Ayala's King: Part One

Hey guys! Popping in to introduce my Christmas story. I'll be publishing this in different parts, so stay tuned for the rest! Thanks for reading, and I hope you all enjoy. ;)

Part One: 

The Condemned 

“It was foolish indeed - thus to run farther and farther from all who could help her, as if she had been seeking a fit spot for the goblin creature to eat her in at his leisure; but that is the way fear serves us: it always sides with the thing we are afraid of.”

~George MacDonald, The Princess and the Goblin

Ayala had seen the temple many times before. Always with her husband, always properly dressed, and always with her eyes respectfully lowered and the correct prayers on her lips. 

She had never seen it while she was dragged up the steps. 

The large colonnades were still surrounded by the blind and the lame, scattered throughout the temple grounds like ticks in wheat. Normally, Ayala made sure to publicly drop a few denarii into the hands of the closest beggars. 

Today, it was her own hands that cried out for help. 

The young scribe, Arieh- who had the privilege of pulling her forward by the rope that bound her wrists- paused briefly as she stumbled over the final step. She swerved, narrowly avoiding scraping her head against one of the many pillars, and tripped over the torn and muddy edge of her tunic. 

Tears pricked her eyes. Her sandal strap had twisted, digging into her foot painfully, but she didn’t dare ask the scribe to let her fix it. 

After all, what mercy could a woman caught in the act of adultery hope for? 

Because that was exactly why Ayala was currently being led before the Sanhedrin. 

It was Tobias’ fault that they had been caught. He had lured Ayala into his home last night instead of coming to hers, promising her that it would be safer, that no one would know, that she could slip out before the sun rose. 

But that morning, as Ayala kissed him goodbye and eased his door shut, she came face to face with Arieh. He had immediately arrested her, under penalty of death, and forced her into a long, humiliating march to the temple, where the Sanhedrin could pass official judgement on her. 

And then Ayala’s life would end. 

It was a simple phrase that did not capture the absolute brutality of what Ayala would face. Tradition commanded death by stoning– which meant that Ayala would be stripped and forced to stand in front of an angry mob that would pelt her with large rocks, big enough to crush her skull. 

She had known, oh, she had known, exactly what the Torah said about women like her. How it commanded the people to stone the woman to death. She had turned this passage over, and over in her mind, haunted by the coldness of the words, of the severity of what it meant. 

But it the end, she had still chosen Tobias. 

She cared for her husband. But Reuben was a good deal older than her, and spent much of his time away from Jerusalem, trading away his stoneware and pottery. They had been married when she was scarcely more than a girl, and he had always provided for her comfortably. They were wealthy, always careful to observe all the Jewish traditions, and Ayala had been the picture of a proper Hebrew wife. 

Under the surface, tension simmered between the seemingly happily married couple. When Reuben was home, he was poor company for Ayala, who wanted to discuss politics and religion. Her mind danced circles around his, and left him feeling awkward and unsettled. He retreated into himself, leaving Ayala to sit by the fire quietly with her needlework, quietly screaming for someone to notice her.

Tobias had been like a breath of fresh air. They had met by chance. Ayala had been attending the market with her handmaid, when she had been stopped by a young man looking for her husband. He had asked her if perhaps they would be interested in buying any of his father’s wine. 

There had been something about his eyes. They had looked beyond Ayala’s fine gold-hemmed tunic, and seen into the soul beneath. For the first time since leaving her father’s house, Ayala felt seen for more than her husband’s name and house. 

Foolishly, she asked the young man to stop by her house that evening. She promised him gold for two vats of wine, and he kissed her hand– ignoring the veil that marked her as married– and vowed to be there. 

And so Ayala had given into her longing to be loved. She had let Tobias promise her things that no man had ever promised her before, and she had followed his every whim, even when she had known the consequences. They had been planning to run away together, when Reuben returned from his latest merchant route, and Tobias had sworn to stand by her no matter what. 

Yet when it came down to it, it was Ayala marked to stand before the Sanhedrin, and not Tobias. 

Arieh’s hand loosened on the ropes, and she smiled at him gratefully. He looked away and pulled her through the Beautiful Gate of the temple. 

Inside the Women’s Court of the temple, both men and women alike milled about, praying out loud, beating their chests, and looking toward the Holy place. Women were not allowed to enter, but they gathered as close as they dared, chanting psalms and hymns out loud. Once, Ayala had been among them, dutifully murmuring out the ancient words. 

“Arieh!” A voice called out, and both Arieh and Ayala turned to see a pharisee hurrying towards them, his long black robes swishing around his feet. 

Ayala’s heart sank. This was no mere pharisee– this was Malachi, a highly respected member of the Sanhedrin, and no doubt the one who had put the order for Ayala’s arrest into place himself. 

Malachi came to a halt in front of them. His gaze took in Ayala’s torn and filthy robe, her uncovered head and her missing sandal, and his nose wrinkled. “I had worried you had been detained,” he said at last, turning his attention to Arieh. 

Arieh bowed low, keeping his hands tight on Ayala’s rope. “No, master. I arrived as soon as I could.” 

“And not a moment too late. He has almost finished his teaching for the day.” Malachi turned slightly to look behind him, making his headdress sway. “His answer is highly important, but whether he says yes or no, her punishment is clear.” 

Ayala’s vision blurred. She blinked back her tears, swallowing hard. “Sir?” Her voice came out raspy and weak, and she cleared her throat, trying to muster what little dignity she had left. “Sir, please… I thought I was standing trial before the Sanhedrin.” 

Malachi flicked her a disdainful glance. “You have absolutely no right to expect anything.” Ayala opened her mouth, but he silenced her with a gesture. “You know what the law of Moses commands us for your crime. But we are sparing you the humiliation of a trial for one reason only: after all, how could I watch my dear friend Rueben suffer his wife’s betrayal?” He smiled, a smile that stretched his lips thin and smothered Ayala coldly. 

Ayala did her best to straighten up, aware that her tunic was coated in mud from when she’d fallen earlier. “Sir, my husband is a faithful Jew. He will bear anything, knowing that the Torah was fully obeyed.” 

She’d meant it as a desperate plea, a cry for Malachi to order her trial and end her misery swiftly. But Malachi’s gaze darkened and she realized he’d seen it as a challenge. 

“Your husband’s piety does not concern us,” he said sharply. “We have chosen to allow one of our more… popular rabbis the chance to pass judgement on your case.” 

Beside her, Arieh gasped. “Jesus of Nazareth?” he breathed. 

Malachi frowned at Arieh, but Ayala hardly noticed. She tried to remember how to breathe. 

Jesus of Nazareth was not a member of the Sanhedrin.  Instead, he was one of the most famous and well-known teachers in all of Judea. He drew large crowds wherever he went, and rumors spread like wildfire of his reputed ability to heal the sick, multiply food for an entire crowd, and even turn water into wine. The last thing Ayala wanted was to be publicly condemned in front of him. 

“Sir,” Ayala began, but Malachi interrupted. 

“Take her before him, Arieh. You know what to do.” 

Arieh inclined his head respectfully. He pulled Ayala after him, her feet scraping on the cold marble floor. She did her best to shake the hair away from her eyes, tried her hardest to look like the part of Reuben’s dignified wife that she had played for so long. 

In the far corner of the Women’s court, a group of people were gathered, pressed so close that Ayala couldn’t see beyond them. A group of Pharisees huddled around the edges of the small crowd. They turned to look at Ayala, and she furrowed her brow, confused. 

It was no secret that the Sanhedrin hated Jesus. They hated his bold teachings, the way he was able to draw disciples, and they especially disliked his criticism of their sect. 

Why then, were they clustered around him, eager to hear his words?

Arieh cleared his throat. “Make way! Make way for the adulterer!” 

The cruel twist he put on the final word drove a wedge through the people. They scattered, leaving a clear pathway for Arieh and Ayala. He pushed Ayala through the center and into the middle of the crowd, and suddenly she was looking right into the eyes of the most famous teacher in all of Judea. 

She had heard countless stories of him, even from Rueben, who was convinced that Jesus bore a message from Heaven. Jesus often frequented the temple when he passed through Jerusalem, but never while Ayala was there. 

He was seated on a low bench that ran along the wall of the temple court. The lines around his eyes spoke of days on the road, perhaps without a proper night of sleep. His tunic was a light blue, woven to fit his broad shoulders and narrow build almost perfectly. A stylus and pen lay on his lap, abandoned as he watched the scene unfolding before him. His hair and beard were dark, which was typical of semitic men, but it was his face that that caught Ayala’s attention. 

He was looking directly at her. 

Ashamed, she looked down, pulling her hands as far away from Arieh as she could the moment he untied the rope. 

“Arieh.” Jesus’s voice was quiet, filled with a familiarity that spoke of hundreds of hours spent at the temple. “Why have you brought this woman before me?” 

“Teacher,” Arieh responded nasally, “This woman was caught in the act of adultery. In the law of Moses, Moses commanded us to stone such a woman. So what do you say?” His words rang out over the small crowd that still remained, rendering them silent. 

Jesus studied Ayala, his head tipped to one side. His patient gaze made her squirm inwardly. 

It was unfair of Malachi to subject her to such ridicule, in front of this crowd. How dare he act as though a carpenter could pass sufficient judgment on her? 

All the people held their breath, waiting for Jesus’ answer. The Pharisees hovered anxiously in the background, ready to pounce on both Ayala and Jesus the moment his judgment passed his lips. 

A young man in a red tunic shifted nervously, no doubt one of Jesus’ famous twelve disciples. “Lord,” he said quietly, leaning forward to whisper into Jesus’ ear, “They want to test you.” 

And it all slid into focus. 

This wasn’t about Ayala. 

In fact, she was nothing more than a clever pawn, a piece in the game that Malachi had dreamed up. 

They wanted to catch Jesus in the midst of a heresy, and they were using her to do so. If Jesus waived her punishment, he would be labeled for disrespect to the Torah. But if he went through with her allotted punishment, he would be seen as uncompassionate and unfaithful to his “gospel”. 

Ayala’s throat felt like someone had poured steaming hot molasses down it. She had never been so angry before. How could they use her life and her trial as an excuse to pettily humble a poor rabbi from Nazereth? 

“I want a fair trial,” she said, and her throat managed to croak out the words huskily. “Who are you to pass judgment on me?” 

An audible gasp swept through the Women’s court. 

“He is the Christ!” 

“The Messiah!” 

“He is an honored Rabbi!” 

Voices clamored louder and louder, drowning out any reply that Jesus could have possibly given. 

“Silence!” The man with the red tunic shouted as loud as he could, holding up his hands for quiet. “Hold your peace!” The noise slowly faded away, but one voice rang out loud and clear, shooting straight into Ayala’s heart. “He is nothing but the son of Mary and Joseph from Nazareth!” 

Ayala gasped, her lips parting in horror. 

As if seeing the realization slowly dawn behind her eyes, Jesus dipped his finger in the ink pot that had been on his lap. He bent down and scrawled one single word on the temple floor. 

Ayala. 

She flinched. 

She didn’t want to remember. 

Surely it couldn’t be true. Hundreds of little Jewish boys bore the name of Jesus. What was the possibility that the one rabbi was the same little boy she’d known all those years ago? 

But even as the thought crossed her mind, she met Jesus’ gaze, and she knew it was true. 

Their paths had crossed before, long ago, on a night when Ayala’s tiny world had changed forever. 

To Be Continued....

Keep a lookout for part two! This scene is heavily inspired by and a fictional retelling of John 8:1-11. I've always been captivated by this interaction with Jesus and the pharisees. We read so many fantasy books with political intrigue that oftentimes it's easy to forget that Jesus Himself dealt with more political dynamics and social expectations than we could ever expect.

May this story be an encouragement to you as we continue, and remind you that Christmas is about the Greatest Story ever told: the coming Messiah, the very Word of God incarnate, the perfect Son of God who came to die for you. ♥