Deucalion wouldn’t be at the garrison in the morning.
That part of his life was over.
Something in Peter’s words had pierced his emotional armor and instead of injuring him, it was as if a burden he had been carrying on his back for as long as he could remember was suddenly lifted. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do, but he did know that as soon as he saw Esther he was going to tell her of his decision to accept her God as his own.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The two women and the Praetorian arrived at Abigail’s house just before midnight, unaware that Malkus had followed them from the city. They went inside, where Abigail lit a solitary lantern, then said, “It’s been a long day and I’m very tired. I’ll see you two in the morning.” She handed the lantern to Esther, who placed it on the table and sat down. Deucalion joined her.
Abigail had barely disappeared from sight, when the door opened and Joseph entered the house.
Deucalion looked up and said, “I don’t believe it—”
Joseph smiled. “We meet again, Commander,” he said, as he closed and latched the door behind him.
“What do you mean ‘you meet again’?” asked Esther. “You were barely conscious the night Deucalion rescued us from Saul.”
“That’s true, Esther, but the Commander and I met before that night—the morning after the crucifixion.”
“At the Nazarene’s tomb. . .” mumbled Deucalion.
“Yet you didn’t recognize Joseph the night you rescued us?”
“I was more interested in you than Joseph,” confessed Deucalion.
“That’s quite understandable,” quipped Joseph.
“But you don’t seem surprised to see him here,” prodded Esther, staring at her friend.
Joseph shrugged. “I saw the commander at the meeting tonight—with you. I assumed he must be one of us now.”
“Please, call me Deucalion—I’m no longer Commander of Pilate’s Praetorian Guard—”
“What?” exclaimed Esther.
“And after tomorrow morning I’ll be a rogue soldier—a hunted man.”
“But why?”
“Because I’ve chosen to defy the Procurator’s orders. . .and because I know too much.”
The room grew suddenly silent. Joseph walked over to the table and sat down on a small stool, across from Esther and Deucalion.
Esther’s mind raced. What will happen to us now? Suddenly, an idea came to her. “All three of us are outcasts,” she said, breaking the silence. “Consequently, we, like many others, are without family or friends, save those who believe as we do.”
Esther paused, surprised at herself; she couldn’t remember ever being as bold and as confident as she was now. Joseph and Deucalion listened attentively and she saw curiosity and encouragement in both their eyes. Relieved, she continued. “As long as Caiaphas and the Council, including my father, continue to ignore the truth that Jesus was who He claimed to be, the nation of Israel will continue to suffer. And if Rome continues to view us as insurgent rebels, with no respect for authority—secular or religious—there will be no end to the slaughter of innocent men, women, and children.”
“What are you suggesting?” asked Deucalion.
“Somehow we must make both the Sanhedrin and Rome see that this insane hatred of one another cannot continue. We have to find a way to open the eyes of both Caiaphas and Pilate before it’s too late.”
In the ensuing silence, an odd kind of stillness settled over Deucalion, Esther, and Joseph. A soft haze permeated the dining area.
Deucalion had the same feeling he had the night he was ambushed—like he had too much wine, only he had had none to drink.
He looked at Esther, who was suddenly subdued. Her eyes shimmered with a sparkling luminescence—they looked like two agates lying in a stream of rushing water, reflecting brilliant sunlight. Then he stared at Joseph, the man he once thought a thief who had come to rob the grave of a dead man, and realized just how foolish that thought had been.
Joseph was pensive. Esther’s prophetic words struck a chord deep within him. As she talked, part of his mind had been on his conversations with Uriel—first at the edge of the Great Salt Sea, then later on the road from Bethany. Now, understanding flooded his mind. “Before you continue,” he said softly, “there’s something you should know, Esther. I’m one of the disciples now.”
“That’s wonderful!”
“Yes it is. Although I’m a little surprised at how fast things have happened. I’ve even been given a new name—Barnabas.”
“Son of prophecy,” translated Deucalion.
“You know Aramaic?” asked Joseph.
“A little.”
“He also speaks a little Hebrew,” interjected Esther mischievously.
Deucalion frowned, but said nothing.
“Can you read Hebrew?” asked Joseph abruptly.
“Not as well as I speak it, but well enough to understand what’s written.”
“I think I understand now why Peter shared his story about Lazarus,” said Joseph. “We have all had an intense personal experience with the Lord Jesus, the Christos. And each of us has had our lives resurrected, even as Lazarus was raised from the dead. Even though we haven’t experienced physical death, as he did, we are truly dead to the lives we once lived—”
“You are mistaken,” interrupted Deucalion, suddenly agitated. “I haven’t experienced a moment such as you describe.”
Joseph (Barnabas) glanced at Deucalion with understanding and compassion. “When we met at the tomb, were you not simply there to insure that Jesus’ body would remain undisturbed? And three days later, didn’t you experience something you did not understand?”
“But how—”
“How I know is not important. What is important is that you share that experience with us.”
“Now?”
Barnabas nodded.
Deucalion recounted what had happened at the tomb, during the morning of the third day of his guard duty. When he finished, Esther said, “To think that you were there when He rose from the dead! How wonderful!” She stared at him, wondering why he seemed so sullen. He should be excited—the Lord had spoken directly to him.
“There’s something more you haven’t told us, isn’t there?” said Barnabas.
Deucalion stood and walked over to the window. He stared out into the blackness of the night. After several minutes, he whispered, “It was my spear that pierced the Nazarene’s side.”
“What did you say?” asked Esther, her stomach suddenly tied in knots.
Deucalion turned, a defeated and broken look on his face. “I was the one who made certain Jesus was dead,” he said in a hollow voice.
“Yet the Lord spoke to you directly, and comforted you, when He rose from the dead three days later,” said Barnabas. “He forgave you.”
“I don’t deserve to be forgiven.”
“None of us deserves what the Lord freely gives by grace. If we received what we deserved, we would all be in Gehenna.”
Deucalion remembered that Pilate had said something about Gehenna a few weeks ago. “What is Gehenna?” he asked.
“Physically, it’s the valley of Hinnom.”
“The narrow ravine southwest of the city?” exclaimed Deucalion, remembering bits and pieces of his dream.
Barnabas nodded. “It separates Mount Zion from the Hill of Evil Counsel and the plain of Rephaim. Unfortunately, we Jews suffered under a number of our own idolatrous kings before Caesar. From the time of Solomon, infants were sacrificed to the fire-god Molech, until Josiah rendered the ravine’s depths unclean by spreading human bones over it. Afterwards it came to be known by its spiritual name; it is a place of eternal torment.”
“I feel like I’m there now.”
“You can put an end to that feeling, forever,” Esther said softly. The look on her face was obvious—she would take his pain if she could.
“But I killed Him,” groaned Deucalion. He didn’t know how much more
pain he could take.
“No, brother, that’s a lie,” Barnabas said forcefully. “He chose to give His life at the appointed time so that we might never die.
“Never die?”
Esther smiled. “To be absent from the body is to be present with the Lord—in Paradise.”
Deucalion’s eyes flickered between Esther and Barnabas. They didn’t hate him? There was hope for him. “What must I do?” he asked humbly.
“Admit your sin, and ask Jesus into your life,” answered Barnabas.
“Confess with your mouth that you believe Jesus was the Son of God and that He died on the cross so that you might live,” finished Esther.
Esther and Barnabas closed their eyes and began to pray out loud. At first Deucalion understood what they were saying; but after a few moments, the words rushing out of their mouths sounded odd, incomprehensible. He had the strangest feeling that they were speaking a very special language. It occurred to him that they might be speaking the language of God.
Overwhelmed by the idea, and overcome with emotion, he bowed his knee, as he had seen soldiers do when surrendering on the battlefield, closed his eyes and called upon the Lord to forgive him.
The haze thickened, and the room filled imperceptibly with the scent of frankincense.
For the first time in his life Deucalion sensed that he was truly loved. He began to weep. Instead of fighting the emotion, he gave himself over to it, without reservation. It was as if he had suddenly been washed clean of every foul thing he’d ever experienced.
He kept muttering, “Thank you, Lord. I praise Your Holy Name. . .”
Barnabas was the first to open his eyes. He watched Esther and Deucalion praying together for several minutes. Just before they both opened their eyes, Esther kneeled down beside Deucalion and grasped his hand in hers. Then they stood up together, arm in arm.
“Uriel was right—I have found my answer,” he said, eyeing them appreciatively.
“What answer?” asked Esther.
“Now that neither of you can return to Jerusalem, what will the two of you do?”
“My face is well known in Judea and Syria,” replied Deucalion, realizing he had not really given the problem much thought. “Pilate will send word to the garrisons throughout Judea to be on the lookout for me. It will be difficult to hide from the probing eyes of Rome. Alive, I’m a dangerous liability—not only to the Procurator, but to the Empire as well. Truth revealed is more frightening to the elite of Rome than an army of men knocking at their doors.”
“And more difficult for the Sanhedrin to deal with than a backslidden Jew,” added Esther.
“Don’t be so quick to mock the elders, Esther,” scolded Barnabas. “We serve the same God—it’s just that they don’t believe that He has already fulfilled His promise to send the Messiah.”
“Moses believed and confronted Pharaoh. Lot believed and was saved from the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah. Joshua believed and the walls of Jericho fell. Why won’t my father and the others believe?”
“Because they are men whose vision of God is molded from their fear of living lives without worth or purpose,” suggested Deucalion. “Your priests serve God to the degree it pleases their sense of ritual. For them, tradition has replaced faith. Men like Caiaphas and Doras have become hardened to the truth. Their unwillingness to change unmasks their unbelief.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Without tradition and ritual they slowly starve, like a man without food. At first, the body survives by getting nourishment from the excess it has stored; once those reserves are depleted, the body begins to feed upon itself. The less important organs are sacrificed first, in an attempt to protect the more vital ones. If no new nourishment is forthcoming, the flesh dies. It is no less with the spirit.”
There were stunned looks on both Barnabas and Esther’s faces.
“The Jews are not alone in their narrow-mindedness,” he continued, excited by the sudden realizations flooding his mind. “The night I first saw you, Esther—at your father’s house—I was ambushed as I returned to the garrison by four men dressed as centurions. I never got a good look at any of them, and even though each spoke to me, at the time I didn’t recognize any of their voices. One voice did seem familiar, however, and I learned later who it was. But I was not sure until this moment that I had recognized yet another voice.”
“Why would centurions attack you?” asked Barnabas.
“I’ve asked myself that same question a hundred times.”
“Well?” prodded Esther.
“It was Annas who led the other three.”
“Annas!” exclaimed Barnabas. “Are you certain?”
Deucalion nodded.
“And the other voice you recognized?”
“My second-in-command, Malkus.”
“This is incredible! A former High Priest and a Roman Praetorian working together. But why?”
“Since the crucifixion certain members of the Sanhedrin have been conspiring with high-ranking members of the Legion to keep the truth about the resurrection of Jesus from the populace. They are afraid of what might happen if they admit that Jesus was who He claimed to be. They are afraid they will lose their power.”
“We cannot just sit by and watch them slaughter innocent people in order to protect their authority,” said Esther he voice full of anger at such self-serving brutality. “I may have a solution,” said Barnabas as he picked up the bundle of leather parchments entrusted to him by Uriel and set them on the table.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“I followed the three of them for over an hour,” said Malkus, delivering his report to Pilate. The sun had only been up for half an hour—unlike the Procurator, who had never really slept—and it was already over ninety degrees.
“Well?” prodded Pilate, sweating profusely.
“They stopped and went inside a house just off the road to Bethany, about eight furlongs from the city. A short time later they were joined by another man.”
“You’re absolutely certain it was Deucalion with the two women?”
Malkus nodded.
“By the gods. . .” muttered Pilate. “Why does he tempt me so?”
“Your orders, Procurator?”
Pilate hesitated, then said, “I’m promoting you to Commander of the Garrison, and I’m ordering Deucalion killed on sight. You are to find him and deal with him immediately. He has betrayed not only me, but Rome as well.”
“What about the Syrian governor?”
“Vitellius has already notified me that he has washed his hands of this rogue Praetorian.”
Pilate grimaced, remembering that he had spoken the same words when the Nazarene was brought before him. “The Governor also made it unmistakably clear that he will similarly wash his hands of me if I fail.” He glared at his new Commander. “Need I say more?”
“No,” replied Malkus grimly. “I will not fail you.”
“Good,” Pilate said, forcing a note of finality into his voice that was not in his heart.
Malkus was nothing like Deucalion. The Procurator also had the distressing feeling that Malkus harbored a “lone wolf” mentality—an attitude that could prove dangerous. Even though this was Judea, and even though Sejanus had been dead and buried two years, the Senate had a very long arm.
Rome still suffered under the judicial turbulence of “treason trials.” A scroll would arrive from Capri, where Tiberius lived in self-imposed exile, with charges of complicity in the Sejanian conspiracy, usually on the basis of slim evidence. If the Senate found the man guilty, he was executed, or allowed to commit suicide. There were many among the most prominent of Rome’s pyramidal hierarchy who lived in daily dread of being cited for maiestas—treason against state and Emperor.
It was not just that Pilate’s record in Judea that left much to be desired in the eyes of his superiors; No, what he worried about was that it had been Sejanus himself who had appointed him Procurator of Judea.
Pilate eyed Mal
kus appraisingly. He needed to know what motivated this man. “Tell me what you think,” he commanded.
Malkus spoke hesitantly at first, until he realized that the Procurator was no longer frowning. Then he grew bold. “Many of us in the Legion, particularly those of us who were with Deucalion on guard duty at the tomb of the Nazarene, have felt for some time that his behavior was suspect.”
Pilate grimaced, in spite of his order to kill Deucalion. Ironically, he was unsure whether he was angrier at Deucalion for failing him, or at himself for cultivating such a deep friendship.
“As you are well aware, Procurator,” continued Malkus, “Deucalion was the only one of us who refused to accept the Tribunal’s finding that the Nazarene’s body had been stolen. It’s clear that the theft was orchestrated by the Nazarene’s followers in order to arouse the populace into rebellion—by claiming that their “king” had risen from the dead. Deucalion was adamant that he would not participate in any attempt to give discredit to that idea.” Malkus paused, and then added, “I believe that Deucalion was convinced that the Jew had indeed risen from the dead.”
Pilate’s eyes went vacant as color drained from his face. But he said nothing.
“Ironically, it was a Jew who provided us with a solution,” offered Malkus.
“A Jew?” interrupted Pilate in a hollow voice. His head jerked spasmodically, as if it were a ball hanging on the end of a piece of twine being swatted by a playful cat.
“But. . .but I thought you knew. It’s not possible you didn’t,” stammered Malkus.
“Tell me everything,” demanded the Procurator.
“About a month after the Tribunal handed down its findings—early in June, I think—a heavy-set man approached me in the market. It was crowded and I didn’t notice him until he was standing right beside me. Actually, I smelled him before I saw him.”
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