As Miriam and Marcus reached the door, Miriam glanced back in time to see her father and the procurator already in deep conversation as they left the room together. And it was then that she realized that there was a part of her father’s life that she did not know and probably never would. One thing was clear to her now, however. Though he had been disappointed that the meeting with the various Zealot factions had not come about, he had not seemed terribly upset. That had puzzled her. Now she realized that being here tonight was the real purpose for their trip and not some half-hearted attempt to make an agreement with a bunch of Galilean rebels.
V
Pontius Pilate slouched back in the cushioned seat of his chair, sipping at his wine as he looked at Mordechai ben Uzziel over the top of the goblet. The slave had retreated quickly and shut the door behind him, leaving them alone.
“We are men with much on our minds,” Pilate said as the door closed. “Shall we not waste any more time?”
Mordechai nodded, pleased with the bluntness. He was in no mood for small talk and disdained those who felt that it was necessary as a prelude to business. “Agreed. As I mentioned to you earlier, the rebel leaders had a falling out among themselves and refused to come to the meeting. Therefore, our attempts to buy an alliance with the Zealots came to naught.”
“Not a great surprise.”
Mordechai laughed shortly. “Not at all. We have a saying among our people. If you have three Jews, you will have four opinions.”
It took a moment; then Pilate hooted. “Now if that is not a grand description of your people, I’ve never heard one.”
Mordechai’s face remained bland, even though without knowing it, the governor had just insulted him. “Well, in the case of the Zealots, if you have three Zealots, you will have at least ten opinions, maybe more. They are hardheaded, extremely passionate about their cause, and so independent they can’t even get along with their own kind.”
“No wonder they call them lestai,” Pilate said in disgust.
The Sadducee from Jerusalem leaned forward. “I understand why, officially, you call them lestai—bandits, brigands, or criminals. But that is misleading. These are not like the bands of robbers that infest some areas of Judea.” He pulled a face, remembering his experience with Moshe Ya’abin three days before. “Those are the true lestai. But it would be a mistake to think of these Galileans in the same way.”
Pilate’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t like being told he had made a mistake, especially by a Jew. But he also knew that this man was not criticizing him directly. “Why a mistake?” he asked.
“There is a story in our history, at the time when our people had come out of Egypt. As you know, one of our Ten Commandments says, ‘Thou shalt not commit adultery.’”
Pilate snorted softly in derision. “Another one of your beliefs that the rest of the world finds most strange.” There was a salacious grin. “And far too restricting.”
Mordechai ignored the subtle dig. He smiled smoothly. “Not all view it with quite the same fanaticism as do others.” They both laughed knowingly.
“Anyway,” Mordechai went on, “while our ancestors were wandering in the wilderness, one of the men committed adultery. That displeased our God very much, and he was about to bring down his wrath upon the people. But a man named Phineas was so outraged that he took a spear and ran both the man and the woman through. The record states that God’s wrath was turned away and Israel spared because—and I quote now—‘Phineas was zealous for God’s sake.’”
Pilate sat back slowly and began to nod. “And thus the Zealots of today.”
“Exactly. In our language, the word used in that scripture is kahna’ah. Those who exhibit such passion and zeal for God’s cause today thus call themselves the kahna’im. The Greek translation is zelotays, or Zealots.”
“And the point of all this?” Pilate asked, not disrespectfully. It was clear that Mordechai was not just filling him in on trivial details.
“If your soldiers go against these Zealots thinking they are only trying to run a group of common criminals to ground, they will be sadly misled. These men are passionate believers that what they do is God’s will. They are not only willing, but they view it as part of their mission, to use violence—even murder if necessary—to throw off all pagan influence. And giving their life to the cause only brings them greater rewards in the life to come.”
Pilate rested his chin in one hand, thoughtful now. “So you are saying that these people are religious fanatics.”
“Yes. The worst kind of men to deal with.”
Pilate sighed softly. “Yes. Indeed. The very worst kind.”
Mordechai wondered if Pilate was remembering his clash with the Jews when he tried to bring the Roman standards into Jerusalem about four years before, but he said nothing.
Pilate formed a steeple with his fingers now, staring through them out the window at the palace courtyards where torches flickered and danced in the evening breeze. Finally his eyes came back to the leader of the Jews from Jerusalem. “And the Great Sanhedrin was trying to make a pact with these Zealots?” he asked in a very soft voice.
Miriam’s father instantly saw the danger that lurked beneath that mild tone. “If the procurator will permit, I should like to speak frankly.”
“I would find that most refreshing,” Pilate responded, folding his hands in his lap. “Most refreshing.”
“As you may have heard, Your Excellency, the Great Sanhedrin of Jerusalem is made up of about seventy of the country’s most respected leaders, who represent the various sects of our faith.”
“Yes.”
“Well, as you may also know, there is within the Great Council another, much smaller council. Very few know of this body of men.”
Again there was a slow nod. “The real power behind the throne, as we say in Rome.”
“Exactly. There are five of us. I went to Sepphoris officially representing all of the Council. But in actuality, I had a more pressing mission from this inner council.”
Now Mordechai had the procurator’s full attention.
“You must understand clearly the position of this inner council, Your Excellency. There is no one in all of Israel who is more convinced than we are that the worst possible thing we can do for our people is to try to break off the yoke of Rome.”
“Go on.”
“Our plan was to publicly arrange an alliance with all the Zealot factions. Once that was secured, we—the inner council—hoped to call a second meeting of all the Zealot leaders within the month. Secretly, I was authorized to come to you with the details of that second meeting.”
There was a strange light in Pilate’s eyes. “I see.”
“Do you?” Mordechai asked, emboldened by the eagerness he saw there.
“Yes. If the Roman eagle was to swoop down on an unsuspecting pack of dogs, the leadership of these lestai—or rather Zealots, as you say—would be wiped out in one stunning, decisive blow.”
Mordechai sat back, deeply satisfied. It was a pleasure to deal with men who thought not just tactically, but strategically.
“And,” Pilate continued, nodding with obvious admiration, “the rich and powerful of Jerusalem would no longer have to worry about a small group of fanatics bringing down the full wrath of Rome upon their country.”
Lifting his own goblet, Mordechai drank deeply, then lifted it in a salute. “It would solve that and many other problems, Excellency.”
Once again silence filled the room as Pilate considered all the implications of what he had heard. When he finally stirred, his brows were knitted into a deep frown. “And now? You have told me that you failed to get the Zealots to even agree on a place and time to meet the first time.”
The eyes of the wealthy Sadducee narrowed into two hard, cold points of black light. “If the fox is too clever to walk into the snare, what do you do?”
Pilate gave him a malicious smile. “You run him to ground.”
Mordechai nodded thoughtfully. “Th
at is one alternative. But you had better have a very fast horse if you wish to do that.”
“And the other alternative?” Pilate asked.
“You put a morsel in the snare that the fox simply cannot resist.”
VI
As they finished their walk through the meticulously groomed gardens of the governor’s palace, a thought began to stir in Miriam’s mind. For the first hour, she had been completely charmed by the handsome young tribune. In between his pointing out the features of the building, constructed by Herod after the pattern of the sumptuous palaces on the Palatine Hill in Rome, Miriam had plied him with questions. This was not just a way to maintain a comfortable conversation. She really was pleased to have an opportunity to learn more of the Roman culture and traditions. Miriam had some of the natural biases of her people against all things heathen, but through the eyes of her mother, and especially her father, she had also learned that there was much that Rome brought to the world that was worthy of study and emulation.
Marcus seemed pleased at her genuine interest. He spoke of his family in Rome, of their vast estates and yet the basically simple life led by his father. His younger brother and only sibling was also a tribune, currently with the Sixth Legion Victrix in Spain. Marcus spoke of him with evident pride and affection. Then gradually, with her encouragement, he began to speak of his own first campaign in Germania. There he had fought against the wild-haired Celts, fiercely barbaric tribes that were “madly in love with the very thought of war.” He told her how the Celtic kings would be killed by their own people when they grew too old to lead in battle or if they could have no male offspring. The Druid priestesses would watch the death struggle and read the patterns in the blood to determine how the tribe should be ruled next.
It was when he spoke of how bitterly the Celts resisted being taken as slaves that the idea first struck Miriam. As they stopped beneath a palm tree whose fronds were silhouetted in the soft moonlight, Marcus indicated a bench beside a lily pond, and they both sat down. She waited a moment, then took a quick breath. “Tribune Didius?”
“Yes?”
“May I ask a question of you?”
“Of course.”
“I—I am not sure if it is appropriate. I do not wish to give offense.”
“I find that hardly possible,” he said nobly. “Ask on.”
“As you know, the Hebrew law does not allow us to own slaves.”
“One of the few things we Romans could learn from your people.”
She bit her tongue. The arrogance was so natural as to be almost innocent. These Romans. She didn’t think Marcus was even aware of how condescending he had just sounded. She ignored it and went on, more slowly now. “I have a servant girl named Livia. You haven’t met her.”
“I saw her with you as you came into the courtyard this afternoon.”
So he had been watching even then. She smiled. “She was once the slave of a Roman nobleman in Alexandria. When his fortunes turned, she was sold to help pay his debts. My father purchased her as my servant and gave her her freedom.”
“I understand.” There was a twinkle in his eyes. “And does she receive a wage from you then?”
Miriam stopped at the unexpected question. “Well, no. She dwells in our house and eats at our table. She wants for nothing.”
“As do the slaves at our villa,” he said solemnly.
Strangely, the image of Simeon flashed into her mind at that moment. “Only a servant,” he had said when she had tried to explain that Livia was not a slave. The disdain in his voice had cut like a lash.
She rushed on, a little flustered now. “The rest of her family were sold as well. She has no idea where they are now.”
“A too frequent tragedy that is one of the unfortunate consequences of the slave trade. I am proud to say that my father goes to great lengths to keep our slaves together with their families. In fact, it is my father’s policy that if one of our women slaves bears three children, her work on the farm is reduced. If she bears a fourth, she is granted her freedom, for she has blessed our house greatly.”
Miriam looked away, appalled once again at the callousness that lay behind the innocence. She thought of the elegant and lovely Deborah, mother of Simeon and Leah, being dragged off to spend their lives in hard manual labor, and it made her want to hold her stomach and cry out in pain. She was growing more uncomfortable with this talk of slaves and servants with every minute, but her desire to get an answer was stronger than ever. “I have heard it said that you have people in the empire who—” She stopped, not even sure how to say it. “Who make a living trying to locate slaves for others.”
“Oh, yes.” Now he saw where she was going with this. “We call them professional slave hunters. Normally they are employed to find runaway slaves and return them to their masters, but I have heard of cases, especially in some of the outlying provinces, where wealthy freedmen have hired slave hunters to find members of their family who were captured in battle.”
“Are there records kept of such transactions then?”
“Of course. In fact, we have elected civil officials we call aediles, who, as part of their duties, are responsible to see that careful records are kept of all such transactions, just as they would be in the sale of other property. That way the buyer is not cheated.”
Miriam looked away for a moment, chilled to the core of her being. Here was a part of the Roman culture that she would never feel comfortable with. How casually he spoke of “property.” But now that she had come this far, she felt compelled to finish. “Do you personally know of any such men?”
“Slave hunters?” He shook his head. “No. Usually they are quite unsavory characters.” Seeing her disappointment, he hurried on. “But I’m sure I could locate one. I have a centurion here who can answer just about any question I put to him. Would you like me to try to find such a man and have him look into it for you?”
She hesitated at that. What would her father think if he knew she was trying to locate Livia’s family? And for that matter, what would she herself do if by some remarkable chance she found them? But the instant she asked, she knew. The shame she felt three days before as she realized that not once had she ever wondered about Livia’s family lay heavy upon her. If her father refused to help purchase their freedom, Miriam would draw from her own funds. Her father had been paying her handsomely for her work as a scribe for him. He had also designated a healthy sum as part of her inheritance and invested it along with his own funds. Miriam was not wealthy, not in the sense that her father was wealthy, but she had considerable means of her own now. And she had full control over a good part of them.
Marcus was waiting for an answer, so finally she took a quick breath and nodded. “I would appreciate that. I can get you what information is known. It would mean a great deal to Livia if we could find out what happened to them.”
“I’m sure it would.” Now there was obvious respect in his eyes. “In that sense, you do for your servant what few Romans would do for their slaves.”
Embarrassed now, she stood. “Thank you, Marcus. You have been a most congenial host and guide.”
“Never has the mantle of duty laid so lightly upon my shoulders,” he said gallantly.
“I am weary.” She could feel the throbbing starting in the bottom of her feet again. “And Father says we must leave early to return to Jerusalem.”
“The governor has assigned you an escort to see you home safely. Alas, I am off to Joppa to inspect our garrison there and will not be able to accompany you. But the centurion of whom I speak will command the maniple. He will see to your comfort.”
“Thank you.”
He hesitated, then took her hand. His eyes were more black than green in the moonlight, but they searched her face with eager hope. “But the governor has asked that I take a full cohort to Jerusalem for the Passover season, which begins next week.”
For the first time, he seemed unsure of himself. “Would it be possible that I might call on the home
of Mordechai ben Uzziel? I will speak to your father of this, of course.”
Miriam wasn’t really caught off guard by his request. She was woman enough to see the interest in his eyes. But . . . did he not sense the vast gulf that lay between them? She had wanted to learn more of these Romans, especially more about one as young and handsome as this tribune. But could she ever push away the coldness she felt as he talked so casually of slaves and slavery? She was the daughter of a Sadducee, one of Jerusalem’s privileged aristocracy. There would be no horror when a Gentile came into their home, no ritual cleansing after he left. That had nothing to do with it. The question for her was—
She realized with a start that he was watching her, the first signs of disappointment showing in his eyes. She also realized at that same instant, that even as she and Marcus stood here in the moonlight, her father and the procurator of all of Judea were meeting together inside the palace. This Roman tribune was second in command to the governor. If she said no . . .
She forced a bright smile. “It would be a pleasure to show the tribune around our home,” she said. “It is nothing in comparison to the Praetorium, of course, but—”
“It would be my great honor to have that privilege,” he cut in, not trying to hide his relief.
“Then I shall look forward to seeing you again in Jerusalem,” she murmured. And to her dismay, she realized that at least one part of her really meant it.
Chapter Notes
The brief summary of Herod the Great’s tremendous building projects captures only a small part of what he did in his four decades as ruler. Even now, two millennia later, archeologists and architects still marvel at what he wrought. Many sources describe this great building effort, but Schürer’s summary is comprehensive and concise and includes a description of Caesarea’s artificial harbor (see pp. 138–42).
It is known from numerous sources that slavery was a common social institution throughout the Roman Empire. In the city of Rome itself, it is thought that one in every three persons was a slave, or about 400,000 in number (Carcopina, p. 65). Slaves came from several sources, such as children sold by their families who were in abject poverty, criminals guilty of capital crimes, people who could not pay their debts, and those captured by pirates or kidnappers (this last category, of course, was similar to the situation of the African Blacks of our own age). By far the greatest source of slaves, however, was war. When a town was conquered, the population was considered part of the spoils of war. Sometimes the wealthier citizens were allowed to pay a ransom for their freedom, but the rest were taken as slaves. It is said that during the successful campaign of Julius Caesar in Gaul from 58 to 51 b.c., his victories generated more than a million slaves (Shelton, p. 163).
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