• • •
Joseph ben Caiaphas, High Priest of the Most High God, felt the sunrise upon his face long before he saw it with his eyes—and feeling it, began to dream.
He stood in the marble hall, before the Sanhedrin. Seventy old men stared down at him with hollow, vacant eyes. He felt fear—gut wrenching, heart stopping panic.
The balance of power, painstakingly developed through years of study and worship, was disintegrating. Joshua had returned. And he’d commanded the sun and moon to stand still, once again. Forever. Never again was the earth to know darkness. Never again was man to be allowed the luxury of exercising his debaucheries under the cover of night. Light now reigned supreme. The sin of Adam could no longer be denied.
Suddenly, the walls of the hall became transparent. Outside, thousands of fellow Jews had gathered. Roman soldiers penned them in on all sides, like slaves about to be auctioned off. They had come, not to hear the High Priest speak, but to hear the message of the CHRISTOS—the anointed One. In frustration, the Sanhedrin kept demanding that the high priest give them an answer. “What are we to do, Joseph?”
“Crucify Him!” he shouted and, outside, the mob took up the chant. But all he could hear was an echo: THE BLOOD OF THE LAMB—THE BLOOD OF—THE BLOOD. . .
Time and space dissolved and he sensed that his order had been executed. However, the crucifixion of the heretical Jew, Jesus, did not cause the sun to move again in normal fashion. Instead, it glowed brighter. Caiaphas spun, confronting angry faces on all sides. The walls started to close around him and still the light consumed everything. The Council members began to shake angry fists at him. Several of them, including his father-in-law, Annas, demanded that he order the sun to cease its rebellion and give darkness back its rightful place in the scheme of things . . .
Abruptly, Caiaphas awoke, as he had on several mornings the past four weeks: mouth dry, tongue swollen, body drenched. And his eyes were filled with tears, as if he’d been crying uncontrollably in his sleep. He groaned, then uttered a silent curse. Hopefully, there was enough water on hand to quench the fiery thirst raging in his throat.
He glanced furtively at the heavens. His dream had been so vivid that he fully expected to see both sun and moon radiating in the crystal blue sky. Instead, the morning looked normal and so perfectly ordinary that he wondered why he’d ever been afraid.
• • •
At about the same time Joseph Caiaphas was rubbing sleep from his eyes, a man of medium build, with a square cut face and curly black hair pomaded with olive oil, paced the floor of his Jerusalem residence. The Procurator Caesaris had awakened hours before the sun began to rise hot and bright over the city. Sleep had become a luxury of the past for Pontius Pilate.
The man Rome had selected to govern Judea wrestled yet again with his tortured conscience. He cringed in pain as the pounding inside his head reached epic proportions. “It will be a hot, dry summer,” he said aloud to the walls. He cursed the day he was sent to this land forsaken by the gods and filled with quarrelsome, rebellious Jews.
He poured himself a flagon of wine and greedily drank half of it down in one gulp. Unfortunately, the warm blood-red liquid would only dull, not eliminate, his raging pain. He watched the daylight carpet the city that had become his nemesis. The desert heat steadily worked its way into his dark skin. He grimaced as the prophetic words of Claudia, his wife, beckoned to him, as they had done daily for the past month.
“The Hebrew priests have beguiled you, Pontius,” she had said with defiance, on the eve of the trial. “Beware, and touch not that man. . .for He is holy. Last night I saw Him in a vision: He was walking on the waters; He was flying on the wings of the winds. There was a mighty storm raging about Him. He spoke to the tempest and to the fish of the lakes; all were obedient to Him. Behold, the forest in Mt. Kellum flows with blood, the statues of Caesar are filled with the filth of Gemoniae, the columns of the Intercium have given way, and the sun is mourning like a vestal in the tomb. Oh Pilate, evil awaits you if you will not listen to the prayer of your wife!”
He took another gulp of wine and pressed trembling hands into tired, reddened eyes. His headaches grew worse by the day. Why hadn’t he listened? What evil, indeed, awaited him? Gods protect me, he thought miserably and wished desperately that he had never heard of Judea or Jesus of Nazareth.
Suddenly, the throbbing behind his eyes became so intense that he cried out, loud enough to wake his servant, Antonius, who came running.
• • •
Not far away, another man, a Jew in his mid-fifties, stood silently on one of the many balconies of the Hasmonian Palace and admired the coral colored dawn. His rectangular face was composed of deep-set eyes and a square chin that supported taut, thin lips.
Lost in thought, he barely heard the trumpet blasts that saluted the sunrise. In each of the fourteen districts of the city the Praetorian Guard were even now synchronizing the water clocks., Throughout Jerusalem the elite of the Roman citizenry were awakening, preparing to eat a breakfast of wine-soaked bread, pullet, and fresh eggs.
Herod Antipas, Tetrarch of Galilee, shared with the beleaguered Roman Procurator—though for different reasons and with different effect—a sense of frustration and impotence. He was a man of action, as had been his father, Herod the Great, and so his failure to maintain the momentum of the powerful political apparatus the now dead patriarch had forged, disturbed him deeply. He sighed heavily, remembering a recent conversation he had with the one man he reviled most—the man who had usurped his father’s authority. Even though he would never admit it to anyone, the subject matter of that conversation had caused him many a sleepless night.
“You’re a vain man, Herod,” the Roman Procurator had said the day after the crucifixion of the heretical Nazarene, as he offered his guest a goblet of wine, “and your vanity will be your downfall. . .just as it was your father’s.”
“Aren’t you even going to thank me for helping you solve your problem?”
The short, balding man whom Herod knew hated Jews with a fanatical passion stared at him with cold, brown eyes. The Tetrarch noted that the muscle along Pilate’s jaw line twitched imperceptibly.
“What exactly do you mean by that?” growled the Procurator.
“Only that now you have no one to blame for your problems—except yourself.”
“You dare talk to me that way! It is I who occupy the palace your father built. Not you. Too often you seem to forget that it is we Romans who rule Judea and the surrounding territory, not you Jews.”
“There is not a day that goes by that I don’t think about both of those facts, Pontius.” His reply had been as hard with contempt as it had been truthful.
“No doubt,” grunted the Procurator. “However, if you’re not careful, your appetite for power might very well choke you to death.”
Now, weeks later, Antipas wiped the sweat from his brow with a white linen cloth he carried for just such a purpose. He thought about Pilate’s unsettling words and the unusual events that had unfolded two days after they were spoken. What really had happened at the Nazarene’s tomb? He chuckled without humor at his own mordant curiosity. Unfortunately, all he knew on this hot, dry May morning was that the lack of any breeze was a portent of a long, stifling summer.
“Master, a courier has arrived with a parchment from Rome.”
He turned at the sound of his secretary’s voice. “And?” he snarled, angry at being disturbed.
“The Praetorian says it’s urgent.”
What could be so important that Rome would send a message here to Jerusalem, rather than waiting for him to return to Caesarea? And in the hands of a Praetorian, no less. Suddenly, he had a premonition of impending doom. He shivered, and then wrapped his robe snugly about him and reached for a brimming cup of mulsum, a wine and honey mixture he had acquired a taste for as a result of his association with the Roman Procurator.
“Make the Praetorian comfortable,” he said gruffly. “Tell him I’ll
be with him shortly.”
Deucalion Quinctus Cincinnatus, Pontius Pilate’s Commander of the Garrison, waited patiently for Herod Antipas’ secretary to bring him refreshment and thought about how far he had come in his career in such a short time. His father would be proud of him, were he alive.
When he arrived in Jerusalem eight weeks ago, he’d found the city, and the surrounding countryside, on the verge of violent rebellion. After organizing the garrison, he systematically dealt with the more dissident Jews—not by slaughtering them, but by giving them an opportunity to vent their frustrations. Utilizing a political instead of a military approach, he established three mini-tribunals to hear their grievances and persuaded Pilate to accede to some of the Jews less offensive demands. Peace had been temporarily restored. As a result, Pilate had taken an immediate interest in him.
“We share a common bond, you and I,” said the Procurator the first night they’d gotten drunk together.
“What’s that?” he asked, hoping he was not slurring his words, then realizing it probably wouldn’t matter.
“Neither of us is willing to compromise our faith in the Republic and its future. . .even in the face of our growing doubt that Rome is as eternal as the Emperor leads us to believe.”
During many subsequent hours, they solved numerous problems connected with ruling a stubborn and arrogant people, thousands of miles from home. Within two weeks, Pilate asked Lucius Vitellius, Governor over Syria, to transfer Deucalion to Jerusalem permanently. Surprisingly, the request was approved. Deucalion found out why not long after. In addition to transfer orders, Vitellius had sent a special messenger with private orders.
Deucalion Cincinnatus,
Hail Caesar!
As you are well aware by now, Jerusalem, though a hotbed of insurrection, is also the site of the Temple. Rome has certain pecuniary arrangements with the priests in charge of financial administration of Temple proceeds, monies received as tithes from the faithful. You are to make sure that Pilate does nothing to interfere with the flow of payments to the Empire.
There was one minor problem with the arrangement—he and Pilate had become friends. In fact, he suspected that Pilate saw him as the son he’d never had. And for reasons Deucalion never understood, he carried within himself a certain code of honor—one that might hamper a soldier’s rise to ultimate power. One, he reminded himself grimly, that Malkus did not share. He sometimes allowed relationships to curb ambition. A definite weakness.
And now, there was yet another problem.
Something extraordinary had happened four weeks ago, three days after the Passover of the Jews, and he had not had a full night’s sleep since. Although he was still not sure exactly what had transpired, he was certain of one thing: the world he was born into twenty-seven years ago was not the same world in which he now lived. There was something different, something new and exciting afoot. It was as palatable to him as air and light. And he was determined to discover just what it was—no matter what the cost.
CHAPTER TWO
As Jerusalem roused itself from the night, Caiaphas groaned and sat up. Fighting dizziness, he focused his eyes on the black bark and soft green leaves of the Shit’tah tree rising twenty feet above him, and then took several deep breaths, savoring the refreshing, sweet fragrance of the acacia’s drooping yellow flowers.
Once again he had fallen into a drunken sleep in the outer courtyard of the mansion located a stone’s throw from the Herodian Palace, in that part of Jerusalem called the Upper City, where he lived along with his wife and father-in-law, Annas. His late night bantering with his old friend and confidante, Simon ben Gamaliel, was as fresh in his mind as the aftertaste of wine was sour in his mouth. Both the conversation and the wine had started out to be pleasurable; yet, in the short space of a few hours, both had soured.
His former teacher had arrived unexpectedly just after he had finished his evening prayers. Even more unexpected than his friend’s unannounced arrival was the news he brought from the Sanhedrin.
“Joseph, the Council has asked me to convey their concern regarding the continuing unrest among the people,” began the older man solemnly. He spoke with the same quiet forcefulness that had changed many a Pharisee’s disagreement into agreement with, and even at times enthusiastic support of, the ideas of the predominately Sadducee council. “Instead of quenching the fires of insurrection burning in the hearts of the rebels and zealots, your solution seems to have fanned the flames into epidemic proportions.”
Caiaphas had been shocked at the harsh words. “That’s nonsense, Simon. It has only been a month since the crucifixion and we’ve heard nothing of the man’s disciples. In fact, my sources tell me that they have all gone into hiding, fearing for their lives. They are completely disorganized.”
“I fear not. Perhaps the disciples are in hiding, but the Romans have evidence that the rebel ranks are swelling, not diminishing.”
“What of the sicari anyway?” he retorted, using the Latin term for the zealots to emphasize his distaste for those the Romans called dagger men or professional assassins. “Barabbas has not been seen nor heard from since his release.” He paused, filled two goblets with the last of the spring wine, and handed one of the brimming cups to Simon. When he continued, his voice was cold and hard. “Pilate should be most pleased with the results we achieved. One man dies and the opposition to authority, both religious and secular, dies with him.”
He gave Simon the forceful, intimidating look that all who knew the High Priest, save his longtime friend, found hard to withstand, and concluded, “Since when can Rome make the same claim?”
“All that is true; however, there are members of the Council, led by Doras, who feel that your handling of this matter was, shall we say, incomplete.”
That was when he lost his temper; something he had been doing frequently recently. “Doras is not even a member of the first chamber! He’s merely an elder, an aristocrat who purchased his seat on the Council.”
“Joseph, we’ve been through this before,” sighed his friend. “The Council has no proof, nor, I might add, even allegations, of any impropriety or wrongdoing on his part. And you know better than I that Doras is as cunning as he is immoral.” There was just a hint of impatience in his voice. “Unless you’re prepared to bring formal charges, the Council cannot sit in judgment.”
“The man’s a disgrace, Simon. His devotion is to his pocketbook and his daughter—in that order. I doubt his daughter will help us ruin her father politically.”
“Do not underestimate the power of Doras, Joseph,” counseled the older man sternly. “His close relationship with Herod Antipas gives him access to the ears of the Syrian Governor. Lucius Vitellius governs with an iron hand, and as a result hasn’t had the problems Pilate has encountered here in Judea. The Council, including Annas, believes that Vitellius is extremely displeased with Pilate’s handling of the matter of Jesus of Nazareth. We can use that to our advantage.”
“Syria is a long way from Jerusalem.”
Simon scowled. “You’re missing the point. We’ve worked hard for a very long time to achieve a measure of autonomy within the Roman hierarchy, and we cannot afford to have an incident such as this unleash the wrath of Vitellius or Tiberius.”
“But Simon—”
“Let me finish, Joseph. You were always much too impatient for your own good.” The teacher was once again educating the student with practiced patience. “As you are well aware, Pilate has not exactly had an unblemished record since his arrival here seven years ago.”
Simon was referring to the numerous confrontations between the Jews and the sixth Procurator of Judea. The five men who had preceded Pontius Pilate had all been diplomatic in their handling of the occupation of Jerusalem. Not so the current Procurator. Even his superiors considered him to be a reckless and tactless individual.
Pilate’s predecessors had studiously avoided any unnecessary exhibition of flags or other emblems bearing images of the Emperor Tiberius, so
as not to offend the sacred sentiments of the native population. Pilate, on the other hand, had been nominated by the late Sejanus, Tiberius’ former minister and commander of the Praetorian Guard. He shared his benefactor’s lack of sympathy for Jewish separatist manifestations and cared little for what he considered to be religious sentimentality.
Upon his arrival in Jerusalem he ordered his garrison of soldiers to raise their standards and banners, emblazoned with the image of Tiberius, and had marched into the city by night with much pomp and circumstance. This brash demonstration of authority had provoked an immediate and massive protest on the part of the residents of the city.
The Council, led by Caiaphas, met with Pilate and begged him to remove the standards, fearing that the brazen disregard for Jewish religious custom, which did not allow the representation of graven images, would result in rebellion among the already tense populous. Pilate refused. The Council argued with him for five days to reconsider. Eventually, Pilate became enraged and summoned the entire city to the racecourse, then surrounded the people with a detachment of his soldiers and informed them that unless they gave up their insanity, and discontinued their harassment of his men, he intended to kill each and every one of them.
To his consummate dismay, all of them—men, women, and children—threw themselves to the ground, exposed their necks, and served Pilate notice that they, the children of Abraham, would rather die than willingly see the Holy City defiled. Pilate yielded. The standards and images were withdrawn. That event would forever blot the record of this career soldier from Spain.
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