Jerusalem's Hope

by Brock Thoene

  But considerations about his appearance and reputation were of secondary importance. His thoughts remained back in Galilee, concentrated on Miryam of Magdala, once Marcus’ lover. Now she was in the inner circle of Rabbi Yeshua’s talmidim.

  Marcus also devoted much of the hurried travel to thinking about the mysterious Reb Yeshua. He was confused about the Galilean Teacher. Marcus had personally seen the man perform unaccountable acts of healing, not the least of which involved Marcus’ young servant, Carta. The centurion had likewise witnessed an amazing transformation wrought by Yeshua in the once-tormented soul of Miryam.

  Thousands, including Marcus, heard Yeshua’s teaching; they knew of a certainty that the Rabbi was a good man, a kind man, a wise man, a worthy man, and something beyond an ordinary mortal man.

  Not long before this, Rome had little reason to take official notice of a country preacher, even if he was reportedly able to work miracles. Yeshua preached peace, not confrontation. Rome did not acknowledge that devotion to the Hebrew deity had any special virtue, or that love and mercy possessed any power.

  Power, insofar as Rome was concerned, existed at the point of a javelin or short sword. Such power increased with the disciplined ruthlessness of a century of legionaries, then multiplied many times over till it dominated the world at the command of a Caesar to his legions.

  And so it had. From the Pillars of Hercules to the great river Euphrates, from Gaul to the Nile, Rome held sway over the nations. It was a time of enforced peace, punctuated by border skirmishes and brief, brutally crushed revolts. As long as Yeshua spoke no treason, organized no armies, encouraged no rebellion, he could go about his business.

  But all that had changed on a wild-flower-strewn hillside the afternoon before. There, in front of Marcus’ eyes, something extraordinary had occurred. Yeshua had fed his entire famished audience of thousands from a handful of bread and dried fish. Unaccountable? Yes. Unbelievable? Indeed.

  Ordinarily, rational, practical, pragmatic Rome winked at magic. The emperor Tiberius himself practiced divination, reading into the signs the messages he already expected to receive. It was a political tool to blame policy on the gods, to excuse failures and justify excesses.

  Where was the harm in free bread, even if produced by something unexplained? The problem was this: Yeshua had fed an army of followers. Five thousand men. An army! As many soldiers as owed allegiance to Rome in the whole Jewish province, and four times that many women and children too!

  Compounding this novelty into a crime against the state had been the response of those legions of listeners. Yeshua for king! they cried. Yeshua should be king of the Jews. Since that acclaim was offered without Rome’s approval, it was not an acceptable sentiment.

  And the proof of how objectionable it was to official Rome? Tribune Felix’s insistence on the strenuous all-night gallop to deliver his account to the governor.

  Could anyone seriously believe that a Jewish rabble on a Galilean hillside was of any political or military consequence? When compared to the might symbolized by the city that lay just ahead, it didn’t appear likely.

  If the lands bordering the Great Sea of Middle Earth were the tiara encircling the brow of the Roman empire, then Caesarea Maritima was the jewel on its eastern rim. Constructed as a wholly fresh, purpose-built showplace by Rome’s friend King Herod the Great, Caesarea was a marvel. From the hilltop approach to the city its acres of snowy limestone made a gleaming display. Monumental structures, from a colossal amphitheater for gladiatorial combat to an ostentatious temple dedicated to Emperor Augustus, dotted the seaside. There was perhaps no place in the empire that better combined grandeur with natural beauty.

  It was thoroughly Roman in its conveniences: wide, regular streets, perfect right-angle intersections, ample public promenades, and an efficient sewer system.

  Nor did temples or sewers exhaust the architectural wonders of the metropolis. Caesarea possessed one of the best artificial harbors in the world: reputedly the safest mooring between Piraeus in Greece and Alexandria in Egypt. Constructed of massive stone blocks sunk in two hundred feet of water, the entire Roman war fleet could have sheltered within the embrace of its outstretched limbs. From the seaward-most point on the breakwater a gigantic lighthouse beckoned navigators. It was said that a cargo galley leaving Alexandria two hundred fifty miles away could pick up the beacon of Caesarea before half the journey was completed.

  Perhaps Tribune Felix would be struck by the same comparison as Marcus. Perhaps Marcus’ friend and superior officer would have cooled down when he compared the Roman superiority on display in Caesarea with the rural scenes of Galilee.

  Felix and Marcus reined up in front of the marble palace that had once belonged to Herod, but was now the official residence of the prefect of the Roman province of Judea.

  Currently title and mansion belonged to Governor Pontius Pilate.

  A squad of eager legionaries recently recruited from Cyprus confronted the two arriving officers with crossed spearpoints to bar their entry. The decurion, captain of the ten men on sentry duty, recognized Felix but remained doubtful when the disreputable-looking Marcus was introduced.

  “But in any case, you can’t see the governor,” the young captain said when Felix demanded admission.

  “We’re under orders from the governor himself and the matter is urgent,” Felix retorted. “Let us pass!”

  “I’m sorry, Tribune,” returned the other, “but you misunderstood me. You can’t see Governor Pilate because he isn’t here.”

  “Where then?” Felix insisted. “Out of the city?”

  The decurion shook his head.

  It was a little past the second hour of the morning. Very early for a lover-of-ease like Pilate to be abroad.

  Marcus saw a flush of angry frustration overcome Felix.

  “Then where is he?” Felix bellowed at the flustered captain.

  “Sir, he went to the temple of the divine Augustus for the morning sacrifice. The new coins honoring Emperor Tiberius have been minted and the governor . . .”

  Felix didn’t stay to hear the rest of the explanation. Flinging back a pledge to flog young officers in order to make their tongues move faster, Felix remounted his horse. He applied his riding crop with vigor, administering a lashing to the mount as a substitute for the decurion.

  Marcus had hoped Felix might have calmed down since the Galil, lost the urgency to denounce Yeshua.

  Now that illusion was gone.

  YA’ASEH

  Before Emet, Avel, and Ha-or Tov had even left the confines of the Galil the trickle of Passover pilgrims flowing south toward Jeru salem had become a river. A stream of Jewish worshippers from Nazareth and Cana poured across the pass from the Valley of Jezreel. Descending toward the river valley, they met up with more wayfarers coming from Magdala and Genneseret.

  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.”