I, Claudia

by Charity Bishop

  Mary offers him a cup, adoration shining in her eyes. He smiles at Martha and looks to me. “Come with me into the garden.” The others remain behind. Setting his cup on the bench, he goes to the far end and reaches up into the fig tree. Branches rustle.

  I creep forward. “Do you know why I’ve come?”

  “Do you?” His eyes laugh at me. Sunlight gleams on his dark hair, cut short, like his beard, framing his face.

  “I thought I did.”

  “Your friend brought you for a reason.” He gestures toward the house. My face warms. “But what makes you think I’d honor what you ask? You’re a gentile and the wife of Pilate.”

  It hurts and my step falters. He stares at me expressionlessly. “You’re not worthy,” he says softly.

  The earth recedes beneath me; my heart skips a beat. “You might have said that of the woman in the temple courtyard, but you still saved her life.”

  “I saved more than that, but she’s a Jew.”

  Despite his words, something in him makes me bold. “And by your own laws, she deserves death, yet you spared her, because you’re the messiah.”

  Leaning against the tree, he says, “Am I?”

  “It’s what they say.”

  “And what do you say, Claudia?”

  I move closer to him. “You show mercy to the undeserving. You love instead of hate. You write in the sand words that mean different things to all who read it… you’re the messiah, the one foretold.”

  “You want me to heal you,” he says. Following him across the garden, I nod. He sits on the bench and moves the cup, leaving a space for me. “But what do you want healing from?”

  My lips part and he holds up his finger.

  “Think carefully, Claudia. I can heal the body, but I care more for the soul. I can offer you healing, but what you need is to never thirst again.”

  Laughing, the children return, burst into the garden and one throws her tiny, fat arms around his neck. Jesus smiles and kisses her round face as she stares at me in wonder. Patting her hand, he asks, “What do you want?”

  My eyes stray to the child. She shoves a mass of golden hair behind her ear. Jesus sets her on the ground and she joins the others. I can no longer look him in the eye and stare at my hands.

  “Am I evil?” I whisper. Wind stirs the trees, disrupting the silence. “You know what I am, don’t you?”

  His hand covers mine and I look at him in surprise. “Your demons fled long ago. Not all dreams are evil, my child. Some of them come from our Father.”

  I search his face and find only kindness. “Will you heal me?”

  “Yes.”

  Relief flows through me and I clutch his hand. Jesus smiles at my delight. “But you still have much to learn.” He touches the side of my face. “Now go.”

  Libi looks at me eagerly when I enter the house and I nod. Joy fills her expression as we depart, Quintus still with a perplexed air.

  Midway to Jerusalem, the ground shakes. Pebbles dance at our feet. A sound like thunder rumbles in the distance in a cloudless sky.

  “What is it?” Libi asks.

  A huge cloud of dust rises in the distance.

  My brother’s face is white. “It’s the aqueducts!”

  Chapter Sixteen

  People flood the streets of Jerusalem. Some pass us as we make our way home; others head for the city gates. Quintus hurries us along, fingering his sword. Unease is in the air, the tension mounting.

  “We’ll have another riot if it isn’t stopped now.” He lets us into the palace courtyard. “Stay inside, Claudia!”

  I pace the floor of our room, waiting for news. When shouting starts in the street, I know Pilate has arrived. I dart to the verandah and see him cross the yard, a dozen men on his heels. Panic rises in me at the sight of his armor and tunic covered in blood.

  “Are you all right?”

  His blue eyes spark with anger. “I’m fine,” he says gently, “it isn’t mine.”

  We enter his office. Pilate throws the contents of his desk to the floor and unfurls a scroll. He points to the main pillar. “You vowed it would hold.”

  “I thought so, Prefect!” His architect is terrified.

  Pilate glares at him. “You promised the damage could be corrected and wouldn’t cause a problem! Half of it collapsed, over a hundred Jewish workers are dead, and we have the makings of a riot on our hands!”

  “Prefect, we did all in our power to make it sound!”

  The silence in the palace highlights the disturbance outside. I glance out the window as the crowd increases. Pilate draws his sword. “Julius, did you betray me?”

  His eyes widen. “No, I’d never, Prefect!”

  “You didn’t conspire with Herod to do this?”

  Others stare at him, terrified. His face pales and he whispers, “N-no, Prefect!”

  Pilate looks at him stonily. “I don’t believe you.”

  A chill enters the room.

  “Creating an insurrection in Judea is a treasonable offense. If I find out you plotted with Herod to destroy the aqueducts and discredit me, I’ll have your head.” The tip of the sword rests on Julius’ chest. Tapping it twice, Pilate says, “Now get out.”

  Relief floods through the man’s face as he stumbles out. Pilate glares at the others. “That means all of you!”

  Hurriedly, they scatter into the hall. Pilate turns to Quintus. “Have him followed. If he goes to Herod, as I suspect he will, arrest him.”

  “Yes, Prefect,” says Quintus, and departs.

  I approach the desk as he moves to the washbasin. Dipping his hands into the water, he rinses off the blood. “I’ve never seen anything like it. They let the water loose and the middle section collapsed with miles of destruction! Debris flew in all directions, pinning men to the sand. It crushed the centurion standing next to me.” He wipes the blood from his face. “I’m starting to hate this cursed place. If it’s not a riot, it’s a plot, and if it’s not a plot, it’s a mob!”

  Fear tugs at my heart. “You won’t…”

  “Disperse them like last time?” Pilate smiles grimly. “Not after that warning from Tiberius.”

  Throwing the towel aside, he goes out to face them. I linger in the shadow of the columns. “Let them in,” he tells Demetrius, who signals to the guard. They open the gates and the mob swarms inside. Barabbas is at the forefront. He shouts up at us, “First, you tax us, then you slaughter us, and now you crush us with the vanities of Rome!”

  Fists wave in the air and the people roar.

  Pilate is unflinching. “Jerusalem needs water.”

  “And Rome needs better architects!” Barabbas jeers.

  Bitter laughter drifts from the crowd.

  “Rome also lost men today,” says Pilate.

  Scoffing, Barabbas shouts, “More Judeans than Romans!” Turning to the crowd, he points at Pilate. “This man brought graven images into Jerusalem! He spat on the sanctity of our temple and filled it with blood! When we protest his use of temple funds to build his aqueducts, he has us beaten and killed in the square! Now, the precious aqueducts we paid for in blood have fallen! Isn’t this a judgment from God on Pilate?”

  “Prefect,” says Demetrius, worriedly.

  Silencing him with an upheld hand, Pilate descends. “I don’t submit to the authority of your god. I am loyal to Rome. As her governor, it’s my duty to improve conditions in Jerusalem.” He stops before Barabbas, who glares at him. I move instinctively forward and Demetrius blocks me. The guards at the foot of the stairs are uneasy.

  “Does that include spilling Judean blood, Prefect?”

  A guard backhands Barabbas. He spits blood at Pilate’s feet, who says quietly, “If you care so much for your men, take them and leave. Or maybe you’d rather I repeat the lesson I tried to teach you in the square?”

  “Barabbas, come,” pleads one of his friends.

  He turns away but his hand slips into his tunic. I see the hatred in his eyes and cry out a warning.
A guard steps before Pilate, taking the full thrust. The man behind Barabbas tries to pull him away but Barabbas turns on him, catching him across the throat. “You’re a traitor to Judea,” he hisses. With that, his friend falls to his knees and crumples on the ground. Guards send Barabbas crashing to the dirt. He shouts, “Don’t surrender to the whore that is Rome!”

  The mob riots; rocks pelt the stairs and clang off the helmets of the centurions. They drag Barabbas to the prison. The guards force the people out of the gates. Shutting the crowd out subdues its roar of disapproval.

  “Quintus, I want him whole enough for crucifixion.”

  Nodding, my brother heads for the prison. Pilate looks at me as I shakily descend the stairs.

  “I’m all right,” he assures me.

  Blood pools at our feet. My voice softens as I gaze at the Judean. “He died trying to save you.”

  “Not me, Jerusalem.”

  Stones continue to pelt the wooden gates. I feel cold. “Will Tiberius be furious?”

  Even though Pilate is unresponsive, I know the answer.

  In less than a month, a harsh rebuke and a command for fewer riots and executions arrives. Tiberius is warning us.

  “I hope Barabbas likes Roman prison,” Pilate snarls, throwing the dispatch onto the desk. “He’ll be in it for a long time!”

  Jerusalem sees a steady stream of travelers. Libi tells me they pray in the temple for salvation from Rome. “They think the collapse is a punishment for heresy.” In addition to the murmurs against Pilate, there are stories of the messiah. He brings a child to life. He spits in the mud, wipes it in the eyes of a blind beggar, and the man receives sight. He teaches and he travels; he performs signs and miracles.

  “Five thousand went to hear him preach in Galilee, Prefect… five thousand!” Awe is in the centurion’s voice.

  Pilate dismisses him and his footsteps fade away in the hall, leaving us contemplating in silence. He drums his fingers on his desk. “Quintus, take a legion to Capernaum. Keep an eye on this messiah.”

  “We’ll leave at once, Prefect.”

  I approach and ask, “Do you expect trouble?”

  “Where large groups gather, it’s inevitable.”

  The streets of Jerusalem are quiet as the year wanes, but excitement is in the air. Even the high priests are not immune to it, and whenever they come to speak to Pilate, they seem uneasy.

  One morning I wake and vomit over the side of the bed. My skin is flushed and hot to the touch, but with a thrill of hope, I send for the doctor.

  “You’re not with child,” he says.

  The rest of his visit passes in a blind haze. He forces me to drink a potion. I sink onto the bed as Libi approaches with a basin of water. “He healed me! Yet still I’m barren!” Lying in the pillows, I let her sponge my face.

  Libi squeezes my hand. “Don’t lose hope in him! All things happen in God’s time. If he healed you, have faith in him!”

  “So I must have faith without reassurance?”

  Her eyes darken and she strokes my hand. Pilate enters and she quickly withdraws. He sits on the bed beside me. “The physician says it will pass.”

  “Yes,” I whisper.

  Gentle hands dip the sponge in water and press it to my face. “This morning, word came from Herod; his lands are invaded and his armies challenged by a greater military force. Since it is in Rome’s best interest for Herod to stay in power, I am sending four legions to his defense. I must go to him. I can’t send a proxy.”

  “What force is it?”

  Drops of water slide into my tunic. Pilate puts aside the sponge to take my hand. “Aretas, the father of the queen Herod threw over for Herodias.”

  “How long will you be gone?”

  “If all goes well, I’ll return in a month. If not, before the Passover.” He offers me a scroll sealed with the royal insignia. “In my absence from Jerusalem, Demetrius and you will act as my official representatives. He will appear in public in my place if needed, but will report to you for any decisions.”

  The door opens and a centurion says, “Prefect, the legions are prepared to move out on your orders.”

  “I’m coming.” Pilate takes my face in his hands. His eyes soften. “You’re a woman of Rome, Claudia. Do her proud in my absence.” He kisses me and leaves. I finger the scroll. All I want to do is sleep.

  Several days pass before I can preside in his stead. It feels strange to sit behind his desk and read the never-ending list of complaints from the local and outer provinces, to look through the arrest logs, to distribute payment for the legions, and to send regular dispatches to Rome. We must repair the aqueducts and I meet with his architects and spend several hours discussing solutions. Pilate leaves instructions for no judicial trials until his return, so I have nothing to do with the prisons. Due to the imperial ban on further executions, they are full of prisoners: thieves, murderers, and rebels.

  “I must speak to you of Barabbas,” says Demetrius.

  The prison registry is before me, shocking me with its numbers. “What of him?”

  “He’s causing trouble: spitting at guards, shouting at all hours of the night so the other prisoners can’t sleep, insulting his jailers. Our cells are so full we put him in with another man, and he beat him to death with a rock for arguing with him over the Roman occupation. Under normal circumstances we’d have him crucified.”

  Disgusted, I ask, “Can you isolate him?”

  “We can, with some trouble.” Demetrius hands me another scroll to seal with Pilate’s insignia. “But it won’t solve the bigger problem of Barabbas’ support in Jerusalem. He’s one of the more militant insurrectionists, and his followers want him released.”

  I read it and drip wax on the parchment. “You want to execute him?”

  “Yes, it will put an end to it.”

  Sunlight falls through the columns. Leaving the desk, I go to the balcony and gaze out over Jerusalem. “But it might start a riot.”

  “The longer he remains imprisoned, the more dissent we face among his followers. The longer we allow him to criticize Rome and stay alive, the more his reputation as a ‘messiah’ grows. He must be executed.”

  Shivering, I stare at the temple. Much as I fear Barabbas, I refuse to sentence him to death. “Pilate returns in a few days. You may talk it over with him.”

  Demetrius leaves me. I lean against the wall and stare at Jerusalem, stirring only when Libi slips into the room. “My brother is here to speak with Pilate’s representative,” she says.

  “Is Demetrius gone?”

  She nods.

  “Then he must speak with me instead.”

  I meet him in the outer courtyard, draped in his finery, his fingers tight around his father’s staff. Jacob regards me in open disbelief. “Pilate leaves his wife as consul in his absence? I know he doesn’t respect the temple, but he might have greater respect for its messengers!”

  “Pilate respects you as much as you respect him. You did not come here to insult me. What is it?”

  Resentment broods between us. Jacob grinds his teeth and asks, “What have you heard of the messiah?”

  I ask, “Which one, Jesus or Barabbas?”

  He scowls at me. “Jesus!”

  Wind stirs my tunic and casts the scent of oil from the temple. “They say he heals the blind, tends the sick, makes water into wine, and makes cripples walk.”

  “He also doesn’t abide by the Sabbath!”

  I walk the edge of the garden with him at my side.

  “It’s against our laws, yet he heals and performs miracles on the Sabbath! He and his ‘disciples’ travel on the Sabbath!” Contempt rings in his voice and it deepens into a snarl. “Have you heard what he says of the temple and the high priests? He calls us vipers and thieves! He accuses us of heresy!”

  “And this is the business of Pilate?”

  Dark eyes burn at me, alight with hatred. “If he speaks against us, it’s only a matter of time until he speaks against Rome.
You heard of the crowd he amassed on the shores of Galilee, didn’t you?”

  “Five thousand,” I answer, longingly.

  “Yes! They wanted to crown him King of the Jews! Pilate makes it clear there is one authority in Judea—Rome! This false prophet and so-called messiah will come here in a few weeks for Passover with his followers. Imagine if he turns the mob against the temple, against your husband!” His hand grips the staff so hard his knuckles whiten.

  “From what I’ve seen and heard of this messiah, he never speaks against Rome.” Pausing at the end of the courtyard, I turn to him. “But I will tell Pilate of your concerns. He returns in a week.”

  Jacob thanks me with bitter eyes. He sees his sister and hesitates. Libi moves forward hopefully until with a frown he turns and sweeps through the gate.

  I find it hard not to hate him.

  The palace without Pilate feels empty and I go upstairs to watch his approach from the roof. A garrison rides with him, kicking up a cloud of dust as other travelers move aside to let them pass. Once they enter the city, I go downstairs. My heart leaps as he dismounts, handing off his reins to a servant. I take his arm as we go inside. “Is Aretas defeated?”

  “Yes, but he took out Herod’s army in the process. His forces are completely humiliated.” Pilate washes his hands in a basin held by a servant and dries them on linen. “I trust nothing needs my attention?”

  The servant leaves the room.

  “Our prison overflows, the high priests are concerned what the messiah may bring to the temple at Passover, and Demetrius thinks we should reinstate executions. But I—”

  His mouth covers mine. I lean against him, the dust from his armor rubbing onto my tunic. The touch of his fingers against my spine sends thrills through me. Pilate traces the curve of my lip with his thumb. “How I missed you, Claudia.”

  “It’s your own fault for leaving.”

  Blue eyes dance with laughter and he silences me with another kiss.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Quintus arrives three days before Passover week, but I remain unaware of his arrival until I see his servant in the hall. The massive man bows his head to me as I enter the office, where Quintus is giving a full report.