Rivka said nothing.
Hana came back and sat at the table. “You do not have a familiar, Rivkaleh. Any fool can see that.”
“But ... it isn’t fair,” Rivka said. “When Ari the Kazan makes a mistake, he loses a little honor. When I make a mistake, they turn me into a witch woman.”
Hana studied her intently. “Rivkaleh, please! Do not give rage a place in your heart. You are angry at these lying tales. Yes, it is unfair, but that is the way of the world. You do well to be angry, but if you cross over to rage, you will not do well.”
“But ... how long do I need to put up with these lies?” Rivka’s eyes glittered. “I have things I need to do. Soon!”
Hana patted her cheek. “All is in the hands of HaShem.”
Chapter Nineteen
Hanan ben Hanan
* * *
AS EXPECTED, ISHMAEL BEN PHIABI turned out to be a terrible high priest. Hanan felt pleased. Soon Agrippa would come to his senses. Spring passed into summer while Hanan waited. The feast of Shavuot came and went and nothing happened. Then shocking news came from Caesarea that Judea had a new governor. A man named Festus.
On the hottest day of the summer, Hanan and three dozen other priests of good family stood sweating in the reception room of the palace of Ishmael ben Phiabi. Ishmael was a tall man with a thick gray beard and vacant eyes. He knew that the other aristocrats considered him stupid, and he knew that Hanan had recommended him for the high priesthood. He therefore treated Hanan as his closest friend and ally and kept him as his sagan. He inclined his head to Hanan. “Have you heard much of this man Festus?”
Hanan shook his head. “You will allow me to ask him about the matter of the apikoros?”
“Of course,” Ishmael said. “Your father would wish it so.”
That stung, though Ishmael no doubt thought it a compliment. Hanan’s father was the man responsible for Renegade Saul becoming an apikoros. He had sent Saul to Damascus to put a stop to the foolishness that had sprung up there. Who could have predicted how badly that would turn out?
Now Saul was an apikoros—a renegade. A messianic, a purveyor of lies, an apostate. A man who did not love the Temple. Saul had spent the past three decades spreading his filth throughout the empire. Teaching Jews to despise the Temple, the Torah, the customs of the fathers. If he continued so, Jews in the diaspora would no longer support the Temple and its services to the living God. Saul had even tried to bring his fanaticism back to Jerusalem, when it had long been crushed here.
For the good of the Temple, such a man must be sacrificed. The apikoros had to die.
Trumpets rang outside the palace. Every man in the reception room stood just a little straighter, a little taller. Presently, Ishmael’s steward bustled in. “Governor Festus to greet Ishmael ben Phiabi and the elders.”
The elders moved to the edges of the room, forming a semicircle. Ishmael stepped to the center. “You will show the governor in.”
Hanan tensed. Would this governor be an incompetent like Felix? One who despised Jews and crushed the people of the land to enrich his own purse? Hanan had heard whispers of revolt among the young men. Rumors of Mashiach, who would destroy the dragon and purify the Temple.
Fools! Young men did not know the fruits of war—disease, death, destruction. Young men hoped for glory in battle, believing that courage alone would bring victory. Young men thought themselves immortal, invincible. They did not know that a brave man also can be killed, a holy city can be taken, and the Temple of the living God can be burned with fire.
It had happened once, many hundred years ago, and it could happen again. A man who loved the Temple must do anything in his power to prevent it. The messianics, in their mad rush to glory, would end by destroying the Temple. To stop them, the righteous man, the man who loved the Temple, must be prepared to do anything.
To lie.
To cheat.
To kill.
Hanan stepped into the center of the room, taking his place slightly behind Ishmael at his right hand. Ishmael had no Greek, so he had asked Hanan to translate.
A tribune entered the room, and behind him, the new governor from Rome. Festus was a military man of medium height with hard eyes and a sallow complexion. The tribune saluted Roman fashion, his right arm extending out in front of him. “Porcius Festus, governor of Judea!” he said in Greek.
Hanan translated this into Aramaic.
Ishmael stepped forward and clasped hands with the new governor.
Hanan moved smoothly forward alongside him and said in Greek, “Ishmael, son of Phiabi, high priest, greets you.”
The governor and the high priest studied each other for a moment, neither blinking, neither speaking. Finally Ishmael stepped back and nodded to Hanan.
Hanan stepped forward and extended his hand. “I am called Hanan, son of Hanan, and I am captain of the Temple, second in the Temple hierarchy.”
Governor Festus grasped him firmly at the wrist with both hands. He had a moist, meaty, sturdy grip. A soldiering man, with a head crowned by a few gray wisps. Hanan guessed he must be nearly sixty, an old man, not one who could be easily fooled or brow-beaten. A man of reason.
Excellent. The way to his heart on the matter of the apikoros would be through reason. Simple facts, plain words.
Hanan stepped back and the next man came forward to greet the governor.
“Yeshua the son of Gamaliel,” Hanan said to Festus.
Yeshua was his protégé, the most intelligent man in the room, learned in Torah. Even the self-appointed sages of the Pharisees respected Yeshua ben Gamaliel. He clasped hands with governor Festus and spoke to him in fluent Greek.
The other chief priests followed Yeshua. Hanan introduced each of them in turn, translating for those who had no Greek.
“Yoseph, also called Kabi, the son of Shimon.”
“Yeshua the son of Dannai.”
“My nephew, Mattityahu, the son of Theophilus.”
“Hananyah, the son of Nadavayah, until recently the high priest.”
Governor Festus greeted each elder politely, but with few words. Finally, the line of men ended.
“And where is King Agrippa?” Festus asked Hanan. “I had hoped to meet him. I knew his father in Rome many years ago. A most delightful man.”
Delightful? Hanan worked to keep his face impassive. That was not a word he would associate with Agrippa Senior. “The king has gone to his palace in Banias for the summer.”
“Send word that I wish to see him in Caesarea.” Festus gave a half smile. “There are some points on which I would like to ask his advice.”
“I will send a messenger in the morning,” Hanan said. “In the meantime, the elders would like to know more about you—your record of service to Caesar and your philosophy of governing.”
Festus nodded. “I would be more interested to hear your own concerns, but I will say a few words about myself first. You will translate?”
“Certainly.” Hanan escorted the governor to the center of the room and took a position next to him. Yes, this would turn out most excellently. The governor had come to listen. He would hear all that his ears could hold.
The priests took seats on the stone benches set against the walls at the perimeter of the room.
Festus looked around the room, waiting for quiet.
“My friends, I come of an equestrian family in Rome and have spent my career in military service,” Festus began. He quickly reviewed his accomplishments in Spain, in Germany, and most recently in Syria. On retiring to Rome, he had come to the attention of Caesar Nero through a family friend named Seneca, who had tutored Caesar when he was a boy.
“And so, though I am grown gray in the service of Rome, Caesar has sent me here to replace Governor Felix on account of his mishandling of the unfortunate riots in Caesarea. I stand before you at your service.” Festus bowed his head a fraction. “Now I would learn from you. Judea is a small but complex province, and my predecessors have failed to maintain peace her
e. I will do my utmost to improve the situation.”
A moment of stunned silence followed. Nobody had expected much from a governor of Rome.
Hanan allowed himself to hope that disaster could be averted.
The former high priest Hananyah ben Nadavayah stood up. “The situation in Caesarea is dangerous. Jews there are condemned to a second-class citizenship, which is unacceptable. The goyim beat them, destroy their market stalls, and provoke them without mercy. We demand justice.”
Hanan translated this to Greek, but he did not demand justice. He politely requested it.
Governor Festus nodded gravely. “I will meet with the principal citizens of Caesarea when I return there. I have been told that this story has two sides, and I will hear both. My mandate is to bring peace, and my long experience tells me that peace follows from justice. Therefore, I will pursue justice. For both sides.”
Hanan repeated this in Aramaic.
Heads nodded around the room. They had not expected more. Most had expected much less. Festus was clearly cut from a different cloth than Felix. But that was only to be expected. Festus came of a family of aristocrats, whereas Felix was scum, born a slave, a man who bought his freedom and then thought he was as good as other men born free. A man who did not hesitate to seduce a woman of the house of Herod from her lawful husband. A man who robbed the country to ruin.
Next, Yoseph Kabi stood and presented a complaint about the banditry in the countryside. Felix had done nothing to stop the outlaws, and his policies increased the banditry by taxing the land beyond what it could bear, driving the poorest from their farms. Now it was no longer safe to travel on the roads because of the bandits, who robbed and killed without mercy. Jerusalem was unsafe during the festivals, when dagger-men came in from the countryside and hid in the crowds.
Festus promised to deal with the matter justly. He had no intent to enrich himself beyond the normal amount that any governor would take, and therefore he would set the taxation at an equitable level. He would execute justice for the province and bring the bandits to trial swiftly.
Justice. Hanan liked the sound of this man. Festus was committed to justice.
“Very good, then. What more?” Festus said.
Hanan cleared his throat. “Excellency, there is a matter of justice which Governor Felix left unresolved. Two years ago, we arrested a man in the courts of our Temple.”
All around the room, the chief priests sat up straighter, leaned forward, turned their heads to hear better. Not all of them looked eager for Hanan to continue, but he cared nothing for them. Such men were soft, unwilling to do a hard thing, though necessity demanded it.
“This man, a Jew of Roman citizenship, whose name is called Paulos in Greek, had taken a Gentile with him into the inner courts of the Temple—a violation of our laws. Caesar has given us the right to execute the death penalty against such a man. However, the tribune of the Fortress Antonia took this criminal from us with great violence and sent him to Felix for trial. As you have heard, Felix cared nothing for justice, and left the man to rot in prison while expecting a bribe. Now we ask that you do us this favor as a token of your goodwill—to send this man Paulos back to Jerusalem to be tried according to our laws.”
Governor Festus narrowed his eyes and scanned the room. “You wish me to return only this one man to Jerusalem? This is the only favor you ask?”
That was good. The governor saw this request as a small thing. “Yes, Excellency. Only Paulos. We wish to try him according to our own laws, as Caesar allows us.”
“But ...” Confusion and doubt spread across the governor’s face. “What of the other man?”
Hanan struggled to keep his face neutral. “We ask only for Paulos.”
“Yes, I understand.” The governor did not look like a man who understood. “But what became of the man you arrested with Paulos? The Gentile he took into your Temple?”
Hanan coughed, stalling for time. There was no Gentile arrested with Paulos, but he could not possibly say so. If he admitted this, his case would collapse. But if he pursued the lie further, Festus would continue asking for more evidence. He seemed a man who deliberated fully. “Excellency, Caesar has sent you here to perform justice. This is a matter of our own religious law, and we ask—as a favor—that you give this man into our hands.”
“You said he has Roman citizenship?” Festus said. “Such a man has rights under Roman law. I will not give him into your hands until I have given him a hearing myself. It is a matter of simple justice.”
“He has violated our laws—”
“I will speak to him myself,” Festus said, and his voice took on the hardness of steel. “I am returning to Caesarea when I complete my business here. If you have any charges against Paulos, you may send a delegation to the hearing.”
“But—”
Governor Festus crossed his arms. “Are there any other matters you wish to raise?”
Hanan bit back his fury. It would do no good to argue. He had failed this time. He would not fail in Caesarea. He would say the words needed to bring Paulos back to Jerusalem.
On the way, there would be a most unfortunate attack by bandits, and one fewer messianic would be left to trouble the world.
Ari
* * *
Ari did not know what to expect on this trip to Caesarea. Certainly, it would do Rivka good to break free from Jerusalem for a few days. Whispers about the “witch woman” followed her wherever she went in the city. She had now gone two whole months without assisting in a delivery. Therefore she enjoyed more sleep, but ... it hurt her deeply. She had not yet recovered from the disaster of the eclipse.
Whereas Ari’s reputation had suffered little harm. For a few days after the eclipse, he had seen little business. Then the builders of the city, knowing a good thing when they lacked it, descended on him again with new problems to be solved. Ari the Kazan had high honor in the city of God, while Rivka was feared and distrusted.
My life has broken into yet more shards.
Ari looked back to where the few women in the merchant caravan walked.
Rivka walked alone. The other women treated her as a non-person.
Ari wished he could walk with her, but for a man to walk together with his woman—that would make a scandal. The merchants would not allow them to walk with the caravan, sharing in the benefits of the hired guards. And that would be too dangerous. Ari had done much craziness in his life, but even he was not such a fool to walk alone with Rivka and Gamaliel to Caesarea, when the hill-country teemed with bandits.
Nor would Gamaliel have agreed to such craziness. It had taken much persuasion, even when Rivka’s prediction came true, to get Gamaliel to agree to this journey. It was a three-day walk, about a hundred kilometers, in the heat of the summer. All so that Rivka could take a message to Renegade Saul. A woman instructing a man. Foolishness.
Ari would not have come, except that Rivka promised to show him a great sight. Gamaliel’s uncle, Renegade Saul. The man Ari had loathed all his life, the man who would turn these harmless followers of Rabban Yeshua into a Gentile church that would ruin the world. Rivka promised that Ari would see the real Saul, a man different than Ari had heard of. A man who might repair the shards of Ari’s life.
It was a chance, and Ari knew it would not come again. So he came. But he did not think Renegade Saul could teach him anything he cared to hear.
They were walking up the coastal highway today. To their left, the Great Sea glittered in the sunlight. Along their right, the farmland of the Sharon Valley. Wheat fields. Cattle ranches. Far to the east loomed the brown hill-country of Samaria north of Jerusalem. Renegade Jews lived there, Samaritans, with their own customs, their own temple, their own Torah. Mortal enemies of Jews. All this enmity between Jew and Jew was foolishness.
Ari noticed that Gamaliel was now studying him. “Yes?” he said, amused. “You have a question?”
“When we met, I asked if you were looking for Mashiach,” Gamaliel said.
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br /> “And I said no.”
“But now? Already, you see the birthpangs. Are you now looking for Mashiach?”
“Birthpangs?” Ari squinted down at his short friend. “What birthpangs?”
Gamaliel rubbed his hands together, as if he had been waiting many months to discuss this. “Before the coming of Mashiach, there will be great troubles. Many in Yisrael will turn to HaShem, and he will shake the heavens and the earth. The stars will fall, and the earth will tremble. Wicked men will turn to evil—robbery, oppression, immorality, and a falling away from Torah. These are the birthpangs of Mashiach. They will last for seven years, and then Mashiach will come.”
This was different than what Ari had heard from either Rivka or his stepfather. It was still craziness, but a new kind of craziness. “And you believe that these birthpangs have begun already?”
“Of course,” Gamaliel said. “Are we not walking in an armed company for fear of robbers? Are we not oppressed by Rome? Has there ever been such immorality, such trampling of the Torah?” He shook his head. “I do not think we can bear yet seven more years of such birthpangs.”
Seven years. Ari did a quick calculation, and realized that ... in seven years, the Jewish revolt would begin. In the summer of the year 66. At the instigation of Gamaliel’s friend, Brother Eleazar.
Gamaliel’s face broadened into a grin. “I see that you understand. The birthpangs have begun. The powers of the air will fight a great war in the heavens. Men will fight a corresponding war on earth, Mashiach ben Yoseph against Armilus the wicked king of Rome, who—”
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