The Master's Quilt (9 page)

“I wonder if Herod ever had an April as bad
as I have had?” he muttered.

“Probably,” came the voice of Deucalion from
behind him, startling him.

“What did you say?” he asked, turning his
back on the Temple of God and straightening his sagging
shoulders.

“You were talking to yourself again,
Pontius.”

“Oh?”

“I said he has had much worse.”

“Worse?”

“Of course, Pontius. . .the man is dead!”

Pilate chuckled. “I was thinking of the
son
, not the father.”

Strange how one man’s death could bring so
much peace, and so much pain
, thought Deucalion, noting that
his superior seemed to have aged considerably in the past month and
a half. There had been rumors that even though the Procurator had
sentenced Jesus to death, something profound had passed between the
two men. However, what exactly had happened during the time Pilate
was alone with the Jew remained a mystery.

He questioned Pilate about the events of the
Passover, but the Procurator refused to discuss them. It was
actually more like he could not speak about what happened; as if
each word he spoke recalling the event cut into his spirit like the
razor-sharp edge of a sword cuts flesh and bone.

“Antipas desires complete control of the
Sanhedrin,” he said, pushing thoughts of the Nazarene from his
mind. “Doras is merely his tool. The other activities he’s been
engaged in recently are camouflage. As we expected, he is no longer
satisfied with the meager portion left to him by his father.”

Pilate grunted his agreement.

“After talking with Doras, my guess is that
Antipas is willing to do just about anything he feels he can get
away with in order to achieve his goal.”

“And how do we fit into this little game of
political intrigue?”

“Antipas expects you to immobilize Annas,
thus hemming in Caiaphas.”

Pilate remained thoughtful and asked, “What
information did Doras give to you that we can use against the High
Priest?”

“The trial—”

“What trial?” croaked Pilate, cutting
Deucalion’s reply off in mid-sentence. His whole body shook, as if
a lash of the scourge had suddenly stung him.

“The initial interrogation of Jesus, and His
final trial before the Sanhedrin,” replied Deucalion softly.

Pilate turned abruptly and walked over to the
portico. He stopped at the edge of the balcony and stared balefully
down at the Temple.

Deucalion came up beside him. “What is it
that disturbs you so, Pontius?” he asked, genuine concern evident
in his voice.” I thought you’d be pleased with my information.”

Seeming not to hear a word Deucalion had
said, Pilate replied, “Your hand. . . What happened?”

Deucalion glanced at his bandaged appendage.
“It’s nothing to be concerned about, Pontius. I had a minor
altercation with a couple of men in the streets last night, on my
way home from Doras’ house.”

“Jews?” snarled Pilate, spitting the word
instead of speaking it.

“No. . .they were not Jews, Pontius.”

“You’re certain?”

“Yes, I’m certain,” sighed the younger man.
“Tell me, why do you hate them so?”

Pilate turned and stared into Deucalion’s
eyes, his own eyes glistening with fear. “Because they are my
death,” he whispered in a scratchy, guttural voice.

• • •

As Deucalion walked the streets of Jerusalem
in the early afternoon hours, he remembered Pilate’s words.
Death is not a subject that I am unfamiliar with
, he
thought. He’d experienced its more violent forms firsthand in the
service of Rome. “No . . . death is no stranger to me,” he
muttered.

Fortunately, he did not need the constant
memory of battle to remind him of how it sickened him. As much as
he had reconciled himself to the necessity of killing in time of
war, he had never been able to steel himself to the brutality many
members of the Legion, including some generals, seemed to inflict
unnecessarily. And that was why he was so disturbed now.

Pilate had instructed him to take personal
charge of insuring that there were no outbreaks of rebellion among
the disenchanted followers of the dead and buried Jesus,
emphasizing the “dead and buried” a little too forcefully.

When Deucalion had asked exactly what the
Procurator had in mind, he was informed that there was a Jew who
had taken a personal interest in the “disease” that was festering
like pus in an untreated wound. This Jew had taken it upon himself,
with the blessing of Rome of course, to lance the wound as deeply
as he deemed necessary in order to cleanse it—permanently—of all
infection.

And Pilate had instructed Deucalion to
provide “support as required” whenever this Jew deemed it
necessary.

“I’ve already agreed to provide whatever
judicial authorization is needed,” said the Procurator with
finality. “I’ve further pledged the full support of the garrison.
Because this is a religious and not a military problem, Rome’s
official position on the matter is it is the responsibility of the
Sanhedrin to insure that the fanatics are eliminated—preferably as
rapidly and efficiently as possible.”

The thought of possibly having to participate
in violent activities against the unarmed populace brought a rise
of bile into the Praetorian’s throat.
We have sold our souls to
the god of power
, he thought miserably,
and we pay for it
with the gold of our blood. We lose our humanity as fast as the
Jews lose their lives.

Pilate had also informed him that he sent a
message to Caiaphas. His superior intended to confront the High
Priest in three days with the information that Doras had supplied
to them and demand an explanation of his activities.

That was the only hopeful note. At least
Deucalion would have time to do what he planned. If he was
successful, perhaps he could prevent things from getting totally
out of hand. In the meantime, he was to make his services and those
of the garrison available to the Jew. On his way out, he’d asked
Pilate, “And who exactly is this Jew who will wipe out the disease
of Jesus’ followers?”

“Saul of Tarsus,” replied Pilate, dismissing
him with a wave of his hand.

Now the Praetorian was on his way to see
Antipas, needing to locate this Saul who was so anxious to
persecute his own people. As he entered the marketplace to the
south of the Herodian Palace he experienced a moment of
disorientation. Increasingly there were moments when he felt if he
were to try and grasp hold of the events whirling around him, his
life would be sucked into a vortex, like so much dust sucked into a
whirlwind. This was one of those moments.

As he looked around at the people trying to
make sense of what he felt, he was struck by the fact that the
world he lived in was vastly different from the world he had
started seeing inside himself. That part of his mind he considered
to be the old part told the new part that he was thinking too
much.

Perhaps that was his problem.

During his early days as a Centurion, his
instructors had literally beaten into him the idea that good
soldiers have no time to think—their purpose is to hear and obey.
Thinking during battle was distracting and distractions meant
death.

One of his commanders had said, “If you are
lucky enough to achieve the rank of general, Deucalion, then you
can think. But remember the price. . .” Here he’d laughed
sarcastically “. . .you will have to answer to Caesar for your
thoughts. In any case, centurion, remember this: we who serve the
Empire are not required to exercise any profound moral restraint.
Fortunately, we are free from the burden of such esoteric
considerations. On the battlefield there is nothing except the
fight. . .and survival.”

This memory brought to mind his father. He
wondered if he would end up the same way—lying dead in the dust of
a foreign land, his gray-blue, Greco-Roman eyes staring blindly at
the setting sun.

He shook his head as if to clear it of the
depressing thoughts and headed for the palace. The marketplace was
crowded with a throng of people engaged in afternoon bargaining,
and he scanned the mass of bodies out of habit. He wasn’t looking
for anything in particular, just looking.

His heart skipped a beat when he saw the
beautiful and mysterious dark-haired woman he had seen at Doras’
last night. She bobbed in and out of his vision as she shopped at
the various stalls, carrying a straw basket filled with a variety
of foods and fruits. He watched, fascinated, as she moved from
vendor to vendor with the ease and self-confidence of one
accustomed to getting exactly what she wanted for exactly the price
she decided to pay beforehand.

Instead of rushing forward to ask her who she
was and if she remembered him from the previous evening, he found
himself rooted to the parched ground beneath his feet. Last night
he had only noticed her hair and eyes; now he had the opportunity
to observe her more completely. Even though she was unusually tall,
that did not catch his eye, however her skin did, or rather the
golden tint of it. The color reminded him of the amber coloring of
olive trees.

He could also swear that it radiated light,
as if she were glowing from within.

As she moved among the people she spoke to
those around her and it was obvious that she was not dispensing
perfunctory greetings. From the look on their faces, she must have
said something special to each one.

He tried to remember when he had seen those
looks before. Suddenly he had it. At the tomb—on the same morning
he had seen music and heard light. The expressions he saw on the
faces of the people, although not as intense, were similar to those
he had seen on the faces of his men.

What in the name of the gods can she be
saying to have such an effect upon complete strangers?
he
wondered, observing her.

He needed to get closer so that he could
hear. He jostled and elbowed his way through the crowd and managed
to find a spot just ahead of her progress, but out of her direct
line of sight. He strained to hear her voice but it was too
noisy.

Suddenly, she changed direction and headed
straight towards him. His heart started to beat rapidly and he felt
lightheaded. “What is happening to me?” he muttered, surprised at
the intensity of his emotions. This was not like him at all.

She stopped short of where he stood,
distracted by a vendor who sold dates and olive oil. He watched her
from a bare twenty feet away, mesmerized.

Almost as if she could hear his thoughts, she
stopped what she was doing, and turned to look in his direction.
Their gazes locked together for an instant. He realized in that
instant that it had not been her words that had so overwhelmed the
people. It was what they saw in her eyes. They were luminescent,
filled with the soft light one catches a glimpse of in the moments
between night’s end and daybreak.

A wisp of wind brought a stunning fragrance
to his nostrils. A sweetness, a tingling vapor, suddenly enveloped
him—as pure a fragrance as he’d ever smelled.

Like frankincense, yet not like
frankincense.

The moment passed. In an instant the crowd
swallowed her up. She disappeared into the throng of people as
quickly as she had dissolved into the night.

He scanned the crowd frantically, but she was
nowhere to be seen. He was not disgruntled, however. He sense they
would meet again—soon.

What would he say to her when they finally
met?

T
he meeting of the
Great Council was called to order as usual, with Caiaphas
presiding. However, due to the somewhat unusual purpose of this
particular session, he immediately relegated presiding authority to
Annas, the titular head of the Council. Before he spoke, the High
Priest looked out over the semi-circle of faces within the Hall of
Hewn Stones.

Sixty-nine pairs of eyes stared at him with
nervous anticipation. There had not been a formal inquiry into the
actions of a High Priest within recent memory.

In challenging the behavior of the highest
representative of their God, the Council was challenging the
efficacy of the very institution of the priesthood. Fundamentally,
they believed that no matter how much time one spent in preparing
to become High Priest, if God’s hand did not guide, and if His
voice did not confirm in the hearts of all who voted that indeed
the man they had chosen was called to the position, whomever sought
the office would not prevail.

Although a man was not infallible, there was
an inherent bias in the thinking of those who served in the
priesthood. Because of their constant communion with the Father,
they were less likely to err. The High Priest, being at the top of
the hierarchy, was the least fallible of all.

The tension in the room was palpable. When
Caiaphas settled his eyes upon Doras, it was with a great deal of
restraint that he showed little of the raging anger simmering
inside him. During his reign as High Priest, there had never once
been any suggestion that he had acted without proper authority.
Until now. As a result of the challenge to his authority, he
prepared for this moment with all the expertise his tactical, legal
mind could muster. He had but one purpose: that of convincing one
man, and one man only, as to the validity of his actions—Annas.

If he failed to convince his father-in-law
that he was in complete control of the Council, and if he were
unable to demonstrate once and for all that he had acted wholly
according to the requirements of Scripture and not out of any
personal dislike for the Nazarene, Annas would be forced to call
for his removal. Annas would also select the next High Priest. Any
failure today on his part would open the door for Doras.