Pilate stirred and Marcus stopped again, but the governor waved him to continue.
“It was Simeon who came up with the compromise solution—we lay down our arms, and we would get safe escort through the pass.”
“And then Ya’abin pulled a double-cross.”
Marcus’s brows furrowed deeply. “Yes. And since Simeon had given me his word that we would have safe passage, that’s when he intervened in our behalf.”
“And you believe that?” Pilate said in a mocking voice. “The man you once almost killed saved your life because of some oath?”
Marcus shrugged. He was still trying to reconcile that in his own mind, and yet the evidence seemed pretty conclusive.
“If I hadn’t decided to ride up the pass to meet you two hours earlier than we had previously planned, it would have been far worse.”
Marcus nodded. “Yes. And Jupiter be praised for that, sire. You saved the day.”
That seemed to mollify Pilate slightly, though it was obvious he was still brooding about it all. “And still nothing on Ya’abin?”
Marcus’s face hardened. “Not yet. I’ve got a full cohort, almost six hundred men, searching the wilderness of Judea. I’ve sent word to the garrisons at Jerash and Machaerus to be on the alert as well, in case he slips across the river.” His voice was cold. “He’s one I very much want to get my hands on.”
“I still think massaging this Yehuda’s tongue with a hot iron before we crucify him might loosen his memory a little,” Pilate grumbled, returning to the subject of their prisoner.
Marcus didn’t think he was serious, but nodded quickly. “If that is your wish, sire, we can carry it out tonight.”
He wearily shook his head. “No, no. If Sextus Rubrius says this Yehuda doesn’t know and you’re convinced as well, I’ll accept that. I want the prisoner’s screams unimpeded when we bring him out at the games. Then he will learn what it means to fight against Rome.”
Just then there was a soft knock at the door.
“Open!” Pilate barked.
The door opened and a slave clad in a white tunic bowed his way into the room. “Dinner is ready, Excellency.”
“It’s about time. Is the Jew there yet?”
“Yes, sire. Mordechai of Jerusalem is in the dining room awaiting your arrival.”
“Did you tell my wife to handle the other guests?”
“Yes, sire. She will be in the north vestibule. You will be undisturbed.”
Pilate muttered something under his breath that Marcus didn’t catch. The slave couldn’t have heard it either, but he took it for what it was and left quickly. The governor got to his feet. “All right, Marcus. Let’s go hear what your Mordechai has to say about all this.”
IV
Pilate barely waited for the food to be served and the slaves to leave again before he turned to Mordechai. “So,” he said bluntly, “I suppose you’ve come for a report.”
Mordechai nodded. If he was surprised by the sudden coldness in the governor, he gave no sign. “I haven’t been back to Jerusalem yet. I sailed straight here from Alexandria.”
Pilate speared a piece of roasted quail breast with his knife and popped it into his mouth. “Tell him, Marcus.”
After almost five full days aboard ship, Mordechai should have been delighted to finally have a decent meal set before him, especially one as sumptuous as this. But any thoughts of food were quickly dispelled as Marcus began to speak. He started at the point where the column of wagons from Damascus had reached Capernaum. Mordechai listened, his face grave but attentive. By the time Marcus described the arrival of Simeon and his father, and the fact that they obviously knew everything about the trap, Mordechai’s features were a flaming purple. That quickly turned to a deep, ashen gray as Marcus told of Ya’abin’s treachery, of the fierce but brief battle in the midst of the pass, of the triumph turned into debacle.
Pilate did not interrupt the narration. He ate lazily while Marcus talked, his eyes never leaving the Sadducee’s face. When Marcus finally stopped and sat back, Pilate was convinced. Mordechai ben Uzziel had no complicity in the events of the previous week. Not even the most consummate actor could have feigned such emotions.
Finished, Marcus picked up a cluster of grapes and began to eat them as Pilate took over now. “Understand clearly, Mordechai, we do not think that you had any part in this treachery. But think, man! Who else knew the details of our plan? Who could have betrayed us?”
“Marcus and me and you,” came the almost instant reply.
“No one else?” Pilate sneered skeptically.
“Several knew small parts of it,” Mordechai said firmly, “but no one knew everything.” His mind was working furiously even as he spoke. Then Mordechai snapped his fingers. “Someone must have seen your soldiers as they were moving into position.”
Marcus was shaking his head before he finished. “I have talked with each of the commanders. They were not discovered. They were very careful.”
“Just because they didn’t see anyone,” Mordechai retorted, the frustration making his voice harsher than he intended, “doesn’t mean they weren’t seen.”
“True, and I thought of that,” Marcus said calmly. “But if that were it, things would have developed much differently. The same thing is true if Simeon or someone else merely suspected it was a trap.” He tossed the grapes aside contemptuously. “No. They knew. Simeon knew every detail, even down to our plan to feign a wheel breakdown at the mouth of the pass.”
“But how?” Mordechai cried. “I took every precaution. Marcus, you and I even met out in the garden that night, remember? And it was late. I didn’t want to risk even having the servants see you there.”
“I remember.”
“Ya’abin?” Mordechai said, groping, still clearly shaken to the core.
“He would be capable of it,” Marcus agreed, “but no. He nearly got caught in the trap as well. If he hadn’t decided to try to massacre us, we would have had him and all of his men.”
That brought Mordechai back to a thought that had come to him while Marcus had spoken. “And it was Simeon’s band who intervened and saved you?”
“Saved us!” Marcus exploded. “We lost twenty-eight men.” Then the integrity which his father had so deeply ingrained in him and his brother surfaced. “But yes,” he admitted, “if he hadn’t come, it would have been much worse.”
“That’s what I still can’t understand,” Pilate grunted. “Why would a Zealot fight to save a Roman column? You would expect that they would have thrown in with Ya’abin.”
Mordechai had already come up with the answer in his own mind. “For the oath’s sake.”
As before, Pilate brushed that aside with a flick of his hand, but Marcus was nodding. “That’s what this Yehuda said too. Simeon and his father did swear to me that if we laid down our arms, they would see that we were allowed safe passage.”
“An oath is a very sacred thing to us,” Mordechai said. “More binding than a written contract. Did they actually use the word oath?”
Marcus thought for a moment, then his head bobbed. “Yes. And Sextus, my centurion, says that David ben Joseph of Capernaum is a man of high integrity.”
Mordechai was nodding. “Then hatred or not, they would be duty bound to protect you. Knowing Simeon, it must have galled him terribly to have done it.”
Marcus held out his arm, showing a long white scar. “Especially since it was me. He and I carry tokens of each other’s affection.”
Mordechai looked puzzled at that, but Pilate broke in harshly. He didn’t care about the who or the why or the how of Marcus’s deliverance. He wanted answers. “What about your daughter? You had her write up this report on your conversation with the two rebels. Did you tell her any more than that?”
Stiffening, Mordechai turned slowly to face the governor. “I am not a fool, Pontius Pilate. I had Miriam sit in on my meeting with those two and keep a record of it in order to bolster their confidence in what I was offerin
g them. But aside from that, do you think I would put my only daughter at risk?” He forced himself to speak less critically. “I’m telling you, no one except the three of us knew all the pieces of this puzzle. No one!”
Now the Roman governor’s face was like the face of a frozen waterfall. “Someone did, and we’re going to find out who.” He swung on Marcus. “Simeon and his father know who it is. Send word to Sextus. I want the two of them arrested and brought in immediately. One night in the dungeon with them, and we’ll know everything we want to know. Then we’ll crucify them along with the three we already have.”
Marcus blanched a little. “Sire, I—Do you think that is wise?”
Pilate’s brows lowered dangerously. It was one thing to question a direct command. It was something else to suggest the commander was a fool for issuing it.
Marcus rushed on. “The whole of the Galilee is in turmoil over what happened. We are understandably angered because we were betrayed, but think of it from the point of view of the Zealots. They thought they were on the verge of getting forty wagons filled with arms and a fortune in gold. Instead, they were nearly caught in a very clever trap set by us for them.” He glanced at Mordechai, looking for support. “They were betrayed as well. If we are angry, they must be boiling.”
To Mordechai’s credit, he saw instantly what was going on between the governor and his chief officer, and Mordechai sided with the tribune. Pilate wanted revenge, as did Marcus, but not at the risk of open battle. “Marcus is right, Excellency. If you go into Capernaum and take Simeon, you could have full-scale war on your hands.”
Pilate muttered something and flung down a piece of meat without tasting it.
“We must be wise and bide our time,” Mordechai suggested, choosing his words carefully. “We have lost an important opportunity to destroy the Zealots. We must search for ways to undo the damage this loss has brought to us. We will find another way to defang these fanatics.”
Marcus, gratified by Mordechai’s support, started again. “I would like to put this Simeon on the rack or under the lash as much as you would, sire, but if we act hastily, we may bring about the very thing we are trying to prevent.”
For a long moment, Pilate considered that. Marcus watched him closely, taking hope. Pilate had a violent temper and absolutely no tolerance for being shamed, but he was also shrewd and cunning. You didn’t keep the office of governor in a province as difficult to administer as Judea by being stupid.
Finally Pilate nodded. “All right, we shall let things ride as they are.” Then more sharply, he spoke to Mordechai. “When you return to Jerusalem, I expect that you will look into this and see if you can learn what went wrong.”
“Most assuredly, sire,” Mordechai answered.
“In the meantime, rest up tonight. Tomorrow we shall talk about what we can do to eliminate the Zealots, to recoup at least something from this disaster.”
“Sire?” Mordechai’s face had turned grim.
“Yes?”
“With your leave, I would like permission to depart for Jerusalem first thing in the morning.”
That caught the other two by surprise. “Tomorrow?” Marcus said. “But you’ve just arrived.”
“I know. But if the Zealots know of my part in this whole thing, there’s going to be a lot of hate aimed in my direction.” He shook his head, his face dark. “And Moshe Ya’abin is still free. Remember, I am the one who drew him into this. He is a man who will not stop until he is avenged.” He suddenly seemed very tired and old. “Miriam is alone in Jerusalem. I pray God that it is not already too late.”
Marcus leaned forward. “Sire, with your permission, I would like to escort Mordechai to Jerusalem and provide him with protection. If we leave early tomorrow, we can be there the day after tomorrow.”
“Of course,” Pilate said.
“Thank you.” Mordechai’s mind, always gifted at seeing the larger picture, was racing now. “Under the circumstances, once I have rejoined Miriam, it would be best if we left Jerusalem for a time. That will give you time to catch Ya’abin and let the Galileans cool off.”
Pilate was nodding gravely. Even the Romans couldn’t guarantee this man’s safety if there was a determined attempt to assassinate him. Then the governor suddenly brightened. “Some time ago, we talked about sending you to Rome to meet the emperor, to put forth the cause of your Great Sanhedrin. Perhaps now would be a good time to do that.”
Startled for a moment, Mordechai stared at the governor, then began to nod thoughtfully. His mind had already considered, then rejected, the various possibilities—Alexandria, Damascus, Antioch. There were several places where he had business interests and would be warmly welcomed, but none of them was outside the reach of a determined enemy. But Rome!
He made up his mind. “Thank you, Excellency. As usual, your mind is much quicker than mine. That is the solution. I could take Miriam with me, I assume.”
Pleased, Pilate stood up. “Of course. And Marcus has been here almost a year now. I think he would welcome a chance to take a brief leave of absence and see his family again.”
Marcus was as surprised at that as Mordechai was.
“To say nothing of escorting your beautiful daughter,” Pilate hooted lasciviously. “Agreed, Marcus?”
Dazed, Marcus stood up as well, as did Mordechai. “Yes, sire,” he murmured. “It would be an honor.”
The governor turned back to Mordechai. “A delegation is planning to sail from here in about four weeks. Could you be ready that soon?”
Mordechai was also reeling a little from the swiftness of this development, but his answer was quick. “I will have to get my affairs in order, but that should give me sufficient time.” Then he had another thought. “I can protect myself for four weeks.” He smiled thinly at Marcus. “I appreciate the escort to the city, but once there it wouldn’t do for me to be seen in Jerusalem with a permanent Roman bodyguard. I’ll hire extra protection. But I worry about Miriam. Could Marcus bring her back with him to Caesarea? She would be safe here until we leave.”
“But of course,” Pilate said expansively. He liked the idea of being the deliverer—and also of putting Mordechai ben Uzziel in his debt. “But of course.”
Chapter Notes
The details on ancient ships and sailing come from Casson, 66, 155–57.
In ancient Israel, each town or city with more than a hundred and twenty persons had a local ruling body. These were called the lesser Sanhedrin, or councils. They consisted of twenty-three members and were empowered to deal with lesser disputes and violations of the law. In Jerusalem, the Great Sanhedrin was the supreme Jewish authority. It consisted of seventy members selected from among the eminent priests and other religious and political rulers. The high priest was typically designated as the president or chief of this council (Fallows, 3:1522–23). In the time of Jesus, the Great Sanhedrin operated under authority of the Roman government, and while given a lot of autonomy, ultimately had to answer to the procurator or governor of the province.
Chapter 4
Be ye not as the horse, or as the mule, which have no understanding; whose mouth must be held in with bit and bridle.
—Psalm 32:9
I
In the wilderness of Judea 21 June, a.d. 30
The man who was the subject of conversation around the table of Pontius Pilate that night was actually not posing much of a threat to anyone in Jerusalem at the moment. Moshe Ya’abin and what was left of his band were still licking their wounds.
Ya’abin had taken fifty-six men north with him to the Galilee. He had lost thirty-five of them at the battle of the Joknean Pass. If the reports from the coast were correct, a dozen of those had been captured and were now awaiting execution in Caesarea. How many of the rest the Romans had killed that night and how many had been lost as they scattered wildly in the darkness was not clear. Two had just returned the night before—tired, filthy, and greatly relieved to be back with their comrades. Ya’abin guessed that others w
ho had escaped may have decided that life with the Desert Fox was neither as safe nor as profitable as they had been led to believe. He would be surprised to see any more limp back in.
They were camped in a large limestone cave near the head of one of the endless narrow canyons that honeycombed the wilderness of Judea. The Dead Sea lay about five miles to their east. This cave was likely one of the same caves that King David used when he was on the run from King Saul a thousand years before. If it was, that held little interest for Ya’abin. The past meant nothing. All that mattered was the present, because the present directly determined the future.
They were here because it was an excellent place to hide. The springs of Ein Gedi, which emptied into the Dead Sea, were within walking distance of their camp. The cave was high up the steep canyon wall, and with sentries posted no one could approach within a mile without being seen. Though he was not overly worried about the Roman patrols that fruitlessly scoured the countryside looking for them, Ya’abin was wary nevertheless. He had men following their movements and reporting at the end of each day.
At the moment, with full darkness upon the country, most of his band were already stretched out for the night, rolling out what rugs or blankets they had on the thick dirt of the cave floor. In the day, the temperature in the wilderness of Judea rose to the point where it felt like it could melt a man’s flesh, but at night it was chilly enough to require a covering to stay warm.
Ya’abin and his chief lieutenant, Eliab of Adullam, were bent over a small, smokeless fire, talking in low tones, assessing their situation. That afternoon, Eliab and four others had raided a shepherd’s encampment a few miles to the south, getting away with two sheep, a young goat, a brick of goat’s cheese, and four loaves of bread. It had been sorely needed, but with about twenty mouths to feed it would be gone in another day, maybe two. This desolate part of Judea provided a perfect place to disappear but little to sustain a band of men on the run.
Eliab rubbed at his beard, dusty and stiff with sweat. “Maybe we should go to Beersheba. Split up for a time. Rest the horses. Maybe kidnap a fat merchantman or shopkeeper and get some money. But we wouldn’t let the Romans know it’s us. Let them think we’ve given up and scattered. We’ll hope eventually they’ll give up the search.”
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