Free Jerusalem's Hope by Brock Thoene

other pilgrims, perhaps up the nearby streambed, but in any case away from prying eyes. Besides, the inn’s entry was also its only exit; it was too easy to be trapped there.
    In the end, Avel had no choice but to follow. After lurking opposite the gate for a time, like a recently beaten dog skulking beyond the fire’s light, Avel finally darted across the open space and into the thickest shadow he could find.
    Expecting his friends also to be tucked back in a sheltered corner, Avel was surprised to hear his name called from one of the brightly lit recesses. There, beside a fire, reclining on straw, were Emet and Ha-or Tov. Emet was unwrapping a length of bloody rag from his left foot; Ha-or Tov was drinking from a jug of water.
    â€œWhere’ve you been?” Ha-or Tov greeted him. “We were worried about you.”
    â€œWhat are you doing?” Avel hissed. “Get out of sight!”
    Ha-or Tov shook his head. “We have a protector,” he said, gesturing with the clay container. “Nakdimon ben Gurion. He’s over there talking to the fellow with the donkey.”
    Because of the crowd it took Avel several tries to locate the man. Eventually he spotted Nakdimon. His back was to Avel, but he appeared to be bargaining with the owner of a dun-colored swaybacked animal.
    â€œIt’s the man we saw at Deborah’s house in Capernaum,” Ha-or Tov added unnecessarily. “He said for us to stay with him and he’d look out for us.”

    Emet’s blistered feet.
    Nakdimon approached the problem brimming with good intentions after his long conversation with Yeshua of Nazareth. But in spite of his original plan, execution of the deed had taken on an extremely unpleasant aspect. The simple act of hiring a donkey to carry beggar boys to Jerusalem had become an arduous process.
    â€œI won’t take a penny less.” The traveling hawker ponderously wagged his massive head atop narrow shoulders. Tugging the drooping ear of his half-starved donkey, he added, “I took him in as payment of a debt. He’s been useful. Gentle. Dependable. You wish to hire him, you say. To carry the boys to Yerushalayim, you say. Well, then. All right, I say. But what if he dies on the way? What if you are not truly Nakdimon ben Gurion, the nephew of Gamaliel? And when I go to the address you give me in Yerushalayim to get my donkey back you have absconded with my beast and I am left with nothing but what you paid to hire him?”
    â€œFor that price, he should be mine. Three times over!”
    The hawker reddened. Clearly he was losing patience. “Not during Passover week! Two silver shekels for the hire of him! Two more in deposit, or your boys can walk on bloody stumps.”
    â€œIf you were a righteous man, you’d offer me the use of your beast for no pay whatsoever.” Nakdimon’s ire was roused. “This is Passover. Such a deed is a mitzvah, is it not?”
    â€œI’m a hawker, not a priest. With a donkey for hire!”
    â€œTwo shekels for the hire? And two shekels more for deposit! On a normal day I could buy three donkeys for that much. And in better condition!”
    â€œIn Yerushalayim he’ll fetch twice what I’m asking.”
    Nakdimon peered into the animal’s mouth. “If he lives that long.”
    A shrug. The hawker whined, “He’s practically a colt. Five. Maybe six.”
    Nakdimon knew the long yellow teeth indicated the animal had been carrying burdens for at least twenty years. “He’s old enough to pay taxes.”
    The hawker feigned injury. He sucked his blackened teeth petulantly. “Suit yourself. No one else in the khan is hiring out livestock. No one is selling. I happen to have taken a liking to your boys. That’s why I make you this offer. The little lad with the bloody feet. How else will you carry him to Yerushalayim? He is your son. You must think of such things.”
    â€œHe’s