‘Me?’ Jesus turned his head all smiles and frowns at him. ‘What was I doing?’
‘You were climbing steps, carrying something on your back…when I looked closer, I could see that it was me you were carrying, and that I was heavy. And you told me that I would be light if I let go of my treasures…that I would find them again, but that for now they were heavy. When finally I threw off all that I possessed I was light, like dust in the wind! I knew that from that time there would be no need for words between us.’ He looked at Jesus, ‘I do not know what it means, this dream!’
Jesus nodded, thoughtful. ‘This is a difficult dream.’
Yeshua sat up to look at the heart-form of his friend’s face and the wide set eyes full of colours, ‘Not for you! You always know!’
Jesus shrugged his shoulders. ‘Not this time.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘Perhaps, you know too much already?’ Jesus said to him.
Yeshua let his gaze roam over the sheep and the long view of the world, grinding his teeth. ‘I always tell you what I know!’
‘Yes.’ Jesus frowned. ‘You know many things.’
‘Brothers tell one another everything!’
‘We are not brothers, Yeshua,’ Jesus corrected him, resting his head on the crook of his arm.
Yeshua scowled, feeling querulous. ‘Why not?’
‘Jacob and Simon and Jude and Jose…they hide behind corners to throw stones at me, they do this because they love you, because they are your brothers, not I.’
Yeshua felt the blood rise to his face. His brothers were mean spirited and ignorant. ‘If I could swap them for you, I would a thousand times over!’ he said.
‘That is why they throw stones,’ Jesus pointed out, with a simple clarity that cut at the roots of Yeshua’s anger.
There was a long thoughtful moment and something occurred to Yeshua. ‘Where is your knife…the one you carry for cutting rope? Come…give it to me.’
Jesus hesitated, ‘It is sharp, I am told never to take it from its sheath unless I have to.’
‘The sharper the better…come on...I’ll show you,’ he gestured full of impatience.
Jesus complied, but with caution. Yeshua took it and in a moment had made a cut in the palm of his right hand.
Jesus grew alarmed to see blood, but Yeshua ignored it, and said to him, ‘Do you remember how the rabbis taught us that the body of a man, his flesh is Tzelem, the image of God, and that his blood is Demut, the likeness of God. Do you remember? This blood is the likeness of God because in it flows the soul. Look at it! Don’t be afraid!’ He showed him his bloodied palm. ‘This is my soul you are looking at…now give me your hand.’
Jesus sat up and made a weak smile of hesitation.
‘Don’t you trust me?’
There was a nod.
‘Then give me your hand!’
Jesus put out his palm and winced.
‘The knife is sharp, it will not hurt.’
Yeshua made a swift cut and the boy stared at the blood now flowing from the wound in his hand with appreciation.
‘It did not hurt!’ he said amazed.
‘Your blood,’ Yeshua told him with a serious voice, ‘is also Demut, the likeness of God…Now, when I bring my blood, my soul, together with your blood, your soul, like this…’ he joined his hand to Jesus’ hand in a clasp and held it firmly, ‘it means that we are the same. Do you understand? We share the same likeness of God in our bodies. This means more than just brothers in the blood of Abraham, Jesus! Even though I share in the same blood with my brothers, my spirit is not in Jacob, nor is it in Jude, or Simon or Jose, and theirs is not in me. But you and I, we are one now, and this means they can never come between us. Do you know what else, Jesus?’
‘What else?’
‘It means that if I die, my spirit will still live in you…because we now share the same likeness of God, the same soul.’
They let go.
Jesus’ eyes grew soft and distant, and he seemed to be fitting this idea to his mind as he nursed his wound.
Yeshua wiped the blood away from his hand and watched it ooze from the cut and spread into every crevice and line. He sucked the wound and said, ‘Now you must tell me the meaning of my dream, because we are brothers.’
Jesus looked at him with a blank face. ‘I would tell you, because we are brothers, Yeshua, but in becoming brothers the meaning has winged away from my mind!’
Yeshua sighed and rolled over on his back again. ‘You goose! You have lost too much blood!’
The freshening breeze came and Yeshua felt a strangeness creep over him. He turned his eyes to the old road, and saw a caravan making its slow way in the valley. ‘I feel something will soon change, Jesus. Perhaps this is the meaning of the dream? It may happen when we go to Jerusalem, to celebrate our coming of age ceremonies…Do you know the first thing that I shall do in Jerusalem?’
Jesus took up his flute. ‘What will you do in Jerusalem?’
‘I will go to the priests to ask them why they shed the blood of sheep and goats and doves, and why they burn them for sacrifices, when Isaiah and David tell us we must not bring burnt offerings to God…’
Jesus began to play and Yeshua was not surprised, for talk of cruel things, of temples and kings, never entered into his knowing. They were like the breezes that moved over this ridge on which they sat. They did not go deep, but brushed past and moved on towards other mountains, and other boys sitting with their sheep.
Yeshua watched the shivering leaves. ‘I think we shall be awakened at the Temple to something new, you and I.’
Jesus paused then. ‘When our eyes open, because we are one, shall you see through mine and I through yours?’
These words made an impression on Yeshua. All day his dream had made him feel something in his heart, and now that something sat on the lip of his mind, perched just so - near enough for him to taste, but too far from his reach to be grasped. It was tantalising and frustrating, this remembering, and he was so taken with it that he barely noticed Jesus begin to play another tune. And in this way they remained for a time, listening to God in the wind that carried the spring-song, God in the bleating of the sheep and in the chewing of the goats, until the sun began to fall towards the mountains and from below there came the sound of a woman’s voice, calling them for dinner.
They stood together then, as one, and descended the hill to their homes, arms over shoulders.
They spoke no more of their newly won brotherhood, or of the future that awaited them.
7
THE PROCURATOR
Annius Rufus sat stiffly in his litter. He looked beyond the handful of centurions that made up his retinue scrutinising the small army that preceded him into the gardens and villas of the new suburb of Bethesda, outside Jerusalem, and sighed, feeling the rising of an evil humour.
He was a procurator, a representative of Rome and so his soldiers carried the standard of power augmented by the sword, signifying to all and sundry that he had the authority not only to imprison and to torture but also to put to death any man, be that his will.
He burped and reached for a bowl of nuts and chewed them, tasting nothing, watching with a disdainful eye as his litter emerged through Jerusalem’s northern gate, and the bulk of his soldiery proceeded to the Fortress of Antonia. His back ached and his head was heavy from the heat and so his mind turned to the comforts he had left behind at Caesarea. But he was also reminded then of his wife, a dry, twig of a woman from the upper classes of Roman Society, and to think on her mollified his torment, for if nothing else, this journey would give him some respite from her endless, petty rasping, and her ignoble concerns.
His personal guard now steered his litter in the direction of the northwest-most corner of the upper city and headed for the Palace of Herod Antipas, where was situated his praetorium in the city of Jerusalem. The thought of seeing Herod brought him back to the other reason he had come to this infested place, to quell another o
ne of those uprisings that had become a way of life since the death of Herod the Great, and the rise of his violent and wicked son, Archelaus.
Over the years, uprisings against Archelaus had caused Rome to crucify thousands, and to send just as many into slavery. Finally, sick of the killing spree, Archelaus’ own subjects had begged Caesar to intervene on their behalf. Caesar then, quite wisely, had Archelaus thrown into exile, creating a new province called Judea and appointing a governor to rule it. But these measures did not put a halt to the unrest, which continued below the surface, and not long ago his own spies had warned Rufus of a renewal of discontent, this time against Roman taxes.
When Rufus heard of this uprising predicted for the sacred holiday of Passover, being the ambitious man he was, he had seized it as a perfect opportunity to make his mark and had petitioned Quirenius for a Legion. Quirenius, however, had responded by sending him only two cohorts – barely enough to prevent a skirmish – and had wished him a good journey into the bargain. Thus had he forced Rufus to see the entire matter to the end despite the indignity made to his person.
To think on it now filled him with an evil humour, a humour that grew more evil the closer he came to Herod’s palace.
The palace was almost a city itself, flanked by three great towers whose walls enclosed spacious grounds, and terrace upon terrace of stately mansions and gardens. To his mind it cascaded like an overgrown weed towards the crowded streets of the lower suburbs of Jerusalem. Now the noise coming from these suburbs penetrated his sheltered carriage and reminded him of how much he despised this place, its bazaars and spice markets, its shops and its hawkers. In truth he hated people in general, and Jews in particular, despising their language and their dress, their peculiar religious fervour, their superior mien, their exaggerated piety, their exotic customs and their frequent and cumbersome rituals. He loathed the priests and scholars and students who congregated near the Temple to chew on the ears of those who would listen to their endless diatribes. Moreover he found the discordant strain of the Levite chant distasteful and the reek of their sacrifices nauseating, and this hate, having newly risen to the surface of his shallow mind, caused him now to contemplate the insatiable hunger of his own people – who had swallowed up the entire known world and now suffered indigestion for it.
Yes, into Rome’s belly had gone countless races and their cities, their vineyards, farms, villages and provinces; their produce, their merchandise, their culture, their art and their religion. For Rome did not believe in any one god but rather chose to impregnate herself with the seed of all the gods of the world, changing only their names and giving birth to them anew. Was it any wonder that Rome found she had too many gods to feed? Mithras, Isis, Adonis, Attis, Astarte…all the gods and demons of Greece were hers and all the devils and angels of Asia and Africa were hers. Yet Rome had never once sought the loving attentions of that hard-hearted god of the Jews, the god whose arrogance would have no other god before him, the god who was so devastating to behold that no image could be made of him. From this god, Rome cringed and snarled, since He dared to call Rome a whore!
Rufus looked around him. What arrogance from a world soiled, noise-some, disordered and decadent! What haughtiness from a backward gazing, spawn-hole of insurgents and dissenters, from an uncivilized rabble of mongrel races and tongues! He was wondering, with distaste, what good could come from travelling to this end of the world, when his litter came to a stop and he was forced to turn his mind to the moment.
Herod Antipas was waiting for him in a luxurious room sitting upon a dinning sofa strewn with soft cushions of gold and burnished red damask. In truth the man’s silken dress was dyed in similar hues and contrived to make of him an oversized cushion, were it not for his raven hair, curled and braided and dotted here and there with precious stones, and his thick neck and arms adorned with gold and silver. To Rufus, he looked more like an Arab than a Jew and less like a man than a woman. And although he had never met the man before, he loathed him immediately.
Herod clapped his plump hands and music sounded from some unseen place. A breeze made sheer curtains shimmer between columns and carried the heady smell of incense, which made Rufus cough and sneeze.
Herod Antipas, friend of Augustus, King of Galilee and the whole land east of the Jordan did not stand to greet him. He pulled a half smile, lank and thinly made at him and said,
‘Welcome, welcome, procurator! I hope your journey was not too unpleasant? Come, sit at my table and take some refreshment before retiring to your praetorium….’ He turned to a smooth faced boy standing in the shadows and waved a ring crowded hand at him. ‘Wine and fruit!’ he said. After that he turned to Rufus and in a loud whisper full of intimacy, he said, ‘As promised I have a number of nubile servants awaiting your attentions. I hope they will satisfy your appetite…though to look at you I am reminded of a Roman saying – that hunger makes all things taste pleasurable!’ He laughed a little and let it fade to nothing.
Rufus, for his part, took to grinding his teeth.
‘You may thank me tomorrow,’ Herod said serenely, when no word from Rufus was forthcoming, and paused, no doubt turning the wheels of his mind to some base mischief. ‘There is another matter…I hope you do not find me presumptuous, but when I heard of your imminent arrival, I took the liberty of calling for the captain of your Roman guard in Jerusalem to meet you here in my apartment. I thought you would want to be informed at once of the state of affairs…that way your mind, freed from any unpleasant business, can incline upon the pleasures that await you…I was certain you would agree.’
The fox had contrived his own presence at a discussion between him and his Commander in Jerusalem! Rufus scratched absently at his cheeks and fashioned his voice to be cold and laconic, ‘You are too kind.’
The other man’s head made the slight nod of a thoughtful uncle. ‘Yes of course! Many people say it.’
The wine and sweetmeats arrived, lavish, fresh and inviting, but even before the servant had poured Rufus a draught of wine a Roman Centurion was announced.
The man’s name was Gaius Cassius Longinus. He was tall and carried the burden of his armour over well-muscled shoulders. A man of no more than thirty-five springs, at a guess, though his eyes bespoke the weariness of older years, a weariness that Rufus determined must come from living in a nest of vipers.
The centurion took one look at Herod, made his salute to the procurator, and inclined his head in the appropriate fashion.
Rufus waited for his cup to be filled and took a sip of the Galilean wine. He let it sit in his mouth. It was dry and tasted of ashes and made his tongue stick to the roof of his mouth. It was a moment before he could say, ‘What have you to report?’
The Centurion looked his superior in the eye. ‘All seems peaceful,’ he told him.
‘And our spies?’
‘They report nothing out of the ordinary. There are madmen in every street corner announcing the coming of a Messiah. They speak of a miraculous deliverance that will soon come from heaven to rid them of the rule of Rome...but this is nothing new. These men come in from the hills, dishevelled in appearance and dress. The Jews call them Nazarites.’
Rufus took another thoughtful sip of the foul tasting wine and said, ‘So in your estimation these Nazarites are harmless…they will not incite the people?’
Cassius shook his head slightly. ‘In my experience they are not like the zealots. They are nothing more than soothsayers who presage the future and call not for violence but for repentance and wakefulness.’
Rufus did not like it. ‘Repentance and wakefulness, you say?’ He sat back, feeling Herod’s eye upon him. ‘Well then, what measures are we implementing to wakefulness so that we do not repent our stupidity?’
The centurion’s discomfort was also plain to his eye. He looked askance to Herod and only continued after a nod from Rufus. ‘From the Census we know all who live within the walls of the city. In the next day or two the larger masses will arrive for the hol
iday. I will have men posted at all the gates taking names, ages and birthplaces. Checking all goods brought in and out of the city.’
Rufus was dissatisfied with everything. ‘How do you suppose you will find dissidents this way?’
‘During the holiday we are outnumbered. Once the dissidents are assembled they will move like a wildfire through the city and there is no way we can stop them. But if we can put out small fires, one by one, before the holiday begins, then we may have a chance of preventing a conflagration.’
‘You must search every house then, every street!’
Herod Antipas made a noise, a clearing of the debris at the back of his throat. ‘Forgive me, procurator, but might I interject with a word of advice?’ He looked at his rings a moment. ‘Before your soldiers start breaking into the houses of the people of Israel…perhaps you should take a moment to cogitate...’
Irritated, Rufus cast a sharp eye over Herod. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Contact with a gentile,’ Herod said, with a look of apology, ‘a…heathen, especially as it nears the great feast, may render a Jew levitically and inconveniently unclean, and so disqualify him for a day from participating in the rituals, for he shall be…defiled.’
Rufus dismissed it, ‘Nonsense!’
Herod was not to be put off, ‘Also, the houses of Gentiles are considered defiled, procurator. So you may not bring any suspects to your Praetorium.’
Rufus scowled. ‘This is an outrage!’
‘Romans are idolaters.’
‘Idolaters?’ he said, at the peak of irritation.
‘You make idols.’
‘What does that have to do with anything?’
‘These are contrary to our laws.’
‘Damn your ridiculous laws!’
Herod took hold of some grapes and popped them into his mouth. ‘They may be damned and yet…they are what they are. A procurator must know them in detail,’ he continued, chewing, ‘if he is to keep peace in his province. Peace is good for business, don’t you agree? After all, dead men are not usually disposed to paying taxes.’ He flashed him a grape-stained smile. ‘And, as you have paid an inordinate sum for the revenues of this province, procurator, I trust you would not want to see future handsome dividends lost to your purse through rashness. No…all in all, it will be far wiser to have any suspects brought before the Sanhedrin for questioning by the priests.’
Fifth Gospel: A Novel (Rosicrucian Quartet) Paperback Page 5
