The Galileans: A Novel of Mary Magdalene

by Frank G. Slaughter

  Now Joseph became conscious of the sound of men moving about and talking in the courtyard of Caiaphas’s house. Some were Jewish voices, but the rattle of arms and rough words used by Roman soldiers betrayed the fact that a party of Pilate’s troops was included among those who had been waiting, perhaps for a man who would lead them to their prey. Judas had come to betray Jesus, Joseph was certain now, to inform Caiaphas where the Nazarene Teacher could be captured by night when there were no crowds to interfere.

  But why had this moody, strange man called Judas Iscariot chosen to sell the knowledge of his Master’s presence in the city this night to the high priest and his minions? Joseph wondered. The man of Kerioth had changed lately, as Joseph had already noticed. Perhaps, Joseph thought, it was because he had realized at last that Jesus had no intention of allowing Himself to be proclaimed a king in Judea and Galilee, as the Zealots planned. Or it might be that Judas hoped through Jesus’ arrest to so provoke the teeming thousands of the city into action that they would tear Him from the hands of the soldiers and set Him upon the throne of Judea in defiance of the high priest and Pontius Pilate. And Caiaphas, it seemed, was acting in collusion with the procurator. The presence of Roman soldiers in the party waiting for Judas’s arrival could mean nothing else.

  Now the gates of the courtyard opened and a burly Roman officer emerged with a captain of the Jewish temple guards beside him. Behind them was a party of at least fifty men, more than half of whom were soldiers of the cohort manning the Roman garrison of Jerusalem. When Judas emerged from the house and joined the leaders before the gate, Joseph knew with a desperate urgency that he must not delay here any longer. Jesus and the disciples might not yet have left the city, and at all costs they must not be caught within the gates tonight. Winded as he was, Joseph knew he must race back across the city to warn them, hoping to be able to arrive far enough ahead of the slower marching troops to hide Jesus in some safe place before they arrived at the house where the supper had been eaten that night.

  But when Joseph reached the house, Jesus and the disciples had gone. Mary was with the other women, clearing away the remains of the feast. She came quickly to Joseph. “Hadja said Judas ran from the house and you followed,” she told him. “I was worried for you.”

  “Judas is bringing Caiaphas and the Romans here,” Joseph gasped. “I came to warn Jesus.”

  “Judas!” She caught her breath. “Of course. He would be the one.”

  “Have they gone to Bethany?”

  Mary shook her head. “The Master will not return there tonight. As they were leaving Simon told me they were going to the Mount of Olives instead to pray in the Garden of Gethsemane.”

  “The soldiers will be here soon. We must send them in another direction,” Joseph said. “Go tell the women not to reveal where Jesus really went, and I will run to the garden and warn them.”

  “But Judas knew Jesus was going to pray with the disciples in the Garden of Gethsemane, Joseph.”

  “Then he is leading the soldiers to the garden and not here!” Joseph cried. “If only I had stayed to watch where they went,” he added bitterly, “but it is too late now.”

  “You could not have possibly warned Jesus and the others in time,” Mary pointed out logically. “Don’t you see? It is just as Jesus said. One of the disciples has betrayed Him and He will be taken to the chief priest and the scribes. It had to happen this way, Joseph.”

  And that, as they discovered when they met the soldiers returning with Jesus bound in their midst near the foot of the Mount of Olives, was exactly what had occurred. Led by the traitor Judas, the temple guards and the Roman detachment had surrounded Jesus while He prayed in the garden and had taken Him prisoner without resistance. Of the eleven disciples who accompanied Him, not one stood by Him in this hour of trial or offered to share His fate.

  XIX

  It was after midnight. Surrounded as Jesus was by nearly fifty guards, any attempt at resistance would have been foolish. Mary and Joseph followed as closely behind as they could, while the party retraced the way by which it had come and entered again the courtyard of Caiaphas. Only a few people could get into the chamber where the priests were questioning Jesus, but Joseph was recognized by the guard, and he and Mary managed to push their way in with the crowd where they could see and hear the trial, if indeed it could be called such.

  This was no formal hearing before the legally constituted Sanhedrin. Caiaphas and Annas, the old high priest, with Elias and several others of the same group who had questioned Joseph after his return from Galilee, made up the tribunal before which Jesus was brought. It was what Nicodemus had called the political Sanhedrin, the small body of influential priests and doctors of the law who, although having no legal existence, yet ruled the people, in so far as the Jews ruled themselves at all, with an inflexible hand.

  Jesus stood quietly with His manacled hands before Him. Already dark bruises showed on His skin where He had been manhandled by the guards, and blood trickled from a small cut on His wrist where the irons had been roughly applied. The sorrow that Joseph and Mary had noticed so markedly in His face these last few days was gone now. It was replaced by a look almost of exaltation, as if God had indeed given Him some special source of strength in this hour of trial. He showed no fear, nothing indeed but a calm resignation for whatever was to come.

  The witnesses, Pharisees whom Joseph recognized as having been among those who questioned Jesus whenever He taught, stood to one side. When Caiaphas nodded to them, the leading one said eagerly “I heard Him say, ‘I will destroy this temple that is made with hands, and in three days I will build another not made with hands.’”

  Caiaphas was obviously triumphant at thus establishing blasphemy against the temple, but when Jesus looked at the Pharisee who witnessed against Him, the man began to stammer a different version of his story. Angrily Caiaphas sent him back to the group of witnesses, but when one after another tried to tell how Jesus had blasphemed, only to have their stories become more and more confused, the crowd began to murmur among themselves at this travesty of a trial.

  Caiaphas flushed at the reaction of the crowd and said sharply to Jesus, “Have you no answer to make? What is it that these men testify against you?”

  Jesus did not speak, and the high priest said sharply, “Are you the Christ, the Son of the Blessed?”

  Slowly the eyes of the prisoner swept the room and the elegant person of the high priest who was tormenting Him. Before the calmness in His glance, even the confidence of Caiaphas seemed to wane a little. When Jesus spoke, His voice was loud and distinct, as if He wanted not only those in the room to hear, but also the small crowd that filled the courtyard. “I am,” He said, “and you will see the Son of Man sitting at the right hand of power, and coming with the clouds of heaven.”

  Then Caiaphas, suddenly triumphant, tore his robe and shouted, “Why do we still need witnesses? You have heard His blasphemy. What is your decision?”

  And as they had been coached, the members of this mock council answered, “He deserves death!”

  “Bind Him and send Him to Pontius Pilate for sentencing,” Caiaphas ordered exultantly. This was his hour of triumph. The man who had dared to mock the priests and the Pharisees before the people was at his mercy, condemned by His own words.

  The soldiers converged upon Jesus once more, but before they took Him from the room He looked around and saw Joseph and Mary standing there, distressed at this mockery of a trial and yet unable to do anything. A smile seemed to warm His lips for a moment, a smile of encouragement for them although His life, not theirs, was in danger.

  As Joseph’s eyes met those of Jesus, it was as if a sudden light burst in his brain. And in a blinding revelation that could come only from God Himself, he knew now that the one thing he had lacked, he lacked no more. For he had looked into the eyes of the Son of God and seen there the glory of a revelati
on he had sought but not been able to find until the moment when he had heard Jesus proclaim Himself the Christ.

  The shock and the glory of the revelation made Joseph reel a little, so that it was he who clung to Mary’s arm for support now. And she, realizing what had happened to him because she had experienced the same blinding glory, put her arm about him and held to him tightly while tears streamed down her cheeks. They remained thus while the soldiers took Jesus from the room and the crowd filed out, leaving them alone.

  “He is indeed the Son of God, Mary,” Joseph whispered as they went out into the courtyard. “I saw it just now, as if the Most High had opened a page and let me look upon the words themselves written there.”

  “I know, dear,” she said softly. “I always knew that when the time came Jesus Himself would reveal the truth to you.” And then her voice broke with grief. “But what can we do, Joseph? Pilate will sentence Him this morning and they will crucify Him. It is the Roman way.”

  Joseph straightened his shoulders. “I must speak to Pilate immediately. Perhaps I can still persuade him of the truth.” But he was foiled there, too, for a double guard had been placed around the procurator’s palace and strict orders given that he was not to be disturbed under any circumstances. If they had needed any further evidence that the whole thing had been planned by Caiaphas and Pilate together, it was this.

  For a while they could think of nothing that would help Jesus. Then Joseph had an inspiration. “If I can’t talk to Pilate, perhaps Claudia Procula will see me,” he said.

  “We can try,” Mary agreed. “I know she loves her husband enough to do anything she could to help him from crucifying the Son of God.”

  Joseph and Mary made their way to where Claudia Procula was staying in the palace. The guard was a member of Pilate’s household troops and knew him, so he was admitted immediately. The nomenclator informed him that the procurator’s lady was still asleep, but at Joseph’s insistence she was awakened. A few minutes later Claudia Procula came into the room, wrapped in a rich dressing robe, her face still flushed from sleep. When she saw who her visitor was, her eyes widened and her hand went to her throat. “Why are you here, Joseph?” she cried. “Is Pontius ill?”

  “The procurator is in good health, I am told.” He knelt before her. “I come to beg that you save Jesus of Nazareth.”

  “To save Jesus? What has happened?”

  “Caiaphas arrested Him for blasphemy and they have condemned Him to death. The procurator will pass sentence on Him today.”

  “Crucifixion!” she gasped. “But why? I thought they had decided He was harmless.”

  “Caiaphas fears Jesus,” Joseph explained, “lest His teachings break the hold the high priest has on the people. He must have convinced the procurator that Jesus’ death is best for the state.”

  Claudia Procula’s eyes fell. “He required little convincing, Joseph. Pontius ordered me not to listen to Jesus and I refused.”

  “You must go to Pilate now,” he urged, “or your husband will crucify the Son of God.”

  She looked at him closely and saw that he was confident of the truth in what he said. “I know Mary has believed He is the Messiah for a long time,” she said. “But I did not think you believed it. What made you change your mind, Joseph?”

  “This morning it was revealed to me,” he told her simply. “I no longer doubt.”

  Claudia Procula took a long breath. “And if He really is the Christ—” Her face grew pale. “Pontius must not do this thing, Joseph!” she cried. “I have suffered greatly in a dream this night because of Jesus.”

  The great crowd gathered around the praetorium where the procurator held court while in Jerusalem indicated that the trial of Jesus, if trial it was to be, was already in progress. In the mass of people, Joseph saw many of the same faces that had been in the mob that morning several months before when Jesus had almost been stoned and Trojanus had rescued them.

  These were not the simple people of the city who had listened to the Nazarene Teacher and loved Him. The high priest and his sycophants had obviously sent word that Jesus was to be judged to the people who would be most interested in seeing Him destroyed—the money-changers whose booths He had overturned in the temple, the sellers of sacrificial animals whose stalls had been ripped apart, the lesser priests who lived luxurious lives on the temple tribute, the stiff-necked Pharisees in long fringed robes, and the haughty scribes, carrying the curved inkhorns, symbols of their trade, slung over their shoulders. At the hands of such as these, Jesus would receive no mercy, for all of them hated Him.

  Claudia turned to Mary and asked, “What must I do to stop this terrible thing, Mary?”

  “Jesus is before the procurator now in the praetorium,” Mary told her. “If you go to him he might still order a lesser sentence.”

  “Pontius would resent my interfering in public,” Procula demurred. “I will write a note to him. There is an alcove behind the throne. We will watch from there, and one of the servants can give it to him.”

  She wrote quickly upon a wax tablet and, calling a soldier, gave orders for it to be given to the procurator immediately, even if the proceedings must be interrupted. Then she guided Joseph and Mary to an alcove near the throne from which they could see the entire room where the hearing was being held.

  Pontius Pilate sat upon an elevated dais with the clerks beside him. Flanking them were the lictors, whose upright fasces indicated that this was a civil court. The actual proceedings were just beginning, and while they watched, Jesus was brought in, His hands still chained together, between two Roman soldiers. Joseph could see that the Master had been cruelly treated during the early morning hours after being sentenced by the Sanhedrin. His face was puffed and bruised, and the marks of scourges were on His body. But the same light shone in His eyes, as if He were seeing something far beyond the vision of those around Him, and the same half-smile of pity was upon His lips. After Him came the priests led by Caiaphas, his thin-lipped mouth tightly drawn and his eyes cold with hate for the prisoner.

  “What charges do you make against this man?” Pilate asked the high priest formally.

  “He claims that He is king of the Jews,” Caiaphas said, and looked around at the others. “All of us heard Him say it.”

  A chorus of voices continued the statement.

  “Are you the king of the Jews?” the procurator asked Jesus directly.

  Jesus turned to look at him, but for a moment He did not speak. Then He said quietly, “You have said so.”

  Pilate was obviously taken aback by the answer, and his uncertainty plainly showed on his face. Caiaphas and the others at once broke into a babble of charges against Jesus, lest the procurator be influenced by the prisoner’s calm demeanor, but Pilate silenced them with an uplifted hand. As the babble was dying away, the soldier came up to the throne and handed him the wax tablet upon which Claudia Procula had written. Pilate glanced at it quickly, and a startled look came over his face before he turned and looked into the alcove. Seeing his wife standing there, pleading with him wordlessly to have mercy, he seemed to waver for a moment.

  Watching the procurator, Joseph could almost read his thoughts. Pontius Pilate, in spite of his cruelty, was not a man of direct and consistent action. Twice he had deeply affronted the Jews by insisting that the customs of Rome take precedence over their ancient laws. And each time when they had resisted passively he had been forced to give in. Watching him now, Joseph saw that Pilate was strongly tempted to turn Jesus loose, even though it would mean a break with Caiaphas, with whom he had planned the destruction of this man who threatened so much trouble for the high priest and his group, and also for the Romans, if the ever-bubbling caldron of revolt against Rome should once boil over.

  Pilate turned to Jesus again and asked, “See how many charges they bring against you. Have you no answer to make?”

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nbsp; The prisoner did not answer, and the procurator frowned and looked at Caiaphas, as if for advice. Something in the high priest’s eyes, perhaps his contempt for the Roman’s uncertainty, seemed to sting Pilate, and a faint flush rose in his sallow cheeks. Then his face hardened and he straightened his shoulders and drew himself more erect, as if he had come to a decision.

  “Pontius! No,” Claudia Procula cried in a broken voice. But just then a man shouted from the crowd, “Release to us a prisoner as is the custom on this day,” and the sound of her plea was drowned out by hundreds of voices that took up the cry, demanding that the Roman governor observe the custom of the Passover, when traditionally he released whomever the crowd demanded from prison.

  Pilate’s face cleared. Here was a way out of the difficulty, for if the crowd demanded the release of Jesus, he would have good reason to grant them the request. “Do you want me to release to you the king of the Jews?” he asked.

  Now the final working out of Caiaphas’s plan showed itself, for the high priest knew his co-conspirator and his weakness and had cleverly prepared against it. From the front row of the crowd a group of the temple hangers-on shouted, “No! No! Release to us the man called Barabbas.”

  Barabbas was a hardened criminal, a known revolutionary who had murdered a man during one of the brawls between zealots and the temple guards that happened so often. Pilate was obviously startled by the vehement request. “Then what shall I do with the man whom you call the king of the Jews?” he asked.

  “Crucify Him!” those in front shouted. “Crucify Him!” The dread words rolled back over the crowd, magnified again and again by the shouts of a hundred bloodthirsty throats glad of a chance to punish this man who had dared to expose how they had made a mockery and a shameful thing out of the worship of God and His holy temple.