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CHAPTER IV The Prophet
The Baptist watched the rat nibble tentatively at a crust of moldy bread, its tiny black nose twisting and bobbing.
He had gagged when he had tried to eat the bread. It crumbled into powder as his teeth bit into it. The water the prison supplied came accompanied with the faint smell of urine. He did not have to imagine what the vessel had been used for. Despite his parched tongue, he emptied the foul fluid on the rat, who didn't seem to mind. Though his mouth was dry, he spat on the cold, damp stone floor as though somehow this would purge himself of the filth around him. He found himself wondering idly where they had quarried the rock and how many had spat on it just as he had done.
Thoughts of rushing green water boiling white over cool rocks flooded his brain, the dank humidity of Herod's dungeon suffocating his every breath. What I would not give for a cool mountain breeze, wafting over a flowing stream filled with fish! Thoughts came chaotically and randomly. For the briefest of instants, his mind rested on the memory of naked girls bathing in the stream. What I would not give . . . he allowed himself to envision them once again, and then catching himself, ashamed, forced his thoughts elsewhere.
"Baptist!" bellowed his jailer, his voice echoing against wet walls. Gleaming black eyes accentuated by thick, black eyebrows appeared through the sliding peephole in the iron door of his cell.
The brute had one arm, the other lost in battle in the arena. He had lost the battle, but the crowd appealed to Herod for his life because he had fought well. The king concurred and held his right thumb aloft. His victor extended his arm and pulled the vanquished combatant to his feet. He picked up his severed arm from the dirt and staggered back toward his quarters, until he fainted from loss of blood. Now his gladiator days were over. There is no use for a one-armed gladiator. His assignment to jailor duty had saved him from a life of begging. A humiliating task for a warrior, so he often took his frustrations out on his charges. His brutality was legend. Yet, somehow, John had befriended him.
"This is my kingdom," he would tell the prophet, waving his thick black arm at the surroundings. "I do what I choose. Not even Herod questions me. I take life when I choose. I torture whom I choose and when I choose. I let live when I choose." He paused briefly to let the threat of his power take its desired effect. John did not respond with the anticipated fear. "You will live, Baptist!" He said it like he spit. "But you will not live long. That royal bastard despises you. But if there were water here, by these Roman gods, I would have you baptize me!" No small concession from this man.
"Baptist!" he yelled again. "You have visitors!"
The two men were allowed to sit with John while they conversed. "He is preaching in every village in Galilee. Hordes follow him from town to town." "He must be our Messiah," said John despondently. "Certainly I never commanded such a following." The prophet paused for a moment, then buried his face in his hands. "When I baptized him, I saw . . . I thought," his words trailed into silence. And then, "Markus, Jannai," the black shadows that were his eyes brightened slightly, "You should have seen it. A magnificent, white dove descended from the heavens and sat upon his shoulder. And the voice . . ." "What voice?" John did not answer. He seemed lost in despondency again. After a few moments he shook his now matted head of massive hair and muttered negatively, "I had thought . . . I had truly thought that he was the One." He got up from where he squatted on the floor and stared at the wall disconsolately. "I guess I was wrong." The sense of dejection in the prison cell overpowered all three men. Prison has a way with men's minds. Confinement, darkness, cold, persistent dampness, rats, roaches, slugs, inedible food, urine, excrement and inhuman brutality did things to one's mind. Several moments passed. The two men didn't know what to say. They sat with the broken prophet unable to speak. Jannai broke the silence. Since he was the more reticent of the two, it came as a surprise to hear him say, "I think you are wrong, my teacher. Your heart is so filled with pain that it has colored your judgment. Why would you, of all people, say such a thing?" John turned on him. Eyes once vacant and empty, now raging with fire. "Then go to him! You think him so unimpeachable, so real, so genuine!" An accusation of absurdity borne by rage. The bitterness in his voice reverberated against the barren walls of the dungeon. Footfalls of rats scurrying away at the noise. "Ask him why he has not declared himself? Ask him why he does not baptize? Ask him why he has permitted his cousin to rot in this infested dungeon? Do not tell me he does not know I am here. If he were Messiah, surely he would know! So ask him plainly, Are you he that should come or should we look for another? Leave no doubt. Then come back here and report to me!" The two men unconsciously clenched their teeth in embarrassment for their master. "And while you are at it," said John shaking, "ask him why he is there and I am here!" The two men turned to leave, the guard having come at the sound of John's raised voice. The door opened and they exited. As they went out they heard him scream, "Ask him why the prophets of an omnipotent God suffer interminable humiliation!" His voice broke into sobs. "Ask him! Ask him! Ask him!" The screams bounced darkly against dank, hollow walls, echoes dying in agony.
They found him on the side of a Galilean hill as usual, surrounded by a multitude. The Judean prison lay four days of hard, relentless walking in their train. Their feet were sore, their bones throbbed. They had not bathed in that time and dry rivulets of sweat coursed their whitened paths down their brows and cheeks. Their antipathy toward Jesus had mounted with each step along the way. When at last they found him, Markus acidly remarked to Jannai, "Holding court again! He seems to thrive on approbation accorded by the ignorant, needy masses. How much Roman coin do you suppose these poor sheep give into his coffers?" Thoughts of cynicism and despair surged in their heads. "He is truly a charlatan," concluded Jannai quietly. They watched in disgust as Jesus taught the people. He seemed happy. Contented. Gloating, they thought, at the plaudits, praise and words of blessing from those surrounding him. "Why do people flock to him so? What has he to give them? He does not upbraid them for their sins. He does not demand repentance and baptism, as does our teacher. He is jovial, accepting and almost stupidly approachable. Anyone would follow a teacher like that. He tells them what they want to hear!" "He is a charlatan," again from Jannai.
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