VI
Philip returned about ten minutes later. The path that ran between the palace of Caiaphas and the next palatial home led down toward the main part of the city. The hillside was steep at that point, and stairs had been built to smooth the way a little. By the time Philip reached them, he was puffing heavily. Andrew went to meet him, as did many others, filling the street. Fortunately, that early in the morning no one was out and about as yet.
“I found them,” Philip exclaimed as he ran up. “Mary, Martha, Lazarus—there are a dozen or more, including several more men.”
“Good,” James said. “Are they coming?”
“No. They’re waiting outside the lower gate of the courtyard. We need to go down there. We could hear what sounded like a riot inside. People were shouting and screaming.”
That startled Andrew. “Shouting? What kind of shouting?”
Philip scanned the faces of his brethren for a moment, then lowered his head. “‘Death to the blasphemer,’” he said in a bare whisper. “That’s the one that we could hear the clearest.”
VII
Jerusalem, Upper City, the Praetorium
“Sire?” Marcus pulled back the linen curtain, leaned forward, and laid a hand on the governor’s shoulder.
Pontius Pilate came awake with a start. He let out a low cry and jerked to a sitting position, eyes darting wildly about. Finally they settled on Marcus. “By the gods!” he snapped, “Marcus? What are you doing here?” He glanced towards the windows. “The sun isn’t even up yet.”
“No, sire. I’m sorry to disturb you. Your servant didn’t want to let me in, but there’s trouble brewing. I thought you’d better hear it from me. You’d better come down to the judgment hall.”
VIII
Jerusalem, Upper City, Palace of Caiaphas
The disciples from Bethany were waiting outside the lower gate to the palace compound. The women immediately moved together, gathering around Mary, the mother of Jesus, to lend their strength and support to her. Though not weeping openly at the moment, she looked terribly drawn. It was as though she had aged ten years in one night.
The men drew into a tight knot and began discussing what action they might be forced to take. James and Andrew took the lead in the discussion, which centered around what Jesus expected of them. James told them about Peter’s attempt to protect the Master and what Jesus had said to him. “It was like he wanted us out of the way,” Andrew broke in. “Besides, what can we do in the face of such a large body of armed soldiers?”
Simeon nodded. “If we’re not careful, this could turn into a bloodbath like it did a few months ago.”
As the men debated, the women kept turning to look at the gate and the walls of the palace. The shouting that Philip had described had been silenced. From time to time they could hear the murmur of voices, but nothing more. Finally, the group lapsed into a worried silence, fearing what was happening to Jesus. A second, unspoken fear was that Peter and John had been arrested too. A growing feeling of gloom and depression settled on the group.
Not more than five minutes later, they heard a soft creak as the gate swung open, and John appeared. He blinked in surprise for a moment to see thirty or forty people waiting for him, but quickly recovered. He swung the gate shut again and motioned everyone to gather around. It was a superfluous gesture. Everyone was already pressing in to hear what he had to say.
“What’s happening?” James asked. “Is Jesus all right?”
John’s face was grim. “They’ve convicted him of blasphemy.”
The other disciples responded with gasps and exclamations of shock and dismay.
“They’ve sentenced him to death,” he went on doggedly. He stepped to Mary and put an arm around her, pulling her close as he spoke. “However—” He wished there were a way to soften this, but they had to know. She had to know. “However, they know they can’t get the Romans to approve a death sentence for a religious violation. They’re getting ready to take him to Pilate at the Praetorium. They’re going to charge him with treason.”
“Treason!” It was Bartholomew who had burst out.
John’s head bobbed once. “They’ll be leaving here in just a few minutes. We need to get over to the Praetorium so we can be there and give Jesus our support. Our only hope now is that Pilate will see this for what it really is—a sham. The council has trumped up the charges because they hate Jesus’ popularity with the people. That’s all there is to this. Pilate needs to know that.”
Andrew reached out and grabbed John’s arm. “Where’s Peter?”
The young apostle looked around quickly. “He’s not with you?”
“No. We haven’t seen him since you left us at the garden.”
John’s gloom deepened. “I know a servant here. She let us in, but we got separated. Half an hour ago, maybe more, I saw some men talking with Peter. He seemed angry. I couldn’t tell what was happening. He jerked away from them and ran out. I was coming out to look for him.”
“Have they hurt him?” It was Mary. She was looking at John with imploring eyes. “Have they hurt my son?”
John looked away for a moment, his own face lined with pain, then finally answered. “They’ve struck him in the face a few times,” he said slowly.
She winced but did not turn her eyes away.
“They’ve been mocking and ridiculing him, but no, so far they have not seriously hurt him.”
Chapter 33
Art thou a king then?
—John 18:37
I
Jerusalem, Upper City, the Praetorium 4 April, a.d. 33
Pilate was fumbling to buckle a gold band around his wrist as he descended the stairs. Marcus snapped to attention, as did Sextus and the four soldiers with him.
The procurator stopped in surprise and looked around. “Where are they? I thought they were clamoring for a hearing.”
“They’re outside in the courtyard, sire,” Marcus explained. He wore a sardonic expression. “Being the Passover and a high holy day, they won’t defile themselves by coming inside.”
Pilate reached the bottom of the stairs, hooking the clasp. He snorted in disgust. “These people! Can’t risk pollution by a Gentile, but they are not squeamish about putting a man to death on manufactured charges.”
“Agreed, sire. They are an unusual lot.”
“Well, I ought to tell them that they either come inside or forget it, but I suppose we’ll have to humor them.”
As he started for the door, he stopped. “Marcus?”
“Yes, sire.”
“Tell me what you think of this whole matter. Is this Jesus really a problem for us?”
Marcus hesitated. “Would you have me speak forthrightly, sire?”
Pilate gave an impatient flick of his hand. “Of course.”
“I think our sally against the Zealots last fall has pretty much defused our problems in the Galilee. Everything we are hearing is that this Jesus does not preach rebellion or uprising. Just the opposite, actually.”
“So?” Pilate barked sharply. Being awakened early had left him grumpy and short-tempered. “Give me a conclusion.”
“Jesus is very popular with the common people, sire. I think if we intervene and punish him in some way, we could create more problems than if we just tell him to keep his mouth shut and let him go.”
Pilate swung on Sextus. “Do you agree with that, Centurion?”
“I do, sire,” Sextus replied quickly. “The tribune has assessed the situation accurately, in my estimation. Jesus is no threat to us.”
“So what are the formal charges against this man?”
Marcus couldn’t help but smile. “Blasphemy, sire.”
Pilate turned in disbelief. “Blasphemy? Surely you jest.”
“Sextus has eyes and ears within the high priest’s staff. That’s what we were told.”
Pilate moved over in front of a full-length mirror made of cloudy glass. “Blasphemy,” he muttered, half to himself, as he turned back and
forth checking to make sure every fold in his toga was just right. “Well, this shouldn’t take long then.” Satisfied, he turned to his men, waving an arm. “All right, let’s get it over with.”
When they went out on the balcony that overlooked the courtyard, they stopped in surprise. It was completely full. People were standing in groups, milling around, glaring at the sentries at the doors. And more were coming in even as they watched.
Pilate gave Marcus a sharp look. “You didn’t tell me we were going to have half the city here,” he grumped.
“I didn’t know we were,” Marcus answered. He jerked his head at Sextus. “Get some men down there. Have them ready for trouble.”
Sextus slapped his chest in salute and walked swiftly away, motioning for the four soldiers to follow. A moment later, soldiers began filing quietly out into the courtyard, taking places all around the walls. It had an instant, subduing effect upon the crowd.
Pilate moved to the marble balustrade and looked down. Marcus moved with him and fell in just behind his elbow, his eyes taking in the situation quickly. “There’s Mordechai,” he pointed out to Pilate in a low voice. “Directly below us. And Caiaphas and Annas.”
“Who is the plump one? I’ve seen him before, but—”
“That’s Azariah, chief Pharisee. He’s third in terms of position on the Great Council.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“And where is—” But then Pilate saw the prisoner. There was a phalanx of temple guards with their spears raised in neat rows. Inside the hollow square they formed stood a man. He was bareheaded and clothed in a simple robe. He stood quietly, his hands tied in front of him.
“So that’s him?” Pilate asked.
“Yes. That’s Jesus.”
Pilate looked more closely. The sun was just coming up over the eastern hills. It would be another hour before it penetrated the courtyard, but the light was good, and Jesus’ head was up. Pilate could see the discoloration on his face and grunted. So they had been having a little fun while they waited. No surprise there.
He leaned out, both hands on the railing, looking down at the four leaders. “Speak! What is it? What accusation do you bring against this man?” His tone let it be known that he was in no mood for trifles.
It was Mordechai who took a step forward and bowed slightly. “Excellency,” he said smoothly, “if he were not a criminal, we would not have delivered him to you.”
So, Pilate thought, that was how it was going to be. They were not cowed by the presence of the governor. “Criminal?” he said coldly. “Then take him and judge him according to your laws.”
“By Roman decree,” Mordechai replied smoothly, “it is not lawful for us to put any man to death.”
Caught by surprise, Pilate turned to Marcus. “Death? They’re talking about a capital crime here?”
“Under their law, blasphemy is considered a capital crime, yes, sire.”
Mordechai, watching carefully from below, guessed what was going on. “Excellency, we found this person perverting our nation.”
Pilate’s eyes narrowed. “How’s that again?”
“This man is guilty of rebellion and sedition, sire. He has been forbidding his followers to pay tribute to Caesar. He claims that he is the Messiah and seeks to make himself a king.”
Pilate turned to Marcus again. “Is that true?”
Marcus was a little taken aback. His information, not yet an hour old, came from a pretty good source inside the high priest’s household. Jesus had been convicted of blasphemy. Nothing had been said about treason. “This is news to me, sire,” he said lamely.
Pilate turned back, his eyes searching. When he saw Marcus’s centurion, he waved a hand. “Sextus Rubrius! Bring the prisoner to me.”
II
“That’s not true!” Miriam grabbed Simeon’s arm as the Romans took Jesus from the temple guard and marched him up the stairs to the balcony. “Jesus didn’t forbid us to pay tribute. He said, ‘Render to Caesar the things that are Caesar’s.’”
“I remember,” Simeon murmured. They were standing back in one corner where the shadows were deepest. His eyes kept moving nervously back and forth between Pilate, Marcus, and the crowds around them. In a way, it was insane for him to be there. If Marcus saw him and Miriam, he might take action. Mordechai was another threat. He had warned them last night to stay away—now the reason was evident. He would not be happy to see that Simeon had ignored his warning.
On the way over, the disciples had debated about going inside the Praetorium. James and the other apostles were worried too. The temple guard had seen them last night, even though it had been only in the moonlight. If the guards recognized them, would they seek to arrest them as well?
However, when the group arrived they were surprised to see how many people were already at the Roman headquarters. Finally, they decided they would slip inside, but scatter among the crowd and stay back, staying as inconspicuous as possible. Even the family had split up. David and Deborah were a few feet away from Simeon and Miriam. Ephraim, Rachel, and Leah were beyond that. Simeon couldn’t tell where Benjamin and Esther had ended up.
Simeon looked at Miriam, frowning deeply. Something was wrong, and he wasn’t sure yet what it was. But all he said to Miriam’s comment was, “They have to manufacture something against Jesus; otherwise the governor will send them away.”
His head turned, and he watched as five or six more men entered through the gate. Like most of the crowd around him, these were a tough looking lot. They had that hard look that men of the streets have. Their tunics were ragged and dirty. Their hair and beards were a tangle. As three passed by right in front of them, Simeon caught the offensive whiff of strong body odor.
Motioning for Miriam to wait where she was, he moved over to slip up beside Andrew, John, and James. “There shouldn’t be this many people here,” he whispered. “Not this early.”
John nodded grimly. “Only about a quarter of them came from the Hall of Judgment,” he noted. “The rest . . .” He looked around in distaste. “Who are they?”
“Have you noticed the way they recognize each other when they come in?” Simeon had spent his life in situations where assessing the enemy and the situation you were in was critical to one’s survival. “They know each other. But they don’t know Jesus. Most of them seemed to examine him pretty closely when they brought him in.”
“Well, they’re definitely not part of Jerusalem’s upper crust,” John added. “So where are they coming from?”
James was thoughtful. “I saw Mordechai’s assistant a few minutes ago. What’s his name?”
“Menachem,” Simeon supplied.
“Yes, that’s the one. He was standing near the gate. The men seemed to be looking to him for direction when they came in.”
Simeon stared at him. He hadn’t seen that. “What kind of direction?”
James shook his head. “He didn’t say much. Mostly it was a nod of the head, or pointing where they should go.”
Simeon’s lips pressed into a tight line. “This is not good, brethren, not good at all.”
III
Pilate sat in the marble chair. It was placed at the head of the assembly room that opened directly out onto the balcony. He watched curiously as Jesus was led in by Sextus and another guard. The bruises on the man’s face were evident, and the governor noticed drops of blood on the front of his tunic and a smear of blood on each sleeve.
Sextus stepped back, leaving Jesus alone in front of the procurator. Marcus stood behind Pilate, near enough to receive instructions but far enough back to make it clear who was in charge. Suddenly, he saw a movement out of his eye. He turned and saw Pilate’s wife standing at the doorway. Marcus could scarcely believe his eyes. Fortunata Cassandra Drusus Pilatus was rarely up before the third or fourth hour of the day, and that was when they were in Caesarea. Up here in the Jewish capital, it was not uncommon for her to not be seen all day. She hated Jerusalem and made no secret of it.
She caught Marcus’s eye and motioned frantically for him to come over. He did so, walking swiftly.
“I must speak with Pilate,” she exclaimed, before he had even reached her.
He didn’t try to hide his surprise. “M’lady,” he said, as politely as he could, “the governor is in the midst of a hearing.”
“I know that,” she hissed. “That’s why I have to talk to him. Now!”
Marcus backed away, nodding. “I’ll tell him,” he said.
Pilate rose to his feet as Marcus returned. He slowly walked around Jesus, examining him with careful scrutiny. He was about to speak when he saw Marcus. Irritation flashed across his face when he saw Marcus signaling to get his attention.
“Sire, your wife is here.”
Pilate turned and looked, as surprised as Marcus had been.
“She says she has an urgent matter.”
Frowning, Pilate walked swiftly to his wife.
As he approached her, she ran to him, grabbing his arms. “Pontius?”
“What is it, my dear? What has gotten you out of bed at this hour?”
Fortunata was a delicate woman, one who would rather be inside the marbled halls of a palace than strolling outside in the sunshine. But she did not lack courage or fortitude. She had stayed at his side in this and other unpleasant assignments like any good Roman matron would do. Even though they had separate chambers and didn’t spend much time together during the day, Pilate was glad for his wife and felt a fond affection, almost a fatherly protectiveness, towards her.
She turned, trembling a little. “Is that him?”
“That’s Jesus of Nazareth,” he replied.
“You can’t have anything to do with him,” she said with sudden fierceness.
It was so totally and completely unlike her that he rocked back a little. “What?”
“He is a just man, Pontius, and you can have nothing to do with him.”
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