The Redemption of Pontius Pilate (34 page)

Caiaphas raised an eyebrow. “The Temple's gold is
corban,
” he said. “Those who donate it do so with the understanding that it will be used only to defray the expenses of our religion.”

“But does your law not also say that
corban
gold may also be used for works of charity, and projects to benefit the poor and the destitute of Jacob's house?” Pilate asked, mentally thanking Longinus for that bit of information.

The High Priest gave a short, barking laugh. “You have learned much about us during your year in Judea,” he said. “You are correct, and I will point that out to the Sanhedrin. I believe that we may be able to help you build this aqueduct together.” With that, he gave a polite bow and swept from the chamber.

Pilate waited a few moments, then left, picking up his lictors at the door. All the way back to the fortress, he reflected on the conversation. It looked as if he and the priestly hierarchy might actually be able to work together after all, he thought, and that was not necessarily a bad thing. As he walked through the city, he looked at the crowds in the streets. The clothing and facial hair were different from what you saw in most districts of Rome, but they were still members of the
gens humana
, after all. They deserved, at the very least, a chance to live their lives to their natural end.

Two days later he received word that the Sanhedrin had agreed to the use of Temple funds to defray half of the cost of building the aqueduct. Pilate sent word to Caesarea for three Imperial engineers, and they arrived by the end of the week. Plans were drawn up and the men began hiring laborers to quarry and shape the stone blocks. By the first of the New Year, construction would be underway. With no holdups in progress, the aqueduct might well be completed by the following autumn.

The festival ran its normal course and ended with less fanfare and public celebration than normal. The pilgrims made their way back to their scattered homes all over Judea and points even further away, but many of them left children and loved ones buried in the pauper's cemeteries outside Jerusalem, victims of the bloody flux. Finally, in December, clouds began blowing in from the sea and it rained for days on end, refilling the wells and cisterns and ending the outbreak. All totaled, some five thousand had died in Jerusalem and its environs, although many of them had not been locals. It was still a devastating death toll, and Pilate was determined not to see such a plague strike the place again.

Construction got underway with the beginning of the New Year, and went quickly at first. Pilate decided, in March, that he would return to Jerusalem for the next great Festival of the Jews, the Feast of Passover. Since the city was relatively free of disease this time, Procula and Decimus accompanied him. As they approached the city, Longinus filled him in on the nature of the holiday.

“After the age of the patriarchs—the original forefathers of the Jews, named Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob—the sons of Israel were enslaved in Egypt for four hundred years. They prayed to Adonai, who sent a deliverer named Moses to persuade the Pharaoh to let the people go. Pharaoh refused, and so Egypt was smitten with one mighty plague after another. When the foolish king still refused to release the Jews from bondage, God sent an angel of death to destroy the firstborn son from every household in Egypt. But the Jews were warned in advance, and they sacrificed a lamb—one for each family—to take the place of their firstborn. They marked their doorposts with the lamb's blood, so that the Destroyer might pass over their households,” the centurion told Pilate.

“Hence the term ‘Passover'?” asked Pilate.

“Exactly! God commanded the Jews to sacrifice a lamb each year, and to read from the Torah the story of the deliverance from Egypt, so that they would never forget God's watchful care over them,” said Longinus. “Passover is the one feast that all Jews everywhere celebrate, no matter what sect they belong to. It is the holiest day of their faith.”

Pilate surveyed the road leading to Jerusalem, thronged with pilgrims already though the Feast was still a week away. Behind his cohorts, thousands more Jews came straggling up the road. “It looks as if every Jew in the world is coming to Jerusalem!” he said.

“Not quite all of them,” said Longinus. “But every Jew who lives within traveling distance and is in good health tries to come to Jerusalem for this feast. Every Jew wants to be here at least once in his lifetime. There are many legends associated with Passover. The people believe, for instance, that the great prophet Elijah will return on Passover to announce the coming of Messiah. Many Jews actually leave an empty seat at the table for him, to show that they long for the Hope of Israel to appear.”

“Elijah?” asked Pilate. “I am unfamiliar with that name.”

“Oh, he was a man of many miracles!” said Longinus. “Let me tell you the story of him and the wicked King Ahab . . . .” Pilate listened attentively as the God-fearing centurion described the improbable exploits of Jewish prophets and holy men for the next hour, then he got off his horse and strode up and down the ranks, visiting with the men and their officers.

Since he had his family with him, Pilate stayed in the palace of Herod, across the city from the Fortress of Antonia. It meant having to put up with the odious presence of Herod Antipas for a few days, but the living quarters at Antonia were simply too sparse for a woman with a baby. The city was so packed with people that travel through its narrow streets was almost impossible, but by late evening, the troops were properly quartered and Pilate was ensconced with his family. Herod insisted on having them to dinner, despite his religious views, so Pilate and Procula joined him, leaving the boy with a wet nurse for the evening.

Antipas was in rare form, regaling them with tales of his eventful thirty-year rule and the various rabble-rousers and charlatans he had been forced to deal with during his reign. The Jews, it seemed, were always looking for the Messiah, and the quickest way to get them riled up was to pose as the promised deliverer.

“Back during the days of the census ordered by Augustus, there was a character named Judas of Galilee who rose up and tried to say he was the deliverer of Israel,” said the bejeweled king. “He claimed to be immune to weapons and all manner of poisons, and drew thousands to his cause—until a well-placed arrow showed his claim to be false! But his followers became the Zealots who plague us to this day.”

“So are there any more recent developments that I, as governor, should be concerned about?” asked Pilate.

“There is one fellow who showed up in rural Galilee about a month or so ago and has been drawing huge crowds,” the King said. “His name is Jehonan—or John, in its short form. He claims that Messiah is coming soon, and that he is the chosen herald of the new King of Israel. He commands all the people to be immersed in the Jordan to wash away their sins and prepare for the day of the Lord.”

“From what I have seen,” said Pilate, “the Jordan is too muddy to wash away much of anything! But is this John character someone to worry about?”

“Not yet at any rate,” said Herod. “The Temple is keeping an eye on him for the moment. But so far he is urging the people to live lives of holiness, obey the law, and honor God rather than men. I find none of those demands particularly alarming.”

The noise was faint enough at first that they did not particularly notice it, particularly since the overall clamor of the crowds outside covered it up. But soon it became apparent that there was a mob gathering outside the palace of Herod, clamoring for their notice. Pilate and the King of the Jews walked to the balcony together to see what was going on.

Several hundred Jews were gathered in the plaza outside the palace, with more arriving every moment. When they saw Pilate, they all began crying out at once, and he could not make out what it was they wanted. He called for order several times, and finally one of them, a burly Jew with thundering brows, stepped forward to speak for them all.

“Most Excellent Pilate, I am called Simon bin-Yosef of Galilee,” he said. “We have come because of a rumor that is sweeping the city, so that you may set our minds to rest.”

Pilate met his gaze with a steely glance. “And what is the nature of this rumor?” he asked.

“Great Proconsul, we have a tradition that the gold which we donate to the Temple becomes
corban
—that is, exclusively dedicated to our Great God, and that it may never be used for any purpose that is not related to our faith, nor may it ever be touched by the hand of an unbeliever,” he said. “But the story says that you took the
corban
gold from the Temple, in order to construct the new aqueduct that is being built even now. Is this true? For it would constitute a grave offense against our law if it were!”

Pilate nodded. “I am aware of your tradition,” he said. “Give me a few moments to finish my supper and gather my thoughts, and I shall answer you in full.” He ducked back inside before the man could respond, and the crowd began roaring its disapproval. He knew that they would not like the delay, but he wanted to be prepared to deal with the unrest appropriately, and needed some time to prepare. He summoned four of his lictors.

“Go as quickly as you can,” he said. “Bring two cohorts from the fortress, but tell them to doff their uniforms and cover their cuirasses with plain robes. They are to surround this unruly mob on all sides, but no blades are to be used! Tell them to arm themselves with cudgels, position themselves on the fringes of the crowd, and not attack unless I give the word.” He turned to the last man. “You have a separate mission,” he said. “Find Longinus and tell him to carry this message to the High Priest as quickly as he can.”

The note he scribbled was short and blunt:

Prefect Lucius Pontius Pilate to High Priest Joseph Matthew Caiaphas: Some of the Jews are protesting the building of the aqueduct with Temple funds. They have gathered outside Herod's palace. Send some priests to help calm and disperse them, or I will use force to do so. Send them quickly—I cannot delay for long.

With his messengers dispatched, he sat at the table very calmly and finished his dinner. Herod was eyeing him nervously, obviously uncomfortable with the huge numbers of people thronging the square below, but he did not second-guess Pilate's decision to delay the response. When they were done, Pilate sent his wife to stay with their son in the child's bedchamber while he conferred with the King.

“I know that your jurisdiction is in Galilee rather than Judea proper,” he said, “but both of us have a vested interest in keeping the peace, and many in this crowd are Galileans. Any aid you could render at this point would be much appreciated.”

Herod's face was pale beneath the rouge he wore on his cheeks, and the perfume that soaked his beard did not entirely mask the smell of the nervous sweat that beaded his brow. “Most excellent Pilate,” he said, “there is very little I could do to calm this mob. They do not love me here in Jerusalem—or in Galilee, for that matter. I have done my best, for thirty years, to scrupulously adhere to the religious traditions of the Jews in order to win the small measure of trust and loyalty that I enjoy. If I try to plead Rome's case before an angry mob, I run the risk of losing all I have worked for. Were we in Galilee, I would do so regardless. My office would require it. Were I King of all the Jews, like my father was, I would aid you. But with my diminished authority, and outside my own small jurisdiction, the risks outweigh the potential gains.”

Pilate scowled. “The
Divus Julius
used to say that a coward dies a thousand deaths, while a brave man dies but once,” he commented. “If I called myself a King, I would act with more courage and less fear. How many times, I wonder, have you died on the inside?”

Herod's eyes glittered with hostility. “If you were a King, Prefect, you would understand that fear is the most healthy and natural emotion to accompany that estate,” he said, and swept from the room, his richly embroidered robes reflecting the lamplight as he waddled down the corridor to his chambers.

Moments later, one of the three lictors he had dispatched to the barracks returned, a bit winded but unharmed. “They are ready, Governor,” he said. “Nearly four hundred of your men are in position with cudgels along the edges of the crowd, awaiting your signal.”

“Very good,” said Pilate. “Any word from Longinus or the priests?”

“Caiaphas refuses to send any aid,” said the centurion, striding into the room behind the lictor. His robes were torn and there was a cut above his left eye. “The cowardly dog says he cannot squander the Temple's standing with the people to defend an engineering project that was purely Rome's idea,” Longinus reported.

Pilate grimaced. “Well,” he said, “it is a good thing that I secured his agreement in writing! By Jupiter, I will NOT back down this time! The project was undertaken purely for the good of these people, with the cooperation of the Temple and the priests! Hades take their sensibilities—I am tired of this!” He turned to Democles, his loyal steward, and snapped, “Bring me my military uniform, decorations and all! I want them to see that I mean business!”

He quickly dressed himself in his cuirass, grieves,
sagum
, and boots. He left off his helmet so that he could don his Civic Crown. He left his sword sheathed, but tightly gripped the rod that symbolized his office, tucking it into the crook of his arm, and then stepped out onto the balcony again.

Their numbers had swelled to two or three thousand, packing the square. Many of them were still leading their sacrificial lambs and goats on leashes, and all of them were shouting and furious. When they saw him their howls of rage intensified for a moment. Looking at the fringes of the crowd, he saw his men strategically placed every ten feet or so. Their faces were grim but unafraid, ready for battle if it proved necessary. Pilate held up his hands, and the crowd gradually quieted.