The Master's Quilt (6 page)

Joseph’s whole arm tingled when Uriel touched
him, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. At the same
time, he felt lethargic, as if he had been drugged.
No
, he
thought,
it’s more like a tremendous burden has been lifted from
me
. He stretched out on the limestone floor and a smile crossed
his lips as he closed his eyes. His last thought was that in the
morning he must tell Uriel of his decision. He would seek out the
disciples of Jesus and join them, if they would have him.

When he woke in the morning, Uriel was gone.
Beside him lay the linen bundle. Joseph knew deep in his spirit
that the old man would not return. He stood and stretched,
refreshed for the first time in weeks, then walked to the mouth of
the cave and looked out. He took several deep breaths, savoring the
salt air, and watched the sun rise, smiling.

It was time he returned to Jerusalem.

W
hat would I do
without you, Deucalion?” Pilate asked rhetorically, adjusting his
toga as the two men walked through the narrow, dusty streets at the
heart of Jerusalem. Underneath the toga he wore a tunic, the
angusticlava
, with a narrow bordering strip of purple
running the length of the garment, indicating he was a member of
the
equestrian
order, a clan second only to the senatorial,
which boasted the
laticlava
, a wider purple strip. “You
know, my young friend, there are pitifully few people one can trust
these days. And there is a strange kind of madness in the world. .
.”

“I’m not sure I understand what you mean,
Pontius,” replied Deucalion as he adjusted his own clothing. Unlike
the Procurator’s loose fitting toga and tunic, the armor he wore
weighed heavily upon his tall, muscular frame. The sun had only
been up a short time and already his body was complaining about the
heat.

“It is in their eyes, my young friend,”
Pilate whispered, indicating a group of old men engaged in a heated
discussion on their left. “Never doubt what you see exposed in
those twin mirrors of the soul. Men hide their feelings in many
ways, but few are able to control their emotions so that the truth
of what they feel does not register in their eyes.”

Deucalion, caught off guard by the moment of
intimacy, stared first at the old men, then back at his superior.
In the past few weeks Pilate’s body had become gaunt, almost
emaciated, and his deeply tanned skin had taken on the consistency
of parchment. His cheeks were sunken, and there were deep, dark
circles underneath his once bright, brown eyes. A sudden, strange
thought flowed into his mind. He wondered if Pilate was suffering
from some untreatable malady—perhaps a vicious parasite that
consumed the procurator’s life force from within. It would be like
him not to speak of it to anyone.

“It is the eyes that record a man’s life—and
it is the eyes that provide a record of a man’s sins. Words can
deceive. But the truth of what is in a man’s heart is found here,”
continued Pilate, tapping the spot to the right of one eye with a
long, bony index finger. “If you look into the eyes of the people
as we pass among them, you will see the anger. . .the fear. . .and
the desire to be free from the burden of Rome upon their
backs.”

Deucalion grew more and more perplexed as
Pilate talked. He realized that something was bothering the
Procurator, yet his superior was obviously finding it difficult to
express what he truly felt.

“Did you know that the Jews have a unique way
of dealing with a man who kills another without just cause?”

Deucalion shook his head in the negative,
matching Pilate step for step, as they entered into the open square
that was the central marketplace of Jerusalem.

“The dead man is securely fastened upon the
back of his murderer. The guilty party must carry the rotting,
maggot-infested corpse in that manner, until he succumbs himself to
the filthiness of death. Sometimes, late at night, when the city is
as quiet as a tomb, I dream that Rome is that decaying corpse, and
that her carcass rots upon the backs of the innocent.”

The Procurator stopped abruptly in midstride
and grabbed Deucalion by the arm. “Do you find my dialogue morbid?”
he asked petulantly, a pained look in his tired eyes.

“The truth Pontius?”

“Don’t you always give it to me. . .whether I
want to hear it or not?”

Deucalion managed a chuckle from his
sun-cracked lips. He wanted desperately to banish the stifling
heaviness that cloaked their conversation. “You know me all too
well, Pontius. . . perhaps too well for my own good.”

The intensity of Pilate’s stare unnerved him,
but he continued, “Yes, I find our conversation much too revealing
for the light of day. These topics are better reserved for the
emptiness of night, when a drunken man’s tongue can speak freely of
the demons that haunt his sleep.”

The Procurator flinched.

Deucalion didn’t seem to notice. “I, too, as
we have discussed on many an evening, am concerned about the course
Rome’s helmsmen have plotted,” he said. “We who man the oars have
little to say about our destination. I have learned, however, not
to worry about the steering of the ship. I leave that to the
captains.”

“And what if
you
were captain?” asked
Pilate, thinking he would be proud to have this man as a son.

Deucalion stared hard at Pilate for a moment
before he answered and tried to read what he saw in his superior’s
eyes.
What is it that torments him so?
“Perhaps I would
chart a different course,” he answered solemnly.

Pilate arched his eyebrows, something he did
when he was impressed with what he heard, which was not often. “You
never cease to amaze me with your boldness, Deucalion. For one so
young, you are quite a remarkable soldier.” He paused, then let out
a deep, unrestrained laugh and added, “If I had but a cohort of men
such as you, I would seriously consider taking on the Empire.”

Abruptly, Deucalion realized that the source
of the feelings beginning to crystallize within him was also the
source of the Procurator’s torment. The revelation came as he
remembered the conversation he had with Pilate’s secretary,
Antonius, two days ago.

“There is no one I can trust with what I’m
about to say but you, Deucalion. Do I have your word you will not
repeat our conversation?” Antonius had whispered.

He nodded his assent.

“My master is plagued by a demon. He wrestles
with it nightly in his sleep.”

The fear he had seen in Antonius’ eyes had
startled him. “Sometimes I think I will wake in the morning and
find his chambers empty. . . his body having simply been swallowed
up by the darkness.”

“And what is the source of all this?”

“My master is obsessed,” whispered the
distressed slave, “with the death of the Jew from Galilee. He
believes the man posed insufficient threat to Rome to warrant
crucifixion. Although he hates the Jews, and especially their
preoccupation with their God, he feels that Roman law, in this
case, did not provide a just resolution. He believes there should
have been a compromise.”

Deucalion understood all too well what
Antonius was saying. Ironically, Pilate, defender of the sanctity
of the state, had found himself in what was for all practical
purposes a situation in which no victory was possible. Jesus had
done nothing wrong as far as Pilate and Roman law was concerned.
Yet the Jews, whom Pilate despised, insisted Jesus be put to
death.

Pilate would have loved nothing better than
to free Jesus, and in so doing, spit in the faces of the priests
who sentenced him to die. Yet, because of a quirk of the law, he
had been forced to validate their mandate and carry out their
wishes. Hoping for a way out, he sent Jesus to Antipas, who had in
turn sent him back to Pilate. Not only had the Jews successfully
drawn blood with their ploy, but they twisted the blade in the
wound as well.

“Enough of this talk of madness and death,”
Pilate said as he slapped Deucalion upon the back, exhibiting
genuine affection for his attaché. “We have more pressing, and much
less philosophical, matters to discuss.”

In the blink of an eye Pilate’s demeanor had
changed dramatically. He was now the soldier planning his campaign.
“Antipas has not responded to my request that he make an accounting
for his actions in the case of Jesus of Nazareth.”

“He seemed highly agitated when I gave him
the scroll from Rome,” interjected Deucalion, bringing his thoughts
back to the conversation at hand.

“As well he should be,” Pilate grunted. “Rome
will expect me to provide them with some sort of justification for
my actions in the matter. And, as you are well aware, they want an
immediate solution to the problem of the increasing insurgency
among the populace.” He did not add, although it went without
saying, that was why Deucalion had been sent to Judea. The
Procurator hated to be reminded of his shortcomings.

“With all due respect, Pontius, your problem
is not Rome. Nor is it Antipas.”

The older man winced. He did not take
criticism well, even from Deucalion. “No? Who then?”

“Caiaphas. . .and the Sanhedrin.”

“Aha! You’ve been doing some investigating on
your own, haven’t you? Do you think I should tighten the reins a
bit?” He smiled sardonically. “Perhaps about the neck of
Annas?”

Deucalion shrugged, squinting against the
harsh glare. He had plans that he dared not mention. “Perhaps,” he
echoed, “but not immediately.”

Despite the breeze that had arisen, both
men’s tunics were soaked, yet neither seemed to feel it.

“Oh?”

“We need to know more about what is happening
within the Sanhedrin. I have a feeling there is more going on than
we are aware of, even with the information your spies supply.”

“And how do you propose to accomplish that
task? “

Deucalion smiled. He was back in control of
the conversation. “I’ve received an invitation from a dissident
member of the Great Council. One who sent me a secretive, rather
tantalizing, note indicating that he has certain information he
wishes to impart to you, through me.”

Pilate was suddenly apprehensive. “Why
you?”

“I’m not sure. Perhaps he feels more secure
speaking with an intermediary. At any rate, he says the information
could be most valuable in cleaning up what he circumspectly
referred to as ‘the dilemma Caiaphas has gotten us all into.’”

“Most interesting, indeed.” Pilate stroked
his chin with his right hand, toying with the three-day stubble
that further darkened his deep brown coloring. “And this ferret’s
name?”

“Doras.”

“You accepted, of course?” Deucalion smiled
again and Pilate slapped his shoulder. “Well then, by all means,
indulge him. We don’t want to disappoint a member of the Great
Sanhedrin, now do we?”

“As you wish, Procurator.”

“If only I had a hundred men like you. . .”
chuckled Pilate. “When is this, ah, meeting to take place?”

“Tonight. I’m to have dinner with him at his
home.”

“Excellent. This could be the answer I’ve
been hoping for, gods be praised.”

A shocked look crossed Deucalion’s face. “I
didn’t know you favored the gods, Pontius.”

“I don’t,” Pilate replied and grinned
expansively.

“I don’t understand.”

Pilate shrugged. “Destiny, Commander,
destiny.”

Deucalion grew thoughtful. He had always
found the Roman preoccupation with gods somewhat foolish, but the
idea that a man’s fate was predetermined—even before his birth—was
something else altogether. “Who determines a man’s destiny, then,
if there are no gods?” he asked.

“I didn’t say there are no gods, just that I
don’t favor them. Only men who have no answers from within seek
answers from without.”

“Are you that sure of yourself, then?”

Pilate flinched. “And why shouldn’t I
be?”

“What if we are
not
in control of our
destiny? What if there is only one God, such as the Hebrews claim,
Who created everything and rules from His throne in Heaven?”

Pilate stopped walking and eyed his
commander. “I listen to that rot from the Jews—I certainly don’t
expect to hear it from a Praetorian,” he replied harshly. “Now,
tell me about this Doras.”

D
eucalion arrived at
Doras’ house, located not far from the Temple, in the minutes just
after sunset. As he approached the entrance to the small but
prominent residence, he marveled at the sanguine complexion of the
sky.
There is nothing to compare in the entire world with the
beauty of the setting or rising sun
, he thought.

He also thought about his mother, knowing she
would approve of his musings. She was Greek, and a student of
Plato. She, like her philosophical mentor, believed in the love of
the
Idea
of beauty, the doctrine that physical objects are
merely impermanent representations of unchanging ideas.

“It is ideas alone that give true knowledge,
Deucalion, not the imperfect
manifestations
of the Idea as
they become known by the mind,” she told him, just before he left
for Syria.

At the time, her words confused him. But now,
as he watched the sun disappear over the rim of the world, he felt
as if he knew what she had been trying to say.

If light was absolute
, he reflected,
then one might conclude that it was the very essence of spirit;
being free from all impurity meant that it had the power to cleanse
any lesser form simply by coming into contact with that form. The
manifestation of that cleansing then became of secondary
importance—an effect, rather than a result.

Hi head spun with the intensity of his
thoughts. He closed his eyes momentarily in an attempt to steady
himself. When he opened them, the rich, vibrant colors of sunset
had melted together into the soft yellow bronze of dusk.