Gergesa, on the Sea of Galilee, Israel
A mile from the extravagant city of Gergesa was a dark valley, hewn into the Earth by years of wind and water. The walls of the two hundred foot chasm were lined with tombs dug into the cliff faces. The air was cool, wet and reeked of stale decay. Some called it The Valley of the Dead, some simply called it The Valley, but for the past week, no one called it anything at all. No one dared to even think about the valley, as though Samuel, the man now shackled to a cliff face, might hunt them down and devour their children.
Samuel, once a fisherman and friend to many, had been overtaken by an evil force. Some speculated that the tempter himself possessed Samuel. Those who knew the man tried to give him time. Perhaps the evil would pass? But after a month, the evil had not passed; in fact, it had grown stronger, deepening its hold on Samuel’s body. He was found sleeping in the entrails of ten sheep he had slaughtered, apparently with his bare hands. The Roman Guard was called to action. It took ten heavily armed and expertly trained guards to subdue the man, and two almost lost their lives.
Samuel had been chained to the cliff face in the Valley of the Dead for five days, awaiting his sentence, which all knew would be death. Clothed only in dirty rags, Samuel spoke in strange languages, frothed at the mouth and at times mimicked the beasts of the forest. He was truly mad. But for the past five hours, he just sat there, cross- legged with his back to the four Roman soldiers standing guard. The soldiers, fully armored with iron helmets, hard leather chest plates, shoulder pads and boots, all wielded shields, swords and spears. They maintained a healthy distance and a watchful eye at all times.
Greagor, the captain of the group, stroked his favorite sword against a whetstone, sharpening its blade to a razor’s edge. With its double-edged iron blade, its U-shaped, brass hilt and ornate sheath, it was a spectacular weapon-one that Greagor had used to kill several enemies of Rome. With every swipe of the blade, Greagor kept his eyes glued on Samuel. His lip raised in a sneer, revealing clenched teeth. Not only was this man a Jew, a conquered people with phony freedoms, but he was evil, and Greagor wanted him dead. “We ought to slit his throat now and be done with it,” Greagor said.
The other men laughed and agreed, but none took action. They were all too terrified to personally carry out a death sentence. Greagor, pleased that he had made the men laugh, thought it appropriate to further taunt the chained beast. He picked up a sharp stone the size of a fist, and heaved it at Samuel. The rock sailed through the air, sure to strike a painful blow. The soldiers’ eyes grew broad with anticipation. Whack! Stone slapped against flesh.
Greagor stood up. He thought his vision must be playing tricks. But the other men, with petrified visages, saw it too. Samuel’s hand had a firm grip on the stone, inches from his head. He caught the stone…with his back turned! Greagor sat down and looked at his comrades. All were too timorous to say a word, lest they entice the beast to retaliate.
Samuel looked at the stone through glazed eyes. He smiled and began to rock back and forth, muttering to himself, “Dimito desrafat fier tarsadun,” over and over again. Each time he finished the words, he cut a bloody gouge into his arm using the stone. Froth dripped from his mouth and mixed with the blood oozing from his arm. The sight only enticed him further and his rocking grew more fervent. His legs bounced at the kneecaps and his eyelids twitched as though in violent REM sleep.
As Greagor watched with a new respect, he thought he saw something different about Samuel. He was growing more excited…or was it nervous?
The sea had been calm since the storm magically dissipated and no one had said much of anything. David had bound Tom’s wound as best he could, but it didn’t stop Tom’s head from swelling. The pain was intense at first, but had dulled slightly when Tom sat still, which wasn’t easy to do in a rocking boat.
If only he were alone, Tom thought. He could make a quick jaunt to the future for some Ibuprofen and ice, but it was impossible here in the boat and would be even more unlikely as soon as they landed in Gergesa, which was now only one hundred yards away.
From this distance, the city could be seen in its entire luster. Tall, white arches attached several columned buildings to one another. A grand theater bustled with activity to the south and a temple of Zeus stood tall and proud atop a hill to the north. This was the pinnacle of how Tom had envisioned the Roman Empire, its influence smearing even into the most distant territories. He enjoyed the view despite the drumbeat of pain pounding within his skull.
Matthew, who had been resting on the side of the boat, craned his head up as though he’d been rudely awakened. “Disgusting. Look at all those pigs. Who would tend such beasts so close to the city?” he said to Tom.
Previously, Tom would have thought such a comment to be peculiar, but having learned Jewish culture, Tom knew that pigs were unfit to eat and were looked down upon severely. The fact that such a large herd was roaming on the hill just outside the city must have enraged every good Jew for miles. But Tom wasn’t inclined to have yet another conversation about the foulness of pigs. He responded with a simple smile and the subject died out.
Within five minutes, they reached the shore. “Someone else can get their feet wet this time!” Matthew yelled, “I’ve spent my time in the water!”
Peter stood and said, “You got more then your feet wet,” as he climbed over the side of the boat, into the water. “Judas, give me a hand.”
Judas rather reluctantly got to his feet and threw one leg over the side. As Judas put his other leg into the water, he lost his balance and fell backwards with a yelp, catching his robe on the oar and ripping it lengthwise. Peter thrust his long arm into the water and pulled the flailing Judas to his feet. Judas was panicked and coughed a large amount of water up after taking a breath. Tom wondered if Judas had ever been submerged in water. The poor man must have sucked in a mouthful.
Judas attempted to collect himself but was clearly distraught. His hands shook as he clutched the side of the boat, knuckles white. Tom felt a deep compassion for the man. “Go ahead to shore, Judas,” Tom said, as he patted Judas’s hand, “I’ll help Peter.”
Judas trudged to the shore and sat down with his head between his knees. Tom and Peter dragged the boat full of men to the shore.
Tom then walked to Judas, who looked up with the sad eyes of a child whose new Christmas present had been broken only minutes after being unwrapped. “Look at this,” said Judas, as he held up his torn robe, “I look like a beggar.”
“Can’t you just buy a new one?” Tom asked.
“It’s not up to me. The tax collector has the money,” Judas whined.
“Tax collector?”
“Matthew, he used to be a tax collector,” Judas explained, “Honestly, I think I could do better with the money, but Matthew insisted he had the most experience.”
“Why don’t you just ask for some?” Tom asked.
“I don’t… I couldn’t…”
“Then I will.”
Judas attempted to stop Tom with an outreached arm, but he was too late, Tom was already approaching Jesus, who was still in the boat.
“Your compassion is growing,” Jesus said, as Tom stopped at the boat.
Tom paused. Jesus turned to him. “Helping those in need… aiding Judas. You’re learning my ways.”
“I haven’t changed since the day we met,” Tom said, knowing full well it was a lie.
Jesus smiled. “So you say. Ask your question.”
Tom felt the urge to argue the point, but could see Jesus already had him against the ropes. “Judas ripped his robe when he fell out of the boat. I was…he was wondering if we could give him some money to buy a new robe?”
“Of course,” Jesus said.
