Fishers of Men

by Gerald N. Lund

  “A brilliant ruse,” Mordechai said darkly. “And what’s to stop him from suddenly arming the thousands who flock to him? One word and he could spark a Zealot wildfire that could consume us all.”

  “That is not what he is teaching,” Joseph answered stubbornly. “So far he has said and done nothing that is illegal, not even under Roman law.”

  Mordechai watched his fellow council member for several seconds. Yes, he thought. They were going to have to watch this one very closely. But unfortunately, the point he was making was exactly right. It was maddening. Technically, Jesus had done nothing they could use to take action against him. Mordechai sat back down, every eye upon him. “What he is or is not doing is only part of the picture,” he pointed out. “What matters is that the Romans are nervous. They don’t like it when a man can draw thousands of followers to him, especially in the Galilee—whether he is peaceful or not.”

  He swung on Azariah, his voice hardening again. “And whining about whether or not he agrees with what you or I teach isn’t going to solve the problem. Our president and high priest has asked that we stop talking and come up with a plan of action. I would suggest it is time to do exactly that.”

  “Of course,” Azariah said, his voice cool. “The Sadducees are always for action and care little for the spiritual aspects of a question.” He went on smoothly, as Mordechai visibly started at the insult. “And surely the esteemed Father of the House of Judgment”—his voice fairly dripped sarcasm—“is not trying to rush through this discussion so as to escape the embarrassment of having a member of his own household be a disciple of this imposter.”

  Gasps of shock and cries of anger broke out on every side, but Mordechai didn’t move. He fought to keep his face impassive even as the fury exploded within him. So Azariah knew. In Rome, when Miriam had told her father about being baptized, one of his first thoughts had been about how the council would react to the news. But in the five months since his return from Rome, nothing had come up. No one had even hinted about Miriam’s betrayal, and he had begun to hope that no one knew. He cursed himself for being so blind. Of course Azariah would know. He had people reporting to him from everywhere. He had simply been waiting for the right time to spring this on his old enemy.

  “It is obvious,” he said calmly, surprised that his voice revealed none of the rage inside him, “that Azariah knows about my daughter, Miriam. Unbeknownst to me, and contrary to my specific counsel, Miriam went north to the Galilee last year and was duped by this Jesus. She was baptized. She became a follower of the Galilean preacher.”

  He saw the shaking of heads, heard the sympathetic clucking of tongues, and hated it. “That was when I decided to take her to Rome to escape the influence of this man. She will not be returning for a very long time.” What Mordechai said wasn’t strictly true—he and Miriam had fled to Rome to escape possible retaliation by Moshe Ya’abin. But the council didn’t know that.

  Heads nodded in understanding. The faces of a few allies showed genuine sorrow and empathy for his predicament. What man had full control over his children? But he also saw the gloating, the pure joy behind the eyes of his enemies. So the mighty Mordechai had a chink in his armor. It wouldn’t have surprised him to see some of them rubbing their hands in open glee. How embarrassing for him! How wonderfully embarrassing for him!

  He took a quick breath. “This only underscores the urgency of our task. I don’t know what power this man from Nazareth has over people. I don’t understand what draws the masses to him like moths to the open fire of the lamp. But as a father, and as a leader in Israel, I know this: he presents a direct and current danger to our families, to our religion, to our nation. And I, for one, would suggest we stop our babbling and do something before more tragedies happen and more souls are lost.”

  He sat down, no longer looking at the council members, no longer thinking about the politics of the situation. He was thinking of Miriam and her betrayal. No, not betrayal. Betrayals. She had thwarted what should have been a stunning success at the Joknean Pass. She had sneaked off to the Galilee to hear Jesus. She had been baptized as one of his followers. She refused to accept betrothal to Marcus Didius. Was there no end to it?

  Azariah rose slowly. His face was downcast. His mouth, nearly buried in the thickness of his beard, feigned deep sorrow. “Our hearts go out to our brother Mordechai. We feel the extent of this tragedy in his family. Would that all children honored their parents as God, blessed be his name, has commanded. But such is not so.”

  Mordechai looked up, watching him, hating him. You think you have won something important this day, you old jackal, but I shall not forget. And when the time is right . . .

  “So while we vehemently disagree on many issues,” Azariah continued, “my colleague, Mordechai ben Uzziel, and I agree on one thing. Jesus must be stopped. This interloper, this fraud, this blasphemer must be brought to heel.” He looked to Caiaphas. “Honorable President, I suggest that we proceed under your wise direction to seek a solution to our shared concern.”

  II

  Jerusalem, Upper City

  Mordechai was still seething as his litter-bearers rounded the corner and entered the street that led to his palace. For all of Azariah’s unctuous words about finding a solution, the council had spent two more hours of deliberation but moved no closer to any definitive action.

  He let out a soft exclamation of disgust. Deliberation? More like the babbling of idiots whose bellies were filled with too much wine. Five hours all together, and if anything they were further from a solution than when they started.

  And now Mordechai had a new problem. Azariah was going to use Miriam’s defection to try to undermine Mordechai’s influence. He knew that as surely as he knew it was raining. And that knowledge left him as chilled as the weather.

  He lifted one hand and pulled the curtain back slightly. Sundown was at least another hour away, but the sky looked more like the final moments of twilight. The clouds were heavy and dark. This was the season of what the Jews called the early rains, the rains that came in the fall and softened the ground for the winter planting. The latter or spring rains would come in a few more months. Today’s rain came in a cold, driving storm that would help fill the cisterns of the city before it moved across the Jordan and fizzled out over the vastness of the great Arabian Desert.

  He dropped the curtain and fell back against the cushions. Azariah was an enemy to be reckoned with. Mordechai couldn’t simply brush him aside as a sputtering old fool. He would give careful thought as to how to counter this parry. Perhaps, with some wise planning, Mordechai might help Azariah be scorched by the very flames he hoped to turn against . . .

  The carriage lurched to a halt, jostling Mordechai roughly. He sat up as he heard the slap of sandals on wet paving stones. He pulled back the curtain, instantly feeling the drops of rain against his arm. His head litter-bearer, a powerful Idumean who also served as a bodyguard, appeared. His hair was plastered to his head and his tunic was black, soaked through to the skin.

  “Yes, yes!” Mordechai snapped. “What is it? Get on with it.”

  “Master, there are Romans ahead. It looks like they are waiting outside the gate of your courtyard.”

  That brought Mordechai forward sharply. “Romans?”

  “Yes, sire.” He turned, wiped quickly at his eyes with the back of his hand, and peered ahead intently. “I’d say eight or ten men. And there is an officer with them.”

  Mordechai considered that only for a moment, then waved a hand. “We have nothing to fear from Romans.”

  “Yes, sire. As you wish.”

  “Forward. Let’s see who it is.”

  III

  “Well, well,” Mordechai said, as he slipped his sandals off and straightened again. “Had I known you were here, I would have gladly left the council early.”

  Marcus Quadratus Didius stepped forward enough for Levi to shut the door behind him. He removed his helmet and ran his fingers through his short-cropped hair. Mo
rdechai’s chief household servant stepped forward quickly and took the long red cape from the tribune’s shoulders. It was already dripping water from the bottom of the fabric.

  “Take that in and spread it before the fire,” Mordechai commanded. Levi took the helmet as well and started out. Mordechai turned back to Marcus. “I’m sorry. You should have come inside to wait.”

  “Your servant invited us into the courtyard,” Marcus said, waving it away, “but—” He grinned briefly. “It is good for the soul to stand in the driving rain from time to time. It toughens a man. Actually, we had been there for only a short time. I was debating about coming back later when you arrived.”

  “Levi!”

  The servant had disappeared around the corner at the end of the long hallway. A moment later, he reemerged. “Yes, Master?”

  “As soon as you’ve seen to some food and wine for us, make sure that the tribune’s men are brought in before the fire and given something to eat as well.”

  “Aye, Master. I have already sent Malachi to see to that, and to the tribune’s horse as well.”

  “No, just wine for me and my men,” Marcus called out. Then to Mordechai: “We can’t stay long. We have to be back to the Antonia Fortress by nightfall.”

  Mordechai waved a hand at the servant, and Levi disappeared again.

  “Come,” Mordechai said, motioning toward the banquet hall. “There’s a fire in there as well. The wine will be here shortly.”

  They walked together into the spacious room. One wall was nearly filled with a massive marble fireplace; its fire crackled in welcome. Both men moved over and stood beside it. Mordechai stretched forth his hands and rubbed them together, watching the Roman out of the corner of his eye. Marcus was a striking man, made all the more so by the officer’s uniform. He was twenty-six, if Mordechai remembered right. Son of a rich and powerful family in Rome, he carried the air of confidence and competence that only that kind of life could breed. His face was tanned, his jaw line firm, his cleft chin smooth shaven. His eyes were a deep green and very compelling. Even though his hair was short, it still showed a slight curl around the base of his neck. He was thoroughly Roman in bearing and appearance. Why couldn’t Miriam see what kind of man he was and the opportunity she was throwing away? Mordechai thought bitterly.

  “So,” Mordechai said after a moment, pushing that last disturbing thought aside, “this is a welcome surprise. I heard you had gone to Damascus.”

  “I returned last week.” He hesitated, then looked squarely at Mordechai. “A surprise, yes. But welcome?” He shook his head. “Sorry. I fear I am the bearer of bad news.”

  “Oh?”

  “Very bad.”

  “Don’t tell me that Pilate has withdrawn permission for you to accompany me to Rome.” He forced a quick laugh. “It would be a little awkward to hold a wedding without the bridegroom.”

  “Miriam is gone.”

  “Oh?” Mordechai said in surprise. “Gone where?”

  “Gone!” Marcus said flatly. “Disappeared.”

  Mordechai rocked back. “What?”

  “It’s been a month now,” Marcus said, shaking his head. “The letter from my father arrived day before yesterday. I came up from Caesarea immediately.”

  Mordechai moved over to one of the heavily padded chairs and sank down slowly. “Kidnapped?” he asked after a moment, his voice low.

  Turning his back to the fire, Marcus shook his head. “Doubtful. Father waited three days. There was no demand for ransom. And the servant girl and her brother are gone as well. They would be of no value to a kidnapper.”

  Mordechai just stared at him, trying to force his mind to comprehend what he heard.

  “A man came to Miriam’s apartment one afternoon, claiming to be her cousin. The guards refused to let him see her.”

  “A cousin?”

  “Yes. The guards said he spoke with a guttural accent. They guessed he was from one of the eastern provinces.” He let that sink in. “A few days later, while Miriam and the other two were in the Roman Forum, a street vendor approached them. Just as the guards were moving in to make sure nothing was wrong, they were accosted by this same so-called ‘cousin,’ who cleverly delayed them for a minute or two. When they broke free, Miriam and the vendor and the others were gone.”

  “Gone?” He muttered something that Marcus missed. Then: “I thought you said the men we arranged to watch her were the very best.” There was no mistaking the edge to his voice now.

  “They were,” Marcus said evenly. “They—”

  There was a knock on the door; then it swung open. It was Levi holding a tray with a pitcher of wine and two silver goblets. He almost spoke, but at the look on Mordechai’s face he moved quickly to the table, poured the wine, then backed out of the room as silently as he had come. Marcus left the fire and came and took one of the cups. He drank deeply before meeting Mordechai’s gaze.

  “My father has asked that I convey to you his deepest regrets. You entrusted this matter into his hands, and he has failed you. But the deed was done with much cunning. Father immediately sent soldiers to watch the port at Ostia, and also Puteoli, down the coast. He has launched a massive search in the city and round about.”

  He drank again, draining the cup, then set it down. “They’re not going to find them, Mordechai. This was too cleverly done.”

  Mordechai was clearly shaken to the core. “Who?”

  Marcus shook his head. “Come on, Mordechai. Do you really have to ask? This cousin was described as lean of build, thin-faced, with startlingly blue eyes and a dark beard.”

  Mordechai sat back slowly, jaw rigid, eyes narrowing into tiny slits. “Ezra?”

  Marcus nodded. “Yes. I met him and his wife when they brought Miriam to Caesarea before your departure for Rome.”

  Mordechai had not touched his goblet. “But why—” He visibly jerked. “Simeon!”

  Marcus refilled his cup but drank no more from it. “The guards said that the street vendor was dressed as an old man in rags, but they’re sure that was a disguise. They said he was lithe and moved like a cat.”

  He shook his head slowly. It was Simeon. It had to be.

  “The day we captured Ya’abin in the wilderness of Judea, I told Simeon that Miriam and I were to be wed.” Marcus stopped as the color faded from Mordechai’s face. “I did so because I wanted him to know that she was spoken for. I had a feeling that Simeon might have an interest in your daughter.”

  Mordechai was as pale and gray as the skies outside the window. He suddenly looked very old. He was a big man who had enjoyed a life of too much food and too little physical activity. His hair was thinning and seemed to have more gray than when Marcus last saw him. His beard, as always, was neatly trimmed. Heavy dark brows gave him a perpetual look of sternness. He bore power well, and Marcus knew from experience he was not afraid to wield it.

  “My father is sparing no expense in trying to find them, and I expect additional word to arrive shortly. But I am satisfied in my mind. Miriam’s gone and won’t be back. Not to Rome.”

  The Sadducee only nodded. Marcus could see the veins in his neck throbbing, but his face had become expressionless. Then Mordechai rose to his feet. “Tell your father that I do not hold him accountable in this matter. He did all that any honorable man could have done.”

  Marcus inclined his head slightly. “He will be pleased to know that you feel that way.”

  “If you receive any further word, I would appreciate knowing of it.”

  “Of course.” He set the cup down. “I have already told Pilate that our trip to Rome is no longer required. He said to convey his deepest regrets to you as well.”

  It was like Mordechai was off in another room. He nodded, but it was barely perceptible.

  Marcus took a quick breath. “I have been asked by the governor to convey something else to you.”

  That brought the older man’s head up. “Asked or commanded?” he said after a moment.

  Marcus
spread his hands blandly. “With Pilate, does it matter?”

  “What is it?”

  “The governor knows of your concerns about this Jesus and also of the Zealot threat in the Galilee.”

  “Yes?” The word came out slowly, and Marcus could see the wariness in Mordechai’s eyes.

  “Pilate appreciates your concerns for these matters and concurs fully—”

  “But?” Mordechai asked bluntly.

  “Since Simeon and Yehuda calmed the Zealot factions as a condition for their release from prison, things have been quiet up north. The governor is not fooled by that, of course, but for now he doesn’t want anything disturbing the status quo.” He tipped his head slightly. “You are familiar with that Latin phrase?”

  “Of course,” Mordechai snapped. “And what of this Jesus?”

  “A definite concern to us all,” came the reply, “and Pilate expects that the Great Council will carefully determine how best to solve the problem.”

  “But?” Mordechai said again, barely disguising his disgust.

  “Pilate has other things on his mind now. He is anxious to finish the aqueduct. The legate from Syria is coming to Caesarea in a few months. There is much to be done in preparation. He asked that I make it clear that no action is to be taken without his express permission. Not against Jesus, not against the Zealots.”

  “How nice,” came the soft reply. It was another stinging blow in a day of one blow after another. And then he had an additional thought. “And what are you going to do, Marcus?”

  “Me? About what?”

  Mordechai shot him a derisive look.

  “About Miriam?” Marcus’s mouth tightened. “Before any of this happened, I had about concluded that this marriage was not to be.”

  “So Pilate told you too,” Mordechai said, almost relishing the words. “You are to do nothing as well.”

  Marcus only looked at him for a long moment, then turned. “I must be on my way. Thank you for the wine and the use of your fire.”

  IV

  Two hours later, Mordechai still sat in the library, his face dark, his mood even blacker than the stormy night that gripped Jerusalem. His thoughts were cold, methodical, determined.