CHAPTER
TEN
Jerusalem
ALBAN AND LINUX left the ruined village before dawn. At midday they began the long climb into the Judaean hills. When they crested the final rise, Jerusalem spread out before them, adorning the highest hill like a polished stone crown. The city wall was burnished by the afternoon sun so its reflection hurt the eyes. The scene struck Alban as belonging to some higher world, beyond the touch of mortals.
Linux reined in beside him, gave him a long look, and snorted. “Wait until you’ve been there a few days. Then you’ll know this place for the snake pit it is.”
Linux’s cynicism could not quench Alban’s wonder. They turned into the Kidron Valley, the city wall towering high to the left. They passed an assortment of structures so ancient they appeared to have grown naturally from the dust and the stone, as large as temples yet with neither door nor inner sanctum. “What are these?”
Linux did not bother to glance over. “Tombs. Kings and prophets and such. From the time when Judaea ruled itself.”
An alert sentry saluted them through the Lion’s Gate. The ancient portal opened into a lane that was nearly empty of life. The only people who walked this cobblestoned lane were soldiers, a few merchants, and women who smiled invitingly as they passed. But up ahead they could see a cross street teeming with people and animals.
Linux halted at stables across from the main portal to Antonia Fortress. “The city is so crowded during the festival season we will make better time by foot.”
“But this street is quiet.”
“You’ll see.” Linux greeted the stable master by name and made certain the man understood these mounts belonged to Pilate himself. The man assured Linux he would care for them personally. Linux turned to Alban. “Baths or business?”
“I want to see this Joseph without delay.”
“It may be wise. No doubt the Sanhedrin has spies in Pilate’s household, and they could reach him first.”
He and Linux left their saddlebags and set off. The closer they came to the first juncture of roads, the louder grew the din. To Alban’s eye, it appeared they approached a solid wall of humanity. He turned to Linux to question him again about the contrast between the activity ahead and the quiet lane they were traversing.
Linux pointed to a set of polished double doors. “These lead to Pilate’s new baths,” he said, raising his voice to be heard, “dedicated to the emperor Tiberius. The Sanhedrin were outraged. Called them a desecration of their holy city. For once Pilate stood firm.
Would not relent. No self-respecting Judaean will even set foot on this lane.” When they turned the corner the two were instantly trapped in a seething mass. Alban understood why Linux had left the horses at the fortress stables. Neither horse nor cart could have maneuvered through this throng. Their Roman uniforms granted them a tight ring of space, however, though the people they passed never looked their way. The Judaeans did their best to pretend the Romans did not even exist.
Linux led them up one hill and down another, turning to the right and left until Alban wondered if he was back in the Golan caverns. The city itself seemed astonishingly clean, and the normal stench he associated with packed humanity did not assault him here. Almost everyone he passed seemed remarkably unsoiled, their garments tidy, their faces clean. When Alban mentioned it to Linux, his companion remained unimpressed. “These Judaeans are as fanatical about washing as they are about everything else. Which makes their complaints about our own baths even more absurd.”
“Ritual baths are part of the Judaeans’ religion,” Alban mentioned. “They disapprove of our habit of opening the baths to men and women alike.” This information was based on his interactions with the Capernaum leaders up north. Alban endured Linux’s odd look and changed the subject. “I’ve never known crowds like this.”
“It’s always like this during the festival season. Seven weeks in the spring and one in the fall.” Linux kicked at a loose pebble. “I loathe this place most of all during the festivals. It’s hard to draw a decent breath.”
Alban did not respond, though in truth he felt overwhelmed by this city, as though its ancient might and splendor conspired against him. Against all things Roman.
He spent the remainder of their journey trying to formulate an approach to the Judaean and the meeting ahead of him. The previous night, as he lay in the hut and listened to the storm, it had all seemed rather simple. He’d assumed he would seek out the various parties, ask a few questions, and make his report. The issues were straightforward enough. Was the prophet dead, where was the body, and was there a threat of revolt? It was only now, as they left the market lanes behind and the city brooded down over him, that he wondered what threat might lie buried within his questions. And within the answers . . .
The house of Joseph of Arimathea was in the Upper City, which Linux said contained the finest residences. A stallholder directed them to an unmarked portal down an unnamed lane. The square doorway was tall enough to admit a royal chariot and framed by stone carved like a flowering vine. Yet there was none of the adornment that would announce the presence of a Roman villa behind its protective walls. Instead the Jerusalem dust so stained the ancient wooden door it appeared not to have been used in years.
Alban used his sword hilt to hammer on the portal. He waited, then hammered again.
A small door set into the larger portal opened to reveal a solidly built guard. He simply stared out at them.
“Is this the residence of Joseph of Arimathea?” Linux demanded.
“Who’s asking?”
Alban stilled Linux’s protest with a warning hand. “We come at the request of Pontius Pilate.”
“Name?”
“The centurion Alban and his aide, Linux.”
The guard slammed the door in Alban’s face.
Linux glared at the portal in genuine outrage. Alban said, “Wait.”
A few moments later, the portal opened again and the guard demanded, “You are the centurion of the Capernaum garrison?”
“I am.”
“My master asks, are you a God-fearer as they say?”
Linux could hold his outrage no longer. “Are you aware who it is you are addressing, guard? This man carries the personal seal of Pontius Pilate!”
The surly guard kept his focus square upon Alban’s face. Alban replied, “The elders of Capernaum called me one. In truth, I do not know.”
Oddly, the guard gave Alban’s response a nod of grudging approval. The man bore no rank or insignia, yet clearly he had been given the power to decide whether Alban should be granted an audience. “You may enter, Roman. You and you alone.”
Linux hissed at the insult. Alban murmured to his companion, “Return to the Antonia Fortress. Find the centurion Atticus.”
“This man should be flayed!”
Alban stepped around to where his companion could not see him and the guard at the same time. “Find Atticus,” Alban calmly repeated. “You said he was in charge of the crucifixion. If anyone can tell us whether the prophet actually died, it is he. Ask him to meet us. . . . I don’t know the city. I need a location where he will speak freely.”
Linux muttered, still indignant, “The public baths at the end of the lane fronting the fortress.”
“Tell him to meet us there later tonight. Then find the guards assigned to the prophet’s tomb. I want to see them before that, in a different location.”
“There is a tavern on the main market avenue that welcomes us, just south of the lane leading to the fortress.”
“I’ll meet you there before sundown.” He turned to the guard, who continued to bar the portal with his body. “Let us proceed.”
Alban had been in such dwellings before. The wealthy Judaeans of Tiberias and Capernaum lived thus, in houses where all signs of affluence were hidden behind dusty masks. The major differences in this case were the residence’s size and its guards, who were both numerous and extremely alert.
“Wait here,�
�� his guard told him.
Alban nodded and looked around. The central courtyard was a full thirty paces across. The large house itself was carefully understated and completely unadorned. Not a single mosaic framed the central fountain. Yet palace it was, with a colonnaded alcove framing three sides of the courtyard and opening into a multitude of chambers. The square’s fourth side fronted an ancient city wall—not the massive fortress battlements which had been rebuilt by Herod the Great but something far older. This wall had been smoothed by eons to a dusky gold. Beyond the wall, Alban could see a massive structure standing upon a gigantic hilltop plaza, its angled roof reflecting the afternoon sun. Though he had never seen it before, he was certain he glimpsed the Temple to the Judaean God.
“This way.” The guard had returned and now led Alban into the west-facing portico. The tall doors were fashioned of wood that had been polished until they gleamed. Inside, the chamber was also unadorned and vast. Simple, severe, serene.
A man was seated behind a table so long it could have accommodated thirty. Its surface was covered with scrolls and tablets. The man held a scroll as if he was beginning to unroll it. Light spilled through tall windows and gauzelike drapes. A male secretary stood behind the seated man, holding a sheaf of vellum pages.
Alban’s Judaean host was dressed in the robes of a Pharisee, black and severe yet fashioned from some fabric as light as the drapes. “You have journeyed from Capernaum?” he asked, his tone well modulated, full of authority.
“From Caesarea.”
“So our governor wished to interview you first. Very wise.” He gestured with the scroll to the guard. “Our guest still wears the dust from the road. Have a servant bring water and a towel.”
The instructions no doubt startled the guard as much as they did Alban. The Pharisees were extremely strict about religious protocol. Everyone in this household would be religious. To order a servant to bathe a Roman’s feet would be approaching blasphemy.
Yet when the guard did not move swiftly enough, the man lifted his eyes to stare directly at the man. His silence was command enough for the guard to spring into action.
When a young woman brought a ceramic basin, her trembling hands sloshed water on the polished marble floor. Alban saved her from further dishonor by taking the towel and the basin and washing his own feet. When he looked up, he found his host observing him with quiet approval.
Joseph of Arimathea was not a large man, but his presence was such that the chamber seemed filled with his aura. “What is it you want from me, centurion?”
“I believe you know the answer to that question, my lord.”
His gaze was piercing. “When my manservant asked if you were a God-fearer, you gave a curious response.”
“The elders of Capernaum say the Pharisees hold great store by the truth. I am giving as I hope to receive.”
Joseph nodded slightly. “You may be interested to know that your response follows a passage from our teachings.” He dismissed the guard and servant with a wave, turned to the secretary, and said, “Leave us.”
When they were alone, the Pharisee repeated his query in different words. “Why are you here?”
“Pilate seeks three answers: First, is the prophet truly dead? Second, what happened to his body? And third, are his disciples threatening revolt against Rome?”
“The last question is the easiest to answer. Let Rome leave our borders and there will be no threat, not from any Judaean, not ever again.”
Alban stood quietly and waited.
Joseph stroked his long beard. “As to the second question, the answer is, I have no idea where the rabbi is.”
“Yet you approached Pilate and requested the body. You took it to your family tomb. You buried him, I have heard, with your own hands.”
“All of this is as you say.”
“And now his body is gone.”
“I inspected the tomb myself. The day after the Sabbath, and every day since then. The body has indeed vanished.”
Alban listened carefully but heard nothing to suggest the man had a hand in the theft. “Do you suspect someone?”
“The Almighty, perhaps?” His expression remained unreadable. His fingers again traced down a beard laced with silver, flattening out the curves. A gesture so often repeated he might not have been aware of what he was doing. “Certainly not I.”
“You’re suggesting the Judaean God came down from—”
“Heaven?” Joseph supplied, turning the word into a question.
“Your heaven.”
“His heaven, centurion. Not mine.”
“And stole away the prophet’s body.”
The Judaean began to sway slightly. Back and forth, as though intoning thoughts he now uttered very softly. “If our God did so, then the man now missing was not merely a prophet.”
Alban noted dryly, “I will convey your opinions to Pilate.” Joseph of Arimathea then did a curious thing. He rose from his chair, walked around the table, and reached out his hand as though to touch Alban’s arm. He did not quite make contact, for to do so would have rendered him unclean. “Come. We will be more comfortable out here.”
He led Alban through the great doors and into the colonnaded plaza. The secretary, the guard, and the womanservant holding the basin all clustered nearby. Clearly they had been talking of their master and his guest, for when Alban appeared with Joseph, they gaped and stepped back. Joseph motioned them away with a gesture and pointed Alban to a pair of chairs set in the shade. “Please, you are my guest.”
The wind passed through the fountain’s spray, cooling their shaded corner. Alban realized the fountain’s water was perfumed, the fragrance as sweet as a flowering meadow. “You live well.”
Joseph dismissed the compliment with a thin smile. “My allies in Capernaum speak favorably of you, centurion. And the caravan you saved carried goods of mine.”
Alban took this as an invitation. “What happened leading up to the disappearance of the prophet’s body?”
“How much do you know?”
“Not much at all. Whatever I know has been hearsay at best. I came here first, straight from the road, as you see.”
Joseph turned to stare out over the ancient wall at the Temple crowning the hill above. “The day before our Passover festival, the high priest Caiaphas called together a beit din, a council of judgment. Some cases go before the entire Sanhedrin, especially matters where all Israel might be affected. Other cases are tried by such smaller councils, especially civil cases or those related to religious protocol.”
“A prophet whose followers extend the length and breadth of Judaea and beyond would not require the complete Sanhedrin?”
The Pharisee turned and called, “Guard!”
The man reluctantly appeared from the pillar’s shadow.
Joseph said, “You should go to the kitchen for your evening meal.”
“It can wait,” the guard replied, his gaze never leaving Alban’s face.
Joseph firmly waved the man away and waited until he was out of sight. “Did I mention that members of the Sanhedrin are granted personal protection by the Temple guards?”
Alban understood instantly. “These guards are appointed by the high priest?”
“Caiaphas, yes. It is most helpful.”
Alban stared at the point where the guard had disappeared. “A full gathering of the Sanhedrin would grant a voice to anyone who was both a council member and a follower of this Jesus.”
Josephus merely stroked his beard.
“Were you there for the prophet’s trial?”
“Caiaphas was kind enough to permit me to observe.”
“But you were not appointed as one of the judges.”
Joseph quietly repeated, “The high priest allowed me to observe.”
“I see.”
“Yes. The high priest’s home has a private upper section for his family. The lower portion is given over to Temple affairs. There is a guardroom and a holding cell next to the courtyard u
sed for such meetings.”
“So the high priest chose to conduct this trial in his home.”
“That is so.”
“By this smaller group.”
“A beit din. Yes.”
“Filled with his cronies.”
Joseph might have nodded. “Will you take tea?”
“No thank you. What were the charges?”
“Sedition, blasphemy, treason—quite a vast number of crimes. Witnesses came forward against the rabbi. Some had apparently been bribed, and their testimony was conflicting. The judges refused to rule against him.”
“So he was taken to Pilate.”
“To Pilate, then to Herod, then back to Pilate.” Joseph’s polished veneer cracked for the first time. He spoke with a bitterness that twisted his features. “Where he was scourged. Then, when that did not satisfy the crowd gathered by the high priest, Pilate washed his hands of the affair—literally and figuratively—and the crowd demanded that he be crucified.”
“Did the prophet die upon the cross?”
Joseph resumed the gentle rocking that took hold of his entire body. “The man I carried to the tomb was cold and utterly lifeless.”
“Then where is the body?”
“I have told you all I know.”
“You must suspect someone.”
“You might ask Caiaphas.”
Alban leaned forward. “You suspect the high priest of kidnapping the body? Why? To foment further dissension among his people?”
Joseph rocked, his hand sliding down his beard over and over again.
Alban glanced back to where the guard had been. Could the high priest be intending to start a revolt himself? Alban prompted, “You approached Pilate and requested the right to bury Jesus.”
“Which I did. I laid him to rest with my own hands. In a cave prepared for my own family.”
“Alone?”
“I was helped by a friend, another member of the Sanhedrin named Nicodemus.”
Something in the way the gentleman spoke, maybe the look of reverential awe that filled his features, left Alban both confused and unsettled. “May I ask what it is you are not telling me?”
The gaze that fastened upon Alban was luminous. “Tell me, centurion. What will you do if you find the rabbi’s body—”
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