“He’s delaying passing sentence. He still hasn’t decided,” Marcus said. “There’s still hope.”
Chapter 45
Claudia heard the key grating in the lock of the bedroom door. Before she could approach it, the panel was flung wide with a crash. Pilate stood framed in the entry. He clutched the crumpled piece of parchment.
Slamming the door shut, he strode across the room and threw the writing in Claudia’s face. “What is this? A trick to save your precious rabbi? Do you think you can frighten me with ghost stories? Do you?!”
Terrified of his father, Philo ran and crouched behind the writing desk.
A warm tear trickled down Claudia’s cheek. She wiped it away. “Listen to me, Pilate. Have nothing to do with this. You know it’s wrong!”
Stiffening his back and tightening his jaw, Pilate declared, “This is no matter for me, not at all. I wash my hands of his fate.”
“Don’t let this happen, then,” Claudia begged. “Escort him to the seacoast and send him to safety. Send him to Alexandria . . . anywhere! Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of the living God.”
Despite his protest against Claudia’s dream, Pilate’s face drained of color. He rubbed first his hair and then his jaw with his left hand, a gesture Claudia had seen when he was still very young and was in distress.
When he left without further argument, he did not close the door. Neither did he give the sentry any orders requiring Claudia to stay imprisoned, so she and Philo followed him downstairs.
Marcus dug his fingernails into his palms and bit his lip until it bled. His stomach was tied in knots.
He had just witnessed Jesus returned to the stage beside Pilate, and the sight sickened him.
Jesus’ face was beaten so as to be unrecognizable. His nose was broken and smashed. His tunic hung in rags about his waist, and blood ran so freely down his legs that he left scarlet footprints when he staggered. When the soldiers turned Jesus for Pilate’s inspection and approval, the extent of the flogging was revealed. The flesh of Jesus’ back was all tattered shreds.
On his head was crammed a crown made of thorns. A corona of acacia branches possessing two-inch-long spikes had been braided together. It was then forced down so it pierced his forehead in multiple places. His hair and beard were matted with gore.
Pulling up his sleeve to avoid the blood flicking into the air whenever Jesus took a breath, Pilate gestured like a conjuror. “Behold the man,” he said and waited for the mob’s response.
Someone near Marcus vomited, and several turned away from the scene.
Then, beginning with those nearest the high priest, came the chant, “Crucify him! Crucify him!”
“You take him and crucify him,” Pilate said. “I find no fault in him.”
Sternly, Caiaphas addressed Pilate as he would an erring trainee priest. “We have a law, and by that law he ought to die, because he made himself the Son of God.”
Marcus witnessed the effect on Pilate of these words. Something about that phrase gave the governor great concern. Even though there was no possibility of overhearing what was said, Marcus read Pilate’s lips.
Addressing Jesus, Pilate demanded, “Where are you from?”
There was no reply from the man who had nearly been beaten to death.
Pilate’s next words were so angry they were audible to all. “Are you refusing to speak to me? Don’t you know I have the power to crucify you and the power to release you?”
The crowd noise dropped instantly. The governor was angry. In that state he could be dangerous to many more Jews than just the man from Galilee.
From where Jesus summoned any reserve of strength Marcus did not know, but his reply could be heard by those in the courtyard. “You . . . would have no power . . . at all against me . . . unless it had . . . been given to you . . . from above. So those who . . . delivered me to you . . . have the greater sin.”
Waving for silence, Pilate spoke again to the mob. “This is an innocent man. I find no fault.”
It was then that Caiaphas used his most powerful weapon. Quoting exactly the last words Pilate’s mentor Sejanus had heard as he was garroted for treason, Caiaphas shouted, “If you let this man go, you are no friend of Caesar! Whoever makes himself a king speaks against Caesar.”
“We have no king but Caesar,” the mob chanted. “Anyone who says otherwise is no friend of Caesar.”
Marcus knew the struggle for Pilate’s soul had been lost, even before the governor drew his toga more closely around him. Marcus saw Pilate give up any attempt to free Jesus, any show of resisting the mob, when he seated himself in the Chair of Judgment.
Flicking his hand toward the bloody prisoner in a gesture of dismissal, Pilate said spitefully, “Behold . . . your . . . king.”
“Away with him!” Caiaphas demanded.
“Away with him! Crucify him! We have no king but Caesar!”
“Shall I crucify your king?” Pilate asked, even though he already knew what the response would be. The official letter about this event would reflect that Pilate had tried several times to satisfy the high priest with a lesser punishment. It wasn’t really Pilate’s fault, his posture said. This course of action was forced on him.
“No!” Marcus shouted to those around him. “Spare him!” he cried to onlookers who moved away from him as they would from a madman or a leper.
“We have no king but Caesar,” chanted the mob. “Crucify him! Crucify him!”
It was the worst of Claudia’s dream . . . and more. On the hill called Golgotha, Jesus of Nazareth was crucified between two thieves.25 Claudia stood with Marcus, Josephus, and Philo in a cleft in the rock. The edge of the precipice on which they stood was only a short distance from the crosses. The skull-like knoll was just west of Jerusalem. Curious passersby noticed the activity. Some inquired the name of the condemned. Most made the sign against the evil eye and rushed on about their business.
The site was in full view from Pilate’s palace and from the Temple Mount. Politics and religion, ego and greed, fear and arrogance had conspired to kill an innocent man.
Claudia could not bear to watch, yet could not look away.
“Let me take you and the boy away,” Marcus suggested. “Or at least Philo. He doesn’t need to witness this.”
“No,” Claudia replied. “I won’t leave him alone back there with Pilate, and I must . . . be here.”
Nearer the foot of the cross stood Jesus’ mother. Sheltering her, his face a mask of grief, was John, the son of Zebedee.
The sun was still shining, but something was wrong with the light. Even though it was a cloudless midday, everything seemed dimmed, as though the air were full of smoke.
A knot of soldiers skirmished over Jesus’ clothes. “Pitiful stuff!” one remarked. “Tear ’em all into rags and be done, I say.”
“Hold,” another retorted. “Not his tunic. I’ll toss you for it.”
“They divided my garments among them,” Josephus murmured. “And for my clothing they cast lots.”
“A prophet?” Claudia asked.
“King David.”
“So all this”—Claudia fluttered a despairing hand like a wounded bird—“was known.”
Sighing heavily, Josephus agreed. “Recorded in the psalms and the prophets both.”
High Priest Caiaphas trudged up the hill from the caravan route to make certain the execution was properly carried out. Surrounded by his minions, Caiaphas could not help gloating even in victory. “If you are the Son of God,” he said with a sneer, “come down! Show us your power. Even now we can be convinced.”
 
; With an elaborate shrug, the priest communicated that there was no reaction to his request. “Just what I expected,” he intoned.
Appreciative laughter came from his underlings.
The others in his band took turns jeering. “No fire from heaven. No rescuing legion of angels. No danger to the Temple today.”
The bleeding, broken figure of Jesus struggled upright for breath, cried out in agony, and slumped down again. Each of Caiaphas’s supporters strove to outdo the rest in wittiness. “You claim you saved others. Can’t you save yourself?”
The day grew darker and the breeze rose.
“The sun . . . looks gray,” Marcus observed.
A khamseen wind out of the desert tossed handfuls of gravel at the soldiers and the priests and tore at their clothing, but Claudia and those next to her were sheltered by the rock.
Overhead the most enormous cloud of starlings Claudia had ever witnessed circled aimlessly. The precision of their formations broke into ragged fragments—disordered, like all of creation appeared to be.
In the distance something rumbled like thunder, though no clouds were gathering over the mountains. “Will you stay here with Josephus?” Marcus said, his voice hoarse with emotion. “I won’t be long. There’s something I have to do.”
Pavor was tied to a tree in a garden at the bottom of the hill. Claudia watched Marcus open a saddlebag. From it he took the bronzed circlet of his corona obsidionalis.
The unexplained darkness and the gale had unnerved the priests, who hurried away. The soldiers squatted on the ground, sheltering themselves as best they could.
So Marcus was almost alone when he approached the foot of the cross. Kneeling beside where blood trickled down the wooden upright, Marcus deposited the corona upon the ground. He was choking back a sob, but Claudia still heard him declare, “Hail, Aluf Ha’Alufim, champion of champions. I tried to give you this once before, after you healed Carta, but you would not take it. Even so, it has always properly been yours.”
“For this . . . I was kept.” Jesus gasped for enough breath to utter those few words. And then, summoning his remaining strength, Jesus forced himself up on the agony of the nails to shout, “IT IS FINISHED!”
The gigantic cloud of starlings launched themselves skyward. An inverted funnel, they spiraled upward, tighter and tighter, as if they would pierce the heavens. When they disappeared from view, so did the last of the light.
Day was swallowed up in night. A continuous peal of thunder boomed, smacked against the palace and the Temple Mount, and returned as a reverberating echo.
The ground began to roll like a ship at sea, pitching men headlong.
Where had the clouds come from? Suddenly a torrent of rain was falling from the sky, sluicing down as if to blot out any trace of the scene.
Blood and water flowed down and over the corona.
Standing, Marcus shouted at the soldiers, “Truly this was the Son of God!”
Chapter 46
Marcus was in the group that accompanied the wealthy Joseph of Arimathea, who had become a disciple of Jesus, to Governor Pilate, asking permission to bury Jesus’ body.
“It’s a new tomb I had built for my father,” Joseph said. “Just at the bottom of the hill, not far from—”
“Yes, yes.” Pilate waved a hand dismissively. “Take the corpse and be done. I’ve already spent too much time on this insignificant matter.”
So it was that Marcus was present when Jesus’ body, bathed for the last time and wrapped in a linen shroud, was placed in the grave. Just before the heavy stone disk was rolled across the opening, Marcus stood beside the stone shelf where the body lay. Near Jesus’ feet Marcus placed two crowns—the one of thorns from Jesus’ brow and his own corona obsidionalis.26
“Jesus,” Marcus whispered as he gazed upon the body, “you have won the true crown of victory . . . the highest honor, woven from the thorns of this broken world. You alone have saved us all in this final battle.”
The tears of the centurion fell upon the crown of thorns and then on the bronze circlet of his own battlefield award. “Truly you are the Son of God.”
It was night in Jerusalem. The city was quiet, but whether from mourning or terror was not clear. Claudia and Pilate sat together in the governor’s audience hall. Though nothing official was pending, Pilate absentmindedly seated himself on the judgment seat.
The city was full of wild tales—stones splitting apart, foundations of great buildings moved, the heavy brocade veil of the Temple mysteriously ripped in two from top to bottom, holy men who had died being raised to life and walking around the city.27
When Cassius and a squad of soldiers entered, Claudia stood to leave, but Pilate held up his hand in a command. “Stay. This will interest you.”
Cassius reported, “He is buried. The tomb is sealed and the stamp of Rome is upon it, as you ordered.”
“One more thing,” Pilate commanded. “It seems Lord Caiaphas is still not satisfied. ‘Guard the tomb,’ he said, ‘so that impostor’s friends don’t steal the body and then pretend he’s alive again.’ So do it. I want a day-and-night watch posted there.”28
“Done.” Cassius saluted before he exited with the legionaries.
All the smoking oil lamps and all the flickering candles could not remove the tangible gloom that hung over the palace.
Philo peered out from behind a curtain, his expression entreating his mother. Can this be? The kind and gentle man who healed me and countless others is now dead at the command of my father?
Tears brimmed as Claudia’s eyes met Philo’s. There could be only one reason the kindness of Jesus toward the boy had not touched Pilate’s heart.
How very much Philo looked like Marcus, Claudia thought in awe. Surely Pilate had seen the face of his rival in the boy. The courage and strength of Marcus was unmistakable in the set of Philo’s mouth. The fierce goodness of Marcus was clear in Philo’s eyes. In that instant the truth was clear to Claudia: All along Pilate had recognized that Marcus was Philo’s father.
Claudia nodded at Philo. Her glance gave him permission to follow and keep watch. Her expression told him to be strong; the story was not finished yet.
Philo lifted his chin defiantly. Then, unseen by Pilate, he slipped away, pursuing the soldiers and seeking the disciples of Jesus.
At last Pilate turned toward Claudia. “Well?” he mocked. “This Jesus, son-of-God . . . your Jewish Messiah . . . is mortal, it seems. Dead. A piece of meat laid out on a stone slab. Your Jewish dreams are as worthless as dust. Where is your healer now? Your giver of life? This Jewish Savior of the world?”
She regained her confidence. “He did say it, you know. Told us he would rise from death. Destroy this temple and he will raise it up again in three days, he said.”
Pilate snorted. “The ravings of a madman! Rantings! The Temple of Herod? Forty years in the making.”
“Jesus was not,” Claudia corrected, “speaking of stone and mortar. He was speaking of his own body.”
Pilate’s complexion changed. In the dusky yellow light it became green. “He’s dead and there’s an end of it,” he said petulantly.
But Claudia could tell that doubt and fear existed. He scanned the corners of the empty chamber.
She challenged him fiercely. “Yes, Pilate, friend of Caesar. Jesus of Nazareth is dead tonight, by your order. But he promised he will rise from death.”
“The tomb is sealed with lead and stamped with the seal of Rome,” he shot back.
She tilted her head. “Do you really think the mark of Rome can keep such power from breaking forth? The grave cannot hold Jesus captive. An
d then it is written that all men will bow and confess that Jesus, Messiah, is King of Kings and Lord of Lords. Even you, one day, will be on your knees before him.”
His eyes took on a furtive, hunted expression. “Leave me!” Pilate shouted and hurled his cup of wine across the room.
Claudia rose from her chair with the dignity of a beloved daughter of a king . . . only she knew in her heart that her father was not Caesar, but truly the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. “I pity you,” she said quietly. Then she gathered the train of her gown and swept from the room.
She knew that Pilate’s sleep from this night on would be haunted by nightmares of the rabbi from Nazareth.
Epilogue
THREE DAYS LATER
The sun rose from behind the distant hills, casting a golden light over the stones of Jerusalem. Claudia sat alone on her balcony and gazed toward the hill of execution and the mound of boulders outside the city walls that marked the entrance to the garden location of Jesus’ tomb.
Each day Philo had returned to report to Claudia the rumors in the city and the terror of Jesus’ disciples. Marcus was among the followers of Jesus as a defender, Philo told her. The centurion slept across the threshold of their refuge with his sword drawn.
Now dawn was breaking on the very day Jesus had spoken of as the morning of his victory.
“Three days,” Claudia whispered as she stood and scanned the streets beyond the governor’s compound. “You promised us, Lord . . . three days.”
As if in reply, a lone bird soared high above her, then swooped to perch on the stone railing of the parapet. She knew at once it was Starling, returned somehow from wherever she had been. Claudia gasped as the tiny creature considered her with golden eyes, then sang sweetly. Hope! he cried. Hope!
The heavy city gates swung open as a beam of blinding sunlight topped the rise.