To Kill the Christ! - Chapter Thirty: Raphael in Seliocopolis

As the commandos came out of the Syrian Gate several of them pointed to the sprawling city sitting on the south bank of the Orontes River, but clinging to the flanks of Mount Silpius. Ephesus was large, Carl remembered, but Antioch seemed to go on forever because it extended beyond the city walls. But the city was indefensible for the mountain's looming presence gave anyone who controlled it control of the city. Despite its defensive handicaps, Antioch vied with Alexandria as the second city of the empire.

Brick and stone buildings dotted the nearest slopes and marched down the hillside toward the city. It was a large valley, one that would be fertile and fruitful in summer and fall, but even though it was warmer here than on the plateau of Cappadocia, and there were palm trees, it still was winter.

The Orontes flowed southwest into the Mediterranean fifteen miles down river at the port of Seleucia Pieria.  Alexander would headquarter in Antioch but would travel to the port city regularly as he bargained for dye and dyed cloth.

They stayed that night in a hotel on the south side of the river. The Romans, in their typical thoroughness, had facilitated trade by building a magnificent bridge across the Orontes, which enabled the commandos to pass through to the south side before taking lodgings for the night in a hotel located just inside the city walls.

Carl broke the news to Pember and the men that night. Most of them were content to stay in such comfortable surroundings, enjoying the baths and the women of the town. Pember objected. "We have come so far, why not continue the journey?"

"I'm not sure myself, but I need to move very quickly the remaining distance, and it is well protected by Romans." Of course, Carl mused, we were badly ambushed in an area well protected by Romans.

"Can I come with you?"

Carl was touched by the request. He loved Pember for his skill and his leadership. Though they had not formed a close personal relationship, he had every confidence in his loyalty. Pember was like a centurion. He did as he was told without flinching, and he led the men from the front. Even this questioning was unusual.

"Pember, of all of the men, I would most enjoy having you with me, but you must remain to train them. They need to practice archery, and if you can find a place to do it, they need to accustom the horses to the sudden movements of the battlefield. They have never been ridden in battle as we ride horses. They require training."

Pember persisted. "Then let me send two men with you, Caracus has a smattering of Greek, and Bontechum is our best archer."

"Yes, a good suggestion." Carl was too tired to argue, and, besides, it was a good suggestion. He didn't know why he wanted to go on by himself alone, unless it was that he didn't want anyone to see him kill Raphael.

Alexander overheard the conversation and almost offered to go with him as translator, but he could always make the trip to Jerusalem after he had settled matters in Antioch. Carl need not know of his intentions.

Early the next morning the three men headed south toward Lebanon, though Carl wasn't sure the area still retained that name since it was part of Roman Syria, nor did he know where Maaloula was situated. He knew only that it was in the northern reaches of the Lebanon Mountains. Raphael once had been very explicit about its location because the buildings were piled one atop another on the sides of a steep defile, a pass through the mountains. They were painted a pastel blue because of the town's Christian roots. Carl doubted they were even painted.

Raphael remained a paradox to Carl. Twenty-first century Maaloula was one of probably only three remaining villages in the world in which Aramaic was spoken, but it had been traditionally Christian since it was Christianized early in the first century. Raphael had rejected his roots in Christ to embrace Islam.

He once had explained: "My father was a Christian in the sense that he wasn't anything else. He was born a Christian, and he remained one. That's why my name is Raphael, not Abdul or some such name. But his religion was dead, especially when we left the village. I made many Islamic friends at the university in Damascus, so that became my religion, and I studied it fairly hard for awhile, until my friends became militant. I wasn't interested in Islam's militancy, and my study of it dropped off, but all of my friends were involved, so I went along with them."

How far from his roots he has come, Carl had thought at the time, not ever envisioning what would transpire as a result of this conflict of beliefs.

                           _____________________ 

Caracus was riding by Carl's side with Bontecus riding point.

Carl turned to him, "How did you pick up Greek?"

The warrior's face reddened, then he blurted, "I don't know Greek. Pember wanted two men to travel with you, Bontecus with the bow and me with the sword." Now I've gotten Pember into trouble.

Carl laughed out loud, partly at the blush on the warrior's face and partly at the ruse Pember had pulled. "Pember was right. I do need two men, so don't worry about getting him into trouble with your confession."

They were speaking in Gaelic and as there was no word for confession Carl used Latin. But Caracus' Latin was as deficient as his Greek. He had to guess at its meaning.

Two days later they turned off the road to Judea and into the mountains, having been told by a Syrian official, who collected taxes from the cities of the region, how to get to Seliocopolis, as the Greeks and Romans called it.

It was late afternoon on a bright day when they arrived, having passed numerous villages on the way. But it was cold because they still were in the mountains. They paused at the entrance to the little valley, which was more like a defile, it was so narrow.  The houses were built, one on top of the other, stacked against the cliff to keep the valley floor clear for agriculture, just as they would be two thousand years in the future, except they weren't painted blue. In fact, they weren't painted.

Now comes the tricky part.

After inquiries in Latin and the very few Greek expressions Carl knew, he found a man who knew both languages, the only person in town who could converse in any language other than Aramaic. The old man, in flowing full length tunic, face wizened from age and sun, crinkles radiating from his eyes, looked at Carl suspiciously and gave the impression that Raphael was not in town, nor had he been. But a silver coin, with the image of Long Reach on it, changed his mind. Raphael had had several of those coins secreted on his body.

He led Carl to a first floor building. Carl stooped to enter. Pistol ready, he tried to accustom his eyes to the darkness of the room, even as he stepped aside to avoid his profile against the doorway. Only a small window lit the interior.

The old man entered and led him to a bed in the far corner of the single-room house. There he saw the broken and battered figure of Raphael, blood still oozing from a cut over his right eye.

Carl knelt beside the bed. "Raphael, what happened?" It was a two-fold question.

He reluctantly opened his eyes and muttered through battered lips. "Thought you'd come. But you're too late."

He coughed and a rage engulfed Carl. He could feel the heat rise in his neck and face. The rage was so strong he almost strangled Raphael with his hands, but the feebleness of his response showed he was not long for this world. "Did you find Jesus? What'd you do, and what happened to you?" Then, almost against his will, he added, "Anything I can do for you?"

Raphael tried to smile. Carl hadn't changed a bit. "Will you prop my head?"

Carl carefully adjusted the sheepskins piled behind his head and back until he reached a 45-degree angle.

"Can you tell this gentleman to get a little light in here?" Carl quickly realized the incongruity of calling the old man a gentleman in English. "Forget it, I'll get a lamp from outside. If he can find some oil, we'll get a good light in here."

Raphael stared at the lantern upon his return. He had sold thousands of the same lamps. Now there was one to light his last hours, or minutes.

The old man sat in the far corner of the room, listening to the foreign language and marveling at the light cast by the lantern. So much light from such a small object.

After a sip of water, Raphael weakly began his tale. "I came to Judea to kill Jesus. And I found him." There was a mild note of triumph in his voice. "It wasn't hard. I just asked around for the miracle worker, the prophet from Galilee, though my Aramaic is rusty."

You learned quite a bit from the New Testament, Carl thought.

"When I saw him heal and heard him preach, I waited until he was alone, at least without a crowd around." He coughed, a deep, painful cough. Carl could see flecks of blood on his lips. A punctured lung?

"I was lucky. I arrived in Bethsaida and that evening I found him walking alone outside of the house in which he was staying. I could have shot him, but I wanted answers.

"'Rabbi,' I asked, 'are you truly the Son of God?'

"'I come from a different religion, one that says you are a good man, a prophet above all other prophets, but that you are not the Son of God.'

"He looked deeply into my eyes, then replied, 'I have come to reach the ungodly, including those who do not worship the only true God. And I can say to you,' and here his eyes almost twinkled, 'I AM. You must listen to the Spirit's voice or you are lost forever.'

 "His cryptic answer floored me. What did he mean? Then, as clear as a voice from Allah, I could hear a line from the Qur'an which said that Jesus was not crucified, that Christians only thought he was. Instead, Allah raised him to heaven while he was alive. It is in Sura 4: 157-159, and 3: 55. How could I kill a prophet when Allah will raise him to heaven alive? What's remarkable is that I didn't memorize those verses when I was studying the Qur'an, yet I instantly recognized them!"

In his excitement he raised himself on his elbow. He weakly added. "Why did those verses come to me? I concluded that Allah had revealed them so I wouldn't commit an unforgivable sin." He paused, worn out from his recitation, and fell back onto the sheepskins.

Allowing him to rest, Carl motioned for the old man to follow him outside.

"Thank you for taking care of Raphael. He is a good friend who is near death. How did he come to you, and what had happened to him?"

His Latin was deficient but understandable for he was the trader of local baskets that were sold in Damascus.

"He was brought to my hut this morning by a Jew, a man who had come upon him on the road to Damascus. He had been badly beaten. That road is notorious for robbers, and, since we were the closest village, he carried him to my house on a donkey. The Jew gave me a coin to take care of him until he passed this way again. I sacrificed for him in the temple to Jupiter this afternoon."

"Thank you. Didn't Raphael have bodyguards, uh, men who protected him?"

"No. He told me he left two protectors in Antioch. He would pick them up on the way home."

They'll have a long wait! Raphael probably didn't want them around when he killed Jesus, just as I didn't want my men around when I killed him.

The similarity to the parable of the Good Samaritan on the road to Jericho wasn't lost on Carl. Was it a coincidence, or a God-thing?

He looked around to see that the small village had sprouted curious children and their parents. They had been fearful of him and his men when they first arrived, but fear had given way to curiosity. It reminded Carl of his duty. "Is there a place we can camp tonight and get food for my men? I will pay, of course."

The old man gave a wave of his hand as though dismissing the thought of pay.

In rapid fire order he told of Carl's request, mentioning that he was a friend of the injured man and that the village should serve as host—now! Again he waved his hand, again dismissive.

The children scattered, the women returned to their homes, but not before consulting on a menu, and the men who began to arrive from the fields quietly led the warriors to a glade where water and level ground could be had. They told the commandos about the food, but they did not understand Aramaic. Carl arrived in time to explain. He gave his horse to Caracus to groom and feed while he returned on foot to see Raphael.

He had fallen into a troubled sleep, suddenly waking. "What about Messalina and the boys, did you see them?"

Now's a good time to think of them! Carl thought. But he offered more conciliatory words. "Yes, I saw Messalina. She wants to return to Britannia when you return."

Raphael gave a wan smile. Both of us know I'll never recover. That silent conclusion could be read in his eyes.

Then Raphael spoke the thought, though with difficulty. "The oddest thoughts come into my mind as I lie dying. Remember the crabs and lobsters they keep alive in Chinese restaurants? I feel like one of them, certain that my time will come. Suddenly, I'm chosen. Allah reaches into the tank, and I'm the one to face the pot."

Carl smiled at the vivid allusion. "OK, Raphael, let's lay it on the line. I think you've punctured a lung. It's a miracle you've lived this long. What do you want me to do with the boys? The Greek has kind of adopted them as his grandsons, since they are Messalina's, even though you're the father."

Raphael grew measurably stronger. He had rethought his earlier instructions. "They must return to Brittania with Messalina. She can run the trading business in Camulodunum, but she may need a man as a front."

Again he coughed, his face twisted in pain. Carl could hear a gurgle in his rasping breath. Moving him to Seliocopolis most likely exacerbated the damage to his lungs.

He summoned strength for one last sentence: "I killed a bandit before they overpowered me and took my pistol," then he sank deeper into the sheep skins, his face relaxed. His breathing grew faint until it stopped.

Tears welled in Carl's eyes. Go in peace, Raphael. You've seen the Savior. Did you believe? Forgive him Father, he's no Judas!

His fingers lightly swept his eyelids, closing them tight. There soon would be dirt on his face, and Carl offered that small, unnecessary gesture.

He went to the door of the hut. "Do you have mourners, people who prepare the body for burial and a place where he can be buried? You may not realize it, but Raphael is from this village."

The last comment was lost on the old man since he knew everyone who had been born in the village, but he would make arrangements. Carl gave him coins for his efforts.

"Oh, yes, if the Jew returns please give him my thanks."

He returned to the glade in which the men were preparing for the night.

Now what? The quest is over and both Raphael and I have found closure. I think he finally believed, but in what? Anyway, that's now between Raphael and God. Now he'll get all of his questions answered, one way or another.

One thing I know, I don't have to go to Jerusalem to see Jesus. He spoke to me just as he spoke to Raphael. I think I missed catching up with Raphael to allow God to show his power. I needed to know that as much as Raphael.

Rebecca, here I come! I was right. God wouldn't allow Jesus to be killed. He gave a grimace. Of course, I had my own doubts on that point.

He knew he would never tell her that he was right, but she would be ecstatic at the news that the Savior and the Church were saved.

His heart was afloat. What an adventure lay ahead! Suddenly he remembered. What to do with Raphael's pistol?

                           _____________________

Methus looked at the strange object he had taken from the silly foreigner who traveled the road from Damascus by himself.

He killed one of my men with this thing, but I don't know how.

He was inclined to throw the piece away as accursed, but the smooth, black surface of the metal was seductive.

Perhaps this is a gift of the gods. No metal I've seen is so smooth to the touch or so well shaped. If we worship it we might get control of life and death, just as he did.

In his memory, he clearly saw the lonely foreigner turn the piece of metal toward his man and pull the small curved metal piece before he was overpowered and beaten to death. Or, so Methus thought.

He saw in his mind's eye how to hold the weapon. He pointed it toward a comrade before he realized the folly of doing so. He aimed instead at a dog scavenging for food on the outskirts of the village, and he pulled the trigger. The gun jumped in his hand and made a profane noise. He missed the dog, but hit a jar of water on a shelf above the animal. The dog yelped and raced from the scene, as did two comrades. They had seen the fearful results that followed the thunder of the weapon.

The hole in the jar quickly widened as the clay gave way, and it broke into pieces, water flowing everywhere.

Methus bent over to pick up the bright yellow cartridge that had been expelled by the strange weapon in his hand. It was hot, and he dropped it.

The gang leader may have been uncouth and superstitious, but he was not stupid. He carefully examined the remains of the jar and found a slug virtually intact because it had been stopped by the water. The slug fit into the end of the now empty and cooled cartridge.

                           _____________________

Alexander passed a Jewish synagogue on the outskirts of Antioch near the Jewish section. People were milling about outside the unimpressive building, arguing or disputing amongst themselves.

He rode up and leaned down to talk to a bystander who was watching the scene with some amusement. "Excuse me, do you know what the commotion is about? If those people aren't careful, the authorities will send soldiers to disperse them."

The stranger was nonplussed to be addressed by Alexander, who was dressed like a Roman. "A man spoke in the synagogue today, explaining a passage of Jewish Scripture and telling how it had been fulfilled."

"What has been fulfilled?"

"You would have to be a Jew to understand, but the Messiah, the savior of the Jews has come and been accepted by many Jews. He is a miracle worker and teaches the Scripture with authority."

Alexander was immediately interested. "Where is this man who gave the information? Is he still here?"

The foreigner closely examined Alexander, then, with a shrug of his shoulders, he said, "It is me."

He turned to survey the several groups that were vigorously discussing among themselves.  "You would think," he mused aloud, "that they would be questioning me about what I had heard and seen instead of each other."

Alexander nodded in agreement. "I would like to do so. I am a Jew, though only by my mother, and I would like for you to have dinner with me this night to discuss what you've found. Will you join me at the Sign of the Ram when the light fades?"

"I will. I'm a Greek Jew myself, and not especially observant of the ancient ways, but I was in Judea when I heard Jesus speak to the people. I will be happy to tell you what I know, and what I have learned from two of his followers."