Part 21

Claudia pulled the fig open and nibbled at the firm reddish flesh inside. “It’s delicious,” she said, “and such a surprise.” She saw that Tullia’s eyes were ablaze with an excitement, however, that no discovery of fresh figs could have provoked. “What is it, little one? What happened? Whom did you see?”

“Mistress, I was looking at the figs when I heard a familiar voice speaking to the merchant. I looked around; it was Mary of Magdala.”

Jesus and his little group, she had told Tullia, had come down from the Ephraim hills for the Passover. Her master was spending his nights with Martha and Mary and Lazarus out at near-by Bethany; during the day he came into the Temple courts to teach.

“Perhaps, then, he will proclaim himself the Messiah of Israel and establish a new government,” Tullia said she had said to Mary. But the Magdalene had answered that Jesus seemed to be insisting instead that he would not become Israel’s temporal ruler, that he would even die as a sort of Passover sacrifice, an offering for the salvation of his people.

“But surely,” Claudia commented, “you Jews would never so debase yourselves as to offer a human sacrifice, as do those who worship Moloch.”

“It wouldn’t be that way, Mistress. But ... I don’t believe it will ever happen anyway.”

Mary had asked Tullia to spend the night with her in a cottage out at Bethany near the modest home of Lazarus and his sisters. She might be able to see Jesus and even talk with him. They would meet, if Claudia should be agreeable, at Shushan Gate before sunset and go out to Bethany.

“Then you’d best be going soon,” Claudia observed. “But before you meet Mary, I want you to go by Fortress Antonia and tell Longinus that the Procurator will be spending the night there.” She told the maid of the message Pilate had sent her. “And tell Longinus I’ll accept no excuse for his failing to come.”

42

The lean, blue-jowled ascetic face of Joseph Caiaphas, High Priest of Israel, warmed into a disarming smile, and the flames from the chamber’s wall lamps danced in his sharp, dark eyes.

“Excellency,” he said, “you must be exasperated at my coming to you at this late hour.” He faced the Procurator across the ornate, heavy desk. “I know you are tired, and I appreciate the fact that the strain you’ve been undergoing ever since your arrival in Judaea has been intensified during these recent inflammable days of the Passover season.” He leaned nearer Pilate. “I realize, too, Excellency, that you must be determined to prevent the repetition of events in Palestine that might result in the dispatching to Rome of further damaging reports”—the Procurator’s florid round face darkened, but Caiaphas pretended not to notice—“challenging the excellence of the Procurator’s administration of the affairs of this province.”

“I am tired; I’ve had a long day.” Pilate’s tone revealed irritation. “Perhaps if the High Priest would proceed at once to the business he had in coming....”

“Indeed, Excellency,” the High Priest interrupted, “and I shall require little of your time, so that shortly you may go to your well-earned couch. A fortunate event of the day has facilitated the early satisfactory disposition of the business; if the Procurator will co-operate in disposing of it we shall quickly rid ourselves of a grievous threat both to Israel’s peace and to the Procurator’s rule. I have just come from a lengthy session of the elders of Israel, Excellency—that explains my late arrival here—at which we have agreed....”

“But what is the business you would lay before me? And how would it affect the Procurator’s administration of the government in Judaea?” Pilate’s impatience had put a sharp edge on his voice. “If it is a question of the alleged violation of certain religious laws of the Jews....”

“It is that, Excellency, but it is more.” Caiaphas leaned forward, and the light of the lamps flashed in the gems of his rings. “Not only would this man destroy our religion, but likewise would he destroy the rule of Rome in Palestine.”

“This man? Are you speaking of one Bar Abbas? He has been seized, with two of his fellow revolutionaries. They go to the cross tomorrow.”

The High Priest shook his head. “It is not that one, Excellency. The man is a Galilean, one Jesus bar Joseph, not a robber like Bar Abbas, but a far more dangerous revolutionary, whom his misguided followers—and their number is growing, Excellency—are proclaiming not only the Messiah of God but also the next King of Israel. Were noise to get back to the Prefect Sejanus or the Emperor that such a person was being permitted to advocate and plan Rome’s overthrow and your Excellency’s supplanting....”

“But does the High Priest know where this man is? Does the Sanhedrin have him in its custody?”

Calmly Joseph Caiaphas stroked his oiled and braided long beard. “He is in Jerusalem at this moment, Excellency, or within the close environs of the city. It is possible that already he has been seized by the Temple guard. He has been at the Feast since the first day of the week when he entered Jerusalem riding on a white donkey, which among the Jews is a symbol of royalty, Excellency. It was then that he had planned to enlist the Passover pilgrims, led by his fellow Galileans, in proclaiming him the new David, the King of Israel suddenly freed of Rome’s domination. He lost his courage, though, or in some manner his plans failed of materialization. But”—his hand stabbed out again at the Procurator—“the fellow is still intent on seizing power, and his countless misguided followers are determined to see him established on the throne as King of Israel. They will plunge our ancient land into revolution, Excellency. Blood will flow freely throughout Judaea and Galilee. Many Roman soldiers will die before the rebellion is crushed, unless”—his forehead wrinkled in heavy concern—“this fellow is quietly slain, Excellency, before his followers can rally.”

“You say that perhaps he has been arrested already. How could he be taken without alarming these supporters of whom you speak?”

The High Priest leaned back in his chair and folded his long arms across his chest. “The God of Israel has favored us, Excellency. He has delivered this blasphemer into our hands through his betrayal by one of his own band. This man came to us and after seeking pay told us he would point out where the man might be found and taken with little commotion. We gave the fellow thirty pieces of silver. By now no doubt he has delivered his leader into the hands of the guardsmen....”

“You say this man’s a blasphemer. Don’t you know that the Procurator is not concerned with violations of your religious code? What is it to Rome if your Yahweh is blasphemed? We will not enter into the religious quarrels of the Jews. I presume you have come here to ask me to try the man and find him guilty. I say, O High Priest, try the man yourself.”

Caiaphas smiled indulgently, but then his brow furrowed again and he scowled darkly. “That is true, Excellency. Rome has no concern with Israel’s worship of our God. But is not Rome concerned when a man, under the guise of teaching a new religion, declares openly that he will establish a new government in Israel? Would not Sejanus and the Emperor consider then that Rome was concerned ... and deeply concerned?”

The High Priest’s clever thrust had made its mark; Pilate’s face flushed; his tone, when he replied, was petulant. “Of course, the Prefect and the Emperor would be concerned; so would the Legate Vitellius, and so would the Procurator; so, in fact, would any loyal Roman.” Now the Procurator extended his own finger to point. “But how do you know that this Galilean advocates the overthrow of Rome? Has he come to trial? Has he faced witnesses against him? What would the High Priest have me to do, send a man to his death without trial? Certainly the High Priest must know that Rome is ruled by law, that no man under the rule of Rome may suffer death until he has been adjudged guilty, and that any such judgment can come only after a fair trial in which the man has been confronted by witnesses against him.”

“Indeed, O Procurator”—Joseph Caiaphas held up a soothing palm—“we well know that and approve. We, too, would never consent to sending this revolutionary to his death without trial, even though his crimes against Israel and against Rome have already been conclusively established. But he is being brought to fair trial, Excellency, before the great Sanhedrin of Israel. Perhaps he has already been apprehended in the Garden of Gethsemane, where he had planned to conceal himself with certain of his followers, as we learned from the traitor who came to us. He will be examined, no doubt before my beloved father-in-law Annas, known for his piety and his wisdom, learned in the laws of Israel”—he smiled warmly—“and strong in his devotion to the Prefect and the Emperor. And then, Excellency, as soon as the dawn of the new day makes it legal under our laws to conduct such a trial, the Galilean will be brought before the Sanhedrin, confronted by witnesses against him, and given proper trial.”

“Then why has the High Priest,” Pilate asked in exasperation, “come to me?”

“O Excellency, the Procurator must know that the ancient laws of Israel, now that Rome has become master, no longer apply in every detail. Should our Sanhedrin find this revolutionary Galilean guilty of base crimes and sentence him to death, it would still be powerless to carry out its sentence without the approval of Rome. I am here, O Excellency, to petition the Procurator to approve our verdict and sentence. And I urge you to do this quickly, in order that the man may be executed while it is yet early and before all Jerusalem, and the Galileans in particular, are astir. Then much commotion and bloodshed would be prevented and,” he added with a suggestive smile, “there would be no necessity of any report’s going to Rome.”

“But you wish me to condemn a man to death _before_ he has been tried?” Pilate’s anger showed plainly in his frown.

“Indeed, no, Excellency,” the High Priest replied calmly. “We only wish you to approve and order into execution the sentence of the Sanhedrin in the event that _after_ he has been tried, he is judged guilty.”

Pilate shook his head. “No, I shall send no man to the cross or to death by stoning until _I_ have tried him. To do so would be an unspeakable breach of Rome’s system of justice.”

“But, Excellency, would you show your scorn of Israel’s highest court?”

“I would show only my determination to uphold Rome’s laws and procedures. If you wish this man tried, then bring him before me at the Procuratorium.” He bowed coldly. “And now, if the High Priest will excuse me....”

The High Priest stood up as though to leave. “Indeed, Excellency, I too am greatly fatigued,” he said, “but one more point detains me. A moment ago, Procurator Pilate, did I not hear you say that on the morrow you were sending Bar Abbas to the cross? If so, Excellency, have you not already convicted him?”

Pilate’s smile was contemptuous as he, too, rose to his feet. “I did say that, and I have no doubt that he will go to the cross. But not, O High Priest, until he has been given trial, before he has been confronted by witnesses who will testify to what they saw and heard as concerns those charges that will be placed against him. I presume that many will appear against this Bar Abbas and that he will be convicted. But I do not say now that he will. I say only that he will be given a fair trial.” He lifted a heavy fist and brought it forcefully down upon the surface of his desk. “And so, by all the gods, will your Galilean!”

43

_... The knocking is insistent. Can it be that the Praetorian Guardsman has been there a long time pounding on the door between the atrium and the peristylium while I slowly awakened? Bona Dea, what can old Sejanus want this time? Will he never cease hounding Longinus and me?_

_... Longinus. By the Bountiful Mother, maybe it’s Longinus returned from Germania. Maybe he’s at the bedroom door opening on the peristylium...._

“Just a moment, Centurion, until I get my robe!” Claudia sat up in bed, rubbed her eyes, and shook her head to clear it. A narrow slash of natural light showed through the not completely drawn draperies. It was dawn. And burrowed in the pillow beside her was the close-cropped head of the Centurion Longinus.

Now the knocking had begun again. But it came, Claudia realized, from the other side of the door between her bedroom and Tullia’s. And though insistent, the knocking was not loud. “Mistress! Mistress! Oh, Mistress!”

She recognized her maid’s voice; Tullia was trying to awaken her without making too much noise in the early morning stillness of the Palace of the Herods. “Just a moment, little one,” she called out softly. At the door she slid back the bolt. “But, Tullia,” she demanded, keeping her voice low so that she would not awaken Longinus, “what are you doing back so early? It must be hardly daylight. Why, little one....” she paused, seeing the maid on the verge of tears.

“Oh, Mistress, he’s in grave danger!” Tullia burst out. “They’ve seized him. We fear great harm may befall him. That’s why I have come back to seek your help for him.” She was making an obvious effort to gain control of herself; somewhat calmed, she continued. “I started from Bethany at the first glimmering of light, almost as soon as we heard that he had been taken. We’re so afraid, Mistress, that great harm will come to him unless....”

“Let’s sit down”—Claudia’s tone was soothing—“and then quietly you can tell me why you’re so afraid he’s going to suffer great injury. And who, Tullia? You haven’t even told me his name.”

“The Galilean, Mistress; I thought you knew. Sometime during the night some Temple guardsmen came and seized him in the Garden of Gethsemane; he’d gone there with his little band to rest after eating the Passover meal at the home of Mary of Cypress. They say it was one of his own band who betrayed him, who told the Temple priests where he could be found and arrested without there being a big stir. Of course there would have been a great commotion if they had tried to take him anywhere near the Temple; they wouldn’t have dared to do such a thing if....”

“But how do you know all this?” Claudia interrupted. “Maybe you’re getting yourself upset without good reason.”

“No, it’s true, Mistress. Jesus and those of his immediate company, along with his mother and certain other relatives, have been staying in the Bethany neighborhood during the festival period,” Tullia revealed. “Jesus himself lodged at the home of Lazarus and his sisters. But yesterday afternoon the Master and the twelve men of his band went into Jerusalem. That’s the last time Mary of Magdala saw him.” Her face was a mask of pain and apprehension. “Then, early this morning, we were awakened by several of his band who had come running back to Bethany in great panic to report what had befallen him. All of them forsook him in the garden when the soldiers appeared; even Simon, after he had slashed out with his sword at one of the guardsmen, turned on his heel and ran, too, they said.”

“But where did the soldiers take him?” Claudia asked. “And why have you come to me?”

“They said there was talk that he was being taken before the High Priest or else old Annas, Mistress. And we’re afraid that he may suffer a terrible fate if he falls into the hands of the Temple priests. They’re determined to kill him, Mistress.” She paused, eyes tearful. “I knew no one else to whom I could turn for help, no one but you. I thought that you might speak to the Procurator and he might rescue the Galilean before they have him killed.”

“But don’t you know that they have no authority to execute the death sentence until the Procurator has given approval?”

“Yes, but they’re so inflamed against him, Mistress, that they might risk it. But if you could send a message to the Procurator....”

“He was probably up late into the night. To awaken him now with a message might offend him, and that would be doing the Galilean more harm than good. But Pilate usually returns to the palace before beginning his morning duties; as soon as he does, I’ll lay before him this matter of the Galilean’s arrest. Certainly no harm can come to him before Pilate has had an opportunity to sit in judgment on him.”

44

This Passover season there would be only three burdened crosses on top of the desolate Hill of the Skull, but they would be enough. The ugly spectacle would provide a frightful ending to the Jews’ annual great festival.

In other times in Palestine, Centurion Cornelius had been told, Rome had moved swiftly—and with far more terrifying effectiveness—to dramatize the utter futility of any province’s attempt to contend against the mighty conqueror. In Galilee they still talked, though even now in carefully guarded conversations, of that dreadful day at Sepphoris hardly more than twenty years ago when the Roman general Varus had crushed a rebellion and crucified two thousand Jewish insurrectionists.

Perhaps Pontius Pilate, who a week ago had sent him chasing the rebels of the now leaderless Bar Abbas band, had tired of awaiting the centurion’s return with more captives for the crosses; perhaps he had already ordered to slow and agonizing deaths the revolutionaries’ leader and the two followers captured with him. It might be that even now countless pilgrims up for the Passover, drawn by a morbid fascination, were gawking at the scourged, torn, and broken, unimaginably desecrated bodies of the captured robber-Zealots. But Cornelius would provide no additional victims for those crosses on the Hill of the Skull.

“And I’m glad,” he said aloud.

“What, Centurion? Glad?” Decius, riding beside him, had heard.

“I was just thinking aloud about this business of crucifying slaves and depraved criminals. I was glad those four revolutionaries we cornered in the Ephraim hills chose to fight to their deaths rather than surrender. It’s better not having to take anybody back to Jerusalem to be nailed up on a cross.”

“It’s not one of the most pleasant assignments a soldier gets, being on a crucifixion detail,” Decius agreed. “I’ve been on three, and I’ll never forget those poor devils, the first one especially, maybe just because he was my first. He was a boy in Germania, hardly sixteen, but a sturdy, strong fellow. I can still see him, Centurion. He was fair and his hair was the color of ripened grain, and his eyes were as blue as the sky. He had killed one of our soldiers, they said.”

“Probably after our soldier had killed the boy’s parents and raped his sister.”

“I can’t say as to that; you could be right, Centurion. But our commander ordered him to the cross, and I was put on the detail. We took that boy and tied him to the low stake and scourged him until he was a bloody pulp, Centurion. I can still see those bone-tipped whips slashing that white skin and flicking off bits of flesh, and one of them got him in the eye and knocked the ball out of the socket; it was hanging down when we nailed him up.” Decius shook his head ruefully. “By the gods, Centurion, do you know that boy even then fought us and cursed us as long as he had a hand or foot loose, and when we got all four spiked down he tried to butt us with his head. He was a strong one, that fellow; I remember he didn’t die until well along in the second day, and then he was spitting at us and cursing us almost to his last breath.” Decius stared thoughtfully for a moment at the road unwinding ahead. “Many times I’ve dreamed about that boy, Centurion, and I can still see him plainly and hear his screaming and cursing. It’s not a pleasant dream. I’d rather dream about those yellow-haired women in Germania.”

Cornelius nodded his head solemnly. “Yet we Romans call ourselves modern and civilized people.” They rode on in silence for a few moments. “Maybe we did well in being away from Jerusalem most of the week of the feast,” Cornelius finally commented. “Maybe we escaped being assigned by the Procurator to a crucifixion detail.”

“I hope so; I’ve no stomach for serving on one again,” Decius agreed. “You know, Centurion, I’ve just been thinking that very likely many of Bar Abbas’ cutthroats are right up there in Jerusalem in that Passover crowd. It wouldn’t surprise me if some of them should try to rescue those three Zealots.”

Cornelius nodded. “It wouldn’t surprise me either. I suspect that most of them, in fact, doubled back that night and beat us into Jerusalem and got themselves quickly lost in the surge of Passover pilgrims. And only the gods know how many other Zealots are swarming all over the city with their daggers sharpened for our throats.”

It was almost midday when they moved through the defile between the boulders where a week before they had been waylaid by the Zealot chieftain. This time Cornelius sent a scouting party ahead to reconnoiter. But no marauder was encountered.

In the level beyond the rocks the century paused to eat and rest. But not for long. Soon Cornelius gave the order to reassemble in marching formation. The sun was straight overhead, and the air was warm and heavy; a stifling stillness presaged a violent storm. “I’d like to get into Antonia before it breaks,” the centurion observed to Decius, as they mounted their horses. “Look.” He pointed off toward the southwest where an immense angry black cloud hovered low. “By mighty Jove, it must be already dark in Jerusalem.”

45

The tall Galilean arose from the steps before the Beautiful Gate and bending over, caught the hand of the prostrate, frightened woman. “Neither do I condemn you, my sister,” he said gently, as he helped her to her feet and she lifted tearful, penitent eyes to him. “Go, and sin no more.”

“He is truly a good man, Tullia, a noble man of warm heart, a generous, forgiving, good man. But a god? No, little one.” They were watching the woman as she neared the corner of the Chel toward the Fortress of Antonia. “There are no gods.”

The woman went out of their sight around the Soreg. They turned to look again toward the Galilean at the marble steps.

But the steps had disappeared, and the Beautiful Gate, and beyond it the Great Altar. Only the man stood there, and his arms were bound behind him now, and where the Chel had been was the Procurator’s tribunal. Solemn but unafraid, he faced the judge. At his back the Temple leaders who a moment ago had dragged the poor woman before him were shouting execrations upon him and demanding of the Procurator his crucifixion. “Crucify him!” they were screaming. “Crucify him!”

And in the magistrate’s chair ... by the Great Mother, there was Pontius Pilate!

Pilate, his round face livid with anger, was remonstrating with the priests. “But shall I crucify your King? Shall I crucify the King of the Jews?”

Crucify Jesus of Galilee?

“No, Pilate! No! No!” She was running toward the Procurator to stand beside the Galilean. “No, my husband, have nothing to do with this good man!”

_... But Pilate does not see me or hear me. Nor does the Galilean. Am I a disembodied spirit? But there are no spirits. Oh, Tullia. But Tullia neither hears nor sees me...._

“Then take him yourselves and crucify him. His death be your responsibility.” Pilate was speaking again. “I am free of his blood.”

“No! No! No, Pilate! You are sending an innocent man to his death! You can never disavow responsibility! Oh, hear me, my husband! Hear me!”

But the Praetorium and its tribunal, the tall, bound Galilean, the railing priests and their blood-hungry supporters were suddenly vanished.