The Master's Quilt

by Michael J. Webb

  Pilate grunted his agreement.

  “After talking with Doras, my guess is that Antipas is willing to do just about anything he feels he can get away with in order to achieve his goal.”

  “And how do we fit into this little game of political intrigue?”

  “Antipas expects you to immobilize Annas, thus hemming in Caiaphas.”

  Pilate remained thoughtful and asked, “What information did Doras give to you that we can use against the High Priest?”

  “The trial—”

  “What trial?” croaked Pilate, cutting Deucalion’s reply off in mid-sentence. His whole body shook, as if a lash of the scourge had suddenly stung him.

  “The initial interrogation of Jesus, and His final trial before the Sanhedrin,” replied Deucalion softly.

  Pilate turned abruptly and walked over to the portico. He stopped at the edge of the balcony and stared balefully down at the Temple.

  Deucalion came up beside him. “What is it that disturbs you so, Pontius?” he asked, genuine concern evident in his voice.” I thought you’d be pleased with my information.”

  Seeming not to hear a word Deucalion had said, Pilate replied, “Your hand. . . What happened?”

  Deucalion glanced at his bandaged appendage. “It’s nothing to be concerned about, Pontius. I had a minor altercation with a couple of men in the streets last night, on my way home from Doras’ house.”

  “Jews?” snarled Pilate, spitting the word instead of speaking it.

  “No. . .they were not Jews, Pontius.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “Yes, I’m certain,” sighed the younger man. “Tell me, why do you hate them so?”

  Pilate turned and stared into Deucalion’s eyes, his own eyes glistening with fear. “Because they are my death,” he whispered in a scratchy, guttural voice.

  • • •

  As Deucalion walked the streets of Jerusalem in the early afternoon hours, he remembered Pilate’s words. Death is not a subject that I am unfamiliar with, he thought. He’d experienced its more violent forms firsthand in the service of Rome. “No . . . death is no stranger to me,” he muttered.

  Fortunately, he did not need the constant memory of battle to remind him of how it sickened him. As much as he had reconciled himself to the necessity of killing in time of war, he had never been able to steel himself to the brutality many members of the Legion, including some generals, seemed to inflict unnecessarily. And that was why he was so disturbed now.

  Pilate had instructed him to take personal charge of insuring that there were no outbreaks of rebellion among the disenchanted followers of the dead and buried Jesus, emphasizing the “dead and buried” a little too forcefully.

  When Deucalion had asked exactly what the Procurator had in mind, he was informed that there was a Jew who had taken a personal interest in the “disease” that was festering like pus in an untreated wound. This Jew had taken it upon himself, with the blessing of Rome of course, to lance the wound as deeply as he deemed necessary in order to cleanse it—permanently—of all infection.

  And Pilate had instructed Deucalion to provide “support as required” whenever this Jew deemed it necessary.

  “I’ve already agreed to provide whatever judicial authorization is needed,” said the Procurator with finality. “I’ve further pledged the full support of the garrison. Because this is a religious and not a military problem, Rome’s official position on the matter is it is the responsibility of the Sanhedrin to insure that the fanatics are eliminated—preferably as rapidly and efficiently as possible.”

  The thought of possibly having to participate in violent activities against the unarmed populace brought a rise of bile into the Praetorian’s throat. We have sold our souls to the god of power, he thought miserably, and we pay for it with the gold of our blood. We lose our humanity as fast as the Jews lose their lives.

  Pilate had also informed him that he sent a message to Caiaphas. His superior intended to confront the High Priest in three days with the information that Doras had supplied to them and demand an explanation of his activities.

  That was the only hopeful note. At least Deucalion would have time to do what he planned. If he was successful, perhaps he could prevent things from getting totally out of hand. In the meantime, he was to make his services and those of the garrison available to the Jew. On his way out, he’d asked Pilate, “And who exactly is this Jew who will wipe out the disease of Jesus’ followers?”

  “Saul of Tarsus,” replied Pilate, dismissing him with a wave of his hand.

  Now the Praetorian was on his way to see Antipas, needing to locate this Saul who was so anxious to persecute his own people. As he entered the marketplace to the south of the Herodian Palace he experienced a moment of disorientation. Increasingly there were moments when he felt if he were to try and grasp hold of the events whirling around him, his life would be sucked into a vortex, like so much dust sucked into a whirlwind. This was one of those moments.

  As he looked around at the people trying to make sense of what he felt, he was struck by the fact that the world he lived in was vastly different from the world he had started seeing inside himself. That part of his mind he considered to be the old part told the new part that he was thinking too much.

  Perhaps that was his problem.

  During his early days as a Centurion, his instructors had literally beaten into him the idea that good soldiers have no time to think—their purpose is to hear and obey. Thinking during battle was distracting and distractions meant death.

  One of his commanders had said, “If you are lucky enough to achieve the rank of general, Deucalion, then you can think. But remember the price. . .” Here he’d laughed sarcastically “. . .you will have to answer to Caesar for your thoughts. In any case, centurion, remember this: we who serve the Empire are not required to exercise any profound moral restraint. Fortunately, we are free from the burden of such esoteric considerations. On the battlefield there is nothing except the fight. . .and survival.”

  This memory brought to mind his father. He wondered if he would end up the same way—lying dead in the dust of a foreign land, his gray-blue, Greco-Roman eyes staring blindly at the setting sun.

  He shook his head as if to clear it of the depressing thoughts and headed for the palace. The marketplace was crowded with a throng of people engaged in afternoon bargaining, and he scanned the mass of bodies out of habit. He wasn’t looking for anything in particular, just looking.

  His heart skipped a beat when he saw the beautiful and mysterious dark-haired woman he had seen at Doras’ last night. She bobbed in and out of his vision as she shopped at the various stalls, carrying a straw basket filled with a variety of foods and fruits. He watched, fascinated, as she moved from vendor to vendor with the ease and self-confidence of one accustomed to getting exactly what she wanted for exactly the price she decided to pay beforehand.

  Instead of rushing forward to ask her who she was and if she remembered him from the previous evening, he found himself rooted to the parched ground beneath his feet. Last night he had only noticed her hair and eyes; now he had the opportunity to observe her more completely. Even though she was unusually tall, that did not catch his eye, however her skin did, or rather the golden tint of it. The color reminded him of the amber coloring of olive trees.

  He could also swear that it radiated light, as if she were glowing from within.

  As she moved among the people she spoke to those around her and it was obvious that she was not dispensing perfunctory greetings. From the look on their faces, she must have said something special to each one.

  He tried to remember when he had seen those looks before. Suddenly he had it. At the tomb—on the same morning he had seen music and heard light. The expressions he saw on the faces of the people, although not as intense, were similar to those he had seen on the faces of his men.

  What in the name of the gods can she be saying to have such an effect upon complete strangers? he won
dered, observing her.

  He needed to get closer so that he could hear. He jostled and elbowed his way through the crowd and managed to find a spot just ahead of her progress, but out of her direct line of sight. He strained to hear her voice but it was too noisy.

  Suddenly, she changed direction and headed straight towards him. His heart started to beat rapidly and he felt lightheaded. “What is happening to me?” he muttered, surprised at the intensity of his emotions. This was not like him at all.

  She stopped short of where he stood, distracted by a vendor who sold dates and olive oil. He watched her from a bare twenty feet away, mesmerized.

  Almost as if she could hear his thoughts, she stopped what she was doing, and turned to look in his direction. Their gazes locked together for an instant. He realized in that instant that it had not been her words that had so overwhelmed the people. It was what they saw in her eyes. They were luminescent, filled with the soft light one catches a glimpse of in the moments between night’s end and daybreak.

  A wisp of wind brought a stunning fragrance to his nostrils. A sweetness, a tingling vapor, suddenly enveloped him—as pure a fragrance as he’d ever smelled.

  Like frankincense, yet not like frankincense.

  The moment passed. In an instant the crowd swallowed her up. She disappeared into the throng of people as quickly as she had dissolved into the night.

  He scanned the crowd frantically, but she was nowhere to be seen. He was not disgruntled, however. He sense they would meet again—soon.

  What would he say to her when they finally met?

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The meeting of the Great Council was called to order as usual, with Caiaphas presiding. However, due to the somewhat unusual purpose of this particular session, he immediately relegated presiding authority to Annas, the titular head of the Council. Before he spoke, the High Priest looked out over the semi-circle of faces within the Hall of Hewn Stones.

  Sixty-nine pairs of eyes stared at him with nervous anticipation. There had not been a formal inquiry into the actions of a High Priest within recent memory.

  In challenging the behavior of the highest representative of their God, the Council was challenging the efficacy of the very institution of the priesthood. Fundamentally, they believed that no matter how much time one spent in preparing to become High Priest, if God’s hand did not guide, and if His voice did not confirm in the hearts of all who voted that indeed the man they had chosen was called to the position, whomever sought the office would not prevail.

  Although a man was not infallible, there was an inherent bias in the thinking of those who served in the priesthood. Because of their constant communion with the Father, they were less likely to err. The High Priest, being at the top of the hierarchy, was the least fallible of all.

  The tension in the room was palpable. When Caiaphas settled his eyes upon Doras, it was with a great deal of restraint that he showed little of the raging anger simmering inside him. During his reign as High Priest, there had never once been any suggestion that he had acted without proper authority. Until now. As a result of the challenge to his authority, he prepared for this moment with all the expertise his tactical, legal mind could muster. He had but one purpose: that of convincing one man, and one man only, as to the validity of his actions—Annas.

  If he failed to convince his father-in-law that he was in complete control of the Council, and if he were unable to demonstrate once and for all that he had acted wholly according to the requirements of Scripture and not out of any personal dislike for the Nazarene, Annas would be forced to call for his removal. Annas would also select the next High Priest. Any failure today on his part would open the door for Doras.

  That was something he could not allow to happen.

  “Members of the Council, greetings,” he said, in a loud, commanding voice. “In obedience to your request for an account of my actions in the case of Jesus of Nazareth, and in defense of my handling of His arrest and trial, ultimately leading to His crucifixion at the hands of Rome, I submit the following report for your consideration.

  “Before I begin, however, I would preface my statements by sharing my heart with you.”

  The Council members settled in for what they correctly perceived was going to be a long afternoon.

  “It has come to my attention that there are particular members of this Council who, given the opportunity, would undermine our autonomy by submitting to pressures brought to bear by the Romans. And there are even some who have developed rather questionable associations with Rome.”

  The barest ripple of murmuring disturbed the veneer of attentiveness in the great hall.

  “In assessing my report,” continued Caiaphas, “I would remind you that you are judging a Jew who represents Hebrew interests, and not a Jew who, shall we say, perhaps has two masters.”

  The High Priest smiled as he warmed to the task before him. “I state for the record that I, Joseph Caiaphas, am first a Jew, subject to the same laws that I am pledged to administer; second, as High Priest of this Council, I am charged with the maintenance of our faith; and lastly, like all Jews, I am yoked unequally to Roman law, by conquest rather than by choice. Therefore, I am limited to specific conditional authority.

  “During the fifteen years of my tenure as High Priest, no one has seen fit to question, with such audacity and such obvious personal motive, my rationale in the administration of my duties as protector and example of the Faith. It is unfortunate, especially in these times of political unrest, that there are those among this august body who would put self-interest and personal gain above the pressing needs of our people. An attitude, I might add, that stands in direct contradiction to one of the most basic requirements of character necessary for consideration of selection to this Council.”

  Caiaphas scanned his audience and finally focused on Doras. The two of them locked eyes. “It is, and has always been, my avowed and heartfelt aim to serve the ends of Almighty God first, the needs of His people second, and my own personal interests last. Nothing has occurred in the past few months, as far as I am concerned, which has altered that vow.”

  The Council remained quiet as Caiaphas paused. Annas’ face, as usual, was set in a perpetual grimace, as if he were forever scowling when anyone but himself was speaking. Yet behind that façade, there was a finely honed, highly polished political mind, ever weighing and balancing words, just as the tax collector constantly weighs and balances silver and gold.

  Doras seemed unusually calm.

  Caiaphas made a mental note to be on guard for the moment when his adversary would strike. His immediate intention, however, was to keep the members of the Council, particularly the Pharisees, focused on the legality of his actions while sending a subtle, yet dramatic message to Annas—he had not lost the ability to deal with vipers in the nest.

  The majority of the predominately Sadducee Council, including the Pharisees, were aware of the threat Jesus had posed. Thus, they accepted the fact, although not without disagreement on the means employed to accomplish the end—Jesus had to be dealt with decisively. That is why the Council, with but a few exceptions, had so readily agreed to his initial proposal six weeks before.

  It was only after the trial and crucifixion that the hue and cry had been raised.

  And it was Doras who had cried the loudest.

  Doras knew that the only way he would have a chance at becoming High Priest was to produce a scandal of such magnitude that the Council members, in a fit of passion and unreason, would banish the one responsible for the scandal and elevate the one responsible for uncovering it.

  The whole mess smelled of Herod Antipas.

  Doras could care less about the death of a blaspheming Jew. What he desired was recognition. He did not doubt that it was Herod who out of the death of the Nazarene had created an opportunity to drive a wedge between Sadducee and Pharisee. He intended to disrupt the delicately balanced coalition of power and usurp Annas’ uncontested control of the Council.r />
  “As you all are well aware,” Caiaphas continued authoritatively, “there was no love lost between the Sadducees, the Pharisees, and Jesus of Nazareth.” There were nods of assent from the Pharisees. “Yet we did not challenge Him because of His lack of respect for tradition, neither for His claims of holiness, as some have suggested, nor because He prophesied and ignored the sanctity of the Temple.

  “No, it was not any one of these reasons that brought about His demise. . .yet in a way it was the result of all of them.

  “We Sadducees do not hold to the idea that a man’s fate determines the outcome of events in his living. Instead we favor the idea that it is man’s will that decides success or failure in God’s plan.

  “I submit to you that there was a cause, a substantial motivation behind the behavior of the Galilean. One other than the simple message He is purported to have preached. One that threatened to shred the very fabric of our faith. It was my understanding of this motivation that guided me in making my final decision. Therefore, in making your final determination, I adjure you to confine yourselves to the legal basis for my behavior, and judge me accordingly, even as I judged Jesus.”

  He paused, then struck a lightening thrust. “In order for me to best state my case, and remembering the responsibility I shoulder as the highest administrator of the laws of our nation, please indulge me in a few moments of oral tradition.”

  An excited murmuring spread rapidly through the chambers, like a brushfire out of control. Even Annas lost the grimace from his face and sat forward in his chair.

  Caiaphas smiled inwardly as Doras shifted uncomfortably in his seat. His opponent was clearly assessing this new situation. It was obvious from the pained look on his haggard face that he did not like what he had just heard.

  The strike at his jugular had come in a most unconventional manner.

  It was well known that the Sadducees gave little or no respect to the oral tradition. For them, the Torah was the final word. The Pharisees, on the other hand, accepted all of the explanatory and supplementary material produced and contained within the oral tradition that evolved during the time of the Babylonian exile. To them it was inspired and, therefore, equally authoritative.