“I believe he has slept most of the way with the help of the juice of crushed poppies. And he is generous in one area—he offered your husband a vial for himself.” Josephus’s eyes twinkled.
“At least they have been quiet,” she added. “But I dread the moment when they will wake up and cast their dark eyes around the world.”
Josephus inclined his head in understanding. “You will find that the affairs of state will keep them very occupied. You will have little contact with Vara.”
“And my husband?”
“Ah. Governor Pilate. I tell you truly, he will hardly have an instant to rest. Your palace is in the old home of Herod the Great. It is a dark and dank place full of the memories of murderous deeds. But your time there will be limited. You will have a home in the port of Caesarea and perhaps another in the new city named after your father, the city of Tiberias in Galilee. A beautiful place. And there, perhaps, you will be away from the plotting and vanity of the Herodian Court.”
“I loved our country home outside of Rome.”
“Well, then, there you have it. Galilee shall be your refuge.”
Claudia was silent awhile. It was not a bad prospect. Perhaps she would seldom see Pilate and never see Praetorian Vara.
“You will survive, Lady Claudia.” Josephus’s empathy, understanding, and wisdom had been a gift to her since their first meeting. Now his eyes spoke courage and hope into her soul.
“I have heard the stars in the heavens are the same in Galilee as they are in Rome. I will look up at night,” she said wistfully, “and imagine I am somewhere else.”
If only it could be with Marcus, under that ancient tamarind tree, and their destinies could change . . .
Chapter 16
Does Marcus see me? Claudia wondered. He seemed to steadfastly look away as though their ship was still far out to sea. Lined up at attention in precise rows on the docks of Caesarea Maritima, the Roman soldiers sweated in their full dress uniforms. However, Marcus, mounted on Pavor, betrayed no sign of discomfort, despite the intensity of the Judean sun. Behind the Roman legionaries, a pair of Jewish officials from Herod’s court stood beneath the shelter of an awning.
The oak-planked deck of the Mercury glowed white in the blazing light. It almost matched the marble dome of the Temple of Augustus that dominated the harbor. Beneath the meager shade cast by a furled sail was Pontius Pilate, dressed in the purple-bordered toga befitting his station. He accepted a goblet of wine from a kneeling servant and handed it to Claudia. He then took one for himself.
Standing several paces behind his parents, Philo darted nervous glances at his mother and fidgeted in Jono’s arms. The towering black man was planted like a tree beside Josephus the Elder. Josephus patted Philo’s shoulder reassuringly.
Pilate raised the cup toward the Temple, then toward the Judean landscape. “To new beginnings,” he said, taking a swallow of the wine.
Claudia also lifted a cup. Her smile was almost imperceptible as she nodded toward her son and the aged Jew. “To justice and mercy and right choices,” she said gently.
Pilate stared at her with skeptical curiosity.
Avoiding his gaze, Claudia sipped her wine.
“Six weeks at sea,” Pilate said. “Learning the customs of those I will govern has been good for you.”
Claudia nodded. “There has been a shift in the wind.”
“Tiberius would be pleased at your change of heart toward our posting,” Pilate observed, speaking over the top of her comment.
Lightly Claudia offered a touch of sarcasm. “You are surprised, my love? Should I not toast the coming ruler of my father’s kingdom?”
Pilate studied Josephus. The scholar returned the governor’s stare. “Then we must hire the old Jew as a tutor, since he lifts the dark clouds of despair.”
“It is a new day,” Claudia affirmed, taking another sip of wine.
A ringing blast of Roman trumpets interrupted the banter.
Claudia watched as Marcus barely touched the warhorse with his heel. Pavor moved six paces forward, stopping again as Marcus dismounted.
Pilate’s gaze darted from Marcus to Claudia and back, as if attempting to catch them in some betrayal. Failing at this still left bitterness imprinted on Pilate’s brow.
A peremptory gesture from Pilate ordered Claudia to descend the gangplank with him. Jono with Philo and Josephus followed. Motioning for the others to stop when they reached the dock, Pilate continued forward toward Marcus.
Marcus’s hand thumped his breastplate. “Hail, Caesar. And welcome to Pontius Pilate, the arm of Rome in Judea.” With a bow, Marcus added, “And welcome to his gracious lady.”
There was an instant when Marcus looked past Pilate at Claudia, then immediately away. Even so, Claudia witnessed a flash of renewed hatred on her husband’s face. “Once again, Marcus Longinus,” Pilate said with a sneer, “it seems you have explored the land I govern before me. From the ship I found my view of the shore barren and unpleasant.”
Claudia held her breath, but Marcus merely returned, “Then you do not truly know it, Governor.”
Lowering his voice so that only Claudia and Marcus could hear, Pilate continued, “Tiberius appointed me to rule a land that delights in rebellion. Have no doubt. I will govern that which is in my hand.”
Seizing Claudia’s fingers, he squeezed them hard enough to hurt. She winced with the pressure and struggled discreetly to free herself. The space of three heartbeats passed, and then Pilate relaxed his grip.
Trying to cover her discomfort, Claudia summoned Jono to bring Philo forward. Pacing alongside her, Jono inclined his head gravely toward Marcus, though he did not speak.
“Look, Philo,” Claudia said. “Look who has come to greet us. Marcus Longinus, the Hero of Idistaviso.”
“Hail, Centurion,” Philo piped. “Where’s your battle crown?”
Marcus bowed to Philo and smiled. “Hail, Philo. I will let you wear it when you visit the legion in Jerusalem.”
The Herodian officials, hearing Jerusalem mentioned, stepped forward to pay their respects to the new governor. “Which will be soon,” one obsequious-sounding court steward intoned.
A second man in brocade robe and turban added, “Hail, Caesar! Hail, Governor Pilate!”
The first official continued, “We who serve the great tetrarch, Herod Antipas, greet the power and might and protection of Rome, come to us in the flesh.”
Pilate said sourly, “Protection. Yes. Your master is in need of Rome’s protection, I hear.”
The Herodian courtiers exchanged an uneasy look. “We . . . that is, this is a land of rebels and . . . yes. Tetrarch Herod is grateful for . . . welcomes Rome’s protection.”
Pilate replied, “The only thing between Herod and rebellion . . .”
Claudia was grateful when he stopped himself from saying something undiplomatic.
Pilate continued, “I look forward to renewing my . . . friendship . . . with your master. I was a boy, but I remember Herod and his brothers as young men in the household of Caesar in Rome.”
Both of the tetrarch’s representatives took a relieved breath. One resumed in his most fawning tone, “Jerusalem eagerly awaits the arrival of the glory of Rome in our midst.”
Drawing back the curtain of the sedan chair, Claudia stared in amazement at Jerusalem’s Temple of the Almighty. Framed in the vehicle’s entry, and seen from the northwest of the city, the sanctuary of Zion loomed over the city like a snowcapped peak. Along the caravan route leading from the seacoast to the citadel of holiness bustled thousands of Jerusalem residents and thousands more pilgrims.
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On one side of the conveyance strode Jono, fiercely scanning for any threat. On the other placidly rode Josephus the Elder on a red donkey.
The scholar leaned over toward Claudia to describe the scenery. “See how the gold lining the edge of the sanctuary roof catches the light? Gold leaf, each page separated by the breath of the artist and applied with a peacock feather brush. There is no more beautiful sight in all the earth.”
Philo was seated on his mother’s lap. Claudia felt the boy shivering with excitement.
Pilate rode a white horse at the head of the marching legionaries, while Marcus and Cassius rode farther back on the sides of the column.
Claudia heard Marcus order the procession to halt. “Standards down. Cover the images and into the cart with them. Lively, now!”
Lowering the pole-mounted medallions, the soldiers were quick to obey.
Wheeling his mount and trotting back, Pilate commanded, “Stop this at once!”
One image was already shrouded with canvas and another halfway into its protective wrapping, Claudia saw. She also spotted confusion on the faces of the men.
Marcus addressed Pilate. “It is Jewish law. We must not carry images of Tiberius openly into the city.”
“What are you saying?” Pilate demanded. “What?”
“We risk a riot,” Marcus explained in a lower tone.
Pilate glared at Josephus, as if the old man was personally responsible for this affront. “What is this madness?”
Calmly the scholar replied, “The centurion is correct. Jews are a people who believe in one invisible God.”
Pilate retorted, “Caesar is the only god that matters.”
“To display the image of your emperor,” Josephus continued, “is a grave violation of our religion. I will not enter the holy city with you if you choose to continue with this offense.”
His face reddening and his jaw working, Pilate snapped, “Ignorance! The Emperor Tiberius is the son of god, the divine Augustus. These standards were made new for this day. I begin my governance by honoring Tiberius. There is no territory, no matter how insignificant,” Pilate added with a sneer, “that does not acknowledge his authority. It will be so here as well. I will have full display of Caesar’s images!”
At a curt nod from Marcus, the soldiers obeyed, removing the standards once more from the cart and lifting them high once again. With no word of farewell, Josephus turned and rode away on the donkey.
Arrogance and pride stamped on his features, Pilate galloped back to the head of the procession and ordered it to resume its progress. Too softly for Pilate to catch, but near enough to the sedan chair for Claudia to overhear, Marcus muttered, “Pilate, you do your office, yourself, and the government in Rome no favors here today.”
The procession advanced another four hundred yards nearer the gate of the city. In that space Claudia witnessed the visage of the onlookers change from a wary crowd to a hostile, angry mob. The pounding of possessive Roman drums and the blare of assertive, domineering Roman trumpets echoed from the walls as if Jerusalem were throwing back the challenge in Pilate’s face.
Herod’s entourage, walking immediately behind Claudia’s sedan chair, looked apprehensive.
Pilate struggled to control his prancing horse.
At a command from Cassius, the files of legionaries spread apart. The outermost columns of men shifted their javelins from their shoulders to their sides, iron points prepared to ward off any attack.
Despite the obvious danger, Pilate carried himself with no emotion visible to Claudia except overarching pride. His jaw was set and his shoulders braced. Claudia had seen that look before. No retreat was possible from the position he had taken.
“Blasphemy!” someone shouted.
“Blasphemy,” other voices shrilled. “Take them down. Blasphemy!”
A piece of rotten fruit arched overhead to smack wetly against Pilate’s armor.
“No images of foreign gods in Jerusalem,” the mob demanded. “Pagan kings. Pagan gods. Take them down! Images of Caesar. Take them down!”
Philo clutched his mother’s arm. Claudia cried out as rocks struck the canopy and curtains of the chair.
Wrenching a walking stick from someone in the crowd, Jono brandished it like a war club. Loudly, he bellowed, “Get back. Keep back!”
From both sides of the procession mobs surged toward the soldiers carrying the standards. Many Jewish hands sought to wrench the offending images free from the Roman soldiers.
A long, slim dagger stabbed downward toward a standard-bearer. Before the blow landed, another legionary smashed the attacker’s arm with the butt of his lance, then pinned the man to the ground with its point.
“Cassius!” Marcus ordered. “Ride ahead! Turn out the garrison! Go!”
Hugging Philo tightly to her, Claudia covered the boy’s head with her hands. She bent over to shield him further as the sedan chair rocked with the press of the crowd.
Jono lay about him with his improvised club, bludgeoning with one blow any who got too close.
More knives flashed in the sun, countered by thrusting Roman spears. A rioter screamed and clutched his stomach. A soldier, knocked to the ground by a stone, was trampled in the melee surging around the images.
Rushing forward, a quartet of rioters toppled Pilate from his horse.
Marcus spurred Pavor into the middle of the group. Slashing with his sword first on one side and then the other, he felled one man and scattered the rest. Leaping down, Marcus seized the bridle of the terrified white horse just before it bolted and assisted Pilate in remounting the animal.
Spurring back toward Claudia, Marcus ordered the soldiers to close ranks and make for the gate. “Quick march. At the double. Move!”
Legionaries and sedan chair bearers alike jogged forward while the outer files of soldiers continued to slash and thrust and clear the path.
Blood spattered up and into the curtained alcove, where Claudia covered Philo’s eyes.
Charging legionaries, led by Cassius, surged out of Jerusalem’s gate. Indiscriminately hacking with their swords, the soldiers struck down many who had only been trying to flee from the carnage.
The two groups of troopers met. At Marcus’s direction they charged the remaining knots of rioters, putting them to flight. The procession made it inside the high-walled entry of the governor’s compound and the thick oak and iron gates were shut against any further danger.
Jono carried Philo and half-carried Claudia, whose shaking legs would scarcely bear her weight. They reached the foyer of the governor’s palace.
Pontius Pilate had arrived to take up his duty governing the Jewish nation.
Chapter 17
Marcus stood one step up from the bottom of the prison. The illumination shed by flickering torches did little to brighten the depths of the Antonia’s dungeon. The spiral stone staircase that was the only access to the pit was referred to as the Gates of Hell. Everyone who descended the steps, including Marcus, risked his neck.
In the large, central chamber at the bottom of the shaft huddled a hundred disheveled, beaten, and bloody prisoners. Their hands tied behind their backs, they were so dispirited at their likely fate that a half score of Roman soldiers was enough to guard them.
Marcus observed them. Waving Cassius to his side, he noted quietly, “Shopkeepers. Shopkeepers and farmers swept up in the net.”
Cassius nodded. “These are not assassins. Most of them didn’t even have weapons. This was planned by someone else.”
Marcus agreed. “Someone who got away. We’ll find out who’s behind it.”
br /> Marcus turned to exit the pit. The gleams of light were not enough for him to distinguish the features of the prisoners, yet the shadows were not deep enough to hide the fear on every face.
Carta held Pavor’s reins in the courtyard of the Antonia Fortress. Marcus remounted the animal to ride across the city to Pilate’s palace to make his report.
The streets surrounding the luxurious grounds built for Herod the Great were crammed with hundreds of anxious Jews. Many were women and children and others elderly men. Younger men, of the age being held in the dungeon, were understandably absent.
The protestors stood or sat, stoically awaiting word of their loved ones.
On the black horse in his blood-spattered uniform, even in the growing twilight, Marcus was conspicuous. Trying to make his way through the crowd, Marcus walked the mount carefully in order not to crush people.
“There’s one of them,” an old man’s voice quavered.
A women cried out, “Where have you taken my son? Where is he?”
Beside her, another woman, her face streaked with tears, called, “My husband! Reuben the Leather Worker. Where is he?”
The elderly Jew shouted, “Let them go! They did nothing wrong.”
Reuben’s wife begged, “Let him go. Why did you arrest him? He’s no rebel!”
The aged man added, “They only defend our faith,” not aware that his words indicted the arrested ones.
The crowd began to chant, “Let them go! Let them go!”
Marcus urged Pavor forward, forcing the protestors to move aside. The closer to the walls of the palace he came, the thicker the throng. There was barely enough space for Marcus to pass, and the mob quickly closed in again behind him.
Watchmen called out from the walls. The gates ponderously swung open. A squad of ten soldiers brandishing lances emerged and formed a lane for Marcus to enter.