The Master's Quilt (22 page)

That was how he came to be in Jerusalem.
Vitellius, ever mindful of political opportunities, had sent him
here to help the beleaguered Procurator of Judea curb the rise of
civil disobedience. His specific orders had been to train an elite
unit to eliminate the rebel leaders, and those orders had suited
Pontius Pilate just fine. The Procurator wanted the Judean monkey
off his back. And he would do whatever it took to eradicate the
politically disastrous mark he had been branded with as a result of
his failures in Judea. In spite of the fact that Pilate harbored a
passionate hatred of the Jews, he detested his estrangement from
Rome more; and even though he despised Antipas, he believed that he
knew the Tetrarch’s political weaknesses enough to manipulate
him.

“Antipas’ devotion to his faith is a
contrived affiliation,” Pilate had told him, just the other night.
“His lust for power is another matter altogether, however.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s quite simple, really. Herod can’t help
himself. Most men simply covet power. Antipas is
addicted
.
And I intend to use that weakness against him.”

“How?”

“Given the opportunity, Antipas will
sacrifice everything, including his faith, to sit at the helm of
the Hebrew ship of state. I intend to see that he has that
opportunity.”

“But why must we become involved?”

“Because, my friend, once Antipas controls
the Sanhedrin, I will have the Jews right where I want them. You
see, whoever controls the addict’s source of supply, controls the
addict. And there is no power in Judea, indeed in the known world,
without Roman occupation.”

At the time Pilate’s words made sense. Now,
Deucalion was not so sure. He experienced another kind of power
tonight—the power of faith. And it had shaken him to the very
depths of his being.

Out of the darkness, a man’s voice called to
him. “Deucalion?”

“Who goes there?” he asked, suddenly wishing
he’d brought a weapon.

Pilate stepped into the light provided by a
lone lantern and faced his Commander of the Garrison. “What in the
name of the gods are you doing here, dressed like that?” he asked,
obviously angry.

Deucalion’s mind raced. He mustn’t act
shocked at seeing the Procurator disguised in a hooded robe and in
the stable with him. Pilate never did anything without purpose and
planning. If the Procurator knew he was here in the stable, then he
also knew that he had been at the meeting. “I was doing a bit of
spying, Pontius,” he replied, uncomfortable with the lie.

Pilate appraised him with hooded eyes as he
walked over to one of the horses and began stroking the animal’s
neck. “You seemed very friendly with that dark-haired woman. Is she
one of
them
?”

“You’ve been spying on me?”

“Not exactly, Commander. Let’s just say that
I’ve had some serious doubts about your loyalty since our last
conversation.”

“So you followed me here. Why?”

“I wanted to speak with you—away from the
eyes and ears of those who might be far less sympathetic to your
plight.”

“Oh?”

“Come now, Deucalion. I know you better than
you think. I know you well enough to say that I’m positive the
woman I saw you talking with tonight was the same woman you rescued
from Saul. Am I right?”

“Perhaps.”

Pilate sighed and stopped stroking the horse.
There were several bales of hay piled against one corner of the
stable and he walked over and sat down on top of them. “I know
about Doras’ failure in the Sanhedrin, and that his daughter,
Esther, was the woman you supposedly took to the garrison for
questioning. Only neither of you ever arrived.”

“You don’t understand—”

“Let me finish, Deucalion, then tell me I
don’t understand,” barked Pilate. “I can’t believe you’re prepared
to throw away a promising career in the Guard because of a woman. A
Jewess, no less. If you must have her, then take her. But, by all
the gods, be discreet. I have enough problems without having to
deal with rumors that my Commander of the Garrison has fallen for a
Jewess.”

“Esther is not just another woman.”

Pilate arched his brow.

“Why did you marry Claudia, Pontius? Was it
just because of who her father was?”

“Why else?”

“For love—”

Pilate snorted. “Certainly you don’t expect
me to believe you’ve fallen in love with this woman?”

Deucalion pondered the Procurator’s question.
Until this moment, he hadn’t named his feeling for Esther. But yes,
he did love her. “What’s so wrong with that?”

Pilate waved his hand impatiently. “There is
no power in love. Love only saps the strength of a man—and
distracts him from what is important.”

“What
is
important, Pontius?”

“Political power.”

“You sound like Antipas.”

“May the gods take you, Deucalion,” Pilate
spat. “First you claim the Nazarene rose from the dead, and now you
tell me you’ve fallen in love with a Jewess who believes the same
preposterous story.”

Deucalion flinched. “So that’s what this is
truly all about. . .the Nazarene. I had hoped that perhaps you, at
least, believed me when I told you what transpired at the
tomb.”

“It doesn’t matter what I believe. The case
is closed. The Tribunal determined that the Galilean’s body was
stolen by thieves—very likely His own disciples—in order to promote
rebellion among the populace.”

“You weren’t there, Pontius. I was.”

“And so was Malkus.”

“What does he have to do with this?”

“He thinks the whole thing is a hoax.”

“A hoax?”

“You find that preposterous?”

Deucalion laughed harshly. “You remember when
you asked me what happened to my hand, the morning after I dined
with Doras, and I told you that I had been attacked by some
men?”

Pilate nodded.

“You also asked me if they were Jews.”

“And you told me they weren’t.”

“That’s correct.”

“So?”

“They were centurions, Pontius. That is, I’m
sure at least three of the four were.”

Pilate jumped to his feet. “That’s
impossible.”

“So was what I witnessed on the third morning
of guard duty at the tomb of the Nazarene. But they both
happened.”

Pilate was livid. “I curse the day Sejanus
appointed me to rule over this desolate stretch of desert. And I
curse the day I allowed the Jews to manipulate me into crucifying
the Nazarene. But by all the gods I swear I shall have my revenge.”
He stared at Deucalion. Light from a lantern flickered in the
darkness and turned his eyes to glittering ice. “Don’t make me
curse the day you came into my life, too.”

Deucalion was being asked to make a choice.
What was it Peter had said? “You can all partake of the divine
nature and escape the corruption that is in the world because of
lust.”

Pilate coveted power, just as his archenemy,
Antipas, did. Deucalion realized he couldn’t choose that path. It
would only lead to destruction. Nevertheless, he needed to make one
last effort to get through to the man who had treated him as a
son.

“Revenge isn’t the answer, Pontius,” he said
compassionately.

“No? What then is the answer?”

“Forgiveness—”

Pilate stared at him as if he’d uttered a
curse. “You
have
become infected with their rot, haven’t
you?”

“No, Pontius, I have not become infected. For
the first time in my life, I feel
clean
—totally clean.”

Pilate adjusted his robe, then stepped toward
the narrow street outside the stable, where he turned and said,
“I’m going to pretend we never had this conversation. I expect to
see you at the garrison first thing tomorrow morning. We have much
to do.” With that, he disappeared into the night.

Deucalion stared into the darkness as
Pilate’s words reverberated inside his head.

An astounding insight shook him to the core
of his soul.

Pilate had said it didn’t matter what he
believed
about what happened at the tomb. Did the Procurator
know the truth but wouldn’t, or perhaps couldn’t, admit it. Because
if he did, then he would be accountable. If he was accountable,
then he would have to answer to an authority that was much higher,
and much more powerful, than Caesar.

Deucalion wouldn’t be at the garrison in the
morning.

That part of his life was over.

Something in Peter’s words had pierced his
emotional armor and instead of injuring him, it was as if a burden
he had been carrying on his back for as long as he could remember
was suddenly lifted. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do, but he
did know that as soon as he saw Esther he was going to tell her of
his decision to accept her God as his own.

T
he two women and the
Praetorian arrived at Abigail’s house just before midnight, unaware
that Malkus had followed them from the city. They went inside,
where Abigail lit a solitary lantern, then said, “It’s been a long
day and I’m very tired. I’ll see you two in the morning.” She
handed the lantern to Esther, who placed it on the table and sat
down. Deucalion joined her.

Abigail had barely disappeared from sight,
when the door opened and Joseph entered the house.

Deucalion looked up and said, “I don’t
believe it—”

Joseph smiled. “We meet again, Commander,” he
said, as he closed and latched the door behind him.

“What do you mean ‘you meet again’?” asked
Esther. “You were barely conscious the night Deucalion rescued us
from Saul.”

“That’s true, Esther, but the Commander and I
met before that night—the morning after the crucifixion.”

“At the Nazarene’s tomb. . .” mumbled
Deucalion.

“Yet you didn’t recognize Joseph the night
you rescued us?”

“I was more interested in you than Joseph,”
confessed Deucalion.

“That’s quite understandable,” quipped
Joseph.

“But you don’t seem surprised to see
him
here,” prodded Esther, staring at her friend.

Joseph shrugged. “I saw the commander at the
meeting tonight—with you. I assumed he must be one of us now.”

“Please, call me Deucalion—I’m no longer
Commander of Pilate’s Praetorian Guard—”

“What?” exclaimed Esther.

“And after tomorrow morning I’ll be a rogue
soldier—a hunted man.”

“But why?”

“Because I’ve chosen to defy the Procurator’s
orders. . .and because I know too much.”

The room grew suddenly silent. Joseph walked
over to the table and sat down on a small stool, across from Esther
and Deucalion.

Esther’s mind raced.
What will happen to
us now?
Suddenly, an idea came to her. “All three of us are
outcasts,” she said, breaking the silence. “Consequently, we, like
many others, are without family or friends, save those who believe
as we do.”

Esther paused, surprised at herself; she
couldn’t remember ever being as bold and as confident as she was
now. Joseph and Deucalion listened attentively and she saw
curiosity and encouragement in both their eyes. Relieved, she
continued. “As long as Caiaphas and the Council, including my
father, continue to ignore the truth that Jesus was who He claimed
to be, the nation of Israel will continue to suffer. And if Rome
continues to view us as insurgent rebels, with no respect for
authority—secular or religious—there will be no end to the
slaughter of innocent men, women, and children.”

“What are you suggesting?” asked
Deucalion.

“Somehow we must make both the Sanhedrin and
Rome see that this insane hatred of one another cannot continue. We
have to find a way to open the eyes of both Caiaphas and Pilate
before it’s too late.”

In the ensuing silence, an odd kind of
stillness settled over Deucalion, Esther, and Joseph. A soft haze
permeated the dining area.

Deucalion had the same feeling he had the
night he was ambushed—like he had too much wine, only he had had
none to drink.

He looked at Esther, who was suddenly
subdued. Her eyes shimmered with a sparkling luminescence—they
looked like two agates lying in a stream of rushing water,
reflecting brilliant sunlight. Then he stared at Joseph, the man he
once thought a thief who had come to rob the grave of a dead man,
and realized just how foolish that thought had been.

Joseph was pensive. Esther’s prophetic words
struck a chord deep within him. As she talked, part of his mind had
been on his conversations with Uriel—first at the edge of the Great
Salt Sea, then later on the road from Bethany. Now, understanding
flooded his mind. “Before you continue,” he said softly, “there’s
something you should know, Esther. I’m one of the disciples
now.”

“That’s wonderful!”

“Yes it is. Although I’m a little surprised
at how fast things have happened. I’ve even been given a new
name—Barnabas.”

“Son of prophecy,” translated Deucalion.

“You know Aramaic?” asked Joseph.

“A little.”

“He also speaks
a little
Hebrew,”
interjected Esther mischievously.

Deucalion frowned, but said nothing.

“Can you
read
Hebrew?” asked Joseph
abruptly.

“Not as well as I speak it, but well enough
to understand what’s written.”

“I think I understand now why Peter shared
his story about Lazarus,” said Joseph. “We have all had an intense
personal experience with the Lord Jesus, the
Christos
. And
each of us has had our lives resurrected, even as Lazarus was
raised from the dead. Even though we haven’t experienced physical
death, as he did, we are truly dead to the lives we once
lived—”

“You are mistaken,” interrupted Deucalion,
suddenly agitated. “I haven’t experienced a moment such as you
describe.”