crossed paths
Am I a man, of a god? I was born of flesh, yet I know that I was created by God.
The swarthy, black haired man looked out at the scatted crowds of people, some
drawn by sorrow, others by specticle, they were all created by God too. Sweat dripped
from his straight nair and large nose, already pinkish with blood.
For a moment he thought he saw Amil and Jaccob in the crowd, the two cousins of his who
had guarded him until his thirtieth year. Even if they were here he would not ask them
to attack the bored soldiers gaurding his dying body. He bore no hatred for the Romans
who had ordered his death, for the roman guards who carried it out, or even for the Jews
who might have saved him, if they had not wanted a more martial hero. He didn't want his
cousins, his friends to die for revenge, for nothing. He was already too far gone, and he
knew it.
He thought of his father, who he had abandoned so many years ago, he would give everything
he had left in this world to see Joseph again. "Father, why have you forsaken me?"
So many had looked to him to be a war hero, leader of the house of David. The pressure was
too much for one 13 year old boy to take, even one divinely blessed.
He had run away to the church again, but this time to take, not to visit. When he exited the
temple with a precious copy of the Torah his cousins were waiting, but somehow, they did not
question. They found him a cave in the hills, brought him food, water, and what pleasures he
desired. He did not question where they got the goods, nor the occasional shy girl who wanted
to visit him. He read the entire scroll again and again. Not seeking his purpose, but searching
for a way out.
He was pale and haggard when he left the cave. He asked his cousins to teach him the arts of war.
It took many years, to fill out his frame, to learn swordplay, tactics, archery, and leadership.
He assembled a small war band, not small because he cound not get more, but small because they were
all well trained and trustworthy. For what he intended a large group would be too visable, and fail
because of it. His miricles made life very difficult for the romans. As did his chosen few. Battle
cost a few their lives, and he found that twelve was the perfect number for his many attacks. He
gained the love of the people, both by hurting the hated romans, and by giving the supplies and gold
he stole to the poor. He avoided the fate of many of his contemporaries by not letting anyone know his
name and lineage. None of the clans that warred with the house of David attacked, they did not know.
As more and more blood ran from his hands, as he felt more and more guilty using gods power to kill, he
grew more bitter, empty. He told his followers to create new bands like his, and to follow in his footsteps,
When they asked him why, he said only that God had given him a new mission. He thought it was a lie. Even
Barabbas, his second in command, agreed to go. But his cousins remained. At that point he didn't care. He
would leave his life of violence whether they followed him or not.
Three long years on the road, they agreed not to hinder him, he almost never saw them. But even then he knew
they were there. Older now, tired, stooped, but uncomplaining. There if he ever needed.
He knew that many horrible acts would be done in his name, perhaps even worse than what he did while alive, but
his sacrifice might just buy the world a new idea. That violence doesn't work, that hatred doesn't give any
comfort. If others picked up on those ideas, whether jew or gentile, he would be happy. And he would salute
any who came after him with the same message.
