and shaken, he said, “It was foolish of me to attempt that in this crush of people. I’ll be all right after I rest a little.”
The Levites guided Father to a bench and eased him down onto it. Naomi and I retrieved his sandals and the basket of doves he had been carrying. We sat with Father while he gathered his strength again.
The huge plaza on which we sat was called the Court of the Gentiles because non-Jews were permitted here. On its west side, a stone balustrade sectioned off a smaller courtyard called the Court of Women. A silver-and-gold-plated gate allowed access to its raised confines, but only to Jewish men and women. Beyond that area, up a staircase, sat the Court of Israelites, which was restricted to Jewish men. A gate on its west side led to the Court of the Priests. Within that final courtyard gleamed the Temple itself, a structure almost blinding in its white and gold splendor. Rising more than thirty cubits above the court where we stood, the Temple sanctuary reigned as the highest point in Jerusalem. The white marble of its walls and the gold of its facade and rooftop powerfully and gloriously reflected the sun’s light. The sight of it took my breath away. Of course The Holy One would choose this place as His own in all the world, I thought. And here I was, on the Temple Mount, close enough to the sacred sanctuary to bask in its brilliant glow, to smell the roasting meat of the sacrifices offered to Him, and to hear His praises sung in all the languages of the world.
This Court of the Gentiles throbbed with the movements and sounds of the multitude it contained. There were many, many more people here than I could count. Naomi said, “Once I was in the Sepphoris market during a festival and I thought most of the people in the world were there. But now I see they must’ve been here!”
Father laughed. He was feeling better. “Come,” he said, “let’s cross the courtyards to the place of sacrifice.”
Our destination was the Court of Women, where Naomi and I would wait while Father proceeded through the bronze Nicanor Gate to the Court of Israelites. There he would pray with the assembly while priests offered our doves on the enormous altar in the Court of the Priests.
A long line sagged outside the Beautiful Gate, the opening to the Court of Women. Next to this gate hung a sign in Latin and Greek. “NO GENTILE ALLOWED BEYOND THIS SIGN UNDER PENALTY OF DEATH.” We joined the line, and I studied the other visitors around us. Most people respected the admonition not to spit, which was posted on signs in several languages. I noticed a large number of Gentiles. Many men and even some women strolled about the huge courtyard with uncovered heads, eating and exchanging money as if they were in a marketplace. Their children misbehaved, the girls playing tag and the boys tussling with one another. Some of the women were even bare-shouldered!
I’d expected a respectful quiet on the Mount, an undertone, perhaps, of voices engaged in prayer and chanting. I had hoped to feel Adonai’s presence here, but the clamor and irreverence shocked me. This holy place was as noisy as the streets of Jerusalem.
The smell of incense and the smoke from the roasting sacrificial meat intensified as the sun rose higher. After standing in line until the sun reached its highest point in the sky, both Naomi and I developed headaches. We asked Father for permission to sit down in the shade of the Eastern portico, but he didn’t think it would be safe, even though Chuza had been wrong. There were no Roman soldiers here.
A headache didn’t prevent Naomi from observing and commenting on the young men. “Look at that fat-legged one. He should wear a longer tunic.” And, “Oh, see the sweet puppy eyes on that long-haired boy? Do you suppose he needs a wife?”
A man in a tunic shabbier than ours strode across the courtyard speaking loudly to some groups of people. He seemed to address young men who, judging from their clothing, looked like Jews from our own country of Galilee. Several of them broke away from their groups to listen to the ragged-looking man. As he worked his way closer to us, Naomi said, “Look at that fierce-looking one with the red curls falling onto his forehead. Wait. Is that Judah ben Hezekiah?”
I spotted the man with the undisciplined red hair. My fingers touched the place on my throat that Judah had clutched and bruised.
“He wouldn’t look so bad if he’d smile once in a while,” Naomi babbled. “Ugh. Never mind. He looks like a wolf when he smiles.”
“Turn around,” Father ordered. “Don’t attract his attention. Don’t speak to him.”
I obeyed but wondered what I would do if Judah found me. I imagined the moment when his eyes, roaming over the crowd, found and locked on mine, and when his breath once again stirred through my hair. An unfamiliar but pleasant flush raced through me.
“One year ago today,” Judah proclaimed, now close enough for us to hear his shout, “two brave scholars and their students were burnt alive here on the Temple Mount. Their only crime was to tear down the Roman emblem that profaned this holy place. Join me. Avenge this outrage against The Holy One and our people!”
Some young men left our line to answer Judah’s call. He and his cluster surged across the courtyard. Like a tangle of brush rushing downstream, they ensnared the loose and the rootless in their powerful flow.
At the same time, approaching from the opposite direction, a man in a bright white turban wended his way through the throng. “Over there,” Naomi said, pointing at the man who had just captured my attention. “That tall one is handsome. No. Too old.”
The turbaned man wore a pure white linen tunic. A blue sash wound across his chest and hung almost to the ground. I supposed he was a priest. He was even taller than Lev, standing at least a head higher than everyone around him. He gestured constantly, sweeping his arms out and drawing people into a circle around him. When he had a group assembled, he pointed one long-fingered hand to the south. These groups began hurrying towards the Huldah Gates. He must have known many languages because he spoke with people of every description.
The white-robed priest approached our line and shouted in Greek to the people standing in it. “Leave the Mount now. Peacefully. Roman soldiers are on their way. Do not cause a disturbance. When they see we are peaceful, they will not harm us.”
But even as he spoke, Roman foot soldiers poured from the portico on the east where Naomi and I had wanted to rest. Perspiration trickled down my back as I recalled the crucified men in the oak grove and my father splayed out in the dirt in Jericho. But these soldiers, armed only with undrawn swords, didn’t wear helmets or carry shields. They formed a thin line along the eastern side of the courtyard and appeared to number no more than a hundred.
The clamor in the massive courtyard died down as the throng on the Mount, which numbered in the thousands, scrutinized the soldiers’ movements. After a few very anxious moments, it became clear that the Romans did not intend to attack but merely to stand guard. Many people returned to their prayers and sacrifices. But some began grumbling, and the grumbling soon turned to shouting. “Go away, pagans!” “You don’t belong here.” “Get out of our Holy Temple!”
The white-robed priest gestured urgently and announced again in Greek, “Leave now, pilgrims. Leave peacefully.”
But in Aramaic, Judah roared louder than the priest. “These Romans defile The Holy One’s throne on earth. We must cleanse the Temple of them.” He picked up a stone and raised his fist into the noonday sky. “No master but God!” he cried.
I felt a pull to join the young men who followed Judah. It was as if a rope had been tied around my waist, and Judah, hand over hand, steadily drew me nearer to him.
Now less than ten paces away from me, he would be close enough to hear my call. I felt his name in my throat, a pang throbbing for release.
