“Hate to leave Judea!” Pilate said incredulously. “Are you mad, Procula?”
“It is beautiful, you know.”
“Only because it is night and everybody is waiting for an angel to fly over or something like that. By day Jerusalem is a miserable, quarrelsome city.”
“But they have such confidence in their God,” Procula protested, “and that they are His chosen people.”
“Why would any god choose a people as quarrelsome as the Jews? The whole thing is nothing but a myth, Procula. The Jews believe in their Jehovah the same way the Persians believe in Ahura-Mazda and the Egyptians in Isis and Osiris. Every country has some sort of myth about a particular god.”
“But the Jews have something much more beautiful than that,” Procula insisted. “My maid, Nerva, heard Jesus of Nazareth teaching in the temple the other day. She was telling me what He said, Pontius. And I remember that He said much the same thing when I heard Him for a few moments in Galilee. It was beautiful and sensible.”
“So are the philosophies of Plato, or Aristotle, my dear. But Plato and Aristotle were men of education and greatness of mind, not teachers from a village that even Jews themselves despise.”
“It isn’t the man, Pontius. It’s the truths He teaches. Besides, many people believe Jesus is the Son of the Jewish God.”
“That’s what’s troubling Caiaphas,” Pilate agreed. “If the Nazarene were really the Son of that God, Caiaphas would have to obey Him.” Pilate chuckled again. “It seems that Jesus doesn’t believe in thieving tax gatherers or corrupt priests. Did you hear what He called the Pharisees the other day?”
“No.”
“Whited sepulchers, full of bones and rotting flesh. To a Jew nothing could be more degrading. And I never heard a better description of old Elam.”
“Hush, Pontius,” Procula said. “They take this matter of defilement seriously. You know that.”
Pilate had turned moody again. “A few more months in this sepulcher they call Judea and I’ll be thoroughly defiled, too.”
The sound of voices singing rose on the still night air. “They are singing the hallel,” Procula said softly. When the hymn was finished, she turned to her husband, her eyes wet with tears. “It’s beautiful,” she said.
Pilate’s eyes, however, were fixed on a line of lights moving along one of the streets between the palace of the high priest and the gate leading to the Garden of Gethsemane. The line of torches was double and almost straight.
“Soldiers are marching down there,” he said. “And Romans, by the looks of those torches.”
“Who could it be?”
“I always reinforce the temple guards with Roman soldiers during the religious festivals. . . . That looks like the whole detail.”
“Are you going to investigate?”
“Caiaphas will let me know what’s happening soon enough,” Pilate said with a shrug. “If there has been disorder and he puts it down, so much the better. The people won’t blame us. If he fails, I can always send more men to take care of things.”
“But what could be the trouble? There’s no sign of disturbance in Jerusalem.”
“Whatever it is, we’ll hear about it tomorrow,” Pilate said.
As Procula stepped into her room again and closed the door against the night air, the soft notes of the hymn could still be heard over the city, drowning out the distant tramp of marching men.
III
Jonas was utterly weary as he plodded down through the depression of the Tyropean Valley and began to climb the sloping street of the Upper City, leading to the palace of the high priest. He had almost failed to carry out Abiathar’s commission to bring the green thorn bushes from the hillside beyond the walls. Only fear of punishment had driven him now to complete it.
Zadok had been ill that morning, having gorged himself on some sweetmeats stolen from a shop when the proprietor was not looking. No one else would have anything to do with the legless man, and since Zadok insisted that he must go into the city early the next morning, Jonas had been forced to stay at home to care for him. It had been late afternoon before Zadok had improved enough for Jonas to leave him. Then the storm had driven him to take shelter in a cave housing a winepress on the hillside, and while he sat and waited for it to subside he had pondered on Abiathar’s strange words about the crown of thorns. He could not find the answer, but the effort to solve the puzzle helped to pass the time. When finally, just before sunset, the storm stopped, Jonas had barely time before darkness fell to gather the thorns and make them into a pack to carry on his back.
On the way he made the mistake of stopping by his hovel to pour Eleazar his evening measure of grain, and found Zadok, now ravenously hungry, demanding food. In order to pacify the cripple, Jonas was forced to go out and buy food, so that it was late when he was finally able to start across the city with the thorns for Abiathar. He was almost afraid to go, knowing the captain of the temple guards would be displeased with him for being so tardy. But at the worst he probably would receive a thrashing whereas if he failed to deliver the thorns he would be thrown into the prison for stealing, since Abiathar had already given him the shekel.
To Jonas’s great pleasure, Abiathar was not at the palace. The guard on duty knew nothing of the commission to gather the thorns, and Jonas had no choice except to wait for Abiathar if he were to get the rest of his promised reward. A few guards were also waiting in the courtyard, warming themselves around a small fire they had built. When Jonas approached, they did not order him away, so the little man settled with his back against a tree in the warm glow of the fire.
IV
Across the Brook Kedron, its waters still red from the many hundreds of lambs sacrificed on the great altar that day, Jesus and His disciples ascended the slope of the Mount of Olives to the gate of the beautiful garden called Gethsemane. As He walked, Jesus spoke to them of what was to come.
“All of you shall be offended because of Me this night,” He told them. “For it is written, ‘I will smite the shepherd, and the sheep shall be scattered abroad,’ but after I am risen again, I will go before you into Galilee.”
Peter, impulsive as ever, spoke up in protest. “Even if all men should be offended because of You,” he said, “yet I will never be offended.”
Troubled by Jesus’ recent references to His own death, Peter had been carrying a short sword hidden under his robe for the past several days. He was not accustomed to weapons other than a club or his powerful fist, but was determined to protect Jesus if trouble arose.
Jesus looked at him with the warm light of understanding and affection in His eyes for He understood equally Peter’s weaknesses and his strength. “Before the cock crows this night, you shall deny Me three times,” He told the tall fisherman.
Peter protested all the more vehemently that he would follow Jesus even to death and the others added their own protests. When He came to the gate leading into the garden, Jesus told the rest of the disciples to stay behind, taking with Him only Peter, James, and John, the three who were closest to Him. When they were a little distance inside the garden, He said to the three, “My soul is exceedingly sorrowful, even unto death. Tarry here and watch with Me.”
Leaving the three behind, Jesus went to the very center of the garden and began to pray. “O My Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from Me.” Then the waiting disciples heard Him say, “Nevertheless not as I will, but as You will.”
Jesus continued to pray and while the three waited, their eyes grew heavy for it had been a long day for them. When the Master returned after a little while, He found all three asleep.
“Could you not watch with Me one hour?” He asked reproachfully. “Watch and pray, that you do not enter into temptation. The spirit indeed is willing, but the flesh is weak.”
He went a little deeper into the garden alone to pray onc
e again and this time the disciples heard Him say, “O My Father, if this cup may not pass away from Me unless I drink it, Your will be done.”
Peter, James, and John were again asleep by the time Jesus returned to them. He did not wake them but went back to pray once more and after a few moments returned and roused them.
“The hour is at hand when the Son of Man is betrayed into the hands of sinners,” He told them. “Rise, let us be going. Behold,” He said, “he is at hand who betrays Me.”
Still half asleep, Peter and the other two hardly understood Him. But now from the direction of the gate where the other eight disciples waited came a sudden sharp challenge and the sound of feet running through the trees and much shouting. Wide-awake now, they could see the light of torches coming toward them up the slope through the garden and hear the clank of weapons and the tread of many feet. The three looked at each other in consternation and sudden fear. The presence of soldiers here could have but one meaning. Caiaphas had sent them to take Jesus prisoner.
V
John Mark was panting and his body was drenched with sweat. He had hardly noticed the strains of the hallel floating over the city, and when he reached his home he ran up the outside stairway to the upper chamber without stopping. When he stepped inside, however, he found that only his mother and several of the neighboring women were there, busy putting the remainder of the food away and cleaning up after the supper.
Mary looked up in surprise when Mark burst into the room. “I looked for you beside the sycamore tree just now, Mark,” she said. “Did you go with Jesus and the others to Gethsemane?”
“I was following Judas,” Mark gasped. “To the palace of the high priest. Where is the Master?”
“They sang the hymn here together and then left for the garden on the Mount of Olives. Jesus went there to pray before going on to Bethany.”
“Judas knew the Master was going to the garden!” Mark said. “He has betrayed Jesus to the high priest so the guards can arrest Him!”
Mary caught her breath. “Are you sure, son?”
“I heard him tell Abiathar he could take Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane because only a few would be with Him. I must go and warn the Master!”
“Your robe is wet with sweat,” Mary protested, her first concern for her son. “You will be chilled by the night air!”
“I must go, mother!” Mark insisted. “If I can get to the garden first, they may be able to flee to Bethany. Or at least we will have time to arouse some of the Galileans camped on the Mount of Olives.”
Mary hurried to a closet and took out a length of linen cloth. “Wrap this dry cloth around you then and leave the robe here,” she said. “And be careful, Mark!”
For already the boy was gone, wrapping the length of cloth about him like a Roman toga as he ran.
The cooking fires on the slopes of the Mount of Olives, where those camped there had roasted the paschal lamb before their tents that afternoon were dying away now and in the darkness only an occasional glow showed where they had been. The moon was hidden behind a cloud, and Mark, as he ran through the streets, stumbled more than once and fell several times, for he was almost exhausted. Each time, conscious that every moment counted, he pulled himself to his feet and kept on going.
At the city gate, he was forced to stop, for the column of guards with Abiathar and Judas in the lead was just then passing through on the way to the Garden of Gethsemane. He darted through the gate after the guards, hoping to pass them and still reach the garden in time to warn Jesus. But one of the soldiers saw what he was trying to do. Thrusting out the handle of his spear, he tripped Mark and the youth fell to the ground, half stunned.
“You’ll not warn the Nazarene of our coming, boy,” the guard called to him as he passed with the others.
Painfully, Mark stumbled to his feet. The column had passed him now and he had no choice except to fall in behind it.
Up the slope the guards marched. At the gate of the Garden of Gethsemane a little knot of men had gathered. Mark recognized a number of Jesus’ disciples and for a moment he thought they were going to resist the passage of the guards. But when Abiathar drew his sword and a dozen men behind him bared their spears, the little group melted into the darkness.
There was no sign of Jesus or Simon Peter and Mark hoped, as the column of guards marched through the gate, that they might somehow have been warned and made their escape. But then in the light of the torches borne by those at the head of the column, he saw them standing a little way inside the garden itself. Jesus was in front, as if He were protecting the others, with Simon Peter just behind Him and James and John a pace farther back. There was no sign of fear in Jesus’ eyes or in His manner as the column on an order from Abiathar divided to surround Him.
Mark saw Abiathar turn to Judas and speak but could not hear what was said. He could see that Judas hesitated, however, but when Abiathar growled again, the betrayer stepped forward and, pretending to embrace Jesus, said, “Master,” and kissed Him.
Immediately—for Judas’s act had been the signal—the guards moved forward and seized Jesus. James and John had drawn back before the naked swords in the hands of the soldiers, but Simon Peter stepped forward. Mark, to his surprise, saw that Peter was bolding a sword. With an awkward movement the disciple slashed out at one of the guards who was holding Jesus by the arm. The man parried the blow easily, however, and Peter succeeded only in slicing the ear of one of the bystanders. A blow from another soldier’s sword knocked the weapon from Peter’s hand, and when he saw the blade thrusting forward to cut him down, the tall disciple turned and, as the others had done, ran away among the trees into the darkness.
“Have you come out as against a thief with swords and staves to take Me?” Jesus demanded scathingly of His captors. “I was with you daily in the temple teaching and you did not take Me.” Then Mark heard Him say almost as an afterthought, “But the Scriptures must be fulfilled.”
Jesus was standing alone, all the disciples having been driven away by the weapons of the guards. The one who had tripped Mark on the road saw him and called out, “The boy here tried to bring word of our coming. He must be one of them.”
At the cry one of the guards seized the linen cloth Mark had wrapped about his body but, stricken with terror, the boy twisted himself free and fled in nothing but his loin cloth, leaving the linen garment behind.
The underbrush tore at Mark’s body as he stumbled through the grove, driven by a fear greater than he had ever known. When the absence of any sound behind him assured him that he was not being pursued, he slowed to a walk and tried to think clearly. He saw now that he was not far from the wall surrounding the garden, and going to it, climbed on the rocks so that he could see the slope below him and the path that led from the garden to the city. As he watched, he saw a man plunge down the path, running and stumbling as if he were pursued by a thousand demons, although there was no one following. For a moment Mark dared hope Jesus had somehow broken away from His captors. But as the bend in the path brought the man only a few paces from where Mark stood on the wall, he recognized Judas of Kerioth.
For a moment the face of the man who had betrayed Jesus was revealed in the light of the moon which had now come from behind the clouds. And at the utter terror mirrored there, Mark could not keep back a cry of astonishment. Only one certain of destruction, Mark sensed, would be in the grip of such fear. Judas of Kerioth had realized, too late, that he who betrayed the Son of God could not escape retribution.
The clank of military gear warned Mark that Abiathar and the guards were leaving the garden, and he drew back along the wall into the shadow of a tall tree. Slowly the column came into sight, two lines of soldiers with Jesus walking in their midst, His hands secured by fetters and naked spears menacing Him on every side. The youth was sick with shame that he had run away, for he saw that Jesus was now entirely deserted.
When the procession had disappeared down the road leading to Jerusalem, Mark climbed down from the wall and made his way back along the path toward the center of the garden. So far as he had been able to tell, his linen garment had not been carried away by any of the guards. He hoped it might have fallen to the ground and still be in the garden, for he was already shivering in the chill night air.
The place was empty now and Mark found the cloth lying where it had been torn from him. Grateful for its warmth, he wrapped it about his shaking body and started down the path again in the wake of those who had taken Jesus prisoner. Near the gate, he heard crashing sounds in the underbrush and drew back quickly from the road, thinking that some of the guards might have been left behind to look for Jesus’ disciples. But when a tall figure stumbled from the trees into the road and stood looking about him dumbly, Mark gave a cry of recognition. It was Simon Peter.
“Simon!” Mark called.
The big man stiffened and started to lumber toward the underbrush beside the road, but Mark ran out into the open where he could be seen. “It is John Mark!” he called. “Your friend!”
The disciple seemed in a daze, but Mark’s words and familiar voice finally penetrated his mind. Slowly he turned and the youth saw that, in addition to the wounds from brambles on his cheeks and arms, Peter’s face was ravaged by suffering and shame.
Sensing that Peter had been driven almost out of his mind by the shock of what had just happened, Mark approached him slowly. “You know me, Peter,” he said. “It is John Mark.”
“Mark.” Peter looked at him dazedly. “Where is the Master?”
“Abiathar has taken Him prisoner. Judas betrayed Him.”
“But Jesus gave Judas the sop.”
“I heard Judas tell Abiathar that Jesus would be in the garden here with only a few of you.”
“Where have they taken Him?”
The Crown and the Cross: The Life of Christ Page 39