Jerusalem's Hope (42 page)

AMAR

N
akdimon, bullnecked and powerful, shuddered as the delegation approached the triple towers of the city wall. How many thousands trailed along behind them?

As he and the noisy, wrangling mob passed under the arch of the first parapet, he suddenly remembered its title: the Mariamme Tower, named after Herod's favorite wife . . . the one the butcher king murdered in a fit of jealousy and suspicion.

Yet Nakdimon's sense of danger was not fear for his own safety so much as a premonition, a dread of something yet unknown.

Imperial Rome and her servants, like Herod, were also jealous and suspicious. The Romans had the will and the disposition to be as vengeful as a woman scorned.

Governor Pilate, in the matter of the military standards bearing the face of Tiberius, had first shown incredible insensitivity to Jewish beliefs and values. He had then backed down in front of the mob, but afterward used every excuse to hunt down and execute those who had embarrassed him.

It was said that even bar Abba had not started as a bloodthirsty assassin, but had been hounded to it by the legions of Rome.

Nakdimon and his compatriots were again approaching Pilate with an explanation of how and why Siloam Tower had fallen. Not by the consent of the Sanhedrin. Not by the hand of the shepherds. But by the will and design of revolutionaries. This was something no Roman official suffered easily from a conquered people. Pilate feared only one thing: that a bad report of his ability to maintain order would be conveyed to the emperor.

If a Roman prefect failed miserably enough, he would be branded “no friend of Caesar.”

At that point a graceful exit by way of suicide was the best outcome for which the ruined politician could hope.

The aqueduct scheme had been a joint undertaking of the high priest and Pilate. Caiaphas had assured the governor that his actions in bringing fresh water to the Holy City would meet with widespread
approval
in Judea and
improve
his standing with the Jews.

With the sabotage of Siloam Tower, would Pilate react with suspicion and anger at what he might regard as betrayal?

How could he not?

And now Nakdimon was approaching at the head of an army. The thousands on his heels were not followers of the Sanhedrin. This rowdy demonstration was not of Nakdimon's doing, but would Pilate stop to think of that?

Or would his natural wariness lead him to feel threatened?

Rome, when pushed, always pushed back . . . harder and fiercer than they were challenged.

Nakdimon glanced up again at the looming height of Mariamme Tower.

If Rome was stung with indignation, the empire was ruthless enough to reply with the destruction of Jerusalem and the Jews. Then the conquerors would name a building to commemorate the Holy City's vanished glory.

Here lies Jerusalem, killed in a fit of jealous rage.

Requiescat in pace
. . . rest in peace.

O Elohim,
Nakdimon prayed.
Don't let that happen here today.

Marcus responded quickly to Pilate's summons. Arriving at Herod the Great's palace, he discovered that the governor had left word for him to be sent in at once.

The centurion wondered what was afoot now. Had Vara succeeded in convincing Pilate the Siloam Tower destruction could be blamed on Marcus?

Was Marcus walking into a prison cell . . . or worse?

But why not arrest him and return him in chains?

Marcus entered the courtyard of the palace as a squad of servants draped a platform in purple bunting. The curule chair, Pilate's judgment seat, was ceremoniously carried outside and installed on the dais.

Pilate's own valet met Marcus at the entry to the state apartments and conducted the centurion farther.

It was the first time Marcus had ever been this far inside the Jerusalem palace. In all Marcus' years of service to Rome in Judea, he'd never once been invited or expected in these innermost halls. It was ironic that such a summons would come now.

The valet bowed Marcus into Pilate's private study, then bowed again as he left Marcus there. The room was richly paneled in oak. The light surface was inlaid with strips of almond and olive, the varying shades of wood forming a crisscross pattern.

In one corner of the room was a marble altar, carved as a miniature of the Temple of Augustus in Caesarea. In front of this stood Governor Pilate. His back was to the entry, nor did he turn when Marcus entered.

As Marcus kept silent and observed, Pilate took a pinch of incense from an alabaster box and sprinkled it over a glowing coal. The aroma of frankincense spiraled up with the smoke.

On a shelf formed by the roof of the temple model stood a pair of idols. One was a black onyx Apollo, recognizable by his handsome, youthful face, the laurel wreath around his temples, and the harp he carried. Apollo was regarded as the god of light, music, and prophecy.

The companion figure was bronze, unless it was actually gold, which was the way it glinted in the lamplight. It was a reduced version of Augustus himself, god made manifest,
pontifex maximus,
the bridge between the gods and men.

Pilate stood for a time, as if in contemplation, then with a slight turn of his head acknowledged Marcus. “The rebels have begun their murders?” he queried.

Marcus acknowledged the report about the hawker. Then he added that the sentiments he'd overheard in the city were strongly against the aqueduct. “It might be wise to postpone today's meeting until after the Passover,” he suggested.

“No,” Pilate said flatly. “I'll show no such weakness. Not this time. Besides, it's the Jewish council who must fear the rebels. If they are frightened enough of bar Abba to come to me on their holy day, so much the better.”

“Then,” Marcus said, seeing that Pilate's mind was made up, “at least increase the number of uniformed soldiers on the streets. It's not too late for such a display to quell any more violence.”

“That is precisely the opposite of Praetorian Vara's excellent plan,” Pilate scolded. “I've sent Tribune Felix and the uniformed cohorts out of Jerusalem. We'll lull the rebels into thinking we're unconcerned about them. When they make any move at all, we'll crush them.”

“Excellency, I don't think—” Marcus began doubtfully.

“Correct,” Pilate concluded harshly. “And you're not to, either. I summoned you here to keep you from trying to dissuade Tribune Felix from doing his duty.”

Marcus guessed then that Felix had also tried to talk Pilate out of Vara's foolish scheme. Pilate's pigheaded stubbornness gave Marcus a premonition of disaster.

“You'll stay here until after this audience,” Pilate concluded. “Station yourself in the courtyard.”

“Excellency,” Marcus said, saluting. There was nothing else to do but obey and hope for the best.

The preparations for Pilate's audience were finalized. The brass fittings and bright red tunics of the governor's personal guard were striking in the midday sun. The curule chair on the dais, vacant for the moment, faced the gate of the courtyard with the awful dignity of Imperial Rome.

On the battlements trumpeters stood ready to announce Pilate's entry as the personal representative of Emperor Tiberius, near kin to the gods.

Marcus was inside the courtyard of Herod's palace. He heard the tramp of feet and the murmur of the crowd coming from the direction of the Temple Mount. It was not the sound of Passover pilgrims going by outside. The noise increased, rolling up and over the parapets. Tumult catapulted over the walls in a siege of sound.

“Don't open the gate!” Marcus called in a sudden premonition.

A trumpet blast from the ramparts overwhelmed his words. Six legionaries in ceremonial dress uniforms threw back the bolts to the entry.

The gates crashed open, and the guards were flung aside by the incoming tide of humans. Overwhelmed and pushed out of the way, they made no move either to reclose the portal or to draw their weapons.

In minutes the courtyard overflowed with a thousand Jews. Several thousand more pressed in on the scene from the streets outside.

Another blare of the trumpets shattered the day, momentarily stilling the throng. What was about to happen?

Governor Pilate appeared on the balcony above the central square. His chin upright, his purple-bordered robe gleaming white, he was the embodiment of Roman dignity.

But Marcus saw him hesitate. Clearly Pilate's first glimpse of the quadrangle was not what he expected. An instant of fear, of uncertainty, crossed his face.

Marcus also realized that Pilate knew he could not retreat, could not allow any Jews to say they saw Pilate afraid.

Marcus understood what Pilate remembered. This courtyard, packed with hostile Jews angry about sacrilege, was a twin to what had taken place in Caesarea in front of the governor's house there. That had been the site of Pilate's greatest defeat, of his humiliation.

Pilate had to go forward. This time he had to prove he was the master.

The governor advanced down the steps and approached the Imperial seat of judgment.

It was not a throne, but when seated on that X-shaped stool, Pilate spoke for Rome.

Life and death were in his hands.

He stood in front of the curule chair.

The multitude remained hushed, waiting.

It took several minutes for Nakdimon and Gamaliel to push their way to the front.

Gamaliel spoke. “Honored Governor, we have come to speak with you about the aqueduct.”

A low rumble emerged from the throng. Anger, controlled but simmering, bubbled beneath the surface.

In that instant Marcus knew that the mob had seen the same vision as Pilate. Righteous indignation had put Rome to shame once before. Today it would do so again.

In a louder voice Gamaliel continued, “But first we want you to know that though we who come from the Sanhedrin are against the use of Korban for the water project, nevertheless . . .”

At the first use of the word
Korban
the growl increased again.

“Nevertheless,” Gamaliel repeated forcefully, “we do not support revolution. Those who attacked the Tower of Siloam are criminals. Do not hold either the council or the people responsible for the actions of rebels.”
“What?”
demanded voices from the horde.

Pulling back the sleeve of his robe, Pilate extended his right arm.

An aide thrust a scroll bound with scarlet strings into his hand.

What was about to happen? Some in the crowd hushed the more outspokenly hostile. “
We want to hear him,”
they urged.

“I know about what happened at Siloam's tower.” Pilate's words rang across the square. “I know that death and destruction were caused by rebels who are the enemies of Rome. But they are also the enemies of peace. They use terror to spark rebellion, and innocent lives were lost.”

How was Pilate managing to remain calm? Marcus wondered. The man had never acted this courageous before.

Marcus scanned the crowd, now divided between hostile muttering and words of approval.

There was the answer! Drawn up in a knot in the center of the throng was Praetorian Vara and several of his men. Marcus followed Vara's eyes. Time and again Marcus saw Vara deliver an intense stare to another and receive an answering nod in response.

The swarm of people was full of clusters of disguised legionaries.

What shout of warning could Marcus make? To whom could he make it? Could Pilate's air of calm prevail?

“I have decided to be lenient,” Pilate said, “and continue my usual custom of granting special clemency at your holy season.” He flourished the scroll aloft. “Here is the official pardon for Lev, the shepherd of Migdal Eder, and for Benjamin, son of Oren the master mason. Look! I here set the Imperial seal to it.”