Holy Smoke: A Jerusalem Mystery Page 2

  In any event, Gamaliel had needed every bit of his reserve of patience. Someday, he thought, he would end up in a shouting match with the high priest—the sort that when it involved younger men, often led to blows. Gamaliel would never resort to violence, of course. He was reputed to be the calmest of men. Still, there were times when disputing with Caiaphas pushed him close to the brink.

  So, on rising after his restless night and still agitated by the high priest’s argumentative nature, he’d dismissed his students as they’d arrived and headed for the Temple. Merely standing near the Presence had a calming effect on him. And thus it was that on this soon to be historic morning, he strode through the crooked streets of the Lower City alternately assaulted by the chattering voices of men and women sharing the day’s ration of gossip, and the pungent aroma of spices, roasting meat, and excited humanity. It was only when he had mounted the steps to the Temple Mount that he stopped short, perplexed. Something was missing. He paused to stare upwards at the Temple walls. No smoke rose from burning sacrifices, no Shofars sounded to mark their procession to the altar. What could this mean?

  As he attempted to reconcile these anomalies, a frantic young man dashed up to him and began to babble. Gamaliel had to ask him to repeat the message twice before he could make any sense of it.

  “The Holy of Holies…defiled,” he gasped. “A man, unclean…dead.”

  From this, he assumed that death had somehow visited the Temple. He picked up his pace and hurried across the Temple Mount, through the Beautiful Gate, across the Court of the Women, then through the Nicanor Gate to the Court of the Priests. There, the rostered kohanim and their leader, all in a state of high excitement, chattered and gestured, glancing furtively at the Veil that screened the Holy of Holies from them. He listened as the youngest of them, Josef Somebody-or-Other, blurted out his story. With some trepidation, Gamaliel ventured into the Holy Place but only far enough to confirm the presence of the cord which disappeared under the Veil.

  The situation presented a certain irony and in spite of the obvious seriousness of the situation, he had to smile. The practice of attaching a rope to the ankle of the high priest when he entered the Holy of Holies had not been his idea. The possibility of having to retrieve a body thence, the result of the Lord’s anger at an unworthy entrant, had circulated in the vestry and palace for years. If he remembered correctly, it was first suggested during the time of the Maccabees as that complicated revolution wound its way through history and ended in the ascent of Herod, the builder of this gaudy Temple. Then, as now, the perceived distance between the appointed high priest and the line of Aaron had been called into question by some of the Nation’s more conservative leadership. Gamaliel did not know if their scruples made any difference in the first place—who could say after a lapse of four millennia how closely related to Moses’ brother-in-law, Aaron, anyone could claim to be, or whether the practice of attaching the rope had ever been instituted.

  The previous year when he suggested that it might be something to consider, his colleagues had shouted him down. There is no mention, they’d insisted, in any of Torah that could support such a thing. He’d replied that he knew that and suggested that if one thought about it, there wouldn’t be—that even admitting the possibility of an unprepared, unrepentant priest meant that the builders of Zerubbabel’s Temple and the drafters of Torah as they knew it had doubts about the Truth and the Way. No, they would not have written anything of the sort into the documents. But he asked them to consider their current situation.

  “Pause for a moment and ponder this,” Gamaliel had said. “We worship in a Temple built for us by a king who practiced the faith only when and as it suited him. His successor son shares that marginal faith. The Temple is far removed from the simple Tabernacle the Lord decreed as to size, construction, and more importantly, spirit. King Herod built this one as a memorial to himself more than to glorify the Lord. And as much as it pains me to say it, our leader is an unreconstructed Sadducee appointed not by our elders but by our Roman overlord who has no interest in nor respect for our ways. What do you suppose are the chances Caiaphas, or indeed, any high priest who owes his selection and allegiance to a pagan, could survive a confrontation with an out-of-patience Elohim in a place designed and built by a king who was for all practical purposes also a pagan? If, as you claim, you cherish him as your leader, you must consider the possibility. If I am wrong, will any harm be done? If I am correct, how will we proceed if the worst happens?”

  It had been a delicate conversation, as some of those in the disputation were close supporters of the high priest and any question of his position and legitimacy would be awkward.

  “But he has been in and out of the Holy of Holies every Yom Kippur for years and the Lord has not been offended yet.”

  “Operative word, friends—yet.”

  They had reluctantly agreed with his argument, but had insisted it not be made public knowledge.

  “What will people think if they were to know we have doubts about our high priest?”

  They decided that on next celebration of Yom Kippur they would urge Caiaphas to adopt the cautionary cord.

  Now, it seemed that the worst had happened. True, it was not the high priest who lay inert behind the Veil, but someone else, and he or she—one had to acknowledge that remote possibility—most certainly had to be removed lest the Lord’s anger increase.

  It did take a push to put the high priest into motion, but soon whoever lay within would be brought to light. Then a determination could be made as to what must happen next. As an afterthought Gamaliel sent a messenger to fetch the healer, Loukas.

  “Exit through the north gate and go out from the city through the Sheep Gate,” he said to a still agitated Josef. “You will find the man in the house that backs up to the hillside. Tell him The Rabban of the Sanhedrin requires his presence. Tell him it is urgent. No, tell him it is a puzzle. That will bring him when urgent might not. Hurry.”

  Chapter III

  By the time Loukas the Healer arrived, neither the high priest nor any of the kohanim had made any progress toward removing the body, which by this time had been confirmed by Nathan, who’d climbed into the observation chamber built high on the wall that allowed visual access to the Holy of Holies. He had called down that, though little light penetrated the place, he could see what he was certain must be a body lying on the floor.

  Gamaliel managed to bring the priests together and calm them down enough to take direction. Unfortunately, no help came from the high priest, who stood immobile like one of the ubiquitous statues of the current Caesar that seemed to grace all the city corners where the Romans gathered. Caiaphas’ face by this time had turned as white as the marble used in those same busts and the alabaster slabs that lined this Holy Place. He had given his initial instructions about the need for purification and appeared to have run out of ideas as to what to do next.

  Gamaliel met Loukas at the steps and briefly described the situation to him and the lack of progress in retrieving the dead man.

  “What is the hold-up?” the healer asked.

  “Two things. Our priestly class seem reluctant to admit that a body exists behind the Veil in the first place, even though it has been confirmed, and then there are the mechanics of pulling it free from its folds. I am told it is very thick and heavy, which would make an extraction nearly impossible and might defile the fabric in some way.”

  “You’ve been told? You don’t know?”

  “I’m not sure anyone does. Well, the high priest might. He has to make his way through it once a year.”

  “How long have those sheets of material been hanging there?”

  “It is hard to say. As long as the temple has existed, presumably.”

  “From Solomon’s time? Surely not.”

  “No, not that temple. This one is Herod the king’s attempt to rival Thebes, Athens, and Rome for grandeur.”

  “My, my, Rabban, do I detect a small hint of Greek cynicism in
your tone?”

  “To be a Cynic is only to accept a certain view of things. It is not the exclusive property of your Greeks.”

  “Not my Greeks, please, but I take your point. And so this temple…?”

  “Has been here forty years or more. It depends on when you start counting. It replaced Zerubbabel’s, built in an attempt to replace Solomon’s. That one Nebuchadnezzar burned to the ground centuries ago. Yet, the tradition holds that except for the annual entrance to the interior on Yom Kippur by the high priest, the space is as it has always been.”

  “We will discuss the illogic of that presumption later. In the meantime, tell me about these layers of cloth. How many and how thick?”

  “As I said, I have no idea. Caiaphas tells me it is composed of many layers of cloth, as many as twenty, and together they measure perhaps a cubit in thickness.”

  “Yet he manages to come and go—at least once a year.”

  “Yes, but…”

  “It begs the question, does it not? How do you suppose the body came to lie in the space in the first place? Surely the means of its insertion will be the same needed to retrieve it.”

  “Insertion? No, I believe the person walked in and died for his impiety. I do not know why. It is a very foolish thing for someone to do.”

  “Because he would stand in the Presence and to do so is proscribed by Torah, he was struck down. Do you believe that?”

  “How else, then?”

  “I have no idea, but consider the possibilities. There is first this notion that he walked in and was stuck down by an offended deity, as you say. Alternatively, whoever is in there was shoved in under the Veil after being dispatched elsewhere. Or, could it be he—I’m insisting it is a he in there until proven wrong—was forced by someone to enter, perhaps to steal the Ark.”

  “There is no Ark. Not for six hundred years.”

  “No? I must brush up on my reading. I suppose this is what I get for being a skeptic about the Lord and his works.”

  “Be careful with your tongue, Loukas, and remember where you are.”

  “Sorry. So, no Ark. What then?”

  “There is a slab of stone set on uprights like a bench with the marks designating the laws given to Moses engraved on it. It is where the high priest pours the blood sacrifice each year.”

  “I see. Consider me corrected for the time being. However, we have a problem to solve irrespective of the circumstances that created it. For the moment, let us assume he was placed in the space. It may not have been so, as you prefer to believe, but for now, suppose it so. That being the case, if you wanted to do such a blasphemous thing, how would you do it?”

  “How? I have no idea. It is not possible I would say. The weight and thickness of the veil alone—”

  “You are not with me, Rabban. I asked you to devise a method in spite of your belief that it can’t be done. It is not important that you believe it, only that you assume it for the moment. It is the pathway one takes to uncover new wisdom. One assumes the unlikely and then sees where it leads.”

  “You make my head ache, Greek, but let me think a minute.” While the priests stood in confused disarray, Gamaliel paced the length of the Veil, pausing briefly at the point where the cord exited from its folds. “Can you find a sturdy pole,” he said to the priest nearest him, “about twice the length of a guard’s spear—six or seven cubits in length? Two such poles would be better. Find me two, if you can.”

  The kohanim exchanged glances and when the high priest nodded, one darted off to search.

  “When he returns, we will slide them under the Veil on either side of the point where this rope comes through. Then while two of you lever the Veil up and away, the rest will haul on the rope and drag our infidel out.”

  “Very nice coming from a man who does not think the deed can be done.”

  “Loukas, you have my permission to have both sets of your teeth in close approximation for the time being.”

  “I should shut my mouth?”

  “Isn’t that what I just said?”

  During this exchange, an apparently upset Caiaphas had been eying Loukas.

  “Ah, High Priest,” Gamaliel said, “You are wondering about our Greek friend here and his presence in the Holy Place. Be at ease. In spite of his outward appearance and demeanor, he is one of us and properly entitled to be here.”

  Designating Loukas as a Levite might have been a stretch, but Gamaliel reckoned that with the passage of time and the effects of the Exile, the purity of the lines from Aaron and the tribe of Levi had been blurred, the present high priest being a case in point. Another justification for the safety cord. Anyway, he felt it important to anoint Loukas with Levitical status. He hoped an understanding Creator would forgive the breach if in fact he’d overreached.

  Caiaphas nodded, but did not seem reassured.

  The priest returned quickly wrestling two long poles wrapped in sacking—too quickly, Gamaliel thought.

  “That did not take much time. You were only gone for a moment.”

  “I found all these things just outside lying up against the wall near the Beautiful Gate, where the grain sacrifices are received.”

  “A convenient coincidence, Rabban, would you agree?” Loukas said.

  “Too convenient a coincidence. Very well, let us see what we have on the other side of the veil.”

  Chapter IV

  Gamaliel’s double lever worked well enough to raise the Veil a cubit or two and allow the priests to drag the corpse from the Holy of Holies. Their location on the end of the cord blocked their view of the body at first. Just as well. Loukas exhaled through pursed lips and Gamaliel gritted his teeth. What now lay at his feet had to be a man, but beyond that little else could be said. From forehead to knees the man had been burned to near nonrecognition. The priests turned from their hauling and seeing the body, either fell to their knees or raced from the room.

  “There, you see, Loukas? This man has stood in the Presence and paid for his offense. The fire of judgment has scorched him past identification.”

  “So it would seem, Rabban. And yet—”

  “Please don’t say any more. Not here, not now.” Gamaliel eyes narrowed and flicked in the direction of the high priest.

  “Ah!”

  The high priest, in his turn, wheeled on the kohanim and began barking orders, most of them contradictory. The priests still in the area rose from their knees and scurried off in different directions attempting to follow Caiaphas’ direction.

  “We must remove this…this…”

  “Body?” Loukas asked.

  “Thing,” Caiaphas said. “But how? There is no one here who dares touch it.”

  “I can,” the healer said. “Please hand me the sacking found with the poles.”

  One of the priests handed the cloth to him and stepped back, unwilling it seemed to stand too close to the abomination on the floor. Loukas spread the cloth out. It appeared to be a long sack which at one time must have held grain, perhaps an omer or more—enough barley to provide sacrifices for a dozen people. Also, it had been opened at both ends. Loukas arranged the two poles and slid the sack over the ends and into the center.

  “There, you see, Rabban?”

  “See? What is it I am to see?”

  “The means by which this poor man was carried into this place.”

  Loukas placed the poles with the sack next to the body. He spread the poles apart and with some difficulty shifted the man’s remains onto the sack.

  “Now, if I can borrow two of your priests, honorable sir,” he said to Caiaphas, “I can remove this offense from your presence. They will not have to touch it, only the poles which, as you can see, now make a stretcher which we can use to bear him away.

  “Away? Away where? My priests cannot be expected to carry this obscenity all the way to Gehinnom.”

  “No, of course not. Only as far as the Court of the Gentiles. There I will hire men to take him the rest of the way. I should think it would be in
your best interest to have this man out of this place and out of your sight as quickly as possible.”

  “Yes, yes, of course. You,” he pointed to two of the younger and presumably stronger priests, “take an end of this stretcher and remove this…this thing from my presence.”

  Loukas threw his cloak over the body. “You should come, too, Rabban. There is work for us to do.”

  “Us? Work? How is that to be?”

  “You are the solver of great mysteries, are you not? Here is another to test your skill.”

  “I solved one mystery and vowed never to attempt another. What makes you think I will be drawn into this one? As far as I am concerned this man, for reasons that defy common sense, walked into the Holy of Holies and was struck down for his foolishness.”

  “Then how will you explain these poles and sack? Is it not obvious that they were the means by which he was brought here?”

  Gamaliel closed his eyes and sighed. What had happened here? And, more importantly, did he want to know? He did. It is the nature of the sort of mind Gamaliel had that required answers to important questions irrespective of their origin. Sometimes he felt this trait a curse bestowed on him by a deity who enjoyed taunting him.

  “Why must it be me, healer? You can solve this thing as well as I and moreover you are the only one interested in the solution.”

  “You do not really believe that. This will nag at you forever if you do not get to the bottom of it. Come along, we will tackle it as we have done before. Granted it is not as exciting as a murder in the king’s palace and it is unlikely you will have a chance to accost royalty as you have done in the past, but you must admit it is a fascinating puzzle.”