I, Claudia

by Charity Bishop

  “Have they given you their demands?” Pilate asks.

  Demetrius hands over a scroll. Pilate reads it and tosses it aside. “They want the emblems removed from your palace in Jerusalem. Should we admit their leaders for an audience with you, Prefect?”

  “No.”

  The next morning their numbers have increased. Children sleep in doorways, curled up against one another. Men stand as long as they are able; others crowd into the wall’s long shadow for relief, leaning against the worn stone or sitting in the street. Heavily veiled women bring food in baskets.

  “Don’t you find their silence unusual?” I ask.

  Pilate rises from his desk as Demetrius enters with another scroll. He looks at it and tosses it into the nearest brazier. Flames burst around the parchment, curling it up and melting the wax on the floor. “Tell them no,” he says.

  Once the door closes, I turn to him. “You must speak with them.”

  “Unlike my predecessor, I won’t give in to intimidation.”

  Demetrius’ voice floats up to us and the crowd stirs. Bodies press against the gates and someone shouts; it starts a cry that echoes in the street.

  “Do you want them to riot?”

  He glances past me out the window. “If they must, I’ll let them.”

  I stare in disbelief. “That is what you want, isn’t it, an excuse to punish them!” Putting my hands on the desk, I lean toward him. “Force and coercion don’t work on these people! You know that!”

  “Force is something they must learn if they want to survive.”

  “It doesn’t have to be this way! Show them you’re capable of compromise!”

  “Rome doesn’t compromise and neither do I.”

  Disappointment floods through me. Speechless, I leave in silence, my sandals clicking on the floor. The shouting continues all night. I lie awake until dawn staring at the ceiling, but the sudden quiet causes me to rise. I push aside the drapery. Guards speak softly to the men at the gates and unlock them. The crowd enters. I pull on a cloak and enter the hall.

  Encountering Avram, I grip his arm. “What’s happening?”

  “Your husband has agreed to speak with them,” he says.

  Relieved, I hurry through the house to an upper window. Libi is already there. I take her hand. Shadows stretch before the centurions. Pilate remains at the top of the stairs. “I grow weary of this disturbance.”

  A fierce-looking man with dark, wild eyes steps forward. “It will continue until you hear our demands.”

  “I’m aware of your demands. My answer is no.” The mob stirs and angry murmurs fill the air. Demetrius glances at Pilate, his hand on his sword. My husband shakes his head.

  “You insult us with eagle insignias in Jerusalem! You send in your garrison under the cover of darkness to avoid our protests! Is this how you intend to govern Judea?”

  My eyes roam the crowd, tension in my limbs.

  “Yes, it is. Who are you to challenge me?”

  The man snarls, “I’m Jesus Barabbas!”

  “Well, Jesus Barabbas, here’s what I’ve decided. This mob will disperse or I’ll have every second man in the crowd killed.”

  Libi covers her mouth. “He wouldn’t… would he?”

  “He will,” I answer dully.

  Avram places a hand on my shoulder, his face grim. I lean weakly against him as the crowd shifts. His friends pull Barabbas back. They speak in low tones and resentfully, Barabbas turns to my husband. “If you won’t remove your symbols of idolatry from our holy city, you may have all our lives!” He tears his robe open and falls to his knees. Others drop around him until the courtyard is full of kneeling figures. I lean out the window, shocked. Torches flicker and dawn creeps through the arches. Demetrius climbs the stairs and confers with Pilate. I hold my breath and grip the wall before me.

  Pilate is quiet for a long moment and then nods. He turns inside the house as the soldiers remove their hands from their swords and retreat from the courtyard. The crowd cheers and leaps to their feet. Barabbas joins them in celebration and his gaze meets mine. The look in his eyes frightens me. He nudges his friend and points at me.

  “Claudia,” whispers Libi, gripping my arm.

  Her father tenses and I follow his gaze. My heart jumps into my throat. Jacob stands behind Barabbas, half hidden under a head covering. He turns into the crowd. I reach the stairs first, flying down them and careening into my husband. Pilate is surprised and displeased to see me. Libi stops behind me and the tap-tap of her father’s staff meets my ears. Pilate grips me by the arm and moves me aside, leaving them to hurry into the courtyard.

  “They won’t find him,” Pilate says. He opens the door to my room and pushes me in ahead of him.

  “You saw Jacob too?”

  “Once you’ve seen a face coming at you with a knife, you don’t forget it.” Pilate moves aside the drapery, satisfied as the crowd disperses.

  I rub my arms to chase off a chill. “Did you mean what you told them?”

  “Whatever I say, I mean.” He looks at me and his face softens. “Claudia, you’re used to your husband, and not a Roman soldier. But here, you’ll see both.” His gaze returns to the courtyard and the sight of Avram and Libi returning disheartened.

  My heart aches for them. “Did you know he’d be here?”

  “I suspected. What better place for an outcast of Rome than to hide among those who share Jacob’s religion and distaste for the Empire.”

  “If he’s found, what’ll happen to him?”

  Leaning against the wall, Pilate says, “I don’t care. He’s the least of my problems.”

  Chapter Eleven

  The Jewish Passover is nearly upon us, and a garrison fills the courtyard the morning we leave for Jerusalem. Avram ignores them as he loads a donkey with provisions for our journey. His hands shake with excitement as he knots the straps. I turn as Pilate descends the steps.

  “Do you expect trouble in Jerusalem?”

  He glances at the soldiers and his eyes harden. “I always anticipate trouble in Jerusalem.”

  I climb into my litter and he mounts his horse. Men lift me up into the air, their bare arms already glistening in the heat. Libi hurries from the house, a basket of figs in her hands, her veil streaming behind her.

  We move out of Capernaum, half the garrison in front, the rest behind. Others join us in the streets, walking or on donkeys, entire families knowing it is safer to travel with us than alone. Avram’s eagerness keeps him at a steady pace.

  “What will you do in the city of your ancestors?”

  He glances at me and his warm brown eyes soften. “I have wanted all my life to see Jerusalem. Tomorrow, I’ll offer a sacrifice in the temple and thank God for letting me behold its glories before my death.”

  The road is long, the day hot. Travelers camp in the hills, keeping together as protection against thieves. Some are wealthy and ride in chariots; others walk. All rest their limbs at noon and eat. We reach Jerusalem at dusk, along with a steady stream of pilgrims. The crowded road clears as people move out of our way. Faces peer curiously at me and one strikes me with fear.

  “Libi,” I say, and she hastens her pace. “I saw Barabbas!”

  She glances around us and at her father, who stares in awe at the arch as we pass beneath it. “He’ll have come for the Passover,” she says.

  Night descends and torches gleam in the darkness as we reach the Palace of Justice, next to the Jewish temple. I follow Pilate inside, where Quintus awaits us. He hands over a scroll. “Here is a full report of recent events in Jerusalem, Prefect. And Herod will dine with you later this week.”

  “Is his harlot with him?”

  Quintus smirks and follows us into the next room. Oil lamps tremble in the wind, and a feast awaits us. “Herodias is in Jerusalem, but it’s a quiet Passover week. I anticipate no trouble. The high priest, Caiaphas, arrived moments ago. He requests an audience. The priests won’t enter past the outer chamber; it makes them unclean b
efore the Sabbath.” He gestures into the garden, where a small huddle of priests stands near the far wall. Turning over the scroll, Pilate enters the garden.

  I move around the column for a better view of the richly ornamented priests. “Which one is Caiaphas?”

  “He’s the tallest one, there.”

  Soft footsteps bring Libi into the room. Her eyes dart toward Quintus and away again with a blush as she sets the pitcher of wine on the table and hurries off. I pour us each a cup and we wait for Pilate’s return. He is not long, and rejoins us as darkness spreads across the city.

  “How is it in Jerusalem since the incident?” he asks.

  Quintus settles into the pillows. “Quiet. You made your point, but so did they. I feared more from them but my spies tell me nothing unusual. There is trouble brewing among the Galileans, but that is to be expected. You met their leader in Caesarea, the man who spoke to you from the crowd, an insurgent called Barabbas.”

  The taste of grapes in my mouth sours.

  “But there are no whispers of demonstrations?”

  Quintus shakes his head.

  “That worries me,” says Pilate, tapping on his goblet. “What else have you heard?”

  Tearing his bread in half, Quintus dips it in wine. “Many speak of Judea’s new prophets. One, by the name of John, never leaves the desert but has a following. He often disputes Herod’s marriage to Herodias as incestuous. The other I don’t know much of, but he’s from Galilee.”

  Wind rustles the curtains, bringing the temple scent into the house. “Let’s hope he’s less revolutionary than Barabbas.”

  After supper, I retire to our room, smaller than in Caesarea but with a balcony overlooking the courtyard. The city is breathtaking at night, with its many lamps shining through stone windows. Feeling a chill, I turn within. The room is dark when Pilate joins me. I fall asleep with his head touching mine.

  Shivers wake me before dawn. Dread fills me as I look to my husband, shadows shifting around us. Curtains move in the breeze. The hair on my arms stands on end. Someone is in the room with us. My hand creeps toward Pilate and he opens his eyes. There is no trace of sleepiness in them. Barely moving, he presses a finger to his lips and slides his hand under the pillow. I tense and stare past him into the gloom as a figure emerges from the dark. Lifting a knife in one hand, he brushes aside the sheer drapery. Before he can strike, Pilate shoves a dagger into his chest. His eyes widen, his mouth gapes in shock, and blood spills from his mouth as he topples backward.

  “Guards!”

  The door bursts open and centurions stream in. Panic sends them in all directions at the sight. Libi pulls me from the bed, wrapping a tunic around me. Turning the man over with his foot, Quintus says, “I know this man, a Galilean.”

  Pilate’s face frightens me. Running footsteps return Demetrius to us. “Two of our guards are dead in the courtyard.”

  “So there are no objections to my presence in Jerusalem?” Pilate glares at them. “Both of you come with me… and get him out of here.”

  “Come,” whispers Libi, pulling me away.

  They carry the body out and servants scrub the floor. Libi helps me out of my blood-spattered shift. Pilate enters his office and confers with Quintus, who reappears first. The smell of sacrifices rises from the temple, thickening the air. He descends into the yard, where his men await. “Twelve of you, come with me,” he says.

  Pilate appears behind me.

  “Where are they going?”

  “They go to remind our enemies of their place.” He glances at the temple and sudden fear grips me as he continues on his way with Demetrius. My heart pounds in my ears.

  “Avram,” I whisper.

  I reach the street as the screams start. People flee the temple, nearly knocking me over, dragging lambs behind them. I fight my way to the gates. Priests stream out the side entrances as Quintus’ men send men thudding to the ground. Blood spatters the walls in red streams.

  “Claudia!” A strong pair of hands grips my arm and drags me away from the sight. The crowd knocks Avram’s staff out of his hand and tramples it underfoot. He crashes into the wall. I support him as the crowd carries us with it. They jostle and shove me. I see Barabbas coming toward us. Gasping, I drag Avram away. He cries out and grasps his chest, falling to his knees. His face contorts. I grip his hand as the crowd surges past. I look up; Barabbas is still coming, hatred in his eyes.

  “You must get up,” I plead.

  Horrible silence fills my ears as the screams die away. Avram stares at me, his eyes wide and his mouth gapes. The hand in mine stiffens as with one last convulsion, he dies. Barabbas reaches the edge of the circle of people around us. His hand closes around the knife tucked in his waistband and starts to pull it out.

  A man in the crowd touches his shoulder. Barabbas turns on him in anger but seeing the man’s face, backs away and flees into the mob. Compassion shines on me out of dark eyes as the man offers me his hand.

  “Come,” he says.

  I let him help me. His palm is calloused and worn. He looks on me far more kindly than the rest. “Pilate’s wife,” says someone. “He commits murder in the temple, and mixes the blood of men with their sacrifices!”

  Anger rises among them but he turns to them. “We must love those who persecute us and forgive those who trespass against us. She has no part in this.”

  Faces stare at me with hatred and confusion. A priest shoves through the crowd and stops as he sees me. Shock courses through my veins. Jacob looks from me to his father. His mouth opens but no sound emerges.

  Heavy footsteps bring the guards. Quintus takes one look at us, and says, “That’s enough! Bring him!”

  The hem of my tunic drags in the dust as we retreat. I find no sign of the man who helped me, but my eyes fall on Jacob, staring resentfully after us. I feel empty and cold. “Who is he?” I ask Quintus.

  “He’s the prophet from Galilee, Jesus of Nazareth.”

  My pace slows as we return to the palace, not wanting to look inside the temple courtyard and see the blood and bodies, to know Pilate is responsible. Women wail in the distance. I pass through our gate, Quintus on my heels. He looks to the guards on either side and says, “I ought to flog you for letting her out into the street!”

  Shame burns in their faces as they look away from me. They put Avram on the steps. Libi emerges and her worried expression changes into one of horror. She cries out and goes to him, cradling him in her arms. Quintus avoids her gaze.

  “This is your fault,” I tell him.

  His eyes harden and he moves away. I enter the house, my breath rapid but without tears. I pace until Pilate returns. He crosses the room and we stare at one another. The tears in my eyes cloud my vision. My hand strikes without thought, slapping him hard. He barely reacts and rage fills me. I move to strike him again and he catches my wrist. I tear it away from him. My voice trembles.

  “Avram dreamed his entire life of visiting Jerusalem, of worshipping in the temple. You took that away from him. He died knowing the temple is defiled, that you killed innocent men to save your pride!”

  “There’s no such thing as an innocent man, Claudia, not in Rome and certainly not in Judea.”

  Shaking my head, I turn away from him.

  Pilate rests his hand on a chair. “I’m sorry for his death. I know you loved him as a father. The only thing these people understand is force. You can’t show weakness.”

  “It isn’t weakness to show mercy to your enemies!”

  Grief swells up within me and I feel sick. Behind us, the door opens and Demetrius sticks his head in. “Caiaphas wants to speak with you, Prefect.”

  Neither of them prevents me from following Pilate. I feel numb as I pass through the hall into the garden. The priests turn on us as we approach.

  “How dare you impose martial law in the temple!” Caiaphas’s voice breaks with his rage, his hand tight on his staff. Thin fingers lift it and slam it into the dirt. “You insult us! You insult Go
d! What have you done?”

  Wind stirs my hair, the air without smoke. The temple is silent. As tall as the high priest, Pilate steps toward them, unnerving Caiaphas. “You’re a man of ambition, Caiaphas. Is it in your best interest to question me?”

  “In matters of the temple, yes, it is!”

  Pilate circles him. “The Galileans support the insurgent Barabbas.”

  The priests exchange glances.

  “I might question your defense of them, if others hadn’t convinced me of your dedication to Rome.”

  Their anger seems to fade and Caiaphas forces a smile. “My allegiance to Rome is well-documented, Prefect. You need only look at the reports of your predecessor—”

  “I read them all in depth. I won’t question your allegiance, but the temple seeking to protect the enemies of Rome must stop.” Fear flickers across Caiaphas’ face. Pilate considers him and turns away. “Tiberius isn’t kind to his enemies. I may have to elect a new high priest.”

  “There’s no need for that, Prefect!” Caiaphas hastens to his side. “How can we prove our loyalty?”

  “On our way here we passed the half-completed aqueducts. Gratus let them languish. I want to finish them.”

  “You wish us to support you publicly, Prefect?”

  “It’ll take many years to collect enough taxes to rebuild them, unless we make use of the temple funds…”

  My mouth drops open and it takes considerable self-control to shut it again. Caiaphas’ eyes nearly pop out of his head. “You want access to the temple treasury?”

  “It is for the benefit of Jerusalem, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Good! We understand one another.” Pilate enters the house, leaving them gaping after him in disbelief.

  I approach Caiaphas. “You have a servant from Rome I want to speak with, a priest named Jacob. Send him to me.”

  Muscles twitch in his face but he nods. I wait a half hour before Jacob’s shadow falls across the garden. He carries his father’s staff. “I found it outside the temple,” he says.