The Vial So Precious

It was quite apparent that the little man was worried. His shoulders were hunched and brow knit while behind his back his frail hands worked feverishly to hold the other still. This was certainly not the first of Agar’s many plots to cause him consternation and such fervid packing; however, normally it was the nervousness of planning or the hunger for the profit that caused the anxiousness. In this instance Agar Barshoman was unsure about the cause of the worry he felt. The scheme had worked perfectly. Without any hindrance he had gotten the blood and made his escape, all that remained was to find a buyer which in this spiritually active, greed focused city would be simple. Despite this Agar found sleep impossible. It was the eyes, the eyes of the dying Man that troubled him.

Nearing the pile of clothes Agar bent to sort them intent on retrieving the hidden vial to examine its contents more closely. Somehow though he could not force himself to pick the vial up once revealed, and instead studied it from what he judged to be a safe distance of a few feet. After all he justified, it wouldn’t do to risk dropping and breaking the container thus voiding his opportunity at wealth and maybe even fame. This little vial could be worth perhaps a fortune if he found the proper buyer. Agar knew that some had thought this Nazarene to be the Messiah and though he dismissed this notion as preposterous, many did not. Thinking back to the crucifixion Agar recalled that even then a few had voiced their belief when though it was only midday the sky turned dark. Later when near His final moments Jesus had cried out to God or to Elijah and the ground began to tremble someone had shouted, “Surely, He is God’s Son,” and again, “This was the Son of God!” At the time Agar considered only that the darkness was an ally to his treachery, but now he realized that it was indeed strange. Still it was ridiculous for this Man, nay for any man, to be God’s Son. Agar Barshoman would never understand the zealots and fanatics that flocked to these many prophets who were always cropping up preaching of a better life or a new form of religion. They came promising change and hope, but never delivered and were usually imprisoned, stoned or as had been this Jesus, crucified. Time and again Agar had seen it occur, and yet when a new prophet arose to take the last one’s place a horde of followers would again believe this one to be the Savior. Agar considered all such followers sickeningly weak and seeing they refused to accept reality. In all his 41 years Agar had known but one savior and that was money. Only wealth could bring the sort of peace he sought. After all, when did God in any other form ever feed him or clothe him or calm his nerves? Agar Barshoman replaced his soiled laundry atop the vial and stood grunting aloud as he did so as if he were dismissing all forms of piety once and for all from his mind. Let the priests and judges be his holy conscience, they were the most experienced were they not? And besides they trusted in his own god he thought, for he didn’t know a single one of them that could not be bribed. “I will buy my peace of mind,” Agar said aloud to no one, then with a grin added, “And I will pay for it with blood.”