Joseph pounced on that like a chicken on a bug. “What, Simeon? What is it?”
“Joseph?” David came in sternly. “Would you like to finish all the beans by yourself, and clean up the dishes after supper?”
Joseph fell back, crestfallen. “I think we need the servants here more than every few days.”
Simeon nudged him, picking up another bean. “You’d better get going,” he warned.
His mother was still thinking about what Simeon had said about Jesus. “Well, you are at least doing one thing he said. You’re not rushing into something. You’re counting the costs, as Jesus put it.”
“The costs to me, or the costs to Yehuda?” Simeon asked darkly. “If I had known the cost of my choices, I would never have tried to save the Romans up there,” he said, his voice clipped and sharp.
“Really?” David said softly.
“Yes, really!” came the tart reply. “And now I have to do something, and do it quickly. Disciple or not, I can’t let Yehuda die. I can’t. I put him there.”
Everyone knew he was thinking about Daniel, but no one expressed that.
“I have gone over every possibility. There are several things I can do, but then I stop and wonder. Will that violate my commitment to Jesus? Will that go against what I now know to be true?” He blew out his breath in disgust. “Yehuda’s right about that, at least. He said that since I started listening to Jesus, I can’t make up my mind about anything anymore.”
Leah finally spoke up, torn by the anguish she saw on Simeon’s face. “You just have to trust your feelings, Simeon. I know you’ve been praying about it. Well, when the answer comes, you’ll feel that it is right.”
“Oh, Leah,” he sighed. “How I wish faith came as easily to me as it does to you.”
They sat there for several moments, the dinner forgotten by all except Joseph, who was breaking beans as quickly as his hands could pick them up.
“I have one idea that’s been forming the last little while,” Simeon said, looking at his father. “I want to think about it some more. It’s not ideal.”
“Which means it’s dangerous,” his mother murmured.
He turned to her sharply. “I have to do something. Yehuda would, for me.”
“I know that, Son,” Deborah said. “And I won’t try to stop you. But you can’t ask me not to worry.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” He looked at David. “Father, I’m sorry that I have been of no help to you these past two weeks,” he said. “But if I decide this idea is what needs to happen, I will have to be gone some more. Probably several days again.”
David nodded gravely. Then after a moment, he said, “Will you need money?”
Simeon smiled gratefully, a little ashamed for his previous outburst. “Yes, I will. Thank you.”
Leah came around behind Simeon and put her arms around his neck. She laid her head against his. “Don’t go unless it feels right,” she whispered.
“I won’t.”
“We’re praying for you too, Simeon.”
“I know, Leah. Thank you.”
III
Capernaum 17 June, a.d. 30
It was still a quarter of an hour before the first light of dawn when Simeon slipped quietly out of his father’s house, not wanting to awaken his family. He padded swiftly across the spacious courtyard and stepped out into the street. Only then did he set down the leather bag filled with his belongings and bend down to put his sandals on. Peering up and down in the darkness, listening intently, he finally moved away, noting that at this hour he had the street completely to himself.
As he moved past the house of Ephraim, his oldest brother, Simeon didn’t even glance at the barred door. His mind was fixed on what he had to do now, and nothing else broke through. Ten minutes later, he surveyed the heavy wooden gate across from where he stood. His eyes briefly swept upward, taking the measure of the house, or at least what part of it he could see over the walls.
Making sure he was still alone, Simeon walked swiftly across the street, then raised his hand and rapped sharply on the gate. He noted that the planks were thick and tightly joined. The hinges were large and made of thick iron. He guessed that the bar securing it on the inside was equally impressive. The house might be Jewish, but the gate was designed by someone who knew he was an enemy in a Jewish state.
In a moment the door opened. It caught him by surprise. He had heard no footsteps. No lamps had shone in the upper windows.
“Yes?” And then the servant’s eyes widened slightly, and Simeon guessed that he had recognized him even in the darkness.
He decided that there was no point in withholding his name, as he had planned to do. “Simeon ben David requesting an audience with Sextus Rubrius.” He hesitated for a moment. “I know the hour is early but—”
“It would be a rare day when the rising sun found my master in his bed,” the man said sardonically. He stepped back and opened the door widely enough to allow Simeon to step inside. Immediately he pushed the door shut again and let the bar drop with a solid thud. “This way, please.”
He followed the man inside the house to a spacious entry. “Please wait here.”
Simeon nodded and set down his valise as the servant ran lightly up the stairs. A minute later he heard footsteps. Sextus Rubrius appeared. He was fully dressed and held a cane. He gave a brief nod; then he started down, holding onto the railing and heavily favoring one leg. Rightly so, Simeon thought. It had been only a week since Rubrius had taken one of Moshe Ya’abin’s arrows in the upper thigh at the Joknean Pass.
“Shalom, Simeon ben David,” Sextus Rubrius said in Aramaic. If he was surprised to see his visitor, it did not show on his craggy face.
“And peace to you, Sextus Rubrius. I apologize for coming at this hour, but I am leaving for a time and needed to see you.”
Sextus waved a hand. When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he motioned toward one of the doors, but Simeon shook his head. “I can’t stay long.”
Sextus nodded. Simeon couldn’t help but see the contrast between the two of them. The centurion was close to Simeon’s father’s age, perhaps a few years older—around fifty. He had probably spent thirty or more years as a legionnaire. Those years showed on his face and in his body. He was built like an ox—solid, steady, deliberate in his motions. His hair, thick and showing streaks of gray, was short-cropped. The hands were not overly large but were strong and thickly veined. His features showed the weathering of a man who spent his life out of doors. Like most Romans, he was clean shaven. Simeon guessed that he had already shaved—or been shaved—that morning, for there was no hint of stubble on his face.
Simeon, who had celebrated his twenty-first birthday in December, was not even half the other man’s age. Though more slender than Sextus, Simeon had spent a lifetime working in the warehouses of his father—stacking bags of wheat, moving casks of salted fish, heaving bales of hides onto carts, rolling the great jars of wine back and forth—and his body was also tightly muscled. Unlike most of his fellow countrymen, Simeon was clean-shaven too. Some years earlier he had chosen that as a way to pass himself off as a Roman if ever the need arose. Now he was accustomed to it and preferred it to the hot, heavy beards most of his countrymen wore.
Simeon started a little as he realized the Roman was waiting for him to speak. “My mother told me of your visit to our house yesterday. I wanted to thank you for that.”
Sextus made another dismissive wave of his hand. “You saved my life. I told you that if there was any way I could help you, I would do so.”
Simeon saw that while he spoke easily, the Roman’s eyes were watchful, curious.
Simeon cleared his throat. “How much chance is there that Pilate will change his mind and crucify the prisoners before the festival?”
There was a moment of hesitation, then, “Not much, but it is possible. I’ve never seen the governor in such a state of mind. I thought he was going to crucify every one of them on the spot.”
�
��Will there be a trial?”
Sextus shook his head. “There is no question of their guilt, and they are not Roman citizens.”
“And only Roman citizens have any rights under the law,” Simeon said, softly bitter.
Rubrius said nothing. There was no need to. It was not something he created. It was not something he could change.
“Does Pilate know that it was Yehuda and my men who helped save your column from even greater disaster?”
Sextus gave a brief bob of his head. “I told Marcus Didius and the governor that. It made no difference to Pilate.”
“Of course not.” He pushed those thoughts aside. “I would ask some questions of you, Sextus Rubrius.”
There was a curt nod. “Pilate may overlook who saved us that night, but I have not forgotten.”
“I do not wish to place you in a position where you would betray your country or violate your oath as a soldier.”
Another slight inclination of his head. “Thank you. Violation of the sacramentum, the oath every legionnaire swears to the emperor, is punishable by death. I would not go against that even if I feared no discovery.”
“If I ask things that would push you over the line of treason, please know that I have no wish to offend, nor will I expect you to answer.”
“I shall be the judge of that, but thank you for your concern.”
“Did you hear that two others of my men besides Yehuda of Beth Neelah were captured?”
“Two?” Rubrius clearly had not heard that.
“Yes. One is named Barak. One is called Samuel. All three of them are of Beth Neelah.”
“I thought all the rest of the captives belonged to Ya’abin’s band.”
“I wish it were so.” Simeon began to pace back and forth in the entryway, deep in thought. “Is there any chance the sentence will be changed? Could they be sold as slaves, for example?”
Rubrius, watching Simeon’s movements with his eyes, slowly shook his head. “It’s possible, but not likely. Not in this case. Pilate has somewhat of a political problem. His brilliant plan to wipe out the Zealots nearly caused a great disaster. Executing the prisoners while Vitellius is here could somewhat soften Pilate’s problem.”
“I understand.” Simeon had hoped for a sentence of slavery, but had not expected it. Freeing someone from a gang of slaves, or even after they had been sold, would be relatively easy. Even if they had to go to Rome or some other province, it could be done. Now he looked at Rubrius fully, his eyes hooded. “Will they be tortured?”
One eyebrow lifted slowly.
“Pilate surely will want to find out who betrayed him.”
“Ah,” came the reply. It was obvious that Sextus was bothered at what appeared to be an accusation of barbarism. But to get the needed information—? He nodded slowly and spoke more directly. “Yes, torture is possible.”
“They don’t know anything,” Simeon said shortly.
“What’s that?” the centurion said.
“Yehuda and the rest of the band have no idea of how I knew of your plans. No one knows except for my father and me.”
“And you want me to pass that on to Tribune Didius?” Sextus asked softly.
Simeon instantly saw his mistake. “If you can’t without bringing suspicion on yourself, I understand. But perhaps you could send word of an informant or something. My men don’t know, Sextus. You have my word on that.”
“Let me think about it.”
Simeon nodded, grateful for even that much. “Where are Yehuda and the others right now?”
Sextus was surprised by what he thought was an obvious question. “In Caesarea.”
“I know that. Where specifically? Are they being held inside the Praetorium?”
Rubrius nodded, understanding now. “Yes, in the Praetorium. Have you ever been to Caesarea?”
“Several times,” Simeon grunted, “but obviously not into the governor’s palace.”
“You have to understand. The Praetorium is not a single building but a whole complex. The palace is the largest, of course, but there are barracks, shops, storage sheds.” He stopped for a moment. “There is also the prison. That’s where they are being held.”
“Is it a separate building?”
“Yes, in the northeast corner.” Then, guessing why Simeon would ask such a question, he went on with studied deliberation. “The cells themselves are underground. Heavily guarded. A full cohort would have difficulty breaking in.”
Simeon went right on ignorning Sextus’s warning. “But it isn’t part of the barracks, or anything like that? I mean, it’s separate from everything else? You don’t have to go through other buildings to get to it?”
Sextus Rubrius began to massage his leg gingerly, no longer looking at Simeon. “It is a separate building. What I have told you is common knowledge in Caesarea, Simeon, son of David. You could find that information for yourself by asking almost anyone in the city. But I cannot say more. I cannot tell you the number of soldiers there or how the prison is guarded. That would cross the line of which you spoke.”
“I understand. I was not going to ask anything more about those specifics.”
“Thank you.”
“I do have one last question. I do not think it compromises you.”
“Then I shall answer as best I can.”
Simeon’s eyes grew distant. “It is the Roman way to take those accused of capital crimes and crucify them outside the walls of the city, generally near a main thoroughfare.” He couldn’t keep the anger from creeping into his voice. “Supposedly, it serves as an effective deterrent to those who are tempted to challenge Rome.” He finally met the older man’s eyes. “Will that be the case in Caesarea?”
Rubrius once again was thoughtful, his mind clearly considering not only whether it was appropriate for him to answer, but also what lay behind the question in Simeon’s mind. He sighed. “Perhaps, but you can’t be sure. If the governor decides to make the executions part of the games, they will likely happen in the hippodrome, where the chariot races take place.”
“I understand, but it is also possible that they could be crucified outside the walls?”
“Yes.”
When Simeon merely nodded, Sextus raised his head slightly. “Simeon—” Sextus reached up and rubbed at his chin. “It would be the greatest folly to try a rescue, even outside the walls. Your men and Ya’abin’s—the prisoners—are rebels. Everyone knows they have many allies. There will be hundreds of soldiers. I have been told to bring my garrison to Caesarea for the games. Others will come as well. Pilate made the mistake of underestimating the capabilities of the Zealots once. He is not fool enough to do it twice.”
Simeon feigned surprise. “Who would be mad enough to think otherwise?” he asked innocently.
Sextus gave him a searching look but said nothing.
“Todah raba. Many thanks.” Simeon reached down and picked up his valise.
The two of them stood there for a time, eyes not meeting. Finally, Rubrius broke the silence. “Loyalty to a friend is a noble thing, Simeon, and I commend you for it. But not even Yehuda would expect you to throw yourself into an abyss in a pointless attempt to save him.”
Simeon laughed softly and without humor. “Who would be mad enough to think otherwise?” he asked again.
Chapter Notes
The mezuzah is mentioned in this chapter. In observant Jewish homes a small metal or wood container holding scriptural passages on pieces of parchment was attached to the door frame. This was in response to the injunction in Deuteronomy 6:9.
The Praetorium takes it name from Praetor, meaning a magistrate, commander, or governor. In the field of battle, the praetorium was the general’s tent. It was also used as the title for the governor’s place of residence, denoting a grand palace or complex (see Collins, 274; Fallows, 3:1365).
Chapter 3
A living dog is better than a dead lion.
—Ecclesiastes 9:4
I
Damascus, provi
nce of Syria 18 June, a.d. 30
Simeon had been to Damascus several times before with his father. Sitting squarely on the King’s Highway, which came up from Arabia and major east-west trade routes, Damascus was an important center for trade, and David ben Joseph maintained a small office there to oversee his interests. Each time they came they stayed in the merchant’s quarter not far from the southern gate, which opened onto the King’s Highway. However, this time Simeon was staying completely away from his normal places; in fact, the place where he was now was vastly different from anywhere he had been before.
Damascus had been a city of note when Abraham walked the earth nearly two thousand years before. Back then, Jerusalem had been little more than a collection of huts occupied by Canaanites. Damascus was a completely Oriental city, a city of the East. Simeon imagined that this was what the cities of Arabia must be like. Its markets spread across huge blocks of space, making Jerusalem’s markets pale in comparison. Narrow, twisting streets sprouted off in every direction, defying any sense of order or comprehension. He had been walking steadily for more than half an hour, and all he did was burrow deeper and deeper into the city.
Simeon knew that if his young guide should decide to disappear, he would be hopelessly lost. And probably in danger as well. Simeon was dressed as a Roman of the patrician class, which automatically signified comfort and wealth. Covetous dark eyes peered out from shuttered windows or through cracks in doors as they passed. People called out from windows and doorways, offering this service or that product at an unbelievable price. When he didn’t respond to their halting Latin, they tried Greek, then Aramaic and other tongues he didn’t understand. He suspected that if he had been alone, he would have been accosted long before now.
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