“It does seem a more logical explanation.”
Lazarus passes a basket of fish along the table. “What purpose does it serve to steal the body and claim he is alive?”
“It encourages belief in your messiah.”
His elbows on the table, Lazarus leans forward. “But what purpose does it serve? He is the messiah; if not, why pretend otherwise? It is dangerous to say his name in Jerusalem; the high priests forbid it. Those of unbelief persecute us; they even stone us for performing miracles. Yet still we speak it, because he lives.”
Martha slams the jug noisily on the table. “Brother…”
“This is what Jesus told us to do, Martha!”
She scowls and rips a piece of bread in half.
Pilate refuses any wine. “You believe in a cause but I’m not confident this concerns the messiah.”
“Would we risk our lives otherwise?”
He smiles. “Barabbas also risked his life, not for the messiah but for Judea. Assure me your motives in speaking of this ‘resurrected messiah’ are pure and not to secretly start an uprising against Rome. You do share your table with an insurgent, after all.”
I start to speak and he silences me.
Jacob’s face reddens with shame. “I’m not the man you knew in Rome, Pilate.”
“Are you the one who shouted for Jesus’ death?”
He lifts his chin. “Yes.”
“You saw him die yet you believe he lives?”
Jacob’s sightless eyes stare into the distance. “Yes!”
“Why?”
He indicates the rest of us. “Who but the son of God could take away hatred and replace it with love in those who follow him? You and I, Pilate, we understand hatred. Yet here we sit, surrounded by those we wronged when we put him to death, those who raise no hand to us, but instead forgive us. How is that not miraculous?”
Wind stirs the branches above us.
“Even if you don’t incite violence, such beliefs are dangerous.”
Lazarus opens his arms. “As you would die for Rome, we’d die for our messiah, as he did for us.”
“So you don’t fear death?”
The man shakes his head. “I’ve seen it. I spent three days in death, until he summoned me from the tomb. If death finds me again, I’ll go to Jesus and not that place of waiting.” His face is rapturous and full of longing.
Conversation thrives but Pilate falls silent. I walk him around the courtyard as the others clean up the table.
“What do you think of them?”
Glancing at them, he shrugs. “I don’t know.”
Hermina shrieks with laughter and his eyes soften. I take his hand. “You can trust them.”
Branches sway overhead. Pilate sighs. “I’ll have to.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Pilate dodges the blow and blocks it with his shield. The massive man opposite sends him staggering with a bone-crunching strike of his club. Pilate rolls out of the way, as it thuds into the sand in the arena, leaps to his feet, and kicks the man’s legs out from under him. The gladiator falls with a thud. Pilate’s blade lands at his throat.
I descend the steps as Pilate slices the man’s arm, a shallow scratch but that draws blood. He throws the shield aside and hands his sword to a servant. The gladiator leaves between two centurions.
“He’s undefeated. I bought him for Herod.”
“And you couldn’t resist trying him out first?”
He smirks.
I rarely see him without his armor. “What if a gladiator kills you?”
“Then I’ll be dead, and a fool.”
Shaking my head, I follow him upstairs. Wind blows through the columns, scented with salt from the docks.
“Have you heard from my sister of late?”
“No. But Libi writes that she’s happy and looks forward to seeing us at Passover.”
“We’ll not visit Jerusalem this year.”
Faltering at the door of his office, I ask, “Why?”
“Tiberius wants me to stay in Caesarea; he worries over the potential Samaritan uprising. They have a prophet of their own now. He also sent me this.” He holds out a scroll bearing the imperial seal.
I cross the room and take it. “He orders a removal of the plaques from our palace in Jerusalem?”
“Yes, the Sanhedrin complained.”
Pilate pours a cup of wine from the sideboard. I toss the scroll aside. “Is that why Caiaphas wanted an audience?”
“He said the plaques are graven images, but they’re names, not likenesses. I refused to remove them, so he went over my head.”
Sorting through the documents on his desk, I ask, “Do you think they’re still smarting over the death of the messiah and his inability to truly die?”
“After several years, you’d think they’d get over it.”
The door opens and a centurion enters. Pilate speaks with him and I move out onto the verandah. Ships float in and out of the harbor flying Roman colors. The centurion departs and Pilate rejoins me. “What else did Libi say?”
“She and Quintus are getting married. Will you go?”
Eying the wine in his cup, Pilate shakes his head.
“Can’t you support him?”
He stares out over the sea. “You know I can’t. But I’ll send Demetrius with you for protection on the way.”
Two weeks after Passover, we set out for Jerusalem. Our progress halts on the road miles from the city, as a large group crosses before us.
“Where are they going?”
Demetrius reigns in his horse at my side. “They’re following a Samaritan prophet. He preaches on the banks of the Jordan.”
The last Samaritan moves out of our way and I see the flash of a sword at his side. Demetrius stiffens, but they ignore us as they set out across the grass.
“What does he say, this prophet?”
His eyes narrow as he urges his horse on. “He’s a religious fanatic, often speaking of Moses and holy scrolls.”
Dirt kicks into the air behind us as we ride on. The palace is empty without Pilate and we visit Bethany the next day. Libi embraces me at the gate and pulls me inside. “You must see the dress Martha made for me!”
She holds it up against her and I admire it, glancing out the window into the courtyard where Hermina takes Demetrius a cup of wine. Libi follows my gaze. “She’s happy here. You should tell him that.”
My hand falls to the windowsill. “Is Quintus upset?”
“Yes, but he does understand Pilate’s objections.” Libi folds the gown and sits on the edge of her bed. The room is small but fragrant from the garden. “I’m a servant, after all, and Quintus is a tribune.”
I cross to her. “He’s a tribune who loves you.”
“He shouldn’t.”
Taking her hand, I get her to look at me. “Quintus knows what he wants and it’s you. Just accept it.”
Her eyes warm and I kiss her hand. “I got you a gift from Rome. I thought you might like it.”
She unstops the top and smells. “Perfume?”
“Yes, the finest. Wear it on your wedding night.”
Blushing, she smells it again and smiles. I dab it on her wrists and behind her ears. Mary and I comb out her hair and put it up under a veil. We dress her in the lovely gown and put bracelets on her ankles and arms.
Their marriage is a traditional Roman Jewish ceremony. After speaking the words, she and Quintus sit in the lead tent, as the house overflows with guests. Laughter and music spills into the street through the open gate. Everyone in Bethany is present. Martha stays with me until called away to find more wine, then I slip out of the garden. Shadows flicker around me in the silence. I lean against the wall and sigh.
The surrounding houses are quiet, their lamps out. I hear something in the road and turn but see no one. My skin crawls and I start for the gate, only to gasp as a man steps out before me.
“Claudia,” he says.
My hand falls from my lips to my poundi
ng heart. He moves closer, his face falling into the light.
Barabbas!
I stumble and his hands are on me, pressing over my mouth as he throws me against the wall. I feel a blade at my throat. “Don’t scream,” he whispers in my ear, his body against mine. I nod. He removes his hand. Dark eyes glitter at me. “Where’s Pilate?”
“He’s not here.”
The scent of horses and dirt fills my nose. He scoffs, “Not at his brother in law’s wedding? You lie.”
His blade cuts slightly into my neck. I feel a drop of blood slide toward my chest. “He doesn’t approve.”
“Something we agree on!” Barabbas glances around as footsteps hurry toward him.
A wide-eyed boy appears. “He’s not here!”
Wondering if Demetrius will notice my disappearance, I say, “Pilate isn’t at the wedding. I told you that.”
“Off you go then, warn the others.” The boy runs off into the dark. Barabbas turns to me. “What should I do with you?”
“What did you want to do to me at the first?”
The sneer on his face gives me chills. “You remember that, do you?”
“Yes, and I remember who stopped you.”
Barabbas leans closer. I turn my face away, his breath hot on my cheek. “You mean the dead messiah everyone in this town worships? He stopped me that day but is gone now. Your husband crucified him. I wanted Pilate, but you’ll do.”
Rough stone grinds into my shoulders.
“Will she?”
The voice halts us both; Barabbas looks around as Pilate emerges from the darkness. He releases me and I slide to the ground, spitting up blood.
“So the Prefect did come after all!”
Pilate steps closer. “It’s me you want. Let’s handle this as men, not as cowards who attack defenseless women.”
Behind us, Demetrius leaves the garden. Shocked, he steps forward and Pilate stops him with an outstretched hand. Music drifts over the wall. Barabbas shrugs—and lunges at him. The knife is swift but Pilate ducks under his arm and twists around, causing a snap of bone as he forces Barabbas to his knees. Barabbas cries out in pain. The knife touches Barabbas’ throat.
Hatred rises in me toward him, hatred I fight against as I struggle to my feet. Torchlight dances around us as I approach. “Why do you hate us so much, Barabbas?”
Fierce eyes dart to mine, full of resentment. “I hate what you stand for, what you represent: Rome. I once saw that foul place, a haven of debauchery and sin! It will crumble into dust when the true messiah arrives.”
“Your messiah came, but you didn’t know him.”
Curling his lip, he sneers, “Jesus the pretender! The true messiah will liberate us from Rome!”
I shiver in the cold night air. Pilate says, “Demetrius.”
The guard moves to take hold of Barabbas, leaving Pilate to put his cloak around me. “What do you want me to do with him, Prefect?”
Barabbas laughs. “Judean law prohibits you from executing a prisoner pardoned during Passover. Let me finish what I started!”
“You wouldn’t win. I trained with the Fifth Legion.”
Other shadows approach out of the night, Pilate’s guards. They drag Barabbas to his feet; one of them strikes him in the face. Blood trickles from the corner of his mouth and he spits it out on the ground contemptuously.
“I can’t execute you,” Pilate says, “but I can kill you.” He nods to his men and they drag Barabbas away. Putting an arm around me, Pilot leads me into the garden. A haze of guests and dancers swirl around us.
Libi runs across the courtyard to us, beaming. “You did come after all! Quintus will be so pleased!”
“I thought it time to mend our disagreements,” Pilate says. Her eye falls on me and darkens with concern. Pilate sits me on the nearest chair and moves toward Quintus. I accept the wine gratefully.
“What happened?” she asks.
Quietly, I tell her. Libi puts her hand on my shoulder. “You’re bleeding!”
She takes me inside to tend scratches on my upper back and under my hair. I let her and say ruefully, “I’m sorry! I ruined your wedding day!”
“Barabbas tried to ruin it, but didn’t.” Dabbing at the scrapes, she rinses off the strip of linen.
“Barabbas…” I repeat.
The rag lands in the water basin. “He tried to kill you. You shouldn’t feel sorry for his fate.”
“I’m not.” Her eyes search mine in sudden concern. “Pilate sent him away and I said nothing because it comforts me to know he’s dead.”
Libi is silent.
“For months, he’s worried me and now I feel nothing.”
The door behind us opens and a servant girl says, “Peter has arrived.”
“I’ll be there in a moment.” Libi squeezes my hand as the girl darts out. “I don’t know what to tell you, Claudia. I wish I had answers for you, but Jesus never promised us a simple life. He, as the Son of God, found it easy to forgive; for the rest of us, it’s much harder.” Smoothing the hair out of my face, she says, “You look fine. Come outside and sit with Peter. You’ll like him; he’s one of the messiah’s dearest companions.”
Others gather around him in excitement. Pilate stands at a distance, arms crossed. Peter notices him and falters but sits at the table.
“Tell us of the messiah,” they urge him.
Pilate shifts on his feet. I touch his arm. “Let’s go,” I beg.
“No, I want to hear this.”
Peter smiles and leans toward the children at his feet. “You remember the messiah, don’t you? I walked with him, talked with him, fled the night they took him away. I betrayed him. I promised to stay with him, to remain true to him… but I denied him three times, out of fear for my life, as he foretold.”
Wind stirs the fabric overhead as Demetrius returns.
“But he forgave me after his resurrection. I denied him and in love, he embraced me as a friend! He told me to go forth and make disciples of many nations, to carry his word to you, and all who never knew him!”
One of the guests shakes his head. “He is dead!”
“He lives! I’ve seen him, touched him, and heard his voice!”
Passing behind the guests, Demetrius rejoins us. Pilate glances over and he nods. I feel a thrill of horror and guilt. Barabbas is dead.
“He came not to liberate us from Rome,” Peter says, “but that we might approach his Father in heaven unafraid! He came not to live, but to die in our stead, so we might have everlasting life! He suffered in our stead, so we might be born anew into a new life of righteousness!”
Flames lick into the darkness. Faces gaze at him in wonder. Moving forward, Pilate says, “I took your messiah from you.”
“It’s Pilate!”
Whispers fill the crowd.
“It’s the Prefect!”
One mother wraps an arm around her child and pulls him away from them. Others show fear.
Peter smiles. “He gave his life.”
“Then I didn’t kill him?” Pilate sounds amused.
Unease swirls in the air, the guests fearful. Peter says, “All of us are instruments in God’s hands. Your blame is no less or more than mine, for he died for each of us equally.”
“Only a fool dies for those who don’t want his sacrifice.”
Patting the hand of the nearest child, Peter says softly, “It isn’t foolish to live in hope that a gift, once given freely, will be accepted in time.”
Quiet lurks in the courtyard. Pilate narrows his eyes. Taking his hand, I say quietly, “Let’s go home.”
“Faith isn’t hard to find when you seek it,” Jacob says. He leans on his staff as he moves toward us. “Tomorrow, I visit the tomb one last time. Will you come?”
Faces turn away from us, guests reaching out to Libi and Quintus before slipping out into the darkness.
“If it’s empty, there’s nothing to see, is there?”
Smiling, Jacob says, “There’s always something to s
ee.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
The tomb is empty. I run my hand along the narrow shelf carved into the wall. “So this is where they laid him?”
“Yes.” Jacob’s staff taps on the ground as he feels his way closer. “He left the burial linens in a heap… he didn’t unwind them, simply… escaped them.” Years have passed yet his presence lingers. Jacob leans against the ledge. “Peter burned them, not wanting men to make relics of them, graven images of a dead messiah. But he isn’t dead!”
“Caiaphas disagrees with you.” Pilate ducks as he enters, casting a long shadow across the floor.
Sadness touches Jacob’s face. “There’s much Caiaphas doesn’t understand; he won’t admit his mistake or question his judgment. He had a chance to repent when the temple curtain tore but turned away from the truth, as did Barabbas.”
“As will I, if you can’t convince me, is that what you think?” Pilate asks.
The air in the tomb is fragrant with the scent of wild roses in the garden. Jacob frowns slightly, his hazy eyes focusing on nothing. “I need not convince you, Pilate. You know the truth; you merely wish to deny it.”
“Denial is what you and your friends live in, Jacob. Your messiah is dead. His body was stolen.”
Resting against the wall, Jacob shakes his head. “You want to believe that, but believing it doesn’t make it true. You can’t deny that strange things have happened… or did you not see my dead father walk among us?”
“I did, though I may have been mad at the time.”
The skin at my neck tingles and I look to the burial ledge once more.
“Did madness strike all of us at once?” Jacob feels for Pilate’s shoulder and grips it firmly. “You’re a man of logic and reason, Prefect. Belief is much easier than denial. Or is it you don’t want to believe, in the knowledge that you may have crucified the son of God?”
“His life wasn’t mine to take, according to Peter.”
Jacob’s face softens. “Yes, so why do you fear belief?”
“Your messiah said we must be made anew; I want to stay Pilate.”
Disappointment floods through me as he walks away. I push it aside and touch Jacob’s hand. He turns with a smile. “Libi said you’re planning to leave. Is it true?”
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