Next installment of my new historical novel: Peter and Paul.
Shimon
raised himself slowly to his feet. Then he sank back again. Another day,
another failure. His chest heaved in protracted, silent sob. More like a
whimper, really. He was who he was, no matter what Yeshûa had called him.
Why won’t you help me?
He
got to his feet again and slowly made his way home. It was a long walk to the
mud-brick hovel he and his band of men called. His mind drifted to that day,
that Thursday, when Yeshûa was betrayed by Yehudi.
That
whole period immediately preceding Yeshûa’s arrest, judgment and even the
Crucifixion was heavily mixed in Shimon’s head. Perhaps it was necessary to
protect his sanity. Too many things happened too quickly. He, whom Shimon
considered invincible, suddenly allowed the lower forces to sweep Him in their
current. None of this made sense. At least not then, not at the time. And even
when He returned for those few days, forty short days during which he saw Him
only a few times, did little to alleviate the painful longing he felt for his
Master.
Yet
now, but a few day before He left them again, the echoes of judgment returned
to him with a force of a tornado. The court of the gentiles filled to the brim.
No, not by the gentiles. By Jews. By Jews all waiting for the Sanhedrin to pass
their judgment.
He
saw bunch of old men, old tired men and their aspiring assistants who
accomplished little in their lives, pass judgment over a man in the prime of
his life, who taught, unflinchingly, the philosophy of love. A man, who’d never
hurt a fly. One man against seventy-one. One man, His hands tided behind his
back. And they dared to pass judgment?
In
the name of what. Tradition?
Even
Pontius Pilate absolved Him. Gave Him his dispensation from any wrongdoing. But
not they. They demanded His blood.
Yes.
This was a true Sanhedrin trial. The trial of death.
Shimon
blinked as he saw, again, the image of Yeshûa standing relaxed, almost
nonchalant, if perhaps with just a trace of compassion for those who judged
Him.
None of this is real…
“None
of this is real, Kepha. Do not be
afraid.” The words lingered in his ears, his mind, his heart.
None
of this is real? Then why can’t I, Shimon, go and face the judges and declare
the Truth taught by you, Master?
Thursday
night and then again on Friday morning. Once wasn’t enough. Not to sate their
pride, to fill their cups with bitterness that would follow their lives to the
end.
“We
demand his death. He claims to be the King of Jews. In the name of Rome, you
cannot allow this!”
They
cried and the masses, the dumb, ignorant masses picking up the chant. Death…
death… death…
Fools.
His kingdom is not of this world.
Shimon shook his head. The images were becoming too real. It
was as if he was about to face the same horrors once again. He quickened his
pace. He hardly noticed that he left the Sanhedrin far behind.
Let
the dead bury the dead, he whispered through clenched teeth.
It
was getting dark. More dangerous. Not from the priests or the corrupt sages;
not from the members of the council, but from ordinary, honest riffraff, who
couldn’t make the ends meet. Yet, at the same time he knew that nothing would
happen to him. Not now. Not yet. There were things he had to do first. Only…
only he needed courage. And in that very moment, for the first time since
Yeshûa had let, he felt, he knew, that that too would come. Soon.
He
didn’t even know how very soon.
(Chapter 3 will
follow)
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