“The answer is no. You will never learn who it was from me.”
Marcus shrugged. “I am only the messenger. Those are Pilate’s conditions.”
“Oh, you are far more than a messenger, Marcus Didius,” Simeon cried. “Do you think you can sidestep your honor by pretending to be a fawning servant? You are a trusted counselor with much influence. You know that and I know that.”
Simeon shook his head, his eyes cold and hard. “When I told my father that I planned to negotiate with you instead of directly with Pilate, he said that was good. He said that you were a man of decency, a man on whose word one could depend.” He made a sound of utter disgust. “So much for that piece of information.”
Marcus flared instantly. “It is not my honor that is under question here tonight.”
Simeon gave him an incredulous look. “If you believe that, then you have fallen farther than even you realize.” He raised a hand, pointing a finger at the Roman. “You return to your noble governor,” he said, his voice tight, “and you tell him this. What I am asking him to do is not unusual. Perhaps Pilate thinks that the arrangements he made in the past to free prisoners in exchange for money is a great secret, but it is not. It is common knowledge that Rome is a whore that can be bought by the highest bidder.”
“Now listen—” Marcus said, fully angry now.
“No! You listen. One gold talent for each man—men who saved you from disaster!—is far more than Pilate deserves. If that is not good enough for him, then you give him this message: If he refuses to accept this offer, then I shall not simply return to the Galilee with my gold. I will go to Sepphoris. Gehazi, leader of the Zealots, is still bitter that he came away with so little that night. Three talents of gold will buy many arms and outfit many new warriors. Not only will Pilate’s treasury be three talents poorer, but he will see a war of attrition launched against Rome that will cost him ten times that amount. Furthermore, a letter detailing Pilate’s refusal to recover his lost gold will be sent to Vitellius so that the legate knows the real cause of the outbreak of further hostilities.”
Marcus’s chest rose and fell as he fought to control his breathing. “You dare to threaten the procurator?” But Simeon’s words had sent a chill through Marcus. Three talents of gold would buy a lot of rebellion. And it was a rare Roman official who was comfortable with the idea of someone making full disclosure of his acts to his superiors.
Simeon just shook his head, the weariness almost more than he could bear. “I know that you and Pilate think you can get everything you want in this—the gold and the name of this person—but you are wrong. He has two options and two options only. He can walk away with three talents and have three fewer people to crucify at his precious Roman games, or he can face a rebellion that will bring down the wrath of the emperor upon his head. I swear that to you on my life, Marcus. So you go back and you counsel him, Counselor.”
Marcus shrugged diffidently. “I will tell him what you have said. If you expect that it will send him running to his bedroom trembling with fear, you are a bigger fool than even I thought.”
Simeon didn’t answer that. “There is one more thing you need to tell him. I am told that in Roman culture, an honorable man will sometimes take his own life rather than face disgrace or dishonor.”
Marcus was taken by surprise by that comment. “That is so,” he admitted.
“Well, in our culture, taking one’s own life is seen very differently. It is a terrible evil. We believe that life is a gift from God, and no man can throw it away without the gravest of eternal consequences.”
“Yes.” Marcus was aware of that, but he wasn’t sure what had brought this turn in the conversation.
“I accept that as true,” Simeon said softly, “but hear me well, Marcus Didius. I would take my own life before I revealed the name you seek and put that person or those persons into Pilate’s bloody hands.”
There was a long, low sigh from Marcus, who was feeling equally tired now. “I understand.”
“No!” Simeon cried fiercely. “You think you understand, but you don’t. It matters not what Pilate offers me or threatens to do to me, that information will never pass through my lips. Make him understand that. He thinks he can have it all, but he already has my best offer. There is nothing else on the bargaining table.”
He reached inside his tunic and withdrew a small folded parchment. “He has until midnight to decide. Here are my instructions on where to meet again if he accepts.”
Marcus was shocked. He had expected that Simeon would try to bring things to a conclusion tonight, but midnight was less than three hours away.
“You will bring Yehuda, Barak, and Samuel to the place indicated herein by midnight, or the offer is withdrawn.”
“But it is midway through the first watch already. There is not enough time to return to the palace, persuade Pilate, and return with the prisoners to wherever it is you want us to be.”
“You have time enough if you ride hard,” Simeon said, his voice like a stone. “But there will be no time to waste, no time to put together a plan to ensnare me. If you are not there by midnight, or if my instructions are not followed precisely, you will not see me again. Not until we meet over crossed swords somewhere in the Galilee.”
“Then your friends will die,” Marcus shot back, angry at the stubbornness of the man. “Pilate is already raging. You threaten him and he may decide to have them executed this very night.”
“If so, it will be only the beginning of a new day of conflict, Marcus Didius,” came the quiet reply. “If you have any shred of honor left within you, go back and convince Pilate of that.”
Before Marcus could answer, Simeon spun around and disappeared into the darkness.
II
On the Mediterranean coast, north of Caesarea 10 July, a.d. 30
When King Herod the Great decided to create a new port on the eastern shores of the Great Sea, he chose a spot where there was a reliable source of water. What he hadn’t counted on was the growth that his man-made harbor would generate, or that the Romans would eventually make Caesarea the capital city of Judea. That spawned even more growth, and soon Caesarea needed additional sources of water, especially during some of the great festivals, when large numbers of people came to the city.
The most abundant source of water along the eastern coast of the Great Sea was Mount Carmel, about twenty miles north of Caesarea. Rising fifteen hundred feet above the level of the sea, the mountain, whose name means “a garden place,” received considerable rain and drew down heavy dew from the moist sea air as well. The area had numerous springs of clear, unpolluted water. Over the years, many had talked about bringing water from Carmel to Caesarea, but Pontius Pilate had done more than talk. He set about creating an aqueduct to carry the water from the mountain. It moved south along the coast from Carmel in an almost straight line, the water channel itself gradually dropping in elevation to keep the water flowing by gravity. Where the ground rose, the aqueduct became a ditch. Where the ground fell away, the channel was lifted up and carried by a series of graceful stone arches after the Roman style.
Things had moved swiftly at first, but as the aqueduct approached Caesarea the engineering challenges increased dramatically. There was a long stretch along the coastal plains where the elevation was lower than Caesarea itself. For a stretch of several miles the stone arches had to be fifteen and twenty feet above the level of the ground so as to take the water into the city. It was not a difficult task—Roman engineers had surmounted far more challenging topography in other provinces—but it was costly and slow. After several years, the massive project was still a mile and a half from reaching the northern walls of the city. The south end of the aqueduct ended abruptly in bamboo scaffolding. In the sand surrounding the scaffolding, there were no fresh footprints. The project had come to a halt awaiting further funds.
Simeon had moved to the top of that aqueduct, and stretched out in the empty water channel directly above the fifteenth archway
north of where the aqueduct ended. The channel was about a cubit deep, just enough to hide a man from view. He had carefully chosen this place for the final meeting with that important fact in mind. He could see anyone coming from any direction without being seen himself.
He lifted his head and peered over the edge of the aqueduct at the moonlit sand fifteen feet below him. To Simeon’s left, on the east side of the aqueduct, the sand was smooth and unbroken for two or three hundred feet before the vegetation finally began to take hold. On the opposite side was the sea. The high-tide mark was no more than fifteen or twenty paces away from the stone structure that stretched away into the darkness. In the moonlight, the surf rolled toward him in long strips of rippling white. Satisfied that he was still alone, Simeon turned over on his back and closed his eyes.
O ye of little faith, wherefore do you doubt? He sighed. Those words had become like a litany to him these past few days, but now they did nothing but add to his pain. If anything, they only sharpened the doubt he so desperately kept trying to push aside. Ten days ago, as he had come out of the waters of the Sea of Galilee, a great peace had enveloped him. That peace had stayed with him through his travels to Tiberias, Damascus, and Ptolemais to get the gold. It had been with him as he waited outside the gates of the Praetorium to deliver that first letter to Marcus. It had even been with him tonight as he waited for Pilate’s answer.
Now it was gone. Simeon had never felt such raging turmoil before. Question after question marched through his mind, each one stirring up more turbulence within. Was Marcus even now moving in troops to encircle him? Was Marcus right? Would Pilate only sniff in contempt at Simeon’s threats? Had Simeon ransomed off a substantial part of his family’s wealth only to see the money taken with no return?
But those were not the most troubling questions that tore at him. Why had he had such strong feelings of confirmation that he had finally found the answer to his dilemma? He had been so sure. Yes, it did seem to be sheer madness to come here totally on his own, with no backup, no one to pull him out if something went wrong—but it had felt right! Even after many hours on his knees. It had felt right! Now, all hope had gone out of him. Despair was like the point of a spear pressing in against his chest.
No! He was suddenly fierce in his self-rebuke. He couldn’t lose hope now. O ye of little faith, wherefore do you doubt? He had to trust those feelings. He was trying to do the right thing. He had to believe that God would bless him in that. Wasn’t that the essence of faith? That you trusted even when all seemed hopeless?
Wherefore do you doubt?
He raised up and looked toward the water. It took a moment before his eyes found the dark shape anchored just five or six paces out into the surf. When he had told his mother that he wasn’t just trusting blindly in God, he meant it. He had planned carefully for any possible treachery on the part of the Romans. The boat he had anchored there an hour before was big enough for four men. It had a sail and two stout oars. Let Marcus close off every road, every path. Who could patrol the sea?
He sighed again and looked upward. He calculated the distance between the quarter moon and the dark shape of the foothills to his east. The moon was noticeably higher than the last time he had looked. Simeon had no way of knowing the time precisely, but his inner sense, which had always served him well, told him that it was very near the midnight hour, if not already past it. And still nothing. This was not good.
Unbidden, the memory of Peter’s face rose in Simeon’s mind. He was standing on the surface of an undulating sea. The fisherman’s eyes were wide with terror as he suddenly began to sink beneath the waves. Now Simeon understood more clearly what Peter had felt that night.
He closed his eyes again. “Master,” he whispered, “Master, I perish! Save me!”
III
As Tribune Marcus Quadratus Didius passed the last of the undergrowth lining the road, he slowed his horse to a walk. The other six horsemen behind him did the same. He stood up in the stirrups, searching the expanse of sand before him. There were no figures standing within view, and his eyes moved to the dark shape of the aqueduct. Once again he felt a little shiver. What if he had been wrong after all? What if Simeon did have a dozen or two dozen men waiting beneath those arches?
He reined his horse to the left, heading directly for the place where the aqueduct abruptly ended. This was where Simeon’s instructions had said to meet him. As he approached the end of the great stone mass, he stopped again, holding up his hand to stop the others as well. Marcus could see the geometric web of bamboo scaffolding left by the workers. “Wait here,” he said. “And stay alert.” As he moved forward again, he didn’t turn to see if his command was obeyed. He knew he had said it as much for his benefit as for theirs.
He was about thirty feet east of the aqueduct, moving north, parallel with the stonework. Over the soft sound of the surf, he could hear the heavy breathing of his horse. They had run hard to get here in time. His mount’s neck was wet, and there were flecks of foam at its mouth. Marcus let the mare take her own pace in the soft sand, every nerve attuned to the night around him. He began to count beneath his breath as he passed each arch. The letter told him to go to the fifth arch from the south end of the aqueduct, then stop and wait.
As he moved past the fourth arch, a voice rang out in the night. “That’s close enough.”
Marcus reined up, his eyes lifting in the direction of the voice. It was from above him, which meant Simeon was in the water channel. Wise. Not only did it hide him from any view from below, but it also diffused his voice so it was hard to pinpoint exactly where he was.
“I told you that you were to bring no one but the prisoners,” the voice said accusingly.
“I brought one guard for each prisoner,” Marcus answered calmly. “I am certainly not fool enough to bring three known rebels out here by myself.”
There was a moment of silence, then, “Tell your men to dismount and move away from their horses. Get the prisoners down too.”
Marcus turned in his saddle. “Help the prisoners down,” he called. “Then stand clear of the horses.” He swung down himself, gave his horse a reassuring pat, then moved forward toward the voice.
“I said that’s close enough.”
He stopped, watching as the three legionnaires who had accompanied him lifted the prisoners down. Chains clanked softly in the darkness.
“Yehuda! Is that you?”
There was a muffled sound from behind Marcus. “The prisoners are gagged and bound,” Marcus said. “I brought torches. May I have your permission to strike a flint? Then you can see for yourself who they are.”
Again several seconds went by before the answer came. “You may light one torch.”
Marcus waved a hand. His men were close enough to hear whatever Simeon was saying, and he spoke in Latin so they would understand him. The soldier nearest to Marcus began fumbling in the pouch at his belt. In a moment there was the sound of stone striking steel, and a spark flashed. Twice more, then the torch, soaked in a mixture of pitch and camphor, caught. In an instant the flames engulfed it, and the flickering light lit up the beach and threw the aqueduct into sharp relief. Marcus quickly turned his head away, not wanting to lose his night vision. “Show him the prisoners,” he barked.
The three men in chains were already standing close together. The legionnaire with the torch moved to them and lifted it high.
Yehuda lifted his chin and turned his face so it was pointing in the direction from which the voice had come. He didn’t need to ask who it was. The Romans had told them nothing, just awakened them with a kick and dragged them from their cells. For a time, he had assumed that they were being taken out to be executed. Only as they continued onward did he dare to hope that something much more acceptable might be happening. Simeon had come at last.
“Remove their gags,” Simeon commanded.
Marcus shook his head. “Not until I see the gold.”
“You have my word that it is within fifty paces of wh
ere you stand.”
Marcus hooted in derision. “And you have my word that your friends can still talk and have not been harmed. Now let’s stop playing children’s games.”
“Remove at least Yehuda’s gag,” came the answer. “I need to know that they are all right.”
Marcus fought the desire to jerk his head up. The voice was noticeably closer. Simeon was moving in on him. He tensed, picturing Simeon with a bow in hand and an arrow trained directly at Marcus’s chest. He fought back the fear and called out. “Take the gag off the big one.”
There was a quick movement; then a deep voice boomed out. “Simeon, you old dog. Is that you?”
“It is,” came the happy cry. “Are you all right?”
“We’ve picked up a few fleas since we last saw you, but other than that, we’re fine.”
Marcus swung around. “All right, now where is the gold?”
“Light a second torch,” Simeon commanded, almost directly above Marcus now. “Have one of your men hold it close to the prisoners so I can watch them while you work. You may take the first torch with you to where the gold is hidden.”
A simple nod from Marcus, and a second torch was produced and lit. The man ran it quickly to his commander, then trotted back with the others. Marcus held it high, looking up, but there was still nothing to be seen.
“Marcus Didius.” The voice had changed position yet again. It was to his left now, so he could watch Marcus’s back as he moved forward. “Do I have your word of honor as a Roman officer that you will release my men when you see that I have delivered the gold as promised?”
Marcus flinched slightly.
There was the scrape of sandal on stone above him. “Well?”
For a moment, Marcus stared at the ground; then, finally, he nodded. “You have my word. When I actually see the gold, I shall release the prisoners.”
“Your word of honor?”
“Come on, Simeon!” he snarled. “You heard me.”
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