Of Such Is The Kingdom, A Novel of Biblical Times in 3 parts

By James M. Becher

Intriguing historical fiction novel of Biblical and Roman times developed from a prize-winning story.

     Step back to Ancient Jerusalem at the time of Jesus and of the Roman Empire, and ask: What could a cynical, non-conformist dry-goods salesman, a disgruntled blacksmith, and a musing mendicant all have in common? The answer: Down deep, they all seek something better. But will they find the true fulfillment they are seeking? 
     The non-conformist, Manaheem, Herod's foster brother, is hired by Herod to foment an insurrection against Pontius Pilate, whom he distrusts. Manaheem recruits the blacksmith, Barabbas, to be the insurrection leader, to the dismay of Barabbas' Godly but fearful wife (when he finally tells her). Will the insurrection succeed? 
    The mendicant, an unfortunate but pensive young man named Timotheus, joins with an older beggar completely unsympathetic to his musings.
    Pontius Pilate sees himself as a weak ruler, but his wife pushes him to be stronger and to even take over Herod's territory. 
    Manaheem re-unites with his former wife, Claressa. In need of more money, he tries twice to blackmail Herod, losing Claressa in the process. Will he win her back? 
    Barabbas, also in need of more money, turns to robbery, enlisting the aid of the two beggars. Will the result be riches or disaster? 
Does redemption lie ahead, and at what cost to those who find it?  Find out in this incredible tale filled with conflict, suspicion, and treachery.

"The story has a powerful message that has clearly been displayed throughout the novel. Mr. Becher takes you through a wide range of emotions from beginning to end. ..... This is a great novel that I'm sure you will enjoy!" -----Rudelle Thomas (Divine Eloquence)

• Language: English
• Publisher: James M. Becher
• Release date: Oct 18, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386903468

James M. Becher

JAMES M.BECHER was born on June 8, 1943, to a Christian family and accepted Jesus as his savior at an early age.  Interested in writing and drama since High School, he graduated from a Christian high school, where he participated in several plays and got A's in English Grammar, and wrote write several short stories, poems, and articles, usually incorporating my faith into his writings.  While attending St. Petersburg Jr. College, in St. Petersburg, FL, he won second prize in a writing contest with a Biblical short story, called "Beggarman-Thief," which now forms part of his first novel.  He attended Bob Jones University, in Greenville, S.C., and then Clearwater Christian College, graduating with a B.A. in Bible-lit.  He went on to Biblical School of Theology (now Biblical Seminary) in Hatfield, Pennsylvania and graduating in 1974 with an M.Div.   Ordained in November of 1974, he served in different areas of Ministry, one of which was a foreign student ministry, which is also where he started writing his first two novels, and also where he met his dear wife, Berenice from Venezuela.  They were married in 1980, and went to Venezuela in 1989 for an extended stay, where, along with teaching English he completed his evangelistic time travel novel,  Impossible Journey, A tale of times and Truth.  Upon returning to the US, he also completed the Biblical novel, Of Such Is The Kingdom.   Also shortly after returning to the US, he began publishing his self-help ezine,  "Inspirational Success Tips,"  his articles from which now form my self-help book Principles of the Kingdom.  Then in 2012, he had the opportunity to preach a Christmas sermon in his church, which resulted in his writing The Christmas Victory, A Gem of A Sermon, All Wrapped Up In A Historical Novel.

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OF SUCH IS THE KINGDOM

PART I:   DISCONTENT AND INSURRECTION

Part I  Chapter 1: 

The Challenge

Plant the right seed to get the right plant.

—Anonymous

IT HAD BEEN A LONG, tiresome trip and a trying search.  The city of Jerusalem was a teeming metropolis, alive with people from all walks of life.  Surely here, he thought, he would find the type of man he was looking for.  Surely, there was at least one man in Jerusalem with insight, drive, and motivation, who could be inspired and trained to lead a small insurrection.

First, he tried the cloth shop owner, a short stocky old man with a withered look about him, whose name, according to the mosaic on the doorpost, was Benjamin.  He first tried to sell the owner some goods, as that was his main line of work.  But the old miser had already stocked up for the next three or four months, so he made a note to check back.  As he wrote, he began talking about the evils of the Romans, and their incessant taxation.  Benjamin never flexed a muscle.  Doesn't bother me any, he said. I'm rich enough to retire. I only keep this shop going for something to do.

He could see that he would get nowhere with this fellow. So, he left politely and thought he would try the other end of the spectrum.  As his black and white carriage passed along the dusty streets of Jerusalem, he caught sight of a beggar, sitting by the side of the road.  Perhaps this was his man.  He stopped the carriage and spoke with the mendicant, who seemed surprised to see a gentleman of his appearance stop and converse with the likes of himself.  As he continued the conversation, he could see that the beggar, who was short of stature and somewhat elderly, was obviously both uninformed and apathetic about the political situation and how it affected his daily life.  The beggar stared blankly at his visitor, apparently puzzled by the whole incident.  He was also clearly offended when the man started to leave without giving him any money.  The stranger apologized, and, opened his pouch, pulling out a handful of small change to drop into the beggar's cup.

So, the stranger thought to himself as he rode along in his unique looking carriage, it's not to be the rich shopkeeper, nor the poor beggar.  Both are completely apathetic to the situation, the first due to his money, and the second because of his ignorance.  No, the type of person he was looking for must be somewhere between the two—perhaps, that brawny blacksmith, whose huge frame caught his eye, as he rode slowly by the large open shop window with the lattice shutters tied on either side.  He pulled the reigns and stopped to get a better view, but the smith  moved.  So, he slowly rode on a little further and was able to catch another glimpse of him through the large open door with the inscription overhead which read:

BARABBAS'S BLACKSMITH SHOP.  

PLAIN AND FANCY METAL WORK. 

He could see right away that this was a hard-working man. Certainly, he was not rich like Benjamin.  Neither did he look to be as ignorant as the beggar was. Yes, this must be his man.  He'd give it a try.

BEADS OF SWEAT POURED from Barabbas's forehead, as the crackling sparks flew upward, some of them hitting and bouncing off of his rough, black leather apron like

so many flitting fireflies.  As he finished the plain bronze plate he had been working on, he hung it up to cool.  He wiped his face with his huge white handkerchief and sighed deeply.  The day had been long, and he was hot and tired—tired of standing over the scorching fire all day, making plane plates and kitchen knives.  He'd had few calls that week for the fancy plates and shields he so liked to make.  If only he were rich like that cloth shop owner who had stopped by a few days ago to replace a kitchen knife his wife had lost.  When Barabbas had asked him how his business was, he'd replied, Not too good right now, but I don't care.  I only keep my shop open for something to do.  If I had this man's money, he thought, then, I could make what I wanted to, or not work at all if I didn't feel like it.

Perhaps, he should try raising his prices and cutting corners.  He did want his family to enjoy the best. But it was the Romans who really bothered him.  They'd take every shekel you made in taxes if they could. And what do they do with it all? He wondered.  This city could certainly stand some improvements.  But any improvements we hear of never seem t' reach us here.  They don't care for our people.  They'd kill you if they got a chance, just like they did my grandfather.  After he’d given them his best efforts, they’d turned on him and crucified him, along with the Spartan captives on the Appian way.  Although Barabbas was only 12 years old, and that was over 40 years ago, he would despise them forever for that.  They're all tyrants, he thought, and murderers at heart!  And the local rulers aren't any better!  There's that putrid puppet, Pilate, always bowing and scraping to that Cyclops, Caesar, and his hired helper, Herod!  Everyone knows they add to the taxes they're required by Rome to collect in order to fill their own coffers.  Laws are passed for their political expediency rather than for the good they might do.  And then there are those Roman soldiers, always parading up and down. They've even added a tax of their own, supposedly for their upkeep.  Yes, things are truly in a terrible state!

All these thoughts were running wildly through his mind that afternoon, when the door opened, and in walked one of them, a Roman soldier in the flesh.  He cringed. The unwelcome visitor inquired about the sword hanging on the back wall, but when told the price, declined to buy it, saying, I'll wait until the next increase in the soldier's tax.  There is another half-shekel raise scheduled, you know.  —As if it wasn't high enough already!  The smith nodded patronizingly, though all the while something inside of him wanted to take the down sword and thrust it into the soldier's back as he turned to leave.  But he thought better of his compulsion and reached for another piece of bronze instead.  As he carried the metal to the hearth, he made every effort to present a calm exterior.

In a moment, the soldier was gone.  Barabbas breathed a sigh of relief as he began the formation of another plate.  But the soldier's exit was soon followed by the entrance of another figure who was very strange-looking.  He wore a pitch-black tunic with a wide white belt and a black hat with a white ribbon.  His stern face sported a big black mustache, but no beard.  The mustache curved down and then up on the sides like one of those fancy door knockers Barabbas used to make.  It connected nicely with his bushy black and white sideburns. He looked very strange indeed, and a bit frightening!  He stood for a minute, looking the place over.  Then, he smiled politely and motioned for the proprietor to come toward him.

Yes, sir? Barabbas said politely, as he carefully laid his work aside and walked to the counter.   I'd have come quicker, only I was working on that plate and was afraid to drop it.  May I help you, sir?  He noticed that, despite the stranger's odd appearance, he still had the look of a Jew about him.

The stranger's penetrating eyes wandered over the profusion of fancy cups, plates, knives, shields, and other objects displayed for sale and rested upon the large sword hanging on the back wall.  That sword there, of what does it consist?

Why, it's made of the finest iron available, sir.  Nothing but the finest.

Well, how sharp might its edges be?

Why, sharp enough, sir.  Sharp enough to split a rock, or pierce a wall, or—or—or—

Or, ventured the stranger, lowering his voice, slit a Roman soldier's throat?

Yes!  Or slit a Roman soldier’s throat, confound 'em!  Now I've gone and said it, haven't I?  I’ve finally said what's been brooding inside of me.  I suppose you're one of 'em in disguise, or one of their spies.  Well, arrest me, if you will, and have done with it.  Our lives are without hope anyway under your wretched tyranny!

The stranger smiled benignly.  Relax, my friend, relax. I'm Roman in citizenship only.  . . .by no means in sympathy.  Despite my divergent appearance, do you not see the Jew in me?  I was born a Jew, just like you.  But I was raised in a somewhat different environment.  Having the chance, I determined to be my own man, to dress, talk, act, and think as much as possible on my own, without any outside influence.

Then, you are not a true Jew.  Barabbas was still on the defensive.  A Jew follows the precepts of the fathers: the law, the prophets, and the Talmud.

I believe in the basic spiritual truth behind these teachings.  But every man must be free to find the meaning of this truth for himself and to apply it to his own life as he sees fit.  It is the spirit of these things that is important, not the letter.  Look at you!  Where has following the letter gotten you?

Barabbas's mind was racing, and he started to speak.  Uh—

But the stranger raised a finger, smiled, and continued:  Ah, but it did my heart good to hear you speak those treacherous words a moment ago.  For, I, myself, feel the same way.  Those Romans are truly tyrants and must be stopped!

Ah-ha! The smith's face brightened.  So! You’re not one of them!  Ah!  I'm safe!  And I have someone with which to share my rebellious attitudes!

Indeed you do! Exclaimed the stranger, who had been glancing toward the doorway every now and then to make sure no one entered.

He now leaned over the counter and spoke more softly and yet more emphatically, so as to ensure his listener's full attention.  And I'm certain there must be more who feel the same way about things as we do!

Most likely. If only they would speak out!

And why do you think they do not?

The smith's brow wrinkled.  I never thought much about that, but the only reason I can think of is fear. We're all afraid to say anything.

Exactly!  If only we could all find each other, as you and I have, and all band together. . . .  The stranger's voice trailed off as he turned and glanced at the sundial outside the window.  I must be leaving now, he added, starting toward the door, but, we shall meet again, my friend.

What about the sword?  Do you want to buy it?

Not at this time.  Perhaps later.  Shalom.  He raised his hand in a parting gesture.  That was all. The stranger left as suddenly as he came.

Yes, he mused to himself, as he untied his two sleek black and white horses, certainly this blacksmith will do nicely.  He made a note of the shop's location.  He then mounted his unique carriage, (long and shiny, black and white.)  He quickly grabbed the reins and in no time the carriage was on its way.  He would go now and report his success.  Later, he would return for another visit with this blacksmith, when the latter had a chance to think and become even more resolute.

AS THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER walked through the shop door and out into the dusty street, Barabbas began to think.  He thought as he closed up shop and got ready to go home.  He thought as he walked all the way up the dirt street to his ordinary looking home.  He thought, Perhaps it would be possible.  If only we could all band together—  That was what the stranger had said, wasn't it?  But, how?  How could it happen?  If only—

Should he tell his wife, or not?  She'd certainly be against the whole idea.  She greatly resented the fact that her father had been brutally executed for plotting against the life of Herod, the great.  She knows things are bad, but she'll just say, We might as well grin 'n' bear it, or We'll get along somehow.  They had gotten along so far. But things were getting worse.  Who knows, he wondered, if another insurrection might not succeed?  If enough people could be gathered together to fight—  But that’s a big if.

Well, too late now for any further mental deliberation.  The ‘little tigers’ had spied him coming and were running out to meet him as usual.  Big and boisterous, short and stocky, petite and ladylike, all three of them descended upon him at once, pulling and screaming.

Shalom, Abba!

Daddy, you're home!

Peace, Daddy!

Peace yourselves, you little bunches o' joy! He said, reaching out his big brawny arms to enfold them.

As they approached the doorstep, she appeared: a tall, thin, golden-haired vision of beauty.  Her apron was still on, as she stepped decisively up to her huge husband, smiling radiantly.  Barabbas!  You're home late today!

But not by much, Deborah dear.  An important customer came in just as I was closing.

Well, come here you big brute and let me feast my eyes upon you!

But it wasn't only their eyes that met.  Mmm, mmm!

Wow! Momma’s kissin' Daddy!

Mmm!  As much as he enjoyed her kisses, his stomach told him it was time to think about supper. Alright, alright!  Enough of this for now! I'm tired 'n' starved half to death!

Supper'll be ready in just a minute, dear.  Come on, sit down and wash your tired feet.  Th' water's already poured.

Can I help y', Daddy? Can I?

ken I?

They tugged and pulled at him from all sides.

I want t' help, Daddy.

Now, Caleb, you helped me yesterday.  It's Jason's turn.

Alright. Then, I’ll get your slippers."

I wanna get Daddy's slippers!

No! I asked first!

Now, you kids stop your bickerin'!  I'll get my own confounded slippers!

I heard that, Barabbas!  You know you shouldn’t talk like that, especially in front of th' children!

Now, Deborah!  All I said was I'd get my own confound—

But you didn't have t' say ‘confounded’!

Oh, alright, then!  I'll get my own slippers!  Confound it!

Barabbas!  When will you learn?  Why, I'll bet you don't talk like that to your customers!  Just because you're home, you think you can—

My foot, Deborah!  You make such a fuss over one little word!  Tend to th' supper!  I'm starved!  The sound of Barabbas's heavy tread upon the bare floor was heard as he walked deliberately to the bedroom.  Then there was a bang, as he flung the door open.  Entering, he grabbed a pair of rough leather slippers and returned to his chair to sit for the washing of the feet by the eldest son, Jason.

When the feet were washed and dried, Jason slipped the sippers on his father's feet and turned to go.

Hey, where do you think you're going'? Aren't you forgetting something?  You know emptyin' th' pan is part of the job.

Sorry, Daddy, I forgot.  He picked up the pan and left.

Barabbas sat and waited.  The joy of being home after a hard day's work had taken his mind away from the mysterious stranger and his exciting challenge.  He was really hungry, and the aroma of Debora's delicious lentil stew wafting through the room made it all the worse.  What could be taking her so long in the kitchen?  But just then, he heard again the patter of tiny feet.

Daddy, supper's ready.

Well, it's about time! I'm half starved to death!

Me too, Daddy!

Now, what could you have done to get so starved? He asked, putting his arm around his little daughter as they walked toward the kitchen table.

I helped Momma clean th' house.

That's my girl!  We'll have to see what can be done about that, he whispered.

As they took their seats, he perused the feast of stew, barley bread, cheese, and fruit before him.  Ah, a meal fit for a king!

Oh. Barabbas!  You say that every night.

After supper, and the reading of the Torah, they got the children ready for bed.  Then, they got ready for bed themselves.  Thus, the night went by without Barabbas telling his wife about the stranger's strange visit.  No need.  He could discuss it with her tomorrow if she was in a better mood, or maybe next week, or next month, or maybe never.

Sleep was long in coming that night.  What was it that the stranger had said?  If only we could all band together—.  But, no! It's utterly impossible.

He glanced at his sweet wife, sleeping so peacefully at his side.  What did she really know of all this anyway?  It wasn't her grandfather whom they crucified for no reason.  She didn't even keep up with all the raises in taxes.  As long as they managed to get by she was happy.  But, he mused, if things keep up, we might not be getting by for long.  If only something could be done!

Then, his mind turned to the stories of the holy scripture: stories like that of Gideon, who defeated the whole Midianite army with only three hundred men; of Samson, who slew a thousand men with the jawbone of an ass; of Joshua and the walls of Jericho; and of Jehoshaphat, who defeated the enemy through song.

The next thing he knew, the golden rays of the morning sun came streaming through his window.  He awakened with a curiously combined feeling of despair and hope.

Part I  Chapter 2: 

Interlude At The Inn

Each age writes the history of the past anew with reference to the conditions uppermost in its own time.

—Frederick Jackson Turner

LEAVING THE BLACKSMITH shop, the strange-looking carriage sped recklessly through the city, almost hitting some of the people that crowded along the roadside.  They stared at it in disbelief, both because of its recklessness and speed and also because of its uniqueness in contrast to the simple unpainted rectangular carts and long transport wagons they were used to seeing pass them on the road occasionally.  Then it hurried onward, northwesterly over the rocky roads, which led toward the seacoast city of Tiberius.  As dusk began turning to darkness, the driver caught sight of an inn, or ‘caravansary,’ a little way ahead. He gave the reins a jerk, and soon the carriage stood before the huge caravansary.  The driver dismounted and led the horses up to the arched iron gate.  Within seconds, the driver, horses, and carriage were standing inside a huge populated quadrangular courtyard.

The somewhat weak smell of human body odor gave way to the more pungent smell of animal life, drawing his attention to the stalls at the other side.  Several men were struggling to get some mules into one of them.  Having untied the horses from the carriage, he led them over to the stalls.  Selecting a stall, he led them into it and closed the door.

I wish it was that easy with these critters! grunted one of the men who were pushing the mules.

Here, let me help.  The stranger added his efforts to theirs.  It was a battle, but soon the mules were securely in the stall.

Thanks a lot for your help.

The stranger shrugged.  Better to help than to hurt as some people do.

True, agreed the man, puzzled at the abruptness of the stranger's reply.

As they began walking back toward the center of the courtyard, the speakers caught, for the first time, a real glimpse of each other's appearance.  Despite the unsteadiness of the illumination from the flickering lamps along the walls, the stranger could see that these men, as well as the group toward which they were walking, were dressed in Roman tunics, but had beards like Jews. He knew what that meant.  They were Herodians, a sect of Jews in favor of Herod's regime.

The other spoke first. Noticing the stranger's odd appearance, he asked, Where are you from, sir, if I may be so bold as to ask?

I just came up from Jerusalem.

I didn't mean that, the man retorted. I meant originally. You look as if you are neither Jew nor Roman.

And you, sir, rejoined the stranger, smiling cynically, look as if you are both!

I am a Herodian.

And I, a dissident, though a Jew by birth, and Roman by citizenship.  And so, we were both wrong, weren't we?

By now they had reached the group seated on the ground.  After a few words of greeting, the stranger turned to go.  But, one of the men in the group called out, Ah, mister!  Will you join us for evening prayers, sir?

I'm afraid I'm quite tired from my journey and shall be quite satisfied to say my own prayers while falling off to sleep.  Thanks anyway.

Another voice from the group blurted, The LORD requires sincere attention to prayers.

I'm sure the LORD will understand.  The stranger turned to go, and then stopped.  But tell me, why do you stick to the Jewish form of worship, while acting and dressing like gentiles?

We are still Jews, said the second man.

And, the first added, we hold onto our beliefs in matters of religion, but in matters of dress and life—

The stranger interrupted. . . . you act like the gentiles.  You've become a sickening mixture of Jew and gentile, just like the leader you support.  He is neither Jewish nor Roman.  Yet he tries to be both.

Now, hold on here! exclaimed the first man.  Are you trying to tell us that Herod is not Jewish?

I thought it was an accepted fact, added another voice, that Herod is descended from a famous Jew.

The stranger chuckled.  A very effective rumor!  It was started by Herod the great to gain the respect of naive Jews like you.  No, Herod is really half Idumean and half Samaritan.  The so-called ‘royal family’ is Idumean.

You mean they descended from Esau, who sold his birthright to our father, Jacob?

The stranger nodded.

The first man grimaced.  But those people have been our enemies for years – ever since they refused to let us pass through their land.

The stranger continued, acting as if he had not heard this last remark.  They had their own identity for a while, but they were defeated by John Hyrcanus about 150 years ago, and became practically Jewish, taking on many of the Jewish ways.  They started taking on some Roman ways when the Romans handed them Judea some thirty years ago.  So, you see, Herod is trying to be both, as you are, but, in reality, he is neither.

Just how do you know all this? asked the first man.

I am a student of history, and of life, as well.

And you have checked out all of this thoroughly?

Painstakingly.

Well, said a skeptical-sounding voice from the group, if you're so much a student of history, tell us: whatever happened to Herod's foster-brother, that Jewish lad who was adopted by Herod's father?

Yes, said the first man, uh, what was his name? Manahius, or Manaheeam or something of that sort I believe.

Something of that sort.  The stranger straightened.  But I'm afraid I can't help you there.  The man seems to have disappeared, speaking of which, I really must do the same. Good night, gentlemen. He sauntered off to one of the rooms, and in seconds, was asleep.

Strange fellow, isn't he? commented the first man.

He couldn't stay for evening prayers, noted the second, but he had time to tell us all about Herod's history.

Do you think he could be right? asked another.

The first man scowled. Of course not!  Everyone knows Herod is Jewish!

The next morning, before the men awoke, the strange-looking carriage and its strange driver were gone.

He certainly was quick to get out of here, whoever he was!

Yeah! Wonder who he was. Well, no matter. To morning prayers, shall we?

Part I  Chapter 3: 

Answers And Questions

In the present moment, the power and intelligence is always available to rightly handle any person or situation.

—Super wisdom Notebooks

THE ROAD TO TIBERIUS led first northeastward and then directly eastward.  Why they made the route so indirect the stranger didn't know.  It would be much quicker, he thought to himself, if it went straight across.  But, that's how they do things these days.

At last, he reached the city.  On he rode, through its main part, and up a steep hill to an obscure back entrance of the grayish grand palace that towered there forebodingly above the city.  There he stopped.  He stepped down from the carriage and tied the horses to one of the trees that grew there.  Then he strode straight toward the door, which was almost hidden by the many vines and flowers that grew along the wall.  He reached knowingly for the latch and entered.

On he strode until he reached another much bigger door, or pair of doors, massive, bleak and bare, yet separated by and enclosed with ornate columns.  How ridiculous they look, he thought, standing there amidst those towers of beauty!  But, after all, that's the style!  Pushing one aside, he entered a hallway.  He passed by the wall paintings, mosaics, frescos, and fancy vases, which were, he thought, ridiculously lavish, and many just plain stupid, though, again, the style of the day.  On he strode until he reached a great zigzagging staircase.  A third of the way up. it slanted to the left, and then, after another third of the way up, it slanted slightly back  to the right. What a waste of space, he thought, and, of time spent climbing the thing!  But, of course, it's what all the other noblemen and rulers have.  He prevailed upon himself to ascend it.  Then, on he strode until he reached a door, plain and brown among the rest, but bearing at its top a Roman eagle and a star of David.  He raised the latch and in he strode.

In his huge, plush chair sat the king himself.  Though only of medium height, he was quite impressive looking in his royal robe, with his full beard and his gold Jewelry.  Beside him was  a small table which held a black box,  His short, golden crown was in his hand. When he was nervous, he would spend hours playing with it, placing it on his head and impulsively tearing it off again, then constantly turning it this way and that.  Stopped short by the sound of the latch, he now simply held it still.  Then, as the door opened, he raised his arm above his head and threw the crown at the black clothed personage who entered. 

Well, Manaheem!  It's about time!  Where have you been, by Caesar?!

The other stepped aside, and the crown hit the wall and went rolling down the floor.  Why, carrying out your wishes, dear brother.  But why, I do not know, except for the pure enjoyment of the intrigue, and the present emptiness of my money pouch, in that order, of course.

Well, you certainly took your time about it!

The other shrugged.  You failed to inform me of any rush. And, even if you had, I doubt I'd have taken heed. I'm not afraid of you, you know.  Though everyone else may be, I am not.  The crown hit the back wall and started rolling back toward them.

Herod scowled.  I'll overlook that for now.  Well, out with it!  What have you found?

"Why a leader, of course, just