The Master's Quilt

by Michael J. Webb

  “Once Caiaphas is disgraced, Annas will have no choice but to accede to your demand that his son-in-law be removed from his office—and from the Council. If what you tell me about the Pharisees is true, then you should have no problem getting enough votes to become the next High Priest.

  “The Procurator, in turn, must be made aware that such an occurrence will give him indirect access to the Council, through you. Not only will that get Rome off his back as well as mine, but Pilate will have what no other Roman has ever had—a conduit into the heart of the nation of Israel.”

  Doras had been reluctant and skeptical, but he’d agreed to the plan, and so far everything had gone according to the plan. It’s time my ferret came to report, he thought gleefully, letting the parchment drop to the floor.

  • • •

  Caiaphas and Annas walked silently through the darkened streets of Jerusalem.

  The High Priest was drained from his encounter with Doras. He offered a sidelong glance at his father-in-law, who had not spoken to him since they departed the Hall of Hewn Stones. He was reluctant to begin a conversation with Annas for fear of where it might lead; yet, he felt a compelling need to speak.

  “I’ve been having a disturbing dream, Annas,” he said finally in a hoarse voice.

  The older man stopped abruptly and stared at him intently. After several moments he replied, “Well, are you going to tell me about it or not?”

  Caiaphas sighed heavily, and then told his father-in-law about Joshua and the sun. When he was done, Annas grunted and started walking again. After a moment’s hesitation Caiaphas hurriedly followed. When his son-in-law reached his side, Annas said, “According to Scripture, man is a spirit, has a soul, and lives in a body. And the background of man’s existence is a dim, sometimes occluded region of knowing that labors forth into the daylight through the realm of thought, especially in times of sleep. Often the knowledge of this realm comes to a man only in retrospect, upon waking, and only after the content of the dream is scrutinized.”

  “You’re referring, of course, to the book of Job,” interjected Caiaphas.

  Annas nodded and quoted the exact Scripture:

  “For God speaks once, yea twice, yet man perceives it not. In a dream, in a vision of the night, when deep sleep falls upon men, in slumberings upon the bed; Then he opens the ears of men, and seals their instruction, That he may withdraw man from his purpose, and hide pride from man.”

  “I’m familiar with the passage, but I don’t understand the meaning it has for me.”

  Annas grunted, then continued. “The life of genius, awakened in sleep, has produced many artistic creations, scientific solutions, and spiritual perceptions. The soul, selfish and restless, uses the arena of dreams as a means of holding its true nature up to scrutiny in the hope of finding it valid. More often than not, remorse is the dream’s reply.

  “The soul, in return, seeks to redefine its impulse towards self-preservation in terms of rejection of the obvious source of its discomfort: the spirit. Thus, we see why the Scriptures hold man accountable—if not for dreaming, at least for the character of his dreams.”

  Caiaphas wasn’t sure if Annas was rebuking him or not. Nevertheless, he was impressed with his father-in-law’s adroit analysis. The language of his world was politics, not the analysis of mental states, although he freely employed the latter to excel at the former. The older, crafty man was trying to tell him something. Caiaphas only wished his mind could grasp it.

  • • •

  When Doras arrived at the palace, just before midnight, he found Antipas lost in thought. There was a flagon of wine in the Tetrarch’s right hand, and he was wearing a half smile that added another crease to his deeply lined and prematurely aged face.

  Doras stood in the candlelit room, just inside the entrance to Antipas’ chambers, and shivered despite the fact that it was warm. For an instant he imagined that the darkness was a cloak that would shield him from the penetrating, intimidating gaze of the man with whom he conspired. There is something decidedly unnerving, even unnatural, about him, he thought miserably, wishing for all the world that he did not have to tell the man he despised what had transpired. He might be a Jew, but we definitely don’t serve the same God.

  He pushed the unsettling thoughts as far down into his mind as his conscience would let him, then went forward wearily. The information he brought would eradicate the smile stretched tautly across Antipas’ face.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  During June days in Jerusalem, the temperature could approach one hundred degrees. But at night, because the city was situated upon a rocky plateau some 1,700 cubits above sea level, the temperature dropped rapidly after sunset.

  As Deucalion waited for his initial meeting with Saul of Tarsus, he wondered how history would record the events about to take place. He speculated upon what a scribe would pen were he allowed to accompany the group of soldiers, led by a fanatical Jew, on their raid upon the group of “believers” holding a nighttime meeting somewhere in the city. He found it somewhat contradictory that the Jews referred to the followers of Christ as believers, especially since they considered themselves the chosen of God.

  He looked out over the city and took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the cool breeze that refreshed his armor-clad body. The day had been a particularly hot one. But, for some inexplicable reason, the dust had remained reasonably dormant, almost as if it were waiting for the right moment to spring forth from the parched earth and frustrate the intents of any who thought they could be free from its ubiquitous presence.

  His men were on edge.

  There had been a substantial undercurrent of resistance when they had been told the purpose of their nocturnal duty. Most of those he selected had seen more than their share of battle in the last few years; some had even fought at his side. None of them were looking forward to serving a zealot intent upon dealing with a group of religious dissidents.

  Rome had always been relatively tolerant in the past regarding the religious beliefs of its populace, particularly where conquered peoples were concerned. It was common knowledge that there were many besides the Jews who chose not to worship Caesar. So, why all the fuss over these believers? Was it possible that Pontius was not telling him the whole story?

  Perhaps the Procurator’s descents into depression were starting to affect his thinking. This whole arrangement that Pilate had negotiated with Antipas smelled foul to Deucalion. Suspicions of why Rome was involved reminded him of the deceit, which had become part of the investigation of the events surrounding the alleged theft of the Nazarene’s body from the sepulcher.

  The Praetorian had testified before the Tribunal, convened to determine if there had been dereliction of duty by anyone assigned to the guard detail. Unfortunately, his men had not supported him. Even Malkus had turned against him, remaining silent as to the truth. The only thing that saved him from a severe reprimand, perhaps even a demotion, was that none of his men had lied. They had abbreviated certain important details and remained silent when questioned about specifics, but none actually denied the veracity of his account of the event.

  The Tribunal concluded that the body had been stolen by persons unknown for the purpose of inciting the insurgent populace. As far as Rome was concerned, the matter was closed. And Pilate had made it clear that it was never to be discussed again. There was one problem, however. Deucalion knew there had been no theft because he was there. He had seen the light and heard the music.

  He knew the truth.

  Only now was he beginning to understand the magnitude of the deception offered to hide the truth. After the ambush, he had begun his own investigation and learned that of those present on that fateful morning all had accepted money to hide the truth except him. They tailored their stories so they would fit the predetermined findings Rome wanted to hear. At the time of the inquiry he did not believe that Pilate would be involved in such a gross subversion of Roman jurisprudence—upholding the law was what he lived fo
r. But now the Praetorian was uncertain.

  “Where is the man called Deucalion?” came a gravelly voice out of the night, breaking his reverie. A sudden chill coursed up and down his spine when he heard his name spoken, and he had a sudden premonition of impending doom. Shaking off the melancholy thought, he strained to see the man behind the voice.

  “He stands over there, at the edge of the light,” one of his men answered, pointing in his direction.

  The disembodied voice carried with it an intensity he found disconcerting. He had no idea what the man from Tarsus looked like and therefore did not know what to expect. All he had been told by Antipas was that he should not let Saul’s appearance deceive him.

  As the sepulchral figure approached him from the far side, Deucalion rubbed his eyes. The salty stinging seemed to be a constant companion. Abruptly, he remembered his dream. The light. The voice. The sound of his own scream waking him. Why couldn’t he remember the whole thing?

  “Deucalion Cincinnatus Quinctus?”

  He nodded and pushed his own unanswered question into the recesses of memory, then focused on the Jew standing before him.

  His first impression was that Saul looked as if he had been sewn together from mismatched body parts. He was short and squat and his legs, like his arms, were crooked and very thin. Both pair seemed to have been cut from the same mold and looked as if they belonged to one much taller than he. Oddly, his skin seemed rather pale, almost luminescent in the firelight. And his head was almost bald. There were, however, a few wisps of light brown, stringy hair above either ear, both of which seemed overly large and out of proportion to his head. The most distinguishing feature of his entire countenance, however, was his eyebrows; the hairs were long and bushy, of a jet-black color like that of purest obsidian, and they grew together slightly.

  As Saul stepped closer, Deucalion stared into his eyes and was immediately struck by the explosive force of the man’s gaze. Here was a man driven by a hatred which ran deeper than even that of some of the men he had fought against in battle. The rage he saw in those glistening hazel-brown eyes suggested that Saul would be capable of a viciousness that might well exceed his own ability to curtail without the use of deadly force. And that was something for which Antipas would not sit still.

  “So, you are Deucalion,” said Saul petulantly. “I am Saul of Tarsus and I’m told that you’re one of the best Rome has to offer. We shall see.”

  “Are you Jews always so blunt and disrespectful? I’ve dealt with only a few of you educated in the ways of the priesthood, and none of you seem the least bit humble to me. I thought it was you who served your God, and not the other way around.”

  Saul smiled a crooked, half-smile, the first glint of respect shining in his eyes. “It’s my understanding, Centurion, that you’ve been instructed to cooperate fully with me. Is that your understanding?”

  “This is the second time in as many days that one of you Jews has erroneously, and discourteously referred to me as Centurion,” replied Deucalion, his voice steady and without any suggestion of malice. “I’m a Praetorian in the service of Rome, not you Jews, and I’m quite proud of my position and my country. As proud, I might point out, as you Jews are of being called ‘Rabbi.’

  “While we do have different measurements of status, I might also point out that I am well studied in a variety of subjects, speak three languages fluently, and still manage to communicate with the common people I meet—including Jews—without resorting to the use of intimidation. I think you would be well advised to remember that it is we Romans who occupy Judea and not you Jews who occupy Rome.”

  “You and I will get along just fine,” chuckled Saul. His voice held no sarcasm, and it was clear from his tone that he acknowledged the mild rebuke.

  “Don’t be so sure. I’m not in agreement with this decision.”

  The wily Jew sobered abruptly. “It’s time we were off; we’ve much to do before dawn.”

  Deucalion gave the order, and the small contingent of men, under the leadership of Saul, headed for the inner section of the city.

  “Tell me, Saul, why do you fear these believers we are going to arrest?” asked Deucalion as they walked.

  “Arrest? Oh, yes. . .of course,” mumbled the enigmatic Jew. “In order to answer you properly, and since you seem to have a genuine interest—unlike most Romans—I will endeavor to give you a brief education about what it means to grow up as a Jew.

  “Jewish law prescribes that a boy begins study of the Scriptures at age five, and the study of the legal tradition at age ten. My first recollections are of my father repeating words from the Talmud to me over and over again. When he finished the daily ritual he would admonish me by saying, ‘Saul, you must never forget that you are a Jew. We serve JEHOVAH only. Our life is dedicated to His service. You must endeavor constantly to learn His Word. In so doing, you will learn what it means to be a people apart. Never forget that we are different; the circumcision of our flesh is done in furtherance of the blood covenant that God struck with the father of our nation, Abraham. Never let the sun set upon your face without your having memorized a portion of the Talmud.’”

  “Was there no time to be a boy?”

  “Rarely. The focus of my childhood was a curriculum of study involving every aspect of Jewish life.”

  Deucalion was amazed. “Nothing else?”

  Saul shrugged. “There was always work. My father also agreed with the prevailing sentiment that manual labor was a noble manifestation of our love for God. He advised me repeatedly that intellectual prowess and physical activity went hand in hand. And he often quoted the saying: ‘Excellent is Torah study together with worldly business, for all Torah without work must fail at length and occasion iniquity.’”

  Saul turned toward Deucalion. “As you can see,” he added, “we Jews are not at all like what the world thinks of us.”

  Saul pulled his plain white robe tighter about him and shook off the fine coating of dust that had settled upon it. “The primary goal of Jewish education is to produce a man who can both think and act,” he continued. “Preferably one who is neither lost in the clouds with his thoughts, nor clumsy in those matters of daily life.”

  “What does all that have to do with what we’re doing tonight?”

  “Patience, Praetorian. At thirteen, boys become bar mitzvah’d—a ‘son of the covenant.’ At that time, we’re expected to take full responsibility for the obligations of the Law. Those like myself, who show special talents, are encouraged to study further under a Rabbi or teacher, in order to become fully educated in the ways of God. That is how I came to be in Jerusalem.”

  He paused for a moment and gazed at the stars before finishing the thought. When he continued, there was no anger in his voice and although his tone suggested that he had accepted the circumstances, it was clear that he was not resigned to them.

  “Although I’m a talit maker by trade, I’ve spent the better part of the past seventeen years studying under various teachers. For me, the Law is of paramount importance—without it, we Jews are nothing. God commanded, through Moses, that we uphold our portion of the covenant by keeping His Law. He admonished His people not to turn to the right or the left, and told us in no uncertain terms that if we did, we would perish and our nation would die in desolation. The history of my people stands as obvious testimony to the truth of His Word. And you Romans have played no small part in the fulfillment of that prophecy.”

  “I’m surprised to hear you speak about Rome with such a lack of antagonism. I have yet to meet a Jew who doesn’t resent our presence here in Judea.”

  “Perhaps that’s because even though I am of pure Hebrew descent, from the tribe of Benjamin, I also inherited Roman citizenship.”

  Deucalion was surprised, but said nothing.

  “Shall I continue?” asked Saul rhetorically.

  “By all means.”

  “The Nazarene claimed He was the ‘Word made flesh’; that He was the Son of God. His teachi
ngs, rejected by learned Jews such as myself, were designed for the ears of the uneducated and therefore gullible populace. Even after His death the heresies spread epidemically, infecting even the most religiously faithful among our nation.

  “I am one of the few who knew His death would fail to purge the infection. We waited too long to act and His inflammatory words have already taken root. Like pernicious weeds in a garden, they are now choking out the life of our Faith. Now it is imperative that the blasphemous teachings of His followers be stopped—before any more damage is done.”

  “But the man was a Jew like you,” interrupted Deucalion, with consternation. “Many called him Rabbi. He healed the sick and raised the dead.” He stared at Saul incredulously. “Has any man, Jew or Gentile, priest or not, ever done what witnesses claim they’ve seen Him do?”

  Saul scrutinized Deucalion. “You sound as if you believe,” he growled. “That kind of thinking is dangerous.”

  Deucalion ignored the rebuke. “From what I’ve learned about the Nazarene,” he replied, “He preached against no man and held scorn for no one but those who refused to believe what their own eyes, ears, and heart told them was truth.”

  “Ah, therein lies our dilemma. If what he said is truth, then the Holy Scriptures are false. And if they are false, what then of God? If God is not who He has revealed Himself to us to be, then there is no covenant. If there is no covenant, then we have no law. And without the Law, there is no Jewish nation.”

  They didn’t speak again for quite a distance. Deucalion was relieved. It gave him time to think.

  Finally, Saul broke the pensive silence. “I hope you understand now why I don’t take the spread of this false religion lightly. Not only my existence, but the very existence of my people is being threatened.”

  “And what about Rome? Why do you require our participation in a purely religious matter?” asked Deucalion, not sure he really wanted to hear the persuasive Jew’s answer.