Behold the Man

  Claudia stood beside her son’s bed and gazed at him tenderly as he slept. Carefully, so as not to wake him, she stroked his hair and felt her heart overflow with love. In this moment she could set aside all the other turmoil.

  When he reached out in his sleep, she wondered if the boy somehow knew that she needed him as much as he needed her.

  A short while later, no more than three quarters of a mile from the governor’s mansion, Marcus evaluated the scene in the dungeon of the Antonia. One of the captured Zealots was chained to the wall with his arms raised above his head. His head lolled on his chest.

  Grasping the brigand’s hair, Cassius yanked his head up and examined the battered face. “This one’s still alive.”

  The two others captured after the attack on Marcus lay on the damp floor. Their bare backs were striped in blood, and they lay curled and limp. One was dead. The other nearly so.

  Cassius kicked the live one. “Took some persuasion,” he told Marcus, “but they talked. Sicarii, all right. Dagger men. Zealots.”

  Marcus frowned. “That name they mentioned—bar Abba. Their leader?”

  “Camps on the east bank of the Jordan. No exact location. Probably moves often. How did you know they’d attack tonight?”

  “No great prophetic gift. Since the riot, we knew they would watch for easy targets to strike. I suspect they watch the governor’s palace all the time.” Marcus indicated the one hanging in the manacles. “Attacking a Roman officer. Punishable by death. Flog this one publicly in the morning, then crucify him.” Indicating the one still alive but prone on the flagstones, he added, “Keep this one alive. Find his family. Bring them in. He’ll do whatever we need.”

  Chapter 21

  A final turn in the steep climb brought the cavalry troop to the top of the hill overlooking the Sea of Galilee. There, a mile or so away, lay the harp-shaped lake. It looked tranquil, deceptively tranquil, to harbor the rebels Marcus was seeking.

  The Roman troopers shared the road with a throng of pilgrims. Scanning them with a suspicious eye, Marcus noted a cart carrying a sick man whose complexion was the color of sand and a blind man with bandaged face being led by another.

  The rest of the throng was common folk—women, children, elderly. No threat seemed possible from any of these.

  A quartet of cavalry riding ahead of the rest cleared a path for the contingent that followed. “Make way, there. Move aside,” they repeated over and over. Slowly, the travelers moved apart for the soldiers.

  The faces that turned toward this command showed weariness and some resentment, but very little anger. To Marcus’s surprise, many of them—like the cripple being carried on a pallet, his legs twisted like corkscrews—reflected determination that bordered on hope.

  “Let them fall out and rest the mounts, Quintus,” Marcus ordered.

  Spurring Pavor forward, Marcus confronted a man leading a donkey. On the animal rode a woman holding a boy about Philo’s age. The child’s head was tucked unnaturally against one shoulder. His hands were clawlike and his face a grimace.

  “Where are you going?” Marcus demanded.

  The woman was clearly frightened. Without speaking, she clutched the boy’s head and hugged him closer than before.

  Cassius, riding beside Marcus, repeated the demand. “You heard the centurion! Where are you headed?”

  The man leading the donkey replied, “Taking our son to the healer.”

  “Healer? Where is he?”

  “By the Sea of Galilee, we have heard,” the man replied.

  Cassius corrected, “Lake Tiberias it is now called.”

  “Your pardon, Officer,” the father said. “I meant no offense. No matter what you call it, we hear a rabbi named Jesus of Nazareth is there. Teaching our people the ways of peace.”

  The mother lifted tired, scared eyes to study Marcus’s expression. “They say he heals many diseases by the power of God. Our boy, he is . . . we are taking our son there.”

  Marcus waved the family to move on. Was that what this entire procession was about? A parade of cripples, diseased, blind, and broken, going to see a healer?

  A swirl of wind brought an acrid, rancid scent with it. Even the warhorse lifted his head and flared his nostrils. Passing by two score of yards apart from the rest of the pilgrims hobbled a band of lepers. Clothed in rags, every bit of flesh or limb that showed was hideous to see.

  “An army of cripples,” Marcus concluded.

  “Seeking a teacher who claims to heal,” Cassius added. “Pitiful.”

  “A man of peace as well? Then not our man. Let’s get away from the stench. We’ve seen enough. Ride on. Back to Jerusalem.”

  Marcus, arriving on Pavor from the Antonia, snorted and shook his head, an expression duplicated by the black horse. Both man and beast felt frustrated disbelief at the confusion in the streets of Jerusalem. The scene playing out in front of them was the perfect expression of everything that was wrong with the Holy City of the Jews.

  Two processions that had no intention of arriving together were entangled and blocking everyone’s passage. Neither High Priest Caiaphas nor Tetrarch Herod Antipas would yield precedence to the other. The result was that when their files of porters and ceremonial guards simultaneously reached the battlements constructed by Herod the Great, there was much pushing and shoving. Moreover, the disturbance took place on Pilate’s doorstep, just outside the entry to his palace.

  Herodian guards blew their trumpets as if noise alone gave them special rights. The Levite attendants of Caiaphas fought back with trumpets of their own. The din was deafening.

  Religion, civil authority, ambition, greed, and foreign rule all competed beneath the arches constructed by Herod. What a mess this province was! Marcus couldn’t really feel sympathy for Pilate, who had brought this posting on himself, but it was a nightmare and no mistake.

  Driven out of their own streets, crushed into doorways and alleyways, the occupants of Jerusalem shot undisguised glares of disgust at their high priest and the would-be monarch. There were also those, Marcus noted, whose expressions went beyond dislike and disapproval to hatred and malice. Those were the ones who would bear watching.

  The cacophony put Pilate’s attendants on notice. The gates to the palace courtyard swung hurriedly open, as if begging the arriving guests to stop the racket. The retinues of both Jewish leaders were crammed into the plaza. Marcus remained outside, watching, while Herod and Caiaphas entered the official suite for a conference with the governor. A captain of Pilate’s Praetorian guards bellowed for quiet. The angry exchanges between priests and guards did not stop, but the volume decreased.

  Traffic in the street outside resumed a more normal aspect. Marcus noted two things. The common folk hurried past, as if anticipating further trouble, and some hard-looking characters continued lurking nearby, seemingly oblivious to any worry.

  Minutes passed, then Pilate, accompanying Herod and the high priest, reemerged. Marcus nudged Pavor forward enough to overhear their final exchange.

  In his high, arrogant tone, Caiaphas said to the governor, “If Rome is to govern, you must not be ignorant of the superstition that drives the Jews.”

  Pilate was not impressed. “Because of the teaching of a mystic, I am threatened by the population you govern. And the life of Caesar’s daughter is put in danger. Tiberius Caesar may well question if you are capable of controlling your own rebellious people. Or perhaps Rome should appoint a beloved prophet . . . instead of either of you . . . as both a Jewish king and as high priest. I understand there is historical precedent. Perhaps someone completely new who will manage the people and the profits in your places?”

 
Marcus noticed the threat strike home. Herod’s flabby jowls quivered, and Caiaphas’s neck stiffened. The two men exchanged an unhappy, anxious glance.

  “Take better care of your responsibilities,” Pilate concluded, “or I will find those who can.” With that the governor reentered his palace with head held high, leaving priest and king both awkwardly stunned, and each ready to blame the other.

  “John the Baptizer!” Caiaphas spat accusingly. “What is he? Why bring him up to Pilate? One religious fanatic in a line of a thousand fanatics. And that other one in Galilee? Galilee’s your province, isn’t it?”

  Herod returned, “Appointed by John. Both claim to be religious men. Religion’s your area, not mine.”

  “His reputation grows,” Caiaphas conceded. “I’ve sent agents to discredit him.”

  “The wrath of Rome is called down on our heads,” Herod lamented. “What have I to do with Jerusalem?”

  Caiaphas retorted, “You and Herodias are as much targets as I.”

  The caravans, untangled at last, proceeded to resume their travel. Ensconced in their respective sedan chairs, Caiaphas and Herod continued their loud banter. “The riot was entirely a religious matter! Yet I am equally blamed,” Herod spouted.

  “John the Baptizer,” Caiaphas clarified, “speaks more against you than me. He’s as much your problem as mine. If I fall, so will you.”

  Even while listening to the mutual recriminations, Marcus studied the road about a block ahead. He had not failed to notice how the men he glimpsed earlier, who had remained in the alleyways, now moved closer to the street. They shoved other bystanders out of the way and thrust their hands into the lapels of their robes as if grasping something concealed there.

  It was time to act. Calling up to the guard patrolling on the walkway above the gate, Marcus commanded, “Ho, sentry!”

  “Yes, Centurion?”

  “Turn out the guard. Armor, swords, and lances. Two dozen men should do. Quickly!”

  “At once, yes, sir!” Within the palace grounds an alarm bell clanged violently.

  Immediately, the expressions of Caiaphas and Herod turned to terror. Demanding a return to the safety of Pilate’s courtyard, the two groups once more fought each other, striving to reenter the gate.

  The blades of Zealot daggers flung back the sunlight at the same moment it was reflected from twenty-four burnished Roman helmets. Roman soldiers trotted out, lances at the ready.

  The sicarii must have caught sight of this rapid reaction, because they broke off their attack. Now escaping crucifixion was all that mattered. The rebels broke for the crowd, with the legionaries in pursuit.

  Pleased with the response by the troops, Marcus could not help mocking the servants of the Jewish officials. “So,” he said to the captain of Herod’s guard, “trumpets to fight Zealots?”

  “To warn the people to move aside,” the man stammered.

  “Ah. Well, a dozen rusty blades were waiting to be drawn to find the heart of your master in the street. How is it you did not post sentries on watch outside the gates?”

  The street, so jammed with bustling shoppers and pilgrims earlier, was now completely deserted. “I stand corrected,” Marcus said. “Your trumpets worked.”

  Five of the would-be attackers were caught, dragged back to the palace, and held at spearpoint at Marcus’s feet. “Take them to the Antonia,” he ordered. “Also, detail squads to accompany Lord Caiaphas and Lord Herod and their . . . musicians . . . to their respective destinations.” Lowering his tone, he addressed the guard captain alone. “And double the watch around the palace tonight. Patrol the streets. You understand?”

  “It shall be done,” the officer returned.

  Marcus didn’t hear any more banter between Herod and Caiaphas as their interrupted journey continued at last.

  Pilate and Claudia were in their apartments when the alarm sounded. Emerging onto a balcony, they saw the pursuit in the streets. “A near disaster well handled, I think,” Pilate commented in self-congratulation.

  “A near disaster, yes,” Claudia agreed.

  Pilate’s continued praise of himself allowed Claudia’s sarcasm to pass unnoticed. “I may wash my hands of those two idiots.”

  Claudia saw Marcus giving directions regarding the prisoners and the sentries. When she spoke again, it was to say, “You must learn the ways of the Jews.”

  Shaking his head, Pilate countered, “This is what I need to know—how to keep the Zealots under control and how to keep the high priest and Herod squabbling among themselves until we can depose them both and install a new high priest and Jewish king.”

  A servant announced, “Centurion Marcus Longinus is here to report.”

  “Let him enter.”

  Marcus spoke to Pilate, but his words were for Claudia. “You are safe and well?”

  “Perfectly,” Pilate said. “There was never any real danger.”

  “And the boy?” Marcus asked.

  Claudia looked away. It was unlike Marcus to address himself to her in front of Pilate. “Well enough,” she returned.

  “Caiaphas and Herod will both survive another day, it seems,” Marcus concluded.

  Standing straighter in his pride, Pilate announced, “They have been warned to keep their houses in order.”

  “I heard them refer to another prophet in Galilee,” Marcus added. “From the Baptizer fellow out east, to this man in the north.” Claudia caught a look from Marcus and gave a quick nod in return. “The whole country is stirring. Everyone is following after this new fellow named Jesus. The blind . . . the lame. Lepers. We saw them all flocking the roads to hear him preach.”

  Pilate scoffed, “Escaped inmates from a leper colony and blind beggars are not an army. No threat to Rome.”

  “There are Zealots among them,” Marcus countered. “My legionaries were . . . noticed.”

  “The Baptizer seems to be the root of all rebellion,” Pilate observed. “You must go out to see him again. But this time, go as a common man, seeking answers from a prophet in these troubled times.”

  Pilate was very pleased with himself, Claudia saw with a rush of anxiety. It was at times like this that Pilate created more difficulties for himself and everyone around him.

  Chapter 22

  The music and drums from the Tiberias palace of Tetrarch Herod Antipas invaded the quiet landscape of Galilee. Claudia, seated beside Pilate in the carriage, looked over her shoulder at the tranquil Sea of Galilee as they passed through the gates of the walled estate.

  “They are already drunk, I suppose,” Pilate muttered. “We will put in our appearance, stay long enough for decorum, and then flee from the tetrarch’s female viper back to our refuge.”

  Claudia nodded. In the matter of Herod and Herodias, Claudia agreed with Pilate. In the year since they had arrived in Judea, anything unpleasant in Claudia’s world was called Herodias.

  Pilate remarked, “How I miss the feasts of Rome. I am bored already. Truly, if there was any way to avoid this gathering of pompous Jewish elite, you know I would do so.”

  “She detests me,” Claudia noted.

  Pilate lifted her chin. “Perhaps it is because you carry more Jewish blood in your veins than she does?”

  “She does not carry any blood in her veins whatsoever. Jewish or otherwise.” Claudia smiled. “I hear if she is cut, she bleeds vinegar.”

  “Well, Herod finds something interesting in her.”

  “Herod is a fool.”

  “We know that. We have always known that.” Pilate paused and considered Claudia. “But your father is not
a fool. He knows well your mother was a Jewess. And so perhaps he thought your heritage would be a tonic to soothe these rebellious, stiff-necked Jews.”

  “I prefer the company of men and women who are truly of the lineage of Abraham. These people who fawn and preen in the court of Herod are impostors, just as Herodias is an impostor.”

  The carriage drew to the courtyard. Raucous laughter emanated from within. Claudia grinned. “Speaking of braying mules, Herodias speaks.”

  He grinned back. “Always the first voice we hear in Herod’s court. Herodias.”

  Claudia stepped onto the paving stones of the outer foyer. Her smile froze. There, before her in the torchlight, was Marcus, and beside him was a woman of extraordinary beauty.

  Pilate seemed pleased at her reaction. “She looks like you in many ways—beautiful, slender, catching the eye of every man—except her hair is dark, her eyes a deep, rich brown, and her breasts are a bit larger than yours,” he mocked.

  “You planned this. After all these months, Pilate . . .”

  “Ah, you didn’t know, my love?”

  Claudia resisted the urge to flee. “Know what?” she snapped. She was angry with herself because her voice trembled.

  “Speaking of impostors, you pretend not to care? You pretend you never cared?”

  “He’s nothing to me.”

  “Well, then, here’s news. Your centurion—he who wears the corona obsidionalis—has a Jewish queen. She is his idol, his paramour. Look hard at them. Doesn’t the color of that gown perfectly set off her tawny skin? This is reality. He beds this rich widow of Magdala. Miryam, they call her. Her wine and produce supply our garrison in Galilee. The wine we drink tonight will be from her vineyards.”

  “Why should I care?” Claudia felt the blood rush from her head as they walked toward the mingling guests.