The Master's Quilt

by Michael J. Webb

  Caiaphas had presented his argument well, and it was to his credit that the silence among the members of the Council was not broken for several minutes.

  Doras had not taken his eyes off of Caiaphas during the whole time he had been speaking. He had, near the very end of the speech, begun to waver in his certainty that tonight would be his opportunity to outfox the fox. However, to his great relief he realized with a flash of insight that the High Priest had indeed shown his weak spot. He smiled to himself, the glint his brown eyes like the sparkle of light reflecting off the cold steel of an assassin’s dagger, and then stood to his feet. The light in the great hall gave his skin a gray pallor, so that at first glance he appeared to be but a specter of a man.

  He clapped his hands together in a cadenced fashion and the sudden sound reverberated off the polished marble walls. The act of defiance was a parody of applause, and it sliced through the silence, stunning the members of the Council.

  “I commend you, Joseph,” he said insincerely, making his way to the front of the hall. “It seems you have regained the ability to humble your audience with your words. One might even liken the ability to that of the cobra—the snake that flattens its neck into a hood-like form when disturbed or threatened, thus distracting its intended prey before striking with its lethal venom.”

  He knew he had their attention; he had managed, by virtue of precise timing and execution, to appropriate the momentum of Caiaphas’ climax and divert command of the audience into his hands.

  The left scribe began to record his words after a moment of phlegmatic inertness.

  “In spite of your eloquence, I for one am not convinced.” He paused upon reaching the speaker’s position, then turned to face the Council, keeping his back to Caiaphas. “Especially since you neglected to mention the issue of the validity of Jesus’ arraignment before you on the evening of His arrest,” he added, implying that Caiaphas had neglected to deal with the salient issue of legality.

  “Surely you have not forgotten that it is a well established, and I might add, inflexible rule of Hebrew law, that proceedings in capital trials cannot be held at night.”

  He turned abruptly to face Caiaphas and saw the High Priest glance furtively in his father-in-law’s direction. Annas remained pensive, but said nothing, his eyes hooded, his mouth tight-lipped. Satisfied that he was on the right track, Doras pressed his point. “Why was it that you saw fit to question the Nazarene the same night he was arrested? And why wasn’t that questioning done here, before the members of the Council?”

  The murmuring began anew, and Annas scowled. His bushy, jet-black eyebrows had come together at the top of the bridge of his nose and his jaws were clenched tightly together. Had he been a wolf, he would have been snarling.

  Doras was unaware of these changes and seemed unaware of the potential for disaster. “I submit to you that the trial of the Nazarene was a sham, merely a formality to appease the Roman sense of justice, and that the guilt of the accused had already been determined—not by the Council, but by Caiaphas himself!”

  Several members jumped to their feet, protesting loudly.

  The only person unaffected was Caiaphas. He remained silent, observing the tactics of his opponent with calm reservation. Like a Roman centurion, well heeled in battle, he sat unruffled at the first lunge of Doras’ figurative sword. He waited and watched, trusting his inner sense to tell him when the feint of his adversary would become the killing thrust. For now he was content to use silence as his shield.

  Annas called for order. “Explain the legal basis for your accusation,” he growled.

  All three scribes wrote furiously, diligently recording the proceedings.

  Doras, surprised at Caiaphas’ failure to respond as he had planned, wondered if he misjudged the strength of his opponent among the Council members. Unfortunately, he was now deeply committed; he had no choice but to continue. He hoped that he had not misread the tone of the Council’s request to the High Priest two weeks ago, and he prayed that he had not seriously underestimated the depth of his own support.

  “It is clear to all of us that a trial before the Sanhedrin was necessary because of the nature of the offense,” he continued, keeping his voice steady even though his legs had suddenly gone weak. “Rome refuses to recognize our religion, and demands that we settle all internal religious problems ourselves. Ironically, a second trial before Pontius Pilate became necessary because a conviction involving the death sentence was secured. Thus, in the name of Roman sovereignty, the Roman tribunal was convened to review our decision, which brings me to the point of my intervention in this matter.

  “It is a peculiarity of our Law that in a case where none of the judges defends the accused, and all pronounce him guilty, the verdict of guilt becomes invalid. Because the culprit has had no defense in the court, no sentence of death can be handed down.

  “I ask you, then, why the exception in the case of the Galilean?” He let the question hang, intending for it to become a source of agitation in the minds of the Council. “As my learned brother has so aptly pointed out, Hebraic jurisprudence is founded upon not only the Pentateuch, but upon the Talmud as well. The Mosaic code, embodied in the first five books of the Law, furnishes us with the necessary platform of justice, while ancient tradition and Rabbinic interpretation supply the needed rules of practical application.

  “Nowhere, however, are we given leave to create that which suits the needs of a particular moment.

  “The man from Galilee stood accused out of the mouth of one of His own disciples, a man named Judas, whom it appears hung himself shortly after his former master was executed. If this man Judas was initially a co-conspirator with Jesus, and became His chief accuser only after receiving thirty pieces of silver, then we also have a situation in which accomplice testimony was used to convict prior to trial.

  “Surely the High Priest is aware, having spent many years studying our legal traditions, that accomplice testimony is forbidden. If Judas was an accomplice, then Jesus was innocent. Thus, His arrest was not only an outrage, but illegal as well.”

  The members of the Council exchanged glances. Few at this point were willing to risk eye contact with Caiaphas. Doras presented his case well. Those inclined to support the High Priest did not want to commit themselves until they were absolutely certain that Caiaphas would be triumphant.

  “Before you ask the obvious question of why I waited until now to voice my dissent, let me finish my point,” continued Doras, his voice resolute. “If the capture of a supposedly seditious rebel was not the result of a legal mandate from a court whose intention it was to conduct a legal trial for the purpose of reaching a righteous judgment, then we have not only left ourselves open to the wrath of the Romans. . .but more fearfully, to the wrath of God himself.”

  He turned to face Annas and was startled by the look he saw on the older man’s face: disgust and anger. He faltered momentarily. There was nothing he could do but finish what he started. He put everything he had into his words.

  “Testimony in trials such as the one under discussion is given under the sanction of the Ninth Commandment: ‘One shall not bear false witness against one’s brother.’ It is a well-settled maxim of Talmudic Law that whosoever will not tell the truth without an oath, will not scruple to assert a falsehood with an oath. Indeed, many among us,” he added, glancing out of the corners of his eyes at Caiaphas, “assert that swearing is injurious in itself, and that one who consents to swear should, ipso facto, be suspected of lacking credibility. The three witnesses who testified against Jesus were given the following adjuration in the presence of all assembled:

  “‘Forget not, O witness, that it is one thing to give evidence in a trial as to money and another in a trial for life. In a money suit, if your witness bearing shall do wrong, money may repair that wrong. But in this trial for life, if you sin, the blood of the accused and the blood of his seed to the end of time shall be imputed unto you . . . Therefore was Adam created one man alone
, to teach you that if any witness shall destroy one soul out of Israel, he is held by the Scripture to be as if he had destroyed the world; and he who saves one soul to be as if he had saved the world.

  “‘For a man from one signet ring may strike many impressions, and all of them shall be exactly alike. But He, the King of kings, He, the Holy and the Blessed, had struck off from His type of the first man the forms of all men that shall live, yet so that no one human being is wholly alike to any other.

  “‘Wherefore let us think and believe that the whole world is created for a man such as whose life hangs on your words. But these ideas must not deter you from testifying to what you actually know.

  “‘Scripture declares: ‘The witness who has seen or known, and does not tell, shall bear his iniquity.’ Nor must you scruple about becoming the instrument of the alleged criminal’s death. Remember the Scriptural maxim: “In the destruction of the wicked, there is joy.’

  “The two elements of this preliminary caution are generally sufficient to bind the witness by the sanctions it represents. However, in view of the events which allegedly transpired at the tomb of the accused—three days after his death—and in view of the increasing hostility of the people towards the priesthood, I find it necessary to question the validity of the trial of the Nazarene before this Council.”

  Doras turned to his right and stared straight into the smoldering eyes of the High Priest. “I submit that because of his personal hatred of the Galilean, the High Priest was blinded to the possibility of another solution, one which would not have inculpated the entire Council in wrongdoing.” With great effort, he shifted his gaze and turned to face the Council. “If Rome decides that the Council acted not only rashly, but illegally as well, or that we are no longer able to uphold the laws of our ancestors, having invalidated our authority by disobeying our own doctrines, then we will be required to submit to a final blasphemy— the Roman administration of our religious affairs.

  “The likely outcome of such sacrilege could well be the destruction of our nation. In view of this possibility, brought about by the carelessness and shortsightedness of our current High Priest, I recommend to this Council—”

  “Enough!” bellowed Annas.

  The pair of eyes in the shadows at the back of the hall blinked furiously several times, and there was a muffled gasp.

  Fortunately, no one in the room noticed.

  “I have heard enough,” repeated Annas, shaking with rage. “I will not listen to this political bantering any longer. It has become painfully clear to me in these last hours that we are a devastatingly divided Council. As such, we cannot stand. Not against Rome, not against the world, not against sin.”

  He stared menacingly at Doras. “We are the governing body of Israel and supposedly above the pettiness of personal aggrandizement. It is clear to me that you, Doras, do not have the best interests of this Council in mind. Further, your preposterous allegations offend me. Your insinuation that the High Priest, who has faithfully served his people, and God, for fifteen years, has suddenly suffered a loss of objectivity is not only objectionable, but laughable.”

  He rose to his feet, scowling, and spoke directly to the Council. “Is there anyone here who is willing to formally accuse the High Priest of a breach of the sacred oath of the priesthood? Is there anyone who will stand before God and declare that Caiaphas has acted without restraint in the case of the Galilean? If so, let him do it now.”

  Doras scanned the stormy sea of faces, seeking contact with those who, earlier, behind closed doors, agreed to support him. Now, none would look him in the eyes.

  The hall remained quiet. The scribes, poised with pens in hands, had nothing to record, save the interlude.

  Doras took several deep breaths and groaned inwardly. He had failed. The trembling in his legs moved up his body to his hands as he stared at Caiaphas with the look of a defeated animal and relinquished his position. Without looking back and without a further word he left the hall.

  Caiaphas stood, approached the Dias upon which Annas sat, and formally resumed his position of authority. The session was over. There would be no formal charges, no further investigation. Yet, he had won nothing but time. Doras had struck a powerful blow. The wound would fester in spite of temporary suturing by Annas.

  There is nothing to be done now, except ride the horse until it collapses, he thought miserably as he watched the members of the Council depart from the debacle. I hope the animal does not fall upon me and crush me in its death throes.

  He exchanged glances with Simon and noted with sadness the look of resignation in his former teacher’s eyes. It was evident that Simon also realized that no matter what it might seem to the other members something of vital importance had been lost here this night. Even as the tides of the great Mediterranean subtly altered the contours of the surrounding continents day in and day out, the ebb and flow of the tides of change would slowly erode the power of the Council. The only remaining cordon separating the nation of Israel from the desolation and darkness of the unrepentant would gradually dissolve until nothing remained. Even as water had the power to dissolve the landmasses holding it captive into grains of sand, so too, words had the power to unravel the fiber of faith woven into the heart of a nation, dissolving it into strands of unbelief.

  The ensuing two hours, after the last of the Council members had left the Great Hall, passed Caiaphas by as if he were a tiny ship adrift in the ocean of time. He felt lost and disoriented, and he wished desperately to be freed from this quagmire of impotency.

  Now, as he sat in the darkness of doubt, his mind replayed a scene from the past. The thoughts ran through his brain, over and over again, like a herd of wild horses loosed unexpectedly from captivity. And try as he might he could not get the accompanying thundering echo of words out of his head: Ecce homo. “Behold the man.”

  Pilate had spoken those words to the crowd as the Nazarene had stood before them. Embedded upon his bloodied forehead was a crown of thorns. His back was flayed so badly that the shreds skin looked like the blood-red pulp of grapes that have been squeezed through the wine press.

  Caiaphas had been standing among the crowd of screaming, belligerent people, and even he had been sickened by the brutality of the Romans. Yet he could not bring himself to cry out for mercy. The maddened crowd of mostly Jews had screamed for justice. “We have a law, and by our law He must die. . .because He made himself the Son of God.” Then the Procurator paraded the bloodied and torn lump of flesh before the multitude saying, “Take you Him, and crucify Him: I find no fault in Him.”

  The High Priest moved to the front of the crowd, and there had been a brief moment in which he and Pilate had locked eyes. In that instant each had looked into the depths of the other’s soul; each had seen the intent of the other’s heart. Caiaphas had seen fear in the heart of the Roman. Not the fear of the unknown, but of the known. Now he realized that Pilate knew what he, High Priest of the Most High God, refused to believe.

  The man who stood before the crowd, in the purple robe and crown of thorns the soldiers had draped about his bleeding body in mockery of the priesthood, stood not as a man condemned to death, but as the last scapegoat offered up for the sins of man. Neither he nor Pilate had any say in the matter any longer. The players no longer read their lines; they had become their lines.

  And what of the High Priest himself? What did Pilate see in the heart of the man ultimately responsible for the death of the Nazarene? A black cloud of uncertainty, no doubt—the dark force of doubt that feasted upon the tender morsels of rotting truth becoming lies. The same dark hole that threatened to swallow him up now.

  What if the man was indeed the Son of God? he wondered. Ecce Homo. “May God have mercy upon us if we were wrong,” he mumbled, as he looked out into the blackness of the night.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Herod Antipas, a sophisticate of the Hellenistic East, did not think of himself as a man who achieved the extraordinary through the use of guile a
his enemies would most certainly reply if asked, “To what do you attribute the overwhelming success of the son of Herod the Great?” Instead, he viewed himself as a man with vision; not only for himself, but also for the dynasty he represented.

  Although he was the appointed “ruler” of his people, he held the position only because of the esteem the Romans still held for the name Herod, a result of his father’s tremendous political acumen and foresight. Because the nation of Israel functioned as a theocracy, real power lay with the priesthood. And because of the sacred status of Jerusalem and its environs—a status recognized by the Romans—the Sanhedrin was given control over all national matters, so long as public order was maintained and tax revenues continued to flow into the Empire’s war chests.

  He sat in his chambers, in the palace his father had built, the Palace of the Hasmonians, and reviewed the parchment he had received from Rome. It had remained intentionally unanswered for two weeks now, pending the outcome of his manipulation of certain members of the Sanhedrin.

  Rome was displeased, as he had suspected, with his handling of the matter of Jesus of Nazareth. However, Tiberius Caesar relied upon Lucius Vitellius for information about what was happening in Judea. The Syrian governor, in turn, received his information from Pontius Pilate. And it was precisely because of this fragmented dissemination of data that he had been able to devise a plan to wrest power from Annas.

  After months of meticulous planning, he had carefully instructed Doras on the final details, two weeks earlier. “We must create a situation in which Pilate finds it expedient to apply some firm political pressure on Annas. At the same time, you must convince key members of the Council that the High Priest made a tremendous mistake in arresting and convicting the Nazarene.