The Master's Quilt (3 page)

When he arrived in Jerusalem eight weeks ago,
he’d found the city, and the surrounding countryside, on the verge
of violent rebellion. After organizing the garrison, he
systematically dealt with the more dissident Jews—not by
slaughtering them, but by giving them an opportunity to vent their
frustrations. Utilizing a political instead of a military approach,
he established three mini-tribunals to hear their grievances and
persuaded Pilate to accede to some of the Jews less offensive
demands. Peace had been temporarily restored. As a result, Pilate
had taken an immediate interest in him.

“We share a common bond, you and I,” said the
Procurator the first night they’d gotten drunk together.

“What’s that?” he asked, hoping he was not
slurring his words, then realizing it probably wouldn’t matter.

“Neither of us is willing to compromise our
faith in the Republic and its future. . .even in the face of our
growing doubt that Rome is as eternal as the Emperor leads us to
believe.”

During many subsequent hours, they solved
numerous problems connected with ruling a stubborn and arrogant
people, thousands of miles from home. Within two weeks, Pilate
asked Lucius Vitellius, Governor over Syria, to transfer Deucalion
to Jerusalem permanently. Surprisingly, the request was approved.
Deucalion found out why not long after. In addition to transfer
orders, Vitellius had sent a special messenger with private
orders.

Deucalion Cincinnatus,

Hail Caesar!

As you are well aware by now, Jerusalem, though a
hotbed of insurrection, is also the site of the Temple. Rome has
certain pecuniary arrangements with the priests in charge of
financial administration of Temple proceeds, monies received as
tithes from the faithful. You are to make sure that Pilate does
nothing to interfere with the flow of payments to the Empire.

There was one minor problem with the
arrangement—he and Pilate had become friends. In fact, he suspected
that Pilate saw him as the son he’d never had. And for reasons
Deucalion never understood, he carried within himself a certain
code of honor—one that might hamper a soldier’s rise to ultimate
power. One, he reminded himself grimly, that Malkus did not share.
He sometimes allowed relationships to curb ambition. A definite
weakness.

And now, there was yet another problem.

Something extraordinary had happened four
weeks ago, three days after the Passover of the Jews, and he had
not had a full night’s sleep since. Although he was still not sure
exactly what had transpired, he was certain of one thing: the world
he was born into twenty-seven years ago was not the same world in
which he now lived. There was something different, something new
and exciting afoot. It was as palatable to him as air and light.
And he was determined to discover just what it was—no matter what
the cost.

A
s Jerusalem roused
itself from the night, Caiaphas groaned and sat up. Fighting
dizziness, he focused his eyes on the black bark and soft green
leaves of the
Shit’tah
tree rising twenty feet above him,
and then took several deep breaths, savoring the refreshing, sweet
fragrance of the acacia’s drooping yellow flowers.

Once again he had fallen into a drunken sleep
in the outer courtyard of the mansion located a stone’s throw from
the Herodian Palace, in that part of Jerusalem called the Upper
City, where he lived along with his wife and father-in-law, Annas.
His late night bantering with his old friend and confidante, Simon
ben Gamaliel, was as fresh in his mind as the aftertaste of wine
was sour in his mouth. Both the conversation and the wine had
started out to be pleasurable; yet, in the short space of a few
hours, both had soured.

His former teacher had arrived unexpectedly
just after he had finished his evening prayers. Even more
unexpected than his friend’s unannounced arrival was the news he
brought from the Sanhedrin.

“Joseph, the Council has asked me to convey
their concern regarding the continuing unrest among the people,”
began the older man solemnly. He spoke with the same quiet
forcefulness that had changed many a Pharisee’s disagreement into
agreement with, and even at times enthusiastic support of, the
ideas of the predominately Sadducee council. “Instead of quenching
the fires of insurrection burning in the hearts of the rebels and
zealots, your solution seems to have fanned the flames into
epidemic proportions.”

Caiaphas had been shocked at the harsh words.
“That’s nonsense, Simon. It has only been a month since the
crucifixion and we’ve heard nothing of the man’s disciples. In
fact, my sources tell me that they have all gone into hiding,
fearing for their lives. They are completely disorganized.”

“I fear not. Perhaps the disciples are in
hiding, but the Romans have evidence that the rebel ranks are
swelling, not diminishing.”

“What of the
sicari
anyway?” he
retorted, using the Latin term for the zealots to emphasize his
distaste for those the Romans called dagger men or professional
assassins. “Barabbas has not been seen nor heard from since his
release.” He paused, filled two goblets with the last of the spring
wine, and handed one of the brimming cups to Simon. When he
continued, his voice was cold and hard. “Pilate should be most
pleased with the results we achieved. One man dies and the
opposition to authority, both religious and secular, dies with
him.”

He gave Simon the forceful, intimidating look
that all who knew the High Priest, save his longtime friend, found
hard to withstand, and concluded, “Since when can Rome make the
same claim?”

“All that is true; however, there are members
of the Council, led by Doras, who feel that your handling of this
matter was, shall we say, incomplete.”

That was when he lost his temper; something
he had been doing frequently recently. “Doras is not even a member
of the first chamber! He’s merely an elder, an aristocrat who
purchased his seat on the Council.”

“Joseph, we’ve been through this before,”
sighed his friend. “The Council has no proof, nor, I might add,
even allegations, of any impropriety or wrongdoing on his part. And
you know better than I that Doras is as cunning as he is immoral.”
There was just a hint of impatience in his voice. “Unless you’re
prepared to bring formal charges, the Council cannot sit in
judgment.”

“The man’s a disgrace, Simon. His devotion is
to his pocketbook and his daughter—in that order. I doubt his
daughter will help us ruin her father politically.”

“Do not underestimate the power of Doras,
Joseph,” counseled the older man sternly. “His close relationship
with Herod Antipas gives him access to the ears of the Syrian
Governor. Lucius Vitellius governs with an iron hand, and as a
result hasn’t had the problems Pilate has encountered here in
Judea. The Council, including Annas, believes that Vitellius is
extremely displeased with Pilate’s handling of the matter of Jesus
of Nazareth. We can use that to our advantage.”

“Syria is a long way from Jerusalem.”

Simon scowled. “You’re missing the point.
We’ve worked hard for a very long time to achieve a measure of
autonomy within the Roman hierarchy, and we cannot afford to have
an incident such as this unleash the wrath of Vitellius or
Tiberius.”

“But Simon—”

“Let me finish, Joseph. You were always much
too impatient for your own good.” The teacher was once again
educating the student with practiced patience. “As you are well
aware, Pilate has not exactly had an unblemished record since his
arrival here seven years ago.”

Simon was referring to the numerous
confrontations between the Jews and the sixth Procurator of Judea.
The five men who had preceded Pontius Pilate had all been
diplomatic in their handling of the occupation of Jerusalem. Not so
the current Procurator. Even his superiors considered him to be a
reckless and tactless individual.

Pilate’s predecessors had studiously avoided
any unnecessary exhibition of flags or other emblems bearing images
of the Emperor Tiberius, so as not to offend the sacred sentiments
of the native population. Pilate, on the other hand, had been
nominated by the late Sejanus, Tiberius’ former minister and
commander of the Praetorian Guard. He shared his benefactor’s lack
of sympathy for Jewish separatist manifestations and cared little
for what he considered to be religious sentimentality.

Upon his arrival in Jerusalem he ordered his
garrison of soldiers to raise their standards and banners,
emblazoned with the image of Tiberius, and had marched into the
city by night with much pomp and circumstance. This brash
demonstration of authority had provoked an immediate and massive
protest on the part of the residents of the city.

The Council, led by Caiaphas, met with Pilate
and begged him to remove the standards, fearing that the brazen
disregard for Jewish religious custom, which did not allow the
representation of graven images, would result in rebellion among
the already tense populous. Pilate refused. The Council argued with
him for five days to reconsider. Eventually, Pilate became enraged
and summoned the entire city to the racecourse, then surrounded the
people with a detachment of his soldiers and informed them that
unless they gave up their insanity, and discontinued their
harassment of his men, he intended to kill each and every one of
them.

To his consummate dismay, all of them—men,
women, and children—threw themselves to the ground, exposed their
necks, and served Pilate notice that they, the children of Abraham,
would rather die than willingly see the Holy City defiled. Pilate
yielded. The standards and images were withdrawn. That event would
forever blot the record of this career soldier from Spain.

“If Vitellius puts pressure on Pilate,”
continued Simon, “he will most certainly look for a way of escape,
and you, my friend, would provide the perfect scapegoat. It was you
who suggested that Jesus be sacrificed for the good of all.” He
paused, then added, “Make no mistake about it, Joseph, Pilate will
not let the opportunity pass to serve your head on a platter to the
Governor, especially to keep his own head
off
the
platter.”

“As always, Simon, your rhetoric is most
persuasive. I do not intend to become an
Azazel
sacrifice.”

Simon laughed, breaking the tension. “Never
mind the patronizing, Joseph,” he said without rancor, adjusting
his robe. “Doras sees this as his opportunity to move up in stature
in the Council. And he is steadily gathering support from some of
the more conservative, disgruntled members.”

“So?”

Simon shrugged. “He has already garnered
support from among the scribes and certain members of the first
chamber. If he sways enough minds, Annas may begin to have
thoughts—if he hasn’t already— about maneuvering his son Jonathan
into a position of higher visibility among the Romans.”

“To forestall any attempt by Doras to usurp
his power,” the High Priest muttered, thinking out loud.

The older man nodded. “We both know that
where power and influence are concerned, your father-in-law is a
master of manipulation. And your role in this Jesus incident is a
prime example.”

That comment had set Caiaphas to thinking.
Was there more to the dreams that haunted him than he was willing
to admit? Was it possible that there was something of critical
importance he had missed? Was he somehow being manipulated?

“You are the first non-lineal descendant of
Annas to hold the position of High Priest of the Great Sanhedrin,”
pressed Simon, “and you have ruled successfully now for fifteen
years. Yet power is a fickle and persistent mistress—”

“What does all this have to do with the
crucifixion of one blaspheming Jew? As High Priest of the Great
Sanhedrin, I alone have the responsibility for maintaining the
sanctity of the Faith. While we might have tolerated some of the
claims the man made, we most certainly could not tolerate his
insistence that He was the Son of God and that upon His death his
‘Father’ would resurrect him from the dead. Even the Pharisees were
uncomfortable with those claims.”

“Listen to me, Joseph. . .you haven’t been
yourself lately. There’s been talk among a number of the Council
members that you’re not the same forceful man who boldly confronted
Pilate seven years ago. We need a High Priest who is strong enough
to keep the Romans in check.”

“What do you recommend?”

“Reassert your strength. Let the Council see
that you haven’t forgotten what it means to be a Sadducee—and the
High Priest. You must prove to them, beyond a shadow of a doubt,
that there is no reason to be concerned about any loose ends in
this affair.”

Mounting morning heat brought Caiaphas back
to the present. He belched involuntarily, then gagged. The sourness
fermenting in his belly had risen from his stomach and scorched his
throat with its foulness. He stood up on wobbly legs and a wave of
nausea threatened to shatter his precarious balancing act. He
reached out and grabbed hold of the acacia.
Why had he gotten so
drunk?

The sun, a scorching irritant, added to his
discomfort.

Glancing furtively at the sky one final time,
he gathered his dirt-stained, wrinkled robes about him and, leaving
the security of the acacia behind as a lame man leaves behind his
staff, he headed for the house, remembering his last words to
Simon.

“Tell the Council I shall make a formal
report immediately. Tell them I intend to conduct a thorough
investigation into the events surrounding the arrest, trial, and
crucifixion of the Nazarene.” He paused, then added, “And Simon,
old friend, rest assured, I have no intention of allowing Doras, or
anyone else for that matter, living or dead, to destroy forty-three
years of hard work.”