Part 18

“Yes, Mistress, but a veil and simple stola will serve that purpose.”

Claudia peeked into the adjoining bedchamber. It was empty. “Pilate no doubt has gone to the Praetorium,” she said. “He needn’t know I’m going down into the Temple precincts.”

With Tullia’s aid, she dressed, and they descended to the ground level and went out through the great vaulted doorway on the south side of the Tower. A moment later the two women, heavily veiled, entered the Temple enclosure through the North Gate of Asuppim and headed toward the Soreg, a lacy latticework of carefully carved and interwoven stones four and a half feet high surrounding the Temple itself. From there they turned left and strode eastward through the vast Court of the Gentiles with its jam of worshipers and the idly curious.

“Mary said that he usually sits over there”—Tullia pointed toward the cloisters along the eastern wall of the Temple—“near the Shushan Gate.” The Shushan Gate was at the northern end of the wall, directly east of the Beautiful Gate. Steps led up from the Court of the Gentiles to the Chel, a corridor running between the Soreg and the walls of the Temple proper, in which sat the resplendent, great Shushan Gate. The Court of the Women, in turn, was several feet higher than the Chel. At the western end of the Court of the Women, centering the wall, was another large opening, the Gate of Nicanor, and directly west of this gate and on a still more uplifted platform, stood the Great Altar. A person at the Gate of Shushan could look above marble steps ascending from one court level to another to the priests performing their orders before this tremendous and imposing pyramidal altar of burnt offerings.

As Claudia and Tullia neared the eastern end of the Soreg they could see the Shushan Gate, but no group was knotted about it. They could look across the cloister and out through the gate to the rise of the Mount of Olives beyond the Brook Kidron far below. “He’s not there,” Tullia said, her tone revealing disappointment. “Perhaps he went with the procession to the Pool of Siloam and has not yet returned. Surely he will be here soon.”

But as they turned the corner to their left, the two women saw a motley throng pushed together in a half circle about the steps that led up to the Chel. “Maybe Jesus is there,” Tullia exclaimed, keeping her voice low, for now they were nearing the outer edge of this crowd. She turned to confront a lean and bearded tall Israelite. “We have just come here,” she said. “We wonder why all these people are gathered about. Is some rabbi expounding the law?”

“Yes, the Galilean whom some hold to be the Messiah of God. The priests and the scholars have been trying to confuse him, but he has thrown their words back into their teeth.”

They moved forward into the outer fringe of the group and eased their steps toward the man sitting before the Beautiful Gate until soon they had an unobstructed view of him. From where they stood they could also see through the wide portals of the Beautiful Gate across the Court of the Women and the Gate of Nicanor to the Great Altar, upon which the High Priest Caiaphas, with two other Temple dignitaries assisting him, had tipped the golden ewer of water from the Pool of Siloam as a libation to Yahweh. Many of those now listening to the discourse of the Galilean had been present for the ceremonies of the water pouring, including a small knot of lavishly robed Israelites whom Tullia immediately recognized as the men who had been attempting to confound Jesus with their hate-inspired but politely phrased questions.

Evidently one of these men, a stout Pharisee from the looks of his garb, had just so challenged the Galilean. But if Jesus was perturbed, he did not indicate it. He was speaking calmly, and his resonant but gentle Galilean Aramaic came clearly to them above the din of the cattle in the stalls along the northern cloisters. “He doesn’t speak with the fire and thunder of that Wilderness prophet,” Claudia observed in whispered comment. “He seems not to be the fanatical type, and I’m surprised. He’s handsome, too, and I’m even more surprised at that. I thought he would be another lean and burnt, arm-waving, shouting fanatic, one with a long messy beard, flaming eyes, and soiled clothing—a generally anemic look. But this one’s a strong fellow, though his manner’s gentle enough. Even so, there’s something odd about this. I wonder....”

But suddenly she stopped speaking, for the rabbi had raised his bronzed hand, long forefinger extended, to point to one of the Pharisees who had been questioning him. “You say that I am but testifying to myself and that therefore my testimony is invalid. But I say unto you, my brother, that my testimony is valid. Is it not written in the law that the testimony of two witnesses establishes the fact? Then my testimony is true, for I bear witness and likewise my Father that sent me bears witness. That makes two witnesses; that establishes the truthfulness of the testimony I have borne.”

“Who is this father of whom he speaks?” asked a man standing near the two women. “Is he not the son of a carpenter of Nazareth long dead? How then does he say that his father’s testimony corroborates his own?”

“He’s not speaking of his natural father,” another man standing near-by replied. “He means the God of Israel as his father.”

“But isn’t that blasphemy? How can a man call himself the son of Israel’s God?”

“But if indeed he is the Messiah....” The second man paused, his hand on the questioner’s arm, for Jesus had arisen and, turning, was pointing toward the high altar before the Holy of Holies. “Behold, I am the water of life! If any man thirst, let him come unto me and drink.” The Galilean spoke in calm tones but with warmth of feeling, and in the pause that followed none of his hearers spoke. Again he pointed, this time toward the giant candelabra below the Gate of Nicanor in the Court of the Women; last night the great court and all the environs of the Temple had been ablaze with light from the candelabra and the hundreds of flaming torches. “I am the light of the world!” he declared. “He that follows me shall not walk in darkness but shall have the light of life!”

Claudia nudged her maid. “What does he mean, Tullia?” she whispered.

“I’m not sure I know, Mistress,” the girl answered. “But I take it he’s using a kind of symbolism that the Jews can understand. He must be referring to the ceremony of water pouring and to last night’s illumination of the Temple.”

But the carping Pharisees and the other Temple leaders pretended likewise not to understand.

“The water of life, the light of the world. And your father being a witness to the truthfulness of the testimony you present. These things are incomprehensible to us,” one of them declared. “Rabbi, wasn’t your father a carpenter in Galilee? And where is he to support your witness? Isn’t he dead? How then can you say that you and your father make two witnesses? We have not seen your father, nor have we heard him speak.”

“You speak the truth when you say that you have not seen my Father.” His voice was calm, even gentle, but his eyes were filled with fire. “Neither have you seen me. For if you had seen me, you would likewise have seen my Father, for the Father is in me and I am in the Father. My Father and I are one.”

“Is he speaking of the God of Israel as his father?” A portly Pharisee near the two women had turned to speak with one of his colleagues. “Is that the meaning of his strange utterance?”

“I think so.”

“Blasphemy!” declared the questioner. “He makes himself one with God!”

But Jesus had heard.

“No,” he declared, looking the fat one full in the face. “Only truth. And if you knew me and were willing to live by my teaching, you would know the truth, and the truth would make you free. You would not walk in darkness, but in the light of the world, in the fullness of life.”

“But, Rabbi, we are free. We are children of Abraham. We are not slaves. How can you say that we would be made free? We have never been slaves to any man.”

“Any man who sins is a slave, and no slave is a son of the house; yet if the son of the house sets him free, he is no longer a slave.”

“But we _are_ sons of Abraham. We are no bastards. We are the children of the God of Israel.”

Jesus leveled his forefinger at the protesting Pharisee. “No, you are not the sons of the Father; you are rather sons of the Evil One, for he is the enemy of truth and you likewise are its enemies.” His words were uttered in calmness, but they were emphatic, and his eyes flashed. “You will neither hear the truth nor comprehend it.”

“But, Rabbi, you must be mad.”

Jesus smiled, and Claudia, who had been watching him in complete fascination since her first sight of him, thought she detected a hint of restrained amusement in his dark eyes. “No,” he said, “I am not mad; I speak the truth, and whoever lives by the truth, my brother, will not even see death.”

“But haven’t all the fathers in ages before—Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Isaiah, all the righteous ones of old—haven’t they all met death? Then how can you say that others will not die?”

“I dare say, he is not speaking of physical death,” Tullia whispered. “It’s obvious he’s referring to the afterlife of the spirit. But these sniveling Pharisees don’t even want to understand him.”

Yet Jesus did not answer the Temple leader, for in the rear of the press about him a commotion had arisen and the Galilean had turned from the questioning Pharisee to look out over the heads of the people now craning their necks to see the cause of the tumult. The questioner and his little knot had turned, too; the Galilean’s inquisitor, Tullia surmised, was quite willing for the exchange to be ended, for he had not been faring well in matching wits and words with the tall one from Nazareth.

Tullia and Claudia, too, had twisted about to look eastward toward the sounds that so precipitately had disturbed the strangely inspiriting discourse and the carping questions of the Nazarene’s challengers. In that same instant they saw, out in front of the gate of Shushan, several coarse men half-dragging, half-carrying a bedraggled Jewish woman toward the throng ringed about Jesus. As the crowd opened a lane inward to the Galilean, the men rushed the poor creature toward him and savagely thrust her to the ground at his feet. A man who had been walking in the rear of the pitiful procession, whom Tullia took to be a minor Temple priest, stepped in front of Jesus.

“Rabbi, this woman has been taken in the act of adultery, in the very act, Rabbi, as the witnesses will testify. Now the law of Moses says that such a woman must be stoned.” He paused, and his eyes surveyed the half circle of intent, set faces. Along the rim heads nodded in agreement.

“Is that really the law of the Israelites?” Claudia whispered. “Stone to death a woman for such offense, by all the gods!”

“Yes, it’s the old Mosaic law, Mistress.”

“That is barbarous, Tullia. By all the gods, if I were a Jew, then they....” But she paused, for the man had turned back to question the Galilean. “You, however, Rabbi, have been teaching a new law. What would you say to her punishment? Must she be stoned in accordance with our ancient laws or not?”

Jesus was eying the poor woman, who had scrambled to her feet and was trying to smooth out her disordered robe. Frightened and humiliated, she kept her eyes on the ground; then, as the man finished his question and the suddenly quiet throng listened for the reply, she raised them and looked, with a mixture of defiance, contempt, and fright, at the tall bronzed man before her.

“But what can he say?” Claudia whispered. “Aren’t they trying to trap him into advocating violation of their laws?”

“Yes, Mistress. And they know, too, that they have no authority to stone anyone to death unless the person is first condemned by the Procurator. Either way, it’s a trap they’re trying to set.”

“Then I shall speak to Pilate....” She stopped; Tullia had laid a gently restraining hand on her arm, for Jesus had bent down suddenly and without offering to answer the Jew who had questioned him had begun to trace with extended forefinger certain markings in the dust of the marble pavement.

About him stood the silent crowd. Some seemed fearful of the horror they might soon be witnessing; others, their cold smiles attesting to their sadistic natures, were waiting expectantly to witness the woman’s death agonies; only a few solemn faces revealed concern and deep pity. But the little knot of Pharisees stood with arms folded across their rounded paunches; their smug smiles betrayed their confidence that at last, on the final day of the great festival, they had run to earth this annoying and dangerous young Galilean who had been so cleverly eluding them.

Then, raising his head, Jesus faced the man who had questioned him. “You have testified aright as to the law of our father Moses,” he said, his voice calm, deliberate. “The law of Moses commands that the woman ... and the man ... taken in adultery be stoned. But you ask me my interpretation of this law?”

“We do, Rabbi. What will you do with this woman?” The man looked about the semicircle of cold, hard faces, and one by one the Pharisees nodded approval of his questioning. “Rabbi, what is your law in this case?”

“I answer you, my brother, in this wise, and this is my interpretation of the law. Let him that is without sin among you cast the first stone.” His quiet, dark eyes rested a moment on the startled countenance of the man who had just propounded the question, and then quickly they moved along the line of the challenging Temple leaders.

Now once more he bent forward and with stiffened forefinger traced symbols in the dust.

For a long moment his eyes remained fixed upon the pavement. When he looked up, the little group of sneering Pharisees had departed. The others in the ring about him had fallen back from the steps on which he sat and stood regarding him with frank amazement; some of them revealed their delight at his having confounded his enemies, and on the faces of others could be seen a heightened responsiveness to the young man’s teachings and for the Galilean himself a strengthened affection.

“Woman, where are your accusers?” he asked the amazed poor creature, from whom in the swift moment of his answer had fled all trace of defiant insolence. “Does no man remain to condemn you?”

She lifted her tear-streaked face to him. “No man, Lord.”

“Neither do I condemn you. Go now, and sin no more.”

Claudia could not understand the woman’s murmured reply, but on her face clearly discernible was a look of radiance as she bowed to the Galilean and, turning, slipped away out of the crowd. At the same time the Procurator’s wife noticed a large, bushy-bearded fellow, wide of shoulders and heavily muscled, pushing through the throng from the direction of the Gate Shalleketh. He walked up to Jesus, who had stood up as the woman was leaving. “Master, you have been here a long while; you must be weary. Let us go over to Bethany to rest a spell.”

“That’s the fisherman I saw one day at Tiberias,” whispered Tullia. “He is of the Galilean’s company; his name, I think, is Simon.”

The crowd now began to disperse, for Jesus and the big fisherman were moving off toward the Gate Shushan. They came past the two women, so close to them that Claudia could have reached out and touched the tall Galilean. Their eyes met; he smiled and passed on. She stood rooted, watching the two until they had passed out of sight down the slope toward the Brook Kidron. “He seemed to recognize me,” she said to herself, as suddenly a fanciful thought crossed her mind. “But of course he didn’t; he’s never in all his life seen me before.”

With the two men’s disappearance, however, the spell was broken. Claudia caught her maid’s arm. “We’d better be going now,” she said. But she was still lost in her own thoughts; they had rounded the corner of the Soreg and were nearing the North Gate of Asuppim before she spoke again. “By the gods, what a man! What a marvelous, strange Jew. And he didn’t do any feats of magic either. Little one, I’m so glad you brought me down here.”

“Mistress, now that you’ve seen him and heard his discourse, even though for but a few minutes, what is your opinion of him? Do you think that perhaps he really is the Messiah of Israel?”

“I know nothing of the Messiah of Israel ... and care nothing. And this idea of a man’s being a god, even though we Romans are supposed to believe that the gods come to earth in the form of men, is just as incomprehensible to me as it is to Longinus. Maybe that’s because I don’t believe in the gods in the first place.” They were going through the great North Gate of Asuppim when Claudia stopped and caught Tullia’s arm. “Nevertheless, little one—and you asked me my opinion of him—there is something tremendously different about that man. I’m sure I have never encountered another like him. He’s a quick thinker and able to out-wit his enemies, and he’s evidently a good and just man. But there’s something else”—she paused, her forehead creased in a frown—“something to me, at any rate, mystifying. The way he looked at me, Tullia....” Her solemn expression relaxed into a quick, warming smile. “Perhaps he _is_ your Messiah of the Jews, little one, whatever that means!”

38

On her return to Caesarea from the Feast of Tabernacles, Claudia learned from Sergius Paulus that Longinus had sailed for Rome. The message from the centurion to the commander of the Roman constabulary had been brought by a ship’s master who had sailed southward from the Antioch port of Seleucia shortly after Longinus had gone aboard a ship there for his voyage to the capital.

The message had been brief, the commander said; its purpose was to let him know that Longinus had been sent to Rome by the Legate Vitellius on what the legate must have considered an urgent mission, probably to the Prefect Sejanus.

“Longinus must have sailed from Seleucia on one of the last boats out,” Sergius observed. “From now until spring there’ll be few crossings; any ship attempting to make it will be braving the heavy winds.” He smiled wryly. “It must have been important business the legate was sending him on.”

Claudia suspected that Longinus was going to the capital to relay the legate’s report on the situation in Palestine. Particularly important, she knew, would be the question of whether or not King Aretas was planning to attack Herod and thereby involve the whole Palestinian region in war. But she had no direct message from the centurion.

Longinus was acting wisely, she realized, in sending her no written communication. He could hardly evolve any innocent appearing reason for writing her, and it would be impossible to send her such a message without Pilate’s learning about it, and possibly even the Prefect. And any message sent would of necessity be innocuous. But as the weeks pushed deeper and deeper into winter and no word of him came to her at all, she began to wonder if he would return to Palestine or if, the gods forbid, Sejanus might have sent him once more to Germania or Gaul or to some other post far remote from the now increasingly dreary Palestine.

Despite the fact that it was Herodias who had urged her to go up to Jerusalem for the Feast of Tabernacles, the two women had hardly seen one another during those days in Israel’s capital. Claudia recalled that even then the Tetrarchess had seemed somewhat reserved. And once when mention was made of the journey of Longinus to Antioch in response to the summons of the Legate Vitellius, Herodias had appeared to grow even more coldly formal. Perhaps the Tetrarchess suspected, Claudia thought at the time, that Longinus was reporting on Herod’s visit to Machaerus and the appearance there of the ambassadors from King Aretas, and even of her own bizarre conduct at the Tetrarch’s birthday banquet. Nor had Herodias, as they were preparing to leave Jerusalem, invited her to come to Tiberias.

And at the Feast neither she nor Pilate had seen Antipas. She wondered if perhaps he, too, might have suspected that Longinus was even then in Antioch reporting what he had seen and heard at Machaerus. But her failure to be honored by the Tetrarch in Jerusalem troubled her not at all. She had less respect for him, she confessed to herself, than she had for the Procurator. And she hoped that Longinus was finding opportunity for dropping some poisoned, if discreet, words into the ears of Sejanus concerning Pontius Pilate and his continuing difficulties with the Jews.

Nor was the Procurator’s administration of affairs in Judaea, as the winter advanced, serving to establish him in better favor with the people he was governing. Stubborn and unimaginative, he steadfastly refused either to learn anything or forget anything. Scorning his subordinate officials and refusing to give consideration to their counseling, fearful of his superiors, including the Legate Vitellius and particularly the Prefect Sejanus, Pilate provided no stable rule of Judaea; his administration vacillated from fierce oppression and arbitrary action to cowardly yielding to priestly demands. His tax gatherers, working through the despised publicans, those native hirelings of Rome whom the Israelites looked upon with loathing as traitors to Israel and Israel’s Yahweh, demanded and received exorbitant tribute in money and produce of the land; this did not add to the Procurator’s popularity among the Jews. Both the people and the Temple leaders were growing increasingly enraged.

The natural breach between the Procurator and the Tetrarch, too, was widening as the weeks went by; an incident at the Temple during one of the great festival occasions in which Pilate’s soldiers had slain a group of roistering Galileans had infuriated Herod Antipas. And Pilate’s effort to use Temple funds in the building of an aqueduct to bring water into Jerusalem had evoked the bitter animosity of the Temple leadership. On all sides, then, the Procurator, beginning with his flaunting of the Roman ensigns in Jerusalem shortly after his arrival in Judaea, had been strengthening rather than weakening the natural hostility the Israelites had for the representatives of conquering Rome.

All this Claudia had observed; she wondered how long this mounting burden of tension and hate could continue to build upon the broad shoulders of Pontius Pilate before inevitably it should topple him from the Procuratorship. The answer, she was confident, lay not in Judaea, but in Rome. Pilate would last only so long as he did not too greatly displease Sejanus. And from the moment the tribute from Judaea to Rome ... and Sejanus ... began to shrink, she reasoned, her spouse’s days as Procurator would be numbered.

_ ... Perhaps Sejanus may have begun to suspect already that Pilate’s fingers have become sticky, that too large a proportion of the revenues are failing to reach Rome; perhaps he has revealed, or hinted, his suspicions to Longinus, and Longinus will tell me everything when he returns._

_... If he does return. But surely he will be back in Caesarea when winter relents and calming weather permits the ships to resume their sailing. Surely he will arrive in time to go with us to Jerusalem for the Feast of the Passover...._

Thinking one day of the coming Feast, she recalled her earlier visit with Tullia to the Temple. “Do you remember that last day of the Feast of Tabernacles?” she asked, turning to her slave maid. The girl nodded and smiled. “That Galilean,” Claudia continued, “your Messiah of the Jews, I wonder what has become of him. Do you suppose he’ll return to the Jewish capital for the Passover festival?”