The Kingdom and the Crown

by Gerald N. Lund

  Marcus also understood what lay behind his words. “Let me use the penalty money to keep the men happy, and word of this will never reach the governor’s ear.”

  The newest tribune in the Tenth Legion Fretensis turned back to the man standing in front of him, suddenly tired beyond anything he had ever felt before. Was the glory of Rome worth a bloodbath here? David ben Joseph might be calm, but Marcus knew with absolute certainty that this was not a bluff. If Marcus chose to gratify his Roman pride at this point, slaughter on both sides would surely result.

  He straightened to his full height, letting go of his wounded arm so both hands hung down at his side. “Yes,” he said to David. “Let us be done with it.”

  David ben Joseph inclined his head, his eyes filled with gratitude. “Thank you, Tribune. I was right in what I saw in your face.” He turned around and raised both of his hands. “The Romans are to have safe passage out of the Galilee,” he called in a loud voice. “We are done with it.”

  As quickly as they appeared, the men began to melt away. Marcus watched for a moment, then turned again in the saddle. “Let the women go,” he said wearily.

  Chapter Notes

  In a passage of scripture read by millions every Christmas season, Luke wrote: “And it came to pass in those days, that there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus, that all the world should be taxed. (And this taxing was first made when Cyrenius was governor of Syria)” (Luke 2:1–2). That seems to be the same census, or enrollment for purposes of taxing, that led to the beginnings of the Zealot movement in Palestine as noted here. The Roman spelling of the legate’s name is Quirinius. Wherever possible, people were enrolled in the city of their family’s origins. Thus Joseph and Mary, who were of the house of David, left Nazareth and went to Bethlehem, which was the city of David (see Luke 2:4).

  The reign of Pontius Pilatus, or Pontius Pilate as we know him, as procurator of Judea began in a.d. 26. He served in that position for ten years. The story of his attempt to force the Roman standards on Jerusalem and the ensuing showdown with the Jewish people is told by Josephus (Antiquities of the Jews, xviii.iii.1.2).

  Chapter 1

  Children’s children are the crown of old men; and the glory of children are their fathers.

  —Proverbs 17:6

  I

  20 March, a.d. 30

  David ben Joseph stopped for a moment in the courtyard, listening for any sounds in the house. “Deborah!”

  There was no response. He walked swiftly over to the main door to the house. Out of long habit, he reached up and touched with the tip of his fingers the mezuzah that was mounted on the door frame; then he pushed the door open. “Deborah?”

  He heard the soft slap of footsteps on stone; then Phineas, their chief household servant, appeared in the upper hall. “Mistress Deborah is not here, sire.”

  “Oh? Do you know where she is?”

  He shrugged. “She said only that she would be gone about an hour.”

  “Thank you, Phineas.”

  “Would you like me to go find her, sire?”

  “No, that’s all right. I’ll check over at Ephraim’s. It’s nothing urgent.”

  “As you wish, sire.”

  “What about Leah?”

  “She went with her mother, sire.”

  “Phineas?”

  “Yes, sire?”

  “How many years have you worked for Deborah and me now?”

  “Six years, sire.”

  “And how many times have I said that you don’t have to call me sire, that you can call us just David and Deborah?”

  There was no change in the man’s expression. “More times than I could count, sire.”

  David shook his head. “Just David is fine.”

  “Yes, sire.” He bowed slightly and retreated back down the hall.

  As David shut the door again, he stopped at the fountain in the courtyard and bent down to wash his face. It was still just the beginning of spring, but it was warm today and the swiftness of his walk back from the seashore had left him perspiring.

  Straightening, he wiped his face off, then stopped. His eyes had fallen on a dark stain on the marble tiles. He sat back, leaning against the lip of the fountain. Now his eyes picked up the other place. Here the stain was not as prominent, and it was made up of several smaller splotches. His eyes half closed as he tried to imagine the events of that terrible afternoon five months before. They had scrubbed at the bloodstains on the tile and removed most of them. They had hoped a winter of rain—and even one brief, rare snowstorm—would eventually take the rest away, but it had not. A month ago David had offered to have the tiles ripped out and replaced, but to his surprise his wife had said no. It would serve as a grim memorial of Rome’s terrible legacy, she said, a reminder of why the Zealots would continue their resistance until every Roman was driven from the land.

  David’s eyes clouded as he thought about this one corner of his wife’s mind that he had not been able to penetrate and change. Deborah had been fourteen when her uncle, Judah of Gamla, had risen up against the call for a Roman census. Along with the rest of her family, she had joined in the rebellion, running food to the Zealot armies, secreting messages through the lines, risking her life on a daily basis. By the time of Deborah’s fifteenth birthday, Judah and another of her uncles had been killed in battle. A third brother—Deborah’s father—and three of her cousins had been crucified while the rest of the family had been forced to watch. That winter, still on the run, Deborah, her mother, and her younger brother had hidden in a cave, rarely with the benefit of a fire, throughout the winter. Before spring came, her mother had died from consumption and Deborah was left to be mother and father to ten-year-old Aaron.

  Deborah was a gracious and cultured woman. She had a gentleness and patience about her that always drew others to her. With her two grandchildren she was tender and warm, a delight to them, and they adored her. Very few ever saw that tiny piece of her that was as cold as the snows of Mount Hermon and harder than tempered steel.

  David sighed as he stood and started for the gate that led into the street. Ironically, it was Simeon who had inherited that particular part of his mother’s nature. Deborah was close to all of her four children, but there was a special bond between her and her second son. Her tragedy became his tragedy; her vows became his crusade. And what had happened to Simeon right here in this courtyard had only solidified that determination into an implacable, rock-hard desire for vengeance.

  David understood Simeon’s anger, just as he did his wife’s bitterness. Even now, when he thought about how close they had come to having Deborah and Leah sold off as slaves, it left him weak and trembling. Every day, even now, five months later, David offered thanks to God for his help in freeing his wife and daughter before the unthinkable had become reality. Every day he thanked God for sparing the life of his son. The vivid scar across Simeon’s chest was a constant reminder to David of how close they had come to losing him. But Simeon did not dwell on how fortunate they had been, how great the mercy of God was in their behalf. Simeon brooded over what might have been more than what was. He kept the image of his mother and sister tied in bonds at the forefront of his mind. It was like fuller’s soap, eating at him, corroding his inner soul, deepening and fueling his hatred for everything Roman.

  David sighed again, pushing all of that from his mind, and exited the courtyard.

  II

  David and Deborah’s oldest and only married child lived just four doors up the street from their own house. David knocked on the door once, again paused for a moment to touch the mezuzah that was on this doorway as well, then walked right in. “It’s me,” he called.

  “In here, Papa.”

  At the sound of Rachel’s voice, he turned and went into the back of the house where the kitchen was. His daughter-in-law was at the table, shaping fat loaves of bread with her hands for eventual placement in the stone oven behind the house. Her apron was covered with flour, and there were a couple of smudg
es of it on her face. He went to her and kissed her on the cheek. “Granmama is not here?” He used the name that Rachel’s eldest child always used for her grandmother.

  “No. She and Leah took Esther and Boaz for a walk down by the water.”

  “Oh.” His face showed his disappointment. “I was just down that way and didn’t see them.”

  Rachel shrugged. “That’s what she said.”

  He sat down on a bench, then looked around. “Is Ephraim at the storehouse?”

  “Yes.” She smiled. “Isn’t he always?”

  There was a deep satisfaction in David’s eyes as he replied. “He loves it as much as I do.”

  “I know.” Rachel rubbed one cheek with the back of her hand, adding another spot to the others. “I’m glad.”

  David nodded. How fortunate he and Deborah had been in choosing this young woman for their oldest son. It had not been a hard decision for them. Rachel’s parents were weavers, and David marketed their blankets and robes across all of northern Galilee. Ephraim and Rachel had been close friends from the time they were small, and Ephraim had instantly agreed when David proposed that an arrangement be made with Rachel’s family. He frowned. “I wish we could pour a little love for merchandising into Simeon’s head.”

  “Oh, don’t despair,” Rachel smiled. “Simeon is still young. When he gets a wife and children, he’ll settle into the business just fine.”

  “I hope you’re right. And we’re working on that, by the way.”

  She looked up in surprise. “Shana?”

  He nodded.

  “Wonderful!”

  “Don’t say anything to Simeon yet,” he said. “He and I have talked about it, and I think he is about ready to agree to it, but not quite yet.”

  “I won’t.”

  Just then they heard voices at the front of the house. David turned. “There they are now.”

  “Look, Mama!” Four-year-old Esther came through the door into the kitchen, holding out a cluster of pink flowers in her tiny hand. Her eyes were wide with excitement, but as usual, her face was grave and thoughtful.

  Rachel brushed the flour off her hands and went to her daughter. As she reached her, Leah came in, holding Boaz, who was not quite two, in her arms. Deborah was right behind them. Leah put the boy down, and immediately he waddled over to his grandfather and climbed up into his lap.

  David nuzzled his neck with his beard. “Hello, young Boaz.”

  Boaz giggled and pulled away. David looked up at his daughter. Leah was fifteen now and looking more like her mother every day. “Where is Joseph?” he asked.

  Leah shrugged, and Deborah answered for her. “Where is Joseph any time? Out practicing with his bow and arrow with his friends, probably.” When she said it, there was pride in her voice.

  David frowned at that. His youngest, just ten years of age, was smitten with a bad case of hero worship, and his hero was his older brother. Simeon was renowned for being an outstanding bowman. He was also excellent with a sling and could throw a dagger and split an apple at thirty paces. Only Yehuda could best him in a battle with staves, and though David had never seen it personally, he knew that his son was also a master with the Roman broadsword. It was one thing to have a boy desperately trying to emulate those skills; it was quite another to have that boy subtly encouraged to do so by his mother.

  “What kind of flowers are they?” Rachel asked her daughter, sensing the sudden coolness in the room.

  Esther turned and looked at her grandmother for help.

  “Cyclamen,” Deborah said.

  “Yes,” Esther told her mother.

  “They’re beautiful,” Rachel said. “Let’s get some water for them.”

  David watched Esther as her mother got a bowl down, filled it with water from the pail, and set it on the table. One by one, as carefully as if she were handling bird’s eggs, Esther began putting the flowers in the dish, placing each one with great precision. Through it all, her expression never changed.

  Esther was not only a source of great delight for David, she was also a continual fascination for him. He called her his little sphinx. Whereas Boaz was always giggling and laughing and teasing and singing lustily to himself, Esther was much more quiet and reserved. It was not that she was unhappy. She could sit quietly, playing with this or that, humming to herself softly in perfect contentment. But she rarely let her emotions show on her face. Even people she knew well were hard-pressed to get a response from her. As they tried everything possible to draw her out—complimenting her, pulling faces, tickling her, offering her sweets—she would only watch them gravely with those enormous dark eyes, her face as if it was carved from stone. If she knew them really well and if they were very good, they might win just the tiniest wisp of a smile around the corners of her mouth. If they were strangers, they didn’t exist. She would ignore them as completely as though they were invisible.

  David and Deborah saw her almost every day, and so she was completely comfortable around them. She called Deborah “Granmama” and David “Pampa,” which had been her first attempt at pronouncing his title. It had so delighted him that even now when she was four and could say grandfather clearly, he encouraged the use of the original. For them the smiles came easier, though it would have been an exaggeration to say they came frequently. But when they did, they lit up her face like a thousand lamps. It had become a goal with David to get at least one full smile from her every time he saw her.

  He marveled at how different two children could be. Boaz was already starting to string sentences together and was as bright as a silver denarius. Esther, on the other hand, had hardly said a word until she was three. It had worried Deborah for a time that she might have some kind of problem, but it had never concerned David. She hadn’t talked early because she didn’t need to. She was a master at communicating her desires with gestures and a few basic sounds. Then at three she had suddenly started talking in whole sentences. When David played with Boaz, teasing or tickling him, he would shriek in delight. When he did the same with Esther, she would often stick out one finger and shake it at him, as though she were the schoolmaster and he the child. He adored them both, but Esther was especially endearing to him.

  Leah went over to the table beside her sister-in-law and began to help with the shaping of the dough into loaves. Boaz slid off David’s lap and went over beside her. “Me?” he said, holding out a hand. Leah pulled off a small piece and handed it to him.

  Esther looked up and saw David watching her. She smiled shyly at him. He stood and went over and sat down beside her, studying the pattern she was creating in the bowl. He nodded his approval. “They’re like little crowns, aren’t they?” he said.

  There was a quick bob of her head.

  “They are almost as pretty as you,” he teased. That did it—the smile spread from her eyes all across her face. On seeing that, he shook his head. “No, on second thought, I don’t think there’s anything in the whole world quite as pretty as my little Esther.”

  She giggled, looking up at her mother. Rachel was watching with soft eyes. “I agree with your grandfather.”

  Deborah came over and sat down on the other side of Esther, reaching out to touch her hand. “She chose these all by herself, Pampa.”

  “You found those down by the beach?” he asked. Usually cyclamen did not grow by the water but preferred the meadows and rocky places of the Galilee.

  Deborah shook her head. “We didn’t go down to the lake. We went out to the east of town. The grass and the flowers are just coming into bloom now.” Then she gave him a strange look. “Are you helping Rachel bake bread?” She reached up and brushed flour from his tunic.

  Rachel saw it and laughed. “That’s my fault,” she said.

  David chuckled. “My favorite daughter-in-law—”

  “Your only daughter-in-law,” Rachel cut in quickly.

  “My favorite daughter-in-law loves me a great deal, but not enough to let me help with her baking.”

  “G
ood,” Deborah said, patting his cheek, the previous moment of tension now gone. “I was worried there for a moment.” Then a thought occurred to her. “Were you looking for me?”

  He nodded. Then seeing that Esther had finished putting all of the flowers in the water, he held out his arms. She moved over and stood beside him, snuggling in against him. David looked at Deborah. “I was over speaking with Andrew and Simon.”

  “And how was the catch last night?”

  “Excellent.” He hesitated. “But we weren’t talking about the fishing.”

  “Oh?” There was a thriving fishing industry along the shores of the Sea of Kinnereth, and Capernaum was one of the most active towns in that industry. One of the more profitable aspects of David’s merchant business was his partnership with two of the families of fishermen. He purchased their catch each day, getting it to the markets in town while it was still fresh, and packing the surplus catch in casks of salt. These were sold to the caravans that moved up and down the Via Maris, or Way of the Sea. This great Roman highway that led from Egypt up into Syria and beyond was an important trade route in this part of the world, and there was always a ready market for salted fish. Fish from the Sea of Kinnereth was eaten even in Rome. Simon and Andrew, who were brothers, were two of his partners. James and John and their father, Zebedee, were the others. Originally from Bethsaida, now Peter and Andrew lived here in Capernaum. The partnership between the two fishing families and David and his family had proven to be profitable for both sides.

  “They’ve just come back from Perea,” David explained.

  “Perea?” Leah spoke up. “What were they doing down there?”

  “They went down to hear a man named John.” He paused to see if that registered. “John, whom they call the Baptist.”

  “John the Baptist?” Rachel broke in. “I have heard of him. My mother was telling me about him just yesterday. They say great multitudes go out into the wilderness to hear him and to be baptized by him.”