The Master's Quilt

by Michael J. Webb

  Abruptly, Deucalion realized that the source of the feelings beginning to crystallize within him was also the source of the Procurator’s torment. The revelation came as he remembered the conversation he had with Pilate’s secretary, Antonius, two days ago.

  “There is no one I can trust with what I’m about to say but you, Deucalion. Do I have your word you will not repeat our conversation?” Antonius had whispered.

  He nodded his assent.

  “My master is plagued by a demon. He wrestles with it nightly in his sleep.”

  The fear he had seen in Antonius’ eyes had startled him. “Sometimes I think I will wake in the morning and find his chambers empty. . . his body having simply been swallowed up by the darkness.”

  “And what is the source of all this?”

  “My master is obsessed,” whispered the distressed slave, “with the death of the Jew from Galilee. He believes the man posed insufficient threat to Rome to warrant crucifixion. Although he hates the Jews, and especially their preoccupation with their God, he feels that Roman law, in this case, did not provide a just resolution. He believes there should have been a compromise.”

  Deucalion understood all too well what Antonius was saying. Ironically, Pilate, defender of the sanctity of the state, had found himself in what was for all practical purposes a situation in which no victory was possible. Jesus had done nothing wrong as far as Pilate and Roman law was concerned. Yet the Jews, whom Pilate despised, insisted Jesus be put to death.

  Pilate would have loved nothing better than to free Jesus, and in so doing, spit in the faces of the priests who sentenced him to die. Yet, because of a quirk of the law, he had been forced to validate their mandate and carry out their wishes. Hoping for a way out, he sent Jesus to Antipas, who had in turn sent him back to Pilate. Not only had the Jews successfully drawn blood with their ploy, but they twisted the blade in the wound as well.

  “Enough of this talk of madness and death,” Pilate said as he slapped Deucalion upon the back, exhibiting genuine affection for his attaché. “We have more pressing, and much less philosophical, matters to discuss.”

  In the blink of an eye Pilate’s demeanor had changed dramatically. He was now the soldier planning his campaign. “Antipas has not responded to my request that he make an accounting for his actions in the case of Jesus of Nazareth.”

  “He seemed highly agitated when I gave him the scroll from Rome,” interjected Deucalion, bringing his thoughts back to the conversation at hand.

  “As well he should be,” Pilate grunted. “Rome will expect me to provide them with some sort of justification for my actions in the matter. And, as you are well aware, they want an immediate solution to the problem of the increasing insurgency among the populace.” He did not add, although it went without saying, that was why Deucalion had been sent to Judea. The Procurator hated to be reminded of his shortcomings.

  “With all due respect, Pontius, your problem is not Rome. Nor is it Antipas.”

  The older man winced. He did not take criticism well, even from Deucalion. “No? Who then?”

  “Caiaphas. . .and the Sanhedrin.”

  “Aha! You’ve been doing some investigating on your own, haven’t you? Do you think I should tighten the reins a bit?” He smiled sardonically. “Perhaps about the neck of Annas?”

  Deucalion shrugged, squinting against the harsh glare. He had plans that he dared not mention. “Perhaps,” he echoed, “but not immediately.”

  Despite the breeze that had arisen, both men’s tunics were soaked, yet neither seemed to feel it.

  “Oh?”

  “We need to know more about what is happening within the Sanhedrin. I have a feeling there is more going on than we are aware of, even with the information your spies supply.”

  “And how do you propose to accomplish that task? “

  Deucalion smiled. He was back in control of the conversation. “I’ve received an invitation from a dissident member of the Great Council. One who sent me a secretive, rather tantalizing, note indicating that he has certain information he wishes to impart to you, through me.”

  Pilate was suddenly apprehensive. “Why you?”

  “I’m not sure. Perhaps he feels more secure speaking with an intermediary. At any rate, he says the information could be most valuable in cleaning up what he circumspectly referred to as ‘the dilemma Caiaphas has gotten us all into.’”

  “Most interesting, indeed.” Pilate stroked his chin with his right hand, toying with the three-day stubble that further darkened his deep brown coloring. “And this ferret’s name?”

  “Doras.”

  “You accepted, of course?” Deucalion smiled again and Pilate slapped his shoulder. “Well then, by all means, indulge him. We don’t want to disappoint a member of the Great Sanhedrin, now do we?”

  “As you wish, Procurator.”

  “If only I had a hundred men like you. . .” chuckled Pilate. “When is this, ah, meeting to take place?”

  “Tonight. I’m to have dinner with him at his home.”

  “Excellent. This could be the answer I’ve been hoping for, gods be praised.”

  A shocked look crossed Deucalion’s face. “I didn’t know you favored the gods, Pontius.”

  “I don’t,” Pilate replied and grinned expansively.

  “I don’t understand.”

  Pilate shrugged. “Destiny, Commander, destiny.”

  Deucalion grew thoughtful. He had always found the Roman preoccupation with gods somewhat foolish, but the idea that a man’s fate was predetermined—even before his birth—was something else altogether. “Who determines a man’s destiny, then, if there are no gods?” he asked.

  “I didn’t say there are no gods, just that I don’t favor them. Only men who have no answers from within seek answers from without.”

  “Are you that sure of yourself, then?”

  Pilate flinched. “And why shouldn’t I be?”

  “What if we are not in control of our destiny? What if there is only one God, such as the Hebrews claim, Who created everything and rules from His throne in Heaven?”

  Pilate stopped walking and eyed his commander. “I listen to that rot from the Jews—I certainly don’t expect to hear it from a Praetorian,” he replied harshly. “Now, tell me about this Doras.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Deucalion arrived at Doras’ house, located not far from the Temple, in the minutes just after sunset. As he approached the entrance to the small but prominent residence, he marveled at the sanguine complexion of the sky. There is nothing to compare in the entire world with the beauty of the setting or rising sun, he thought.

  He also thought about his mother, knowing she would approve of his musings. She was Greek, and a student of Plato. She, like her philosophical mentor, believed in the love of the Idea of beauty, the doctrine that physical objects are merely impermanent representations of unchanging ideas.

  “It is ideas alone that give true knowledge, Deucalion, not the imperfect manifestations of the Idea as they become known by the mind,” she told him, just before he left for Syria.

  At the time, her words confused him. But now, as he watched the sun disappear over the rim of the world, he felt as if he knew what she had been trying to say.

  If light was absolute, he reflected, then one might conclude that it was the very essence of spirit; being free from all impurity meant that it had the power to cleanse any lesser form simply by coming into contact with that form. The manifestation of that cleansing then became of secondary importance—an effect, rather than a result.

  Hi head spun with the intensity of his thoughts. He closed his eyes momentarily in an attempt to steady himself. When he opened them, the rich, vibrant colors of sunset had melted together into the soft yellow bronze of dusk.

  He started for the doorway when something caught his eye. He looked up and glimpsed the face of a dark-haired woman watching him from the portico above the veranda. He raised his hand to shield out the glare and blin
ked, then looked closer. The woman was gone, leaving nothing but shadows dancing across the gypsum-coated, sun- dried brick walls. “Must be the heat,” he muttered and strode forward.

  The first thing he noticed as he entered Doras’ house was the cleanliness; there didn’t seem to be a speck of dust anywhere. And that was most unusual, even for a Jew, since Jerusalem was a very dusty city. The second thing he realized was that Doras was not a poor man. The small home was filled with a variety of expensive rugs, brass and copper lamp stands, and marble furniture.

  Dinner was served in the main living area. He sat opposite his host upon cushions covered with very expensive carpets from Persia. Half a dozen large brass lanterns, overlaid in gold, provided light. During the meal the two men enjoyed casual conversation covering a variety of topics. As the servants cleared away the last few dishes Doras said, “I must say Deucalion, you intrigue me. Previous to this evening I would have thought our conversation much too arcane for the Roman soldier’s mind, preoccupied as it must be with military matters.”

  Deucalion smiled nonchalantly at the subtle way Doras sought to establish control of the conversation. “Not all soldiers are as pragmatically blind as our detractors would have you Jews believe. Some of us even fill our idle hours studying Hebrew history.”

  “Oh?”

  “You Jews believe in a god called Satan, correct?”

  “Satan is no god, Praetorian. He is consummate evil.”

  “Then why do your Holy Scriptures refer to him as ‘a son of the morning fallen from Heaven,’ a god wrongly worshiped?”

  “Surely you’re not suggesting—”

  “And did not the god you call ‘Jehovah’ promise in the Garden of Eden that the one who would ‘bruise the head’ of the serpent, Satan, would come through the lineage of Abraham?”

  Doras grew agitated. “Where did you get this information, and why are you taunting me with it?”

  “I assure you my intent is not to taunt you, Doras.”

  “What then?”

  “Merely to make a point.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “You are an Edomite, are you not?”

  Doras flinched. “So?”

  “The Edomites are descendants of Esau, the eldest son of Isaac, correct?”

  Doras nodded.

  “Well then, you of all people should understand. The Edenic promise of the one who would crush Satan was fixed in the family of Abraham. Let’s see, I believe the lineage should have been Seth, Shem, Abraham, Isaac, and Esau. But that was not to be, was it, Doras? Esau sold his birthright—for a bowl of pottage, no less. His younger brother, Jacob, received the irrevocable blessing instead.”

  Doras was livid. “This is intolerable. I will not allow a Roman soldier to insult me in my own home.”

  “Forgive me. . .I thought we were discussing why you invited me here tonight.”

  Doras reached for his goblet of wine and said angrily, “I don’t understand your point.”

  “Esau’s bitter hatred towards his brother Jacob for fraudulently obtaining his blessing was inherited by his descendants. When the great Babylonian king Nebuchadnezzer besieged Jerusalem, the Edomites joined forces with the Assyrians. They took an active part in the plunder of this city and the slaughter of its Jewish residents. I believe you are a direct descendant of the man who led the Edomites.”

  Doras gasped. “But how—”

  Deucalion smiled. “I have my ways, just as you and the Sanhedrin have yours. The point is, you are not happy with Joseph ben Caiaphas as High Priest. Knowing that Pilate is extremely unhappy with him as well because of what happened during the Passover, you wish to align yourself with us so that we might help you remove Annas’ puppet. And you hope to convince me that your plan will serve our interests as well as your own.”

  Doras glared at Deucalion, but remained silent.

  The Praetorian resumed his explanation. “Now that we understand one another, perhaps you would care to elaborate on why you invited me here tonight.”

  “Out on the veranda,” grimaced the flustered Jew, rising unsteadily. “I need fresh air.”

  The veranda wasn’t large, and the only pieces of furniture were a small wooden table and two cushions. Both men chose to remain standing.

  Deucalion gazed up into the clear sky and stared at the full moon. He was relieved to be outside; the atmosphere in the house had been cloying. Truth be known, he was not very happy with himself because of the way he had berated Doras. Yet, he’d had to do it.

  The older man would be stunned if he knew that the Praetorian had a gift for languages, and had mastered not only Greek and Aramaic, in addition to his native Latin, but Hebrew as well. It was a secret few knew, one that gave him a tremendous edge in dealing with the Jews.

  There were times when he almost believed he could think as they did.

  Doras would be easy to manipulate. Although the aging Jew was not a Pharisee, he thought and acted like one. He served the law of his people diligently only because he knew he could profit by it. Other Jews referred to men like him as Shechemites, so named after the son of Hamor, who seduced Jacob’s daughter, Dinah, only to be brutally killed by her brothers, Simon and Levi.

  “Everything a man does depends on fate—and God,” said Doras after taking several deep breaths. “And everything that happens in the world takes place through God’s providence. That being the case, it follows that in human actions, whether good or bad, the cooperation of God is implicit. So you see, your intimation that my blood is tainted because of my ancestry evidences your complete lack of understanding of our religion.”

  Behind them, inside, the servants extinguished the lanterns.

  “And what about a man’s will?”

  Doras smiled. “God allows spontaneity. It pleased Him that there should be a mixture; that’s why He added the will of fate to human will.”

  “As a sort of balance between virtue and baseness, no doubt.”

  “Exactly.” Doras regained his composure. “For one who is not a Jew, you are indeed quite perceptive.”

  Deucalion ignored the implicit arrogance of the statement. “Perceptive enough to know that there are serious political problems within the Sanhedrin, and that is why you sent me that cryptic note.” He also knew all too well that the Israelites went out of their way to avoid all contact with a heathen, lest they be defiled. This evening was indeed extraordinary.

  Doras turned from his perusal of the city and faced Deucalion. “Political problems, as you put it, are, for those who subscribe to the Pharisaic tradition, not political at all. The Pharisees in the Sanhedrin are not a ‘political party’ as you Romans think of such. Their aim, that of insuring strict adherence to the law, arises from religious, not political motivation.”

  Deucalion let his host continue, as if his revelations about Jewish government were new to him.

  “As a group, the Pharisees are comparatively indifferent to politics. However, there are others within the Sanhedrin who do not share our sentiments. Consequently, the Council is divided.”

  “In what manner?”

  “The Pharisees, scribes, and other elders who support me agree with the idea of divine providence.”

  “Ah, the idea that we Romans occupy Judea only because it is the will of your God.”

  “That’s only a small part of it.”

  “Go on.”

  “Rome’s power over us is a chastisement of God that must be submitted to willingly. Thus, so long as we are not prevented from the observance of the law, the harshness of your occupation must also be borne willingly.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because it is the will of God.”

  “That seems rather fatalistic.”

  “I suppose to the Roman way of thinking, it is. But we Jews know that one day the Messiah will come and set us free. You see, Deucalion, we believe that there is nothing that cannot be accomplished by faith.”

  “Yet you crucified the one man in your whole his
tory who claimed to be that Messiah.”

  “The Nazarene was a blasphemer,” replied Doras angrily. “Nothing more—nothing less. However, his death has produced some unexpected fruit.” He grew suddenly pensive.

  “You said there were two groups?”

  “A few Pharisees and most of the Sadducees, among them Annas and Caiaphas, believe that Israel must acknowledge no other king than God alone and the ruler of the house of David, whom God has anointed. For them, your supremacy is both presumptuous and illegal. Therefore, the issue for them is not whether obedience and payment of tribute to Rome is a duty, but rather whether or not it is legal.”

  “How does all of this relate to your problem with the High Priest?”

  Before Doras could answer him, the most beautiful woman Deucalion had ever seen interrupted them.

  Because only a solitary lantern lighted the veranda, the immediate brightness of the flame mellowed into a soft glow just beyond Deucalion’s depth of vision. It gave the illusion that at the point of blending the light had no real ending and the darkness no real beginning. The raven-haired woman stepped into that dull glow as if she were stepping out of eternity and into time.

  “Why have you disturbed us?” Doras asked in a gruff voice.

  “I thought the two of you might be thirsty, so I brought a flagon of dandelion wine,” the woman replied.

  “Put the wine on the table and leave us. And do not interrupt us again.”

  The woman did as she was told. Then, without a further word or glance, she left them to their business.

  Deucalion stared after her, watching her long black hair dissolve into the darkness. Her voice sounded like silk rustling in a gentle breeze, and the appraising look he had seen in her eyes made his heart pound. “Who is she?” he asked, amazed at the effect the woman had upon him.

  Doras studied Deucalion a moment before saying, “She’s a married slave.”