Chapter Notes
We know that before he ever arrived in Jerusalem for the last Passover of his mortal life, Jesus was telling his disciples that his death was imminent and that he was going to Jerusalem to be killed (see, for example, Matthew 16:21; 17:10–12; Luke 17:25). The experience at Caesarea Philippi, including the sharp rebuke of Peter’s well-meaning objection, is told in greatest detail in the Gospel of Matthew (Matthew 16:13–23; see also Mark 8:27–33).
It is John who tells us that Jesus specifically knew that the Jewish leaders were plotting his death and thus told his family that he would not be going up to Jerusalem for the Feast of Tabernacles (see John 7:1–9). We are not told why he later changed his mind and went (see v. 10). John also explains that at this time “neither did his brethren believe in him” (John 7:5). Though we are not told how this happened or when, we know that eventually Jesus’ brothers were converted, for they were present with their mother at a meeting following Christ’s resurrection (see Acts 1:14). One of them, James, became an apostle after Christ’s death (see Galatians 1:19).
For reasons that are not entirely clear, the civil year in the Jewish calendar started in the fall, while the sacred, or religious, calendar began in the spring. Tishri is the seventh month of the sacred calendar. The first day of that month came to be viewed as the beginning of the new year. Today, some two thousand years later, Rosh Hashanah, or the Jewish New Year, is still celebrated by Jews across the world each autumn.
The story of the healing of the woman who had suffered with an infirmity for eighteen years is found only in Luke’s Gospel (Luke 13:11–17). Though it is usually placed in the time of the Perean and later Judean ministries, which occur late in the ministry of Jesus, we do not know exactly where it took place. But it did take place on the Sabbath, creating a violent reaction from some who witnessed it. The record does say just a few verses later that Jesus “went through the cities and villages, teaching, and journeying toward Jerusalem” (Luke 13:22); for this reason, that healing is placed just before the Feast of Tabernacles in this account.
Chapter 10
Rome has spoken. The case is concluded.
—Augustine, St. Augustine Sermons, Bk. 1
I
Caesarea 1 October, a.d. 32
“Sit down, Marcus.”
“Thank you, Excellency.”
Once Marcus was seated, Pilate sat on a marble seat facing his commander. “Welcome back.”
“Thank you. I very much appreciate your kindness in letting me go to Rome.”
Pilate gave a short laugh. “A man ought to be there for his own wedding.”
Marcus smiled back at him. “One would think so.”
“Well, you have a lovely bride. And your family has made a good marriage.”
“Thank you. The Servilius family is a noble and honorable one. It is a privilege to join their name with that of the Didius family.”
And politically, it was an important step upward, Pilate thought. The Servilius family was well connected to the emperor, and Lucas Pontus Servilius was one of the most powerful voices in the Senate. Though Marcus had another two years of service in Judea, it would not surprise Pilate to see the legate of Syria promote Marcus to prefect of the legion, second in command to the general himself. He made a note that he would have to treat Marcus with even greater respect than he had hitherto done. It was always well to have friends in high places.
“So how have things been in my absence?”
Pilate considered the question for a moment, frowning somewhat. “Stable, for the most part, but there have been a few skirmishes in the Galilee. Nothing major—some running attacks on a couple of columns, a few wagons pillaged. Enough to make me nervous that our time of peace up there isn’t going to last much longer.”
“What action has been taken?”
“That’s what I want to talk to you about. I have been thinking a great deal about our problem in the Galilee. We tried to solve it once and for all two years ago, but the fiasco at the Joknean Pass put an end to that.”
Marcus felt a sudden lurch of anxiety. Pontius Pilatus, procurator or governor of Judea, was an efficient and adequate ruler of a very unruly province. He was no better and no worse than dozens of other such rulers who used their friends and influence to wrangle positions of power and, as a result, to make themselves wealthy. But in the six years of his reign, Pilate had made two strategic blunders that had almost cost him his position. The first had happened before Marcus was posted to the province, but he had heard about it in great detail more than once. The Jews had a strict prohibition—it was one of their so-called Ten Commandments—against worshiping graven images. The Roman legions carried their standards on poles topped with figures of the Roman eagle, or in some cases, images of the emperor. Since the emperor was considered divine by official declaration, the Jews considered the standards to be idols. Previous procurators had learned that these standards were highly offensive to the Jews and so put them away or kept them hidden when they marched into Jerusalem or other major Jewish cities.
On his arrival, Pilate had acted more like a man of senatorial rank even though he was only of the Equestrian, or Knights, order. When Pilate had been told about this peculiarity of the Jews, he haughtily decided he was not about to let some silly superstition dictate to him what he could and could not do. He marched the troops into Jerusalem with the banners fully exposed and then set them up in the Antonia Fortress. The uproar was both instantaneous and widespread. Six thousand Jews marched to Caesarea and demanded that the standards be removed. Furious at such arrogance, Pilate herded them into the Hippodrome, surrounded them with his soldiers, and gave them two choices: go home and forget this nonsense, or die. Six thousand Jews lay down on the ground and bared their throats. Knowing that a massacre of the populace over something so trivial as this would not set well with Rome, particularly as his first official act, the governor, humiliated and infuriated, had no choice but to back down.
The second, and perhaps even more damaging incident, had taken place just last year. The population of Jerusalem sometimes swelled to more than a million people during the great festivals, particularly Passover, or Pesach, as the Jews called it. This taxed the water resources of the city beyond their capacity. Pilate devised a simple solution for the problem. He decided to build another aqueduct to bring water into Jerusalem from some springs fifteen or twenty miles south of the city. No one disputed the need and all agreed it was a worthy project.
Where Pilate made his mistake was in objecting to the idea that the funds for such an extensive project should come from his own resources. He was still completing the great aqueduct that would bring water from Mount Carmel to Caesarea, and his funds were stretched to the limit. So he hit upon another solution. Millions of sesterces poured into the temple treasury every year. In the Law of Moses, every adult male—not just those living in the province, but every Jewish man living anywhere in the empire—was required to pay a so-called temple tax. Nor was that all. At the great pilgrimages, tens of thousands of people tossed contributions into the large chests placed inside the Court of the Women on the Temple Mount. This too was a source of enormous revenue, especially for the Sadducees, who controlled the high priesthood and the temple funds.
Had Pilate been wise enough to go to the Great Council and put the problem to them, they might have agreed to help fund the project, since it would directly benefit the city. But that implied some kind of equality between Jew and Roman, a concept that galled Pilate deeply. So he simply expropriated the money from the sacred treasury.
Once again his actions triggered an immediate and violent reaction. At the Feast of Pentecost, great crowds gathered around the Antonia Fortress when they learned Pilate had come to Jerusalem for the feast. He went out and tried to reason with them, but, as crowds often do, they became abusive—jeering, catcalling, crying out insults. His puffed-up ego was pricked, and he once again decided that these impossible Jews needed to be taught a lesson.
Outraged, the Great Sanhedrin wrote a protest to the emperor. Through the legate of Syria, the person to whom Pilate directly answered, the emperor had sent back a sharp rebuke. What was the governor thinking? Ruling Judea was difficult enough without deliberately provoking the people. In essence, the emperor was putting Pilate on notice. One more miscalculation and there would be a new procurator in Judea.
Marcus eyed the governor carefully. Surely he had not cooked up another one of his grand schemes. But of course Marcus said nothing, merely waited.
“If we don’t respond to these initial incursions,” Pilate was saying, “it will only embolden them. And we can’t strike back at them in their own territory without launching a major campaign.”
“I agree.”
Pilate’s face was mercurial, growing more agitated with every word he spoke. “But I’ll wager that half the Galilee will be here for the Feast of Tabernacles, including a good share of the Zealots.”
So here it comes, Marcus thought. He does have a plan, and he’ll want me to make it work. “Yes?” he asked cautiously.
“So do something while they’re here.”
Marcus nearly choked. “What would you like me to do, Excellency?”
Pilate swung on him, suddenly cold. “Has getting married addled your brain? How do I know what? You’re the tribune. Do whatever it takes. But by the gods! I want those Zealots to know they’ve been hit, and hit hard. Do you understand me?”
Marcus, completely taken aback by the outburst, nodded curtly. “I do.”
“I want to hear your plan by tomorrow at this time.”
Marcus fought to keep his face impassive. He and Diana had only arrived at Caesarea and disembarked from the ship two hours before. They had been three full weeks on board, and Marcus was tired. But he was also wise enough to know that none of that mattered. For now, even a tribune with important family connections had no choice but to give unquestioning obedience to his commander. He stood. “I’ll get to work on it right away.” He saluted by slapping one arm against his chest and started for the door.
Pilate didn’t move. He was brooding darkly, staring at the floor. At the sound of the door opening, he looked up. “Welcome back, Marcus. And congratulations.”
“Thank you, Excellency.”
“Bring your Lady Diana for supper tonight. We’d all like a chance to get to know her.”
“Yes, Excellency.”
II
Jerusalem, Upper City 4 October, a.d. 32
“Sire?”
Mordechai looked up. “Yes, Levi?”
“You have a guest, sire. It is the Roman tribune.”
“Marcus Didius?” That was a surprise.
“Yes, sire. And he has a woman with him.”
Mordechai rose swiftly. “Show him in.” As Levi moved away, Mordechai began to sweep the papers and books off the table and into a chest. He removed a key from the chain around his neck, locked the chest securely, then pushed it out of sight under the table.
He heard footsteps coming down the marbled hall and walked toward the door. It opened as he reached it, so he stepped back.
Levi was there. He half bowed, sweeping out his arm in a gesture of introduction. “Sire, may I present Tribune Marcus Quadratus Didius, along with his wife, Lady Diana Cornelia Arria Servilius Didius.”
Mordechai barely hid his surprise—not that Levi could rattle off the full name with ease, since that was expected of a chief steward, but that she had been introduced as Marcus’s wife. Mordechai bowed low. “Lady Didius, this is a most distinct honor. Welcome to my home. And, of course, to you as well, Marcus Didius.”
“Thank you,” Marcus said. His wife inclined her head slightly in acknowledgment but said nothing. She was beautiful, almost regal. Mordechai guessed she was several years younger than Marcus, probably near twenty. Her hair, long and dark brown, glistened like oiled wood. Her eyes were not particularly large, but close set and a striking green. She had a tiny nose and a small but well-formed mouth. Her slender body was almost that of a young girl, with a tiny waist. Her skin was like polished alabaster and without flaw. One look told Mordechai that here was a woman of class, wealth, and sophistication.
“Levi, fetch us some wine,” Mordechai said, moving back into the room and inviting them to follow.
Marcus raised a hand. “Thank you, but no. We’ve just arrived from Caesarea and came straight here. Diana is very tired, and I am to meet the commander at the Antonia Fortress in just over an hour.” He turned to his wife. “Would you wait in the courtyard, Diana? You’ll find it quite pleasant, and I have a matter to discuss with Mordechai. It will take only a few moments.”
“Of course,” she said. She looked at Levi, obviously surprised to be dismissed so quickly, then followed him back out into the hall.
Marcus shut the door and moved forward. “Sorry to be so abrupt. We were delayed coming through the Beth Horon Pass yesterday and have arrived later than anticipated. Perhaps we can come again once the feast is over. I would like you to get a chance to know Diana.”
“Unless you have to return to Caesarea immediately following the end of the feast, I should like to sponsor a banquet in your honor, to introduce your wife to Jerusalem society.”
“Thank you, we would like that.” Marcus was genuinely pleased. He had not been fishing for an invitation.
“I must say, this is a surprise. I only heard a week or so ago that you had gone back to Rome. Now here you are with a new wife.”
“Yes. By the beginning of the summer, I had completed my third year of duty here in Judea. When my father wrote to Pilate and told him they had arranged a marriage with the Servilius family, Pilate immediately granted me three months leave.”
“She’s very lovely.”
“Yes, in more ways than one. Her father is a senator who served as legate of Belgica for a time. So while she may look delicate and fragile, she is used to postings outside of Rome.”
“Ah,” Mordechai said, duly impressed. He was not an expert on the Roman Empire, but he knew enough to know that Belgica, a province on the northern frontiers of the empire, was of strategic importance to the emperor. Diana’s father must be a very powerful man indeed. Which meant Marcus had catapulted several notches upward in terms of power and influence. Mordechai filed that away in his memory. “Then we must be certain the banquet is fitting for one of her station,” he said smoothly.
“She would be most appreciative,” Marcus responded, with a slight incline of his head. “As would I.”
Mordechai knew it was time for the pleasantries to be done. “You spoke of a matter of business,” he suggested.
Marcus nodded curtly. “Yes. I bring a request from Pilate.”
That was not a great surprise, though he couldn’t imagine what it might be. “Go on.”
Marcus drew a little closer. “This is for your ears only. No one, not even your most trusted associates on the council, can know of this.”
“I understand.”
Marcus’s hand went up, and he rubbed his face. His chin was covered with a light stubble—something unusual for Marcus—and he looked tired. “There may be trouble on the Temple Mount.”
“Oh?” Mordechai said slowly. “What kind of trouble?”
“We’re not sure, and it could prove to be nothing.”
M
ordechai waited. If it was going to be nothing, it would never have been brought up.
“Pilate is looking for an excuse to come down hard on the Zealots. We assume there will be a lot of Galileans here for Sukkot.”
“Many,” Mordechai agreed.
“If something does start, it would be helpful if your temple guards were . . . uh . . . shall we say, occupied elsewhere.”
“I see.” Mordechai’s mind was racing. “Will this be a deliberate provocation, and if so, has a time and place been determined?”
“Nothing is fully set. If it does happen, it will likely be near the end of the feast, on the last day or two. I will be able to give you at least one day’s warning.”
Mordechai felt uneasy. This was too vague, too undefined. And Marcus wasn’t telling him everything. He could see that in his eyes. And then a disturbing thought popped into his mind. “There isn’t going to be another raid on the temple treasury?” he asked darkly.
“No, no,” Marcus said quickly. “No, it’s nothing like that.”
Mordechai grunted but said nothing. Along one wall of the Court of the Women, the first of the inner courts of the temple, stood thirteen large chests. Here the visitors to the temple made their offerings. Nine chests were for obligatory offerings required by the Law of Moses, and four were marked for strictly voluntary offerings. It was a traditional part of the Feast of Tabernacles to open the great chests and empty them. The contents of all thirteen chests taken together represented a staggering sum. It would be a tempting target for someone as venal and shortsighted as Pilate.
Marcus evidently sensed Mordechai’s uneasiness. He lowered his voice and leaned forward. “Pilate acknowledges that the whole aqueduct project was an error of judgment. We have the strictest orders to leave the temple coffers alone.”
The Sadducee relaxed a little. The mistake had been a costly one for Pilate and had nearly lost him his governorship. But neither was Mordechai completely comfortable with what Marcus was proposing. “It will be very awkward to have the temple guards absent on the last days of the feast. First of all, that is the time when the crowds are greatest. Second, we would be fools to move the treasury without an escort.”
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