The Wolf and the Lamb (21 page)

YOM SHISHI

Chapter XLI

The previous night, Gamaliel’s sons, their wives, and children had spent the Passover with him. The evening had passed pleasantly enough, but Pilate’s question nagged at him. His family departed, Gamaliel collapsed into his favorite couch. He loved this Holy Day and the story of the escape from Egypt and he loved his family, but this Passover lacked the bright optimism he usually experienced. He thought it might have had something to do with the outrage at the Praetorium.

After his morning ritual, he left to meet Loukas. His route usually took him across the Temple Mount and around the western wall of the Antonia Fortress. Occasionally, perhaps on High Holy days when pilgrims and worshipers filled the mount with their sacrifices, he would take a longer, but less busy route along the streets farther to the west and then work his way back to the Sheep Gate. Today he found he could do neither. Visitors packed the Temple area trying to have one last look at their Temple. Because the following day would be Shabbat, many of them would likely linger until the day after and the crowds would remain.

His alternate route seemed equally congested. He stopped a man dressed in a cloak which marked him as being from Cyrene.

“What is the hold up? Who are all these people and why are they clogging up the streets?”

“It is the execution, sir. They are bringing Rabbi Yeshua and two thieves to be crucified. The rabbi’s followers and many others are here to witness.”

“All these people are followers of Yeshua?”

“A few, but most are local—people who revel in the pain of others less fortunate than themselves. Crucifixions have become events like gladiatorial contests. People seem to enjoy bloodletting as long as it is not theirs. I’m sorry. Perhaps I spoke too strongly. It’s just that I can’t understand why watching a man suffocate and bleed to death while hanging on a cross is so attractive. Isn’t there enough suffering every day? Why look for more and worse, how can one possibly enjoy it.”

“It might have to do with their need to bolster themselves against their own misfortunes. You know what they say, ‘That could be me.’ It might also be argued they represent the inevitable end product of a brutal and bloody world. Human brutality has made too many of us insensate to the horror of death and dying, particularly if it is subsidized by the state. Children, who know nothing of the horrors of war, play at soldiering, dying a thousand deaths at the hands of other youths’ wooden swords. I am afraid it has always been so. I pray it will not always be.”

The three condemned men rounded the corner and staggered into view. Each reeled along the street to the jeers of the onlookers and was burdened with a rough wooden beam balanced across his shoulders. It would soon be joined to a tall vertical to complete his cross. Gamaliel started to back away. He had no desire to be a witness to Caiaphas’ folly.

“Tell me, sir,” the Cyrenian said, “isn’t it unusual for a rabbi to be tried by a Roman official? Do you know what serious crime this rabbi committed that he should be on his way to that hill?”

“Alas, I cannot. Beyond offending a few people in high places and being a nuisance there was nothing I know of that warranted a trip to the Praetorium and Pilate. I do not understand why the Prefect even bothered to hear this case much less condemn the man to death. Say a prayer for him that he does not suffer.”

“I will.”

Gamaliel pushed through the crowd and headed back to the Temple Mount. It might be crowded but nothing like this street.

Loukas greeted him as usual, in his back court. “You are late, Rabban. That is not like you.”

“I picked the wrong hour to travel. Yeshua and two criminals were being led to Golgotha. An enormous crowd lined the streets and the Romans escorting them were not interested in anyone’s convenience. I had to double back.”

“So Caiaphas’ obsession ends today. You will no longer have to hear about the Galilean and his antics any more. I suppose that is a blessing in a way.”

“You’re right on one count. Yeshua will not fill my conversations with Caiaphas, but somehow, I doubt we have heard the last of the rabbi from Nazareth. So, are your servants ready for us?

“I will call them”

Yakob and his wife followed Loukas to the court. Sarai, nervous, Yakob surly.

“Yakob,” Gamaliel said, “I assume you are delighted you did not have to risk life and limb in a futile attempt to free your hero, Barabbas.”

“Sir?”

“Sarai did not tell you? She approached us yesterday to stop you from joining in the plot to free him. She feared for your life. She was right about that. But thanks to Pilate, Barabbas is free, and you are none the worse for it.”

Yakob shot a dark look at his wife. He turned to Loukas. “With respect to you, Physician, what I do on my time is my business.”

Loukas opened his mouth to respond, but Gamaliel signaled him to wait.

“Yes, that may be true, assuming your future wages hold no interest for you,” he said. “However, I am curious why you and your comrades would contemplate such a rash idea.”

“It was needed.”

“I see. Not much of an answer. Still, you have your wish. Barabbas is free to harass and abuse the population once again. How that can please you I do not know. Tell me something, Yakob, why do you suppose Pilate freed Barabbas?”

“He did not. The crowd shouted his name. The people wanted him free. They understand.”

“The last part I seriously doubt. As to the business of the crowd making the decision, that is also nonsense.”

“But they—”

“Pilate offered them two choices, Yeshua Barabbas and a name I cannot repeat because it was in Latin and my tongue does not have the skill necessary to reproduce it. No one had any idea what or who they voted for, if voting is what they did. Pilate rigged that choice for two reasons.”

“Two?” Loukas said. “What possible reason would he have to do what he did?”

“Ah, that is his genius. I am not sure yet why he decided to honor Caiaphas’ request to nail Yeshua to the Roman tree, but I am fairly certain it had something to do with why the Tribune and the other man are in residence. As for Barabbas, Yakob can tell us that. He can, if he thinks it through. Right at the moment he is confused. Tell me, Yakob, why would the Prefect want Barabbas on the loose?”

“I can’t. We…I wanted him free to force the Romans to devote more of their forces to chasing him. Also there are other reasons….”

“Among those other reasons, he has attracted to him, dissidents and revolutionaries of all sorts and sizes. In time you believe their numbers will be sufficient for you and your comrades to overthrow the Empire.”

Yakob shuffled his feet but remained silent.

“So, tell me, Yakob, speaking now as former legionnaire, tell us why that will not work?”

“It will.”

“It won’t and you know it. You hope it will. You dream it will, but it won’t. Are you old enough to remember Sephoris? No? Well, not to dwell on it overmuch, but about three and a half decades ago an elderly man, Yehudah of the Galilee, decided, like you, that it was time to challenge Rome. He gathered a small band of like-minded rebels and attacked the armory in that town. They killed the Roman garrison. What do you suppose happened next?”

“I don’t know.”

“Come now, you can guess. You were a legionnaire. No? What always happens when Roman authority is challenged?” Yakob glowered at Gamaliel, but said nothing. “No answer? Loukas, would you care to guess?”

“I know the story.”

“He knows, Yakob. What do you say?”

“They sent troops.”

“Exactly. Within a week, a substantial cohort of soldiers arrived in Sephoris. They defeated the rebels and his men, sacked the town then burned it to the ground. They raped and murdered the women, killed the children, and crucified all the men. They say the crosses stretched all the way to Nazareth. Knowing that story, what do you suppose will be the fate of Jerusalem if or when you and your Zealots try to follow in the footsteps of Yehudah of the Galilee?”

Yakob rolled his eyes heavenward, but said nothing.

“You see how it is. Pilate has everything to gain and nothing to lose. If Barabbas returns to terrorizing us, he will be a necessary presence because his soldiers are the only protection we will have. Your colleagues will not attempt to take him. He is your creation. So, Rome becomes our savior. Is that what you wanted? I don’t think so. Instead, we are placed in Pilate’s debt. If Barabbas and those like him are too successful, Rome will simply dispatch more troops. If it gets too bad, well…”

Yakob lowered his eyes. “You do not believe in freeing the Nation?”

“Oh, I do. I do not believe it will come by the use of violence. At this moment in history, there is no force on earth strong enough to defeat Rome. So, we must wait. In the Lord’s time, we will be free. It is not our place nor is it wise to anticipate
Ha Shem.
In the meantime, bands of outlaws and those who would be our saviors— the Zealots, the Sicarii—can only make things worse. Magi would tell us that the stars are set in their courses. Pilate has set in motion events that will ultimately destroy us. The worst part of that is he has no idea what he’s done. I tell you, unless we find a way to alter those courses and right now, we are doomed.”

“Do you believe that, Gamaliel?” Loukas asked.

“I don’t know. Dare we take a chance? Yakob, look to your wife. She cares for you as you clearly do not care for her.”

“I do care for Sarai”

“Do you? Then stop risking your life and quite possibly hers, and enjoy life together while you still can.”

Chapter XLII

Morning broke cold and clear. The fire pit held only a few coals and ashes. Pilate blew on them and added a handful of straw and then some sticks and branches. The room filled briefly with smoke and then the draft caught and the smoke drifted to the ceiling and out the smoke hole. He groaned. He’d celebrated his success the previous night with a fine dinner in his apartment and, after several hours of too much wine and many murderous looks from his wife, he went to his private study and slept. Now, he had to cope with a fierce headache and fuzziness of thought. It was not a new experience for him, but he thought that as he grew older the after effects of such indulgence weighed more heavily on him. Soon they would out-strip the pleasure that prompted them, and he would officially become an old man. He held his hands to the fire and attempted to force his mind into a full state of consciousness. It took him a moment to remember exactly what he had done and another to remember what he had yet to do. Passover was ended. Tomorrow Shabbat would begin. That meant Gamaliel would not be available until the following day. He needed to speak to the Rabban before then—today. His time as a free man would not last much longer. The murder of Aurelius hung over his head like that mythical sword, the name of which he could never remember. The Tribune might allow him to find a reasonable surrogate murderer if the victim were a native of no consequence, but Aurelius came from an important family and had the ear of the Emperor. Pilate dressed and called for his steward.

The steward bustled into the room bearing a tray which held a cup filled with a liquid Pilate knew would taste terrible, but which would repair the damage he’d done to his body the night before. He needed to clear his head.

“Dagon, I need the Rabban delivered to me immediately. Send legionnaires to his house and have him brought here at once.”

“Yes. Excellency.”

“And find that boy.”

“What boy would that be?”

“You know, the one assigned to me when we arrived, the slave from…I forget where…that boy.”

“I assigned you a boy?”

“You did. You must remember…tallish boy, dark hair, his was name Marius.”

“I do not know of any boy assigned to you that fits that description or who has that name.”

“You don’t know…? What are you up to, Dagon? When my wife and I came down from Caesarea you provided servants, women for her, some servants, cup bearers, dressers, and so on for me, and the boy.”

“I am sorry…It must have slipped my mind. I will make inquiries.”

“You do that, Dagon, and don’t come back until you can deliver him. Now, get me the Rabban.”

***

Loukas dismissed Yakob and Sarai. Gamaliel followed them into the house and stopped Yakob at the door sill. He spoke softly. Yakob stepped back and his eyes flashed. Gamaliel shrugged and pointed to his wife. Yakob frowned and nodded. Loukas raised his eyebrows. It was not like Gamaliel not to share. The conversation ended and Gamaliel returned to Loukas’ side.

“Is there anything I need to know?”

“Need to know? You mean about my little chat just now with Yakob? An errand I asked him to do. Do you think your man learned anything this morning? Shall we see him settle into quiet domesticity?”

“Making the transition from a lifetime serving in wars and conflict, from killing and pillaging to…what did you call it…‘quiet domesticity’…cannot be easy. Roman legionnaires are many things and serve many purposes, but in the end they are killing machines. Who they kill is never their choice, only how efficiently and how often they do it. So, to answer your question, I hope so. Only the Lord knows.”

“Can you imagine a society where the majority of men were first soldiers before they were householders?”

“No.”

“No, nor can I. It is not a pretty thought. Well, we need to be off. We still have work to do. We have not found the means to exonerate the Prefect yet.”

“Will we?”

“As it is with the possible pacification of Yakob, only
Ha Shem
knows. There is a piece we are missing and need to locate before it is too late.”

“A piece? What would that be? Not another trip to the hippodrome?”

“No more horses and it is not a what, but a who. We must find Marius, the boy. I am certain that he is the key to this mystery and I have serious doubts he even knows it.”

“Marius? What possible information could he have?”

“A great deal. Now, before Pilate’s agents find us and haul us off to the Praetorium, let us be off and searching. Another trip to the Souk will be a good start.”

“You do not wish to speak to the Prefect now?

“Not now, no. He told me all I needed to know yesterday. To spend time now would be to waste it. We must get back into the streets.”

“And will we be shadowed again?”

“Probably not, at least not by those clever men and their place-changing maneuver. I hope, by another, but we will see. Come along, we need the boy.”

“How do we go about finding him?”

“We will look for him in a few likely places. He is not a seer or a scholar by any means but when he discovers that Barabbas is on the loose and Pilate restored and then turns those facts over in his mind, I believe he will find us.”

“A few likely places?”

“Two. No, make that three. Come along, Loukas, I have an uncomfortable feeling that Pilate’s minyans are approaching. We do not wish to be found.”

***

Marius did not, in fact, qualify as any of those things Gamaliel suggested. The others in his troop called him Ox. Not because he was as strong as one nor as big, but because they believed him to be that slow. He had adopted that role as a means of self preservation. If people thought you stupid, they were less cautious around you. They would let slip bits of information they believed you could not understand. Marius used that to his advantage on more than one occasion. All of which explained why he had been targeted by the men when they’d arrived in Jerusalem. Any of the company could have played the role, but his apparent ingenuousness had sealed it. On his second day in the city, he’d been whisked away and locked up. The room had either been carved out of a hillside or lay near water. The floor stayed wet the whole time he was in it. The walls sweated and the green slime which covered them added the only color he could make out in the dim light that filtered over and under the ill fitted door that separated him from the sun and freedom

He did not know how long he had been there when three men had entered the room and had put the proposition to him. They had an assortment of arms strapped to their bodies and all of them looked dangerous. Marius did not know much about soldiering, but he had traveled enough to recognize that these men had an assortment of blades that evidenced they had some close familiarity with both Rome and its enemies. The three had stared at him without saying a word for what he believed must have been several hours. In truth it was more like a hundred heartbeats.

“You are a patriot, boy?” the tall one, who seemed to be their leader, had asked.

“Sir?”

Marius had no idea where this conversation would lead, but the weaponry led him to believe that a wrong answer could mean a quick and painful death.

“You wish to see the Empire destroyed and the Romans sent back to their river home?”

“Yes, I do.” That had been the easy question. Everyone wished for that, didn’t they?

“You can be a part of that,” the tall one then said, the man he later discovered they called the General. The General then told him how. Not him alone, naturally, but as part of a team. They had a plan, only they called it a campaign like soldiers would. Marius decided that’s what they were, or what they had been at one time or another, perhaps not all of them, but some—the leaders.

He’d studied the men in the room. Marius had survived growing up in the streets of the Empire largely by his wits. He was alive because he had learned to play the fool when necessary. This had become one of those times. He’d listened to the General explain the role he expected Marius to play in the campaign and how important it was. He thought about how to answer no would affect his life expectancy and, since the only other choice he had was to die on the end of one of those numerous blades—they’d never let him go after revealing their intent—he’d agreed.

Marius had never been cast in such a heroic role. In spite of his misgivings, he admitted to being a little flattered. His part, while complex and requiring at least one switch in personalities, he’d been able to master in a day’s time.

When the Prefect’s party had arrived at the Praetorium the following week, it had been an easy task for him to blend in with the other servants and slaves assigned to the Prefect and his wife. No one questioned him. After all, what kind of blockhead would pretend to be a slave?