The Master's Quilt (13 page)

The man who stood before the crowd, in the
purple robe and crown of thorns the soldiers had draped about his
bleeding body in mockery of the priesthood, stood not as a man
condemned to death, but as the last scapegoat offered up for the
sins of man. Neither he nor Pilate had any say in the matter any
longer. The players no longer read their lines; they had become
their lines.

And what of the High Priest himself? What did
Pilate see in the heart of the man ultimately responsible for the
death of the Nazarene? A black cloud of uncertainty, no doubt—the
dark force of doubt that feasted upon the tender morsels of rotting
truth becoming lies. The same dark hole that threatened to swallow
him up now.

What if the man was indeed the Son of
God?
he wondered.
Ecce Homo
. “May God have mercy upon us
if we were wrong,” he mumbled, as he looked out into the blackness
of the night.

H
erod Antipas, a
sophisticate of the Hellenistic East, did not think of himself as a
man who achieved the extraordinary through the use of guile a his
enemies would most certainly reply if asked, “To what do you
attribute the overwhelming success of the son of Herod the Great?”
Instead, he viewed himself as a man with vision; not only for
himself, but also for the dynasty he represented.

Although he was the appointed “ruler” of his
people, he held the position only because of the esteem the Romans
still held for the name
Herod
, a result of his father’s
tremendous political acumen and foresight. Because the nation of
Israel functioned as a theocracy, real power lay with the
priesthood. And because of the sacred status of Jerusalem and its
environs—a status recognized by the Romans—the Sanhedrin was given
control over all national matters, so long as public order was
maintained and tax revenues continued to flow into the Empire’s war
chests.

He sat in his chambers, in the palace his
father had built, the Palace of the Hasmonians, and reviewed the
parchment he had received from Rome. It had remained intentionally
unanswered for two weeks now, pending the outcome of his
manipulation of certain members of the Sanhedrin.

Rome was displeased, as he had suspected,
with his handling of the matter of Jesus of Nazareth. However,
Tiberius Caesar relied upon Lucius Vitellius for information about
what was happening in Judea. The Syrian governor, in turn, received
his information from Pontius Pilate. And it was precisely because
of this fragmented dissemination of data that he had been able to
devise a plan to wrest power from Annas.

After months of meticulous planning, he had
carefully instructed Doras on the final details, two weeks earlier.
“We must create a situation in which Pilate finds it expedient to
apply some firm political pressure on Annas. At the same time, you
must convince key members of the Council that the High Priest made
a tremendous mistake in arresting and convicting the Nazarene.

“Once Caiaphas is disgraced, Annas will have
no choice but to accede to your demand that his son-in-law be
removed from his office—and from the Council. If what you tell me
about the Pharisees is true, then you should have no problem
getting enough votes to become the next High Priest.

“The Procurator, in turn, must be made aware
that such an occurrence will give him indirect access to the
Council, through you. Not only will that get Rome off his back as
well as mine, but Pilate will have what no other Roman has ever
had—a conduit into the heart of the nation of Israel.”

Doras had been reluctant and skeptical, but
he’d agreed to the plan, and so far everything had gone according
to the plan.
It’s time my ferret came to report
, he thought
gleefully, letting the parchment drop to the floor.

• • •

Caiaphas and Annas walked silently through
the darkened streets of Jerusalem.

The High Priest was drained from his
encounter with Doras. He offered a sidelong glance at his
father-in-law, who had not spoken to him since they departed the
Hall of Hewn Stones. He was reluctant to begin a conversation with
Annas for fear of where it might lead; yet, he felt a compelling
need to speak.

“I’ve been having a disturbing dream, Annas,”
he said finally in a hoarse voice.

The older man stopped abruptly and stared at
him intently. After several moments he replied, “Well, are you
going to tell me about it or not?”

Caiaphas sighed heavily, and then told his
father-in-law about Joshua and the sun. When he was done, Annas
grunted and started walking again. After a moment’s hesitation
Caiaphas hurriedly followed. When his son-in-law reached his side,
Annas said, “According to Scripture, man is a spirit, has a soul,
and lives in a body. And the background of man’s existence is a
dim, sometimes occluded region of knowing that labors forth into
the daylight through the realm of thought, especially in times of
sleep. Often the knowledge of this realm comes to a man only in
retrospect, upon waking, and only after the content of the dream is
scrutinized.”

“You’re referring, of course, to the book of
Job,” interjected Caiaphas.

Annas nodded and quoted the exact
Scripture:

“For God speaks once, yea twice, yet man perceives
it not. In a dream, in a vision of the night, when deep sleep falls
upon men, in slumberings upon the bed; Then he opens the ears of
men, and seals their instruction, That he may withdraw man from his
purpose, and hide pride from man.”

“I’m familiar with the passage, but I don’t
understand the meaning it has for me.”

Annas grunted, then continued. “The life of
genius, awakened in sleep, has produced many artistic creations,
scientific solutions, and spiritual perceptions. The soul, selfish
and restless, uses the arena of dreams as a means of holding its
true nature up to scrutiny in the hope of finding it valid. More
often than not, remorse is the dream’s reply.

“The soul, in return, seeks to redefine its
impulse towards self-preservation in terms of rejection of the
obvious source of its discomfort: the spirit. Thus, we see why the
Scriptures hold man accountable—if not for dreaming, at least for
the character of his dreams.”

Caiaphas wasn’t sure if Annas was rebuking
him or not. Nevertheless, he was impressed with his father-in-law’s
adroit analysis. The language of his world was politics, not the
analysis of mental states, although he freely employed the latter
to excel at the former. The older, crafty man was trying to tell
him something. Caiaphas only wished his mind could grasp it.

• • •

When Doras arrived at the palace, just before
midnight, he found Antipas lost in thought. There was a flagon of
wine in the Tetrarch’s right hand, and he was wearing a half smile
that added another crease to his deeply lined and prematurely aged
face.

Doras stood in the candlelit room, just
inside the entrance to Antipas’ chambers, and shivered despite the
fact that it was warm. For an instant he imagined that the darkness
was a cloak that would shield him from the penetrating,
intimidating gaze of the man with whom he conspired.
There is
something decidedly unnerving, even unnatural, about him,
he
thought miserably, wishing for all the world that he did not have
to tell the man he despised what had transpired.
He might be a
Jew, but we definitely don’t serve the same God.

He pushed the unsettling thoughts as far down
into his mind as his conscience would let him, then went forward
wearily. The information he brought would eradicate the smile
stretched tautly across Antipas’ face.

D
uring June days in
Jerusalem, the temperature could approach one hundred degrees. But
at night, because the city was situated upon a rocky plateau some
1,700 cubits above sea level, the temperature dropped rapidly after
sunset.

As Deucalion waited for his initial meeting
with Saul of Tarsus, he wondered how history would record the
events about to take place. He speculated upon what a scribe would
pen were he allowed to accompany the group of soldiers, led by a
fanatical Jew, on their raid upon the group of “believers” holding
a nighttime meeting somewhere in the city. He found it somewhat
contradictory that the Jews referred to the followers of Christ as
believers
, especially since they considered themselves the
chosen of God.

He looked out over the city and took a deep
breath, filling his lungs with the cool breeze that refreshed his
armor-clad body. The day had been a particularly hot one. But, for
some inexplicable reason, the dust had remained reasonably dormant,
almost as if it were waiting for the right moment to spring forth
from the parched earth and frustrate the intents of any who thought
they could be free from its ubiquitous presence.

His men were on edge.

There had been a substantial undercurrent of
resistance when they had been told the purpose of their nocturnal
duty. Most of those he selected had seen more than their share of
battle in the last few years; some had even fought at his side.
None of them were looking forward to serving a zealot intent upon
dealing with a group of religious dissidents.

Rome had always been relatively tolerant in
the past regarding the religious beliefs of its populace,
particularly where conquered peoples were concerned. It was common
knowledge that there were many besides the Jews who chose not to
worship Caesar. So, why all the fuss over these believers? Was it
possible that Pontius was not telling him the whole story?

Perhaps the Procurator’s descents into
depression were starting to affect his thinking. This whole
arrangement that Pilate had negotiated with Antipas smelled foul to
Deucalion. Suspicions of why Rome was involved reminded him of the
deceit, which had become part of the investigation of the events
surrounding the alleged theft of the Nazarene’s body from the
sepulcher.

The Praetorian had testified before the
Tribunal, convened to determine if there had been dereliction of
duty by anyone assigned to the guard detail. Unfortunately, his men
had not supported him. Even Malkus had turned against him,
remaining silent as to the truth. The only thing that saved him
from a severe reprimand, perhaps even a demotion, was that none of
his men had lied. They had abbreviated certain important details
and remained silent when questioned about specifics, but none
actually denied the veracity of his account of the event.

The Tribunal concluded that the body had been
stolen by persons unknown for the purpose of inciting the insurgent
populace. As far as Rome was concerned, the matter was closed. And
Pilate had made it clear that it was never to be discussed again.
There was one problem, however. Deucalion knew there had been no
theft because he was there. He had seen the light and heard the
music.

He knew the truth
.

Only now was he beginning to understand the
magnitude of the deception offered to hide the truth. After the
ambush, he had begun his own investigation and learned that of
those present on that fateful morning all had accepted money to
hide the truth except him. They tailored their stories so they
would fit the predetermined findings Rome wanted to hear. At the
time of the inquiry he did not believe that Pilate would be
involved in such a gross subversion of Roman
jurisprudence—upholding the law was what he lived for. But now the
Praetorian was uncertain.

“Where is the man called Deucalion?” came a
gravelly voice out of the night, breaking his reverie. A sudden
chill coursed up and down his spine when he heard his name spoken,
and he had a sudden premonition of impending doom. Shaking off the
melancholy thought, he strained to see the man behind the
voice.

“He stands over there, at the edge of the
light,” one of his men answered, pointing in his direction.

The disembodied voice carried with it an
intensity he found disconcerting. He had no idea what the man from
Tarsus looked like and therefore did not know what to expect. All
he had been told by Antipas was that he should not let Saul’s
appearance deceive him.

As the sepulchral figure approached him from
the far side, Deucalion rubbed his eyes. The salty stinging seemed
to be a constant companion. Abruptly, he remembered his dream.
The light. The voice. The sound of his own scream waking
him.
Why couldn’t he remember the whole thing?

“Deucalion Cincinnatus Quinctus?”

He nodded and pushed his own unanswered
question into the recesses of memory, then focused on the Jew
standing before him.

His first impression was that Saul looked as
if he had been sewn together from mismatched body parts. He was
short and squat and his legs, like his arms, were crooked and very
thin. Both pair seemed to have been cut from the same mold and
looked as if they belonged to one much taller than he. Oddly, his
skin seemed rather pale, almost luminescent in the firelight. And
his head was almost bald. There were, however, a few wisps of light
brown, stringy hair above either ear, both of which seemed overly
large and out of proportion to his head. The most distinguishing
feature of his entire countenance, however, was his eyebrows; the
hairs were long and bushy, of a jet-black color like that of purest
obsidian, and they grew together slightly.

As Saul stepped closer, Deucalion stared into
his eyes and was immediately struck by the explosive force of the
man’s gaze. Here was a man driven by a hatred which ran deeper than
even that of some of the men he had fought against in battle. The
rage he saw in those glistening hazel-brown eyes suggested that
Saul would be capable of a viciousness that might well exceed his
own ability to curtail without the use of deadly force. And that
was something for which Antipas would not sit still.