Peter was overcome by emotion at this point and struggled to keep his voice from wavering. He regained his composure and continued. “I saw Jesus stand before the tomb of his friend and heard him pray to the Father. Then he called out in a loud, commanding voice: ‘Lazarus. . .Come forth!’ The mourners stopped their weeping and gasped.”
Peter’s voice rose with fervency. “I tell you now that Lazarus—still wrapped in burial linen—stepped from the darkness of the tomb into the light of day.”
The hairs on the back of Deucalion’s neck stood up, and an odd tingling sensation surged through his body. All around him, people murmured and began crying and praising God.
The apostle scanned the gathering with penetrating brown eyes and concluded by saying, “Brothers and sisters, I fervently beseech you to gird up the loins of your minds; be sober, and hope to the end for the grace that is brought unto us at the revelation of Jesus, the anointed One. We must become as obedient children, not fashioning ourselves according to the former lusts we indulged in out of ignorance. Even as He who has called us is holy, so we also must be holy, because it is written, ‘be holy, for I am holy.’”
“We are not redeemed with corruptible things, such as silver and gold, from the vain citizenship we inherited by tradition from our fathers. We are redeemed with the precious blood of the Christos, the lamb without spot or blemish. It is through Him that we believe in God, who raised Him up from the dead, and gave Him glory, that our faith and hope might be in God. Purify your souls, obey the truth through the Spirit, and love one another with a pure heart, fervently. Because all flesh is as grass, and all the glory of man is as the flower of grass. The grass withers and the flower falls away. But the Word of the Lord endures forever. And this is the word which, by the spreading of good news, is preached unto you.”
Deucalion was amazed. Could it be so simple? Could there be One, eternal God who cared so profoundly for man that He had sent His Son to die for man? Peter’s words had struck a cord that lay tautly strung within him. Simultaneously, he wanted to weep. Again he saw a vision of the tomb. What have I done? he asked silently as the memory of that that fateful afternoon flooded over him.
Beside him, Esther said, “Are you feeling ill? You don’t look well.”
“I’ve got to get out of here, Esther. I’m suffocating.”
Esther searched his eyes and gave him an understanding nod. “Abigail and I must talk with Joseph. We can meet you later. There’s a stable not far from here.”
Deucalion nodded, then grasped her hand in his. “Be careful, Esther. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”
“We have to hurry, Esther,” whispered Abigail, tugging at her arm, “Peter and Joseph are leaving.”
Esther’s heart fluttered as she watched Deucalion leave, but Abigail’s stinging words lingered in her mind: “The only permanent mistress a Roman soldier has is the Legion.”
“Yes, Abigail, let us go,” she said as she pulled her veil over her face so that she wouldn’t be recognized.
• • •
Unnoticed, Pilate and Malkus observed the gathering of believers from the shadows. Malkus appeared bored, but Pilate seemed almost hypnotized.
“He sounds just like the Galilean,” mumbled the Procurator.
“What?”
Pilate snapped from his daze. “I said the speaker sounds just like the Galilean.”
Malkus grunted. “If you ask me, I think the whole thing is a hoax.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I was at the tomb, with Deucalion. I inspected the sepulcher the morning the body supposedly disappeared. The only evidence that the Nazarene’s body had actually been there was a bloodied piece of linen.”
“So?”
Malkus shrugged. “We never actually saw the body placed in the tomb. The sepulcher was already sealed by the time we arrived.”
“But what about the stone? And the light? Deucalion told the tribunal that the stone had been rolled away and that there was an odd, almost blinding white light—before the sun came up.”
“I don’t have answers to those questions; but I do know that I watched Deucalion pierce the Nazarene’s side with a spear while he was still on the cross and I saw blood and water come from the wound and splatter him. The man was dead, Pilate—of that I am certain.”
Pilate watched the crowd, then gasped and stepped forward in order to see better.
“What is it?”
“Quiet! Do you want us to be seen?” Pilate motioned for Malkus to step beside him and pointed. “There, near the front, between those two women. Tell me, do you recognize the man?” The flickering light made it hard to see clearly.
“Deucalion!” whispered Malkus.
Just then the man with the bushy black beard stopped talking and the crowd began to disperse. Pilate and Malkus watched Deucalion as he talked with the two women he stood between. When the Praetorian turned to leave, Pilate said, “You follow the women. . .I’ll take Deucalion.”
Malkus nodded.
“And Malkus, not a word of this to anyone.”
“As you command, Procurator.”
“Report to me in the morning.”
“Hail Caesar,” replied Malkus, as he turned and melted into the night.
Pilate watched him go, a resigned look on his face. He mumbled, “Hail Caesar.”
• • •
Deucalion waited anxiously for Esther at the stable. He should have stayed with her. There was no telling what might happen with that madman Saul roaming about the city. While he waited, he thought about the events of the past two years; the chain of circumstances that had brought him to Jerusalem and to this place in time.
He had been a member of the personal staff of guards assigned to Lucius Vitellius, Governor of Syria. Because of his dedication to the Legion, Vitellius had given him the responsibility of selecting exceptional soldiers from among various auxiliary units to be trained as Praetorians. Then, just over a year before, he met the man who had irrevocably changed his life. He remembered the day as if it were only yesterday.
Lucius Aelius Sejanus, Commander of the Praetorian Guard, stood stoically next to Vitellius in the hot Syrian sun and watched Deucalion training his men, then finally called out in a gruff voice, “Deucalion Cincinnatus Quinctus, stand before me.”
He complied, sweat dripping off his bare chest and arms, while Sejanus scrutinized him. The commander said, “You have a rather unusual name, young man—Greek, isn’t it?”
“My mother was Greek, sir, and she favored the gods. Deucalion was the son of Prometheus, King of Phthia.”
“Aha, I see. . .” Sejanus said. “How like a mother to wish her son to be a king.”
“Actually Prometheus was the first champion of mankind,” continued Deucalion, brashly ignoring the jab. “Not only did he beat old Zeus at his own game, which caused the angry god to hide the knowledge of fire-making from mankind, but he stole fire from heaven and brought it back to Earth.”
“And what about your father?”
“Roman—and a soldier, of course.”
“You see, I told you he was special,” interjected Vitellius. “Praetorians are a breed apart, Sejanus. And this one, if selected, would be even more so.”
Deucalion had been surprised by his superior’s compliment, but he knew better than to let his excitement show.
“His arrogance is tempered with logic,” continued the Governor. “And I find his candid observations most refreshing. Whatever he calls himself, he’s a soldier born and bred. It’s in his blood.”
“I’ll think about it, Vitellius,” conceded Sejanus as he turned to leave.
Sejanus was famed for hyperbole laced with a dash of satire, and Deucalion was determined to make a final impression. “Cincinnatus was not my father’s name. . .” he said boldly.
Sejanus stopped and turned slowly.
Several centurions had been milling around, trying not to appear obvious, yet definitely interested in the
conversation. Deucalion eyed them covertly, knowing they were all well acquainted with his biting wit. . .and his arrogance. Now that he was verbally dueling with the infamous Sejanus, he realized they wanted to see how he would fare. “He’s done it now,” he heard one named Malkus mutter. “Sejanus can be cruel when he gets angry.”
The smile on Vitellius’ face disappeared.
“Cincinnatus was retired and living on his farm when war broke out between Rome and a brutal and tough mountain tribe from central Italy,” Deucalion had continued. “A Roman army, untrained and under incompetent leadership, was trapped by the fierce Aequi; it was feared they would be slaughtered.
“The former consul from Rome, then sixty, took up his armor and resumed office at the request of the people. Gathering a small force of local herdsmen and farmers, he defeated the Aequi, completely demoralizing them after sixteen days of intense conflict. For his efforts he was rewarded a Triumph by the people.” He paused, hoping he hadn’t pushed too hard.
“Go on, finish it. . .tell us the rest,” prodded Vitellius.
“Like the good Roman he was, Cincinnatus once again resigned his consulship, there being no further need for his services. Not wanting to burden the people with additional expense, he returned to his retirement, and his farm, beyond the Tiber.”
The three men stood in the hot sun for several minutes, caught like insects in the spider web of silence. Finally, Sejanus smiled. “And just who was this Cincinnatus?”
“My great grandfather, sir.”
“I see. . .” replied the consul, as though he really did see this time. Abruptly he slapped the Governor on the back. “I think you’re absolutely right, Vitellius. We most certainly have the makings of an exceptional soldier in our midst. See to it that he is appointed to the Guard immediately.”
In the darkness of the stable a horse snorted loudly. “Take it easy, boy,” whispered Deucalion, “you’ll give me away.” The animal quieted and he returned to his thoughts.
That was how he came to be in Jerusalem. Vitellius, ever mindful of political opportunities, had sent him here to help the beleaguered Procurator of Judea curb the rise of civil disobedience. His specific orders had been to train an elite unit to eliminate the rebel leaders, and those orders had suited Pontius Pilate just fine. The Procurator wanted the Judean monkey off his back. And he would do whatever it took to eradicate the politically disastrous mark he had been branded with as a result of his failures in Judea. In spite of the fact that Pilate harbored a passionate hatred of the Jews, he detested his estrangement from Rome more; and even though he despised Antipas, he believed that he knew the Tetrarch’s political weaknesses enough to manipulate him.
“Antipas’ devotion to his faith is a contrived affiliation,” Pilate had told him, just the other night. “His lust for power is another matter altogether, however.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s quite simple, really. Herod can’t help himself. Most men simply covet power. Antipas is addicted. And I intend to use that weakness against him.”
“How?”
“Given the opportunity, Antipas will sacrifice everything, including his faith, to sit at the helm of the Hebrew ship of state. I intend to see that he has that opportunity.”
“But why must we become involved?”
“Because, my friend, once Antipas controls the Sanhedrin, I will have the Jews right where I want them. You see, whoever controls the addict’s source of supply, controls the addict. And there is no power in Judea, indeed in the known world, without Roman occupation.”
At the time Pilate’s words made sense. Now, Deucalion was not so sure. He experienced another kind of power tonight—the power of faith. And it had shaken him to the very depths of his being.
Out of the darkness, a man’s voice called to him. “Deucalion?”
“Who goes there?” he asked, suddenly wishing he’d brought a weapon.
Pilate stepped into the light provided by a lone lantern and faced his Commander of the Garrison. “What in the name of the gods are you doing here, dressed like that?” he asked, obviously angry.
Deucalion’s mind raced. He mustn’t act shocked at seeing the Procurator disguised in a hooded robe and in the stable with him. Pilate never did anything without purpose and planning. If the Procurator knew he was here in the stable, then he also knew that he had been at the meeting. “I was doing a bit of spying, Pontius,” he replied, uncomfortable with the lie.
Pilate appraised him with hooded eyes as he walked over to one of the horses and began stroking the animal’s neck. “You seemed very friendly with that dark-haired woman. Is she one of them?”
“You’ve been spying on me?”
“Not exactly, Commander. Let’s just say that I’ve had some serious doubts about your loyalty since our last conversation.”
“So you followed me here. Why?”
“I wanted to speak with you—away from the eyes and ears of those who might be far less sympathetic to your plight.”
“Oh?”
“Come now, Deucalion. I know you better than you think. I know you well enough to say that I’m positive the woman I saw you talking with tonight was the same woman you rescued from Saul. Am I right?”
“Perhaps.”
Pilate sighed and stopped stroking the horse. There were several bales of hay piled against one corner of the stable and he walked over and sat down on top of them. “I know about Doras’ failure in the Sanhedrin, and that his daughter, Esther, was the woman you supposedly took to the garrison for questioning. Only neither of you ever arrived.”
“You don’t understand—”
“Let me finish, Deucalion, then tell me I don’t understand,” barked Pilate. “I can’t believe you’re prepared to throw away a promising career in the Guard because of a woman. A Jewess, no less. If you must have her, then take her. But, by all the gods, be discreet. I have enough problems without having to deal with rumors that my Commander of the Garrison has fallen for a Jewess.”
“Esther is not just another woman.”
Pilate arched his brow.
“Why did you marry Claudia, Pontius? Was it just because of who her father was?”
“Why else?”
“For love—”
Pilate snorted. “Certainly you don’t expect me to believe you’ve fallen in love with this woman?”
Deucalion pondered the Procurator’s question. Until this moment, he hadn’t named his feeling for Esther. But yes, he did love her. “What’s so wrong with that?”
Pilate waved his hand impatiently. “There is no power in love. Love only saps the strength of a man—and distracts him from what is important.”
“What is important, Pontius?”
“Political power.”
“You sound like Antipas.”
“May the gods take you, Deucalion,” Pilate spat. “First you claim the Nazarene rose from the dead, and now you tell me you’ve fallen in love with a Jewess who believes the same preposterous story.”
Deucalion flinched. “So that’s what this is truly all about. . .the Nazarene. I had hoped that perhaps you, at least, believed me when I told you what transpired at the tomb.”
“It doesn’t matter what I believe. The case is closed. The Tribunal determined that the Galilean’s body was stolen by thieves—very likely His own disciples—in order to promote rebellion among the populace.”
“You weren’t there, Pontius. I was.”
“And so was Malkus.”
“What does he have to do with this?”
“He thinks the whole thing is a hoax.”
“A hoax?”
“You find that preposterous?”
Deucalion laughed harshly. “You remember when you asked me what happened to my hand, the morning after I dined with Doras, and I told you that I had been attacked by some men?”
Pilate nodded.
“You also asked me if they were Jews.”
“And you told me they weren’t.”<
br />
“That’s correct.”
“So?”
“They were centurions, Pontius. That is, I’m sure at least three of the four were.”
Pilate jumped to his feet. “That’s impossible.”
“So was what I witnessed on the third morning of guard duty at the tomb of the Nazarene. But they both happened.”
Pilate was livid. “I curse the day Sejanus appointed me to rule over this desolate stretch of desert. And I curse the day I allowed the Jews to manipulate me into crucifying the Nazarene. But by all the gods I swear I shall have my revenge.” He stared at Deucalion. Light from a lantern flickered in the darkness and turned his eyes to glittering ice. “Don’t make me curse the day you came into my life, too.”
Deucalion was being asked to make a choice. What was it Peter had said? “You can all partake of the divine nature and escape the corruption that is in the world because of lust.”
Pilate coveted power, just as his archenemy, Antipas, did. Deucalion realized he couldn’t choose that path. It would only lead to destruction. Nevertheless, he needed to make one last effort to get through to the man who had treated him as a son.
“Revenge isn’t the answer, Pontius,” he said compassionately.
“No? What then is the answer?”
“Forgiveness—”
Pilate stared at him as if he’d uttered a curse. “You have become infected with their rot, haven’t you?”
“No, Pontius, I have not become infected. For the first time in my life, I feel clean—totally clean.”
Pilate adjusted his robe, then stepped toward the narrow street outside the stable, where he turned and said, “I’m going to pretend we never had this conversation. I expect to see you at the garrison first thing tomorrow morning. We have much to do.” With that, he disappeared into the night.
Deucalion stared into the darkness as Pilate’s words reverberated inside his head.
An astounding insight shook him to the core of his soul.
Pilate had said it didn’t matter what he believed about what happened at the tomb. Did the Procurator know the truth but wouldn’t, or perhaps couldn’t, admit it. Because if he did, then he would be accountable. If he was accountable, then he would have to answer to an authority that was much higher, and much more powerful, than Caesar.
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