

"I was woken by a ray of sunlight in my room."

"But you have to stay up all night."

"I already tried to go back to sleep, but..." he hesitated.

"Yes, keep talking," his mother said.

"... There's too much noise."

"Okay, Mr. Saraf, we'll keep our mouths shut," Ruben mocked.

"Come sit with us," his father invited, ignoring Ruben's comment.

"There's a lot of street noise too," Saraf defended himself, sitting down.

"Don't fall asleep tonight, okay? Otherwise..." his brother teased him, shaking his fist.

"Your first watch tonight, Saraf, how exciting!" his mother said, giving Reuben a withering look.

"Yes, I couldn't sleep either because of the excitement," Saraf explained.

"It's okay, the Lord will give you the necessary vigilance tonight," his father said, pouring water from the pitcher over Saraf's hands.

"Can we come to the temple today?" Saraf asked, taking a piece of bread and filling it.

"Oh yes, Father, can we come?" Reuben chimed in, supporting his little brother.

Father laughed at the sudden unanimity as he replied, "It's far too crowded in the temple, and only the priests on duty are allowed there now."

“But may we then accompany you to the temple, and shall we then walk back through the Damascus Gate?”

Here Mother intervened and said: “If you behave well this morning, help your father where necessary, and don’t argue.”

Solemnly and joyfully, the two brothers nodded to each other across the table.

 

(10)

As Jerusalem awoke, a group of Roman soldiers, in hushed voices, were having a vital discussion.

“Where are the rest?”

Vitellius looked at his fellow soldiers with wide eyes. He had just found four of his comrades and was now standing opposite them. They were sitting side by side on the old wall of a small vineyard, opposite the steps leading to the high priest’s residence.

“You tell them, Claudius. You tried to persuade them.”

Claudius stared blankly at the ground.

“Claudius, where are the others?” Vitellius asked again.

Instead of answering that question, Claudius looked up and said, "Wouldn't it be better if we returned to the Rabbi's tomb?"

"Are you out of your mind?" Gaius replied.

"I didn't even go back for a year's wages!" Vitellius retorted. "I lay near that terrible lightning-horror. It's painful when I think back on it.'

'I'm mainly thinking of the consequences,' Claudius reasoned. 'We can still recover our flight now. And perhaps that figure has already disappeared.'

'It's not just about that figure,' Vitellius replied, 'there's something about that Jewish Rabbi! Something mysterious! I spoke to a comrade who was present at his crucifixion, and he told me things you wouldn't believe.'

'What then?' the others wanted to know.

'I myself saw how they flogged Him. No matter how hard and how cruelly and how often He was beaten from his shoulders to his calves, both front and back, hardly a moan came from his mouth. Even during the crucifixion, that comrade said. Very strange. While every crucified person groans in fear and unbearable pain, not a single discordant sound came from his mouth. And then the darkness. After a few hours on the cross, the entire country was plunged into complete darkness in the middle of the day. You all experienced that.’

Vitellius paused, watching the others react. No one said anything.

‘Didn’t you, Claudius?’ Vitellius asked.

Claudius nodded that he remembered.

‘Then his death,’ Vitellius continued. ‘After six hours of utter exhaustion on the cross, a loud cry of triumph arose from his cross, echoing off the city walls and heard far and wide. Immediately afterward came that earthquake. Do you remember, Claudius?’

Claudius stared at a passing farmer but said nothing.

‘That tremor this morning, yes? …’ Vitellius continued, ‘… That was a repetition of the tremendous tremor felt far and wide after his final cry on his cross. I tell you: that Rabbi is a mystery, and that heavenly being has everything to do with Him. There's absolutely no good going on at that tomb. I'm never going back there. I'd rather appear before the tribunal.'

When Vitellius's persuasive words stopped, there was a moment of silence. Life in the city after Passover was slowly starting to return, and the street where they were standing became a little busier.

'And I haven't even mentioned the lightning-like appearance from heaven,' Vitellius added, when the street was quiet again for a moment.

The others remained silent, thus confirming Vitellius's view. Returning to the Rabbi's tomb was not an option for any of them.

'Then there's nothing for it but to report to the chief priests,' Gaius concluded.

'Wait, I still haven't got an answer to my question about where the others are,' Vitellius insisted.

“Are we all going, or would it be better if one of us sacrifices himself?” Claudius asked.

Vitellius resented being ignored and asked again, “For the last time: where are the others?”

Claudius turned his gaze to Vitellius and asked, “What do you think?”

“How should I know?”

“Perhaps you can come up with a better alternative than they can.”

Vitellius nodded and thought for a moment, somewhat flattered by the confidence in his good ideas. Then he said, “Surely they haven’t gone to Syria?”

“No, they’ve returned to the tomb to roll the stone over it again,” Gaius joked.

Vitellius laughed, knowing he had it right. There were few alternatives.

“Vitellius, are you going to tell the priests?”

Vitellius looked up the stairs. At the top, he saw the massive door of the gate to the high priest’s palace.

“Why don’t we go together?” he asked.

“We were just discussing this before you arrived,” Gaius began. “If we all knock together, the priests will immediately sense trouble. That won’t be the case if one of us stands before them alone. That person can then gauge our chances with the priests.”

“That would require a certain amount of discretion,” Vitellius observed.

“A certain amount of what?” Claudius asked.

“Look, you understand,” Gaius said. “That’s why you’re the most suitable candidate for this mission.”

“Fine, I’ll go,” Vitellius responded, flattered again. “But I hope this mission won’t be as much of a fiasco as our first mission last night.”

With that, he climbed the stairs to the high priest.

 

(11)

Annas looked listlessly towards the window. He had just gotten dressed and sat back down on his bed. His breakfast was next to him. He'd barely eaten a drop. It wasn't just his dreams that were bothering him. His conversation with Jonathan about his dreams was bothering him even more. It had put him in a position of dependency. He wasn't used to that. Usually, everyone was dependent on him.

He tried to recall the chaotic conversation. Startled awake from that horrible nightmare, he'd had to recover for a moment. Then he'd talked about it. But he wondered if he'd given up everything from his dream world. The images came flooding back to him, and he realized he'd kept the most shocking things to himself. That's why he could rest assured. Annas knew human frailties. He had indeed made his son solemnly promise not to speak of it to anyone. But that offered no assurance whatsoever. One of Solomon's proverbs came to mind: "The words of a slanderer are like delicacies; they slip into the recesses of the heart." Annas shuddered at the thought that the entire palace would soon know that he was afraid of his own dreams. It was a good thing the slave had been sent away beforehand. He had to banish those dreams once and for all before they took on a life of their own.

There was a knock at the door.

"Yes, who's there?"

"Can I pick up your breakfast yet?" asked Malchus, the slave, as he poked his head in.

Annas nodded.

"But you've barely eaten anything. Aren't you hungry?"

Annas remained silent. He didn't feel like defending himself.

“Did you notice anything from the earthquake this morning?”

Annas looked at him, startled. “No. I didn’t notice anything.”

“Neither did I,” Malchus replied. “But some servants felt a tremor very early this morning.”

Annas didn’t know how to respond. He was still shaken by images from his dream world.

“It was an aftershock of the great earthquake a few days ago,” Malchus continued. “It came from the same direction, from the north of the city.”

“Are there any reports from the city that confirm this?”

“Several reports. The supplier of fresh vegetables reported feeling significant tremors. He lives near the Damascus Gate.”

“And the Temple, have any reports come from there?” Annas asked in an unsteady voice.

“Some young priests who were on guard last night reported tremors that went right through them.”

“Have any new injuries been reported?”

“Not that I know of. Jonathan is already in the process of having someone inspect the high priest’s palace.”

“Why is all this happening without my knowledge? Why wasn’t I informed of this immediately?” Annas demanded.

Malchus hesitated for a moment at the sudden turn in the conversation. “Jonathan said he wanted to spare you because… well, you know why.”

“No, I don’t know!” Annas responded sharply. “I want to be the first to know about everything concerning the temple. And Jonathan knows that. It’s not appropriate for a slave to know what’s going on and for me to know nothing.”

“Fine, I’ll let Jonathan know,” Malchus muttered. To change the subject, he asked, "Have you recovered a bit from your nightmare last night?"

"Nightmare? You mean that dream? Yes, it's fine now. I can barely remember the dream," Annas lied.

"That's good. I'll let Jonathan know that you're involved in everything again."

"Did you discuss anything else with Jonathan, by the way?" Annas asked.

"No, he did mention wanting to talk to me about something. I was supposed to see him after breakfast. But then the news about the earthquake came through."

"That's really not possible. It's taking too much time. Call Jonathan and have him come to me immediately. I want to speak to him myself."

"I will." With that, Malchus left the room.

Annas shook his head. He needed a moment to process everything. He insisted that this important matter could have been discussed long ago. He looked out the window again, wondering what was worse, the aftershock or the fact that he hadn't been informed. It struck him as odd that he hadn't felt anything. True, the reports had come from the North, and his palace was in the South of the city. But he suspected it also had to do with the strange dream world that had gripped him that night. He didn't consider that many others hadn't felt anything either. He concluded that those bad dreams were also to blame for the fact that he hadn't been told anything. This had to stop! He decided not to make a fuss anymore and not to talk about it anymore.

He was startled from his reverie by another knock on the door. It was Malchus again. The servant seemed breathless as he said:

"You must come to the gate immediately. There's a Roman with an incredible story."

Annas froze and couldn't respond. His heart skipped a beat at the word "Roman."

Malchus noticed the old man's hesitation and tried to relieve some of the pressure.

"Just take it easy. He's not going away. I'll tell him to wait for you."

Annas nodded but said nothing. The door closed. Annas suddenly felt overwhelmed by his dream world again. This was exactly like his nocturnal adventure. A Roman arriving with a nonsensical story. Annas stood up and looked out the window. Nature was wrapping itself in its full spring glory. The white splendor of the acacia blossoms blended with the haze of the red Adonis. But the enchanting beauty of nature couldn't charm Annas at that moment. A feeling crept over him that had previously been rather unfamiliar to him: fear. He had always been guided by pride, honor, and boundless ambition. But now, for the first time in his life, he seemed to break down. It was all becoming too much for him. Events tumbled over one another: the grueling trial of the Rabbi from Galilee, the devastating consequences of the earthquake, the dreams, and then now, that Roman, who suddenly, out of nowhere, stood at the gate. Annas turned away from the window and walked toward the door with more hesitation than he would have liked. For a few moments, his hand rested on the knob. Then he walked resolutely toward the forecourt.

 

(12)

A long avenue of stately fig trees lay like a green ribbon along Jerusalem's most impressive buildings. The lush canopy spread out on both sides over the city's wide avenue. It ran from the upper city via impressive staircases and bridges to the Cheesemakers' Valley and led to the northern city wall. This early in the morning, it was still quite cool, and the shadows of the enormous buildings largely merged with those of the rows of trees. Two boys in white priestly robes approached, their father a few steps away.

"Twenty-eight!"

"Twenty-nine!"

Saraf and Reuben had begun counting. They were counting the cracks in the walls of the hippodrome, which was located south of the temple. The priest children had behaved well, and shortly after breakfast and morning prayers, they had set off with their father toward the north of the city. They walked brotherly past the stately, elongated, Roman-style temple of horse racing.

"Thirty-four! Thirty-four cracks," the boys concluded. "And now we're going to look for cracks in the temple building," Reuben announced enthusiastically.

Compared to the colossal temple buildings, the hippodrome seemed a miniature. Once again, Saraf was overwhelmed by the grandeur of Herod's architecture and stood for a moment in admiration.

"Leave the temple to the Levites, Reuben," his father called out. "I'd rather you didn't start counting the cracks in the sacred building."

"Then we'll skip that and continue with the Roman fortress later."

It wasn't hard to distract the boys. They were wide-eyed. The streets and squares of the city were already beginning to fill with the revelry, streaming in waves from all over the surrounding countryside and from far beyond through the wide gates. They were mostly farmers, who had tied the first fruits of their harvest into bundles and carried them with great ostentation through the city streets. A procession of clusters of early grapes, bundles of pomegranates, sheaves of wheat and barley, bunches of olive branches, bowls of honey, and baskets of figs passed before the boys' eyes until their mouths watered. Enjoying "Bikkurim," the feast of first fruits, they walked under the long, leafy canopy of fig trees. By now, they had arrived at the first arch of steps leading to the temple. The boys looked up in awe. The arch was so high that the Hippodrome almost fit beneath it. But they didn't allow themselves much time to look around, because the main road through the city was filled with a loudly singing crowd, accompanied by flute players. The boys knew the song the farmers were singing. They knew it by heart. It was one of the pilgrimage psalms, and they began to sing along with all their heart:

"I am glad when they say to me:

We will go to the house of the Lord!

Our feet are standing

within your gates, Jerusalem!

Jerusalem is built as a city

that is firmly knit together." There the tribes go up,

the tribes of the LORD,

to the ark of the testimony of Israel,

to praise the name of the LORD.

For there are the thrones of judgment,

the thrones of the house of David.”

“Shall we take a look inside the temple?” Reuben tried, growing tired of singing. Like Saraf, he was filled with awe at the impressive splendor of the buildings.

“No, you can’t go there now,” laughed Father. “We went to see the procession of farmers with their firstfruits, didn’t we?”

They passed by the wide steps leading to the temple courtyard and instead went under the enormous gate, past the gigantic walls of the foundation. The enormous stones sometimes measured 45 cubits long and 5 cubits high. Here and there they saw a crack from the earthquake, but they kept their lips closed obediently and respectfully.

Sarah was startled. A deafening sound suddenly erupted from somewhere above the temple, drowning out the chanting pilgrims. The boys stood rooted to the spot, their eyes fixed on their father. He was just as startled as his sons, and together they stared upward for a few moments as the blaring sound echoed through the city, reverberating off countless walls. The passing pilgrims also looked up in alarm.

"Ha, ha!"

They burst out laughing together, for they knew the sound very well. They had just never heard it so suddenly and so close.

“Yes, yes, the shofar. If you’re not prepared for it and you’re close, the sound can suddenly overtake you and scare the living daylights out of you,” Father remarked, and he continued walking. “That was the official end of morning prayers,” he explained. But the boys had already stopped listening, absorbed as they were in the sights of the city.

“Now we can count again,” Reuben remarked as they passed the temple and the enormous Roman fortress. Accompanied by the incessant blast of the shofar, they began to notice the cracks in the foundation.

“I see one already!” he shouted. “And two.”

“And another one! Three!” Saraf called out, not wanting to be outdone. Father struggled to keep the boys' attention now that they had resumed counting. They were approaching the city's northern inner wall, with its enormous gate and a large number of legionaries standing watch. Behind it, Roman soldiers were entering and exiting the fortress from a road that ran along the wall.

"Where does that road lead?" Saraf asked, gesturing upward as they passed under the arch.

"It leads to the west side of Jerusalem, where Herod's palace is," his father replied. "The road is the short connection between the King of the Jews and the Governor of the Romans," he joked. The boys didn't understand the political comment and had already started counting again.

"Thirty-seven!" came the far too cheerful, completely out of keeping with the tragedy of the cracks.

"Thirty-eight!" Reuben shouted excitedly.

Counting, they approached the northern city wall with its enormous viaduct. Once they passed beneath it, the buildings changed. North of the gate stretched a new neighborhood of Jerusalem, with small, newer houses. It was much brighter because they were no longer walking under an avenue of fig trees. The main road they were walking on curved away from the fortress wall and led them through the middle of the new neighborhood. As they left the high walls behind them, they suddenly found themselves walking in sunlight. The buildings were low, and there was much less shade than on the first leg of their walk. What was no less striking were the lines of celebrants bearing their first fruits. Most carried their offerings for the priests in wicker baskets or bundles tied together, but there were also pilgrims carrying their first fruits in beautiful silver and gold bowls.

“There, in the distance, comes a cow with golden horns!” Saraf exclaimed excitedly. Reuben and his father looked in the direction he pointed.

“That’s the beginning of the procession from another place with their first fruits,” Father explained. “At every significant town, farmers from surrounding villages gather on the evening before their collective departure. The next morning, a cow leads the pilgrimage. Its horns are overlaid with gold for the occasion. And see if you can spot any more peculiarities.”

Slowly, they saw the large ox, followed by a new line of pilgrims, walking toward them.

“Yes, I see it,” said Saraf. “He has a wreath of olive branches on his head—beautiful!”

“A priest is walking with them too!” shouted Reuben.

“Shouldn’t you be walking with us too, Father?” asked Saraf.

“I have to go later this week. Today I’m out with you. This afternoon I have a service at the temple,” Father replied.

“What a crowd!” said Reuben.

The three of them were finding it increasingly difficult to push through the crowd. They walked against the current. The main road between the houses was much narrower than the one along the temple, and it was getting busier and busier.

"Come on, boys, let's go this way," Father beckoned.

The streets between the houses were narrower, but there were no pilgrims, and so they soon approached the Northern Wall. Even in the narrow streets, they heard the singing and flute-playing echoing between the city walls.

"It seems almost as busy today as it was during the arrival of the Rabbi from Galilee earlier this week," Saraf remarked, now that he had briefly escaped the commotion.

Father heard what he said but ignored it.

"No," Reuben replied. "There were a lot more people out and about then."

When they reached the city's Northern Outer Wall, they walked along the wall to the Northern Gate. There, the procession of pilgrims surged uninterruptedly into the city, and they had to wait a moment until they could find a gap where they could brave the current for a moment. All the while, hundreds of pilgrims were singing aloud:

“Our feet are standing

within your gates, Jerusalem!”

Laughing, Saraf squeezed between two singing pilgrims outside, where Reuben and his father were waiting for him, and together they walked alongside the long procession through Jerusalem’s hilly landscape. All around, they saw orchards, fringed with magnificent cypress trees. To the right lay a bare rock with caverns that looked like hollow eyes. In front of it spread a plateau with a small forest of upright poles stuck in the ground. Some of these were topped with a crossbeam. Saraf was the first to spot the rock with the poles. He had now seen the procession of first-fruits, and this secluded scene strangely caught his attention. He immediately walked towards it, before the others noticed.

"Saraf!" his father called after him when he saw it.

But Saraf didn't listen and walked curiously towards the hollow-eyed rock with the poles. Reuben was going the same way, so his father followed. Saraf, meanwhile, was walking past the poles and saw that they were covered in red and brown stripes, smudges, and stains, and he immediately realized that he was standing among the "stipes," the poles to which crucified people were nailed. Those enormous stains on the wood were dried blood. He found himself at an execution site. Deeply impressed, he walked between the stakes. He saw that the blood on some of them was still fresh. Meanwhile, Reuben and his father had also arrived at the stakes.

"Father, is this Golgotha?" Saraf asked.

"Yes, son. This is where criminals are executed by the Romans."

"So all the people who were hanged here have something very bad on their conscience?"

Saraf searched for a justification for the unspeakable suffering the hanged men had endured.

"Yes, son, all of them. Without exception."

Saraf stared at one of the signs, which hung above one of the stakes with fresh blood and the patibulum, the horizontal crossbar, still on the stake. What he read there magically transformed his cheerful mood into a melancholy one. Slowly, his lips muttered what he read. And because he couldn't believe what he was reading, he read it like a well-trained young priest, in all three languages in which it was written:

"Iesous ho Nazoraios ho Basileus toon Ioudaion – Iesus Nazarenus, Rex Iudaeorum – Yeshua Hanozri Melech Hajehudim"

The last, Jewish words came out in a choked voice. Saraf surrendered to a sea of grief and despondency. Reuben, shocked, saw the deep sorrow that overwhelmed his little brother, and tears welled up in his eyes as well. The priest father, unable to think of words of comfort, did the only thing appropriate. He stood before Saraf and placed both his large hands on the boy's shaking shoulders. His father's nonverbal support underscored the priest's son's sadness and made it even more profound. Weeping loudly, Saraf let his tears flow freely as he wrapped his arms around his father. Ruben joined them and threw his arms over his father's hands, around Saraf's shoulders. He only understood a fraction of his little brother's sudden grief, but that didn't matter. For a while, they stood there in silence, processing Saraf's sorrow. Even the extroverted Ruben understood that words wouldn't do any good in this situation. The first to speak was Saraf himself.

"Why?" he said, his voice choked with grief. With a tear-stained face, he looked up at his father, as if he were responsible for what he had just seen. Father shrugged, still unsure how to answer his son. There was no rational explanation. He himself was at a loss for what had happened. He looked up, as if he were relaying Saraf's question to God Himself. And perhaps he was. Then he looked back at his son and said:

"Why? We don't know, Saraf." We just assume the Sanhedrin knows what's best for the people.

"Is crucifying Messiah ben David best for the people? You don't believe that yourself!" was Saraf's indignant response.

His father sighed. "No, I don't believe that myself. But was the Rabbi of Galilee really Messiah ben David?"

Sarah's deep sorrow turned to anger. The fire for the Rabbi of Galilee had been burning in his soul for over six months and it could no longer be extinguished. He stamped his feet wildly on the ground and spat his words out at his father:

"Yeshua Hanozri, not the Messiah?! That's impossible! He is Messiah ben David!"

Shocked, their father and Reuben looked at the normally calm Saraf. They didn't know how to respond.

"He is Messiah ben David! Not even a week ago, all of Jerusalem applauded Him." Who else could He be?

Father and Reuben continued to look at Saraf in silence.

"And why didn't I know this?"

Father and Reuben looked at each other but still said nothing.

"Did you know this?"

Father sighed and now looked down.

"Well, did you know this?" It seemed like a cross-examination Saraf was subjecting his family to.

"Yes, Saraf, we had heard about it. But the circumstances—we know nothing about that."

"The circumstances? What do you mean? Why wasn't I told?'

'Well, look how sad it makes you.'

With the mention of his own sadness, Saraf's heart shifted from anger to sadness, and he burst into tears again. Reuben, like a big brother, tried to comfort him again and put his arm around Saraf's shoulders.

'Hush, Saraf,' he said softly. 'Perhaps there will be another Messiah.'

'There is no other Messiah!' Saraf shouted, his voice breaking with rage.