Surprised by the question, he turned to look at her. “The empire itself? That’s hard to say, but the traditional founding of Rome was more than seven hundred years ago.”
“That is a long time for one people to maintain their identity,” she said.
“Yes, it is.” He hadn’t really thought of it in that way, but that was an interesting perspective.
“Well, our people have maintained their identity for almost two thousand years now. How do we do that? With symbol and ritual. That is what holds us together. That is what gives us our identity. Take our mezuzah, for example—the small metal or wood cases you see mounted on the doorways of every home and gate in Israel.”
“Yes. I notice that your people reach up and touch them each time you go in or out.”
“That’s right. Those cases contain a tiny parchment scroll on which are written some passages from the Law. Basically it tells us that we are to love God with all our hearts. A mezuzah may be very plain, or it can be very ornate. What matters to us is what it symbolizes.”
“Which is?”
“Every time we leave our house, we touch it to remind us that we will live the Law and keep the commandment to love God while we are outside of the home. And each time we return, we touch it again to remind ourselves that inside our homes, the Law and our love of God will prevail there as well.”
He was nodding slowly. “I see.”
“And I’m sure you have seen our men as they come from morning prayers with a strange black box on their foreheads and on their arms.”
“Ah, yes, the phylacteries.”
“That’s the Greek word. We call them tefillin.”
“I’ve wondered what they are for.”
“If you don’t understand the spiritual realities they represent, they may seem very strange. But they are similar to the mezuzah. Inside the tefillin are tiny compartments. Here again, passages from the Law are written and placed. Can you think why we would do that?”
His brows furrowed momentarily, then straightened again. “Because that puts the Law always in front of your eyes.”
“Good,” she said, deeply pleased. “It also represents that the Law is always forefront in our minds. The tefillin on the left arm is placed on the biceps so as to be close to the heart.”
“Ah,” he said again. “I understand.” Then his expression turned more dubious, and he waved one hand at the towering building in front of them. “So your temple is only a symbol?”
“Only a symbol,” she said softly. “Is it true that your soldiers swear an oath on the standards of your legions?”
Surprised, he nodded. “Yes, it’s called the sacramentum.”
“An oath for which they are willing to give their lives?”
“Without hesitation.”
“But why? The standard is only a gilded eagle, or it contains a small bust of your emperor. What does that bust cost? Two sesterces? Maybe three? That seems like a silly thing to die for.”
He watched her, liking the intensity in her eyes, the animation of her face.
“Why are you laughing at me?” she said suddenly, jerking him out of his thoughts.
“I wasn’t laughing. I was admiring.”
She looked skeptical. “Admiring what?”
“Your logic. Your way of reasoning.” You! But he didn’t add that last word out loud. “All right, your point is a good one. I shouldn’t have said only a symbol. I agree. Symbols can be very powerful.”
She was pleased that he had conceded, or more important, that he agreed with her. She decided to make one additional point. “The temple, though it is a marvelous structure, is only a symbol of a greater spiritual reality. We say it is God’s house, but it is only a shadow of what it must be like in God’s real home in the heavens. Each courtyard is a few steps higher than the previous one to signify that we are always ascending upwards to God. The cherubim embroidered on the veil inside the temple represent to us that God is so holy, so sacred, that there must be guardians to prevent the unclean and unworthy from entering his presence.” She smiled to soften her intensity a little. “And I’m not just talking about Gentiles here. That’s why no one but the high priest is allowed inside. The whole purpose of our faith is to become worthy enough to enter God’s presence someday.”
She stopped, a little breathless, surprised at how passionately she was trying to help him understand. When he did not turn but continued to let his eyes roam over the temple, she gave a little laugh of embarrassment. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”
He swung on her. “Don’t apologize.”
“Well, I didn’t mean to sound like I was trying to convert you to Judaism.”
“I didn’t think you were, not in any way.” He stopped, searching her eyes. “In fact, you did make me a little envious.”
She was taken aback. “Envious?”
“Yes. I have to wonder what it would be like to feel so strongly about religion.”
She didn’t know what to say to that. He obviously meant it, and now she saw that he was a little embarrassed by his openness.
He took her by the elbow. “Come,” he said. “I’ve heard much about the Royal Stoa. Take me there.”
II
They strolled leisurely in the deep shade of the great portico letting the crowds surge around them. For now Miriam was content to let him see the grandeur of these columned halls without her commentary. She was relieved to be off the topic of religion and back on safer ground.
“This is magnificent,” he breathed, his head tipped back and looking at the massive stone columns with their Corinthian caps and the roof that was fifty feet above their head. “No wonder they call it the Royal Stoa.”
“Actually,” she said with a half smile, “we call them Solomon’s Porches.”
“Solomon?”
“Yes, he was a king of Israel about a thousand years ago. He built the first temple here.”
“So why do you find this amusing?”
“Poor Herod. This reconstruction of our temple was perhaps his greatest achievement, his most magnificent project, and yet his name is nowhere to be found on it. Your people call it Herod’s temple, but we never do. We call it the Second Temple. And calling these the Royal Porches suggest Herod’s name to us. So we call them by Solomon’s name, even though he had nothing to do with them.”
“In Rome’s eyes Herod was a good ruler, a good administrator.”
“Yes, we know. But he was an evil man, Marcus. He killed his wife, two of his sons, and several others of his immediate family. He was ruthless and brutal. For example, just before his death, there was a rumor that what we call the Messiah, our Deliverer, had been born in Bethlehem, just to the south of us. When Herod heard that, he tried to find out where the baby was. When he couldn’t, he ordered all of the children in the village under the age of two to be killed, just to be sure that he didn’t miss him.” She couldn’t keep the horror from creeping into her voice.
He took that in, his face impassive. “Brutal but efficient,” he finally said.
She stared at him, hardly believing he had dismissed her comment with such utter banality. He had already turned and was looking up again and didn’t see her expression. Suddenly she was angry.
“Even your own Emperor Augustus is said to have made a clever play on words, using the Greek. He said that it is safer to be Herod’s choiros, or hog, than it is to be his huios, or son.”
Something in her voice brought him back to face her. “As I said, he was brutal. Everyone knew that.”
“When he saw that he was about to die, King Herod ordered all the Jewish leaders in Jerusalem detained in the Hippodrome with orders that they be executed at his death. That way he was assured that at least someone would be mourning at his death.”
“Really!” Marcus said. “I hadn’t heard that.”
“Fortunately, his sons were wise enough not to carry out his order.” She was trying hard to keep the anger out of her voice. “Did you know that even now, some
thirty years later, we celebrate the anniversary of Herod’s death as a festival? All mourning, even for the death of a loved one, is forbidden by law on that day.”
He reared back a little. “Ho, that’s a lot of hate.”
“Herod gave us a lot of reasons to hate what he was.” She hesitated a little. “The tragedy is that Rome could never see any of that.”
“This is not an excuse,” Marcus said, sensing that he had somehow triggered something in her, “for I do not condone all that the emperor and the Senate do, but Rome cannot concern herself with every little problem in the provinces. The empire is too huge, too vast. We have to trust the procurators or the local rulers to keep things in order.”
Miriam looked away. In that moment the face of Deborah, wife of David ben Joseph of Capernaum, flashed into her mind. “You seek what you call accommodation with Rome,” she had said. “Well, we don’t use such a lofty word. We call it a pact with the devil.”
“Tell me,” he said, watching her closely now. “Have I offended you?”
She shook her head after a moment. “No, but I would be less than honest if I didn’t say that your words represent the very reason why so many of my people find Roman rule so unbearable.”
III
Any light and bantering mood was gone now. They walked slowly, Miriam making brief comments now and then about the architecture or the functions that took place in one part of the complex or another. Marcus would murmur a comment or two, but otherwise walked beside her in silence. By unspoken agreement, they started back toward the Antonia Fortress, where Marcus would return to his duties.
As they came out of Solomon’s Porches and started across the Court of the Gentiles again, Miriam suddenly changed direction. “We don’t want to go over there,” she said.
“Why not?”
“That’s where the moneychangers have set up shop.”
“The moneychangers? What do you mean?”
“Well, it is part of our law that each year every person in Israel—rich or poor—must pay a tax of one-half shekel to the temple as an atonement for their sins. The money is used to support the operation of the sanctuary.”
He nodded. Almost every temple in the empire collected some sort of fee or tax from its worshipers.
“I assume you are aware of our prohibition against any graven images?”
“I am.”
“Well, since many coins carry the image of the emperor or some other ruler, they are not acceptable for the temple treasury.”
“I see,” he said slowly. “So they have to change their money before they can contribute it.”
“Yes. At Passover especially, it becomes a huge business because we have people coming from many different places. Normally the exchangers stay outside the walls, but with the huge crowds they move into the courtyard.”
“And these moneychangers charge a fee, I presume.”
“Yes. Five percent commission.” She frowned. “Or at least that is what it’s supposed to be.”
He chuckled with soft irony. “So while your religion may strive to make you more holy, in practice your people are much like all the rest of us.”
Stung, she didn’t know what to say. “The Sanhedrin tries to enforce the five percent, but some men have no scruples.” She felt a little guilty at that, for she knew that some members of the ruling council, including her own father, were financing the moneychangers and reaping tremendous profits from the practice.
“I would like to see these moneychangers,” Marcus said, changing direction.
She sighed and fell in beside him. This was a part of the Temple Mount she avoided. She didn’t like being squeezed in so tightly you could barely move. She didn’t like the noise. She didn’t like what she saw happening there.
And then she realized something that brought her back to reality. Marcus wasn’t just curious. He was a Roman officer reconnoitering his command. He wanted to see what his soldiers were up against if there was any trouble. She turned and saw that the centurion had moved in closer to them now. Their eyes met, and then he looked away. She looked for Livia but couldn’t see her.
As they drew closer, the bleating of sheep and the lowing of cattle began to fill the air. He turned to her in surprise. “They let animals in here too?” He cocked his head, suddenly mischievous. “Are they considered Gentiles too?”
On the defensive now, she tried to explain. “The people who come here from long distances want to offer a sacrifice at the temple, but they can’t bring their own animals. So they have to buy one here. Normally, these are kept outside the walls too, but—” She wasn’t sure how to explain to him something with which she herself was disgusted.
“I see.”
He said nothing more as they moved into the chaos of the area. Makeshift fences were propped up to form triangular pens. Some were large enough to hold two or three bullocks or half a dozen sheep. Some were empty, the sale already having been made. In addition to the noise the animals were making, their droppings filled the air with a strong stench, and Miriam put her hand over her nose and mouth. A little farther on, the crowd surged around rows of tables and booths. The noise was deafening. People shouted and yelled as they haggled over prices or the rates of exchange. The vendors banged pans or rang bells to try to attract business to their table. Individuals yelled at each other in order to carry on even a normal conversation.
Miriam and Marcus passed a row of tables piled high with small cages filled with doves. Marcus gave her a questioning look.
“Birds are an acceptable offering for some things,” she explained, “especially for those who are too poor to buy a sheep or a bullock.”
He took her arm again. “I can see why you don’t care for this,” he said. “I’m sorry I made you come over here.” He steered her in the direction they had originally been headed.
As they started to move away, suddenly a woman’s voice shrieked out above the noise. The noise momentarily dropped, and she screamed again. “He’s got a whip!”
Instantly cries of alarm went up, and there was a rush of movement. Marcus whirled, going up on tiptoe to try to see what was happening. The noise was coming from where they had been just moments before. They heard a crash, another scream, and the wild bleating of sheep.
“Stay here, Miriam!” Marcus said. He started to remove his tunic, but Miriam grabbed at his arm. “No, Marcus, don’t! The crowd might turn on you if they know you are Roman.”
He hesitated, then shook his head. He ripped off the tunic and threw it aside. Shouting for people to get out of the way, he plunged back into the throng. Without waiting to consider what she was doing, Miriam darted after him, staying right behind him as he made a path through the crush. Now people were rushing past them in the opposite direction, clearly in a panic.
Marcus turned his head, searching. “Sextus!” he shouted in Latin. “Alert the troops. Put them on standby.”
There was an answering shout and the flash of a helmet. Then, suddenly, Miriam and Marcus burst into a large circle where the crowds had fallen back. There was a loud pop, and Miriam’s eyes jerked toward the sound. What she saw startled her. A man with a whip held high above his head was driving half a dozen sheep. The whip cracked again. On the far side of the circle, people leaped out of the way, and the sheep darted through the opening.
“Look,” Miriam cried in Marcus’s ear. “One of the pens has broken.”
One side of one of the temporary triangular pens dangled crazily over, leaving a wide opening. Marcus’s eyes narrowed in concern. He pulled her tight beside him. For a moment that puzzled her. The sheep were fleeing in the opposite direction. There was no danger to her. Then, in an instant, she understood.
The man with the whip strode over to another pen, this one with three heifers inside. A man in a filthy tunic threw out his arms to try to block the way. The whip came up and cracked sharply in the air above the man’s head. The owner leaped aside. Up came one foot of the whip-bearer. He gave a mighty kick, and one s
ide of this pen collapsed as well. He strode into the pen, cracking the whip over the animals’ heads.
Now things broke out in pandemonium. People screamed as the heifers raced away, tails high, bellowing wildly. The crowd had to leap aside or be run down.
The man turned to face them. His blazing eyes raked the crowd, then stopped on the owner of the now-disappearing cattle, who wailed and wrung his hands. “This is my Father’s house. What have you made of it?”
Several impressions struck Miriam all at once. The man was about the same height as Marcus, but he was powerfully built, with broad shoulders and muscular arms. His tunic was simple, such as was worn by peasants and craftsmen. He wore a beard, and his hair reached to his shoulders, like most of the rest of the men of the working classes. But it was his eyes that arrested her. They were filled with great indignation. They were like hot coals glowing even in the brightness of full day.
For a moment those eyes rested on Marcus, who was poised for action, one hand on the hilt of his sword. If the sight of a Roman officer deterred him, he gave no sign. His head turned in the direction of the rows of tables where the moneychangers were set up. They were on their feet now, hovering over their tables as people fled in terror or came running to see what was happening. A look of deep anger passed over the man’s face.
He whirled and moved to the first table in three great strides. The moneychanger saw him coming and cringed, throwing his arms around the pile of loose coins and the bags of money on the table. Down came the whip, lashing the tabletop just inches away from the man’s bare arms. He cried and jumped back.
The attacker said not a word. With his free hand, he grabbed one of the heavy bags and tipped it upside down. Coins spewed out, pouring onto the table and bouncing wildly onto the tiles. “Why do you cheat these people in the house of God?” the man shouted at the moneychanger. He grabbed the edge of the table with both hands and heaved upward. The sound of metal coins hitting marble was lost in the crash as the table was overturned.
A roar of approval burst from the crowd as the moneychanger dropped to his knees and scrambled to retrieve his money. Instantly he was joined by a dozen others, grabbing wildly for the loose coins.
Fishers of Men Page 23