BOOK EXCERPTS
Rome | AD 52
I am late, running along the windswept shores of the Galilee. I splash through the shallows and yell ahead to my friends, who are pushing a boat out into deeper water, beginning to paddle. It is starting to rain, and thunder is booming in the distance.
I yell for my friends to stop, but they don’t hear me. Yet I can clearly hear them laughing and talking, as the afternoon storm approaches. How could they be so stupid as to take a boat out during a rainstorm?
I have to warn them!
I dive into the water to catch them, and everything changes. I’m walking down a dark, cobble-stoned corridor, so dark that I have to wave my hands in front of me, like a blind man, afraid of what I might bump into. Lightning tears the sky outside, but no light penetrates the darkness I am in.
My hands brush the metal bars of a door. It opens with a metallic screech; I enter and stop, listening to the distant echoes. I hear a quiet flapping that quickly grows louder. The flapping becomes a roar, and I imagine a great menacing bird of prey hurtling toward me in the darkness, talons scraping the floor.
I turn and run from the flying beast, desperately looking for my friends to save me. Where is their boat? Where are my friends? I run as fast as I can, but she flies close behind me, her wings whipping the air. I sense her reaching out with giant talons to grab me. Not this way, from behind!
I throw up my hands to stop her, as she shrieks her defiance.
I scream myself awake to perfect blackness. I can’t see my hands in front of my sweat-soaked face, but I can hear everything around me: the rainstorm outside my window, the snores of a prisoner three cells down, water dripping, a distant growl. There, again! Something is moving above me. Now there’s a strong flapping of wings! My heart races again to the memory of my dream, but I quickly realize that this is just a bird. Not a giant bird of prey, but a small bird that could do me no harm.
Yet my heart still races.
I am not sure if I am awake, so I pinch my arm to prove it. My quick yelp proves that I am indeed awake, so the sounds must be real. And they’re clearly coming from my window. How strange. And now it’s cooing at me! I laugh, realizing that my dream was created by the wings of a harmless dove.
Sometimes I can hear birds sing outside my window, reminding me of past beauty and freedom. But in the two months I’ve been here, I’ve never had a single bird actually perch at my window, cooing to me. After all, why would it want to perch above such filth when it could fly away to something much nicer?
Stupid bird!
Yet it is here, some kind of a sign, perhaps. This bird offers a strange new source of hope for me, and I fight against letting that hope grow, for I am resigned to death. But my past experiences won’t allow me to overlook the possible meanings of a dove perched on my window. I am well acquainted with doves.
God must have a great sense of humor to send this silly dove at the hour of my death! I slowly forget about the now-quiet dove, as I take stock once again of the horror of my situation, a prisoner in the jail of the Circus Maximus, Rome’s gigantic amphitheater.
The horrible smells of death and decay surround me. My body is so crippled by the blows of torture, that now I can only crawl around my cell. My one remaining hand is either numb and asleep, or lit with pain and fire.
My missing hand aches and itches as if it were still here. Over and over I reach to wipe my nose with the hand that is nothing but a ghost; my mind and body refuse to believe it’s gone, no matter how much I remind them. I’m amazed that a man’s body can be so absolutely stupid about some things.
I haven’t eaten for two days, refusing
the food brought by the guards. The truth is that I’m no longer
hungry, so I pray and fast for death. But death will not come; it laughs
at me in my dreams.
The words of David’s psalm soothe me, perfectly capturing my situation
and mindset:
“My heart is in anguish within me; the terrors of death assail me. Fear and trembling have beset me; horror has overwhelmed me. I said, ‘Oh, that I had the wings of a dove! I would fly away and be at rest—I would flee far away and stay in the desert.’”
If I were a dove, I would fly out of the narrow window that floats above me, beyond reach of my broken body. It gives me just a glimpse of a small patch of blue sky, rain, and stars. Sometimes it brings an occasional breeze, otherwise relentless heat. If only I could fly away, back to the Galilee, back to Capernaum, back to my dear mother. I see her face at night in my dreams when hope stirs in me, but I’ve forgotten what she looks like when I’m awake. I have forgotten the faces of the people I hold dearest.
Though I can’t see much from inside my cell, I can hear many things: the crowds in the amphitheater, the laughter of the guards, the roar of the lions, and the screams of other prisoners submitting to the power of Caesar and the entertainment of Rome.
Yesterday afternoon, a family of Egyptians was thrown into the cell next to mine. Within an hour of their arrival, they took the mother away for a torture session. The mother begged them for mercy, begged them to let her stay with her children, so she could comfort them. This made the guards laugh.
One said to the mother as he pushed her forward, “The lions will comfort your family very soon. Claudius will be pleased!”
“Pah!” she spat. “I would kill him with my own hands for what he’s done to my people! Bring me to him and I …”
Her words were cut off by the loud crack of her leg breaking. The sound is unmistakable, and I knew immediately what had happened as I lay out of sight below them.
Her scream of agony was quickly cut off, replaced by the sound of them dragging her unconscious body away, while her children wailed in their cell. If I could still feel anything, my heart would be broken again. But my heart is already dead within me, and I feel so little, even now when a dove is calling me back to life. Why should I listen?
Yet in spite of my hopeless situation, I’m constantly reminded that I am a true miracle of God. For the past forty years, I have walked and talked like a normal man, and that is the miracle.
Because, you see, I was born a cripple.
CHAPTER ONE
An Expectant Father
Capernaum | AD 9
My birth town, Capernaum, is a small fishing town located on the northern coast of the Sea of Galilee. In addition to fishermen, many tradesmen and merchants lived off the caravans and abundant trade that traveled the main road between Damascus to the east, and Tyre on the coast to the west.
About 1,500 people lived in our town, depending on the time of year and the call of the fish and trade. Our people were a lively mix of Jews, Greeks, Syrians, Phoenicians, and, of course, Romans. At their worst, the Romans killed and abused us. At their best, they built beautiful buildings, walkways, and temples, not to mention amazing roads and aqueducts. They killed, they built … hey, aren’t the Romans great?
The Roman garrison in Capernaum was led by a principale named Marius. He was tall, with blond hair and blue eyes, which made him an object of scornful affection for many women in the area.
He was a fair man for the most part, and had little trouble with our people, helped in no small part by the decisive way he handled the local uprising, four years before I was born. Four men had been crucified, and the memory alone was enough to pacify the people. Amazing what a few crucifixions can do.
As a result, the elders in the town, in league with the Romans, would not allow zealots or others to incite us in any way. Troublemakers and hooligans were forced to leave, sometimes with help from the Romans.
Capernaum was by and large a beautiful little bustling town, unnoticed perhaps by the world, but cherished by the people who lived there. Because my father, Philip, was a senior rabbi, we lived in one of the better homes, with a cool courtyard and several rooms, including the schoolroom. Our house was directly connected to the temple of my faith: the workplace of my father and a fabulous playground for the first years of my life.
On the day of my birth, my father stayed in his prayer room, pacing back and forth, reading the sacred scrolls and praying. It was against tradition for a father to be in the birthing room, so he had hourly reports brought to him by his beadle, an old man named Rafe.
“What now, Rafe?” asked Philip, as the old beadle wandered back into the prayer room. “What news of my son?”
Rafe stopped and looked at the rabbi with a smile behind his long gray beard. He laughed and said, “And what if a girl, Rab Philip?”
The rab sputtered and began pacing again. “God would not curse me with a girl, after the prayers and offerings I’ve given. Am I not a holy man? Don’t I lead my people with good grace and with the Torah as my guide?”
“A holy man, you are, oh yes,” answered Rafe, “sometimes perhaps too holy. And have you forgotten the Lord’s word concerning the love he feels for all his children, including girls? We don’t sacrifice our daughters to Baal anymore, Philip!”
Philip looked down at the small, stooped old man and felt immediate anger that he would speak to him that way. But Rafe was smiling, and Philip knew he spoke the truth, so his anger diminished. He realized once again that God had given him this beadle to hold him accountable to his ministry and his people.
Taking the beadle into his arms, he kissed him on both cheeks and embraced him. “You’re right, my friend! I will also be happy if it is a girl. But I will be MORE happy if it is a boy!” They both laughed; then they prayed together that God would, in fact, bless the rab with a boy.
Rome | AD 52
Two days have passed, and the dove is still here. I can’t see it, but I can hear its wings flapping in the window alcove. I’m beginning to think that the bird may be wounded, perhaps blown into the building during the storm. That would explain why it’s not leaving and has spent the past days trying to fly away.
It beats its wings so hard, scrabbling on the sill, that I think it may injure itself even more if it doesn’t stop. But it won’t stop, constantly fluttering and trying to fly. It must be tired by now, after struggling nonstop for few days, with no food or water.
Listen to me! I can’t believe I’m beginning to worry about a bird! The guards would laugh at me if they knew. But I hope that they don’t discover this bird, or they might kill it, just for the pleasure.
My guards are all African slaves, as black as night. They speak Swahili when they aren’t forced to use the everyday Greek of the prison; I’ve already learned many new words and phrases of their language, to add to what Zudu taught me years ago.
My guards are proud men, strong in body and completely committed to the needs of their Roman masters. Their bodies are covered with rows of decorative scars. Their hair is braided with beads, and jewelry adorns their ears and noses.
They have little pity because any hope of being released from their slavery is tied directly to the level of torture and abuse they can bring upon the condemned.
Kintu, captain of the five guards that are responsible for my section of the jail, sometimes watches me quietly and does not participate in the loud sport of his men when the work of torture is at hand. He is proud and quiet, and I speak to him when I can, for even though he’s the man charged with killing me, I sense he is a man I can trust.
In addition to the Roman short sword, the guards also carry African spears made of wood, with ornate metal tips. Hanging from their belts is a device about the length of a man’s forearm. It’s made of wood and twine, and beads are woven into the handle. Lion claws are embedded into the wooden slats at the end and held together with twine and sinew.
Many of my sores were given by what they call the “simba udole,” the lion’s claw. I fear it more than their swords, because the wounds do not heal well and have left so many scars on my body that they call me Claw.
They say they are making me Swahili.
Six days ago they took me to the lion’s den again, to “teach me the wisdom of the lion” and to give the lions a taste of me. They laughed as they dragged me down into the bowels of the amphitheater. The smell of meat and wildcat washed over me, their cries and roars filling my head.
We stopped at one cage that housed a single lioness. She paced back and forth within her cage, a protesting growl issuing from her in quiet anger. She was beautiful, sleek, and wild, obviously a new addition to the menagerie of amphitheater animals.
The guards dropped me on the floor, and Kintu said, “See, Claw, she new. She not happy to be here, just like you. She the one to kill you, my friend. We want you to meet her.”
He didn’t laugh or even smile as he said this, but the other guards laughed loudly until Kintu silenced them with a few quick words of Swahili. They remained quiet and lined up in front of the cage.
At Kintu’s command, they began to beat their hands and spears on their legs and chests, in rhythm to a soft chant they sang.
The lioness stopped pacing, sat, and looked at them, as their syncopated chanting and drumming grew louder. I looked at them too, from my place on the floor. I wondered what they were saying. Even in my pain I could tell that this was some way of honoring the lioness that watched them, ears flattened against her head and quiet growls issuing from her throat.
They stopped chanting, and Kintu looked at me and said, “We tell her she meet new friend now. So she know you when she eat you.” At his command, two of the guards lifted me up and dragged me to the cage.
While two of the men kept the lioness back with their spears, the others thrust my arm into the cage between two bars. They pulled the spears away, and the lioness sprang at me as the men laughed. Time slowed down. They had done this to me twice before, and both times I was able to pull my arm away in time.
But not this time. I tried to move my arm out of the cage, but my body wouldn’t obey. I could hear Kintu yell, “Move Claw, or she eat you quick!”
The lioness was in midair, screaming, looking at the arm that lay before her, a target for her rage. I managed to lift my hand a little as she landed on my arm with both paws, her claws piercing deep within my flesh. She roared at me, and her breath was foul. I could feel her heart beat against my arm; it was fast and strong.
I watched in a dream as the lioness ate my hand. She took my hand in her mouth, bit, and turned her head. There was a crunching noise, and my hand was gone. I felt an explosion of pain and fell into darkness. They carried me back to my cell and threw me there.
I awoke after many hours, my stump roughly wrapped in a rag with some kind of strange paste covering it. They say they will not allow me to die until Caesar wills it, and so will continue to feed me until they are ready for me to die.
I cared little about food then, for the pain from my stump filled my head with white-hot agony. I prayed again for God to bring me death. Then the dove came, so maybe death will wait a little while longer.
CHAPTER TWO
A Birth of Hope
Sweet Benjamin who lives inside
Come out, you don’t have to hide.
Your mommy loves you to the moon
Benny, will I see you soon?
Saba, while pregnant with Benjamin
Capernaum | AD 9
My mother, Saba, lay in the birthing room surrounded by her younger sisters, Tala and Gesmele, and, of course, Ismera, the most famous midwife in all of Capernaum.
Ismera was loved by all and respected for her knowledge of life and death, babies and medicine. During a delivery she was completely no-nonsense, but until the hour drew near, she allowed the three sisters to laugh and carry on between the contractions that consumed Saba, relaxing and contracting throughout the day.
As the day wore on, the time between the contractions shortened, and the duration and strength dramatically increased. Ismera examined the birth canal again, smiled, and said, “You are nearly completely separated, my daughter. All is with you, and the Lord is pleased.”
The sisters squealed in delight at this news, but Ismera hushed them and sent them off to prepare hot water, linen strips for bleeding, and willow bark tea to dull the pain.
By now Saba was convinced that she would die, and every contraction felt like an eternity of pain. The pressure within her was so intense that she felt sure her baby would come shooting out of her, like a catapult, at any moment.
The pain in her womb was continuous now. She no longer wanted to laugh with her sisters, and she screamed at them when they returned with the tea, which she eventually drank between contractions.
“I can feel the baby’s head, and his heartbeat is strong,” said Ismera, her arm deep in the birth canal.
“A boy!” whispered Saba, as she lay covered in sweat, waiting in pain for the next contraction. “Philip will be so pleased. I’m sorry that I won’t live to see him grow up.”
“Stop that talk,” said Ismera. “You’ll live. And child, I didn’t say this was a boy. We’ll find that out soon enough, the Lord willing. Now, daughter, I want you to push when I tell you to. Ready … wait … now PUSH!!!”
Saba pushed with all her might. The pain increased, and she felt something shift inside her with intense pain. Pain that dwarfed all that she had felt before, intense and focused. Pain that filled her body and head with excruciating agony.
She screamed, and fainted.
Ismera reached into the womb again, working faster. She moved her left hand around the baby’s head, and then slowly pushed her right hand into the opening on the other side. Firmly grasping the head on both sides, she pulled while simultaneously rotating the baby back and forth. The baby wouldn’t move, even after she increased her force and range of motion.
Ismera had noticed that the baby had stopped moving, and that its pulse was weak and fast. She knew that it had to come out soon, or it would die. She had lost babies before. It happened, as complications naturally occurred and could not be avoided.
But she didn’t want to lose this one. This one was special.
She reached further into the canal, around the head to the neck. And there she found the problem; the umbilical cord was wrapped tightly around the baby’s neck. She couldn’t even get her finger under the cord to move it, so tightly was it wrapped.
“Something’s wrong,” she said softly to herself.
Tala and Gesmele heard her say this and, thinking the baby was dead, began wailing and weeping. Ismera quickly hushed them, and sent them to fetch her more hot water and sharp knives, in case she had to widen the birth canal. Minutes passed. By now the blood flow to the baby’s brain had been completely cut off.
It was dying.
The knives were brought, but just as Ismera was about to cut a larger opening, Saba’s body contracted, and with a gigantic convulsion, Benjamin, son of Philip, was born.
My mother awoke and wept, for she thought that I had died in birth. But then she heard my loud voice and called for me, and we met in love for the first time. They say that I became quiet when they put me against my mother’s breast, and that we stared intently at each other for a long time, before I gave in to the satisfying call of her breast.
After Ismera cleaned my mother, she told her, “Saba, listen to me: your son is beautiful and truly a miracle, for he should have died. It’s possible that he suffered some damage, so you must watch him until the sixth month. If by then he is normal, then you are blessed. Watch him until the sixth month, daughter. The sixth month.”
When my father came to meet me for the first time, my mother said nothing about what Ismera had told her. They say my father danced and rejoiced that night, and a great feast was held in my honor.
My mother prayed and hoped that I would be normal.