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    The Thief-The Moneychangers Are Back and Jesus Is still Weeping
    The Thief-The Moneychangers Are Back and Jesus Is still Weeping
    The Thief-The Moneychangers Are Back and Jesus Is still Weeping
    Ebook101 pages1 hour

    The Thief-The Moneychangers Are Back and Jesus Is still Weeping

    By Cheryl Lee

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    About this ebook

    Lucius Arias was the result of a brutal assault by a conquering Roman soldier upon his young mother. Her wanderings lead her to come to reside in a grand villa and become part of the Judean household who found her. He grew up in a home were he was loved, educated and adopted eventually by these kind people.
    The Roman pressures against those who resided in Jerusalem was on the brink of total rebellion. Woven throughout, Lucius has different encounters with the wandering preacher Jesus and ended with him on that fateful day, on Golgotha Hill.
    He had the memory of the description of that Roman soldier, and the mixed feelings of hatred and longing to connect with his father. He, too, had entered into the circle of family of his son, yet neither had met, until a chance meeting that would end in violance.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherCheryl Lee
    Release dateSep 30, 2013
    ISBN9781301708697
    The Thief-The Moneychangers Are Back and Jesus Is still Weeping
    Author

    Cheryl Lee

    A retired educator now living in the Pacific Northwest.Traveled through and visited forty-eight of the fifty United States, summered in Mexico, Canada, Great Britain-England, Scotland, Wales and Ireland, visited western France, written plays for elementary, middle, and high school, taught classical fencing, volunteer reading, teaching puppetry, international artist with work displayed in greater London, Scotland, Wales, mid-west and western states.I will also go by my late husband's title name, Cheryl Lee DeLighton, to honour my late husband, C.N. Lee DeLighton and the stories he dictated to me. See zazzle.com/CherylLeeDesigns or contact:zeddtau@aol.com

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      Book preview

      The Thief-The Moneychangers Are Back and Jesus Is still Weeping - Cheryl Lee

      The Thief

      The Money Changers Are Back and Jesus Is Still Weeping

      Cheryl Lee

      Copyright 2012 by Cheryl Lee

      Cover: Cheryl Lee

      Smashwords Edition

      This eBook is licensed for your enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase another copy for each reader. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it or it was not purchased for you then please return it to Smashbooks.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

      The Thief-The Money Changers Are Back and Jesus is still Weeping

      Foreword

      If you deny some terrible action long enough those hearing it will either stop believing the accusations or turn and attack those who speak the truth, for the terrible truth is too hard to acknowledge. They will even turn and rend you for speaking what is correct and or undefeatable. Machiavelli was an astute observer of Man's inhumanity towards Man and the ability to justify the obscenities done to the fellow human being. A bully will continue his or her atrocities until someone more powerful will stop them. The gentleness of Jesus teachings are falling upon deaf ears or falling off the consciousnesses like water off of a duck's back. I have come to understand the consequences of what it means to go up against someone who is not only more powerful monetarily, collectively and can do so for a longer period of time. Unfortunately, History has proven that over and over.

      Chapter One

      He knew the precise moment that it was over. Through his closed eyes the flash of light became a blazing brilliant red, then he heard the last words, painfully he opened his eyes to see the man next to him and the words spill out from the swollen, bleeding lips. Then the thunderous clap sounded above them and rang into his ears. Memories flooded his mind like the torrent of rain that now fell on him; how long they took he will never know for sure.

      Lucius Arias was always searching the faces of the Roman soldiers as they passed him in hopes of seeing his father's face amongst them, whether it be amid the armored outsiders that were marching in front of the governor's gate, those troops coming from the Antonia Fortress, or patrolling the outline districts, keeping order in the various busy markets, or clashing with the ever increasing militant groups that sprang up throughout Jerusalem.

      As long as he could remember his mother told him that he was the son of a mighty Roman soldier. His overbearing need to meet him developed into an obsession as time progressed. The tale she wove for him as he was falling asleep so many years ago was ever present in his subconscious mind, again and again the words spilled over him.

      It started out as just another of many ordinary days with the sky witnessing the bright sunrise and the quiet sounds of the awakening village. The odors of sheep as they were herded past her door, kicking up the dust and scattering the buzzing flies and honey bees that hung about the flowers and few vegetables that grew next to her home. The gentle calls of the sheepherders to their animals to move along the road on their way to the morning drink. There were smells coming from the many chimneys fires starting up and sounds of birds singing happily greeting the day. People, going about their normal duties, were happily unaware of the pending devastations to encroach their calm life.

      Suddenly, without warning their village was being attacked and a terrible battle ensued for perhaps a week or more. There had been sounds of buildings being struck with rocks and their eventual crashing down all around her. Chaos and panic subsequently followed. Screams and fierce yells were then heard. When it ended, just as abruptly as it had started, all around was seen the rubble from the devastated homes laying scattered about, broken on the harden ground, pushed down by the ramparts' crushers that were used in battle, the catapults knew no mercy. A number of these domiciles stood still smoldering with the burning torches stuck on them. Nevertheless these skeletons were still useful, to hide the few remaining villagers.

      She was a blossoming mere child herself of twelve, her porcelain features showed promise of late beauty and grace. Soon she would be chosen to marry. She was anxious about this; she did not relish the thoughts of who it could be, or where she might end up living as there had been few choices in her village, mostly older men who had been widowed or boys much younger than she.

      The long black wavy hair was pulled back into a twist of a single braid, yet tendrils of tight curls framed her eyes, dark eyes that once shone bright, but now only reflected the fear of discovery. Her wool tunic had been newly woven on the loom just days before, sewn lovingly together by her mother and herself, to form the clothing. It had been then freshly washed and dried and put on that morning when the soldiers first entered the village, now it was dirty and torn with her efforts to hide from the onslaught. Still clinging to her favorite clay and rag doll of her not so distance youth, she shook in the shadows. The last words she had heard from her parents were to stay quiet and not reveal her presence until they could return. Then the world collapsed above her.

      This was the second time that she could recall of such an invasion, during the first she was almost five then and her older siblings, Dursa, of whom she resembled greatly now, a tall teenage sister waiting her betrothal choice and wedding, and Brutus, an older brother who also held the similar features and then nearly grown had been taken away as a slave or worse yet to serve in the army, after he helped hide this youngest sister. She was the last hope of her family, the siblings had disappeared, or? Her thoughts went to the possibilities of the worse occurrence. Suddenly a noise just outside her shelter was heard.

      A single man on patrol entered her hovel she had been hiding in. The ground floor was hardened mud along with the well used mats that doubled in sleeping areas and for sitting on, the utilitarian loom waited for yet another chance to be functional sat, perched in another corner, a small table rested against the wall, these were the only bits of furniture in the small room. The larger domus structure was through another portal, alas, now filled with debris and blocked. The clay lamp hung from thin leather strands off of a wooden hook just above the cooking area, its olive oil fuel flame had been blown out by her hours earlier. She had been working in that particular section of her home when her dwelling collapsed, literally.

      A dried mud-formed oven held an earthenware bowl of weak soup made from the bits of dying vegetables she had gathered in the dark of night. Luckily it was a moonless evening; else wise she would have been seen, her meager garden sat just steps beyond the doorway, it had been untouched by the falling debris and rainwater that was caught in a small cistern in back of the hut, was used to make the thin soup. The oven was fueled by the dried donkey, horse and lamb droppings used by the villagers as its source of energy. It was heating the meal still with its dying embers. The once thick, natural forest that lined the presently seasonally dried riverbed had been decimated-burned, by the last invasion of the Roman conquerors years earlier. Nothing sprang from those ashes. Lastly, the crops raised nearby had been razed by the hungry invaders.

      It was a poor town, but apparently a vital one according to the desires of Rome's ultimate plans for this area. A viaduct had been built by the determined settlers' many generations

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