One: The Mountebank

Enoch bar Jared witnesses the death of one of the greatest men the world has ever known.

The human story does not always unfold like a mathematical calculation on the principle that two and two make four. Sometimes in life they make five or minus three; and sometimes the blackboard topples down in the middle of the sum and leaves the class in disorder and pedagogue with a black eye.

—Winston Churchill

 

Today was an extremely eventful day. All the Jews were coming out of their houses—men, women and children alike—in large groups that all meshed together until one face or family was no longer discernible from another. Even the beggars were getting up and following the vast entourage of Jews.

 

Enoch bar Jared, at nineteen years of age, knew what was happening today. His father had told him of a man, a man so great that word of him spread like wildfire, a man so great that it was humanly impossible. At least, that was what he heard.

 

This man was great, and at the same time infamous. The Pharisees despised him, the poor and the sick adored him. Enoch had heard both sides of the story: the man was either delirious and blasphemous or godlike and merciful. He did not know which one to believe. Everyone was in great conflict; it was so difficult to find the truth.

 

Finally, the crowd stopped moving, and Enoch tiptoed to see what was going on. He was grateful for his tall stature, for he found they were standing in front of the Governor’s palace. The Governor, Pontius Pilate, was on his balcony with two other strange men on either side of him.

 

The man on Pilate’s left was unusually solemn as he looked out at the crowd. His face held mixed expressions of peace, serenity...and, Enoch was keen to detect, hints of fear and resignation. But then, the more one looked at this man, the more one felt a desire to follow him and listen to all the things he wished to say.

 

The man on Pilate’s right was, of course, that notorious thief and murderer. Enoch shuddered inwardly. This man’s countenance did not sit well with him at all.

 

The Governor raised a hand to quiet the jeering, bustling crowd. As they did, Enoch felt a hand grip his shoulder roughly.

 

“Don't move,” a voice whispered, so close to his ear.

 

Enoch obeyed, his heart pounding.

 

“Here.” The anonymous speaker pushed something into Enoch’s hand. It felt like velvet.

 

What is this? Enoch wondered, clamping his fist around the velvet.

 

There were coins inside.

 

“You remember the tradition, do you not?” the voice persisted, and Enoch nodded in reply, too surprised to respond otherwise.

 

“Good. When Pilate asks, shout for Barabbas. It will be well worth your efforts.” The last statement had a slightly threatening, steely note to it.

 

The hand that gripped Enoch's shoulder released him, but when he turned around to look, no one was there.

 

“Enoch! My son, where are you?” someone called out.

 

“I’m here, Father!” Enoch raised a hand to signal him, and before long his father was at his side.

 

Jared, at sixty, did not look like so. He had soft, gray eyes that always looked kind; dark brown curls covering his head and a prominent nose, all of which his son had physically inherited, albeit Jared’s well-trimmed beard covering the lower half of his face and flecks of gray on his head of hair.

 

Instinctively, Enoch hid the little velvet bag deep within his robes.

 

Jared squinted to get a better look at who was on the Governor’s balcony. The crowd was settling down, but Pilate’s hand remained in the air until the silence became absolute.

 

“People of Jerusalem!” Pilate's voice boomed across the land. “It is time to acknowledge our annual tradition. Every year, on the day of the Passover, we set one of our criminals free, as a sign of forgiveness from the great Herod Antipas. Today, I present before you, Barabbas and Yeshua bar Joseph!”

 

The crowd jeered, but at which one of the criminals Enoch couldn’t tell.

 

Pilate raised his hand again and the noise simmered down almost immediately. “Now, I ask you, people of Jerusalem, who will you choose to release? Barabbas”—and the said criminal sneered evilly at the crowd—“or Yeshua bar Joseph?” The man called Yeshua just stood there, saying nothing.

 

“Give us Barabbas!” a man cried.

 

“Release Barabbas!” a female voice seconded.

 

The crowd’s voices rose once more in unison, and Pilate tried appealing to them again. “Is there not any real evidence against this man that I can consider?” he asked, but everyone was adamant. They wanted Barabbas released, not Yeshua.

 

Enoch strained his eyes to see what was going on in the balcony of the Governor’s palace amidst everyone’s raised fists. He saw Pilate turn towards the man Yeshua and ask him something. Yeshua, his countenance unmoving, said something in reply, and Pilate frowned.

 

Meanwhile, the crowd was getting restless. Pilate wasn’t giving them what they wanted. One by one, they began to chant. “Barabbas! Barabbas!”

 

The Governor saw their persistence, and his brow furrowed deeper. He summoned someone from inside his palace, who brought him a bowl of water. Slowly, Pilate washed his hands before the crowd, declaring, “I am not responsible for this man's death. Do whatever you wish with him.”

 

And Pilate’s guards seized Yeshua, who didn’t resist them at all. They led him away, like a lamb led to a slaughter house.

 

Throughout this entire ordeal Enoch had remained silent, for he knew this man Yeshua had done no wrong. If Pilate had tried convincing the crowd to release Yeshua, then there had to be something in that gesture. Pilate must have also thought Yeshua was an innocent man, framed by those who possibly envied him, or plainly hated him. Pilate was not as evil as Herod Antipas, Enoch was quite sure of that.

 

Enoch reached inside his robes and felt that little velvet pouch. It felt strangely heavy against his chest.

 

The crowd dispersed, satisfied...while the Pharisees remained, their faces smug, their heads held high in conceit.

 

“Come now, Enoch,” Jared said, startling his son. Enoch had almost forgotten that he was there.

 

“But Father...” Enoch began, but Jared shook his head.

 

“What happens after this is not for you to see,” Jared explained as he took Enoch’s arm and tried to lead him away. “Come now, let us not cause any trouble...”

 

Yet Enoch, stubborn as his mother, wrenched his arm away and ran after a small crowd that was following Yeshua and Pilate’s guards. His father called out to him, but his curiosity was unbearable. He had to know what would become of the great man Yeshua.

 

* * *

 

He arrived just in time—or maybe a little late. The crowd was getting thicker and Enoch couldn’t see Yeshua from where he was standing. Enoch pushed forward, hearing the laments and cries of several women. Finally, he was able to get himself close to the front of the crowd, and there was Yeshua, with a faded red robe around his shoulders, a reed on his right hand, and a crown of thorns upon his head.

 

Enoch cringed inwardly at the thought of that crown of thorns. It was pushed too far into Yeshua’s head, it looked as if it were fracturing his skull.

 

The guards stood around Yeshua, mocking him. “Hail to the King of the Jews!” They bowed fakely and paid him fake homage, with their fake conjections of how supposedly “great” this Yeshua bar Joseph was.

 

Enoch could only watch helplessly as Yeshua was handed the large wooden cross. The man hefted it over his shoulder, but as the cross was too heavy, he had to hunch over to carry it properly.

 

And then he began to walk.

 

Enoch's heart tightened at this man’s determination. Yeshua was evidently in a lot of pain, stripped of his dignity, yet he soldiered on. Everyone around him was sobbing, crying aloud, asking why this had to happen, and why he had to die. Enoch followed Yeshua’s trail with the crowd, silent outside yet unsteady inside.

 

Along the way, the guards came across a man who was on the way home and rudely persuaded him to help Yeshua carry his cross. The man relented, wishing to save his own skin and hoping never to experience something like this again.

 

The man placed the heavy cross on his own shoulders and walked silently, not wanting to say anything.

 

“What is your name?” Yeshua asked, and the man beside him gulped nervously, unsure of how to respond.

 

“Simon of Cyrene, sir,” was the reply.

 

“I will remember you always,” Yeshua said, and Simon looked down, unable to understand what that statement meant.

 

They continued on, meeting more and more people. Several women were already wearing black, as a sign of mourning for Yeshua. Enoch felt the heaviness of the atmosphere, traveling the long road with these people, facing the harsh inevitable.

 

And they finally arrived at Golgotha, where Yeshua was stripped of his clothes and had his limbs bound to the giant wooden crucifix.

 

The guards positioned the nails on Yeshua’s hands and feet, and when they started to pound, Enoch couldn’t watch any longer.

 

He ran away from the spectators, with a leaden, heavy weight in his heart: that feeling of shame, for being one of those who had sent an innocent to his death.

 

He wondered if there could ever be a way to erase that shame.

Reviews

[Therene]

Oh, the Passion! :D

The way you put it makes me experience semana santa, in a good way. Intricate and careful, the way you are.

Job well done.

[DearWorld]

Great job! The dialogue and and the action are very captivating.

[Rima]

hmmm... Great, I'd probably add a little more scenery detail(my opinion), anyway, great job!