The Weeping Chamber

by Sigmund Brouwer

  Peter shoved away from the servant and stumbled in a half run, looking for any place that offered him privacy. Deep wrenching sobs overcame him.

  Yeshua, too, wept.

  Chapter Forty-eight

  My dearest love,

  If our servant has read you these letters in order, you will remember easily that I would not write my final letter until I had decided the truth about this man of miracles.

  Last night I saw Him captured and tried by ordinary men. Greedy men. Vain men. Self-righteous men. Men who wanted Him dead because His teachings were a threat to them. Men who had the power to murder Him publicly and make it appear lawful.

  For the events that transpired against Him, He has my sympathy. He was innocent and, by trying to help others, condemned Himself.

  Yet if He were who He claimed to be, He would not have let this injustice occur. Nor would He have taken the beatings and insults rained upon Him. If He were the Messiah, He would have had the God-given power to prevent all that happened.

  Thus I am satisfied that He cannot help me.

  I am also satisfied that I have tried everything possible to redeem my wrongdoings. Altar sacrifices failed. As did fasting. Self-denial. And the pursuit of a miracle man.

  Nothing in my power will set our daughter right, or our love right, or myself right again. Knowing I have done everything possible within my considerable means and talent allows me to seek my solution in peace.

  Please be assured that my beloved cousin Pascal will take care of my estate and ensure that you will never want for money.

  In farewell, let me tell you again that you are blameless for the death of our love. I am the one who failed. Grieve the man you remember me to be in the beginning—I beg this as my final wish. Then find a man who will cherish you until your last breath.

  As I do not want my confession to reach the ears of the servant who reads this, I will write it on a separate scroll, sealed, to be included with these letters.

  Have Vashti read my final confession to you from that scroll. I know she has been seeking education; books are now her only freedom. As she reads my confession aloud in your presence, it will grant her another freedom of sorts, for she will be telling you the truth she has kept hidden from you on my behalf. Tell her my death is payment for the burden I gave her.

  Once you hear my confession, I ask you to forgive me if you can.

  I beg of you to ask Vashti to forgive me.

  I want you both to know I would have given everything I owned to undo what I did; instead, I am giving my life, and not even that is enough.

  Lastly, at the first star on the evening you receive these letters and the news of my death, sing a song for me from our balcony.

  I will cling to that image. The thought of your sweet voice will bring some happiness to me over the next few hours.

  Good-bye.

  Your Simeon

  Chapter Forty-nine

  In the prison of my cousin’s guest chamber, I set aside my final letter and wrote the promised confession to Jaala, half expecting that act to somehow set me free.

  It did not. In my mind, I saw my wife’s face as she heard the truth as Vashti read the confession to her. In my mind, I watched my wife sit back slowly, absorbing what it meant. This vision of the woman I love increased my pain.

  I rolled the parchment of my confession carefully and set it with the other letters that would be delivered to her with the possessions I had brought to Jerusalem.

  I let out a deep breath of resolution. With the arrival of the dawn, my self-imposed trial had finally ended.

  For another, too much trial remained.

  **

  Pilate sat in his magistrate’s chair, his shoulders covered with a cloak. The sun had yet to warm the courtyard of Herod’s palace, and he knew it would be another hour before he could set the cloak aside. This early hour and the judicial task that went with it were two of the reasons he disliked coming to Jerusalem.

  As Roman governor, Pontius Pilate’s duties included moderating all local disputes between Jews and Gentiles. Because of Jerusalem’s large Gentile population, a huge backlog of cases always awaited him during his infrequent visits from Caesarea. Pilate was also responsible for overseeing appeals, capital cases, and any political offense that threatened Roman administration. Other duties had delayed his first hearings until Wednesday. Since then, he had held two sessions a day—dawn until noon, and midday to early evening—and still expected to be stuck in Jerusalem until the middle of the following week.

  His role as provincial judge demanded full concentration. Roman courts usually had large juries, but in the provinces, because of the scarcity of Roman citizens, the governor was both jury and judge. Pilate had no room for legal sloppiness; the transcripts of all his trials were subject to review in Rome. His advancement in part depended on his reputation as a magistrate.

  Pilate considered it a small mercy that the current case had required little time and even less legal skill. He looked down on the two bearded men shivering, as much from fear as from cold, before him. Both were stripped to the waist, both mongrel thin with dozens of bruises and abrasions across their ribs; the soldiers who had captured them had not been gentle.

  During a court session, there is always one totally quiet moment, the pregnant pause before the verdict is delivered. This was that moment.

  As Pilate drew a breath to pronounce his deliberations, sandals scuffling over bricks broke the moment. The spectators turned to watch a slave rush into the courtyard.

  The slave stopped short, seeing by the scowl on Pilate’s face that it had not been a good moment to interrupt, no matter how urgent the message.

  Pilate turned his attention back to the two prisoners. “The court shall note that no less than five witnesses have described without variation your attempt at highway robbery,” Pilate said. “Accordingly, I judge you both guilty.”

  The larger of the two men, whose nose had been broken by the butt end of a soldier’s spear, emptied his bladder in a spasm of fear. He had expected the verdict, but to be in the moment when it was delivered was too much. For he also knew the penalty.

  “Take them away,” Pilate said. “As they are not Roman citizens, flog them first; then crucify them.”

  The second man bore his sentence stoically, but his wife rushed forward and tried to pull him away from the Roman soldiers. A fist knocked her to the ground, and she lay moaning in pain and misery as soldiers led the men away.

  Pilate waved for more soldiers to remove her as well and sighed at the wearisome drama of human nature. He beckoned the slave forward.

  “Excellency, a delegation waits for you outside the palace. Sanhedrin. With the rebel,” the slave said.

  “I have been expecting them.” Why else had they requested a cohort of soldiers in the middle of the night? “Send them in.”

  “They request you meet them outside, Excellency. They wish to avoid religious defilement. If they enter now, they will be unable to participate in the remaining Passover celebrations.”

  “They expect me to go out to them?”

  The slave hesitated.

  “What is it?” Pilate said.

  “Caiaphas instructed me to let you understand that he foresees dangerous rioting if this matter is not handled soon. Already, hundreds are gathering in the square outside the palace.”

  More hesitation.

  “Out with it,” Pilate snapped. When would these servants realize he was first and foremost a soldier, not a capricious emperor who vented cowardly anger on the helpless?

  “I have also been instructed to let you know that their own criminal investigation has found the man guilty. Caiaphas promises this will not delay your schedule.”

  Pilate slammed an open palm against his chair’s armrest.

  “Excellency?”

  Pilate was a soldier, but no soldier reached a governorship without political acumen. Much as Caiaphas wanted this Yeshua dead, he was trying to force Pilate to bear the
blame for any rioting that might result from the prophet’s death. Furthermore, Caiaphas expected Pilate to accept the judgment of the Sanhedrin when the very essence of Roman law was a public hearing. Any disturbances over Yeshua’s death would hurt Pilate twofold in Rome: for the disturbance itself and for the legal improprieties. For Caiaphas, it was a shrewd attempt to hurt both of his enemies at the same time.

  “Excellency?” the slave asked again.

  Pilate realized his attention had been on his disdain for Caiaphas and his anger at the leverage of the high priest’s office.

  Pilate uncurled his grip on the armrest. “Tell Caiaphas I will thoroughly judge this case.”

  Before the slave could move ten paces away, Pilate stood. “Wait,” Pilate commanded. He threw his cloak aside. “I have changed my mind. I will tell him myself.”

  Chapter Fifty

  Just before leaving the guest chamber, I took the opportunity to review, for the final time, the legal documents I had had prepared shortly before the Passover. Listed in full detail—if nothing else, I had a good head for numbers—were the total values of all my holdings.

  Pascal would see this and trust me for accuracy.

  Following this list was the price I had requested for the full estate, not including the villa where my wife and daughter could comfortably spend the rest of their lives if they chose. This price was only half of a conservative estimate of the estate’s value, yet more than enough to allow my wife and daughter to live extravagantly each year of their lives.

  Pascal would gladly pay this amount to add to his holdings.

  The bargain included the provision that Pascal oversee the transfer of wealth and administer this money in such a way as to protect my wife and daughter.

  My death would force Pascal to honor this deal despite my foolish actions against the Sanhedrin. And because I would be dead, none would speak against him for associating with me.

  I had decided upon this as the simplest and least wearisome way to handle my holdings. I was tired of life and wanted no more burdens. If I actually entered into a discussion with Pascal, negotiations could take days to resolve. Days I did not care to see.

  I had one last note to write.

  I began without hurry. In the same manner, the Roman governor began to deal with his problem in the public square not far from where I sat at my window.

  **

  Pilate sent guards ahead with his magistrate’s chair and orders to set it on the top of the steps, then to clear a large space in front of it.

  He also sent word to Fort Antonia that reinforcements should move to the Herodian palace but position themselves out of sight of the Jews in the square.

  Finally, Pilate waited fifteen minutes before marching majestically into the public square, accompanied by guards and personal slaves. After he settled himself into the chair, he placed his forearms on its armrests.

  And waited.

  The crowd already filled most of the square. White robes marked dozens of priests. Long gray beards indicated the Sanhedrists. Poorly dressed peasants from lower Jerusalem, some of them obviously drunk, filled out the crowd.

  Pilate waited longer. Despite the impatient mutters and grumblings around him, each passing minute gave him more satisfaction. The space cleared before his chair ensured that every person would see when Caiaphas moved forward in supplication to Pilate.

  The tension increased.

  Caiaphas remained as stubborn as Pilate. He stood at the front of the crowd, expecting Pilate to summon him.

  Pilate contented himself by examining the prisoner. There was but one man with His hands bound, so he knew it must be Yeshua. Unlike the hundreds of prisoners Pilate had seen in his career, this man’s eyes held no fear, no shame, no defiance, no plea for lenience. Still—after hearing rumors of miracles for months, after seeing the efforts Caiaphas had expended to capture this prophet from Galilee, after the threats of rioting and public disorder—Pilate had expected more. A bigger man, perhaps. Or striking features. But, aside from His dignity, this man appeared as ordinary as the carpenter He’d once been.

  After several more minutes, Pilate let a smile curve his lips. Enough time had passed. Caiaphas could no longer claim that Rome had not been prepared to dispense judgment. Pilate stood, smiled once more, and began to walk back toward the palace.

  His bluff worked.

  Excited rumblings in the crowd told Pilate that something was happening behind him. He continued to walk.

  “Your Excellency!”

  It was Caiaphas.

  Pilate pretended to hear nothing but didn’t keep the gleam out of his eyes. Let Caiaphas grovel.

  “Your Excellency!”

  Pilate sobered his features and turned back to the crowd. Caiaphas, two chief priests, and the prisoner were now at the foot of the steps, below the magistrate’s chair. Pilate returned, happy that he’d forced Caiaphas to supplicate, and resumed his position in the chair.

  “What is your charge against this man?” Pilate asked.

  The question seemed to stun Caiaphas. Pilate’s question had been the opening statement of an official Roman trial. A nearby scribe, in fact, was copying the words for the transcript.

  Pilate hid his satisfaction and amusement. Let the Jews condemn Yeshua. Let them bear the brunt of public opinion.

  Caiaphas recovered badly. “We wouldn’t have handed Him over to you if He weren’t a criminal!”

  Pilate shrugged, but it was pretended indifference. This exchange was going exactly as he had planned. “Then take Him away and judge Him by your own laws.”

  The scribe continued marking Pilate’s words. None of the previous night’s discussion, nor Caiaphas’s expectations because of that discussion, would be on the record. To any legal authority reviewing the case later in Rome, then, Pilate would be without blame.

  “Only the Romans are permitted to execute someone,” Caiaphas said.

  Pilate nodded wisely, as if agreeing with Caiaphas. “I am to understand then, since you seek His death, that you have found this man guilty, although you have not laid charges. I am also to understand that somehow, during the night, you were able to give Him a fair trial. Again, without laying charges.”

  A blow to the kidneys would not have had more impact. Pilate was beginning to think he had actually cornered the old gray snake before him.

  Caiaphas began a heated whispered conversation with his chief priests.

  Pilate kept careful watch on Yeshua, expecting some of the conversation to visibly affect Him. After all, it was His life at balance. Yet the prophet remained in a near meditative calm.

  “This man,” Caiaphas announced, “has been leading our people to ruin by telling them not to pay their taxes to the Roman government and by claiming He is the Messiah, a king.”

  Inwardly, Pilate winced at the slightly scratching sound as the scribe continued to transcribe the accusation. He could not walk away from the trial now.

  Pilate waited for Yeshua to defend Himself against the charges. The man said nothing. While it intrigued Pilate—defendants often shouted counteraccusations, pleaded for mercy, made excuses, but never just stood silently—it all placed him in a difficult situation.

  One that Caiaphas saw. For if Yeshua said nothing, Pilate would have to address the charges.

  Caiaphas took his own opportunity to smile in triumph. The three charges would alarm any Roman governor. Sedition? Opposition of tribute? The high treason of a claim to kingship?

  Caiaphas knew that Pilate knew. Emperor Tiberius, in Rome, would be far less likely to understand the local situation than Pilate. Tiberius would think Pilate stupid or insane if he didn’t simply and cheaply execute a non-Roman citizen to eliminate the slightest risk to Roman rule.

  Pilate beckoned Caiaphas forward. He kept his voice low so the scribe could record none of their conversation.

  “I tell you this for my own satisfaction,” Pilate said. “We both know this Yeshua has avoided all political causes. As for your seco
nd accusation, the nonpayment of tribute, I have had a good laugh at His now-famous response to give to Caesar what is his. You are only fortunate that what He said could be distorted in Rome.”

  Pilate leaned forward so he was almost nose to nose with Caiaphas. “Do you see the hypocrisy of publicly defending tribute to us when you and your Pharisees spend your days protesting Roman rule?”

  Pilate’s spittle flecked the high priest’s beard. “And finally, it is totally contemptible that you and your Sanhedrin claim religious defilement prevents you from entering my court when what you are attempting is judicial murder. Why should any man with intelligence believe you serve God?”

  The only thing that held Pilate from physically pushing Caiaphas away was the certainty of the riot that would result. So Pilate leaned back and made his pronouncement. “Send the prisoner to my chamber,” he said. “I will interview Him there on these charges.”

  Chapter Fifty-one

  My final words, the note to Pascal, were simple. I explained that I was going to take my own life. I thanked him for his hospitality and assured him that as a younger cousin, I would have approached him for help with my problem if I had at all thought there was a solution.

  I told Pascal the general area where my body might be found and asked him to keep the note to him secret and to arrange it so that it appeared I had been a victim of crime, as it would allow my wife the comfort of a synagogue funeral if the world believed I had died at the hands of highway robbers.

  I asked him to honor the document of sale he would find with the note, explaining that I doubted any harm would come to his reputation if he did so after my death; assets are never held accountable for the character of the man who owned them. I requested that he send along the nearby letters to my wife without reading them.

  Then I wrote my good-bye to Seraphine and wished her and Pascal my love and shalom for the rest of their lives together.