The Kingdom and the Crown

by Gerald N. Lund

  Marcus looked at the tunic, then at Mordechai. “I understand,” he said, taking it. “Thank you.” I also understand that it will draw less attention to Mordechai the Sadducee if he is not seen holding close conversations with a Roman officer. But Marcus said nothing more. He removed his helmet and unbuckled his breastplate and handed them to the guard. “Put these in my quarters.”

  Suddenly Sextus Rubrius appeared from nowhere. Seeing the look on the centurion’s face, Marcus started to explain. The centurion waved it off. “I agree with Mordechai. It would be better this way.”

  With that Marcus began to don the tunic. When they were finished, they moved to the small door and stepped through it to the outside. A moment later, Sextus came through as well. Marcus looked at him in surprise.

  Sextus grinned faintly. “I’m just going to walk around,” he said.

  But when they started off, Mordechai saw that the centurion fell in at a discreet distance behind them, his eyes constantly moving, taking in everything.

  Marcus saw it too and grunted to himself. He would regret seeing Sextus Rubrius posted back to Capernaum after Passover was done. He had come to value the wisdom and courage of this particular officer, but so had Pilate, and Capernaum was an important outpost. When the time came for Marcus to be transferred to a new post, he would see if there was any way to take Sextus with him.

  It surprised Marcus to see how many people were out and about already. It was barely the second hour of the day, and the sun was just now flooding over the eastern walls to illuminate the courtyards, but they were already heavily thronged. Judging from the dress he saw, many were obviously from other provinces, some from distant parts of the empire. He heard snatches of strange languages all around him.

  “It is a requirement of the Mosaic Law,” Mordechai said, noting where Marcus was looking. “If at all possible, every Jew comes to Jerusalem for Passover each year, even those in the Diaspora.”

  “The Diaspora?”

  “Yes, the Dispersion. After our people were taken captive into Babylon, many began to settle in various parts of the world. Up until that time we had been all right here in our land, so we called that natural migration the Dispersion.”

  “And your people are expected to come here for Passover even from distant places?”

  “Supposedly. In reality, some come only once or twice in a lifetime, but if they can manage it, it is expected that they will come.” He looked around. “The Council estimates that the normal population of Jerusalem, which is about two hundred thousand, swells to as many as a million during Pesach, as we call Passover.”

  “Then it is no wonder the governor increases the size of the garrison at this time.”

  Mordechai nodded. That was just the opening for which he had been waiting. “Your message said you bring word from the governor.”

  “I do,” Marcus said, moving a little closer and lowering his voice. “He received your plan and heartily approves. If you can deliver the Zealot leadership, Pilate agrees to all of your conditions.”

  “Including the increased judicial powers for the Sanhedrin?”

  “Yes.”

  A surge of elation shot through Mordechai. It was going to work. “Wonderful.”

  “He wants to know the name of the man you will use to set this all up. He says he must give his approval for that as well.”

  Mordechai stopped. Marcus stopped as well and turned to face him. “There is too much at stake to have something go wrong,” the tribune said.

  “There is too much at stake to have a name whispered in the wrong places,” Mordechai shot right back.

  That was basically an insult, Marcus thought. This Jew was suggesting that either he or the governor could not be trusted. But he also understood the concern in Mordechai’s face. This was an extremely delicate matter, one that could do irreparable damage to Mordechai’s person and the Sanhedrin as well. “Pilate authorized me to tell you that no one but me will hear that name from you, and no one but him will hear that name from me. But he insists that he know.”

  “So he does not trust my judgment?”

  “Pilate does not trust anyone’s judgment but his own,” Marcus said blandly. “That is what makes him such an effective governor.”

  Mordechai began to walk again, very slowly now. After several paces, he spoke, choosing his words with great care. “I understand the governor’s concern, but you must understand my position. Even in the inner circle, no one but me knows the name. They have approved the plan, but not even they know who I will choose to carry it out. It has to be this way. One unguarded whisper and it could bring us all to ruin. Utter ruin! You cannot comprehend the disaster that would be.”

  Marcus said nothing for a moment. In fact, Pilate had instructed him to push hard to find out who Mordechai would select as his instrument of treachery, but he had given him some leeway if Mordechai balked.

  “I haven’t yet talked to this person. He may not agree.”

  “Once it is set, then will you give us the name?”

  Mordechai shook his head adamantly. “I cannot. You must help the governor see why that is so.”

  Again Marcus was quiet for a time. Then: “Do we have your word that you will keep us informed of every other detail?”

  “Every one, if I have your solemn word that only the two of you will hear them. Again, all things must be done with the greatest discretion.”

  “We understand. That goes without saying.”

  “Good.”

  “How soon will you make contact with this man?”

  “Soon. During the festival.” There was a short laugh. “Assuming that your soldiers don’t see him first and he ends up in the cells of the Antonia waiting crucifixion.”

  Marcus raised one eyebrow. So the man was wanted by Rome. Pilate would be pleased to hear that. The Zealots were not going to trust anyone who wasn’t an avowed enemy of Rome. He thought about asking another question, pressing for more information, but sensed that Mordechai was now wishing he had not said even that much.

  Suddenly they heard a shout. “Father!”

  They turned. Through the crowd they could see a woman waving frantically, pushing toward them.

  “Miriam?” Mordechai said in complete surprise.

  Now Marcus could see her clearly. She was smiling and waving her arm. He laughed. Perfect! He had planned to ask Mordechai about his daughter once they finished their business.

  The older man shot Marcus a quick look. “Everything is set then?” he said in a low voice. “I am free to proceed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” The somber expression gave way to a smile as he turned to greet his daughter.

  Marcus grinned as he saw Miriam stop, her mouth opening in surprise as she only now recognized who it was in the simple brown tunic walking with her father. He lifted a hand. “Shalom, Miriam.”

  Chapter 10

  For the zeal of thine house hath eaten me up.

  —Psalm 69:9

  I

  3 April, a.d. 30

  “Wait, wait,” Marcus said, holding up his hands in surrender. “Start over again.”

  Miriam cocked her head and gave him a stern look. “Please pay attention, Tribune. It was you who said you wanted to learn about the Temple Mount.” She smiled. They were speaking in Latin, at her insistence.

  He laughed. “Yes. Yes, I did. But I didn’t realize I would have to think so hard.”

  The two of them stood at the east side of the temple, near what was known as the wall of partition.

  “Think of the Temple Mount as a vast table,” she began again. “The whole tabletop is the Court of the Gentiles. It is the largest of all the courts, as you can see. We call it the Court of the Gentiles because anyone can come into it, even those who are not of our faith.”

  “The goyim, as you call us,” he said with a sardonic smile.

  Surprised that he knew the term, she nodded. “Yes. It’s unfortunate that some have turned that word into a term of
derision, but it literally means ‘the nations.’ So a goy is only someone of a nation other than Israel.”

  She stopped, watching his face. That seemed to satisfy him, so she went on. “So in the Court of the Gentiles, anyone and everyone—Roman, Nubian, Parthian, Egyptian—are welcome as long as they are willing to act with some reverence and decorum.”

  “I understand.”

  “Good. Now in the center of the tabletop is a series of platforms built one upon the other. The first and largest platform, the one you see right before us, is five steps higher than the main court. This raises the temple and the courts around it above the rest of the Temple Mount and clearly defines the area where Gentiles are not allowed to go. That is why they have built this wall or partition all the way around it.”

  She reached out and touched the marble partition in front of them. It was about chest high and made of thin sheets of beautifully decorated and highly polished marble. These were held in place by marble pillars about four or five feet apart, with openings allowing passage at regular intervals. “We call it the soreg, or wall of partition. It is a way to clearly mark the point where Gentiles can go no farther.”

  “On pain of death?” he asked dryly. He took a step forward and reached out with his finger and began to trace the letters carved in the stone. Written in both Greek and Latin, the inscription he touched read: No foreigner is allowed within this balustrade and embankment about the sanctuary. Whoever is caught therein will be personally responsible for his ensuing death.

  Miriam watched him, searching for a way to explain.

  He turned. “If I were to step through there”—he was pointing at one of the entrances—“would I really put my life in peril?”

  He was half teasing, but the very thought made her shudder. “Yes, Marcus. If they knew you were a Roman, there would be an instant riot. You would be dead in moments.”

  It pleased him that in her earnestness she had called him by his given name for the first time. So he decided to prolong this obvious concern. He half turned until he saw the glint of Sextus Rubrius’ helmet in the crowd. “My loyal centurion would rush in to save me,” he said. His face was sober, but his eyes were laughing at how serious she had become.

  Miriam turned as well and saw the other soldier who had been shadowing them the whole time. She had already recognized him as the man who escorted her and her father from Caesarea to Jerusalem a week or so before. “Then he would die too,” Miriam said quietly. “It is a law that the Emperor Augustus gave us permission to enforce. Protecting the sanctity of the temple from defilement is of the utmost importance to us.”

  Now all humor went out of him. “Yes, I know. I was briefed expressly on this peculiarity when I arrived in Judea.”

  She looked at him for several seconds, sensing that her comment had offended him.

  He reached his hand over the top of the partition. “Does putting my hand over the wall defile your religion as well?” Then he shook his head, half speaking to himself. “I must say I find it surprising that the emperor would give you that kind of authority.”

  She decided that the only way out of this was to treat it lightly. “But it is God who gives us the authority,” she said sweetly. “The emperor only validates it.”

  He laughed, pleased that she would not be bested by him. “I wonder if anyone has ever told Caesar that.” He lifted his head, shading his eyes from the blinding reflection of the sun off the golden walls of the temple. “So, we are here in the Court of the Unclean. What comes next?”

  They stood close together, the crowds swirling around them and paying them no attention. In addition to the centurion, who hovered unobtrusively nearby, Miriam could also see Livia not far away. When her father suggested that Miriam take the Roman officer on a tour of the Temple Mount, Miriam had considered sending Livia to do the shopping without her. Then she realized that act might be interpreted by Marcus as being too bold on her part. Without being asked, Livia moved away, but she tried to stay within sight of Miriam so as to keep things appropriate and proper.

  The Passover crowds had increased dramatically now, spilling out from the temple courtyards following the morning sacrifice, so Marcus and Miriam stayed close together. To her surprise, until the last few moments, she had found him in a teasing mood, and their conversation was filled with light banter and gentle jabs at one another. With his uniform covered by the tunic, there were times when she forgot she was in the company of a Roman gentleman and a commanding officer in the tenth legion.

  Grateful to be off the subject of the wall of partition, she pointed at walls behind the partition, which towered above them. “Well, as you can see, the temple and the inner courts are all enclosed as well. Three large gates lead into the first court, which is called the Court of the Women.”

  “Because only women can enter there?”

  “Oh no, but women can’t go beyond there except to make a sacrifice. Also, there’s a place in that court especially for women to worship, and that also gives it its name. It’s beautiful inside. It too is surrounded by ornate columns, though they are not anywhere nearly as grand as the porticos around the Court of the Gentiles.”

  He nodded, his eyes taking in the walls and buildings that were in front of them.

  “On the west side of the Court of the Women is a beautiful curved stairway that leads to the Nicanor Gate. It is called that because its set of massive, ornately carved bronze doors was donated by a very wealthy Alexandrian Jew named Nicanor. They open onto the Court of Israel, where the men worship. On the west side of that court is a low balustrade which allows people to look into the Court of the Priests. There only those who are priests and Levites are allowed to enter.”

  She stopped to see if he had any questions, but he only nodded. “So in a way, permission to enter becomes more and more restricted as you move in toward the temple. In the center of the Court of the Priests is the great horned altar on which we offer our sacrifices.”

  “To your one God,” he said. “What is it you call him again?”

  “His name is sacred, so we most often call him Adonai, Lord, so that we don’t use his name too frequently. But his name is formed by four Hebrew letters—yhvh—which is a Hebrew root meaning ‘to be’ or ‘to exist.’ When Moses, one of our ancient prophets, asked God by what name he should be called, he said, ‘I am that I am. Tell the people that I am sends you.’”

  “Hmm.”

  He seemed intrigued, so she decided to add one more thing. “In our faith, we believe that there is only one god in all the world who can actually say, ‘I am. I exist. I live.’”

  If he heard that, he gave no sign. “And the temple is in the Court of the Priests?”

  “Yes, it stands on the western end of that court. It was built of the most carefully cut marble blocks—Herod brought in only the finest of stonemasons from Phoenicia. Then these blocks were covered with gold plating. It is glorious. As you can see, when the sun shines upon it, it is so dazzling that one can hardly bear to look at it. It bathes the whole Temple Mount in golden light.”

  “I’ll wager there are some who can barely stand to look upon that much gold without being overwhelmed by covetousness.”

  Miriam didn’t smile. “The temple has been sacked by conquerors more than once.”

  “So what is it like inside?” he asked.

  She hesitated for a moment. “Within the temple itself, there are two main rooms. The first is called the Holy Place. Inside that room is a table on which we put what we call the shewbread, bread that is baked especially as an offering to God. There is also an altar for burning incense in connection with the morning and evening prayers and also the great menorah, the sacred candlestick or lampstand. All of these are also made of gold.”

  “Ah, yes. Sextus Rubrius told me about that candlestick. He says it is massive.”

  “They say it is taller than a man and has seven lamps, signifying the perfect light of God’s Spirit. It is always kept burning and provides the only li
ght inside the temple.”

  “They say?” he repeated. “You mean you’ve never seen it?”

  She smiled and shook her head. “No one is allowed into the temple except the priests, and they can go only into the Holy Place. The second room, which is half the size of the first, we call the Most Holy Place, or the Holy of Holies. It is divided from the Holy Place by a veil on which are embroidered cherubim.”

  “Cherubim?” She had used the Aramaic word and not the Latin.

  “Yes, what you would call angels. They represent sentinels who stand guard and protect the entry to Deity.”

  “And your people can’t go into this Most Holy Place? That seems odd. I thought a temple was supposed to be a place of worship for all those who follow that god.”

  She shook her head. “No one enters the Holy of Holies except the high priest himself, and then only once a year on the Day of Atonement, what we call Yom Kippur.”

  Marcus stared at her in amazement. The building she was describing towered above the inner walls, rising to a height of a hundred and fifty feet or more. It was a magnificent structure, worthy of any Roman deity and more. “Only one man goes inside and then only once a year?”

  She shook her head. “I was talking only about the Holy of Holies. The priests go into the Holy Place every day to burn incense, and they change the shewbread each week. But entry through the veil into the Most Holy Place, yes, only the high priest and only once each year. And that happens only after he goes through a careful ritual of purification.”

  He blew out his breath. “You have a very strange religion,” he said. But it came out without malice and sounded almost half like a compliment.

  She decided she wanted to help him better understand. “Actually, there are two things that make us seem strange and also make us unique from other religions.”

  “What?”

  “Symbol and ritual.”

  He thought about that for a moment. “Isn’t that what makes all religions what they are?”

  “In a way, yes. But it is so much more to us.” Then she had a thought. “How old is the Roman Empire now?”