Cleomus sees that I am awake and covered with sweat. He heard me shout in my sleep a little while ago, but outbursts are common in this prison. He comes into my cell and gruffly demands, "What’s the matter, Malchus?"

"Nightmare. I had a nightmare."

"What happened?"

"Oh I was just reliving something that happened about twenty years ago."

"Tell me about it. I’m bored, entertain me. What was it?"

"You probably don’t want to hear about it, Cleomus. It’s about Jesus, and when I was a part of the ones who killed him."

"You were one of the people that killed him?"

"I had intended to be, but when we arrested him something happened that changed all that. I started a seven week journey through hell and back that has wound up here twenty years later."

"So, what happened?"

"I was a bond-slave of Caiaphas the High ..."

"You were a slave?"

"No, not really a slave, but yes, I was. A bond-slave is someone who agrees to serve a person for life just like a slave. It’s like you soldiers. You’re sort of like slaves to Rome, yet you’ve got some choice in it. You know what I mean?"

"Yeah, yeah, what happened?"

"Well, Caiaphas and the other elders of the Jews figured Jesus had to go. He was a threat to them. They worked out a deal with a traitor named Judas. We were to go and arrest him in the middle of the night when the crowds weren’t around. They were worried about the people and what they might think."

"I was leading a group of soldiers from the temple. We were armed to the teeth against this Jesus and twelve or so of his followers. We didn’t expect any resistance, but when we got there, one of his disciples named Peter hit me with a sword and cut off my ear."

Cleomus leans down and scowls hard at my ears. "You got ears. What do you mean, he cut off your ear’."

"He cut it off all right, but then Jesus touched me and healed it. He put it back."

"That’s ram’s dung." Cleomus grabs my tunic with his one good arm and jerks me up to my feet. His face is in my face. Boiling mad he continues, "You stinking Christians expect me to believe all this ram’s dung you keep piling on me. You must think I’m crazy! You must think we’re all crazy! Rose from the dead! Put back a cut-off ear!

He slams me back on my mat with a frightening viciousness that strangely, I do not feel. As he stalks off, I say to myself, "Well, he listened longer than ever before. And, he really didn’t hurt me."

I think Cleomus started changing about a month ago. Our prayers for him are being heard. I understand how he feels. I’d felt that way too! I hated Christians. I had even hated my own wife for awhile. Oh, how I long for her now.

Oh Lord, please bless Bethany. Watch over her and keep her strong in You." How I wish she were here-not in this prison, but here where I could talk with her, and hold her. I think I’m wishing I could be there with her.

Bethany was the daughter of my mother’s uncle, a silver-haired priest named Asaph. She grew up in Galilee, about a three days’ journey north of us. I saw her at least once a year, but often several times.

Since her father was a priest, he religiously followed the law. During the feasts of Passover and Weeks, and again for Tabernacles, he would come to Jerusalem. He would also come whenever his priestly course was on duty at the Temple.

Often he would bring his family with him, and they usually stayed at our house. During Tabernacles, when we lived in booths, our whole visiting family set up these shelters in our yard. We were wealthy and had a huge yard, so relatives from all over the country came and stayed at our place.

What a time we had! The meals were incredible. Some of our relatives were good cooks, and the rest of them were excellent. We shared the meals together and served ourselves from a common table with platters of delicious dishes piled high. At each meal an aunt or a cousin, or even several of them, would accost me with: "What’s the matter, Malchus? Don’t you like my cooking? Here child, eat! How do you ever expect to grow?"

Eat I did, we all did. We ate until we could hardly leave the tables, but before long we would all be playing some kind of game. We would run around and hide and laugh, and tease the younger children and mimic the older ones. Those times at the festivals, especially Tabernacles, are the best memories of my early life.

Even as children we understood that Tabernacles meant God Himself would come and share life with us. He would "tabernacle" with us, and we celebrated with a great party. Although I hated the bloody sacrifice business, I loved a God who would come and tabernacle with us.

We also sang and prayed as a family, but not long, boring prayers. The singing wasn’t boring either. We sang the Psalms of David. Some were a little slow, but lots of them were lively and fun to sing.

And dance, did we ever dance! All of us danced. Adults, children, parents, grandparents. All of us. Only those who were too old would sit out, but before long dancers began to dropout and join those clapping and cheering us on. We danced until we dropped from exhaustion.

In the evening we would all sit around a big fire. The oldest man would tell about the Exodus from Egypt, and how our fathers lived in tents for forty years. They also told stories about Moses, and Samuel, and Gideon, and how our fathers defeated the Philistines, and the mighty exploits of King David.

Then we’d laugh and laugh when they sprinkled in stories like how Uncle Jeniah got locked in a toilet house when he was about eight years old, and was stuck there for three hours. Or how grandmother set a trap for Zeturah because she thought he was such a good catch. He was doing the same for her, and they met each other right in the middle of their schemes.

I was a part. We were a family, and we were part of the people of God. Those were the days!

I had always liked Bethany, but had avoided her simply because she was a girl. But when I was sixteen, just before she turned sixteen, I noticed her like I’d never noticed anyone before, or after.

It happened just about sunset, when I was gathering wood for the evening fire. We had all been praying after the evening meal. Bethany was obviously touched by the love of God, for she was still worshipping. Her arms were raised unto the Lord. Her face was slightly tilted back with an incredible expression of trust, love and gratitude. It was a very holy moment with a devotion meant for God alone, yet I was there.

I felt like an intruder, but I was held to this vision by the setting sun directly behind her. It illumined her through her clothes as if she were standing there with only a filmy lace covering her beautiful body. Her breasts were formed with a perfection of beauty. These were not just future milk suppliers for infants. Solomon must have seen something like this when he said, "Let her breasts satisfy you always."

I then saw her hips and the incredible curviness of her body. I was entranced. I kept hearing something, but it was like a pesky fly buzzing around my ear. It was my name being spoken over and over. I came out of the trance when Uncle Asaph took hold of my arm.

"Malchus, what’s wrong with you?" As he followed my gaze and saw the vision of his own daughter he said, "Oh, that’s what it is."

He led me by the arm to the fire area and began helping me with the wood I was carrying. He said: "David was right, wasn’t he, when he said, ‘I am fearfully and wonderfully made’?"

After a few moments of silence he asked, "Well, isn’t it so Malchus?"

"Yes sir," stumbled out of my mouth.

"Is your heart set on her?"

Again, "Yes sir." I had not thought of her in this way before, but I would never think of her in any other way from then on.

* * *

My father Benaiah was the servant of Annas, who was the High Priest for nine years, up until I was about twelve. His son Eleazar followed him for two years, but his son-in-law, Joseph Caiaphas, took over when I was fourteen, and ruled for eighteen years as the High Priest of Israel.

Old Annas was shrewd. He knew when to cozy up to the Romans, and when to do what he wanted. He was a Sadducee and his beliefs were second to his politics. Not his political beliefs, but his lust and craving for meddling in politics. He didn’t care so much what happened, as long as it happened at his direction.

He treated his sons well as they grew up, and consequently they did not have his intensity and lust for power. His son-in-law Caiaphas, however, was perfectly suited to follow in his footsteps.

When he reached his mid-fifties, Annas stepped down from the High Priesthood, but he never budged a centimeter from his position power over the Sanhedrin. The Sanhedrin was the council of seventy, the ruling body of the Israelites. It was made up of Sadducees and Pharisees, or liberals and conservatives, or politicians and religionists, It took a kind of genius to keep this body functioning.

Although we were under Roman rule in Judea, the Roman administrator stayed in Caesarea. He came to Jerusalem only for important days, or if there was trouble, and he let us Jews run our own affairs so long as we kept the Pax Romana and paid our taxes.

Father would not talk about how he came into the service of Annas. I suspected there was something shady in it. Annas trusted father, and the ring in father’s ear was a mark of lifelong servitude to Annas. We were wealthy and very influential. Father would sit in at all the meetings of the Sanhedrin, unless Annas sent him on an assignment. He was always at Annas’ disposal.

* * *

It was taken for granted that my brothers and I would become merchants, or dignitaries, or rabbis, or something of importance in our society. It was also necessary for us to be apprenticed in a trade.

Father encouraged me to consider being trained as a cobbler. Old Ziph just two streets down towards Kidron had always made our sandals and was willing to train me for a four year period. "What do you think, Malchus?"

It was, of course, father’s decision, but it seemed important to him that I concurred. "Yes, sir. It sounds good to me."

From the vantage point of the years, I can see that my ordeal with Ziph was good for me. But for a time it was horrible. Much later I realized that father probably asked him to be tough on me to harden me up for life. Ziph took the assignment with eagerness.

"So, the little rich kid wants to be a cobbler?" he sneered just after father left me in his care. "We’ll see what kind of stuff you’re made of. You’ll probably go whining home to Momma to get you out of it, won’t you?"

Ziph would ask me sarcastic questions and if I fell into the trap and answered them, he used the answers as barbs to prod over and over again. Maybe I was a rich kid, but I wasn’t dumb. I soon learned not to answer these questions, and also not to complain at home.

Mother was sympathetic, and my early complaining caused her a lot of grief. I loved her too much to wish upon her the burden of my misfortune. At thirteen years old I was a man, and I learned to carry it myself. Besides, there was nothing Mother could do for me.

"Oh, little rich kid’s got soft hands? Poor boy. Maybe you can pay somebody to work the needle for you? Huh Malchus?"

My hands were raw. The rough leather and the punch and the needle combined to chew up my flesh. Ziph could have given me some other things to do at first, while my hands and fingers got tough, but he would not pass up a chance to make me suffer.

First my thumb began to bleed, then my index finger, then the side of my index finger on my left hand. The skin on my thumb pad began to perforate. I didn’t have to wonder if Ziph knew about it because he yelled at me, "Don’t get blood on the leather. It stains and it’s hard to get out.

"Filthy scum," I thought.

When I went home, I could not eat with my hands. I wasn’t hungry anyway, and mother poured oil and wine on the wounds and wrapped them with clean cloths. Bethany should see me now. Mother’s tenderness and concern were a comfort, but that night was fitful and I dreamed of the poor, dead, bloody lamb being hacked to pieces on the Great Altar.

The second day was worse than the first. I could not use my hands at all, so Ziph said, "So the poor little rich boy couldn’t do the work? What’s the matter Malchus, can’t take the pressure? Maybe you should apprentice to be a midwife. Ha ha ha ha," came the sarcastic laughter.

"Well since you’re too puny to be any good here, go to the tanner and get my skins."

It was a warm day with little or no wind. I followed carefully the directions Ziph gave me, but was beginning to think I had missed a turn or taken a wrong path. I had left the city more than an hour before, and was walking fast. I had taken the road south toward Bethlehem. After passing Herod’s Pools, I turned right along what began as a well worn path.

A sickening stench began to hang in the air. I saw some buildings ahead which I assumed were the tanner’s place, since nothing else was anywhere around. I thought there must be a dead animal here near the path, and I would soon get away from the choking smell. It got worse and worse. The closer I came to the tanner’s, the stronger the aroma.

The stench was so offensive that I thought I heard it as well as smelled it-like a whirring, spinning, grinding that heightened the smelling. Besides this, I could feel the nausea sweeping in waves through my body.

"Well wool-faced, shaky one, you must be old Ziph’s new apprentice. Welcome. Welcome to my lonely house and shop. Come in. Sit down. Would you like some refreshment? I have some delicious cool buttermilk."

I could not talk. I clenched my mouth shut hard.

"Oh yes, forgive me. I forget what it is like the first time you come so close to us lonely ones. Well, you get over it. Let me see your hands."

He looked at my hands, now swollen and pink. He frowned and said, "I have something to help you." And then before I could protest, he put on an ointment that hardened quickly. It felt soothing. I couldn’t tell then because it smelled so strong everywhere, but the stuff he put on my wounded hands carried the odor for several days. I was glad Bethany wasn’t around then.

I liked Bartholomew the tanner, and over the years of apprenticeship I began to look forward to these trips. During the second visit I was even able to eat with him. I made the trip once or twice a month.

My hands eventually healed and became as tough as the leather they worked. I even avoided the use of the leather shield the cobblers wore when using the needle. It was a matter of pride to me. Since Ziph had denied me its use that first day, I would not use it from then on.

I hated Ziph. I knew no other reaction than hatred to his cruel behavior and malicious teasing. After a few months, however, I noticed that the hatred was not there. I accepted Ziph for the miserable old scoundrel he was.

He hated the rich. That’s understandable. Lots of people hate the rich. They’re envious. I learned that lesson at an early age. Ziph can keep his bitterness, and I’ll keep the money. And, I’ll also become the best sandal maker in Jerusalem. I’ll show old Ziph that I can be better than he is.

When I came to the shop in the early mornings, he greeted me with some kind of cutting remark. Once my hatred left, I noticed I liked the attention. Even though the remarks were pointed, there was no poison on the barbs. He was what he was, and we had some things in common.

I think he began to enjoy me after a few months. I became pretty good at the work rather quickly. I made his job a lot easier, and he knew it, even if he didn’t say anything. After about a year and a half I got quite good, and we began to compete with one another.

We never called it a competition, or ever admitted I had become that good, but we competed hard. If we started a pair of sandals about the same time, we got faster and faster by the finish, racing finger poking speed until one of us finished. If I finished first I would whistle and strut while he grumped around. He could never acknowledge that I beat him.

Of course when he finished first, he rubbed it in. "Stupid rich kids have no business making sandals. I could teach you everything, and you still wouldn’t be able to do it right or to keep up." He loved it.

When he died, I went numb. I had finished about three and a half years of the four year apprenticeship when one morning I arrived and Ziph was not in the shop. That had never happened. I called out, "Ziph."

Ziph’s wife came into the shop through a door that connected the house with the shop. I don’t recall her ever coming into the shop like that. "Ziph’s dead. He died in the night." That was all she said. She turned around and went back into the house.

I stood in the empty shop a long time. "Where’s my greeting? Who’s going to race me? What happens now?"

I walked home and just sat. After a few hours I realized I wanted to pay respects and go to the burial, but when I came to the house, a neighbor said they had already gone and it was too late.