He wanted to weep, but he knew he could not.
Now, more than ever, he realized the truth of the matter. He was a man who, because of his intellect, could not plead ignorance. Yet, because of pride in that same intellectual ability, he could not help but make decisions that were contrary to his own best interests. In many ways he was as much a power addict as Antipas.
That bit of introspection startled Pilate. He had thought himself incapable of such stark honesty where his own motives were concerned.
Overcome by a rare moment of compassion, he opened himself up to Deucalion. “Listen to me,” he pleaded, catching the Praetorian off guard. “I’m a man plagued by the demons of unjust decisions, most of which I found not merely unpalatable, but abhorrent to my sense of ethics and morality. And I have been forced to make those types of judgments in order to survive in a world I no longer understand. The memories of those decisions resurrect themselves inside my head at will. I have no control over them. A sight. . .a sound. . .sometimes the touch of another human being—all open the door to the pit and unleash the power of evil.
“In those terrifying moments of darkness, I imagine that my deeds are so foul, so repugnant, that even though I hold a ticket of passage on the ferryman’s ship of death, I am an unwanted guest. I ride Charon’s demonic frigate endlessly as it glides over the putrid sea of misery—the one the gods call the river Styx. I sit apart from the lost souls that are my fellow passengers and, like a leper, I pray no one will look at me. Yet I desperately want one last moment of recognition, one look to assure me that at least there was a time when I was one of them, even if only for a moment.”
He rubbed his temples, trying to massage away the pain that had become aconstant companion. “I’m no longer the proud citizen of Rome I once was, Deucalion. I’m no longer sure of my destiny—no longer certain of my ability to survive no matter what the odds. I’m even less certain of the institution I worship like a god.
“Rome has failed her people. And I, once a true son of the Republic, have failed Rome. I have given up on my adopted mother. Oh, there was a time when, like Oedipus, I courted her, blind to the fact that she was who she was and what she was. Now, however, my conscience robs me of my ignorance.”
Although the Procurator’s suddenly placid eyes were dry, Deucalion thought Pilate might weep. With unwavering voice his superior continued. “You are the closest thing to a son I’ve ever had. Claudia has given me only prophecy—illegitimate prophecy to boot. The idea of losing you to a woman is understandable; the possibility of losing you to an ideology that is beyond my ability to comprehend is unbearable.”
He twisted his hands together. “I fear losing your friendship,” he croaked, his voice almost a whisper. “No, that’s not exactly true. I fear the loss of the sense of belonging that you’ve given to me. I dread that more than I dread losing my appointment as Procurator.”
Realizing what he had said, he grew suddenly quiet. His face became an expressionless mask.
Outside Herod’s palace, a bird sang merrily. When the sound of its fluttering voice reached Deucalion, he glanced at the city spread below them, a sprawling metropolis of contradictions, and thought about Esther. He wondered if there were myrtle trees nearby, and if the bird was frolicking with a potential mate, wooing her with music, singing to her of his love as she sat upon the starry white flowers.
At the same time, he was intrigued by Pilate’s unusual behavior. He was also stunned by the Procurator’s confession. Maybe there was still hope. “You never mentioned anything about prophecy to me before, Pontius,” he said with compassion. “Certainly not in reference to Claudia. What prompted her to speak to you in such fashion?”
Pilate stared at Deucalion with sunken eyes, the pale skin beneath them stained by the dark smudge of too many sleepless nights. “Claudia visited me only hours before I sentenced Jesus to die and told me she’d had a vivid dream. She warned me that I was making a serious mistake. I argued with her, but she wouldn’t be moved.”
“What exactly did she say?”
He recounted Claudia’s exact words, and then said, “I didn’t listen to her—or my conscience. And the price I’ve paid for my foolishness is beyond measure. If the Gehenna of the Jews is real, I don’t want to face it. Surely it’s worse than the hell I live in now—and that is almost more than I can bear.”
“But, Pontius, you just told me that many of the decisions you’ve made have been forced upon you. Obviously you’ve honored Rome by being a faithful servant, as well as a loyal soldier.”
“Ha! You’re too young and far too naive to understand what soldiering in the service of Rome is truly like. My father, Marcus Pontius, was a native of Seville. He gained fame in the service of Rome during the wars of annihilation waged by Agrippa against the Cantabrians.
“He was a rogue, some even go so far as to say a renegade, to the cause of the Spaniards, his countrymen. When Spain was conquered by Rome he received the pilum, a reward for his service and a mark of distinction. Shortly thereafter, he changed the family name to Pilati, in honor of the javelin he had received from Caesar.” He forced a smile. “My father used to tell my mother that our new name would bring us luck because it was the weapon favored by many in the Legion. Since the Legion represented Rome, which was invincible in his eyes, he would be an extension of that invincibility.
“He was quite a visionary, my father,” Pilate added, chuckling, turning his back on Deucalion and the balcony. He walked inside and when he reached the marble table he rubbed the fingers of his right hand along the polished surface. “After leaving Spain, I entered the service of Germanicus on the Rhine and served through the German campaigns. Not long after, I found myself in Rome. It was there I decided that I must make some crucial decisions if I wanted to get where I had believed I belonged.”
Deucalion flinched at Pilate’s choice of words; they echoed hauntingly in his ears.
“I made what I thought at the time was a prudent and farsighted decision—I married Claudia.”
“I don’t understand.”
Pilate turned and let his tired eyes linger upon Deucalion, then looked past him, staring outward again at the distant mountains. He thought he could hear a bird singing, out beyond the balcony. “Your youthful naiveté keeps raising its honest head. Claudia is the youngest daughter of Julia, daughter of Augustus.”
Recognition glowed in Deucalion’s eyes and they widened considerably at the mention of Augustus, the imperial title of Octavius, the successor of Julius Caesar.
“I assumed at the time I would find favor with the Emperor, stay in Rome, become a member of the Senate, and retire. I would be a happy, not to mention wealthy, landowner. But the gods had other plans,” he added resignedly and shrugged his shoulders as an old politician will do when a weight he has been carrying for too long becomes too heavy to bear.
“It is indeed ironic how the fates have manipulated my life. Augustus ordered an enrollment for tax purposes that caused two undistinguished Jews to go to Bethlehem, where a son was born to them. He in turn eventually upset two nations: one worshiping a supposedly benevolent god of love, the other serving a relentless and uncompromising god of war.
“He alienated and incensed His own people, the Jews, by claiming to be the Son of God. And by refusing to behave as the treasonous rabble-rouser His accusers labeled him, He placed the greatest empire the world has ever known in one of the most disastrous predicament it has ever been in.
“Now, we must help our enemies eradicate the very infection that threatens to accomplish what all the might and power of the Legion could not. What irony!”
Pilate’s face sagged as he spoke. He looked like he was wearing a wrinkled mask left over from a long past bacchanalian party. “So you see my young and innocent Praetorian, Charon’s frigate is large enough to carry nations as well as people. And that, of course, is the final irony. Rome’s blindness has brought her to the brink of oblivion. She is slowly dying, and her citizens don’t even r
ealize that the rot they fear from without has already taken root and spreads from within. The fruitfulness of the once invincible empire has been destroyed by one too many abortive attempts at self-preservation.”
Deucalion could not believe what he was hearing. Pilate had never spoken to him with such passion before. That such a razor-sharp, pragmatic assessment of Rome’s predicament should come from the lips of a career soldier was astounding. It was obvious that in spite of all he’d said, Pilate still loved Rome as an unhappy, but very married man loves his mistress. It was equally obvious that Pilate had misinterpreted a key piece of information—an error that, on the battlefield, would inevitably prove fatal to a field commander.
It wasn’t Rome’s blindness that fueled the fire voraciously consuming the rotting infrastructure of the Empire. It was simply momentum. Rome was like a wounded Leviathan. Thrashing and howling in her death throes, she had turned upon herself and was desperately trying to tear the source of pain from her body. In the process, she was unwittingly ripping herself apart.
“If you see all this so clearly, Pontius, why don’t you try to do something about it?” he asked.
The Procurator frowned. “Oh, but I am. I made a serious mistake by allowing the Jews to involve me in the Jesus incident and I don’t intend to make another.”
Deucalion’s sympathy for his superior rapidly began to dissipate. Deep inside, the disgust at what he had witnessed the night before still burned hotly, like a live coal simmering in his belly. “So you make use of men like Saul,” he said sarcastically. “Men who are not tormented by their conscience.”
Pilate’s eyes narrowed. Deucalion realized he had stepped into dangerous territory.
“Don’t take that tone with me, Deucalion. I’m fully aware of my responsibilities as Procurator. Men like Saul are a necessary evil. Unfortunately, they have a way of getting out of control. That is why we must be careful how we use them. So long as we avoid any direct involvement, we remain in control.”
“There’s no controlling what I witnessed last night,” countered Deucalion with a conviction that at once disturbed Pilate but also reminded him of why he had asked that the Praetorian be assigned to him. “If Saul’s fanaticism is allowed to continue unhampered, and if he has the support of the Legion, then there is truly little hope for Rome. We cannot participate, even nominally, in such madness and remain unaffected.”
“You know, there are those, my young friend, who accuse me behind my back of being self-seeking and cowardly,” replied the Procurator, barely controlling his anger.
“Others argue that although I’m able to perceive what is right, I lack the ‘moral strength’ to follow through with what I believe rather than simply executing my orders. Well, last night’s undertaking should convince even my staunchest detractors that I have Rome’s best interest at hand, no matter what my own beliefs may be.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I was ordered by Vitellius to ‘remedy the dilemma in Judea.’ And that is exactly what I’m doing. If that is self-seeking, then I readily admit to it. Who among us is not? As for cowardly,” he shrugged, “I leave that for the historians to decide.”
Antonius reappeared, interrupting the conversation. “The High Priest has arrived, Procurator,” he announced.
Angered, Deucalion asked, “What is he doing here?”
“Have you forgotten? Last time we met I told you that I’d arranged a meeting with Caiaphas to find out what is happening within the Sanhedrin. I’ve heard odd rumors—”
“What kind of rumors?”
“I’ll tell you about them later, after my meeting with the High Priest.”
Deucalion ignored the attempted dismissal. “Does Caiaphas know you’re once again on speaking terms with Antipas?” he asked, determined to find out as much as he could before leaving.
“I doubt it. He wouldn’t be here if that were the case. That would be a bit like walking blindly into the lion’s den, would it not? At any rate, even if he suspects something, the information you obtained from Doras should distract him.”
Deucalion fought nausea churning within his belly. Pilate would find out from the High Priest that the information from Doras was old news. And he knew that it would do no good now to tell the Procurator that he’d spied upon the meeting of the Great Council. That information would only serve to make him more a suspect than he would be when the truth of last night’s events became known.
And the truth would become known. Of that he had no doubt. Once Pilate had the scent of a scandal, he would ferret it out. If it had the potential to affect his chances of retiring to a villa outside Rome, he would eliminate the problem—permanently.
“I don’t want Caiaphas to see you here,” said the Procurator. “Wait outside on the balcony and listen. I want your opinion of what’s said.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The hot season had already made its debut in Jerusalem by the time Tam’muz, July, made its appearance on the Hebrew calendar. The air was still and clear, the heat intense.
The sky was as brass, the earth as iron. Wind, when it came, usually heralded from the northwest, although sometimes it blew from the east. On rare occasions, a khamseen blew in from the south.
The wheat harvest was in full swing in the mountain districts. Time was precious to the barley farmer; springs were drying up and vegetables were withering and dying on the vine. Bedouins left the steppes for the more succulent mountain pastures as Judea rapidly became dry and hard; a dreary wasteland of withered stalks and burned up grass.
Thank God for the morning dew, thought Esther. Without it there would be no relief from the heat. She worked the sticky dough between her hands vigorously. She loved to bake, and now she had plenty of time to do just that. Deucalion had been gone for almost a week, and during the time he had been away she heard nothing from him. She wondered if he would ever return. Part of her was fearful because he was, after all, a Roman Praetorian. And yet, in spite of her fear, she was drawn to him. There was something different about him—something that touched her spirit.
She didn’t have the same feelings about Joseph, though he was a Jew. She wondered why. Joseph was a good man, and she cared about him, but not in the same way she cared about Deucalion. Now that her friend was fully recovered, he was spending more and more of his time in the company of the apostles of Jesus. He also left behind a number of leather scrolls, wrapped in linen—scrolls he said belonged to an old man he’d met in the caves on the shores of the Great Salt Sea, just a few miles east of where she now was. He asked her to watch over them until he decided what to do with them.
Outside the small house a pair of swallows sang a cheerful musical tune. “What an impossible situation,” she muttered, adding leaven to the dough so that it would rise when heated. She began to hum to herself, keeping tune with a previously unknown melody that suddenly filled her head, trying to push thoughts of Deucalion from her mind.
Abruptly, she heard a muffled rap! rap! rap! at the front door. Startled, she wiped her hands on her apron, and then smoothed her hair.
“Who’s there?” she asked, uncertain what she would do if centurions were at the door.
“Deucalion—”
Relieved and excited, she unlatched the door and opened it, and then hugged Deucalion fiercely. Tears of joy slid down her face and left tiny tracks in the flour that had settled there like a fine coating of dust.
Deucalion returned her unexpected hug, a look of surprise on his face, and then suddenly realized how much he had missed her while he was in Jerusalem.
“I thought you’d forgotten about me,” she said, her face buried in his chest. “Or worse—”
“Worse?”
“You could have been making some sort of arrangement with my father—”
Deucalion grasped her by the shoulders and pushed her away from him so that he could look at her, then laughed. His eyes danced with pleasure as he soaked up the sight of her. In the light of day her jade gree
n eyes shone like crystal. They reminded him of the perfect pair of oval emeralds mounted in gold that Claudia, Pilate’s wife, wore as earpieces.
“You find that amusing,” she said with mock indignation.
“Not at all. It’s just that you’ve either aged considerably since I last saw you, or perhaps I simply failed to notice the streaks of gray in that beautiful black hair of yours.”
“It’s the flour,” she said and used a clean corner of the plain white apron she wore to wipe her face. “Tell me, what did you find out while you were in Jerusalem?”
The smile on Deucalion’s face vanished. He stepped inside the clean, well-kept house and closed the door behind him. “I’m afraid I’ve some bad news, Esther,” he said wearily.
Esther walked over to the small table where she had been working and sat down, pushing the dough and flour to the side.
Deucalion could tell by the look on her face she was expecting bad news. “Your father,” he began with a sigh, “once I was finally able to talk with him, was convinced something horrible had happened to you. When I told him you were alive and safe, he was relieved. I told him I knew you were his daughter, and that shocked him. He asked me how I knew and I told him the truth, but only part of it. I left out the details of what happened at the woodworker’s shop, saying only that I managed to get you away from the meeting before Saul could harm you.”
Esther stared at him with glistening eyes. “And his reaction?”
“His whole expression changed in an instant. One moment he was relieved, the next he was subdued and pensive. He listened quietly, then was silent for some time before he spoke.”
“You must tell me what he said.”
“Esther—”
“Tell me! I must know.”
“He said that you had disgraced him; that he could no longer call you by his name. He finished by saying that you would never be allowed to set foot in his house again.”
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