It would have been more comfortable to have remained in Jericho during this spring season when the sun there was warm and the gardens at their height. But Pontius Pilate had learned that the religious festivals were always times of tension in which malcontents flocked to the city, often with the intention of stirring up confusion through which they might profit by thievery and rapine, as Barabbas had hoped to do. At times like these, a strong hand was needed in Jerusalem and this required Pilate’s presence there. Once the period of tension was over, he could journey on to Caesarea and the games which would be beginning in the arena.
Pilate had been riding in the midst of the column near the heavily curtained animal-borne litter that carried his wife, Claudia ProcuIa. It was only a few miles to Jerusalem now and he was anticipating the bath awaiting him and the cup of spiced wine his body servant would bring him. Except for the accursed smell of burning flesh that hung over the city at this season, the Antonia was not really uncomfortable. It was not so luxurious as Herod’s palace, where he could have stayed, for the Antonia was actually a fortress guarding the very heart of Jerusalem. But his own quarters were passable enough and were on the other side of the building, away from the smoke of the sacrifices, though not wholly from the stench of burning meat. And it was just as well to be where he could keep his eyes upon the temple during the next six days.
Pilate’s reverie was interrupted when the horse in front of him was suddenly reined in as they were passing around the Mount of Olives in the neighborhood of the fig groves of Bethphage. Lurching forward in the saddle, when his horse stopped suddenly, he almost fell on its neck and he righted himself with a curse.
“Sir,” the decurion riding ahead of him apologized. “Pelonius stopped the column without warning.”
Pilate spurred his horse along the road past the line of legionnaires who were now standing at rest. The centurion Pelonius, who commanded the detachment and had been riding at its head, was standing up in his stirrups now, shading his eyes as he looked ahead.
“The road is blocked, sir,” Pelonius called back, hoping to anticipate and prevent one of the sudden fierce outbursts of temper for which Pilate was famous. “By pilgrims.”
Pilate reached the head of the column and reined in his own mount. He could see Pelonius had spoken the truth. As far ahead as the gates of Jerusalem itself the road was filled by a procession of pilgrims on their way to the city, just such a procession as they had been passing all morning on the way from Jericho, but many, many times larger.
“I have never seen so many on the road before, sir,” Pelonius said. “They seem to be with that man riding the ass ahead of them.”
From their elevation on the mountainside, Pilate and his party could look down upon the procession winding down the slope toward the Kedron Valley just beyond the low, terraced hill called Gethsemane.
“Have you any idea who they are?” Pilate asked the centurion.
Pelonius removed his helmet and wiped sweat from his broad face with his arm. “I recognize a few people in the procession, sir,” he said. “They are Galileans, followers of a Nazarene called Jesus.”
“The one Herod was speaking of last night?”
“Yes, sir. They think He is a prophet.”
“Galileans, eh?” Pilate was estimating the number of people in the procession and comparing it with the number of legionnaires now standing at rest behind him. If he knew Galileans—and he should by now—fully half that group wore daggers under their cloaks and probably some of them had swords hidden as well. To try to force a way through the procession could easily end in a melee whose outcome was far from certain.
“There are a lot of them, sir,” Pelonius said, voicing Pilate’s own thought.
“Are you afraid of a motley band of fishermen and farmers?” the procurator asked.
“N—no, sir.”
Pilate gave a sharp bark of a laugh, a sound of merriment and disdain. “Then you are a fool, Pelonius. They could cut us to pieces and no one would ever know who killed us. Rest the column and let them go ahead of us into the city.”
Pelonius’s face cleared. “Yes, sir.”
As Pilate rode back along the column, the rich curtains of the mule-borne litter parted and Claudia Procula looked out. She was a beautiful woman, with her proud Claudian heritage evident in the delicate loveliness of her face. Whatever his faults, Pilate loved her greatly and, understanding his weaknesses as well as his strength, she loved him.
“Is anything wrong, Pontius?” she asked.
“A group of pilgrims blocking the trail.”
Her eyes widened with surprise. “And you are letting them go on ahead?”
Pilate laughed again, but the sound was not so harsh now. “A lot of your Galileans are among them.” Procula loved Tiberias and the Galilean region best of all. “Frankly, I have to ambition to get my throat cut.”
“They are going to the Jewish Passover.”
“So Pelonius says,” Pilate agreed. “He recognized some of them, followers of a man called Jesus of Nazareth.”
“I heard the servants at Tiberias speak of Him,” Procula said. “And once I listened to Him in Capernaum. He is a good man, Pontius. Thousands of people in Galilee follow Him.”
“Half of them must be with Him now by the looks of that procession.” Pilate turned in the saddle to look about him. “You know, I never bothered to study this countryside before, Procula. From the looks of these vineyards, it must be prosperous. I wonder if we are getting all the taxes we should from the owners.”
Claudia Procula laughed. “Be careful. You might even come to like Judea.”
“By the gods, no!” Pilate protested. “If I know Herod, he owns these vineyards or has an interest in them. His greedy fingers try to take everything else.”
“Including Judea for his tetrarchy,” Claudia agreed. “Herodias drank too much again last night and talked more than she realized.”
“Herod would like to see me in trouble,” Pilate agreed. “But after all these years I know how to handle that fox. Besides he doesn’t seem to be as sure of himself as he used to be.”
“The palace servants say he’s been afraid since he killed a prophet named John,” Procula said. “My maid had it from Herod’s own body servant.”
“Guilt can warp a man’s judgment,” Pilate agreed absent-mindedly. “But I can’t understand being concerned over the death of one fanatic.”
“In Israel a prophet is a holy person,” Procula explained. “The Jews believe he is sent by their God as a warning.”
Pilate looked at her sharply. “Surely, you don’t believe any of this heresy, my dear?”
Procula shook her head. “If I were to choose anything of what you call heresy, it would be what I hear of the teaching of this man Jesus of Nazareth. He teaches that all men should love and respect each other.”
Pilate laughed. “If I were to try loving and respecting these Galileans ahead of us,” he said, “I would end with a knife in my back.” He reined up the horse’s head as the order to march came from Pelonius at the head of the column. “Good, we are moving again. Close the curtains, my dear. The hoofs stir up much dust.”
“I am glad you did not spur through the pilgrims, Pontius,” Procula said softly.
Pilate answered with his short bark of laughter. “Don’t think I am softening. I only want to live long enough to shake the dust of this accursed country from my feet.”
II
The rocky slope of the Mount of Olives, except where it had been cleared and dug up for vineyards or fig groves, was covered by thickets of the tough burnet bush with its murderous thorns. The moreh had already turned the entire hillside green and here and there an occasional bush was precociously putting forth a few of the brilliant red blossoms that resembled nothing so much as drops of blood.
During the wi
nter a few clumps of the burnet had died and the wood of these was now sere and gray against the green that covered the hillside. The green bushes served no useful purpose except to spread upon the hillside a scarlet blanket that for a few weeks in the spring was incredibly beautiful. The dead bushes were much prized for fuel and gathering them was a slow, painful task.
It was the task to which old Jonas, thrust out of Elam’s household many years ago, had been forced in order to make his living. Each day he trudged up the mountain to gather the thorny limbs, carefully piling them into a pack which he could carry on his back. Dry now, they weighed little but were a trial to him because of his hump; more than once the cruel thorns had pierced through the worn piece of leather he used to protect his skin, causing painful wounds. He could carry barely enough to bring in sufficient money for his meager needs. Like thousands of beggars, lepers, and other unfortunates, Jonas lived in a warren of hovels built against the outer walls of the city.
In spite of his friendship with Zadok, the bright-eyed cripple whose hovel adjoined his, Jonas had been bitterly lonely at first. Zadok went into the city each morning to beg, swinging himself along on his powerful arms and dragging his body behind him. Zadok had been born without legs. Often it was after dark when the beggar returned to his hovel, boasting of the alms he had obtained during the day. But on the hillsides there had been no one to talk to, for the woodgatherers were too busy to have time for idle chatter.
For a while Jonas had considered following Zadok’s suggestion that he pretend some affliction more striking than the hump on his back, his stiff and painful joints, and his age; perhaps some dramatic infirmity such as being seized by devils whenever a crowd gathered, inciting the pity of onlookers so that they would give generous alms. It would have been an easy way to make a living, but Jonas had refused to beg; he had always earned his keep, and when he could no longer do that he was determined to he down and die.
And then one day, Jonas had found an old mule limping through a field outside the city. Its coat was ragged and crusted with dirt and it had not been fed lately so that the hollows between its ribs stood out painfully. But it had come to Jonas when he called it and had nestled its gray muzzle into his palm. With that gesture of need, of desire for companionship, Jonas had felt his loneliness fade. To be needed, if only by a grizzled old mule which, like himself, had been thrust out because it no longer earned its keep, gave him a feeling of pleasure such as he had not known for a long time.
“What is your name, old fellow?” Jonas asked the mule. The animal only nuzzled his hand the more and lifted trusting eyes. Jonas’s forehead creased in a frown.
“I had a brother once named Eleazar,’’ he said to the mule. “Would you like that name?”
Jonas borrowed salve from Zadok for the animal’s sores, he found patches of green grass among the rocks where Eleazar could graze while he gathered thorns, and soon the hollows between the mule’s ribs began to fill out and his coat grew sleeker under Jonas’s nightly currying.
Working at night, Jonas wove a light pannier of withes and with this strapped on Eleazar’s back he was able to carry more than twice his former load of thornwood into the city. Now he bought grain for Eleazar and food for himself, although their combined efforts brought in little more than enough to supply their needs. Whenever stormy weather or the hot sirocco of summer made it impossible to gather the daily load of wood, both of them were likely to go hungry the next day.
But both—Jonas and Eleazar—were happy this bright spring morning as they came down a path winding along the slope of the Mount of Olives on their way to the city with a load of wood. It was only five days until the Passover and, if the weather held, Jonas could even hope to have a small coin or two left with which to buy a dove for the sacrifice. He was hurrying to the city this morning with his load of thorns in order to reach the establishments of the lime burners and the potters before they had laid in their supply of wood for the day. Eleazar followed him down the mountainside, patiently picking his way along the rocky hail. The mule had traveled these paths many times and needed no guidance.
Just above the point where the path debouched upon the caravan road, Jonas stopped short. A small crowd had gathered where the roadways met, held back from entering the main road to Jerusalem because it was filled completely by a happy, jostling procession of pilgrims, waving palm branches and shouting, “Hosanna!” as if they were escorting a king.
Jonas felt Eleazar’s muzzle nudge him in the back and reached out to rest his hand upon the animal’s neck. A Pharisee, by his rich dress, Jonas judged, one of the wealthy landowners of Bethphage who had estates here on the Mount of Olives, stood nearby, his face heavy with displeasure. Jonas moved closer and, though the Pharisee reminded him of his former master Elam, dared to speak.
“Can you tell me who these people are, noble sir?” he asked respectfully.
“Galileans!” the Pharisee exploded. “The Romans should not allow pilgrims like this to clutter up the main roads. I have urgent business in the city this morning.”
Jonas, too, had business in the city. If he did not reach the potters and lime burners soon with his load of wood, others would be ahead of him. Then he would have to wait until morning to sell and a whole day would be lost. Still he could not agree with the Pharisee that everyone did not have the same right to the road.
“All men are equal before the Most High,” he said.
“If you believe that, you are a fool,” the Pharisee snorted. “Galileans are nothing but trouble.” His angry gesture took in the slope of the mountain now dotted with tents and cooking fires. “Do they stay in the city and help to support honest innkeepers? No. And they steal food from the landowners.”
“At least they make sacrifices in the temple,” Jonas said mildly.
The Pharisee from Bethphage shrugged. “Twenty men to one lamb—as many as the Law will allow. Or a dove.”
Jonas felt a sudden surge of anger. “Do you know what it is to be hungry?” he demanded. “You with your fine robe and your fat belly? Do you know what it is to sleep in a hovel with only a sackcloth for a cover and it full of vermin? Do you not—” He stopped short, aghast at his effrontery.
The Pharisee drew back his head and surveyed the old woodseller coldly. “You speak disrespectfully, little man,” he said. “How do I know you have not been trespassing on my land to gather thorns?”
Jonas lowered his head. “I spoke in the heat of anger. These pilgrims will keep me from selling my wood today and I will lose a day’s work.”
“I am a tolerant man so I forgive you,” the Pharisee said magnanimously. “Are these Galileans never going to clear the road?”
A sleek mule led by a handsome youth with dark hair and bright intelligent eyes had just come down the hill from above Bethany and joined the group. Riding on the animal was a slender girl of about eighteen who strongly resembled the boy. She carried a basket filled with exquisitely molded vases of rough pottery and when she saw Jonas, her eyes softened in a smile.
“There is Jonas, Jonathan,” she cried to her brother. “And Eleazar!”
Jonas heard his name and turned. At sight of the girl on the mule and the boy leading it, the frown of worry was smoothed from the old man’s face.
“Shalom, Veronica,” he said. “And you, Jonathan.” They were the son and daughter of Abijah, one of the finest potters in Jerusalem. He often sold burnet wood to their father for his kilns.
“Eleazar is growing younger, Jonas,” the girl said. “And so are you.”
The old woodseller smiled and rubbed the mule’s neck. “He thanks you, Veronica, and so do I.”
The people gathered by the roadway turned to look at the girl and her brother and words of greeting now came from all sides, for she was well known in Jerusalem. With her fresh, natural beauty, her slender loveliness, Veronica was like the spring morning itself. Nothi
ng in her demeanor would have told anyone that she had been unable to walk for years, or that often she had to remain in bed for months at a time while the inflamed bone in her leg throbbed with almost unbearable pain.
“We have been to Bethany to buy vases,” Veronica explained to Jonas. “They have been selling faster than father can make them.”
“No wonder,” he said, “when you paint such pretty scenes on them.”
The Pharisee turned to look at the girl. “Are you the one who paints vases for the potters on the street below the temple?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You deserve success since you work so hard and do such good work.”
Veronica’s eyes sparkled. “No work is hard when you love it.” She looked at the procession which showed no sign of ending. “Did you ever see such happy people?”
“They are keeping honest folk from their work,” the Pharisee growled.
“Who are they?” the girl asked.
“Galileans!” Again he gave the word all the scorn he could put into it. “Escorting some prophet into Jerusalem, they say.”
“A prophet? What is His name?”
“They call Him Jesus of Nazareth.”
“The one who raised Lazarus from the dead?” Veronica asked excitedly.
“So He claims,” the Pharisee admitted grudgingly.
Veronica looked down at the drawn and twisted leg hidden under her skirts. “They say people who only touched His garment have been healed,” she said a little wistfully.
The Crown and the Cross: The Life of Christ Page 32
