Owl in the Ruins: An Imagined Biography of the Man Who Arrested Jesus

By William Bache Brown

To Never Die is Not the Same as to Live Forever

In first century Jerusalem, Malchus bar Azahar, servant of the priest Caiaphas joins his boyhood friends in a youthful pledge to drive the Romans out of their land. What has begun as youthful bravado quickly turns to deadly serious business when they come under t

• Language: English
• Publisher: William Bache Brown
• Release date: Sep 15, 2020
• ISBN: 9781647463052

Book preview

Part One

Pax Romana

Romans regarded peace not as an absence of war, but the rare situation that existed when all opponents had been beaten down beyond the ability to resist.

-Arnaldo Momigliano The Peace of the Ara Pacis,

Warburg and Courtland Inst 1942, p 228

Prologue

Almost the End

Bodies were scattered about the compound like revelers in a coma after an all-night party, some strewn about the yard, some draped over boards, some in their beds, including Eleazer, his plan almost finished, men, women, and children all with their throats cut. Only ten remained who had become angels of death by drawing lots. They walked in somber silence to the cistern near the wall hissing with flames ignited by fire tipped arrows. Each drew again from the same basket from which he had drawn earlier before the killing began. Each glanced at the shard he had snatched from the basket. Each let the shard fall to the grate. Each then dropped to his knees, bending his neck back to expose his throat in a posture of submissive inevitability. Each except Malchus bar Azahar who had drawn the pottery fragment with a crude dagger sketched on it, more like a tau or a simple cross.

Saying nothing, Malchus, dropped his shard, pulled a knife, still bloody from the night’s task, from his belt, the same sica with which he had over the years dispatched so many Romans and many of his own countrymen, especially priests.

Quietly, quickly, efficiently, he moved behind each of the bowed men and slashed his throat.

When the ninth man tumbled to the ground in front of him, Malchus set his dagger down on the table next him, sighed, and stared at the shadows dancing on the wall.

He had killed often before but always in a passion of revenge. These nine men, however, and all those scattered about the compound were his compatriots, his relatives, his friends. The carnage surrounding him, which had been merciful to the nine hundred plus men women and children compared to what the Romans had in store for them - brutal crucifixion for the men, rape and slavery for the women, and only God knows what cruelty for the children.

Now, the blood of the nine still warm on his hand, it was time to complete the plan. There was one man left to die.

God, forgive me, he cried out, All I have done I have done for you! And what I am about to do I do for you!

He gazed for a time at the crossed lines hastily drawn on the shard of pottery he still held in his hand. It was intended to represent a dagger, but it looked as much like a cross the Romans would use to execute him if they caught him, the cross on which they hung his rival for Rebekah’s sentiments. A smirk came onto his lips as he heard that opponent’s last messages to him, You shall not die until. . . Until what? Malchus could not remember. It didn’t matter; he would die soon, here at Masada, and by his own hand.

He pulled the top of his robe down to reveal his chest, exposing a small pouch hanging by a thong from his neck, a coin purse that held the leathery remains of his right ear, a reminder he kept always with him of the reason he had done all he had done. With his left hand he pushed aside the leather pouch, grabbing the knife from the table with his right. He poised the knife under his own left nipple.

He pushed hard on the handle of the knife, bracing himself for the pain he was sure would come, hoping that peace might be his at last. But he could not force himself to push the knife hard enough to penetrate through to his heart but just hard enough to cause a trickle of blood to run down his rib cage and stain his gathered garment.

Then he strained his head back just as the other nine had done, raising the knife to his throat, the shadows on the wall in front of him made by the flickering torches and the fuller flame of the burning barrier wall dancing like devils taunting him, candelabras like hundreds of Salomes coaxing him to yield his head, half-empty wine cups like revelers urging him on, his own shadow like a hanged man jerking about.

As he gazed at the wall those dancing shadows transfixed him, and he wondered how he had come to this place. Like all young boys he had once dreamed of being a hero, another Samson or even David, instead he stood amidst a tribe of corpses, his early associates of youth long gone, and the people of promise and opulence disappeared. Instead he felt the humiliation of capitulation in succumbing to the Roman Peace.

To him now his own shadow and the shadows of the objects on the table suddenly transformed into young boys running about near the Garden of Olives in mock battles with sticks and makeshift shields. None of the nine at his feet nor any of the nine hundred scattered about the compound were the friends Malchus had once thought he would die with. Where were James and John and Simon and Andrew? Or Judas? Or even Barabbas? And especially where was Rebekah? Oh, his beloved Rebekah, who had abandoned him for that despicable royal pretender Malchus himself had arrested. Perhaps if the Pharisees were right and there was more time after the death he was about to experience he would meet Rebekah again. If, however, the Sadducees were right, all his longing would be over.

So much for the curse of the so-called messiah, he thought, my slit throat will prove him wrong.

Then behind him in the courtyard he heard a steady flapping of wings. He turned and saw an owl lifting through the bizarre shadow-dance on the wall and coursing its way into the night sky.

In the owl’s call he thought he heard again the sound that started it all when he was just twelve years old.

The cry seemed to come from the shadow of a pitcher taking on the shape of the Roman soldier he had seen more than sixty years before pointing at him with an authoritative hand, saying

Come here, boy! I need you…….

1

Encounter with a Soldier

Come here boy! I need you…., a curt voice shouted in Greek.

Malchus and the other boys playing on the steps ascending to Caiaphas’s house where Malchus’s father was inside conducting business with the priest, looked up from their pretend war games to see a Roman soldier in full regalia, standing several yards away on the path along the slope down to the Kidron valley. The same question shone in all the boys’ eyes as they flitted their glances from one to another, Was he talking to me? Each was alert to the fact that if a Roman demanded help, you had to give it, no questions asked.

The other boys were the sons of the fishermen who supplied Malchus’s father Azahar, a wealthy fish merchant, with the fish he processed in Magdala with the abundant salt hauled up from the Dead Sea, then to be shipped throughout the Empire especially Rome itself. There were Simon and Andrew, sons of John of Capernaum, and James and John bar Zebedee. Usually the fish business was conducted in Tiberius, conveniently between Capernaum and Magdala, but this day all had made the trip down from Galilee for Pentecost, one of the three festivals that drew them to the city each year to make the prescribed sacrifices at the Temple. For the boys it was always a special treat to accompany their fathers to the city for the festivals, especially Passover in the spring. Malchus didn’t know how the other boys felt, but he suspected they shared his excitement every time they came to Jerusalem for the festivals that marked the rhythm of their lives. The hustle and bustle of the city was always a welcome change from the quieter pace of life filled with hard work in Galilee, and it afforded them time to carry on mock battles as they waged war against the Roman occupiers.

Yes, they knew they had to obey a Roman soldier, whatever was his bidding, but none had ever before been called on to do so. James and John, who were rolling in the dirt flailing at each other while dust rose all around them, stopped to look up at the approaching Centurion.

The Roman shouted again in Greek, You, boy, come here!

This time the finger at the end of his outstretched arm pointed at Malchus, the smallest of the boys.

The soldier slowly and deliberately lay his shield face down on the ground. Then he undid the scabbard and sword from his belt, laying it in the shield as deliberately as he might put a baby in a crib. Then he removed his shin guards, breast plate, and armor bracelets and placed them on top of the sword. Next, with both hands he removed from his head the helmet with a sideways hair crest decorating the top and placed it on top of the rest of the armor.

He did all this with a deliberation that told Malchus he meant it as serious business. He was not a grown man amusing a group of boys; he was a Roman defining his position in relation to these young citizens of an occupied country.

Though the Roman frightened him, Malchus also secretly felt proud that he had been singled out to do the legionnaire’s bidding. Malchus’s small stature, even for a Galilean, and his slighter build than the other Galilean boys, had always given him a determination to work harder than they, to lift a heavier basket of fish, to fight any of them in jest or for real with more ferocity than they thought him capable of. Even this Roman legionnaire would not intimidate him. He pulled his small body up to its fullest exaggerated height like a cock trying to impress a hen.

The soldier said exaggeratedly as if aware of Malchus’s posturing, You! The little one! He put special emphasis on little. Pick it up!

Malchus mumbled to himself, My worth has nothing to do with my size, no matter what you or my father says.

So twelve-year-old Malchus bar Azahar trotted the thirty yards between him and the soldier, then stopped and snapped to attention in front of the legionnaire, not sure whether he would assert himself by refusing the soldier’s request or by taking it up and showing his companions he could handle it. He knew as everyone in occupied Palestine knew, the soldier had not made a request; he had issued a command. And anyone to whom such a command was given had to comply, even if it meant relieving the Roman of his burden for a whole mile.

James and John, both wanting to save their smaller friend the embarrassment of having to carry the soldier’s burden, piped up almost simultaneously, Let me do it. I am much stronger than he is.

Almost as if they had rehearsed a chorus for this little drama, Malchus and the soldier almost as one said No!, but each for different reasons.

Malchus had something to prove.

The soldier enjoyed the privilege of his position to lord it over others, their pain and humiliation being a source of extra pleasure to him. In that way he was a typical Roman in Palestine - or anywhere else. And he never overlooked the opportunity to exercise his right to demand that a subjected person carry his gear for him for at least a mile.

The soldier waved away the brothers Zebedee.

No! I want him.

The way he said it and the sneer on his face made it clear he did not just want someone to carry his gear under the sweltering noonday sun; he also wanted to make it as difficult as possible. He wanted to humiliate the boy.

The boys, who had been playing soldier with sticks, looked on in awe at the real soldier’s gear, the heavy shield, the iron helmet, the straight flat sword, the spear, the breast mail. Malchus stared at it for a moment wondering what he had gotten himself into. Now up close, all together the gear looked to Malchus as if it must weigh almost as much as he did, even more. But he could not back down now. He would not let the soldier intimidate him, and he could not give his companions the idea he was not up to the task. They were watching, and even though they knew from experience he was a scrapper who would not back down from any of them, Malchus could not let them see him fail in this task.

The other boys, though relieved at not having to bear the burden themselves, were disappointed at the same time. Each would have liked to handle the soldier’s gear, to feel especially the heft of a real sword rather than the twigs each held as his weapon in their make-believe battles.

Hurry up, boy, the soldier bellowed again, this time looking directly at Malchus as if he took delight in choosing this littlest one.

Malchus shuffled up to the soldier and stood outwardly meek in front of him, head bowed, staring at the ground. The Romans were a no-nonsense bunch who did not hesitate to enforce their demands with cruelty. Malchus’s father who was also a no-nonsense man, but a prudent one, would do just about anything to keep the peace and had tried to teach his son to do the same. But on the inside Malchus felt a sense of special choosing. Here was a way to prove himself to his friends. He wished that his father was there to see him.

What’s your name, boy? the soldier barked in Greek.

Malchus bar Azahar, sir, he mumbled.

The soldier glowered at him.

Speak louder, boy!

Malchus, son of the fish merchant Azahar, he replied in his best but halting Greek.

That’s better. Now, Malchus, son of the fish merchant Azahar, have you ever been to the Antonia Fortress? Because that’s where we are going.

Malchus looked across the Kidron Valley to the city on the other side and up at the Temple Mount with the fortress looming above it on the far side of the city. Then he looked back at his companions, Caiaphas’s house behind them, their make-believe war now over in favor of this minor skirmish in the real thing.

Yes, Malchus was tired of being the smallest of the boys and always being protected by them, unless he was scrapping with them. He wanted more than anything to prove to these others he could carry out the soldier’s bidding and tote the heavy burden - but all the way to the Antonia! That would be the challenge of his short life. The first part of the journey might not be too bad as they descended into the Kidron, but going back up to the Temple Mount and climbing the steps up to the court yard would be a tiring task under the noonday sun, but to do that and go beyond up another flight of steps to the fortress while carrying gear that weighed almost as much as he did - Malchus was torn between his bravado and his wish he was somewhere else.

Malchus crouched down, grabbed the shield on each side and stood back up unsteadily. He then held it in front of him like a tray. The breast armor, the helmet with its brush of hair, and the sword rattled from his shaking hands. He took one step and almost dropped his burden. The gear was heavier than he had thought it would be, but not as heavy as the baskets of fish he was used to carrying. He never, however, had to carry a basket of fish across the whole city. It would be a much longer trek through several streets, through the upper city where the wealthy merchants and priests lived and past the theater, in which it was Malchus’s secret desire to perform someday, and finally up the Temple Mount stairways, through the Court of the Gentiles and then up more stairs to the Antonia Fortress itself. In his boy’s imagination, Malchus wondered if part of the weight was from the blood of battle the gear had probably seen, even the blood of a woman and child or two, for attached to the mail armor were several small crowns, medals that had been awarded him. They and the horsehair brush on the helmet declared that this was not just an ordinary soldier.

The soldier’s impatient, Let’s go! drew Malchus’s attention back to his task.

He hauled the tools of war up so that his upper body leaned back until he could stumble along with the burden, sweat already pouring furiously down his face. After a few steps Malchus had to pull his burden up even higher so his upper body leaned back until he could stumble along, determined the other boys would not see him fail by tumbling down the slope into the valley.

The soldier strode ahead, his right hand ever gripping his sica, the smaller dagger in his belt, his other hand carrying his spear.

Malchus struggled to keep up with the soldier, the tapping of breastplate against helmet, keeping time with his staggering steps, sweat streaming down his face, his breath coming in gasps. Yet he fumbled on down the path, the weight of his burden pulling him forward.

If a Roman says you must carry his burden for mile, then you find the strength to carry it for two, his father had told him once, probably not believing Malchus could do it. He had heard his father say once that to keep peace with the Romans was key. Yet he had also heard the growing resentment in the countryside, especially Galilee, sometimes in even his father’s voice, that was spilling over into the city especially at festivals. It was resentment that was growing to discontent threatening to break out into full