“Good work this morning, boys,” he grinned before returning to a frenzy of silent belching.
“An archer? With which army?” asked a wide-eyed Theudas.
“Seventeenth legion, under Publius Quinctilius Varus.”
Immediately Yeshua’s mind raced back to the fireside stories of his father’s legionary friend, Caius. This was a legion wiped out in ambush by Germanic tribes. “Were you in Germania?” he asked in awe.
On seeing that Yeshua knew what this meant, he simply replied, “Indeed I was. And I’m pretty sure, I’m the only one that’s not still there!”
“He can knock a sparrow off its perch at a hundred paces,” said Yudah with friendly pride.
“And that’s just with my breath!” added Amram as a prelude the next round of belches.
Yeshua wondered how a professional soldier had become anti-Roman. Had he been a deserter? Or perhaps regarded as such? Had he been spurned by the Romans when he returned from the front as a sole survivor? His mind was full of questions that he dared not ask. Yet, despite this unspoken curiosity, the atmosphere of the garden remained light, bringing further but still much needed comfort to the brothers. No secrets were hidden. Yeshua was surrounded by people who not only knew of his escapades, but who regarded the morning’s action as normal, perhaps even commendable. This awareness was deeply comforting. So too was the knowledge that the company who took the news of this assassination in stride were not insane or bloodthirsty criminals, nor were they altogether strangers. It was a comfort superficial and short-lived, and although the Egyptian knew this, it was welcome for as long as it lasted.
Eventually a pause in the conversation, brought about by Amram and Yudah lifting their cups to their mouths in coincidental unison, inexplicably drew everyone’s attention to the gatehouse. Another familiar figured appeared as if on cue.
“Kaleb!” Yudah moved from his seat with his oversized equivalent to a leap. The host’s free arm extended toward the Pharisee’s left shoulder.
Kaleb, radiating untold energy and warmth, acknowledged Yudah and graced his host with formality, but made straight for Yeshua and Theudas as though he were being freshly acquainted with old friends. “Brothers! As I said at the synagogue, you have my support,” the Pharisee smiled.
“But you! This morning! You should be dead!” said Theudas with deep admiration.
“Well, Romans are easily confused,” he chuckled dismissively, but noticed the momentary lift in Amram’s eyebrows. “Most revolutionaries nowadays don’t go for military targets,” he grinned at the archer.
Yeshua tempered his response with calm. The Pharisee’s charisma had immediately overcome his younger brother, but from Yeshua it evoked as much caution as wonder. “We’re not revolutionaries.”
“Well, whatever you are, you have acted for the sake of justice. What are your plans?”
“Our plans are to enjoy Judean wine on this fine summer evening, in this fine company.”
“And rightly so!” laughed the Pharisee. Kaleb’s eyes bored into those of Yeshua with an intensity that, whilst partly unwelcome, brought with it an assurance, a confidence that the God of heaven and earth was silently pledging his allegiance. “This wine will bring you the worthiest hangover. But what are your plans when that hangover lifts?”
Yeshua glanced at Theudas and lost his grin. “Home,” he announced, “with justice for our brothers and our father.”
“Which brothers?” the Pharisee pushed, glancing around at all who were present. “And which Father?” he laughed, as he raised his eyes to heaven. Yeshua was overcome by the sheer weight carried by so few words, so lightly spoken.
“Yeshua doesn’t worship the God of Abraham,” Yudah interjected.
“But he does seek justice?” quizzed the Pharisee. “And whatever you worship, violence begets violence.” Kaleb fastened his eyes again upon Yeshua, who under other circumstances may have given way to their charm. The Egyptian’s current state however, left him only too aware of the mortal consequences this conversation might have. Still, he remained overawed by the realization that the Pharisee’s heroic deeds were a reaction to the deeds done by his own hand that very morning. Kaleb’s searching eyes had penetrated the deepest recesses of the Egyptian’s mind. “Your action has resulted in five more deaths . . . So . . . what must you do?”
“We must do nothing!” said Yeshua with a smile that could barely hide his growing fear. He scanned the others to assess how much authority the Pharisee commanded in this miniature congregation.
“Careful,” said Amram with a grin. “Don’t quote scripture at Kaleb. He’d have you for breakfast . . .” He paused mid-sentence to allow air through his windpipe. The pause was long enough to make Theudas restrain himself from completing the sentence using the very words with which Amram eventually concluded, “. . . if he wasn’t fasting.”
“Ah, but this is a Rabbi’s son!” laughed Yudah with his hand now on Yeshua’s shoulder, apparently stirring them up for the contest but lightening the atmosphere as he did.
“Theudas and I just want to get back home. We have lost our brothers. We have avenged them. ‘An eye for an eye.’ For us it is the end of the story.”
“There are plenty in Israel who would disagree.” Amram’s voice echoed out of his cup as he looked and spoke into it.
“Are you going to stop us leaving?” asked Yeshua, looking at the three men who had begun to look menacing, at least to Yeshua.
“It’s cavalry that stand in your way. Not your friends,” answered Yudah, in as kindly a tone as he could summon up.
Kaleb leaned forward and continued in the sympathetic vein of his host. “I understand you are grieving. But you must know that you are not alone in your grief . . .” The sympathy felt merciless to Yeshua. The Pharisee spoke gently, calmly. “What those Romans did to your brothers was unspeakable. But have you thought about your brothers here in Judea? Do you know what those Romans are doing to the people who live here? For you, the prefect’s actions were tragic. But we,” he lifted his arms to his sides, “we live with this tragedy day in, day out. Yudah brought you to the synagogue today so that you could feel something of it for yourselves.”
Yeshua looked at his brother who was clearly open to the idea of hearing more from Yudah and his guests. Yeshua was having none of it, but had no desire to debate with a zealous Pharisee whose intent clearly ran beyond winning an argument. “I understand what you’re saying. But we’ve played our part. We’ve relieved you of two soldiers . . .”
“And robbed us of five countrymen,” interrupted Amram.
“Your prefect did that, not us!”
“And why did he do that? . . . Because of your violence,” the Pharisee pressed.
“So what you’re suggesting is peaceful?” Yeshua asked Kaleb. He restrained himself from asking why the Pharisee had made no reference to peace in his sermon, when that seemed to be the whole point of the scripture he had read.
“Peace is the fruit of justice,” Kaleb mused.
Amram belched.
“If we move against the heathens, and move now, God will honor our commitment and come to our aid.” The Pharisee’s words hit Yeshua with the force of a sledgehammer. The Egyptian was well accustomed to fierce rabbinical arguments over the finer points of Scripture, over the interpretation of Psalms, and the application of Jewish Law. But those debates had taken place amongst privileged Jews, in the comfort of multi-cultural Alexandria. This present exchange of views was not for the sake of better understanding, nor of winning a debate. It was not taking place amongst wealthy scholars, nor in a political backwater. This was a scriptural debate in