“It’s wonderful unless you happen to be a Zealot,” Rachel reminded me. “Jesus has done everything they expected of him, fulfilled each of the ancient prophecies, even to entering Jerusalem like the true messiah they believed he was. Then, just when his Zealot champions expected him to lead them into battle, Jesus vilified their cause before half the city.”
Oh, Isis! If Jesus is not to be their messiah, would the Zealots then use him as their martyr?
Before I could voice my fears, Rachel continued. “It is as though Jesus wants to incite everyone. Two days ago, he caused a disturbance in the Temple. It’s the talk of the city.”
I tipped my head back and closed my eyes as she rubbed soapy water into my scalp. “In the Temple? How extraordinary! Were you there?”
“Yes, I was just passing by and heard a commotion in the courtyard. At first I thought it was just the usual—people swarming all over each other to buy offerings. Doves that sell for a few pennies going for twenty times that. Suddenly there was Jesus ranting and raving, overturning cages. Lambs were running in all directions, doves flying in circles. Then he went after the money changers.”
“Really!” I exclaimed. Money changers were the lifeblood of the Temple, of Jerusalem itself. Everyone, including Pilate, left them strictly alone. Not so much as a beggar got space in the Temple without paying something to the Sanhedrin. The last thing Caiaphas would want was some upstart threatening his money changers.
Rachel shook her head in bewilderment. “Jesus kept shouting that the money changers had to get out of his father’s house. Imagine calling the Temple his father’s house.”
I remembered talking with Jesus at the wedding, the reference to his abba. “That is what he believes,” I told her.
“Caiaphas was furious.”
“I can well imagine. What about my husband? Where does Pilate stand on all this?”
“The head guard told me that Dominus was far more concerned about another criminal, the one he sent from Sepphoris to be crucified.”
“Barabbas?”
Rachel nodded. “He is the man.”
“Miriam must have come here because she wants me to intercede for Jesus.”
Rachel gave me a frightened glance. “If Dominus thinks that you have anything to do with Jesus or Miriam—”
Waves of anxiety and exhaustion swept over me. “I am so very tired, I cannot face Pilate tonight. How can I possibly pretend that nothing has happened to me…that I have not lost…everything!”
“Do not try, wait till you have rested,” Rachel said as she helped me from the bath. She began to towel-dry my hair. “Dominus will want to see you, but I will tell him that you are tired from your journey and need to rest.”
I waved the towel away. “Please leave me now. I need to be alone.”
By myself at last, I sat quietly thinking about all that Rachel had told me. In retrospect, Jesus’ fate did not seem so dire. Rome’s worst complaint against the Jews was their reluctance to pay taxes. Now here was a popular leader—many believed the legitimate heir—actually advising people to pay their tax. Pilate was certainly not going to side with the Zealots against him. As for Caiaphas and the Sanhedrin, why would the governor try, let alone condemn, an idealistic young man who actually spoke in support of Roman policy? A night in prison was not the end of the world. Jesus would be released in the morning. Pilate would need no urging from me to decide that question. Miriam would soon have her husband back.
As for me, I would never have the man I loved.
Reclining on my couch, I turned and tossed, unable to sleep. Finally, I rose and knelt before my statue of Isis. I would pray for another dream of Holtan. Please come to me, my darling. Please. Tears denied for long hours flowed freely as my mind filled with memories. Holtan, the victorious gladiator, Holtan on his deathbed. I returned to my couch but sleep eluded me. Where was he?
When it came at last, sleep delivered a dream more terrifying than anything I could have imagined. Isis sent not my love, but Miriam’s. As the nightmare unfolded, my grief merged with hers until I became one with Miriam. Helpless, I watched Roman soldiers nail my beloved to a cross. I longed to rush to him as he begged for water. The hot sun beat mercilessly on his head, uncovered but for a crown of thorns.
Trapped in a spinning reality that would not stop, I saw Jesus at the front of a parade of tragic victims, their pitiful dramas followed by ever greater bloodbaths. Men with crosses emblazoned on their robes rode angrily into battle after battle. I saw women tied to stakes and burned alive, the stench of roasting flesh everywhere as their tortured shrieks mingled with chanting…I heard my husband’s name repeated endlessly. Suffered under Pontius Pilate. Suffered under Pontius Pilate. Suffered under Pontius Pilate… My screams mingled with theirs as something held me. Struggling desperately to free myself from the dream, I watched Jesus’ face fade until it disappeared. All that remained was the cross, superimposed over endless fields of flame-engulfed corpses. I sat up, the ghastly sight receding as I recognized the familiar confines of my room. The cross, of course, the cross that had haunted me for so long. Pilate was going to crucify Jesus.
“Domina! What is it? What is wrong?” Rachel stood beside me, her eyes wide with concern.
I looked about. Sunlight was streaming into the room. “That noise? The shouting! Where is it coming from? What’s going on?”
“The priests have brought Jesus to the palace for trial. They will not go into the courtroom because of the statues of Augustus and the other gods. Dominus is going to try Jesus’ case in the courtyard. It is filled now, mostly by members of the Sanhedrin. No one else can get in.”
“Pilate is trying Jesus!” The words from my dream echoed in my head as I scrambled from the couch. “Hurry!” I cried, pulling at my sleeping tunic. “Help me to dress. I have got to stop him.”
“They will not allow it.” Rachel pulled the gown from my hands. “You cannot go down there!”
“I will find a way. I have got to find a way. I must see Pilate,” I said, lowering a tunic over my head and shoulders.
Sandals slapping against the marble stairs, I descended, Rachel at my heels. Pausing once at a parapet, I looked down at the angry mob packing the courtyard. There was Pilate in his crimson magistrate’s robes sitting above them on a dais. A path had been cleared before him. Dark-robed priests approached. I ran on down the stairs.
When I reached the anteroom, guards barred the arched entryway, hulking brutes who stood immobile, holding their spears upright. Beyond, I heard loud angry voices and heavy staffs thumping furiously against the paving stones.
Recognizing the captain, a large, florid-faced man, I gave an imperious nod. “I must see my husband immediately.”
“That’s impossible,” he said, blocking me with his broad body. “Jewish law forbids women to be here.”
“My husband is the governor. This is my courtyard.”
“The rule is clear, Domina. I have orders from your husband. No disturbances of any kind.”
“But I have urgent business with him.” The guard stood firm. “Out of my way!” I demanded, pushing him with all my strength. I might as well have tried to move a stone wall.
“Be reasonable,” he urged, his sunburned skin taking on a deeper flush. “The crowd is angry. You would not want to inflame them further.”
Peering around his broad shoulder, I glimpsed Jesus. He stood, wrists bound, encircled by accusers. Someone had wrapped a scarlet cloak about his shoulders. Across his brow was a crown of thorns.
I gasped. My dream was already coming true!
The High Priest Caiaphas confronted Pilate. “This man is accused of corrupting our people. He calls himself a king.”
My husband looked up from a scroll and regarded Jesus quizzically. I knew that calm, noncommittal expression. “Well—are you a king, the king of the Jews?”
I strained to hear the reply.
“If you say that I am,” Jesus said softly, as noncommittal as Pilate.
My husband leaned forward, his gaze curious as he studied the prisoner. “You have heard their accusations. Have you nothing to say?”
“Do you want to know this for yourself or because others have spoken against me?” Jesus asked.
I held my breath. Jesus’ manner seemed strangely calm, without defenses, almost provocative.
Pilate looked at him sharply. “Am I a Jew? Is it not your people, your chief priests, who brought you here? What have you done to provoke them?”
Jesus continued to regard him almost tranquilly. “They persecute me for reasons of their own.”
My husband’s gaze shifted briefly to Caiaphas and his father-in-law, Annas, who stood scowling, arms folded across their chests. Turning back to the prisoner, Pilate asked, “And why would they do that?”
“Because I speak of the kingdom of heaven, and they talk only of this earth. I came into this world to bear witness to the truth.”
“The truth.” Pilate smiled. “What is truth?” he asked, raising an ironic brow.
As Jesus remained silent, I felt an unexpected wave of sympathy for my husband.
“I find nothing criminal about this man,” Pilate said, turning to Caiaphas. “Take him and judge him according to your Law.”
“You Romans do not allow us to put a man to death,” Caiaphas reminded him.
“Death?” Pilate looked startled. “This harmless dreamer does not deserve death.”
Caiaphas struggled visibly to keep his voice calm. “This ‘harmless dreamer’ travels throughout the whole of Judaea and Galilee inciting people with his blasphemy.”
“You must go, Domina,” the guard whispered hoarsely, gesturing toward a group of priests who had noticed me and were muttering among themselves. One priest was pointing at me. “Do you want to set off a rebellion?”
“I must speak with my husband,” I insisted, looking about frantically. Clearly Pilate was the one reasoning mind against a rabid mob. A thought occurred to me. “Bring me a tablet and stylus. I will write to him.”
The guard towered over me. Chin up, I glared back at him. Finally, he looked away. “Withdraw then,” he conceded. “Move back now or I’ll have you carried out.”
I stepped back from the archway to the anteroom where Rachel watched.
“The guard is right. It is dangerous to be here,” she said, her eyes wide and frightened.
“Oh, Rachel, you do not understand. You cannot. You have not seen the things I have seen or heard the words, those awful words. Executing Jesus would be a travesty. He is a good man who wants only peace. My dreams tell me that his death will be the beginning of endless war and misunderstanding. A great darkness will come over the world. No one will remember what Jesus really said and the name Pontius Pilate will live on in some dreadful way. I must stop it.”
A servant came with a tablet and stylus. I snatched them from him, my heart pounding wildly as I struggled for words. How could I possibly describe what I had seen in my dream? I could not and time was running out.
Hurriedly, I scrawled: “Pilate—I warn you, have nothing to do with that innocent man. I have had painful dreams because of him.” I handed the scroll to the captain. “Deliver this directly into my husband’s hands. Do it now.”
At the guard’s insistence, Rachel and I remained in the anteroom. The angry voices in the courtyard grew louder, I felt the tension mounting. Finally, I could stand the suspense no longer and began to inch my way back toward the archway. The guard watched my advance, his mouth set in a grim line. I placed a finger across my lips, whispering, “Please. I will stay back out of sight.”
Pilate banged the flat of his sword against the table to quiet the impatient crowd. I saw my tablet open on the table before him.
“You brought this man, Jesus, to me, but I find nothing criminal about him.” He paused, looking at the angry crowd assembled before him. “Perhaps he does not perfectly appreciate the authority of Rome. For that I will teach him a lesson that he will not forget, but then I will set him free. Jesus has done nothing to merit death.”
“No!” Caiaphas growled. His angry cry was picked up by possibly a hundred men who pressed closer to Pilate.
My heart raced. What was he to do? Roman law was inherently equitable. If Jesus had been a citizen of Rome, he could have taken his case to Caesar himself. Even as a mere Judaean subject, he was entitled to justice from the governor. Pilate’s duty was clear, yet I knew that fulfilling it might jeopardize Rome’s sovereignty and cost my husband dearly.
“It is the custom to set one prisoner free each year at Passover time,” Pilate reminded the court. “As a gesture of my good will, I will release Jesus, ‘king of the Jews.’”
My blood tingled with relief and pride. It was a master stroke. Pilate had not only freed an innocent man, but he had reminded the unruly mob of Rome’s strength and power. What had the ruler of the world to fear from a simple rabbi? How clever! In that moment I was as proud of him as the day we were married.
But even as these thoughts raced through my mind, the crowd grew even uglier. “Free Barabbas!” someone called out. “Give us Barabbas!” The ringleaders picked up the cry. Soon the whole crowd was shouting: “Barabbas! Barabbas!” as though acclaiming a hero.
“Barabbas! That murderous scum!” the captain of the guard, standing in front of me, muttered.
My heart sank as I saw Pilate’s shoulders sag. “It is over,” I whispered. “Nothing can save Jesus now.”
“Then what am I to do with your king?” I heard Pilate ask.
“Crucify him!” the people shouted almost as one.
“But what crime has he committed?”
“Crucify him!” they cried again.
Pilate looked about the crowded court. Not one man came forward to speak for Jesus.
As my husband hesitated, Caiaphas moved closer, a warning implicit in his voice. “If you set this man free, you are no friend to Caesar. Anyone who calls himself a king is against Rome. Tiberius is our ruler and no one else.”
“Very well,” Pilate said at last. “His blood is on your hands, not mine.” He signaled to an attendant. “Water. Bring it now in a bowl.” The noisy courtyard quieted. I stood perfectly still, watching, waiting. Every eye was on Pilate as he plunged his hands into the basin. “I wash my hands of the innocent blood of this man.”
Rachel tugged at my arm. “Come, Domina, we should leave.”
Tears blinded me as I allowed myself to be led away. Even as I had striven to avert fate, I had been no more than a fly on the wall. I thought of Miriam and Mary. Oh, my Isis, how could they bear it! Excited conversation rippled through the courtyard. I turned back, pushed my way through the archway. What difference did it make now if I was seen? People stood in silent groups, waiting. Standing on tiptoe, I saw Pilate pick up my tablet. He was erasing the wax with the blunt end of the stylus. An impatient muttering spread though the courtyard as he began to write a new message. The palace guards raised their swords threateningly at the protesters. When Pilate had finished, he held up the stylus.
The mob’s angry grumbling began in earnest as spectators surged closer to the bench, struggling to see.
“What did he write?” I asked the guard.
The burly man pressed forward. “By Jupiter.” He nodded approvingly. “The governor knows how to put them in their place.”
“What did he write?” I repeated.
“Jesus of Nazareth, king of the Jews.”
“Carve this on his cross,” Pilate ordered Caiaphas. “Carve it in Aramaic, Greek, and Latin.”
The high priest’s face went livid. “You cannot write that! Say instead ‘He said he was king of the Jews’.”
Pilate regarded him coolly. “I have written what I have written.”
CHAPTER 39
My Decision
The stairs echoed under my feet. The palace felt deserted. Was everyone down in the courtyard watching that horrid spectacle? I shuddered at the memory of the guards closing in around Jesus. He
had been beaten. I saw him stagger. I must not think…I hurried faster as though a sanctuary awaited me in my chambers.
It did not.
“Try to rest, Domina,” Rachel urged when we reached the anteroom of my apartments. “You slept so little last night.”
Rest. Would I ever rest again?
I wanted only to be alone, but when the door at last closed, I knew there would be no such thing as solitude. From every direction memories besieged me. They could not be eluded. All that I had loved, all that I had lost. My beloved family, Holtan, and now this new…What meaning was there in any of it? How was I to go on? I rose and walked to the shrine I had created for Isis. Kneeling before her image, I prayed silently. What is your plan for me? Tell me, show me, and give me the strength to do thy will…
How long I knelt there I do not know, but slowly I became aware that someone was pounding at the door. In the distance I heard a woman screaming. Now what? I wondered, rising. Moving reluctantly, I hesitated before throwing back the bolt. There in the passageway was Miriam, struggling frantically as two guards dragged her from the door. Others stood watching with swords drawn.
“Release her immediately!” I ordered.
The men fell back but kept their weapons firmly fixed on Miriam.
“Please, Claudia, help me!” she cried. “I must speak with you alone.”
I put my arm around Miriam, pulling her into my chamber. Before the guards could say or do anything more, I slammed and bolted the door.
“My dear,” I said, settling Miriam on a couch, placing a pillow behind her, “I tried, I truly tried, but what was Pilate to do? You may think him all powerful, but that is not true. There are hundreds of thousands of pilgrims packed into this city right now. My husband has only a few hundred men in the whole country. It would be days before reinforcements arrived from Syria.”
“Jesus can still be saved.”
A chill of apprehension swept over me. “What do you want of me?”
“You know about herbs and potions—secret things.” Her face was white and strained, her eyes wild. “You can give Jesus something.”
Pilate's Wife Page 37