Jerusalem's Hope

by Brock Thoene

  If Rome was stung with indignation, the empire was ruthless enough to reply with the destruction of Jerusalem and the Jews. Then the conquerors would name a building to commemorate the Holy City’s vanished glory.

  Here lies Jerusalem, killed in a fit of jealous rage.

  Requiescat in pace . . . rest in peace.

  O Elohim, Nakdimon prayed. Don’t let that happen here today.

  Marcus responded quickly to Pilate’s summons. Arriving at Herod the Great’s palace, he discovered that the governor had left word for him to be sent in at once.

  The centurion wondered what was afoot now. Had Vara succeeded in convincing Pilate the Siloam Tower destruction could be blamed on Marcus?

  Was Marcus walking into a prison cell . . . or worse?

  But why not arrest him and return him in chains?

  Marcus entered the courtyard of the palace as a squad of servants draped a platform in purple bunting. The curule chair, Pilate’s judgment seat, was ceremoniously carried outside and installed on the dais.

  Pilate’s own valet met Marcus at the entry to the state apartments and conducted the centurion farther.

  It was the first time Marcus had ever been this far inside the Jerusalem palace. In all Marcus’ years of service to Rome in Judea, he’d never once been invited or expected in these innermost halls. It was ironic that such a summons would come now.

  The valet bowed Marcus into Pilate’s private study, then bowed again as he left Marcus there. The room was richly paneled in oak. The light surface was inlaid with strips of almond and olive, the varying shades of wood forming a crisscross pattern.

  In one corner of the room was a marble altar, carved as a miniature of the Temple of Augustus in Caesarea. In front of this stood Governor Pilate. His back was to the entry, nor did he turn when Marcus entered.

  As Marcus kept silent and observed, Pilate took a pinch of incense from an alabaster box and sprinkled it over a glowing coal. The aroma of frankincense spiraled up with the smoke.

  On a shelf formed by the roof of the temple model stood a pair of idols. One was a black onyx Apollo, recognizable by his handsome, youthful face, the laurel wreath around his temples, and the harp he carried. Apollo was regarded as the god of light, music, and prophecy.

  The companion figure was bronze, unless it was actually gold, which was the way it glinted in the lamplight. It was a reduced version of Augustus himself, god made manifest, pontifex maximus, the bridge between the gods and men.

  Pilate stood for a time, as if in contemplation, then with a slight turn of his head acknowledged Marcus. “The rebels have begun their murders?” he queried.

  Marcus acknowledged the report about the hawker. Then he added that the sentiments he’d overheard in the city were strongly against the aqueduct. “It might be wise to postpone today’s meeting until after the Passover,” he suggested.

  “No,” Pilate said flatly. “I’ll show no such weakness. Not this time. Besides, it’s the Jewish council who must fear the rebels. If they are frightened enough of bar Abba to come to me on their holy day, so much the better.”

  “Then,” Marcus said, seeing that Pilate’s mind was made up, “at least increase the number of uniformed soldiers on the streets. It’s not too late for such a display to quell any more violence.”

  “That is precisely the opposite of Praetorian Vara’s excellent plan,” Pilate scolded. “I’ve sent Tribune Felix and the uniformed cohorts out of Jerusalem. We’ll lull the rebels into thinking we’re unconcerned about them. When they make any move at all, we’ll crush them.”

  “Excellency, I don’t think—” Marcus began doubtfully.

  “Correct,” Pilate concluded harshly. “And you’re not to, either. I summoned you here to keep you from trying to dissuade Tribune Felix from doing his duty.”

  Marcus guessed then that Felix had also tried to talk Pilate out of Vara’s foolish scheme. Pilate’s pigheaded stubbornness gave Marcus a premonition of disaster.

  “You’ll stay here until after this audience,” Pilate concluded. “Station yourself in the courtyard.”

  “Excellency,” Marcus said, saluting. There was nothing else to do but obey and hope for the best.

  The preparations for Pilate’s audience were finalized. The brass fittings and bright red tunics of the governor’s personal guard were striking in the midday sun. The curule chair on the dais, vacant for the moment, faced the gate of the courtyard with the awful dignity of Imperial Rome.

  On the battlements trumpeters stood ready to announce Pilate’s entry as the personal representative of Emperor Tiberius, near kin to the gods.

  Rome grants this meeting as a special favor, out of its might and benevolence.

  Marcus was inside the courtyard of Herod’s palace. He heard the tramp of feet and the murmur of the crowd coming from the direction of the Temple Mount. It was not the sound of Passover pilgrims going by outside. The noise increased, rolling up and over the parapets. Tumult catapulted over the walls in a siege of sound.

  “Don’t open the gate!” Marcus called in a sudden premonition.

  A trumpet blast from the ramparts overwhelmed his words. Six legionaries in ceremonial dress uniforms threw back the bolts to the entry.

  The gates crashed open, and the guards were flung aside by the incoming tide of humans. Overwhelmed and pushed out of the way, they made no move either to reclose the portal or to draw their weapons.

  In minutes the courtyard overflowed with a thousand Jews. Several thousand more pressed in on the scene from the streets outside.

  Another blare of the trumpets shattered the day, momentarily stilling the throng. What was about to happen?

  Governor Pilate appeared on the balcony above the central square. His chin upright, his purple-bordered robe gleaming white, he was the embodiment of Roman dignity.

  But Marcus saw him hesitate. Clearly Pilate’s first glimpse of the quadrangle was not what he expected. An instant of fear, of uncertainty, crossed his face.

  Marcus also realized that Pilate knew he could not retreat, could not allow any Jews to say they saw Pilate afraid.

  Marcus understood what Pilate remembered. This courtyard, packed with hostile Jews angry about sacrilege, was a twin to what had taken place in Caesarea in front of the governor’s house there. That had been the site of Pilate’s greatest defeat, of his humiliation.

  Pilate had to go forward. This time he had to prove he was the master.

  The governor advanced down the steps and approached the Imperial seat of judgment.

  It was not a throne, but when seated on that X-shaped stool, Pilate spoke for Rome.

  Life and death were in his hands.

  He stood in front of the curule chair.

  The multitude remained hushed, waiting.

  It took several minutes for Nakdimon and Gamaliel to push their way to the front.

  Gamaliel spoke. “Honored Governor, we have come to speak with you about the aqueduct.”

  A low rumble emerged from the throng. Anger, controlled but simmering, bubbled beneath the surface.

  In that instant Marcus knew that the mob had seen the same vision as Pilate. Righteous indignation had put Rome to shame once before. Today it would do so again.

  In a louder voice Gamaliel continued, “But first we want you to know that though we who come from the Sanhedrin are against the use of Korban for the water project, nevertheless . . .”

  At the first use of the word Korban the growl increased again.

  “Nevertheless,” Gamaliel repeated forcefully, “we do not support revolution. Those who attacked the Tower of Siloam are criminals. Do not hold either the council or the people responsible for the actions of rebels.” “What?” demanded voices from the horde.

  “What about the sacrilege?”

  Pulling back the sleeve of his robe, Pilate extended his right arm.

  An aide thrust a scroll bound with scarlet strings into his hand.

  What was about to happen? Some in the
crowd hushed the more outspokenly hostile. “We want to hear him,” they urged.

  “I know about what happened at Siloam’s tower.” Pilate’s words rang across the square. “I know that death and destruction were caused by rebels who are the enemies of Rome. But they are also the enemies of peace. They use terror to spark rebellion, and innocent lives were lost.”

  How was Pilate managing to remain calm? Marcus wondered. The man had never acted this courageous before.

  Marcus scanned the crowd, now divided between hostile muttering and words of approval.

  There was the answer! Drawn up in a knot in the center of the throng was Praetorian Vara and several of his men. Marcus followed Vara’s eyes. Time and again Marcus saw Vara deliver an intense stare to another and receive an answering nod in response.

  The swarm of people was full of clusters of disguised legionaries.

  What shout of warning could Marcus make? To whom could he make it? Could Pilate’s air of calm prevail?

  “I have decided to be lenient,” Pilate said, “and continue my usual custom of granting special clemency at your holy season.” He flourished the scroll aloft. “Here is the official pardon for Lev, the shepherd of Migdal Eder, and for Benjamin, son of Oren the master mason. Look! I here set the Imperial seal to it.”

  Pilate seated himself in the chair of judgment. The aide unrolled the scroll. Another produced a wax taper. Pilate readied his signet ring to press into the decree.

  There was a fraction of a second when it appeared that calm and reason would triumph.

  Then from somewhere in the center of the mob a voice called out, “What about the Korban?”

  “What about sacrilege?”

  “Stealing from the Almighty!”

  Pilate waved his hand to the walls. There was another blare of trumpets, drowning out the sounds of protest.

  Emet heard yet another ringing flight of trumpet calls resound across the city of David. Like the other two, this third also came from the direction of Herod’s palace. The host of pilgrims gathered at the sanctuary were waiting for trumpets to issue a signal. But it wasn’t a Roman signal, not the shrill note of the foreigners occupying the land of Israel.

  Among those packed into the course of the Temple there was much speculation about what the signals meant.

  No one knew.

  Emet paid them scarcely any heed. His whole attention, his ultra-sensitive hearing, his every nerve, were tuned to any sign of Avel.

  Where could Avel be? Emet’s fears grew with each passing second. With Zadok plunging headlong through the crush, they had searched every bit of the return journey to the Temple Mount without finding the boy. He was not on the steps leading to the Sanhedrin chambers. He was not near the pens holding the lambs. He was not in the gallery watching the preparations for the Passover sacrifices.

  Because of the vast number of lambs to be killed in the space of a few short hours, every last detail was prepared in advance.

  A hundred thousand lambs.

  Three courses of worshippers would bring their lambs to the altar. Since each head of a household would perform the sacrifice himself, the Court of the Priests was already packed with the first division of the worshippers. The doors to the court were already shut behind them.

  A double file of priests were stationed at arm’s length up to the altar of sacrifice. Every priest held either a golden or a silver bowl.

  When the signal was given, the blood of the first sacrifices would be caught in the bowls and the containers passed by hand up toward the altar.

  Empty vessels traveled down the other file.

  A continuous fountain of blood would pour out at the base of the altar, until every lamb in the first course had been slain.

  The worshippers readied themselves to sing hymns of deliverance and praise.

  The time was fast approaching when the first of the three courses of slaughters would begin.

  Emet could not keep dread from his mind and heart. At every turn he visualized the dead hawker, his throat slit. It was the fate awaiting every lamb presented here today . . . as it had been Bear’s fate.

  He prayed it would not be Avel’s!

  On the parapets of the sanctuary a column of priests appeared, carrying silver trumpets.

  The crowd hushed expectantly.

  All eyes turned upward to watch.

  All except those of Zadok, Ha-or Tov, and Emet, who continued to search everywhere for Avel.

  The moment had arrived.

  The first blast of the trumpets was a short, sharp sound, demanding attention. Take notice, the commands of the Almighty are before you!

  “Thekiah,” Emet heard Zadok murmur. “The prophesied Messiah is coming.”

  The next skirl of notes was a warbling cry of alarm.

  “Theruah,” Zadok remarked. “God’s special providence. A nation of priests before the Most High.”

  Another curt, emphatic blare of the horns.

  “Thekiah,” Zadok repeated. “Our king will soon appear. Judgment comes with him!”

  In Nakdimon’s ears the din was deafening. The Roman trumpets on the ramparts of the governor’s palace continued to resound. Call after call rang out: not of alarm, but in recognition of the special favor offered by Governor Pilate to his ungrateful and undeserving subjects.

  The crowd around Nakdimon surged forward, up to the very edge of the podium on which Pilate sat.

  The front rank of the horde had witnessed Pilate’s words of pardon for Lev and Benjamin. They had seen the imprint of the Imperial signet into the smoking wax.

  But all they could hear were the blaring trumpets competing with the jeers of the hecklers coming from behind them.

  “Sacrilege!”

  “Blasphemy!”

  “Idolators!”

  Were these inflammatory words shouted by rebels, intent on rousing the mob to insurrection?

  Were they the deliberate incitements of agent provocateurs, planted in the horde to give Pilate an excuse to fall on them and arrest them?

  Or were they the sentiments of roused members of the am ha aretz, the people of the land, determined to show Pilate they had no fear of either him or Rome? Were they relying on Pilate’s forbearance, his regard for the emperor’s displeasure?

  As for the governor himself, he sat stiffly in the judgment seat. His expression was frozen on his face, halfway between the self-congratulatory smile of a minute earlier and a frown of severe displeasure.

  Like the danger of the moment, it could go either way.

  Life or death was in his hands.

  From the right side of the multitude a handful of men sprinted forward and gained the stage. A squad of obviously frightened young troopers crossed their pilums to block the access toward Pilate.

  The gesture was more ritual than real.

  The javelins in their hands looked puny compared to the seething force in the thousands of onlookers.

  Nor were the more zealous of the new assault frightened of the legionaries.

  In the faces of the armed guards they shook their fists at Pilate. They harangued him. They called him blasphemer, defiler of the Temple.

  Another swarm of hecklers rushed on the dais from the opposite side.

  Pilate rose from his chair, genuine alarm in his eyes, though his face remained a mask of icy, emotionless bravado.

  He despised them . . . and feared them.

  A deadly combination.

  The Roman horns stopped playing in confusion. Their bright, cheery chorus died in a futile cacophony of squawks and groans.

  The Roman trumpet calls were replaced by warbling notes that struck the ear like a battle cry heard from far off. The first echoes of the Temple Mount services reached all the way to the palace of the butcher king, to the ears of the crowd in front of Pilate.

  Thekiah! Theruah! Thekiah!

  Kingdom! Providence! Judgment!

  The impassioned ranting grew louder and more heated.

  Spittle flew from the lip
s of the foremost in the rabble. A fleck landed on the hem of Pilate’s robe.

  Nakdimon saw Pilate take a step back, as if he would withdraw from the scene.

  Perhaps it was not too late. Perhaps all could still end peacefully.

  Then Nakdimon saw Pilate raise his hands from his sides. With deliberation he grasped the lapels of his toga. It was a Jewish gesture, as if the Roman would tear a strip from his garment in token of mourning.

  But the governor did not tear the cloth.

  Nor did he withdraw into his private chambers.

  With his left palm still planted on his chest, he made a slashing motion through the air with the other hand.

  The cutting stroke of a Roman blade.

  Cries of alarm erupted from the crowd as clubs, knives, and short swords flashed into view from under hundreds of robes.

  ADONAY

  All around Marcus Longinus the terrified assembly tossed and rolled like the ocean.

  In the first flash of panic, when swords and cudgels appeared, the mob surged backwards and forwards, with no clear direction in mind and no clear desire except escape.

  What had they expected, these momentary heroes?

  Their numbers had given them false courage that evaporated at the first display of Roman force.

  It was too late for them now.

  Marcus watched, helpless.

  Protestors, jammed together, trampled one another to get out of reach of Vara’s men. The rank smell of fear rose up from the mass of frantic pilgrims in a choking torrent. With it was the hot odor of spilled blood . . . and the stench of death.

  Troopers indiscriminately slashed with swords and crushed heads with clubs.

  Pilate may have ordered the guards to act solely for his defense. He may truly have desired to limit the bloodshed. But even that was now out of his hands.

  A Samaritan legionary caught a wild-eyed Galilean on the point of his dagger. He thrust it upward into the man’s midsection, twisting the blade as he drew it back. The wounded man howled, clutched his stomach with his hands, and fell lifeless to the pavement.

  Gangs of Vara’s soldiers gathered around defenseless men, chosen seemingly at random. After clubbing them into unconsciousness, they surrounded the others and repeated the brutality.