by

It’s a cold night, yet drops of sweat are running down my sides. I’ve got to get this done, it must be settled once and for all. I have no choice. I am leading a group of men up a hill to a garden on the Mount of Olives. We have some torches, but since I’m in the front, I run in darkness. It should be just ahead. Come on, come on! I wish we didn’t have to rely on that snake Judas. I don’t like him. I haven’t liked him from the day he came to make a deal with us.

Judas shouts to turn in here. We do, and sure enough, here is the band of scum among a grove of twisted trees. I step on the hand of the first one. The next one is on hands and knees, trying to shake off his slumber and get to his feet. I kick him in the groin, and smile as I hear him groan. The mob moves on past me into a clearing. The leader they call Jesus, and three of his followers are there at the far edge.

As I push my way towards the front, I see Judas walk Out from the now stationary troop. Slowly but steadily he crosses the empty space, goes right to Jesus and kisses him. "Uhnh," my disgust escapes, and I spit on the ground. Any fool who associates with such a traitor and even trusts him with their money deserves the things we have in store for him.

There’s mob confusion! Jesus asks, "Who do you want?" I fall down. In fact, I fall down again. With rising anger, I shove my way back to the front. My head hurts from too much wine, but I must finish this business.

"We want Jesus of Nazareth," I shout as I raise my club over my head. I pick him out. I’d rather have the whole mess end in a bloody battle here in this garden than the kind of farce that was planned. I almost get to where I can give a good blow. The torch light is reflected in a strange swinging arc right next to my head.

Thwump! I hear a strange sound, and though I don’t feel pain, I am shocked and I somehow understand that I am wounded. I see flashes of light. I taste blood in my mouth. I feel light-headed. Instinctively I raise my hand to my ear nothing. I don’t feel it. No ear. Only a warm sticky goo that must be blood running through my fingers.

"Aaaaaaaaa," I scream, as I sit up, heart pounding, wet with sweat. When I get my bearings and realize I was reliving that night in a dream, I lie back down and think through what happened next. Remembering those events has always helped.

Jesus said to Peter, "Stop it! Put away your sword. The cup my father gave me, shall I not drink it?" Then He reached out and touched my ear.

* * *

My name is Malchus. I am the second son of Benaiah son of Zeturah, servant of the High Priest of Israel. I too was a bond-slave of Caiaphas during the days of the visitation of the Christ, but now that seems so long ago. I am a prisoner in Rome.

Two days from now this city will be the scene of parties and wild extravagances. Caesar will celebrate his birthday, and many people will let their pent-up emotions loose. The streets will fill with crowds and jugglers, singers and musicians. Wine will flow like a river through Rome and many will drop to the ground and spend the night wherever their senses finally drown in the flood.

The rich and powerful will gladly bless Caesar. After all, he’s the one letting them live like kings in their own rights. They will look aside when their slaves and servants get a little rowdy, as long as the revelry stays within limits. They will even give them tokens of appreciation and share with them a tiny portion of their opulent wealth.

The huge mass of slaves and servants will shout and chant, but the unrest and hatred within will not spilt out. They have learned well-there is no resistance against Rome. Rome is supreme. Rome conquers all. Rome is invincible. When the Roman legions conquered their lands and took them as slaves to serve in this great city, all options disappeared. They lived, ate, slept, labored, and breathed, only by the mercy of Rome.

Then come the soldiers. Thousands of them, and thousands more who once were soldiers, but are now too old or too crippled to march Out to battle. Many of the officers have become wealthy. Others bought positions of status with their share of the plunder. But all of them seem to have glazed eyes looking at something far away. Some hide their memories in huge bowls of wine, while others mask their past with the religion of Rome’s destiny and the rightness of their rule. Killing, murder and slavery are justified by this great society. Neither the drinkers nor pretenders will tolerate deviation from Roman domination.

One of these soldiers is Cleomus. He is still on duty, but "limited" as a guard in Rome’s infamous prison system. He’s probably about my age, but looks much older than I in spite of my white-streaked beard. Battles and hardships have taken their toll. A severely wounded, yet not dead left arm, debilitates and hurts him. There is still enough life in the arm for pain, but not enough to hold a shield. Cleomus’ right arm, always strong and powerful, has become massive.

Cleomus compensates for this disability with a pain inspired fierceness and loyalty to Rome or loyalty to whatever he thinks is good for Rome. Good for Rome usually means what’s good for Cleomus. Maybe "good" isn’t the best word, because it’s more like whatever gives vent to his smoldering rage or relieves his pained edginess. His wincing scowl has etched deep furrows on his face.

Cleomus is in charge of the night watch. He is responsible for four or five other guards. He answers to the centurion who oversees this prison for "political" prisoners, as well as the other prison which handles the crime perpetrators. It is, as typical of Rome, a very efficient operation.

My part in Caesar’s birthday party is not yet determined. I have some choice in it. I can swear allegiance to Caesar, and say, "Caesar is Lord!" Or I can be burned like a candle on Caesar’s birthday cake; or I may be tom apart by wild animals in the Arena as part of the entertainment for the party; or I may be a decoration lining one of the streets of Rome as I hang from a cross. Oh, dear God, may it not be the cross. Please, may it not be the cross.

I don’t want to be morbid-but under the circumstances, I am anyway. Maybe I’m bound to be morbid, but let me tell you about different days. I was going to say happier days but some were and some weren’t.

My earliest memories are of the noise and confusion in the Temple in Jerusalem. My father isn’t part of my first memories. I think I blanked him out of those early times because he was gone so much. When he was around, I was frightened by him.

I remember being in the Court of the Women clutching my mother’s leg. There was noise, smoke, strong smells, and crowds pushing and shoving. She spoke harshly to me, "Ouch, Malchus, you’re hurting my leg! Stop it!" I cried. I cried because I was terrified by the surroundings and because Mama spoke so harshly.

She lifted me up and began to soothe me. She tried to point out the things that were happening. As I looked through the Court of Israel where the men were, and to the place where all the smoke and smell came from, I couldn’t see very well. I didn’t want to see either.

I was soon comforted in my mother’s bosom. I loved the feel of her breasts and the warm security there. Everything was fine when I nestled at this source of milk, tenderness and love. For my first three years, her breasts were my source of life.

I had to join my older brother and just watch. Sometimes, when we could get away with it, we put a hand on the exposed skin near where brother or sister was nursing. Usually Mama understood and just smiled at us and shifted away. Sometimes though, especially the older I got, she would say, "Stop that, Malchus." I think those words stung harsher than the rod my father used on us.

Father was proud. He walked among the people with an air that said, "I’m important. Keep your distance." He walked among us the same way.

He took the rod to us when he had to, but there were many times we deserved it and did not get it. I felt he did it because the law said to. It was like he did it to please those people who knew he did it. As far as we were concerned he didn’t care one way or the other, so long as we didn’t embarrass him.

I never liked going to the Temple, and that first fear and discomfort never left me. Whenever we joined the crowds, I started to panic. I didn’t break away as I wanted to, because I was afraid of the rod. This was Father’s big show, and I was certain to get the rod if I ran back home.

Once when I was five or six, I bolted from my mother’s side and ran home. I was sitting by our wall scratching figures in the dirt. "See, I can do what I want. I can be anything. I can come home when I want. I can make all these dirt people, and be happy. I don’t have to go to that terrible place."

Then Father came up the path. He was walking fast. His face was red. He grabbed me. My arm hurt and I tried to pull away. He gripped me like a vise. He dragged me back towards the terrible place. I kicked and screamed, "No! No! I won’t go!. I hate it!"

Father said nothing, but when we came to a tree he broke off a branch and beat me. It wasn’t like any other time. He hit me and hit me and hit me. He stopped because he saw the people around and some of the women had started to stare. Then he pinched my ear, and with my ear leading the way, he dragged me back to Mama’s side. All he said to her was, "Here."

Father never mentioned this again, but often, in the night, I suffered the same beating in my mind. In my dream I was again in that terrible place with the screaming animals and just as I was about to escape, my father would appear and pull me by the ear all the way to the altar. I would be drowning in a sea of blood and one of the priests would come towards me with a sharp knife - at that point I usually woke up screaming in a cold sweat.

Sometimes Mama came and comforted me in the night. As I grew older she didn’t come as much. When I got close to manhood she didn’t come at all. I would lie hot and sweaty on my mat, wide awake. I tried to stay awake, but often sank into a deep sleep with no covers over me. On those mornings, I awoke chilled and sick.

As I approached the age of twelve, I began to feel uncomfortable. I was to become a man, "gadol," a big one, but I really wanted to stay with the younger "katons." Father took more of an interest in me He said, "Malchus, soon I will take you into the Court of Israel and because we are Levites, and I am servant to the High Priest, I will even take you into the Court of the Priests." I did not dare answer, and my father put his own interpretation on my wide-eyed, tongue-tied responses.

Well, the day arrived in spite of all my apprehensions. Just before dawn, father shook me from sleep, "Wake up Malchus, get up." We walked the short distance from our home to the Temple, in pitch darkness. We knew the way well. Lights were gleaming from the Court of Israel and the court of the Priests where the duty priests were already casting lots for the day’s ministry.

The Temple, the terrible place, was even more foreboding in the dark. No crowds, no noise. The animals weren’t even awake when we walked through the huge Court of the Gentiles. Then we entered the Sacred Enclosure and The Court of the Women. That’s where I wanted to stay, but not one person was there. As we walked quickly through the empty Court of the Women Father said: "You will leave this place and no longer be welcome here with the women and children." It wasn’t as if I was going on to something else, but my safe refuge was being taken away. Father put his hand on my shoulder, something I don’t remember happening on any other day of my life. It felt like it would push me through the floor. I stumbled and he removed it for awhile. I was glad it was gone.

Even the Court of Israel had only a few worshippers, but more were coming as the time drew near for the morning sacrifice. We hurried on into the very Court of the Priests. Although we were Levites and thus part of the priestly tribe, we were not priests and should not have been there. I thought, "Maybe God will strike me dead and get me out of this place." No such luck.

Everyone knew Father. "Shalom Eliechim, Benaiah. Who is this man with you?"

I suppose they all meant well, but I wanted to yell, "No! I’m not a man. I am Malchus, and I belong back there in the Court of the Women with Mama and the children, not here with you cruel butchers."

I was glad we didn’t have time to eat because my stomach was doing strange things and the emptiness was a relief. Things were happening and I didn’t want to be conspicuous.

The gray of dawn began to show and things really started happening. A lamb was led Out of the lamb house, and a parade of priests carried all their tools and utensils to the Great Altar.

The Great Altar was huge, and the fire that always burned had just been rekindled. Father said the priests who were on duty that week were from somewhere up north, and they had already cast lots to see who got to do the different things. The first lot was to attend the fire, and the second was to see who got to kill the lamb.

The staggering, just awakened lamb was led to the Altar. A beautiful golden bowl was used to give it a last drink of water. Then its legs were tied. I identified with the lamb feeling like I was tied up.

I was startled by the loud blast of a trumpet. I’d heard the trumpet before, but never from so close. It scared me. My heart raced, which helped me survive the murdering of the lamb. Suddenly, I was enraged. When they cut it open and threw the blood on the altar I didn’t get sick.

The huge, beautiful doors to the Holy Place opened and I felt awe. I could clearly see the big gold vine over the doors and the man-sized clusters of grapes. I knew what was inside. I felt like God was involved with the things going on inside more than with all the bloody stuff out where we were.

More priests went in and trimmed the lamps. I tried to concentrate on what was happening inside because I knew they were hacking the dead lamb and I didn’t want to see it. Then several hundred priests in their robes and turbans came together and drew lots again. This time the one in charge said a prayer and in unison they all said the Shema. "Hear, 0 Israel, the Lord, our God, is one Lord." Goose-bumps covered my arms.

One old priest started dancing and shouting. Father said he drew the lot to burn incense, and so wilt be called rich and holy. He’ll never get to draw the lot for that again no matter how long he lives or how many times his priestly group serves in the Temple. My interest continued to rise.

They chose another priest for something and then most of them left Father said they went to their rooms to change clothes and do whatever they wanted. Amidst all the activity, I saw the musicians and singers getting into their places. Behind us, in the Court of Israel, the stationary men took their places as representatives of the people for the morning sacrifice.

The old priest and two others went into the Holy Place. One carried live coals from the Great Altar, and the other incense, then they left. A hushed silence spread throughout the Temple. I watched a cloud of smoke rise from within the Holy Place. Soon the old priest came Out, too. He lifted his arms and blessed us. I was shocked to hear the name of God actually spoken, but more shocks soon followed.

As the musicians and singers began, my father’s heavy hand was back on my shoulder and he guided me closer to the Great Altar. The smoke and odors exploded all around me. Another priest was putting the butchered lamb on the altar, and then he lifted a handful of innards to show us. I saw the bright yellow fat that covered the kidneys, some organs and intestines in and falling out of his hand, and the blood of the innocent victim running down the priest’s forearm. I started retching.

My head was spinning. I almost passed out and fell into the sea of blood at my feet. When I realized I was standing in blood, I threw up.