by Bodie Thoene
Marcus turned his eyes toward Claudia. Cold and uncaring, he raised his cup in mock salute, then turned his attention back to Miryam.
The sensuous woman smiled and drank him in with wide brown eyes. He was clearly intoxicated by her.
“Here’s news.” Claudia raised her chin and swept toward the torch-lit courtyard. “Not only do I not care, I consider Marcus Longinus among the scum of the earth.”
“So at last we agree on something. Come, you must meet her,” Pilate insisted.
“I would not bother myself. She is nothing but a low-born courtesan.”
“So was your mother.” Pilate laughed.
She resisted the urge to slap him. “I hate him.” Tears stung her eyes.
“Tears, my love? Jealous, my lady?”
“You insulted my mother, and I-I hate him, and I will not—”
“Careful, Claudia.” Pilate lowered his voice. “Someone may notice. Your hatred reveals your love.”
A pair of noble, aged, gnarled olive trees had been transplanted onto Pilate’s new estate in Tiberias. Josephus the Elder fit well into the setting, like a third venerable tree.
Claudia and Josephus sat in the shade. A gravel path wound in and out among knolls tufted with reeds bordering artificial ponds and flowering clumps of red anemones and golden poppies.
Josephus gestured toward Philo, who was being led on pony back along the garden track. The boy’s grin was as wide as his ears and his face as luminous with joy as the sheen on the chestnut horse. “Your son loves his new companion. Four sound legs under him.”
Claudia’s gaze darted to a balcony of the two-story villa. On it Pilate stood, glowering at the scene. Claudia nodded slowly and lowered her voice, even though no one was nearby to overhear. “A gift . . . from Centurion Marcus Longinus.”
“First time I’ve seen the boy smile,” Josephus continued, “since we left the ship.”
“Philo loves it here,” Claudia agreed. “The air, I think. And the water. Pure and sweet. Not like Rome, or Jerusalem. Oh, I’m sorry.”
The old man laughed. “No need. Jerusalem may be the Holy City, but it requires a week of constant rain for it to be called clean.”
Philo looked to see if his mother was watching. When he caught her eye, he waved ecstatically.
Claudia returned the gesture and smiled back at him.
“The common folk suffer in this land, the same as in Rome,” Josephus said.
“Many innocent people are dying in chains.”
Josephus caressed the open scroll lying on the oak table in front of them. Tapping it lightly, he said, “God’s Word cannot be chained.” Lifting his hand, he swept it over Galilee. “The water of our land may be sweet, but there is no water pure enough to wash away the blood on Herod’s hands.”
“I thank God there is no blood on the hands of Pilate . . . yet,” Claudia said fervently. Unsaid was her thought, Pilate already has enough for which to answer.
Josephus turned his bushy-browed eyes to regard her seriously. “The soldiers of Herod are notorious for their brutality. From the time of Herod the Great, even until now. Pagans and mercenaries. Not Jews. They are jackals, not men, chosen for their love of slaughter. Samaritans and Idumeans, selected for their hatred of Jews.”
Claudia fastened her focus on her son. Was there a god who could answer the prayers of her heart for his safety and happiness? “While the leaders of this land feast, mothers weep for their children.”
Pontius Pilate was in his office when Marcus arrived at the palace. The single word “Enter,” uttered in Pilate’s abrupt, snappish manner, responded to the centurion’s knock. There was no greeting. Pilate was bent over a sheaf of maps, leaving Marcus standing beside the door.
“I know that step,” Pilate said. “As familiar to me as the sounds of the birds outside my window at home.”
With a pair of calipers Pilate traced the distance from Caesarea to Mount Carmel and then from a place south of the tiny hamlet of Bethlehem to Jerusalem.
“You asked for me?” Marcus inquired.
“I summoned you,” Pilate emphasized.
Acknowledging their roles, Marcus offered a formal salute, which Pilate returned half heartedly. He stabbed the calipers into the desktop, pinning Mount Moriah to the oak plank. “Philo rides his pony every day,” Pilate said.
Is that the reason for the summons? Marcus wondered. He nodded. “When a boy cannot walk, it is good to let him gallop.”
Placing his palms flat on either side of Jerusalem on the map of Judea, Pilate stated accusingly, “You meddle in the affairs of my house. Your business is solely to assist me in ruling this place for Caesar. Nothing more.”
Marcus locked eyes with the governor. Neither would be first to look away. It was hard for Marcus to recall how he had ever thought of this man as a friend. “As is the way of fools,” Marcus countered. The pause was long enough for the message to be clear, but he continued before Pilate leapt on it. “Soon Caiaphas and Herod will pull down their house with their own hands.”
Pilate chose to ignore the jibe. “We do well to keep Rome at arm’s length from the petty squabbles of priests and prophets.”
“The Baptizer would have made a better high priest than Caiaphas.”
“More honest, perhaps. Not better,” Pilate corrected. “Caiaphas accepts bribes. John would not.” The governor extended his hand, palm upward. “Rome requires a man of commerce to be the Jewish high priest—a man with a more practical outlook on religion.”
When no answer was forthcoming from Marcus, Pilate shifted his view northward on the map and jabbed a thumb downward at Lake Tiberias. It was the same gesture Caesar used in the arena to order death for a fallen combatant. “What about the one in Galilee? Jesus?”
Trying not to give his comment any particular emphasis, Marcus merely replied, “A carpenter’s son. A man of peace.”
Pilate laughed. “Not the stuff kings or high priests are made of, then? So who shall we appoint as the new king of the Jews?”
Part Three
He will bring to light what is hidden in darkness and will expose the motives of the heart.
1 CORINTHIANS 4:5
Chapter 23
Marcus had been buried in all the aspects of running the military district of Galilee. First Cohort was never idle. Because bandits still looted, he increased the number of patrols. His activities kept him so busy that he barely had time to think about his last turbulent meeting with his mistress, Miryam, at her villa.
Yet the moment he’d learned her startling news still haunted him . . .
“Marcus? I am pregnant,” she had said quietly.
He drew back from her. “And who is the father?”
She gasped. “You, Marcus! There has been no one but you!”
Disbelieving, he studied her with contempt. “You said the name of your precious Barak bar Halfi in your sleep last night, Miryam.”
Furious, Marcus had ridden away from her home. He might have believed that the child was his, except for her calling out the name of her former lover in her sleep. His anger boiled so hotly that it was only his mission from Pilate that kept him from strangling her for her infidelity.
Pilate had been worried that during Herod Antipas’s “arrest” of John the Baptizer, the prophet would “accidentally” be killed while resisting arrest. Pilate didn’t want Herod to create any martyrs. So Marcus’s job was to meet Herod’s men at Selim on the Jordan and accompany them—not participate—in their capture of the Baptizer. He was to be an observer only, with no authority. But Marcus also knew he’d likely becom
e the Baptizer’s protector. If not, the Baptizer would die and Marcus would have to answer to Pilate for that. Interfering with Herod’s men, though, would cause Herod to complain to Pilate and land Marcus in trouble. It was a double bind, with Praetorian Vara waiting to take advantage of such a time.
With Marcus on horseback and Carta on a donkey, the two traveled swiftly over the next two days. They didn’t overtake Herod’s soldiers at Selim, though, so they headed farther south. It wasn’t until the morning of the third day, at the Jordan River crossing between Jericho and the Perean city of Julias, that Marcus spotted them.
He wasn’t surprised that the tetrarch’s four soldiers resembled the worst cutthroats from the bazaars of Damascus. “I am here as the personal representative of Governor Pilate and by his order,” Marcus announced.
“Am I supposed to be impressed?” sneered the Herodian trooper who appeared to be in charge.
Marcus’s anger at Miryam that had lingered throughout his journey now boiled over at the imbecility of the man. In one swift move, Marcus drew his blade and poised the tip of the dagger under the man’s chin. “Yes, you are,” Marcus said bluntly. “Now, let’s begin again. What are you doing here?”
“We are here to seize the troublemaker known as John the Baptizer,” the leader stated, his face pale with fear.
“Understood,” Marcus agreed. “Provided the Baptizer is on this side of the river. Otherwise you are not to disturb him in any way. And if you do manage to arrest him, I will accompany you for a time . . . just to see that he doesn’t break free and injure you, or call down fire upon your heads.”
The other three soldiers exchanged secretive looks. In an instant, from seeing the leather strings about their necks that concealed their daggers, Marcus knew the truth. Pilate had been right. Herod had sent hired killers to take care of John the Baptizer. And from their murderous expressions, Marcus recognized that his own life was in danger as well.
“I’ll have those weapons,” Marcus ordered. “And I’ll go with you. Move out.”
Half a mile upstream from the river crossing they found John the Baptizer, still on the Perean side of the border.
The prophet’s voice rang out. “Don’t use your authority to force money from people. Don’t arrest men on trumped-up charges and tell lies about them to get a reward.”
The Herodian soldiers spat in disgust. “How much of this do we have to hear?” Grabbing their spears from Carta’s donkey, the mercenaries pushed through the crowd of spectators. Marcus could not legally interfere, as much as he wanted to.
People in the crowd yelled to the Baptizer to flee. The guard in the water retrieved his weapon and stood ready to defend the Baptizer. Bloodshed was only a second or two away.
“Master,” Carta begged, “do something!”
But it was the Baptizer himself who intervened. He waded ashore and walked toward the soldiers. When the crowd surrounded him, protecting him against the mercenaries, he spoke to them like a father would to beloved children. “I knew this time would come. Go where I told you and find the one I told you to find. Then do what he says to do. Don’t worry about me. Nothing can happen to me that is not written long ago.”
Herod’s men grasped the Baptizer and hustled him up the slope and out of sight of the crowd.
On the way to Herod’s citadel in Machaerus, seven miles east of the Dead Sea, Marcus encountered a company of Fourth Cohort troopers returning from Arabia. Conscripting them to accompany him, both Marcus and the Baptizer arrived alive at their destination.
Machaerus was an inescapable prison, positioned on a rocky hill and enclosed on all sides by ravines.
Before Marcus took his leave of the fort, he told the Baptizer, “You did a brave thing, surrendering as you did. If you had fought, you might have escaped, but many in the crowd would have been killed.” Marcus had seen the man’s character in that moment—his unshakable courage, his caring for the people over himself.
The Baptizer shrugged. “It is for the Almighty to decide if my work on this earth is done.”
Marcus blinked in confusion. “Who is this mysterious other you are talking about? The one you ordered your followers to find?”
The Baptizer stared directly at Marcus. “Jesus of Nazareth.”
It had been on the return trip from Machaerus to Galilee that Marcus saw Jesus. Marcus and Carta had slept overnight near one of the forks of the Jordan. They awoke to large crowds of people gathering nearby.
“This may be the man John the Baptizer spoke of,” he told Carta. “We will go listen.”
As they walked into the crowd, Marcus asked an old woman, “Where is the teacher?”
She eyed his Roman uniform briefly, then rested a gnarled hand on her cane and smiled. “Just find the biggest group of children. He’ll be there.”
He was indeed, sitting on the sloping sand with a couple of young children on his lap and three others close by. They were playing a game.
Just then Marcus saw a father carrying a child who was seized with convulsions toward Jesus. The father’s expression was set with a single-minded purpose—to get his son to Jesus. In Rome, such children would have been left to die on the banks of the Tiber. Even here, the crowd parted as if the family had leprosy.
But Jesus moved the two children off his lap, then leapt up, moving toward the father and catching him midstride. His arms embraced both the child and the man. The trio sank to their knees. Looking up at Jesus with a pleading expression, the father at last relinquished his grip on his child out of fatigue.
By now the mother had joined the group. For a while, all was silent, as if the wind itself and the chirping birds nearby had stilled. Then something extraordinary occurred. Marcus knew exactly when it had, for the mother’s eyes brimmed with unbelievable joy!
When Jesus stood, holding the child, the boy’s legs hung straight.
“Thirsty, Mama, thirsty,” the child called.
She raced toward him and gathered the boy from Jesus’ arms.
But the father remained prone on the sand. He reached for Jesus’ ankles and grasped them. Jesus lifted the man up and blessed him. For what? A love that wouldn’t give up?
Bewildered and uncomfortable, Marcus sought out one of the burly fishermen beside the river. “Tell your master that John the Baptizer has been arrested and taken to Machaerus.” Then he couldn’t resist adding, “And he may be in danger himself . . .”
After Marcus and Carta left Jesus by the river, both were silent. At last Carta asked, “Master, what exactly happened?”
What indeed? Marcus had pondered that question ever since the child had been healed. In front of hundreds, something supernatural had happened. A child had been healed. The grief of the parents had been real. So had the contortions of the child. Clearly, they were not charlatans.
What bothered Marcus even more than the miracle, though, was the love in the mother’s and father’s eyes. The father’s expression stated that he gladly would have given his own life in exchange for his son’s healing.
Might Miryam’s baby be mine after all? he wondered. Did I speak too hastily? Did I wrong her? Is it time for me to become a father?
That internal debate unnerved him.
Chapter 24
Marcus and Carta halted at the crossroads near Neapolis. There, near the edge of the reeking garbage dump, were two crosses, with bodies hanging from them. It sometimes took the men days to die. If anyone was caught trying to aid a crucified man, he would incur the same penalty. With that deterrent, only a single guard was left on duty.
“What are these guilty of?” Marcus demanded.
“Hail, Centurion.” The legiona
ry saluted. “They are guilty of maeistas.”
Maeistas was a charge of defaming the state or the emperor. All it took was a testimony of two “witnesses” for anyone to get rid of a potential enemy, whether he was guilty or not.
Marcus peered up at the men’s faces and was startled when he recognized them—brothers from near Pella. When the younger brother had been forced into Roman service and had attempted to flee, the older brother had swung a sickle to defend him . . . and been flogged as a result. Now the younger brother was already dead. The older brother nearly so. Neither were rebels.
“Who ordered this?” Marcus demanded.
“Praetorian Vara,” the legionary replied. “For offending the dignity of Rome. They are to be made examples. He himself witnessed the carrying out of the sentence.”
Behind Marcus he heard a whimper. Turning, he spotted Carta, his face a frozen mask. But his body was trembling with pity and terror.
Marcus’s anger flared further. He had grown increasingly wary and disgusted with Praetorian Vara’s horrific treatment of the Jews, especially arresting them for trumped-up charges. Now he was crucifying the innocent?
“Take the boy down,” Marcus ordered. “He is already dead.”
“But the other is not,” the guard argued. “The order says both must die before either is removed.”
Marcus looked again into the eyes of the protective older brother, who had passed beyond being able to speak. But his expression of mute appeal was clear.
“Break his legs,” Marcus demanded.
The older brother closed his eyes, as if satisfied.
It was the only act of mercy Marcus could provide, since it would hasten death. Flinging his coin purse at the soldier’s feet, he said, “See that they are properly buried . . . not thrown in the quarry.” He drew himself up to his full centurion stature. “When I return here, I will ask. And my order better have been obeyed, or I shall find you.”
