Watching Pontius Pilate, Joseph saw the dark flush of anger rise in his face, but it was the hell in the procurator’s eyes that shocked him most. Utter despair was written there for an instant, as if Pilate were seeing something he had feared but, until this moment, was unwilling to admit. Then the look changed suddenly to one of cold, almost demoniac fury in one of the abrupt changes of mood that often came over him.
“Procula!” he snapped. “What are you doing?”
Claudia Procula got to her feet, trembling from the shock of the savage question. “We—I was praying for Gaius Flaccus,” she stammered.
“This is your doing.” Pilate wheeled upon Mary. But before she could speak Procula said firmly, “You are wrong, Pontius. I have prayed secretly to Jehovah for a long time. Mary had nothing to do with it, except to show me what believing in Him can do.”
Mary showed no sign of fear before the anger of the Roman official. It was as if a power and a vision they could not know set her apart from all of them.
“We who rule for Rome worship the emperor as divine, Procula,” Pilate said sharply. “But the Jewish God acknowledges no other. When you pray to Him, you blaspheme against the emperor. And you—” He turned upon Mary savagely. “You will henceforth worship the gods of your master’s household.”
“These are the words of Jehovah,” Mary said quietly. “‘I am the LORD your God. . . . You shall have no other gods before me.’”
For a moment Joseph thought Pontius Pilate was going to strike Mary and moved quickly to place himself between them. His eyes met the hot angry stare of the procurator, but his gaze did not fall while he waited, knowing fully the penalty if he were forced to resist.
A puzzled look came into Pilate’s face. “What is the punishment for striking one who rules in the name of Rome, Joseph?” he asked in a different tone.
“Crucifixion!” Joseph was surprised that his voice was calm and clear.
“And you would dare to strike me for chastising a slave?”
“She is a slave only to Gaius Flaccus,” Joseph said quietly. “I owe her my life and would protect her if I could, even from the emperor himself.”
“What if she breaks the laws of Rome?”
“Rome has guaranteed to the Jew in his own country the right to worship his God,” Joseph reminded him. “And Mary, being the adopted daughter of a Roman citizen, is protected by Roman law herself.”
“You should have been a doctor of the law, Joseph,” Pilate said then, but not unkindly. “At least you have a good mind, which is more than I can say for some of those I have to deal with in Jerusalem. But you forget that I can be judge as well as prosecutor under the law.” He turned to the couch. “Can you help my nephew?”
Joseph took a long breath of relief. “I have drawn blood and tried to preserve his strength,” he explained, “but the delirium grows worse. Just now he was taken with a severe convulsion.”
“I have seen cases such as this from wounds incurred in battle,” Pilate agreed. “There was no hope for him from the beginning, but I am glad Mary sent for you.” He turned to her, and for a moment Joseph thought he was going to apologize, but he only said, “You have suffered much at the hands of this kinsman of mine, Mary of Magdala. How can you pray for him when his recovery means you are still a slave?”
“There is one who said, ‘Love your enemies,’” she said simply.
“Can you Jews do nothing but quote texts from the sayings of your God?” Pilate asked sarcastically.
“This was spoken by a man,” Mary told him. “The Teacher, Jesus of Nazareth.”
Before Pilate could speak, Claudia Procula said pleadingly, “Jesus is said to perform miracles, Pontius. If we would ask Him to come here—”
“I will have no religious fanatics in the house of my kinsman,” Pilate snapped.
“B-But—”
“Say no more, Procula! Joseph is the best physician in this region. If he says there is no hope for Gaius Flaccus, there is no hope. Come. We will go back to Tiberias tonight. This mangy capital of Herod’s does not appeal to me.”
When Pilate and his lady had gone, Mary said softly, “You did a brave thing, Joseph, and I love you for it, but it would have been better to let him strike me than put your life in danger. I would not have minded the pain.”
“He had no right to blame you for what Claudia Procula believes.”
“Pilate is a troubled man, Joseph. Claudia Procula says he often seems beside himself lately, but she does not know what is worrying him. Sometimes he even accosts travelers on the road, asking, ‘What is truth?’”
Joseph smiled. “Philosophers have done that since time began. It is their favorite question.”
“I believe he knows the real truth, that everything comes from the Most High, but is afraid to believe it.”
“Why should anyone fear to worship the living God?”
“Could Pilate acknowledge the emperor as divine then? Or allow the eagles of Rome to be displayed before his palace? You can see what that would mean to a Roman.”
“Yes,” Joseph agreed. “But why did he object so strongly when Procula suggested that Jesus be asked to see Gaius Flaccus?”
“I think it was because of Pila.”
“The boy with the twisted foot? I saw him when he was a small child but could do nothing for him.”
“Since Jesus raised the daughter of Jairus from the dead, Procula has become hopeful that He might make Pila’s foot straight,” she explained.
“There was a Jairus who was a ruler of the synagogue at Capernaum. I treated him once.”
“It is the same man,” Mary confirmed. “Procula knew Jairus and his wife. When she heard about the miracle, she wanted to take Pila to Jesus, but Pilate refused. Now she feels that he neglected the boy.”
“Why did Pilate refuse to take Pila to the Teacher?”
“It may be because Jesus heals in the name of the Most High. If Pilate’s own son were healed by Him, the procurator would have to acknowledge the power of God.”
“And he could not do that when he denies the very existence of the Most High,” Joseph agreed thoughtfully. “It must have been a hard decision to make, with his own son involved.”
“I tried to tell Procula that,” Mary said, “but she is Pila’s mother, and things look different to her.”
Joseph smiled. “Once I lectured you on your duty to God. Now you are teaching me humility.”
“But everyone knows that you are good, Joseph.”
He looked at Gaius Flaccus, who for the moment was lying quietly in a stupor, having exhausted his strength in the convulsions.
“Am I?” he said slowly. “I am sworn to think only of the welfare of the sick, but if Gaius Flaccus dies you will be free. I don’t think I could pray for him as you did, Mary, when I know what it will mean for you if he lives.”
“When you see Jesus,” she said softly, “you will understand how I could pray for Gaius Flaccus’s life, even though I knew that tomorrow he would flog me and give me to any man who visits this house. Just to look at Jesus and hear Him speak can make you a different person.”
During the night, the sick man lapsed into a coma as the spreading poison of the infection completed the conquest of his body. Pontius Pilate and his wife returned to Sepphoris from Tiberias in the morning and were present at the end.
“Procula,” the procurator said when Joseph pronounced Gaius Flaccus dead, “we must follow the Roman custom, even though we are far from home.”
She came over to stand by the couch, with Mary a little behind her. “Gaius Flaccus, arise!” Pilate called several times, and Procula repeated the summons. It was the ancient rite of the conclamentio, the “calling back” of the dead customary in Roman households.
“Conclamatum est—the cry has been raised,” Pilate anno
unced formally. “You may send for the embalmers, Joseph. In three days we will consign his body to the pyre with all honors befitting a military commander and send his ashes to Rome.”
The embalmers were skillful and did their work well. First the body was preserved and dressed in a fresh toga decorated with the numerous military and civil insignia that the deceased had won in life. Then it was laid in state upon a funeral couch in the atrium, with the feet toward the door and a coin of gold in the dead man’s mouth to provide passage money for the final journey across the river Styx.
Before the doors were opened to those who wished to enter and pay tribute to the dead, a wax impression of the tribune’s face was taken, called the imago. It would be sent later to Rome, where it would occupy a niche in one of the two alae at the rear corners of the atrium in the home of his family, along with an inscription, or titulus, telling of his accomplishments. The privilege of thus displaying imagines was limited to those of high rank.
Pontius Pilate had decided that his nephew should be cremated with full military and civil honors, just as would have been the case had he been in Rome. The ceremony, Joseph surmised, was also to serve as a reminder to Herod Antipas and the Galileans that Rome still ruled here. Herod Antipas did not dare object to honors given one who had been a favorite of the emperor Tiberius, even if it entailed a mighty show of arms and a flaunting display of Roman authority and pomp in the capital of a Jewish tetrarchy.
Joseph was surprised, in the midst of the preparations, when he was summoned to visit the procurator at Tiberias. Hadja accompanied him, and as they came down the steep and narrow road from Magdala to Tiberias, the whole panorama of the lake and the teeming, populous cities around it was spread out before them. To the north, beyond the city of Capernaum, lay the green carpet of groves and fields of the Plain of Gennesaret. From here in the spring came the first fruits and vegetables for the markets of Jerusalem, the finest of their kind in the world. So luscious indeed were they that the priests of the temple sometimes tried to keep them from reaching the markets on the feast days, lest the worshipers be tempted to enjoy the melons and other fruits, forgetting their duty to God.
A little way to the north of Capernaum was a place where springs of highly mineralized water burst from the rocks. Joseph had been there many times to bottle the water for medicine, especially to treat those whose accumulated excess of humors needed purging. And beyond this area of springs was a small cove, almost semicircular in shape, a place of peace so quiet that a man standing on the shore could speak in a normal voice and be heard high upon the mountainside.
From where he stood well above all this Joseph could see that a large crowd filled the cove, even spilling over into the boats of the fishermen that floated, their colorful sails furled, close to the shore. At this height the fishing boats looked like toys and the people of the crowd hardly larger than ants.
“Jesus is teaching today in the cove,” Hadja explained. “It is one of His favorite spots, for everyone can hear Him there.”
“That is the largest crowd I ever saw in Galilee,” Joseph observed. “Does He always draw so many people?”
“The sick follow Him everywhere,” Hadja explained, “for He heals many.”
“Have you seen this with your own eyes, Hadja?”
The tall musician nodded. “Once Jesus healed a man who was let down to Him through the roof because a crowd filled the house. And at Gadara He cast out devils and drove them into swine, so they rushed into the lake and were drowned.”
“Why do you follow Him, Hadja?” Joseph asked as they guided their camels down the narrow road. “After, all, you are not a Jew.”
“In my country the nobles oppress the poor,” the Nabatean explained, “just as they do everywhere in the world that I have been. The Teacher of Nazareth tells me all men are equal in the sight of God. And since I know in my heart that this a good thing, I believe what He teaches.”
“Does He plan to remove the oppressors from power by force?”
“I do not hear that in the things that He tells me.”
“Then how will He free men from those who hold them in bondage?”
Hadja smiled. “If everyone could be as good and kind in his heart as you and the Living Flame are, Joseph, there would be no injustice between a man and his brother. Jesus wants to change the hearts of men and set up in them the kingdom of God of which He speaks. Then all men will be free.”
VI
Pontius Pilate was in a summerhouse overlooking the lake, in the garden between his villa and the water, reading from a small scroll. He looked up and smiled when the nomenclator ushered Joseph into the garden.
“Peace be upon you, Joseph of Galilee,” he said courteously and held up the scroll he was reading. “Have you read the poems of Virgil?”
Joseph shook his head. “Treating the sick leaves me little time for anything else.”
“In Rome physicians are often philosophers. I heard a very learned one say that more of man’s ills come from his soul than from his body.”
“The Greeks taught a similar doctrine,” Joseph admitted.
“And you?”
“I would not deny that a melancholy spirit is often followed by distemper,” Joseph admitted.
“I have proved that for myself,” Pilate agreed. “It is no easy task to rule a contentious people like the Jews, Joseph. In Caesarea, where the burdens of my office are heavy, my gout is always more painful. And it is still worse in Jerusalem.”
“It could be the climate.”
Pilate shook his head. “The chill of winter is already in the air here, yet I feel hardly a twinge in my gouty toe. You must have noticed how much more peaceful it is here in Galilee beside the lake than in Jerusalem and Judea. A man can think here without having to listen to idle chatter from people seeking power.” He picked up the scroll. “Listen to these verses; they were written of Italy, but describe Galilee just as well:
But fruitful vines and the fat olive’s freight,
And harvests heavy with their fruitful weight,
Adorn our fields; and on the cheerful green,
The grazing flocks and lowing herds are seen. . . .
Perpetual spring our happy climate sees,
Twice breed the cattle and twice bear the trees,
And summer suns recede by slow degrees.
Pilate rolled up the scroll and turned back to Joseph. “You find me moody indeed today, Joseph,” he said with a sigh, “but I have cares even here in Tiberias.” He stood up and shaded his eyes against the afternoon sun. “I wonder where the fishing boats are this afternoon. They usually return with their catch about now.”
“A great crowd has gathered at the other end of the lake,” Joseph explained. “I saw many boats up there when we came down the road from Magdala.”
Pilate’s face took on a sober look. “When the Galileans come together in crowds, it brooks no good, Joseph. What were they doing? Shouting against Rome?”
“Hadja says they were listening to the Teacher called Jesus of Nazareth.”
“The one who claims to heal?”
“Yes. But many have made that claim in the past.”
“I know,” Pilate agreed. “Herod is trying to convince me that this man is stirring up the people to rebellion, but I must always seek two meanings in everything he says. Do you think I should take Pila to Jesus?” he asked abruptly.
Taken aback by the question, Joseph fumbled for an answer. But before he could speak Pilate said, “Never mind. You are honest enough to disagree with me if you felt that you should. And then I might be angry with you. I am resigned to the fact that my son will always be a cripple, Joseph. It is a part of the unjust fate that isolated me in Judea when I might have had a high place in the empire. And—” He stopped and did not speak for a moment. “Did you hear that Jesus raises people f
rom the dead?”
“I was told of the miracle,” Joseph admitted. “If it really was one.”
“Then you doubt it, too?”
“I have seen many people die, but none come to life again. If the girl was really dead, as they claim, and was raised, I would believe it a miracle.”
“That is just why I sent for you,” Pilate told him. “I want you to talk with this man Jairus in Capernaum and find out the truth. And while you are about it, you might listen to Jesus of Nazareth and tell me if He teaches anything against Rome. . . . No . . . ,” he amended. “It would not be right to make you spy on one of your own race. I have ways of finding out those things myself. Just look into the raising of the child.”
The funeral of Gaius Flaccus was held on the third day following his death. Long before it was to begin, the city was filled with the carriages and chairs of Roman officers and civil officials. The dead tribune’s rank in the equestrian order and his office as commander of all Roman troops in this region had given Pontius Pilate an opportunity to make an impressive show of Roman military might, both to discourage the Galileans in any thoughts they might have had of rebellion and to remind Herod Antipas that Pontius Pilate, as the highest Roman official in this region except the Legate of Syria himself, still controlled considerable power.
Well before the hour for the start of the procession the dissignator, as the Roman official who acted as master of ceremonies was called, took his place before the house and began to arrange the order of the march. Beside him were his lictors with their fasces, the universal emblem of Roman civil justice. The body of the dead commander was laid out upon the sumptuously upholstered bier in the atrium, with candles in tall golden candelabra casting flickering shadows upon wreaths of palms and flowers and ribbons lying on and about the body.
At the appointed time the trumpets of Gaius Flaccus’s own personal troops sounded, and the pallbearers, officers of his own command, marched in and lifted the open bier to their shoulders. Outside waited the tribune’s chariot, drawn by the four swift horses he had loved to drive at breakneck speed through villages and towns, often leaving crushed and maimed bodies lying in his wake. A frame had been built on the richly ornamented vehicle to hold the shallow bier, which was now placed carefully on the chariot and lashed down by the handles, lest the spirited horses shake it loose as the conveyance bumped over the stone-paved streets.
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