Second Touch (3 page)

years until now, at thirty, she was a beauty. The one thing in Simon’s life that made sense. Their marriage had been arranged as an alliance between two prominent families, and yet Simon had loved her from the first night. The political aspect of their union had gone sour after a fierce argument over the legitimacy of the high priest in Jerusalem. Jerusha had not seen her father in nearly fifteen years. Simon had forbade her any contact with her parents. Now her mother was dead. Only the old man remained. Young Jotham had never met his grandfather. Through the fog of his despair Simon heard Jerusha’s voice, her careful footsteps. He sensed her presence as she paused outside his threshold. Had she spoken his name? A whisper. “Why, Simon? For sixteen years I shared your bed. Bore your son. Why, now, have you locked me out, Simon?” Had he heard her question? Or ¬only imagined it? The smell of baking bread brought him around. He raised his eyes. The quiver of new arrows, a gift from thirteen-year-old Jotham, hung unused on the rack beside the unstrung bow. How proud Jotham had been of the dozen beautiful arrows he had presented to Simon three months ago. Jotham had collected and set the hawk feathers into the straight shafts of seasoned wood. Sharp iron tips imported from Alexandria guaranteed good deer hunting for father and son. Yet days and weeks and months had passed since the gift had been presented. The bow remained untouched. The arrows untried. A whisper. “Why, Father? ¬I’m a man now. At my bar mitzvah you promised we would go to Lebanon before Shavuot. Promised we would hunt together. Why, now, do you threaten to send me out of your presence when I mention your promise? Why do you say you’re too busy when the fields are plowed and the seed is sown and lambing season is done?” Had he heard the accusation of Jotham yesterday in the barn? or merely seen it flash in his eyes? Resentment tempered by fear clouded the face of Jotham these days. Simon studied the fingers that had once confidently grasped the bowstring and sent an arrow flying to the heart of its mark. No more! No more! A soft rap sounded on the door. “Simon? Shavuot tov! Will you eat with us?” Jerusha called him to breakfast. Even this brief message managed to pile guilt on him and rouse his resentment. “¬I’m praying,” Simon lied. “We’ll wait.” “Don’t wait.” He knew he had hurt her. Knew she felt the sting of his rejection. Her passion for him was fierce. It was obvious in her glance—the way she moved across the room, looked over her shoulder, inviting him. In the way she leaned close to him to light the lamp at his table. He longed to take her in his arms. But at night he locked the door, keeping her out. And he could not tell her why. Why . . .

He rose slowly and fumbled for his clothes. Removing the lid from the black onyx urn on his dressing table, Simon recited the prayers of purification. With the antelaya, the ladle, grasped in his right hand, he dipped pure water from the urn and poured it over his left hand until it was immersed. Lifting his hand heavenward, Simon allowed the drops to stream past his wrist before setting aside the antelaya and rubbing both hands together in the bowl. How long had he kept himself spotless? Simon mused. How many years? The washings at rising, before meat, after meat, between courses. The first waters, the second waters . . . no one had been more scrupulous than he. Dumping out the contents of the bowl, Simon ladled it full again and once more scrubbed. His final posture, like a supplicant, a beggar, ensured the fresh water completely carried away the polluted first washing, running down his arms even to the elbows. Hoping . . . hoping . . . the Eternal took note of his piety. Though he was not required to do so on a feast day, he tied phylacteries onto his forehead and then his forearm. The leather straps twined around his fingers like the jesses holding a captive falcon onto its master’s fist. By obeying the commands of Torah, Simon kept his sanity from flying away. Each terrible new day he said the prayers and clung desperately to the outward image of what he was. Proud, arrogant, rich, an expert in the law and in the enactment of Pharisaic ritual, Simon ben Zeraim was among the most respected men of Israel. No man imagined Simon’s terror at what lay ahead. None of his illustrious colleagues here in Jerusalem or in the region of the Galil suspected the truth. Simon was sure that Jotham did not know. If Jerusha guessed, she did not speak of it. If his servants wondered at his reclusive behavior, they feared to mention it. After all, the downfall of their master could mean the end of the House of ben Zeraim. Day by day, in performance of religious obligation, by outward display, Simon held his inevitable destruction at bay. But for how long? Summoned to nearby Jerusalem by the keen-eyed high priest, or cohen hagadol, Caiaphas, Simon wondered if he could conceal his secret from him. Simon was anxious to pack up his family and return to the security of his Capernaum home. He turned toward Jerusalem, toward the Temple of the Most High, and began absently to mutter the prayer: “Blessed are you, O Lord, King of the world, who forms the light and creates the darkness, and in your goodness day by day and ¬every day renews the works of creation.” He spoke the words, though he no longer believed them. No longer believed in God’s goodness. Now ¬only the formula remained. Simon donned loose lambskin gloves. These provided an additional barrier between his flesh and the uncleanness of the earth. With this final step

Simon ben Zeraim, would-be Pharisee of Pharisees, unbolted his door and emerged from the self-imposed exile of his room.

2 Centurion Marcus Longinus sat on the broad stone ledge of the windowsill in the Antonia Fortress. His quarters, located on the corner of the fourth story, provided a clear view over the ¬Jewish Temple Mount and Sheep Gate with vast stock pens brimming with sacrificial lambs. “Stink of sheep is strong this morning,” Marcus commented to his friend and superior officer, Tribune Dio Felix. Felix downed a boiled egg. “I wrote Mother in Rome first day I saw this fortress. Told her it’s one example of the way Jews insult Rome. Barracks of the legion is placed just so. When the prevailing wind is right, we Romans smell the stink of Jews on one side and their livestock on the other.” “Jews say the odor ¬comes from us Romans.” Marcus studied the throng of worshippers surging across the courtyard. Below him Marcus spotted Zadok, Chief Shepherd of the flocks of Israel, as the old man waded into the herd like a common herdsman. A phalanx of Pharisees looked on as Yeshua of Nazareth and the old man conferred beside the gate to the fold. “What’re you looking at?” Felix was clearly irritated, Marcus thought, by his unwillingness to have breakfast. “Sheep.” “All right, Marcus, I’ll rephrase that. What are you looking for? A beautiful woman? That might be worth skipping breakfast for.” “Wolves.” From the far side of the Temple platform a dozen of Herod Antipas’ personal bodyguards entered. The crowds parted for them. At the head of the troop was Commander Eglon, a Samaritan well known for his enjoyment of cruelty. It had been Eglon who had hacked off the head of Yochanan the Baptizer and gleefully carried it into Herod’s banquet. “More wolves than sheep down there today, I’ll wager.” Felix seemed ¬only slightly interested. “Right. A pack of Herod’s personal bodyguards is out hunting. And a committee of the high priest’s jackals converging.” Felix yawned. “I hate these ¬Jewish holy days. You know what the Emperor says about the Jews and their religion? Holy days give them an excuse to take the day off from work and rebel against Rome. Judea! Worst province in the Empire. And here I am!” One day earlier Marcus had been expecting a death sentence for his part in the demise of the Praetorian Guard officer Vara. Though it had been Vara who attacked and Marcus who defended innocent lives, Marcus had anticipated being swiftly tried and summarily executed.

How the world had turned upside down between two sunrises! Marcus had awoken this morning in the Antonia Fortress, but not in a prison cell. He had been fully restored to his former rank. He was again Primus Pilus, the lead centurion of all Roman forces in Judea. He was being honored by Pilate for the very deed he had presumed would mean his beheading. Felix dabbed his mouth with a napkin. “Still, bad as things are in Jerusalem, I suppose there’s less conspiracy here than in Rome, eh?” “Rome is the gate to the world. And the hinges just turned,” Marcus replied. The tribune’s youthful features relaxed in a smile. “When Praetorian Prefect Sejanus dreamed of exchanging his helmet for Caesar’s crown, Tiberius rightly decided to remove helmet and head both.” Marcus did not express his belief that Sejanus was simply slightly more evil than Tiberius Caesar. “One more decapitation . . . I’ve lost count.” “Caesar sent a letter to the Senate, demanding Sejanus’ arrest on a charge of maiestas—treason against the state and plotting against the emperor. The water of the Tiber will run red for months, they say. All of Sejanus’ family, his friends, his appointees, even his slaves, were rounded up and—” Felix drew his thumb across his throat. “There’s more: The Senate ordered their bodies left on the riverbanks to rot. Your enemy, the late unlamented Vara, as Sejanus’ hatchet man in Judea, would have been arrested and executed too if you hadn’t killed him yesterday and saved the Empire the bother. Which is why—” “Governor Pilate is so eager to honor me,” Marcus concluded as he followed the progress of Herod’s guards across the platform. They were clearly searching for someone. Marcus was now almost certain it was Yeshua. Oblivious to the drama unfolding on the Temple Mount, Felix continued with his speculation about the political upheaval in Rome and what it would mean in Jerusalem. Pontius Pilate was also a Sejanus appointee. The governor was terrified that the fall of his patron would lead to his own summons back to Rome and death. Felix leaned forward to relay the gossip about Sejanus’ arrest and execution in Rome. “My uncle, the senator, heard the tale directly from the Imperial tribune commanding the troops who arrested Sejanus.” Felix acted out the drama, putting on the shocked voice of Sejanus. ¬“ ‘I’m Sejanus! It’s a mistake! ¬I’m Sejanus! You’re arresting me?’ The officer said the magic words, ‘You are no friend of Caesar!’ And Sejanus’ knees buckled.” Felix laughed. Marcus pictured the scene: The arresting officer made the formal statement of maiestas. No friend of Caesar . . . not arguable. Not defensible. No doubt Sejanus continued protesting that it was impossible, right up until the moment the final twist of the silk cord went round his neck. “So? Now?” Marcus murmured. “Is Pilate suspected by Caesar too?” “Ah. For a man who says he wants to avoid politics, you come right to the

heart of the matter.” Felix cracked another boiled egg. “No evidence Pilate was part of any plot with Sejanus. After all, Pilate’s been out here in the sticks of Judea for four years. On the other hand, our governor’s made too many mistakes here to go unnoticed. Stirring up the Jews. Not that that’s ¬ever been difficult. Pilate will walk very carefully if he can. And hope nobody whispers the names Pilate and Sejanus in the same breath where Emperor Tiberius can hear it. Meanwhile Pilate knows my senator uncle was one of those who signed the maiestas warrant against Sejanus. Therefore Pilate’s bound to respect my opinions, at least for a while.” Cautiously Marcus eyed the coming confrontation below him and inquired, “Yeshua of Nazareth? Is he out of danger?” “Steady, there! Isn’t it a bit soon after preserving your own hide to worry about another’s? And him a Jew at that?” “I tell you, Felix, Yeshua ¬isn’t guilty of any crime. You know it. Pilate knows it.” “Save it,” Felix interrupted, raising a hand to halt the flow of Marcus’ words. “I’ve heard this before. Rome’s attitude remains that Jews can have their own religious practices . . . prophets, holy men, messiahs, or whatever they choose to call themselves . . . so long as they ¬don’t threaten rebellion or mar the security of the province.” “Yeshua ¬hasn’t done either!” “Oh?” Felix said quizzically. “Then how do you explain the fact he’s the one thing all the other ¬Jewish warring factions—who usually hate each other’s guts—agree on? How can such a one be anything other than a troublemaker? The high priest’s party says he’s a rebel. Herod Antipas thinks he’s that other wild-eyed preacher come back to life. The fractious Galileans want him to be their king and are angry because he refuses . . . such a man has too many enemies to live out the year!” “What if he leaves Jerusalem and remains quietly out of trouble?” Marcus asked anxiously as he observed Herod’s troop making their way toward the sheep pens where Yeshua and old Zadok conversed. Were Antipas’ men coming to take Yeshua into custody? “You ¬haven’t heard? No, of course not,” Felix answered his own question. “Your head’s still spinning.” “Heard what? Yeshua’s not to be arrested, is he?” Tribune Felix tore off a chunk of bread. “Not by Rome. Today’s a ¬Jewish holy day. Plenty of time to jabber and gossip and pass stories around like bowls of wine. You’d think the town would be full of the news of the deaths of a Roman officer and Demos bar Talmai, ward of Herod Antipas, but is that the gossip? Not at all! Today what ¬everyone hears in the markets is how Yeshua of Nazareth made a blind man see.” “He healed Manaen bar Talmai?” Marcus asked. “No,” Felix returned. “Manaen’s still sightless, poor creature. No use as a gambling partner now, is he? Susanna bat Maccabee’s taking him back to the Galil. No, this was a beggar boy. Born blind, they say. I saw him myself once or twice. Of course, the tale grows with each retelling.”

Felix became uncharacteristically somber. “Think carefully, Marcus, before you plead with Pilate for the life of the Galilean . . . even if he is the holy man you seem to think he is. Remember, you and I were together when we saw him feed five thousand men on a handful of bread and dried fish that ¬wouldn’t keep a man alive for a week. Five thousand! There are ¬only four thousand Roman legionaries in all Judea. Now it’s all trickery, ¬I’m sure, but it’ll be just too bad for this Yeshua if too many come to believe it. Think, man! What will Rome do with someone who can feed an army out of thin air, heal their wounds, and even raise them from the dead? What? He’ll have to be crushed before deluded masses start marching in his name, whether he gives them permission or not!” Marcus nodded as he spotted Eglon question a group of priests who waved toward the sheepfold. “Trouble’s brewing. Herod’s buzzards. Circling.” He rose and strapped on his sword. “You know the ¬only vultures who dare to circle the Temple of this ¬Jewish God are the human type. You ¬don’t mind if I stay here and finish breakfast, do you?” Felix waved him away. “Besides, this is the best view of the circus.”