“If Vitellius puts pressure on Pilate,” continued Simon, “he will most certainly look for a way of escape, and you, my friend, would provide the perfect scapegoat. It was you who suggested that Jesus be sacrificed for the good of all.” He paused, then added, “Make no mistake about it, Joseph, Pilate will not let the opportunity pass to serve your head on a platter to the Governor, especially to keep his own head off the platter.”
“As always, Simon, your rhetoric is most persuasive. I do not intend to become an Azazel sacrifice.”
Simon laughed, breaking the tension. “Never mind the patronizing, Joseph,” he said without rancor, adjusting his robe. “Doras sees this as his opportunity to move up in stature in the Council. And he is steadily gathering support from some of the more conservative, disgruntled members.”
“So?”
Simon shrugged. “He has already garnered support from among the scribes and certain members of the first chamber. If he sways enough minds, Annas may begin to have thoughts—if he hasn’t already— about maneuvering his son Jonathan into a position of higher visibility among the Romans.”
“To forestall any attempt by Doras to usurp his power,” the High Priest muttered, thinking out loud.
The older man nodded. “We both know that where power and influence are concerned, your father-in-law is a master of manipulation. And your role in this Jesus incident is a prime example.”
That comment had set Caiaphas to thinking. Was there more to the dreams that haunted him than he was willing to admit? Was it possible that there was something of critical importance he had missed? Was he somehow being manipulated?
“You are the first non-lineal descendant of Annas to hold the position of High Priest of the Great Sanhedrin,” pressed Simon, “and you have ruled successfully now for fifteen years. Yet power is a fickle and persistent mistress—”
“What does all this have to do with the crucifixion of one blaspheming Jew? As High Priest of the Great Sanhedrin, I alone have the responsibility for maintaining the sanctity of the Faith. While we might have tolerated some of the claims the man made, we most certainly could not tolerate his insistence that He was the Son of God and that upon His death his ‘Father’ would resurrect him from the dead. Even the Pharisees were uncomfortable with those claims.”
“Listen to me, Joseph. . .you haven’t been yourself lately. There’s been talk among a number of the Council members that you’re not the same forceful man who boldly confronted Pilate seven years ago. We need a High Priest who is strong enough to keep the Romans in check.”
“What do you recommend?”
“Reassert your strength. Let the Council see that you haven’t forgotten what it means to be a Sadducee—and the High Priest. You must prove to them, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that there is no reason to be concerned about any loose ends in this affair.”
Mounting morning heat brought Caiaphas back to the present. He belched involuntarily, then gagged. The sourness fermenting in his belly had risen from his stomach and scorched his throat with its foulness. He stood up on wobbly legs and a wave of nausea threatened to shatter his precarious balancing act. He reached out and grabbed hold of the acacia. Why had he gotten so drunk?
The sun, a scorching irritant, added to his discomfort.
Glancing furtively at the sky one final time, he gathered his dirt-stained, wrinkled robes about him and, leaving the security of the acacia behind as a lame man leaves behind his staff, he headed for the house, remembering his last words to Simon.
“Tell the Council I shall make a formal report immediately. Tell them I intend to conduct a thorough investigation into the events surrounding the arrest, trial, and crucifixion of the Nazarene.” He paused, then added, “And Simon, old friend, rest assured, I have no intention of allowing Doras, or anyone else for that matter, living or dead, to destroy forty-three years of hard work.”
• • •
Annas, the seventy-first member of the Great Council at Jerusalem and the real power behind both the High Priest and the Sanhedrin for more than twenty-five years, gazed out the window of the inn at Caesarea Phillipi and marveled at the beauty of Mt. Hermon, rising over nine thousand feet above the Mediterranean.
“Such beauty. . .yet such apostasy,” he mumbled, thinking of his last conversation with Caiaphas. “What a contradiction Mt. Hermon represents,” he had told his son-in law when he’d returned from his last visit to Syria.
“I don’t understand, Annas.”
“As you know it was at one time the primeval religious center of Syria.”
The High Priest nodded.
“What you might not know is that the ancient Canaanites sacrificed goats, bulls, dogs, and even men, offering up the still warm blood from the dead carcasses to the demon god Baal.” He knew by the look on his son-in-law’s face that he had his attention. “And yet, in spite of the darkness it represents, there is light. The melting glaciers of the mountain provide the main source of water for the Jordan River. I have seen the cooling snows of its white capped peaks from as far away as the Dead Sea, one hundred twenty miles distant.”
“There are those here in Jerusalem who swear that one can tell whether or not the crops will bring forth an abundant harvest by how far down the white cap sits on the head of the father of the dew, Abu-Nedy, one of its peaks,” the High Priest observed.
“There, you see what I mean,” Annas had replied with consternation. “Man is easily deceived by his senses.”
He sighed with the recollection. How long it would be before he would have to intercede in his son-in-law’s affairs? There were serious problems within the Sanhedrin.
Fortunately, however, his meeting with Vitellius had gone well. The governor had agreed with him that Pilate was expendable and had informed him that he was receiving regular correspondence from Pilate’s Praetorian. When he asked if Vitellius was referring to Deucalion Cincinnatus, the governor had gotten extremely angry and questioned him at length about his source of information on the man he had sent to spy on the Procurator of Judea.
Annas had been vague in his responses and was satisfied that he had not divulged anything of importance to the governor. Nevertheless, he could not shake an ominous sense of foreboding. His internal barometer told him that the political climate of Judea was about to change dramatically. Although he wasn’t exactly sure what was in the winds, he could feel the change coming. He had no way of gauging the magnitude of what he sensed, but he didn’t intend to be caught unprepared when it materialized.
A cloud passed overhead, briefly obscuring the early morning sun, and Annas experienced a moment of dread. If he believed in omens, it would be easy to believe that the dream he had just before the sunrise was a harbinger of disaster.
Like all Jews, he was a great believer in the power of dreams. Being but one of the many domains of his experience, they had intellectual, ethereal, and spiritual significance. This particular dream had attached itself to his conscious, waking thoughts, as a barnacle attaches itself to its host, and that made it unusual.
He stood in the middle of the desert, sweating profusely, and listened as Elijah rebuked him for his involvement with the Roman bureaucracy. The prophet, whose name meant God is Jehovah, reminded him of his own problems with Jezebel and the consequences of disobeying God, and then gave him a stern warning. “If you persist in your self-serving manipulations, Annas, no rain will fall upon Jerusalem and its environs for six years.”
Before Annas could respond, the setting changed to the top of Abu-Nedy. He stood waist deep in cold, grey-white snow, shivering uncontrollably. Frightened by his predicament, he tried unsuccessfully to free himself, but could not. He cried out frantically in a hoarse voice, pleading for someone to rescue him, but no one heard him.
Suddenly, the stars in the purple-black sky melted together in an explosion of light, causing tears with the consistency of oil and the odor of frankincense to flow from his eyes like a river. In front of him, swathed in the light of the sun, sto
od the Galilean—the Jew from Nazareth.
Stunned, he raised his arm towards Jesus.
He must touch the man. . .
He’d awakened at the first light of dawn, drenched in sweat, and even now, over an hour later, his throat felt raspy and dry, as if he’d been screaming in his sleep. He swallowed gingerly and took one last look at Abu-Nedy, then reluctantly pulled his eyes from the magnificent mountain as the sun crested its snow-covered peaks.
His servant was in the courtyard below, filling a bucket with water from the well. “Polonius, fetch my bags,” he called out hoarsely. “It’s time we were on our way.”
CHAPTER THREE
Ten miles east of Jerusalem and eight miles south of Jericho, on the shore of the Great Salt Sea that the Arabs call Bahr Lut, the Sea of Lot, the Watcher, Uriel, looked out over the greenish expanse of water and licked the crystalline coating of salt from his cracked, sun-parched lips. He was tall, over six feet, with silver-gray hair. His shoulders were broad and well muscled, and even though he was old, he seemed ageless.
As the sun passed its zenith, and as Annas headed for Jerusalem, Uriel turned and walked briskly towards the cliffs behind him and to the cave where he knew Joseph ben Kohath waited for him. In a few moments he climbed almost to the top. It would have taken a man in superb condition, half his age considerably longer.
Joseph heard Uriel enter the cave, but did not immediately look up from where he was tending the fire. The heaviness in his heart had not lifted during the past weeks and he was grateful that the old man had not pried into its cause.
They had met on the day after he fled the tomb of the Nazarene. He’d come to the great inland sea because he knew he would find what he desperately needed—solitude and time to think. He’d been walking along the beach, looking for shelter from the heat, when the old man had appeared, seemingly out of thin air.
“Come, I have prepared a place for you,” Uriel had said to him, staring at him with hazel-green eyes that blazed with a luminescence that was soft yet penetrating.
Although he had been surprised by the old man’s sudden appearance, oddly, he felt drawn to the silver-haired stranger.
“Where?” he asked.
Uriel looked up. “There,” he replied, pointing to the top of a shear wall of rock.
“I don’t see anything.”
“The eyes of a man can be deceived, my young friend, and all is not what it appears to be. There is a cave. . .where you can rest.”
That had been more than a month ago. Unfortunately, there had not been much rest. Not because of anything Uriel had demanded, but because of the battle that raged inside him. He attempted to rid himself of his inner torment by eating and drinking only the barest amount of food and water, and by spending long hours in prayer late at night. During the day, he spent several hours walking along the beach, reviewing Scripture in his mind. The discipline had firmed up his soft flesh even as the sunlight had steadily converted the dull pallor of his skin into a handsome bronze coloring. Still, his dreams were often troubled.
When he looked up, Uriel was staring at him, and the old man’s eyes seemed to radiate light. Suddenly, Joseph made a decision. “How was your walk this morning?” he asked.
“The smell of great change is in the air, my young friend,” Uriel replied as he sat down across from Joseph.
Joseph wasn’t sure what the old man was talking about, but then he was accustomed to cryptic replies to his questions. His teachers had often spoken of spiritual matters in the same manner—always using words that held double meaning. However, the old man’s words had an astounding affect upon him. An overwhelming surge of emotion welled up inside of him and, abruptly, he began to sob.
Uriel was startled, completely unprepared for the sudden outburst. Uncertain what to do, he waited patiently for Joseph to regain control, then handed him a ladle of water from a nearby bucket.
Joseph took several sips. “You probably think me foolish,” he said as he wiped his face on his tunic.
Uriel remained silent.
“I was given the opportunity to share in the life of one who was bound by neither wealth nor poverty, knowledge nor the lack thereof,” continued the younger man, “and I turned my back upon that freedom, unwilling to lose that which I perceived to be of greater value.”
“And what was that?”
“Silver and gold.”
“Aha. . .I see.”
Joseph took a final sip of water, then handed the ladle back, taking care not to spill the precious liquid. “Now, the man is dead,” he added, looking at the old man with moist, red eyes.
“Oh?” Uriel poured the remaining liquid into the bucket without taking any.
“We awaited His coming for a thousand years and yet, in the end, we denied Him. Now, the bitter irony of our apostasy, Golgotha, the place of the skull, shall indelibly mark us even as Cain was marked for the murder of his brother, Abel.”
Both men were quiet, pensive, and each seemed disconnected from the present as they sat facing one another in the late afternoon stillness, their eyes locked together. There was a loud pop! from within the fire, and an amber colored slug of dried sap arced upward and outward, landing between the two statue-like men.
“It is not easy to battle wickedness, especially when one hasn’t seen the enemy,” Uriel said, breaking the silence. Then, as if reminding himself of something he must not forget, he added, “And the weapons of our warfare are not of the physical realm, but mighty through God, that we might pull down the strongholds of the destroyer and his minions.”
Joseph had the impression that he and the old man shared a similar pain. Oddly, he felt that soon he would come full circle from his mistake in Bethel. “You speak of strange things,” he whispered, frowning. “And your words remind me of my time of study with Rabbi ben Hillel. . .in preparation for my bar mitzvah. Yet with him I knew what was expected, what I was preparing for. But here in this cave, separated from all that I once held in high esteem, it seems I am isolated from purpose as well.”
“What you seek, Joseph is Life and Light. Life that remains uncaged by the bars of time. Light so pure that its brilliance knows no limitation.”
“I don’t understand.”
Uriel smiled. “Finish your story. If you still need an explanation after that, then I’ll give you one.”
He’s doing it again, thought Joseph. Speaking with words that hold double meaning. Still confused, but, strangely, no longer blindingly frustrated, he continued where he left off.
“About the middle of March, my father sent me to Judea to purchase a new boat for our fleet. I concluded my business and was waiting for a boat to take me back to Cyprus when I chanced upon my cousin from Jerusalem, John Mark. As we had not seen each other for quite some time, we sat down in the shade of a palm tree and caught one another up on what had been happening in our lives.”
“I told him of the growth of my uncle and father’s fishing fleets, and of my family’s prosperity. “I too have prospered,” he said smiling, “but in a much different way.”
“When I questioned him about it, he asked me if I would go with him to Bethel.
“There,” he added cryptically, “you will find your answer.”
“By the time we arrived, a great multitude had gathered in a large semi-circle. In front of them, reclining against a tree, was a man. The hot afternoon sun filtered through the tattered canopy of palm leaves, lighting His face as if it were glowing.” Joseph sighed and poked the embers of the fire with a stick. “His gaze was penetrating, unwavering, and I had the impression that as he made eye contact with each of us he could read our character in an instant. I was overcome with an almost overpowering desire to touch Him.”
“Why?”
“Because, when he spoke, it was difficult not to listen to Him—His words were full of power.”
Uriel nodded with understanding. “Go on.”
“I implored my cousin to get me close enough to the man called Jesus, so that I
might address Him personally. He was on his knees, praying for a group of children. When he looked up at me, all I could think to ask of him was, ‘Good Master, what good thing shall I do, that I may have eternal life?’”
“He didn’t answer me immediately, but again looked deep into my eyes. This time my whole body trembled as he stared at me.”
“‘Why do you call Me good?” he asked. “There is none good but one that is God: but if you would enter into life, keep the commandments.”
“Which commandments?” I asked.
“You shall not murder, nor commit adultery. You shall not steal, nor shall you bear false witness. Honor your father and your mother, and love your neighbor as yourself.”
“But all these things I have kept from my youth,” I replied, bewildered. “What do I lack?”
“If you would be perfect, go and sell all that you have and give it to the poor, and you shall have treasure in Heaven. . .then come and follow me.” Joseph paused and sighed heavily, then added, “That was something I could not do.”
Night fell as the two men talked, and the cave walls came alive with shimmering shadows of flickering firelight as Joseph placed another log on the dying fire.
“There comes a time,” began Uriel as he watched the red-hot embers ignite the dry wood, “when an individual must make a choice between what his five physical senses tell him is real, and what his inner man, what the Scripture refers to as neshamah, the breath of life, tells him to be aware of.” His eyes sparkled with light coming from some other source than that from the now steadily burning fire.
“It is not an easy path to follow, but as you learn more about the enemy that has been the source of your torment, you will learn patience. Soon, the thief will be exposed.”
Joseph’s whole body tingled. This man seems to know more about me than I do about myself, he thought, intrigued. Strange. . .he speaks with the same authority as the Nazarene.
“Continue your story, Joseph—we haven’t much time.”
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