Jerusalem's Hope (6 page)

Spitting piously in the direction of the Gentile town of Scythopolis as they passed it, the pilgrims crossed over the Jordan, thus avoiding the defiling dust of Samaria.

Once east of the river they encountered more believers coming from the region of Caesarea Philippi.

And the streams coalesced into a torrent.

The mood along the route was upbeat. It was a time of family reunions, when clans gathered to catch up on gossip and merrymaking. The cold of winter was past, the latter rains ending, and the barley harvest comfortably far enough off to allow a holiday.

Everywhere the travelers were cheerful and optimistic . . . except for three small boys.

Ha-or Tov hissed for the third time in a half mile of walking, “Look at us! I never saw these striped robes before yesterday, and even
I
can tell how much we stand out! People stare at us.”

It was true. The identical uniforms made from thirds of the Baptizer's cloak did attract attention.

Avel saw a young girl watching them from an oxcart packed with sisters and brothers. Soon eight siblings, together with father, mother, uncles, aunts, and cousins, commented on the three children traveling unaccompanied and dressed in identical garb.

It was not, Avel realized, solely because they matched. Many families shared cloth from the same loom, dyed from the same lot, cut according to the same pattern. Sometimes whole villages preferred material stained walnut brown, while other regions were distinctive in their sunflower yellow.

It was the stripes, Avel decided. Red, green, and tan were unique, and the quality of the workmanship remained apparent even when cut down to fit children.

As soon as the uniforms were noticed, other questions followed: what family were these boys with? Where were their parents? Why were they traveling alone?

Avel tried to make light of the problem. “What are the chances of us running into Kittim or bar Abba?”

Ha-or Tov argued, “Do we know how many rebels are around us? Do we? Some rebel is bound to recognize us before we do him. He'll tell Kittim and bar Abba! Then good-bye throats!”

Avel considered taking off the robes, stashing them in a ditch somewhere. Then he quickly dismissed the thought. He had possessed an uncanny sense of importance since donning the Baptizer's mantle. Hadn't Yeshua touched the fabric fondly as he remembered the man for whom it had been woven? Surely it was significant to wear the cloak of a prophet.

Emet, age five, was not very strong. There had been a lot of travel in the past weeks with little time for recovery, and they were on the road again. It was especially hard for one with feet and legs so small.

The warm, sheltering robes had to remain. “I've got an idea,” Avel asserted reluctantly. “We split up. If Kittim's hunting for us at all—which I doubt, but if he is—he'll be looking for the three of us to be together.” Avel noticed that Emet's eyes turned downward and his chin drooped at this, but he was so certain he was correct that he kept on. “Anyone by himself will be just another servant traipsing along after one family or another.”

Ha-or Tov ventured bravely, “You're right. Anyone alone won't stand out so much.”

Avel noticed Emet's protruding lower lip. The little boy clearly didn't want to be left unaccompanied. So Avel finally added, “Ha-or Tov, keep Emet with you.”

Emet brightened a bit at this compromise. Avel reasoned that the biggest danger to them was from Kittim. Avel, who had been well known to Kittim as a Sparrow in the Jerusalem quarry, was the one Kittim most easily recognized and certainly most thoroughly hated. This was a difficult decision, but Avel remembered the charge Yeshua had given him to care for Emet. Traveling separately seemed the best way to protect his friends.

“It's settled then,” Avel said. “I'll keep away from you, but where I can see you. That way if you run into trouble I can help.” As he said this, Avel realized there wasn't much he could actually do. How could he oppose rebels with knives? How could he run to total strangers and ask for their assistance against bar Abba's men? “Go on,” he said. “We'll meet up again after sunset.”

Avel stepped away from his friends into the shade of an overhanging willow branch and immediately regretted his decision to part from them. Had he let Ha-or Tov fret him into breaking up the group? He was just getting used to the idea of the new name given him by Reb Yeshua: Haver, “Friend to the brokenhearted.”

Alone again he could sense Avel . . . the mourner . . . creeping back into his heart, stealing his courage.

Peeping out of the branches, Avel watched Ha-or Tov and Emet attach themselves to the rear of a family group. When they were a hundred yards ahead Avel could still recognize them by the robes, but he judged the distance between them was enough. So Avel merged with the throng once again.

Prominently displayed on a man-made knoll in the center of Caesarea was the Temple of Caesar Augustus. It had been commissioned by Herod the Great as the centerpiece of his new city. From the front terrace of the rotunda there was a splendid view over the harbor, which meant the structure was the first thing noticed by a seafaring visitor upon his arrival in port.

The sanctuary was also placed so the main avenues of town crossed immediately before its base. Thus foot travelers couldn't avoid noting its significance either. It had suited Herod the Great to make certain the whole empire recognized his devotion to Augustus.

Though Augustus had been dead and gone this decade and a half, his adopted heir, Tiberius, found it suited the Imperial dignity to be the son of god. It was not Roman policy to interfere in matters of local religion if the local populace understood clearly that in the scope of things, all gods were not created equal.

It was one of the ironies of life in the Jewish province, Marcus reflected. Herod, the former king of the Jews, had not been a Jew by either birth or piety. Had he not been a brutal murderer he might have gained a reputation as a famous compromiser. He spent lavish sums to promote Augustus to godhood, then poured out money like water, renovating and expanding the Jerusalem temple to the unnamable Hebrew deity.

This sort of duality was perfectly acceptable in a world that saw the heavens as crowded with godlings. Being recently promoted, like Augustus, or of longer standing, like Zeus, made little difference . . . anywhere except Judea. Alone in the empire, only the Jews insisted there was
one
true God. They also taught that He could only be properly worshipped in Jerusalem, and that one of His cherished commandments involved repudiating every other god.

Despite the early morning hour, a crowd of dignitaries gathered on the slope below the temple. There were visitors from every other province of the empire . . . and no Jews. At least there were no Jews recognizable as such, and certainly no Pharisees, Levites, or priests.

The time was near for the Jewish Festival of Passover, and no religious Jew wanted to risk ceremonial uncleanness at such a time. It was impossible to enter Caesarea without being defiled. To a pious son of Abraham the entire city was an abomination.

As Marcus and Felix arrived below the temple, Governor Pilate appeared in the center of the crowd on the terrace. Pilate stepped upon a raised dais so he could be seen by all. In his hand he held a
simpulum,
the saucer-like clay container used for pouring out libations to the gods. A minute later he spoke to the assembly while wine that flashed red in the sunlight drizzled from the
simpulum
over a marble altar. The stone was emblazoned with the carvings of bulls garlanded with flowers and the name of Augustus.

Though Marcus was too far away to hear Pilate's words, he could guess at the meaning: invoking the blessing of Augustus on Emperor Tiberius, on the province of Judea, and on Pilate himself as the humble servant of the empire.

Beside the tall, thin-lipped governor stood another notable dressed like him. Both wore the
toga praetexta,
the long, substantial, multi-pleated robe of state. Their official clothes were bordered with the dark crimson stripe referred to as “purple,” denoting the emperor's representatives.

Marcus recognized the second man. He was shorter and squatter than Pilate, more tanned from more years in the region, with a permanent squint from campaigning against the Parthians in the desert. This chief guest was Prefect Vitellius, governor of Syria and Pilate's superior officer in the diplomatic corps of Rome. Marcus understood Vitellius had wintered in Rome. His recent return from there had to account for the timing of this ceremony: Pilate wanted Vitellius to see how well he was performing as a junior governor.

Felix visibly fidgeted, wanting to approach Pilate with his news, but forced by propriety to delay until the ceremony ended. Marcus observed the two Roman dignitaries receiving the congratulations of the leading citizens of Caesarea. Pilate's smile looked fixed, even forced, to Marcus' way of thinking. As each participant passed in the receiving line, Pilate dipped his hand into a leather pouch and handed something over.

It had to be a commemorative distribution of the newly minted coins. Pilate's motive was clear: he wanted to cement his close connection to the emperor in the minds of the populace. At the same time it didn't hurt Pilate's standing to display a respectful crowd of well wishers, eager for a fleeting touch of the gubernatorial palm.

It was all so calm and organized. A century of legionaries kept the common people away. No rabble, no potential rebels would be allowed to disturb the dignity of the service.

Marcus recognized the sharp contrast to the Purim disturbance a month earlier. On that occasion Jerusalem had nearly been plunged into full-scale rioting. The tetrarch of the Galil, Herod Antipas, had decided to celebrate his birthday by flinging bread and money to the masses. People had been killed, and further insurrection had been prevented only by the timely arrival of Marcus and his men.

Pilate was taking no such chances today. Rome had no qualms about breaking whatever heads needed to be broken, but political unrest was bad for commerce. Keeping taxes and trade flowing in an orderly manner was a governor's highest priority.

The rite concluded, the crowd began to drift away. Pilate and Vitellius retreated into the cool interior of the temple, followed by a squadron of troopers.

Felix identified himself to the captain of the guard but was told he would have to wait yet again for the two officials to complete their private devotions.

As Marcus' eyes grew accustomed to the dim interior, he made out the thrice-life-sized statues. Augustus, portrayed as Olympian Zeus, sat enthroned, complete with an upraised arm holding an eagle-headed staff. The unmoving icon of Corinthian bronze extended its burnished left foot for mere mortals to kiss. Seated beside Augustus was the less threatening but still colossal figure of Roma, or Mother Rome, dressed as the goddess Hera.

Kneeling before Augustus was Pilate. Vitellius was down on one knee in front of Roma.

The two men, supposedly locked in their prayers, were instead enmeshed in discussion. From the particulars it was no doubt supposed to be confidential. But Vitellius had probably lost part of his hearing to the desert winds, and his voice, combined with the acoustics of the domed building, conveyed every word to Marcus.

“The coin's a good gesture,” Vitellius said to Pilate, “but simply a start. You have a lot of ground to make up with Tiberius.”

“Really?” Pilate's jocular reply was meant to sound confident, but a higher-than-normal pitch betrayed his anxiety. “Then I'd better send him more of those white Judean dates with the juice like honey. That should soothe him.” Tiberius' sweet tooth was well known. Such trifles truly did please the man who commanded the wealth of the empire.

Vitellius mocked, “Dates! You saw the letter. If ink were brimstone, his comments to you would have scorched the fingers of the scribe! Did you think he forgot what happened two years ago? Putting up the standards was stupid enough, but then capitulating to a mob . . . and a Jewish mob at that! Tiberius was unable to control his fury when news came of what happened in Jerusalem at Herod Antipas' birthday last month.”

Pilate murmured a protest that the Purim riot had not been his fault, but Vitellius cut his words short. “You're the governor!
Anything
that goes wrong here
is
your fault! Believe it! If you can't control the province any better than that, Tiberius will replace you with someone who can!”

No wonder Pilate's smile had resembled the rictus of a corpse. Word of the disturbances had reached Rome before Vitellius' departure, in time for the emperor to vent his displeasure.

“It took all of Sejanus' wheedling to placate the emperor. Otherwise it would have been a notice of recall!” Vitellius concluded.