Be My Witness: A Christian Historical Fiction Novel

By Ben Lee

Be My Witness takes place in ancient Israel during the period of Jesus Christ's life and teaching. The Jews of Israel are fermenting an uprising against the Roman rule. The rebellious leaders of the Jews think Jesus was the Anointed One, the Messiah who would lead his people from under the thumb of Governor Pilate, relieve them of the burdensome taxation and the Roman Legions' harsh, unforgiving rule, and restore the Throne of David, bringing freedom and peace to all Judea. A young, crippled beggar witnesses the events leading up to the indictment and betrayal of Jesus Christ. Befriended by a wealthy Jew, Joseph of Arimathea trains him as a scribe to aid in his empire-wide business. Thomas the Cripple becomes Reuben ben Ezra and finds himself in a position to know Jesus, then becomes fearful for the Anointed One's life when Jesus refuses the leadership of the uprising to pursue spreading the message of peace and everlasting life promised by His Father, the One God. Could this lowly cripple and his benefactor possibly save Jesus from certain death of the cruel, debasing Roman crucifixion? "Ben Lee's book is well researched and beautifully written. But more than that, it gives the reader a look behind some of the more fascinating aspects of the Bible. You will want to read it as I did in one sitting." -Robert Vaughan. author, The Masada Scroll, and Armor of God.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Aug 1, 2018
• ISBN: 9781641400879

Book preview

Chapter 1

Long shadows deepened into dusk in the narrow winding Jerusalem streets. Full dark would come soon. But night would bring no blessing, just his mother’s latest lover and a promised beating.

Thomas grimaced as he shook the baked clay alms cup. What he heard brought no hope. He had cried out to passers-by the entire day, begging alms until his throat was parched and scratchy. And to what end? A paltry palmful of coppers. It was worth less than a shekel, which was a day’s wages for any common Jewish laborer in the Roman-occupied city.

He would like to stand up to Nahum. But that was a miracle his twisted legs could not manage. Lame from birth, cursed with some unknown sin he could not understand, Thomas had endured the twelve long years since his birth as an outcast. An object of shame and ridicule.

And there is no schooling for a lame son of a whore, he grumbled to himself. But his words carried no anger. That emotion had guttered into apathy long ago.

You are worthless, he could already hear Nahum’s spiteful tirade. Thomas had heard those words screamed so many times. What you bring in does not pay for your food. I do not know why I even let you live?

It was lies, of course. Lies. Nahum took Thomas’ alms and bought wine each day. Naomi’s earnings from the men she serviced bought what food the three of them ate and more wine at night. Thomas knew only death could free him from the daily ritual. Though he yearned for its release, he shied from opening a vein, ending his hopeless existence.

Footfalls against the cobbles dredged him from his misery. Perhaps at this late hour God sent some worthy person to add to his cup . . . ? But Thomas forced the hope aside. God was just a word. A shred of belief a lifetime of abuse had quenched in pain and suffering.

Alms! he cried hoarsely, extending his cup as the footsteps grew closer. Have pity on me, a cripple, I beg you. Have pity on me or I shall starve.

Thomas’ heart caught in his throat as the footsteps paused, then turned his way. Too many for a single man. Two, perhaps? Tall bodies blocked out what sparse light remained, forcing Thomas to crane his neck painfully for a glimpse of their shadowed faces. What he saw drove a shaft of fear through his being. Pharisee.

I-I meant no harm, my master, Thomas blurted, his voice almost breaking. He averted his eyes from the black head covering and the talis, the prayer shawl. I-I only beg for a few coins, a pittance to keep life in this sinful frame. Have mercy on me. Does not God say . . . ?

Is this the one? the elder interrupted Thomas’ murmurings, addressing his companion. Is this the young one you brought me to see?

Thomas’ heart sank at the answer. It is, my master.

Throwing himself forward, Thomas pressed his face against the rich leather of the Pharisee’s sandals and wailed, I have done nothing to merit prison. Even the Temple permits beggars the right to alms under the Law. But if I have offended you, if you must, take what little I have. At least, leave me to die in the streets a free man.

Strong hands lifted Thomas and held him erect. The Pharisee leaned close, compassion softening his expression. Know this, Thomas, son of Naomi, no one shall take your alms. I shall see to it.

You––know of––me, master? Thomas stuttered. I do not understand—

All will be made known in time, my son, the Pharisee promised. But I bring you a question you must answer before Nahum–– he glanced at his companion with a raised eyebrow and receiving a nod, turned back to Thomas. Before Nahum arrives to drag you home.

Thomas was thoroughly baffled. How could they know so much about him? What question, master?

My agents have watched you many days, the rich man said. Some of them in beggar’s rags spoke with you, and at my bidding, tested your wits. That is why I am here.

Surprise left Thomas gaping. I still do not understand why you would seek out a humble cripple?

I have gained great wealth by being shrewd and canny, the Pharisee said with some pride. And I employ no one who is not unswervingly loyal to my house. Do you understand?

Thomas did not. Mutely, he shook his head.

You will in time, the Pharisee promised. For now, I say only that I will take you into my household, treat you fairly, train you as a scribe, and pay you a living wage no man can steal from you. More, I will set a bond servant to be your legs to carry you where you cannot go. And I pledge upon all that is holy not to turn you back into the streets when you are old.

In the dim light, the Pharisee’s eyes radiated the truth of his words. But you must decide now and go with me before Nahum comes. To the world, Thomas the Beggar will simply cease to exist. If you hesitate, he warned. I will walk away, not to return. What say you, will you come?

Thomas was stunned. His crippled limbs began to spasm, and he would have slumped to the ground if the strong hands had not held him securely. Sad memories blew through his thoughts and he banished them. Tears sprang unbidden to Thomas’ eyes, tears he believed he had outgrown, tears that left brown streaks down dusty cheeks.

Somehow he found his voice. I will come with you.

Strong hands that held him scooped him up and cradled him against a muscled chest, but Thomas’ gaze never left the Pharisee’s face. Will you tell me why you do this?

The robed man nodded. Someday--

Night was well upon them as the Pharisee’s manservant carried Thomas through the cramped and winding streets of Jerusalem’s Lower City. Thomas’ patron walked ahead into the torchlight and spoke respectfully to the Roman guards at the Dung Gate in the south wall built in Nememiah’s time by Malchiah, the son of Rechab, who ruled part of Bethaccerem.

Thomas watched, expecting any moment for the surly guards to bar them entrance to the Upper City. But they did not. Instead, they struck right fist to left chest in Roman salute, and waved the small group through.

Who is this man––? Thomas marveled, whose authority extends even unto the Romans?

For a brief heartbeat, the gate captain’s gaze trapped Thomas’ eyes, then the Roman looked away. If he pondered the reasons a rich Pharisee might bring a beggar into the streets of the wealthy, the man’s disciplined countenance hid any curiosity.

Beyond the Dung Gate, the streets widened. The poverty, the filth, and the stench so prevalent in Thomas’ world vanished. Darkness hid fine whitewashed stone walls, gateways that led to interior gardens, and the many-storied houses bedecked in splendor. In his lifetime, Thomas had never passed beyond the imposing Dung Gate, never visited Herod’s Temple.

Though he was of an age to assume the responsibilities of the Law, he had never set eyes on the Temple’s gilded roofs and marble colonnades, much less entered its gates. He had no one to carry him or the price of a dove. If he had asked, Nahum would have laughed uproariously, then backhanded him for his impertinence. Beyond the few streets he knew, the main city of Jerusalem was as foreign to him as the fabled Seven Hills of Rome.

With each step the manservant took, desperation drummed in Thomas’ heart. I do not belong here, he whispered, so low his bearer heard. My presence in this place is an abomination. They will cast me to the dogs. Please! You must take me back.

A chuckle answered him. It is true, a pack of dogs would find little feast on your scrawny frame. Then the voice sobered, softened. Do not fear, my young friend. Trust in the master’s word. He will not betray you.

Thomas swallowed hard. But I am just a beggar. I have nothing to offer.

We shall see, my young friend. We shall see.

Lost in fearfulness, Thomas held his tongue, and the manservant did not try to draw him out. Long and long, they walked through the streets. In time, they passed through another Roman checkpoint at the Fish Gate, built by the sons of Hassenaah in the time of Nehemiah. At last, they came to a high wall with a wide barred gate illuminated by torches in black iron brackets. Before the Pharisee could rap, both gates opened and waiting men ushered them inside.

See that our guest is properly bathed and clothed, the Pharisee said to his manservant in a gentle tone. Then, have him brought to me in the library no matter the hour.

It shall be so, the man replied. When it is done, I shall carry him there myself.

To Thomas’ surprise, the Pharisee nodded respectfully and preceded them past a cascading fountain into the estate. Thomas gaped in wonder at the house which rose above the flagstone courtyard. Torchlight reflected off whitewashed walls three full stories high. Arched windows like gilt jewels decorated the expanse with separate wings joined by arches branching wide from the main structure.

Without haste, the manservant turned away from the courtyard, passed through one of the arches into a large private garden nestled behind one sprawling wing. A cobbled path threaded through the cultivated plots to an isolated single-storied building at the corner of the estate.

Few outside these walls know what lies nestled in the foundations of this structure, Thomas’ bearer confided. My master is jealous of his privacy, so it is a secret he guards well. The temple elders would find it scandalous.

Thomas craned his neck to peer at the manservant’s face. If it is so great a secret, Thomas pressed. Why tell a lowly—

What he holds dear, the man interrupted, his tone unyielding. Became your interests the moment you entered his domain. Those within these walls all serve him with our silence, and with our lives if needs be.

A tremor trailed up Thomas’ spine. But rather than instilling him with fear, it kindled a sense of pride he had never known. In his hard life burdened with the shame and ridicule brought by his deformity, he had never felt worthy of anything. Suddenly, he was trusted with secrets. He felt his heart would burst.

A new sense of purpose burned through him. I shall not betray his trust, Thomas pledged. Now or ever.

See that you do not, the man answered. In time, you will learn the reach of his hands and marvel.

A servant met them in the anteroom. They did not speak, but Thomas sensed a wordless agreement between his bearer and the servant, for the man turned immediately and led them into an adjoining chamber arrayed with stone benches and leather-padded couches.

Easing Thomas onto a polished plain slab, the manservant eyed him with subtle amusement as he untied his linen girdle. Take off your rags, he said simply. But beneath the soft words, Thomas heard a gentle command. They will be burned along with the vermin that infest them, and Thomas the Lame will be no more.

Thomas looked hurriedly about. But I see no other garments, he protested. What will—?

The man chuckled at the boy’s new sense of shame. "This is a unctuarium, he explained. That is a Roman word for the chamber where servants massage oil into the skin of those reclining on couches. He reached down and fingered Thomas’ long greasy hair. They also will cut much of this away to make you more presentable."

He turned, gestured. "Behind that wall is a hidden staircase leading below. First, a tepidarium, a warm room, where you can relax before entering the caldarium, which is hot and steamy. There, a servant will use a strigil, a curved metal tool, to carefully scrape away the excess oil from your body and limbs along with the dirt. He grinned, showing white teeth. Which you, my young friend, have in plenty."

He pulled off his tunic, cast it aside. "Then, we will immerse ourselves in the calidarium, a hot bath, followed by a quick dip in the frigidarium. He pantomimed a huge shiver. Which is a cold bath. Once we emerge, they will rub more oil into your skin, dress you in a new tunic, and I shall take you to the master."

Thomas’ head reeled. All the things he must grasp, it was all so baffling, But his mind focused on the most disturbing—a Roman bath concealed in the foundations of a Pharisee elder’s house.

His companion must have read his thoughts. Do not judge our master unduly, he warned. There is much you do not understand. He carefully treads a balance within two diverse worlds. Although he lives and trades in the Roman Empire, in his Jewish heart, in his Pharisaical beliefs, he holds himself separate from all that is Roman. As you learn more, you will find our master is a most unique man.

Chapter 2

Thomas’ scrubbed skin tingled, as his companion carried him back along the cobble path toward the main house. He slid hesitant fingers along the new fabric that covered him, and shook his head wonderingly. Clad in an unbleached linen tunic, breeches, and girdle—habitual attire of the humblest Judean slaves—he had never worn clothes so fine. His beggar’s rags had all been worn-out cast-offs, at best faded and stained and full of holes. But these . . . . He closed his eyes, sighing, and gave himself to the pleasure of being gently carried.

Why was I chosen? The question plagued him, and he had no answer. He did not realize he had spoken aloud until his companion answered.

You possess a quick mind and a ready eye for detail that others lack, he said quietly. A slow mind cannot be schooled to be sharp, discerning. The master seeks those who are.

But I am crippled—

Your mind is not, his companion emphasized. Prove to the master your mind is as agile as he believes, and he will look beyond your lameness. His tone softened. And in time, so shall you.

Thomas answered both the gentle rebuke and the promise with silence. More and more, he accepted this was no dream, no idle fantasy. The arms cradling him were real and solid.

Within the house, oil lamps in plenty burned, providing ample light. Fabric hung from the walls of wide hallways, wondrously worked and beautiful. Tables and all manner of rich furnishings were everywhere, lintels carved from fine woods or chiseled in stone relief. Although he had never seen Herod’s Temple, Thomas grew to believe its finery could be little better than the master’s.

Finally, his companion entered a doorway and stood silently, waiting to be noticed. The rectangular room was light and airy, white plaster on stone, with a high ceiling and wood fashioned in myriad cubbyholes on the walls, almost all filled with rolled scrolls of various sizes. A wide Roman table served as desk and work area. It, too, was festooned with spread-out maps and scrolls. Behind it sat the Pharisee, intent upon the inscribed characters before him.

A hint of sandalwood from a nearby table brazier teased the senses, yet the spice did not completely banish the faint odor of old, accumulated papyrus and parchment cached along the walls. As they approached the table, the Pharisee glanced up, waved them to the bench fronting the table, then returned to his reading.

Taking his cue from his companion’s silence, Thomas did not speak. With care, his bearer placed him on the wooden seat, helped arrange the twisted legs comfortably, before he retreated to another bench set back against the wall behind Thomas.

Soon, with a protracted sigh, the master sat straighter, rolled the scroll, and set it aside. Lacing his fingers together, he rested forearms against the tabletop and locked eyes with Thomas. Now, to our business . . . .

Suddenly, Thomas found his tongue tied, where moments earlier he had been so full of queries he could barely restrain himself. His throat ached, and he let out his pent breath. He had not realized he had been holding it.

The master slowly nodded, understanding his guest’s discomfiture and wanting to ease the young man’s distress. Has Jethro given you some idea why you were brought here?

Jethro? Thomas repeated. Then he brightened, resisted the urge to turn and glance at his companion. Forgive me, master. He did not tell me his name.

The master’s expression grew suitably apologetic, but Thomas saw amusement lurking in the corners of his eyes. Idly, the elder twisted the golden band on his left hand, the only ring he wore. Then the Pharisee smiled openly, and the smile lent a gentleness to his grave face.

We three have much to learn about one another, he amended. But that will come. You must want to know my plans for you?

Thomas slowly nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

Normally scribal candidates began their work at age thirteen, he began. But we shall make an exception in your case. You must learn to read, write, and factor, and be instructed in the Law. When you absorb what Jethro has to teach you, others will be brought to the estate, and you will be further schooled. Is this understood?

Eyes wide, Thomas slowly nodded.

Good. The master nodded approvingly, then continued. I have extensive trading interests across the Roman Empire which require me to be away for long periods. You must learn about them all, especially the tin trade where you shall serve as my factor.

The Pharisee paused, assessing Thomas across the laced fingers. The boy found himself weighed and measured, and he felt the tension grow as the silence stretched between them. He squirmed, increasingly uncomfortable under the master’s scrutiny, for the Pharisee must expect some answer and he had none to give.

Finally, he could stand it no more. My lord, you know nothing of me, he sputtered. I cannot be what you ask. Surely I will fail you.

Below his head covering, the Pharisee’s brow furrowed, then his eyes glazed as if he looked past the protesting boy, past the white-plastered study, past the lavish estate that enclosed the present. Past Jerusalem itself.

Boy, he said softly but purposefully. I built my trading empire by judging men and weighing their potential to serve me. His eyes trapped Thomas who could not look away. As I judge you now. And I say, you shall serve me well. But not as Thomas the Lame or Thomas the Beggar.

He stood, braced his weight on hands against the table. "From this moment, I name you Reuben ben Ezra, ben