Jerusalem's Hope (5 page)

Nakdimon ben Gurion shifted his muscled bulk on the hard, unyielding ground and wished he were at home in Jerusalem. Even rest on this journey wasn't restful.

He had completed his mission to the Galil. He had seen the miracles, questioned the Teacher one-on-one, and witnessed that marvelous feeding of an army with a handful of bread and fish.

What summary would he give to the leaders of Israel about Yeshua of Nazareth?

Every detail about the Master would doubtless reach Jerusalem ahead of Nakdimon. The pilgrims traveling to the city to celebrate Passover would spread the news.

What would they say?

Praise was the thing Nakdimon ben Gurion heard from the thousands of pilgrims along the highway that led from Galilee south to Jerusalem.

Doubtless they would add ecstatic speculation to their report:
Praise for the coming rout of Romans and half-breed Samaritans! Praise for the slaughter of the profane and the cheaters and the oppressors of the poor! Praise for the restoration of fortunes, land, and freedom! Praise for Yeshua of Nazareth, who could raise a dead little girl in Capernaum. He must now raise an army to march on Yerushalayim!

Nakdimon considered again what he had witnessed and heard. What truth could he carry back to Jerusalem for his uncle, the renowned Gamaliel, who sat with Nakdimon in the chamber of the Sanhedrin, the council of seventy elders of the Jews? How would the religious leaders take the news that the people flocked to hear a lowly carpenter from Nazareth who was manifestly more than that description encompassed?

Nakdimon surmised that whatever their reaction, it would not be favorable to Yeshua. The holy man, like his cousin Yochanan the Baptizer, would be in danger if he came to Jerusalem.

Yesterday at the beach Nakdimon had warned Yeshua's talmidim to keep their Master far from the crowds, far from the Temple, far from Jerusalem and Judea until Passover was over and the mobs returned home. Thousands of lambs would be slaughtered for the
seder.
Nakdimon didn't want the blood of Yeshua mingled with the blood of the flock! There would come a time in the future when the gentle Rabbi could enter the city, but emotions were too hot and high for him to come now!

There was, of course, the unresolved conflict brewing over the use of Temple funds to pay for Governor Pilate's aqueduct. The issue of Korban money supplying Roman stones to rise across the fields of Beth-lehem would surely lead to riots in Jerusalem this year. People had bled and died for the sake of much less significant religious violations than Roman canals built with sacred coins.

Nakdimon stood slowly. His back ached. He cleared his throat and scanned the hundreds of travelers near smoldering campfires all around him. There were rebels among the pilgrims, he knew. There were possibly hundreds of swords waiting for the cry to battle. And the Romans would swoop down. Jewish heads would fall like unripe melons on the stones of the Temple Court unless the crowds could be kept calm.

This much he was certain of: Yeshua would not be the one to call down judgment and slaughter. But his presence would certainly be used to rally the foolishly eager.

Nakdimon hoped Yeshua's talmidim had the brains to convince the Rabbi that his attendance would simply add fuel to the embers of resentment already smoldering against the high priest and the Roman authorities!

And what had Nakdimon personally taken away from his encounter with Yeshua?

How long had he been knocking at Hadassah's grave? Wishing she would come back to him and the children? Angry at her for leaving him alone with six young girls and one infant son to raise alone? Mourning her death a hundred times a day?

Yeshua had given him hope that he would see her again, hold her again. One hundred years would pass, and all of them would be reunited in tangible form. They would smile and talk and touch one another's hands and say, “So this is what it means. . . .”

For Nakdimon that hope of a life to come was more important than the bread or the healing or the possibility of Yeshua as King over Israel.

The future. Yes. Someday, perhaps, that would be reality.

But for now there was life to live. Insurrections to quell. Government to preserve. Peace to cling to. For the sake of his children Nakdimon accepted that Gamaliel and the rulers of Israel must consider Yeshua in the context of what was expedient. The Sanhedrin and the high priest might be unsavory and corrupt, but they were also responsible for the survival of Israel in an uncertain political reality. Yeshua could tip the balance toward revolution against Rome. If the people proclaimed him king it could mean the ultimate destruction of Israel and Jerusalem.

For this reason Nakdimon hoped Yeshua would stay far away from Jerusalem during Passover.

Roman centurion Marcus Longinus and his commandant, Tribune Dio Felix, had ridden all night. By so doing they had managed to reach Caesarea Maritima on the Mediterranean coast just as dawn was breaking. Long before the salt tang in the air alerted Marcus that their journey was nearly finished, Felix had already issued orders: “No ceremony this time! No stopping to bathe or for dress uniforms! Governor Pilate must hear the report on Yeshua of Nazareth without delay!”

As travel-worn as Felix was, the enforced haste was worse for Marcus. The centurion had not changed clothes since his previous appearance before Pilate. His beard itched, the rough cloth of his homespun tunic stuck to him, and his eyes and ears were plastered with the chalky dust of the wind-whipped Galil. In every respect Marcus looked more like one of the rebels he'd been assigned to pursue than a Roman officer; more like a Jewish brigand than one of the masters of the universe.

But considerations about his appearance and reputation were of secondary importance. His thoughts remained back in Galilee, concentrated on Miryam of Magdala, once Marcus' lover. Now she was in the inner circle of Rabbi Yeshua's talmidim.

Marcus also devoted much of the hurried travel to thinking about the mysterious Reb Yeshua. He was confused about the Galilean Teacher. Marcus had personally seen the man perform unaccountable acts of healing, not the least of which involved Marcus' young servant, Carta. The centurion had likewise witnessed an amazing transformation wrought by Yeshua in the once-tormented soul of Miryam.

Thousands, including Marcus, heard Yeshua's teaching; they knew of a certainty that the Rabbi was a good man, a kind man, a wise man, a worthy man, and something beyond an ordinary mortal man.

Not long before this, Rome had little reason to take official notice of a country preacher, even if he
was
reportedly able to work miracles. Yeshua preached peace, not confrontation. Rome did not acknowledge that devotion to the Hebrew deity had any special virtue, or that love and mercy possessed any power.

Power, insofar as Rome was concerned, existed at the point of a javelin or short sword. Such power increased with the disciplined ruthlessness of a century of legionaries, then multiplied many times over till it dominated the world at the command of a Caesar to his legions.

And so it had. From the Pillars of Hercules to the great river Euphrates, from Gaul to the Nile, Rome held sway over the nations. It was a time of enforced peace, punctuated by border skirmishes and brief, brutally crushed revolts. As long as Yeshua spoke no treason, organized no armies, encouraged no rebellion, he could go about his business.

But all that had changed on a wild-flower-strewn hillside the afternoon before. There, in front of Marcus' eyes, something extraordinary had occurred. Yeshua had fed his entire famished audience of thousands from a handful of bread and dried fish. Unaccountable? Yes. Unbelievable? Indeed.

Ordinarily, rational, practical, pragmatic Rome winked at magic. The emperor Tiberius himself practiced divination, reading into the signs the messages he already expected to receive. It was a political tool to blame policy on the gods, to excuse failures and justify excesses.

Where was the harm in free bread, even if produced by something unexplained? The problem was this: Yeshua had fed an army of followers. Five thousand men. An army! As many soldiers as owed allegiance to Rome in the whole Jewish province, and four times that many women and children too!

Compounding this novelty into a crime against the state had been the response of those legions of listeners.
Yeshua for king!
they cried.
Yeshua should be king of the Jews.
Since that acclaim was offered without Rome's approval, it was not an acceptable sentiment.

And the proof of how objectionable it was to official Rome? Tribune Felix's insistence on the strenuous all-night gallop to deliver his account to the governor.

Could anyone seriously believe that a Jewish rabble on a Galilean hillside was of any political or military consequence? When compared to the might symbolized by the city that lay just ahead, it didn't appear likely.

If the lands bordering the Great Sea of Middle Earth were the tiara encircling the brow of the Roman empire, then Caesarea Maritima was the jewel on its eastern rim. Constructed as a wholly fresh, purpose-built showplace by Rome's friend King Herod the Great, Caesarea was a marvel. From the hilltop approach to the city its acres of snowy limestone made a gleaming display. Monumental structures, from a colossal amphitheater for gladiatorial combat to an ostentatious temple dedicated to Emperor Augustus, dotted the seaside. There was perhaps no place in the empire that better combined grandeur with natural beauty.

It was thoroughly Roman in its conveniences: wide, regular streets, perfect right-angle intersections, ample public promenades, and an efficient sewer system.

Nor did temples or sewers exhaust the architectural wonders of the metropolis. Caesarea possessed one of the best artificial harbors in the world: reputedly the safest mooring between Piraeus in Greece and Alexandria in Egypt. Constructed of massive stone blocks sunk in two hundred feet of water, the entire Roman war fleet could have sheltered within the embrace of its outstretched limbs. From the seaward-most point on the breakwater a gigantic lighthouse beckoned navigators. It was said that a cargo galley leaving Alexandria two hundred fifty miles away could pick up the beacon of Caesarea before half the journey was completed.

Perhaps Tribune Felix would be struck by the same comparison as Marcus. Perhaps Marcus' friend and superior officer would have cooled down when he compared the Roman superiority on display in Caesarea with the rural scenes of Galilee.

Felix and Marcus reined up in front of the marble palace that had once belonged to Herod, but was now the official residence of the prefect of the Roman province of Judea.

Currently title and mansion belonged to Governor Pontius Pilate.

A squad of eager legionaries recently recruited from Cyprus confronted the two arriving officers with crossed spearpoints to bar their entry. The decurion, captain of the ten men on sentry duty, recognized Felix but remained doubtful when the disreputable-looking Marcus was introduced.

“But in any case, you can't see the governor,” the young captain said when Felix demanded admission.

“We're under orders from the governor himself and the matter is urgent,” Felix retorted. “Let us pass!”

“I'm sorry, Tribune,” returned the other, “but you misunderstood me. You can't see Governor Pilate because he isn't here.”

“Where then?” Felix insisted. “Out of the city?”

The decurion shook his head.

It was a little past the second hour of the morning. Very early for a lover-of-ease like Pilate to be abroad.

Marcus saw a flush of angry frustration overcome Felix.

“Then where is he?” Felix bellowed at the flustered captain.

“Sir, he went to the temple of the divine Augustus for the morning sacrifice. The new coins honoring Emperor Tiberius have been minted and the governor . . .”

Felix didn't stay to hear the rest of the explanation. Flinging back a pledge to flog young officers in order to make their tongues move faster, Felix remounted his horse. He applied his riding crop with vigor, administering a lashing to the mount as a substitute for the decurion.

Marcus had hoped Felix might have calmed down since the Galil, lost the urgency to denounce Yeshua.

Now that illusion was gone.

YA'ASEH

B
efore Emet, Avel, and Ha-or Tov had even left the confines of the Galil the trickle of Passover pilgrims flowing south toward Jeru salem had become a river. A stream of Jewish worshippers from Nazareth and Cana poured across the pass from the Valley of Jezreel. Descending toward the river valley, they met up with more wayfarers coming from Magdala and Genneseret.