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The Eighth Veil
A Jerusalem Mystery
By Frederick Ramsay Poisoned Pen Press
Copyright © 2012 Frederick Ramsay
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-9677590-6-7
CHAPTER 1
Her killer straddled her naked and abused body while he held her head below the water's surface he hoped would silence her. Her features were distorted by the roiling water but she seemed to be staring back at him wide-eyed and terrified. Air bubbles escaped from her pursed lips in spite of her efforts to hold them in. Starved for air, she jerked her head wildly from side to side, desperate to breathe, to scream for help, to stay alive. But no one would hear her cry. Not that night, not ever again. The knife slashed through the leather thong and across her throat, as if writing that cry for her instead. The last air in her lungs burst from the deep wound in her neck to mingle with the blood that gushed out with it. Her killer rocked back from his kneeling position with a curse. Disgusted, he shoved her body the rest of the way into the bath and watched as it sank to the bottom and the blood that streamed from her wounded neck like bright red smoke as it carried her life away. He made a desperate grab for the pendant, the item he'd been sent to retrieve in the first place, but too late. It slipped from his grasp and disappeared in a fresh swirl of the girl's blood.
Footsteps echoed against tiled walls weeping from condensation formed by the still heated water vapor against their cooling surface. It would be the only weeping done for her. The murderer crept back into the shadows, and thence the farther recesses of the palace, angry that the amulet, the pendant, his object in the whole adventure, had slipped out of his reach. Another mistake. He had to have it, to reclaim it. With the gods' favor he reckoned it might be possible that whoever was headed this way would not see the girl or the blood and he could slip back and finish his business. A great deal depended on it. He must not fail.
* * *
It had fallen to old Barak to make his rounds at the night's deepest hour when all of Jerusalem should be in bed and asleep. He shivered at the unseasonable chill and hugged himself in an effort to keep warm. This night, because he had done a favor for the king's under-steward, he needed only to monitor the bath and its adjacent atrium instead of the whole east end of the palace, his usual round. This meant he was ahead of schedule and in a few moments would be back in his own warm bed with his wife of fifty years. Barak had served this king and his father before him. Now, in his sixty-seventh year he shuffled through the dimly lit hallways weary but comforted by the fact that he had a roof over his head and a sense of security at an age when many like him were cast out or dependent on children and grandchildren.
The large vaulted room that featured the Roman inspired bath at its center, had only a few flickering torches lighted after the previous evening's revels. "Roman orgy more like," he muttered to himself. Barak had no use for the palace's loose religious observance or this king who seemed determined to dishonor both the Law and the Nation. He'd heard the other servant's whispers about what went on in this place at night. He assumed the worst about what must have taken place earlier. He closed his mind to these thoughts for fear they might lead him where he should not go. The neopagan mosaics of the bacchanal, scenes of half-naked nymphs and satyrs in shameless poses that decorated the ceiling, were in deep shadow. Barak would not have looked at them anyway. He tried, in spite of the lax form of Judaism practiced by the court, to remain obedient to the Law.
He imagined he heard footsteps as he entered, but in the uncertain light, he saw no one. Even if he had, it would not mean anything to him. Courtiers and servants wandered these halls constantly night and day. What they were up to he could only guess at. Undoubtedly up to no good. He accepted the fact that they lived in a different world than he. He did not envy them for that.
Thanks to the gloom, and because of his advanced years, and failing eyesight, he could be excused for missing the body at first. It was something about the water that caught his eye. No longer clear but dim and sullen somehow. Herodias the Queen, he knew, often requested perfume to be poured into the baths, particularly when it was the women's time to use them, but adding coloring, well that would be something new. A second glance and he realized the water's stains were uneven and darker at one end than the other. He wondered if by some accident of plumbing, muddy water had somehow found its way in. The bath, like so many of the city's water sources owed some of its volume to Pilate's aqueduct, a project he'd funded with Temple money much to the consternation of the High Priest and the Sanhedrin. When Barak leaned over and lowered his torch close to the surface, he realized the color was not brown, but red. Only then did he spot the naked woman in its murky depths and realize the coloration had most likely resulted from her slit throat, not the introduction of a vial of madder.
He whirled the klaxon he carried in the event he needed to raise an alarm. Within what he would later describe were no more than five heartbeats, the sound of running footsteps shattered the silence. Palace guards crashed into the room, their short Roman swords drawn, eyes alert and busy. The chief steward followed within the next five beats, and chaos followed him. Barak pointed toward the bloody pool and sat down heavily on a carved marble couch, one of which doubtless had supported a nobler backside hours earlier.
The steward rushed out. Guards were posted at all entrances with instructions to allow no one in or out. Barak sighed. There would be no sleeping this night. What would his Minna say when he did not return to their bed?
CHAPTER 2
Shofars sounded their mournful wail from the Temple's pinnacle announcing the arrival of a new day. Gamaliel had already been up for an hour by then. He folded his tallit and placed it on the tall sandalwood chest where he also kept his phylactery, some papyrus scrolls, and a few sheckles he would need when he traveled up to the Temple to see the High Priest. He'd finished his morning prayers and would break his fast. A small court opened off of the room and he stepped out to enjoy its fresh air and the first glimmerings of sunlight seeping over the walls. The cool air held the promise of a fair day, but he did not notice it. A circular cistern in the court's center provided what he needed next. He splashed a little water on his face and hands, an act which required another short prayer, and then another prayer directed at his approaching confrontation with the High Priest. Caiaphas nagged at him endlessly like a strong-willed wife about that annoying rabbi. He could not be put off any longer. He insisted on an answer.
The issue troubled him. It seemed such a petty thing on which to spend time and energy. He did not look forward to the interview. Caiaphas did not like being denied and had a way of making one's life difficult if he considered you to be the root of his disappointment. But Gamaliel would not worry about that just now. The High Priest was always in a dudgeon about something and more often than not he assumed Gamaliel would sort it all out for him. The fact he held the esteemed position of Rabban of the Sanhedrin, and that he had taught nearly all the Pharisees and important rabbis who now held sway in Judea as leaders and interpreters of the Law, meant Gamaliel had acquired a layer of political insulation not enjoyed by his colleagues and lesser men. Still, making an enemy of the High Priest could prove inconvenient.
Gamaliel did not share the High Priest's discomfort with the Galileans or their simple rabbi from Nazareth whose preaching hardly qualified as either scholarly or perilous; certainly not like that of the Essenes or the Siccori, both of whom were considerably more insistent and dangerous, each in their own way. Was this Galilean preaching heterodoxy? Probably, but not more so than many of his contemporaries who wandered the streets of Jerusalem and countryside declaring the "Year of the Lord." It was said he appealed to Gentiles especially and, as a generality, that must be viewed as a good thing. The Nation would never survive if it did not accommodate to the rest of the world in at least some important areas.
Would this man emerge as the Messiah, as a few of his followers claimed? Who knew? Lately there had been no dearth of claimants to that status, and some espousing far more radical views than this one, if one was to believe what people said. Time alone would tell if the Deliverer were among any of them. Personally, Gamaliel doubted it. Of course, this person's relationship to the Baptizer had to be accounted for. Well, not so much anymore as Herod Antipas, in a moment of monumental stupidity, had beheaded the "Angel of the Desert," as his admirers sometimes called him.
Gamaliel had not yet witnessed the man in action nor had he any wish to do so. Perhaps during the Feast which began the next day he would, perhaps not. Rabbis from all over the Nation usually converged on the city during the Holy Days. Perhaps this one would too and he'd get his chance. On the whole, he thought Caiaphas to be overreacting. It was his right to do so, of course, but Gamaliel did not wish to be party to a program aimed at hounding illiterate fishermen and farmers who at least followed someone, even if, strictly speaking, not someone correctly trained or ordained. He would leave persecution to ambitious clerks like Ehud or the new one, Jabez ben Ratzon. There were far more important things needing his attention than harassing this rag-tag group of would-be reformers and apocalyptic busybodies.
The High Priest had expected him at daybreak. Why such an early hour he could not fathom, but the High Priest had, of late, seemed unduly agitated about most things and he guessed meeting at such an early hour secured some measure of privacy not normally accorded the man. He would be disappointed. The Lord created all things in an order that not even the High Priest could alter. It is the nature of Pharisaic thinking, that order should be in all things and all things should be in order. The Lord provided the Law. The Law provided the order, and the Pharisees provided its correct interpretation. Nothing more need be said. It was the lesson he pounded into his students and, if and when they would take the time to listen, the other members of the Sanhedrin. They, however, were not as teachable as his rabbinical students.
A bowl of dates, a jug of goat's milk, and a small loaf of freshly baked bread awaited him on a rough wooden table that he'd insisted be placed in the archway leading to the street. He wanted to absorb the sounds and scents of Jerusalem as he ate. He also wished to have a few more moments to frame his answer to Caiaphas. He ate slowly measuring time with his chewing and watching the mass of humanity moving back and forth on the street beyond, a street that led to the Temple. Satisfied at last that he could withstand the High Priest's ire and fortified by prayers and his morning meal, he stood and made for the gate. The blended scents of camel, donkey, cooking oil, and sweaty travelers washed over him like a warm bath and required him to pause a moment to adjust to the city, his city, David's city. At the doorsill he paused to let a group of pilgrims newly arrived in Jerusalem for the seven-day-long Feast of Tabernacles pass by. He wondered idly where they had come from, north, south? Then, he stepped gingerly into the street prepared to confront the High Priest, his students, and anyone else who proposed to challenge him this day.
A young man stepped in his path.
"Honored sir," he said. "Are you Gamaliel, Rabban of the Sanhedrin, teacher, and most noble man of the Law?"
"I am he. I am not so sure about some of the other titles you have bestowed on me, however."
"Sir, I am bidden to tell you to come at once to King Herod's palace. I am to say it is a matter most urgent and —"
Gamaliel held up his hand. He studied the youth's face. If there was any guile in him, he would detect it immediately. He had acquired a faculty over the years for discerning the truth from a man's face, any disingenuousness in his soul, if such existed. It had served him well over the years particularly when screening pupils and dealing with his colleagues in the Sanhedrin. Many young men wished to study with him, only a select few would.
"And what is this matter that is of such great importance that the king summons me?"
"It is not the king, sir, who summons. It is the Prefect who requires your presence."
"Pontius Pilate summons me to Herod's palace? This cannot be true. No Roman willingly sets foot in the king's palace, nor would he be welcome."
"Nevertheless, it is the message I bear."
"I am sorry, but I have an appointment with the High Priest at this very moment. Tell Pilate he must wait."
"Sir, he insists. More than that, he has sent his soldiers to accompany you. It will not do to refuse."
Gamaliel looked up and realized all activity on the street had come to a near halt. Passersby stood and gawked, first at the guards in their ornate garb and half armor, then at him. He wondered what must be going through their minds. How often did one travel up to Jerusalem and see the Rabban of the Sanhedrin taken into custody by a clutch of legionnaires?
"Very well, young man, as I have no choice in the matter, you may take me to Pilate, but it will be against my wishes and better judgment."
CHAPTER 3
Pontius Pilate, the Prefect to Judea and Palestine, stood in the retreating shade offered by a portico at the entrance to Herod's palace. The Prefect, Gamaliel noted, had not entered it after all. He stepped carefully to avoid some camel offal left by a small caravan that had passed down the street only recently. He kept the Great Man, Rome's anointed overseer, the famous and universally hated Pilate, in the corner of his eye as he did so. He had a fleeting, unkind thought that given the choice, he'd rather take the offal and avoid the Prefect. Then, he reflected that perhaps he was being too harsh. It wasn't just a matter of distrusting gentiles. He had stated publically and frequently the Nation's need to soften views of those who did not share their beliefs. But this particular specimen of humanity ... Somewhere, someone must approve of this man. He must have a mother at least, and the emperor thought enough of him to give him this posting. Of course, that would have been Tiberius, and everyone knew that aging old man was prone to mad flights of fancy and other peculiarities.
As Pilate lounged against a pillar, his eyes darted back and forth impatiently seeming to search the street. Clearly, he did not know what or who to expect as the famous Rabban. The two had never met. Gamaliel had seen him once or twice, from a distance, when the emissary from Rome had addressed the people on the occasion of the removal of the Legion's standards from the Temple Mount, and again when he made his pathetic triumphal entrances into the city before each of the High Holy Days. A proud and arrogant man, given to fits of brutality, he'd been told. He was of above average stature, lean and quite dangerous looking. Not a man to be trifled with.
Gamaliel greeted him and bowed his head marginally. If the great Pilate expected more in the way of obeisance he'd need to say something.
"You are the Rabban?" Pilate asked, as if there'd been some mistake.
"I am, Excellency. I have been summoned? To what purpose, may I ask?"
"I expected you to be older. All your people in positions of power, it seems, must achieve the age of your Moses at least before they are considered trustworthy. Well, never mind about that. You may well ask, 'to what purpose.' It is your king and his household that require your services in resolving this sordid matter, not I. It is only my duty to bring the authority of my office to assure you will comply with their needs, and mine."
"Sir? A sordid business, you say? I am at a loss."
"Ah, I take it you have not heard, then."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Eighth Veil by Frederick Ramsay. Copyright © 2012 Frederick Ramsay. Excerpted by permission of Poisoned Pen Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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