by Brock Thoene
“Really?” Pilate’s jocular reply was meant to sound confident, but a higher-than-normal pitch betrayed his anxiety. “Then I’d better send him more of those white Judean dates with the juice like honey. That should soothe him.” Tiberius’ sweet tooth was well known. Such trifles truly did please the man who commanded the wealth of the empire.
Vitellius mocked, “Dates! You saw the letter. If ink were brimstone, his comments to you would have scorched the fingers of the scribe! Did you think he forgot what happened two years ago? Putting up the standards was stupid enough, but then capitulating to a mob . . . and a Jewish mob at that! Tiberius was unable to control his fury when news came of what happened in Jerusalem at Herod Antipas’ birthday last month.”
Pilate murmured a protest that the Purim riot had not been his fault, but Vitellius cut his words short. “You’re the governor! Anything that goes wrong here is your fault! Believe it! If you can’t control the province any better than that, Tiberius will replace you with someone who can!”
No wonder Pilate’s smile had resembled the rictus of a corpse. Word of the disturbances had reached Rome before Vitellius’ departure, in time for the emperor to vent his displeasure.
“It took all of Sejanus’ wheedling to placate the emperor. Otherwise it would have been a notice of recall!” Vitellius concluded.
To Marcus’ eye, Pilate’s back was as stiff as a pilum shaft. Sejanus was the prefect of the Imperial Praetorian guard and chief advisor to Tiberius. Pilate was his protégé and owed his appointment to Sejanus.
“And don’t try to honey-coat your reply,” Vitellius warned. “Tiberius wants the truth.”
Pilate’s uneasy chuckle crossed the dome more in betrayal of nervousness than lightness of spirit. “What is truth?” he queried mockingly. “Isn’t it in the ear of the beholder?”
Vitellius, evidently not amused by Pilate’s attempts to improve the mood, snorted. “I know what Sejanus whispered to you who cling to the hem of his robes. He said Tiberius is feeble, losing his grip; that every day Tiberius relinquishes more of the government to his favorite, Sejanus. Remember: Sejanus is not as secure as all that!”
Felix cleared his throat loudly.
Vitellius and Pilate jerked their heads around while Marcus ducked his in amusement. Felix, as the senior military officer present, had decided the material being overheard was too sensitive and elected to warn the politicians.
Religious duty instantly forgotten, Pilate and Vitellius rose and turned their backs on Augustus and Roma.
“Tribune,” Pilate acknowledged Felix. “You have a message?” The governor peered disdainfully down his long, pinched nose at Marcus, offering him no greeting. “Prefect Vitellius, you know Dio Felix, my young commander of the Galil?”
“Yes,” Vitellius agreed, “and his family. Your father is well, Tribune. He sends his greetings.”
This bit of politeness was more than it appeared. Felix’s clan possessed influence in Rome and he was better-born socially than Pilate. It was a reminder to Pilate that Sejanus was not the sole power broker in the empire. The allusion was meant to further remind Pilate how precarious his position was.
“Thank you, sir,” Felix said. “I apologize for my appearance—”
Perhaps fearful that Felix would blurt out more bad news in front of Vitellius, Pilate hastily interrupted. “The tribune is just back from a routine inspection. We won’t bore you with the details.”
“Routine, of course,” Vitellius echoed skeptically, eyeing Marcus. “And Centurion Marcus Longinus often masquerades as an Idumean horse thief . . . but never mind. I’ll leave you to it. I must get on the road.” Drawing Pilate aside, but still able to be overheard, he continued, “No more mistakes, understand?”
“The new aqueduct will please all Jerusalem,” Pilate promised. “There will be good reports going to Rome very soon.”
“Control!” Vitellius emphasized. “Tiberius doesn’t care if you use bribes or daggers, so long as you stay in control. Keep that in mind.” Then, with a flourish, the governor of Syria swept up his entourage and exited the temple to begin the overland part of his journey back to his capital in Damascus.
Pilate directed Felix and Marcus into an antechamber of the shrine where they could continue their discussion without other witnesses.
“Yeshua of Nazareth,” Pilate snapped when the three were secluded. “Is he leading a revolt? Yes or no?”
Marcus struggled against crying out a protest. A simple affirmative by Felix would cause Yeshua’s arrest and crucifixion. Men had already been executed for much lesser offenses.
Slowly, carefully, Felix framed his response. “He . . . is not.”
Marcus’ shoulders sagged with the release of tension.
“During our return from the Galil I pondered what I saw,” Felix continued. “He fed a hungry crowd.”
“Fed?” Pilate demanded.
“I don’t know exactly what I witnessed,” Felix admitted. “He seemed to take a handful of bread and turn it into enough for everyone. Then the crowd wanted to make him king.”
Marcus’ eyes took in the frown frozen on Pilate’s brow. The danger to Yeshua was not yet over.
“And did this magician agree?” Pilate asked.
Marcus couldn’t control himself any longer. “Your pardon, excellency, but the answer is no,” he reported. “I stayed long enough to see. In fact, Yeshua was anxious to avoid the issue. He did not acknowledge the cheers of the mob.”
Pilate folded the thin, perfumed fingers of his right hand and rested his chin on them in thought. Rousing himself at last, he said, “Left when it sounded treasonous. That must have disappointed the rabble! He’s afraid . . . and rightly so!”
“But the crowd,” Felix added. “That’s the worry. They’ll be searching for another leader. Someone who won’t draw back. Many of them, fresh from shouting for a king, will be in Jerusalem for Passover.”
Now that the focus had shifted away from Yeshua, Marcus could admit Felix was correct. “Jerusalem is the key,” he concurred.
“I’m going up to Jerusalem for Passover myself,” Pilate noted. “I’m going to receive a delegation of Jews who want to thank me for building the aqueduct. And I’ve already prepared a little surprise for any rebels who might appear. Tribune Felix, you will remain here and accompany me to Jerusalem.”
“And what orders for me?” Marcus inquired.
Pilate sniffed. “In Capernaum you supervised a religious building? Made the Jews happy, didn’t you? Clean yourself up and go to Beth-lehem tomorrow. Review the connections between Herod’s old water system and my new one. I want no slipups.”
So Marcus was still not regarded as reliable since he had fallen out of favor. His decline had begun when he had placed honor above personal advancement by spurning the patronage of Praetorian Prefect Lucius Sejanus. He had crossed words and swords with another Sejanus protégé, Praetorian Centurion Vara, a man of brute strength and brutal appetites. Marcus’ love for Miryam, a Jewess, had contributed to the decline. Certainly his sympathy for the Jewish populace had speeded it along. And finally his tacit admiration of Yeshua of Nazareth and the God of the Hebrews had made him a pariah in Roman thought.
As a result, instead of being placed back in command of his men, he was to be an engineer in a tiny village away from the action. “By your command,” Marcus said, clapping his arm across his chest.
With a dismissive wave Pilate turned to Felix. “Join me in making a sacrifice to Augustus before we conclude,” he suggested. The overt friendliness to the tribune was transparently political.
“And Centurion Longinus as well?” Felix asked.
Unaccountably Marcus was reluctant. Slit the throat of a pigeon below the unwavering stare of the emperor’s statue? He had never hesitated before. If the god had any real power, then it was a sensible gesture. If not, what harm did it do? Why was he unwilling now? Sacrificing to the emperor had never bothered him. What had changed? Why did he now sense that worsh
ipping bronze images of men was wrong?
He hoped his lack of enthusiasm didn’t show. “The governor will please excuse me,” he said, gesturing at his mud-stiffened, dusty clothes. “I am not in a fit condition.”
“Quite right,” Governor Pilate stated. “Centurion, you are dismissed.”
Hours passed quickly as Avel traveled on the road to Jerusalem. The boy was cognizant that among the legitimate pilgrims were spies variously in the pay of Pilate, Herod Antipas, and the religious factions of the high priest and the Sanhedrin.
It had always been so since the days of Herod the Great. Large gatherings had been forbidden. Any hint if disloyalty had been dealt with swiftly and viciously. The hesitation to speak openly about important issues was ingrained among the populace of Judea and Jerusalem.
The Galileans, however, were less circumspect.
Conversation between strangers was cautious, avoiding the topics of politics, possible revolt, and especially the distribution of the Korban funds for the new aqueduct. These were matters to be discussed only over the table with close friends and family. There was safety among those who could be trusted.
Still, here and there, between fathers and sons, brothers and members of a clan, such discussions took place in guarded tones.
The one topic discussed candidly by everyone was Yeshua of Nazareth. Who was he? Would he come to Jerusalem for the holy week? What did it mean that he fed the thousands but refused to be proclaimed their king? Yeshua might have been riding south at the head of an army of thousands willing to fight for him.
Instead he had vanished into the hills.
Avel kept himself from telling about the amazing encounter he, Ha-or Tov, and Emet had experienced. How foolish would he be if he drew attention to himself in such a charged atmosphere?
The journey continued like this for a time. Occasionally Avel strained his eyes ahead to pick out Ha-or Tov and Emet, but they were always where they were supposed to be.
His plan was working perfectly.
When the sun stood directly overhead, groups gathered by the roadside for a noon meal. Avel, who plucked at his bread in solitary contemplation, was asked to join a family group. This was a way to honor the Jewish command for hospitality to strangers. In inviting Avel perhaps the family hoped they were entertaining one of the many angels who traveled each year with the pilgrims to Jerusalem.
But Avel was no angel. He was frightened and hungry. He had a twinge about losing sight of his friends as they continued down the slope in front of him. Then he decided they would have to stop sometime, and he would overtake them again.
After bread and fruit had been passed out and shared, a woman asked Avel his name. Where was his family, she continued, and would they be worried about him?
He assured her, “They’re ahead.” It was true as far as it went; Emet and Ha-or Tov were ahead.
This was accepted without further details as Avel split an orange with a younger boy. Dividing the ripe globe, he bit into a plump slice, savored the sweet juice, and tossed the peel toward a squirrel perched on a rock pile.
Like Avel, a passing pilgrim turned his head to watch the rodent dart toward the prize.
Avel gasped and froze as he recognized the familiar face. Dull and haggard, with a grizzled fringe of dirty hair framing his sunburned features . . . it was one of the rebels Avel had met in bar Abba’s camp!
It was Asher! Asher! Slow of speech but quick with his dagger! The only one who had been kind to the boys when they had been captives.
But the one who walked with Asher struck fear in Avel’s heart! Stalking angrily alongside, with a scowl on his face, was Kittim! At once Avel took in the thin beard, the cruel dark eyes, the hands that once beat Avel, and the feet that joyfully crushed the bones of a tiny bird. Avel’s worst nightmare had come true: Kittim swaggered defiantly among the throngs!
And he would happily slit Avel’s throat for nothing.
Avel’s heart skipped a beat, then began a terrified racing.
Asher seemed more interested in the squirrel than in his fellow pilgrims. Kittim, however, scrutinized everyone, as if sizing them up as either potential enemies or targets for robbery.
Or, in Avel’s case, as a lamb for slaughter.
The orange turned sour in Avel’s mouth and he couldn’t swallow.
“Are you listening, Avel? More bread?” the boy beside Avel inquired loudly.
Avel cringed. Had Kittim heard Avel’s name? Was he caught?
No. Kittim glared down the trail. There was no sign that he recognized Avel.
But Asher’s head swiveled toward the family. Avel tucked his chin and rubbed his forehead in an attempt to conceal himself among the children. He prepared to flee! But where? West of the road was a marsh, impossible for running.
Into the rock piles?
The men’s longer, stronger legs would surely overtake him.
Avel saw and sensed Asher’s eyes sweep over him, past him, back to him. They lingered just an instant . . . and then Asher passed on without stopping. The brigand’s face snapped forward at a command from Kittim.
Exhaling a sigh of relief, Avel found that the boy was staring at him curiously. The woman also regarded Avel with a puzzled expression.
“Are you unwell?” she asked kindly.
“No. I’m . . . I’ve never had an orange before.” Avel struggled to respond, his attention focused on the retreating backs of the two rebels. It had been so close, too close! If Kittim had not been distracted by something up ahead . . .
What was Kittim focused on? The sparrow killer raised his head, as if sniffing the air for prey!
Avel jumped to his feet when Kittim nudged Asher in the ribs. The two hesitated an instant, then resumed, picking up their pace!
The sparrow killer had spotted Emet and Ha-or Tov!
“Sorry,” Avel said, thrusting the rest of the orange and the bread back into his companion’s lap. “I’m late. Have to catch up!”
He bolted.
Darting onto the first switchback, Avel caught sight of Kittim racing down the trail, cutting across corners in his haste to overtake Emet and Ha-or Tov.
And what could Avel, commanded by Yeshua to care for Emet and Ha-or Tov, do to stop their capture?
Kittim was almost upon Avel’s unsuspecting friends. Asher was only a few paces behind.
If Avel called out the warning that there were rebels on the road, would anyone believe him? And how many would be hurt when Kittim and Asher drew their knives?
Too late!
In his second of indecision Avel saw Kittim reach out and grasp Ha-or Tov’s collar. Ha-or Tov’s curly red hair flung wide from his head as Kittim spun the boy around to face him.
Emet’s mouth was open. He was shouting something. Shouting to be left alone! Shouting that they were being attacked by robbers! It was an unlikely scenario: two young boys being robbed. But it was effective nonetheless.
A broad-shouldered, bull-like man reared up from his lunch in the grass and boomed into the dispute with a roar of indignation.
Avel recognized Nakdimon ben Gurion! Dressed in a commoner’s clothes, the black-bearded member of the Sanhedrin was taking the part of the two boys!
Asher turned from his path and slunk off, evidently not wanting to encounter a foe as formidable as Nakdimon. Kittim blinked down into the eyes of Ha-or Tov, released his grip, raised his hands in a sort of apology, and backed away.
As abruptly as it began, the encounter was over.
To Avel’s surprise Kittim thrust Ha-or Tov aside and yelled back at the big man. Asher, hood over his head, jogged past. Kittim joined him, and the two rebels disappeared in the distance.
What had happened? How had tragedy been averted?
Realizing that rejoining his two companions wouldn’t be sensible at the moment, Avel forced himself to calm his heart, his breath, and his pace.
Ha-or Tov and Emet trailed close at the heels of Nakdimon the rest of the journey to the next caravansary.
>
Avel kept his distance and considered the danger that lay ahead on the road to Beth-lehem.
ADONAI
Bathed, dressed in the red tunic of a soldier, his hair washed and lightly oiled, and his feet in clean sandals, Centurion Marcus Longinus felt more relaxed than at any time in weeks. Ever since Felix had suggested Marcus discard his uniform and pass as a civilian in order to investigate Yeshua of Nazareth, the centurion had been uneasy.
Marcus had gained a reputation for heroism at the battle of Idistaviso, where he had saved the left flank of the Roman army from disintegrating. He was a man of honor who kept his vows and spoke the plain facts as he saw them. Spying had not come naturally to him, nor had the assignment been to his liking.
He was grateful to be getting back into uniform. He was not ashamed to be a Roman centurion, so let his appearance announce the truth. All that was left of his disguise was his beard and untrimmed hair, and both those items would be attended to presently.
Felix joined him an hour before sunset on the curving promenade connecting the officers’ quarters to the harbor. The breeze from the sea was bracing.
Extending a cup of wine, Felix indicated a stone bench. “Marcus,” he said, “I value you as a veteran and loyal officer with fifteen more years’ experience than me. I have learned a great deal from you. Unlike some political appointees, I don’t think instant wisdom comes with my lineage, or that the ability to lead is automatically conferred with a purchased insignia of rank. I also think of you as a friend.”
Marcus sipped the wine. It tasted of dark cherries and summer hay fields and warmed his throat and stomach. He waited to see where this speech led.
“You’re riding south tomorrow,” Felix continued. “But before that happens, I know you have a few questions for me . . . and I have things to say to you as well.”
“Why did you spare Yeshua?” Marcus asked, taking the invitation at face value. “You had the power to condemn him with a single word, yet you didn’t. Why not?”
“Because I’m not Vara,” Felix said. “Killing people doesn’t amuse me. Don’t misunderstand . . . I think the Rabbi may be a danger to Rome, and if I’m right, he’ll have to be crushed.” Felix stared across the rim of his silver goblet into Marcus’ eyes. “And if it comes to that, you’ll have a tough choice to make. Why do you want to save him?”