When Jesus Wept

  I had remained silent as I considered the injustice of our oppressors. I wondered quietly what had become of Judah and his dear mother and gentle sister. What had become of all the nations and kings throughout time who had chosen to rule their people by fear? Those empires had all fallen.

  After considering these things, I spoke. “To the ends of the world, fear of Rome is like a blindfold that blocks out the light of truth. Along with every nation, we Jews have fallen because of fear. We have given up our freedom. Brutal men control our lives. We compromise our beliefs as long as it is others who are brutalized and not we ourselves. Terror is a powerful religion. The spirit of fear is a god that takes the human heart captive. But our God, the Living God of Israel, longs to fill our hearts with joy and freedom. That is what separates believers from all other people.”

  Samson tugged his earlobe. “It is written, somewhere, that the Romans pray to many gods … out of fear. In our Jewish worship the wail of fear gives way to the cry of ‘Hallelujah! Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord.’ ”

  “Omaine!” Porthos continued. “So what did I learn in Athens? That I must seek the one who will rule my heart and mind with mercy and love. Perhaps when I find him, I will no longer be afraid of anything.”

  “You were not afraid to help me the day I was beaten,” I reminded him.

  “But I was afraid. Indeed.”

  Though Porthos humbly denied his courage in helping me, I was well aware that he risked his life to come to my aid.

  “Then why did you do it?” Samson asked.

  Porthos did not answer the question. “I promise I am a coward. My knees were knocking as I carried David all the way out the gates of the city.”

  Samson asked again, “Porthos, if you are such a coward, why did you save David’s life?”

  Patrick raised his cup in salute to Porthos. “He did it because courage is when you are terrified to do the right thing … but it is still the right thing to do … so, you go ahead and do it anyway.”

  “Omaine!” Samson clapped Porthos on his broad back and congratulated Patrick. “Well spoken!”

  Then we turned our conversation to the weather and the crops.

  The morning dawned bright and fair. Porthos shared a final breakfast with Martha and me.

  I walked him to the gate and embraced him. “Brother, on your return—anytime—you are always welcome here beneath my roof.”

  “There is rebellion in the air, David ben Lazarus. I have come far and now feel I must see for myself the courageous prophet who preaches so against Herod Antipas and his woman, Herodias.”

  “When I heard him speak, I felt there never was a man like John.” I handed Porthos a pack filled with supplies. “Perhaps Elijah. But never before or since.”

  Samson brought around from the stable a donkey the color of dark red wine. “Here you are, sir.” He presented the reins to Porthos, who bowed slightly.

  “I will take the best of care of her,” Porthos assured Samson. Then he turned to me. “A beautiful gift, brother.” Porthos patted the beast’s neck and stroked her ears. “My own two feet have carried me far. I am blessed now to possess four more feet for my journey.”

  Samson stroked the donkey. “Her name is Pleasant. And that she is. A filly from my old girl and trained by my own hand. She will wish to lay down beside you, sir, and sleep beside you on the trail. Just let her. Pleasant is warmth and comfort when a man travels far from home.”

  Porthos climbed onto the donkey. His legs dangled awkwardly, and his feet nearly touched the ground. He clucked his tongue once, and Pleasant walked out smartly.

  “Remember,” Samson called after him. “One cluck for walk. Two clucks for trot. And a long, smacky kiss for canter.”

  Porthos raised his hand in thanks. “Never fear! I will dismount when traveling uphill,” he promised. Then he clucked his tongue twice, and Pleasant trotted away.

  “Well,” Samson declared with finality, “a good and brave fellow indeed. Pleasant will be a good friend on his journey.”

  Chapter 8

  I’ve written Mary. And she’s answered me.” I held a papyrus up for Martha to see. “The name of the Roman centurion, her friend …”

  “Her lover, you mean. Just say it without dancing around it!” Martha countered. “Our widowed sister, with her estate in the Galil, is a shame to our family.”

  “Mary writes that the man’s name is Marcus Longinus. A centurion who has the respect of Pilate for his bravery in the wars.”

  “What of it?”

  “Mary says he is a man of great courage … with a keen sense of what is just.”

  “That may be so, even for a Roman, but what do you think he can do for anyone?”

  “I will ask him … ask if he will find the fate of Judah and his mother and sister. Perhaps he’ll help us. At least to know.”

  “Have you no common sense? We’ve been warned to stop asking questions. Do you want to lose everything? They can take it all, you know. That is the lesson we are meant to learn from Judah ben Perez! And now you would go to a Roman centurion? David! There is nothing more you can do for them.” Martha turned her back on me and stomped out of the room. As was her way, she decided she would have the last word on the subject of Judah and his family.

  So I let my sister have the last word. I was silent. I did not answer her.

  Leaving the house that morning, I saddled my mare and rode out without an explanation to anyone. Martha was right. The arrest of Judah was meant to instill fear in all of us who had any wealth or position. The tactic had been effective.

  I cantered up the road to the great city, remembering what Porthos and Patrick and Samson had said about courage.

  I was afraid but rode out anyway. Though I had sent dozens of inquiries, I had not been to Jerusalem since my beating. Sights and sounds and smells so familiar to me since my childhood now made my stomach churn. At the sight of soldiers on the ramparts, memories clubbed out of my mind came rushing back.

  I passed through the gate and rode by the marketplace, up a steep street, and over a causeway. Ahead of me was the Antonia Fortress; the center of Roman military power.

  Perhaps I looked too fierce in my determination as I approached the sentries. “I come in search of—”

  They brandished their weapons. “Get off your horse, Jewish dog. It is the law that you do not address a Roman sentry from a saddle.”

  I opened my hands, showing I did not have a weapon, then stepped off my mare. Holding the reins, I allowed them to search me for a hidden dagger. The first was scrawny and the second built like a bull. Both were unwashed and foul smelling.

  “He’s unarmed.” The big man wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “What’s your business here?”

  I answered, “I am in search of Centurion Marcus Longinus.

  He is a … friend … of my family.” The words nearly choked me, but for the sake of Judah I pretended.

  “Centurion Longinus? A friend of a Jew?” mocked the thin fellow. “Well, everyone knows Longinus. Famous, he is. But he isn’t here. Out on patrol. Rounding up Jewish rebels and …” He drew his finger across his neck. “Still want to talk to him?”

  “When will he return?” I asked. My mouth was dry.

  “Weeks, it could be. If you’re a friend, why don’t you know?” the first soldier taunted.

  The second soldier’s eyes narrowed as he sized me up and laughed. “Maybe you’re an assassin, eh? Sent to kill him.”

  “No. You see I am unarmed. Marcus Longinus will not be pleased at the way you question me and mock me. What are your names? I will report to him …”

  The mocking fell silent. They exchanged uneasy looks and became suddenly docile. “Now see here. How are we to know … you, a Jew and all, riding up and making demands from atop your horse?”

  The change in their demeanor strengthened my resolve. I said fiercely, “I don’t believe the centurion is on patrol. And if he hears I have come, and you have turned me aw
ay …”

  The two men blinked at me for a moment, then one said to the other, “We … perhaps are mistaking who rode out this morning.”

  “I thought it was Longinus.”

  “Aye. Looked like him.”

  “But it was at a distance.”

  I mounted my mare and stared them down defiantly. “Go see if he is here. Tell him David ben Lazarus is at the gate on his horse.”

  My heart was pounding. Minutes passed before the first sentry returned meekly following a muscled, compactly built officer with close-cropped reddish-brown hair and the fair skin of the people of the far north but sun-bronzed from his military service. He glanced at me with suspicion. From his accent I deduced he was a Briton by heritage. I understood now why my sister Mary found him exotic and handsome.

  “Shalom, Centurion,” I said quickly. “My sister Mary sends her greetings.”

  “Ah.” He scratched his temple. “Mary’s brother. Good man … David.”

  “Yes. I received a letter from her this morning.”

  “She is well? My Mary?”

  I swallowed hard. “Our Mary … yes. She is well. I have news …”

  “Welcome. Follow me to my quarters.” He snapped his fingers, commanding the sentry to hold my horse as I dismounted.

  I followed him across the cobblestone paved central court of the fortress. On my left was an open door, revealing a blood-spattered flogging post amid other devices of torment. I imagined my friend being dragged across this space. I thought of Jemima and Judah’s mother in the dungeon beneath the fortress. I was also keenly aware that the ancient garments of the high priest of Israel were locked up within the Antonia and only permitted to be used on certain high holy days. It was as though even our religion was held captive by our conquerors.

  Entering the stark foyer of the stronghold, I looked up to see the images of the emperor on shields adorning every wall. These shields, when first displayed publicly in Jerusalem by Pilate, had nearly caused a riot. So, I thought, Pilate learned a lesson and kept the images of the Emperor-god Tiberius hidden from sight of the people.

  I repressed a shudder at the thought of dead bodies strewn across the Temple Mount. I kept my eyes fixed on the back of the centurion’s head.

  Passing through a long corridor, we climbed steps to a chamber overlooking the Temple. The songs of the choir and the bellowing of sacrificial animals were heard clearly.

  Marcus Longinus closed the door and indicated with a wave of his hand that I should sit. He poured a cup of wine and offered it to me, then poured one for himself. “So. David ben Lazarus. Your sister has spoken of you, David. May I call you David? She told me of your disdain for her … for our … friendship.”

  “I didn’t come here to discuss my sister, Centurion.” I ignored his appeal to my name and waited until he drank before I sipped very bad wine.

  “You are a Jew. A religious Jew. Your sister once told me you would not be caught dead entering the abode of Gentiles.” He waved his hand around the room. “Yet here you are.”

  “The ancient garments of the high priest are held captive here. And many righteous men and women are shackled to these walls as well. Their presence makes my reason for coming here a holy purpose.”

  He considered my words, took another sip, and placed his cup aside. “Our cup in this place is very bitter.”

  “Yes. Many will bear witness to that.”

  “What can I offer you instead?” he asked.

  “Information,” I replied.

  “Sometimes information is also a bitter cup to drink.”

  “Better than dying of thirst.”

  He spread his palms and shrugged a Gallic shrug. “So? Ask me.”

  “The family of Perez? Judah ben Perez. His mother and sister?”

  Longinus fell silent. He appeared uneasy, which was unusual for a Roman centurion unless being reprimanded by a superior officer. In the case of Marcus Longinus, his only superiors in Judea were a military tribune and Governor Pilate himself.

  The Roman seized the goblet and drained it, then set it down with more force than needed. “They are dead.”

  “I don’t believe it,” I challenged.

  Longinus frowned and narrowed his eyes. “Ben Lazarus, do you have any other family?”

  The remark caught me off guard. “Only my sisters … why?”

  “Because it is better for you … and for them … to believe what I say about the House of Perez. Let it alone.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  The officer shrugged. “Call it a warning.” Longinus seized the jug and refilled his cup, offered me another, and when I refused, emptied his in a single, long swallow. He met my eyes squarely. “I have nothing against you, ben Lazarus. In a different time and place we might have been friends. But hear me: I had nothing to do with the fate of Judah ben Perez or his mother or his sister. But neither can I do anything to aid them. Nor can you. All you will accomplish is to bring the wrath of Rome down on your head, and Jove help you if that happens, for even your god with the unutterable name won’t be able to.”

  Emotion swelled in my chest, threatening to choke me. “Judah’s my friend, Centurion! Almost a brother. And he’s innocent.”

  Longinus clenched his jaw, then raised his square chin until our eyes locked again. “I know that,” he admitted. “And I admire you for your loyalty and courage. But leave it alone, for now. If there comes a time when anything … anything at all … can be done for them, I give you my solemn oath I will attempt it, but until then, let it go. For Mary’s sake, you understand? Will you agree?”

  Numbly I nodded, then left without speaking again.

  I met with Joseph of Arimathea, the elder, a wine exporter, with ships sailing from Joppa. He had been a great friend of my father and had lived in Rome for a time. He became the chief exporter of Judean goods to the Roman colony in Britannia. Trade with the Gentiles had made him very wealthy.

  Joseph had worked closely with Judah ben Perez and was well connected throughout the Roman Empire. With Judah gone now, Joseph stepped in to help those of us who did not have the connections needed to sell our produce. He was in his midfifties and from the tribe of Levi. Though his lineage qualified him for priestly duties, an accident in his youth had left him maimed and ritually unable to serve at the Temple. He wore a patch over his left eye and was missing two fingers on his left hand. He had focused his intelligence on business. His contacts with Gentile merchants gave him the ability to conduct his affairs without suspicion or interference from the Roman government.

  Today’s meeting was intended to ask Joseph’s advice on pricing and marketing. We met in the storage caverns hacked out by my grandfather beneath the limestone hills.

  The air at the surface sweltered with the midday sun, and I felt sweat trickling between my shoulders. But once inside the first bend in the tunnel leading downward, the atmosphere was noticeably cooler.

  “Instant relief,” Joseph remarked with admiration, “and the same all year round.” He had visited my underground warehouse before and never failed to comment on how perfect it was for storing wine.

  Samson stepped forward from the shadows to greet us. His wizened face and bent form suggested a barrel stave brought to life. “Always the same, if I may say so, your worship. It may boil or freeze out there,” he jerked his head upward, “but the life of the vine rests in comfort beneath.”

  “Ah, Samson, still here I see, and as poetic as ever. Another year, another vintage, but like fine wine, you just get better with time.”

  My vintner beamed his gap-toothed smile under Joseph’s praise. “Your pardon, sir,” he corrected, “but the best wines don’t really get better, they just get … different. A great vintage possesses fine qualities throughout its life but chooses to reveal them gradually as time passes.”

  “Samson has no need to prove his value any more than he has already,” I said. “However, as I think you’ll see, he’s still revealing new abilities.”

&nb
sp; “Just a suggestion I made,” the steward demurred. “Really the master’s doing. This way, gentlemen, if you please. This way.”

  Leading us onward with a crablike, sideways shuffle, Samson directed our course past a series of side tunnels, each devoted to some aspect of my craft. In one rested the great fermenting casks.

  In another branch, dimly seen by the light of a single flickering oil lamp, already filled shipping amphorae were being packed in straw-filled crates. Like shadowy wraiths, a pair of barely seen workers carried out their task. Their movements were hushed by the spilled stubble underfoot. Though never ordered to do so, even their conversation was carried on in hushed tones.

  The entry to the third side passage was more brightly illuminated. Racks of wooden barrels higher than our heads formed a canyon stretching away in the darkness, like a corridor reaching through time toward an unseen future.

  In the middle of the space rested a single barrel lying on its side in a cradle. The bung hole used for topping up the wine and for sampling the contents was already open. A glass chalice and a glass tube rested on a table.

  Joseph sniffed the air. “Love the aroma in your storage caverns,” he said. “But something’s different … what?”

  Samson was almost skipping from side to side in his eagerness, but like the good servant he was, he deferred to me until I gave him permission to explain. “It’s these barrels, if you please, sir,” he suggested, grasping an oil lamp and bringing it near the staves. “See how much tighter is the grain, sir? And more uniform in color, not so streaky? Shall I tell him, sir?”

  I grinned and waved for him to proceed.

  “It’s not acacia, sir,” Samson said. “It’s oak. The master paid for all new barrels two years ago.”

  “And the reason for this extravagant innovation?” Joseph questioned.

  I took up the reasoning. “For one, it lets us age the wine longer. You know that more than a few months in acacia gives the wine a yellow tinge and a sharp aroma.”

  In his enthusiasm Samson shrugged off the leash of subservience. “Two years,” he noted with pride. “Two years in these barrels. Topped off every month by me personally to make up for the angels’ share.”