by Adam Winn
PILATE
After an unseasonably warm day, Pilate sat on the balcony of his private chambers, letting the cool sea breeze wash over him. He could taste the salt in the air and feel it on his skin. From this balcony, he could see virtually the entire city of Caesarea Maritima, with its massive temple devoted to the worship of the Great Augustus, its impressive amphitheater, its hippodrome, and, perhaps most impressive of all, its man-made harbor that rivaled any other in the world in both size and beauty.
The harbor was forty-one acres in size and enclosed by impressive concrete walls on which were massive storehouses used to facilitate the significant trade of the city. Also on the walls were six massive bronze statues and a light tower that burned with fire twenty-four hours a day. To approaching sea vessels, this harbor was truly a wonder to behold. A client king, Herod the first, the father of the current ruler in Galilee, Herod Antipas, had constructed Caesarea at the behest of the emperor Augustus, and the beauty of the city matched his reputation as a master builder. It seemed the late Herod had built all the structures worth admiring in this region, with this city on the Mediterranean being second only in beauty to the great temple in Jerusalem.
At times while walking through Caesarea, Pilate could almost imagine he was back in his home city of Rome instead of this godforsaken backwater of the illustrious Roman Empire. Aside from Caesarea and Jerusalem, there were few other cities of note in the province of Judea. Small villages dotted the region, the farms of which produced little in the way of significant wealth for the empire. To his peers back in Rome, the assignment seemed menial and of little value, but Pilate knew better. Judea controlled both land and sea routes to Egypt, the fertile bread basket of the empire. It also provided a crucial buffer between the empire and one of its most threatening enemies, the Parthians. But such importance didn’t make the snide comments and jokes about his assignment any easier to take—perception created reality for those in Rome.
The physical location was not the worst part of the assignment, despite what his friends back home might think. It was the job of ruling this province that was truly detestable. Throughout the Roman Empire, provinces thrived under the oversight and protection of Rome. The cities of Greece and Asia Minor had truly prospered through their identity as loyal provincial capitals under Roman rule. The peace and stability Rome brought allowed trade to boom, which resulted in the amassing of great wealth throughout the empire. Most who benefited from such wealth were deeply thankful and held both Rome and its rulers in high regard.
This was not the case for most of those living in Judea. Judea was the home of the Jews, a people that were as odd as they were ancient. They were devoted to one god and refused to worship any other—they wouldn’t even make an image of this god or speak his name. Pilate had discovered this the hard way, of course.
Central to their religion was a set of ancient writings that outlined the laws this god had given them. For many Jews, the writings of their prophets were also quite significant. Most Jews believed their god had spoken to them uniquely through these writings, and the prophetic writings seemed to be the crux of the problem. They promised a time in which these Jews, this small and powerless group of people, would rule over the entire world. Their capital city, Jerusalem, would be the center of a new world, and their god would live in the temple that sat on top of a mountain there—as if this mountain would be the new Olympus! All the nations would serve them and come to worship this god.
How preposterous! Could these people not see that this was impossible? They had no army, no weapons necessary for military victory, no siege equipment to tear down city walls, and most of all, no resources with which to procure any of these things. They were living in a fantasy. It didn’t help that they had had military success almost two hundred years earlier against the Greek Seleucids. But this was no reason for optimism, since the Seleucids were fighting on other fronts and could not devote the necessary resources to destroy these pesky Jews. Such was not the case with Rome.
The foolishness of this hope did not make it harmless, however. No, this hope bred hate—deep hatred of Rome and its occupation. While cities like Ephesus and Thessalonica built temples and threw massive festivals as a way of thanking Rome for its many benefits, the Jews of Judea openly despised all things Roman. They refused to allow a temple honoring Rome and its gods to be built in Jerusalem. They refused to give such gods any semblance of worship. They wouldn’t even permit any Roman image within the capital city—again, something Pilate discovered the hard way. There was no gratitude for the great wealth that Roman power had brought the region, nor even a “thank you” for the freedom of worship the Roman rulers had allowed.
The most difficult part of Pilate’s regional assignment was negotiating the complicated realities brought about by this hate. Every day felt like a constant battle to keep the peace. It often kept him up at night. Of course, the Jews could never truly threaten Roman power, but they could threaten the stability of the region. They could riot in the streets and kill Roman soldiers . . . and governors. And riots could certainly turn into open revolt. Pilate was aware of such possibilities, and was particularly aware that he did not have the military power to stop them. He had at his disposal roughly eighteen hundred Roman soldiers in the region, along with some cavalry. These forces, less than one third of a legion, were hardly enough to stop a people deeply committed to revolution. The bulk of Rome’s military power in the region was under the control of the Roman governor of Syria, who had three entire legions at his disposal—approximately eighteen thousand soldiers. If open rebellion broke out, it would take these reinforcements at least two weeks to arrive in Jerusalem. At that point, there was a good chance Pilate would not be alive to care.
With such little military support, keeping the peace often required the ability to work with local rulers and power brokers, some level of diplomacy, a cunning instinct, will, some acumen, and on top of all of that a bit of sheer luck. It was a constant struggle, and Pilate envied those who governed in friendlier provinces—where governing was not only easier but also appreciated!
But as difficult as this job was, Pilate had become quite good at it over the previous five years. He had certainly made his share of mistakes in the beginning—painful and embarrassing ones. Even now, his faced reddened when he recalled the pomp and arrogance he brought with him from Rome when he first took this assignment, and the shame he had quickly incurred because of it. Before coming to this backwards region, many warned Pilate about the difficulties he would face and the people who would hate him. A foolish young Pilate politely listened to such warnings, but ultimately ignored them. He was brashly confident he could corral these people with a dramatic display of Roman power. Who would not fall in line once they had truly tasted Roman steel or watched a beloved leader cut down or crucified for insurrection? Pilate’s opportunity for such an exhibition came quickly.
Not long after his arrival in Judea, he made a visit to Jerusalem to see this important city and introduce himself to both the common people and leading officials. Advisers had told him that these people were very particular about displaying images or any sort of likeness of a living creature, and his predecessors had been very careful to not bring any such images into the city. They stripped soldiers’ uniforms and military banners of any such images, be them of animals or the emperor, when they entered Jerusalem. But Pilate felt that such decisions showed weakness and decided it was time for these Jews to embrace the Roman power over them—images and all! Out of what Pilate believed was sensitivity, he brought the soldiers in at night so as to not cause a disturbance.
The following day it did not take long for the people to realize what had happened, and protests began outside the former palace of Herod the Great (the home of the governor when he visited Jerusalem). The crowd was shouting and yelling, but for the most part Pilate could not understand them; they were not speaking Latin or Greek. Instead of facing the mob, Pilate decided to meet with the leading officials: the h
igh priest Caiaphas and his councilors. They explained to Pilate the gravity of his offense; if he wanted to keep the peace (something they wanted as well) he should remove the image-bearing shields immediately. Pilate responded with arguments about the lack of honor these people showed Rome, which bestowed such blessings on them. He refused to remove the images, but after much pleading, he agreed to reconsider and make a final decision in the coming days, though he had no intention of changing his mind. Pilate anticipated that as the days passed the protesters would tire and go home. While the numbers diminished at night, many stayed—some praying, some shouting. And every morning the crowd seemed larger than the day before.
Eventually, Pilate had had enough. The shouting and wailing had become exhausting, and his frustrations with these ungrateful and obstinate people had reached a breaking point. On the morning of the fifth day, Pilate ordered his soldiers to surround the protestors. After they had done so, Pilate came out and addressed them. He rebuked them for their actions that dishonored Rome, the source of their peace and prosperity, and he ordered them to cease and desist. Any who refused to leave, he would have killed for insurrection. He was quite confident that the threat of real violence would break their spirit. But to his utter shock and amazement, one of the leaders of the group got on his knees and threw his head back, baring his neck. And slowly the rest in the crowd did the same.
In this act, the people conveyed the depth of their conviction. By it, they said, “Do what you must, for we will do what we must.” Pilate had not expected such a response. Though many had warned him, he did not believe a people could be this recalcitrant. He was tempted to give the order to execute them all, but he knew that such violence would have reprisals—perhaps the people would riot, and also Rome might not approve. He had only been there a matter of weeks. What would the emperor say if he could not keep a peace that had lasted for over seventy-five years? He ordered his soldiers to sheathe their swords and disband, and the next day the images were removed from the city.
That moment was a terrible embarrassment to Pilate. He felt these Jews had successfully challenged his power, making him appear weak. Although he was angry, he had no one to blame but himself. Despite many warnings, he had pushed these people to the brink of death, and they were willing to go there without any hesitation. He made the grave mistake of underestimating the conviction of these Jews, but never again. He vowed to better understand them—not because he appreciated them, but because he wanted to control them and thus successfully rule over them.
He remembered, perhaps not soon enough, that the former governor Valerius Gratus had advised him that the key to survival was the high priesthood. He had said, “Among a people of zealous conviction, you will find them sensible. And because they love their positions of power, you will find them much easier to control.” So before Pilate left Jerusalem to return to Caesarea, he held a private audience with the high priest, Caiaphas.
In this meeting, Pilate projected a demeanor of humility. It was one of the wisest decisions he had made in his political career. He found that Caiaphas was indeed sensible, rational, and easy to converse with. He was a wealth of information about these people, their history, and their religion. These Jews were not as homogenous as Pilate had supposed. While certainly a small number of central beliefs galvanized them, their beliefs and practices could vary widely—and even some of those tenets could be interpreted quite differently. Distinct sects had emerged, like the Pharisees and the Sadducees, each drawing unique boundaries around themselves—and holding distinct values that they would die for. They had different opinions about what texts were truly sacred Scripture, the afterlife of both the individual Jew and Jews collectively, fate and free will, the rules regarding ritual purity, and much more. At any one time, these groups could influence common Jews who were not members of any one of them, though it seemed the Pharisees more often had the greatest sway over the masses.
Pilate also learned more fully about the deep desire among most Jews for independence from Roman occupation, their desire for a leader of some sort to deliver them, and the growing hostility in the city toward anything Roman. But perhaps most importantly, he learned that Caiaphas opposed all such notions and was deeply committed to the cause of peace in the region. In Caiaphas he found an ally who in many ways wanted the same things that Rome wanted; stability, peace, and if possible, growing prosperity. But Caiaphas was adamant that Pilate could not achieve that peace through violence, which would ultimately result in rebellion. Instead, political savvy, manipulation, and—most important of all—information were the tools necessary for maintaining peace and stability.
Information could allow you to identify and neutralize threats before they became problematic. Information allowed you to manipulate important priests, teachers, and artisans who may have sway with the people. Information allowed you to build the right relationships, stroke the right egos, and fund the right special interests. Politics in Judea was complicated, and the person with the most information could navigate those complicated realities effectively. Caiaphas informed Pilate that he had already amassed a significant number of informants. He offered to share information with Pilate if he so chose, but he also encouraged Pilate to develop his own information network.
Pilate’s predecessor had also tried to tell him that information would serve him better than brute force. He even left Pilate with a well-developed network of informants. But Pilate’s humiliation finally unstopped his ears. Pilate would not prioritize force over information again, and he would also not ignore this high priest again. Valerius Gratus was indeed correct in directing Pilate to the Jewish high priests, but Gratus was wrong about one thing—Caiaphas wasn’t motivated by a desire for power. Instead, something much stronger than that drove this priest: a deep desire for peace, grounded in a sincere religious conviction and love for his people. The trappings of power were not the currency Pilate would need to motivate Caiaphas; instead, he needed to play on his commitment to peace and his genuine concern for the Jews.
Pilate’s thoughts were interrupted by his chief aid, Lucien. “I have the reports from your informants in the north about Jesus the Galilean, my lord. They are sealed as you requested.”
“Thank you, Lucien. You may leave them on the table.”
“Is there anything else you need, my lord?”
“Not at the moment, Lucien. After reading these, I may need to send word to Caiaphas or perhaps Herod Antipas. If so, I will need a scribe. In that case, I will send for you.”
“Yes, my lord, I will see that a scribe is ready should you need one.” With that, Lucien left the room.
Pilate took a long look out his window at the beautiful sea, drew in as much peace from it as he could, and then took up the report of the potential political threat: Jesus, the “prophet” from Galilee.
JUDAH
As if on cue, the traitor left his home and headed in the direction of a neighborhood tavern. Judah and his men had surveilled him for the past seven days. The pattern was always the same. The man left his shop at sundown, went home and ate dinner with his family, and then headed to socialize at the tavern for about an hour.
The man’s name was Lazarus, son of Ananias, a Pharisee. Ananias was the most prominent mason in Jerusalem. He had received significant contracts for the construction of the temple, and the excellent work he had done greatly enhanced his reputation. He was favored by the Jerusalem elite for the construction of buildings, homes, and significant remodels. However, in the past year, Ananias had experienced health issues that prevented him from working. His son Lazarus had taken over the family business, and from all reports the business continued to thrive under his management. But ever since Judah had learned that Lazarus was working as an informant for Rome, he suspected that his financial success was in some way tied to his treacherous service.
Little caused Judah’s blood to boil more than traitors. Rome was this world’s great evil, but worse even than Rome were Jews who betrayed their own peopl
e for financial gain. They would burn in the hottest fires of Gehenna on the great day of God’s judgment. Not only did they enable the continued enslavement of their own people by foreign occupiers, but they took financial reward that would otherwise go to those more deserving. Judah knew of two other masons that faced financial hardship because they consistently lost bids to Lazarus—despite claims that their bids were more competitive! How could such men hope to survive when the game was rigged? This treachery and injustice made the planning of the ambush all the more satisfying. Tonight, Lazarus would pay dearly for this betrayal.
At first, Judah thought eliminating Lazarus would be simple. When he made his way home from the tavern, stumbling from too much wine, he would be an easy target. Judah’s men would grab Lazarus, pull him into an empty building, question him, and then end it. But things got more complicated two days into the surveillance. Those watching Lazarus noticed that everywhere he went, two large men seemed to also be following him. Were they surveilling him as well, or protecting him?
In order to find out, Judah paid two boys with reputations as ruffians. The first boy rounded a corner and ran into Lazarus, almost knocking him down. While Lazarus was getting his balance, the other boy planned to trip him. But as soon as the first boy ran into Lazarus, both of the men bolted forward, coming to the falling man’s aid.
Now what was originally the simple task of grabbing a drunk man off the street suddenly involved eliminating the hired muscle that was protecting him. But Judah was undaunted. He had eliminated five Roman soldiers. Compared to that, dealing with these two meatheads would be no trouble at all.
ELEAZAR
Eleazar departed from his private chambers and crossed the length of the estate to his father’s study. As he expected, the group in the room was small. Only three high-ranking priests were present: Caiaphas’s two brothers and a cousin. Each of these men had an attendant with them, all of which were blood relations. Caiaphas trusted everyone in this room implicitly. While Annas and his sons were often present for formal gatherings of the high-ranking priests, they were never invited to or even aware of these secret meetings in Caiaphas’s home. It was here that the true business was carried out and where they set the agenda for what they needed to accomplish in the formal priestly meetings.