Marcus frowned, not in disagreement, but because it complicated his problem.
“Why not wait until the day following the feast?” Mordechai proposed.
Marcus lifted one eyebrow. “Won’t the Galileans start home?”
“Not usually. They take another day or two to pack things up.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, and there’s another reason. The first and last days of the festival are considered by us to be holy days of convocation; they are the most sacred days of the feast. Not only will the crowds be heavy, but even the most radical of the Galileans will tend to be more restrained on such a day. There is a good chance they would avoid any violence, if at all possible. But the day following the last day of the feast there would be no such reluctance, and they will play right into our hands.”
Marcus nodded. He had been three years in this country, and he still had much to learn about this peculiar religion and the effects it had on the people. “Then, tentatively, we shall plan on the day following the last day of the feast.”
Then he decided he needed to further relieve some of Mordechai’s anxiety. “Things are stirring in the Galilee again,” he explained. “Twice we’ve had columns attacked around Sepphoris. Nothing major, just little skirmishes, but still disturbing. Pilate wants to teach them a lesson, nip this in the bud.”
“Why not just go after them up there?”
“You know the answer to that,” Marcus responded. “There are a dozen or more separate bands who are rarely together in the same place. They melt away into the forests. Every person you pass up there is a potential enemy, every village a potential ambush.”
There was no disputing that, Mordechai thought. “But they will all likely be here in Jerusalem,” he mused thoughtfully. He began to nod. That did have its possibilities. “You’ll need more than the contingent of soldiers you usually have at the Antonia. This could easily get out of hand, knowing what hotheads the Galileans are.”
That came as no surprise to Marcus, and he was already taking steps to prepare for that very contingency. The number of soldiers kept at the Antonia Fortress, which guarded the northwest corner of the Temple Mount, was always doubled during the big festivals anyway. He had brought another two hundred men with him, and over the next few nights another five hundred would slip in under cover of darkness. That would bring the garrison up to almost fifteen hundred men. When that many poured out of the Antonia Fortress, it would catch the Galileans totally off guard.
Of course, he said none of that to Mordechai. Part of his hesitancy was that he himself wasn’t yet sure exactly how he was going to pull this off. “Our plan is to see if we can’t somehow entice the primary Zealot leaders to one place where we can take them: Jesus Barabbas, Yehuda of Beth Neelah, Gehazi of Sepphoris, Yohanan the Blind.” He gave a momentary, wry smile. “An odd name for a Zealot leader.”
“He lost one eye in an ambush by a squad of your soldiers about six years ago, I’m told.” Then Mordechai said, “But not Yehuda.”
“Why not?”
“You haven’t heard? Yehuda no longer leads that band. I understand he married Livia, the servant of my—” He caught himself. “A former servant in my household.”
Marcus had not heard that. “Livia? The Greek girl?”
“Yes. Yehuda has publicly renounced his life as a Zealot.”
“Well, well,” Marcus said, completely surprised. “So who has taken over the leadership?”
“A man named Samuel. He’s Yehuda’s brother-in-law. But our sources say that the group is still waiting to see which leader rises naturally to the top.”
“And what of Miriam?” Marcus asked.
Mordechai’s face instantly darkened. “We do not mention that name in this house any longer.”
Marcus took that without comment. In actuality, he found this whole thing with the Jews declaring their unfaithful children to be dead to them quite macabre and totally ridiculous. In Rome, if a child utterly disobeyed the authority of the father, you didn’t pretend they were dead, you put them to death! But he was curious and so he ignored the older man’s warning. “Did she finally marry, then?”
“The last I heard, which was almost a year ago, she was betrothed.”
The last he heard? Marcus doubted that. If the Great Council had such excellent intelligence on the Zealots, he would know exactly what was happening with his daughter. “To Simeon ben David?”
“Yes.”
“I knew it,” Marcus said. “After Simeon helped her escape from Rome . . .” He frowned. “Maybe getting him out of prison to chase after Ya’abin was a mistake.”
“No,” Mordechai snapped. “But letting him go free once you had Ya’abin trapped, that was the mistake. I tried to warn you.”
Marcus realized his error in bringing up Miriam. He shouldn’t have tried to needle the man. But Mordechai’s petulance at Marcus for not letting Simeon be killed in the wilderness of Judea irritated Marcus. Still, he decided to let it pass. “Well, Diana is waiting. I’d better go.”
Mordechai walked out with him into the hall and toward the main entrance. Then an idea took form. “Jesus is a Galilean,” he said.
Marcus slowed his step. “What’s that?”
“Jesus of Nazareth is from the Galilee.”
The Roman stopped, staring at Mordechai. “Yes, he is,” he finally said. “But he’s not going to be drawn in with the Zealots.”
“Would you give it some thought? Perhaps there is a way.”
Marcus nodded, but he had already considered that and rejected it. Jesus was a man of peace. Every source Marcus used had told him that.
“There is one other you might consider,” Mordechai said.
“Who is that?”
“Simeon ben David is also a Galilean.” He paused. “And they are here for Sukkot.”
Marcus nearly laughed aloud. So much for Mordechai’s claim that he did not know what Miriam was doing. But he thrust that aside and began to consider what lay behind Mordechai’s words. Memories of Simeon ben David still rankled Marcus. He carried a scar on his forearm from their first encounter. Simeon had been the one primarily responsible for their defeat at the Joknean Pass. And if it hadn’t been for Simeon, Miriam could have been his.
Now that he was married to Diana, Marcus was honest enough with himself to realize that marriage to a Jewess, beautiful and intelligent though she might be, would have been a mistake. Mordechai was a man of wealth and influence, but only in Palestine. He was nothing compared to the Servilius family. But it still annoyed him that Simeon had snatched her away before Marcus had determined she wasn’t the one for him. And the man’s arrogance was insufferable. He looked squarely at Mordechai, “If Simeon was in the right place at the right time . . .” He shrugged.
“It’s possible,” Mordechai said, his eyes hooded but smoldering darkly. “It would have to be carefully done. As though he accidentally got swept up in things. There could be no hint that the Great Council had anything to do with this.”
“If your guards are occupied elsewhere,” Marcus said with a dry smile, “it would be ‘those filthy Romans.’ Who could blame you?” In this case, what Mordechai was asking for would be easy enough to arrange. After all, Yehuda was Simeon’s closest friend. Simeon had risked his life once before to free him from prison. “Do you know where Simeon is staying?”
“They always stay with his father’s cousin in Bethlehem.”
“What about Yehuda and this brother-in-law of his?”
Mordechai shook his head. “I don’t know about them. The Zealots are much more careful when they come here. They know we don’t like them, and they know that you would love to get your hands on them.”
“But Simeon probably knows where Yehuda is staying?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“Let me think on it,” Marcus concluded. “But I suspect we can accommodate your needs while we solve our own problem.”
Mordechai grunted in satisfaction. “Let me know
for sure what day you decide. I’ll need a full twenty-four hours to make sure our soldiers are elsewhere.”
“I shall see to it,” Marcus said. He extended his hand, and they shook briefly.
Mordechai walked to the main door and opened it wide. “Plan on a banquet following the end of the festival. Perhaps we shall have more to celebrate than your recent marriage.”
Marcus laughed. It was good doing business with someone who knew what he wanted and was willing to pay for it.
III
Bethlehem 5 October, a.d. 32
It was a glorious day for a wedding, and everything to this point had gone well. Now came the most solemn moment of all. Aaron motioned for the couple before him to take their place in front of the canopy. It was much smaller than the one they had stood beneath for their betrothal; Benjamin’s courtyard in Bethlehem could not accommodate something quite that grand. Simeon actually preferred it. It seemed to fit the more intimate and limited scope of the wedding. As Simeon and Miriam left their escorts—Livia for Miriam, Yehuda for Simeon—and came forward, the crowd hushed.
Simeon was clothed in richly embroidered robes, with gold trim and silver chains for sashes. On his head was a gold-plated diadem. On this day he was a king, about to be wed to his queen. This made them both as royalty.
Miriam wore a white linen dress that came to the floor, with long cowled sleeves. The material was trimmed around the bottom of the skirt and the sleeves with a ribbon of deep blue. The dress was held together at the shoulder with golden brooches purchased from a goldsmith in Damascus. Her veil was of heavy silk, designed to hide her face from all until the marriage was consummated. The whiteness of the dress and veil emphasized Miriam’s light olive skin and jet-black hair. In the ten months since the betrothal, Miriam’s hair had grown a full hand-span longer and now fell halfway down her back. It shone like oiled ebony in the sunlight.
To each side, and slightly behind them, stood Ephraim and Rachel’s two older children. Esther, now six, stood behind Miriam, her arms filled with garlands of flowers. Anyone not knowing the relationship might have mistaken them for sisters, they were so much alike. Boaz was on the other side, standing beside Simeon. Grandma Deborah had found a seamstress to make him an elaborately decorated robe as well, and he looked like a miniature bridegroom. He was taking his role very seriously and looked straight ahead. Just looking at the two children brought smiles to everyone’s faces.
Aaron took one step forward. The hush deepened. For a moment, he just looked at them; then he smiled. “Thank you,” he whispered.
Then he took a breath and raised his voice for all to hear. “It is time for the ceremony of nisu’in, or the formal marriage. As you know, Simeon ben David, when you were betrothed, both you and Miriam participated in the ceremony of kiddushin, or consecration to each other. When something is set aside and consecrated to the Lord God of Israel, blessed be his name, it becomes kadash, or holy. Therefore it is forbidden for any other use. The giver can no longer claim it as his own property.”
Simeon nodded solemnly.
“On that night, Miriam bat Mordechai of Jerusalem became kiddushin, consecrated and sacred to you. Tonight she becomes your wife and from henceforth is forbidden to all other men, and you to all other women. Do you understand this?”
Simeon wanted to look at Miriam as he answered, but that was not the custom. He looked at Aaron and nodded. “Yes.”
Aaron half turned. “Miriam of Jerusalem, earlier you covenanted to become kiddushin. On this night, that becomes your permanent state. Do you willingly accept that as your new condition in life?”
“Yes.”
“Simeon ben David,” Aaron said, turning to his nephew again. “Would you take your place beneath the canopy?”
Simeon stepped away from Miriam, moving beneath the overhanging linen.
“Miriam,” Aaron said, gesturing with his hand, “you take your place on the right hand of Simeon.”
As she did so, he intoned, “In the Psalm of David, it states, ‘Upon thy right hand did stand the queen.’”
A murmur of approval rippled through the crowd as the couple stood together.
“In the Book of Genesis,” Aaron went on, very grave, “we learn that Rebekah was brought from Haran as a bride for Isaac. As the caravan approached the home of Abraham, Rebekah saw Isaac working in the field. When the servant told her that this was her bridegroom to be, it is written that, ‘Rebekah took a veil and covered herself.’”
With that, the small company in the courtyard erupted. They cried out the words of blessing given to Rebekah by her family as she left her home to join her betrothed in a far-off land. “Be thou the mother of thousands of millions. Let thy seed possess the gates of those who hate thee.”
Suddenly a shower of wheat fell across the bride and groom, thrown by the guests from every corner of the court. A symbol of fertility, the grain was a visual representation of the wish for many children, the same wish that had just been expressed in the triumphant shout.
Nearly glowing himself, Aaron motioned for the couples to face him again. “You may present the ketubah to your bride.”
Simeon withdrew the scroll on which their marriage contract was written. He had first given this to her in the betrothal ceremony. Now it was finalized. He extended it toward Miriam. “Miriam bat Mordechai, with this ketubah and the money and goods promised therein, I hereby wed myself to thee by the laws of Moses and of Israel.”
Miriam reached out and took it, shyly smiling at him for the first time. “Amen!” the assembled guests exclaimed.
Then came one of the most sacred of moments. The prophet Jeremiah had once written that a woman should “compass” a man. It was assumed by the scribes that this meant that she was to court him, but it was also taken literally in the wedding ceremony. Moving in a stately manner, Miriam began making slow circles around Simeon. As she completed the first circle, she repeated the first of three expressions of betrothal found in the prophet Hosea’s writings: “I betroth thee unto me forever.”
She began the second encirclement. “I betroth thee unto me in righteousness, in judgment, in loving kindness and in mercy.”
Simeon watched her as she started around the third time. “I betroth thee unto me in faithfulness,” she said, “and thou shalt know the Lord.”
With that, Aaron walked to a nearby table, lifted a silver pitcher of wine, and filled a cup. He lifted it high above his head and offered a short benediction. Then he walked back and handed the cup to Simeon. He nodded for Simeon to proceed.
Looking over the edge of the cup to the veiled face, Simeon took one swallow. “With the sharing of this cup, we signify the sharing of our lives together in this marriage.”
He handed it to Miriam, who lifted the cup under her veil and took a sip as well, all the time her eyes never leaving his. “Amen,” she said.
“Amen!” roared the crowd. Aaron took back the cup.
With a smile that filled his whole face, Simeon took one step forward so that he was directly in front of her. He took both of her hands and squeezed them softly.
“Amen and amen!” shouted the family.
“Amen and amen,” shouted the assembled guests.
“Amen,” Simeon whispered, and squeezed her hands again.
Chapter Notes
Pontius Pilatus, or Pilate, as we call him in English, served as procurator (or governor) of Judea for about ten years, beginning his reign in a.d. 26. His role in the crucifixion of Christ has made his name famous, but outside of the New Testament, there are very few contemporary accounts of his administration. However, Flavius Josephus, the Jewish historian who lived in the first century of the Christian era, does give an account of two political blunders Pontius Pilate made with the Jews, both of which are cited here (see Josephus, xviii, iii, 1).
In Exodus 30:12–13, the law required every adult male Israelite to pay half a shekel tax for maintaining the sanctuary, which at first was the tabernacle, then later was the temp
le. In Matthew 17:14–27 we learn that “they that received tribute money” accused Jesus of not paying this tax. This shows there was some formal mechanism for collecting the tax, at least in the Holy Land. How this was done in other areas of the empire we are not told.
This tax was not paid to Rome, but to the Jewish leadership who controlled the temple. At the time of Jesus, this was the Sadducees. Josephus does not tell us exactly how Pilate took the money from the Jewish funds, only that he did so.
Jesus Barabbas is listed by Marcus here as one of the Zealot leaders. In the New Testament, he is known only as Barabbas (bar and ben in Hebrew both mean “son of”; see Wilson, p. 404). One of the old manuscripts mentions him as Jesus Barabbas. Since Jesus (Yeshua in Hebrew) was a common name in the time of Christ, many commentators believe this was likely his full name. We do know that Barabbas was being held for insurrection and murder (see Mark 15:7), which makes him a likely candidate for being a Zealot (Clarke, 3:270).
Though it is hard to specify exactly what marriage customs prevailed at the time of Christ, what is described here comes from what information we have about Jewish weddings; some such traditions are very old (see Bloch, pp. 33–36). It is widely known today that at Jewish weddings a goblet or glass is broken at the end of the ceremony. This serves as reminder of the loss of the temple in a.d. 70, the idea being that even at times of great joy Jews remember the tragedy that occurred so many years before. Since the temple had not been destroyed at the time of the novel, that of course could not have been part of the ceremony described in this story.
Chapter 11
And the multitudes that went before, and that followed, cried, saying, Hosanna to the Son of David: Blessed is he that cometh in the name of the Lord; Hosanna in the highest.
—Matthew 21:9
I
Jerusalem, Antonia Fortress 6 October, a.d. 32
Fishers of Men Page 134