28 The Father, the Son & the Slave
You know the Passion narrative. This is not that tale. This is the story of a father, his estranged son and the slave caught between them as they journey from Nazareth to Jerusalem. This is Chapter Twenty-eight.
T W E N T Y — E I G H T
Jacob, son of Ezra, was Jerusalem’s most successful carpet merchant, though his business had expanded through the years into linen and cotton from Aegypt and silk from the distant East.
He was late for the Sanhedrin, and he hated being late unless it was by his choice, but even the streets of the Upper City had been packed. This morning, the council would debate commercial rates of duty and it was crucial he and his fellow merchant Pharisees attended in sufficient numbers that they could press the Sadducees to shoulder their share of any increases. And of course there would be increases. There were always increases, born from the priests’ hunger to finish the Temple Mount, Herod the Great’s architectural masterpiece.
Yet despite their desire to complete the temple, the Sadducee nobility had little appetite to pay for it. Though landed gentry and owners of vast estates that produced wine and flocks and grain, they preferred to overburden the merchants and the poor rather than bear their share.
Not today, thought Jacob. He brushed aside the heavy curtain of his palanquin and climbed from it with the energy of a much younger man. He looked about as he waited his turn to wash his feet at one of the many mikvot, the shallow stone basins at the foot of the monumental staircase. Unlike the Sadducees, Pharisees were free to wear whatever they wished to attend the Sanhedrin, and Jacob noted a great number of fine cloaks here to attend this particular session.
Arriving by palanquin this morning was to display his status, to be sure, but it had also been a matter of safety. This near to Passover, his city’s population trebled in size, and so, too, did the number of cutpurses. Most days, though, Jacob preferred to walk about the city — after seven decades of living here, there were few faces that failed to greet him and fewer still he did not recognize.
He climbed the stairs with ease, holding the hem of his robes out of the way. The steps were uneven, alternating in depth, one narrow and the next deep. The Pharisee assumed the priests meant the irregular pattern to focus one’s mind on the moment and the purpose of their visit to this most sacred venue, but Jacob leaned his weight forward and took them two at a time. As he reached the halfway point, the stairs turned right to climb the arch over the street below. Some irregularity in a wagon passing beneath him caught his eye, and he hesitated, curious. It rode uncommonly high, this wagon, and he saw its wheels were much taller than any he had ever seen. As he thought why that would be, he met the gaze of a young, well-dressed Nubian watching him from the wagon’s bench.
Then the vehicle vanished from sight and Jacob renewed his ascent, rehearsing in his mind an argument against any rise in the duties on carpets. Tensions between Rome and Parthia were already forcing his costs up.
Passing into the shade of the columned portal at the top of the stairway, he moved out of the stream of people and halted. If asked, he would claim it was to savour the coolness of the air here, but the truth was his eyes needed a span to adjust to the shadows. Beyond the gate was the temple’s main courtyard, the Court of the Gentiles, where the pious purchased their ritual animals after changing their coin for shekels. Coins from Rome and Aegypt and even Parthia were respected currencies and in common use throughout Palestine, but the Sadducees would only accept shekels as payment for sacrificial offerings. Though they offered ‘purity’ as the reason for payment in Hebrew coin, the priests owned the money-changers and so increased their profits.
Lining the perimeter of the temple’s main court was a portico of tall, paired columns that ran around the perimeter of the plaza, roofed to provide shade for the gathered pilgrims while they waited their turn with the priests. And there, set in the centre of the open yard, was the temple itself, its walls higher than the portico yet not so tall as the towers of the Fortress of Antonius at the northern extent. Two days before Passover and already the stench of blood and death supported a host of flies so dense the courtyard appeared as if enveloped in fog.
Jacob lifted his cloak to cover his lower face and followed the columns on his right.
Extending most of the width of the southern end of the Temple Mount was the stoa, a walled, two-storey hall. Inside, the columns supporting the structure’s roof were more slender than those of the portico, yet they reached higher. The wide interior space within was prohibited to all except Pharisees and Sadducees, and the semi-circular eastern end featured cushioned benches along the wall for members of the Sanhedrin, the Hebrew religious court. Soon it, like the greater Temple itself, would be complete. The floor tiles would stretch from the council area to the entrance and perhaps the shutters intended for the upper windows would limit some of the stench.
A distinct sigh of relief hissed through his pursed lips as he realized the session had yet to begin. Setting a smile on his face, he threaded his way to his seat, nodding at fellow Pharisees and avoiding eye contact with red-robed Sadducees. Status played an important role in the seating order and it entitled him to a place close to the High Priest, but the carpet merchant had always preferred to sit where he could watch the most powerful without making it obvious. When he spoke, he could see if they listened and how they reacted.
Setting his gaze on the tiled floor at his feet, Jacob tested phrases and tones as he refined his case. It drew on a universal fear of all merchants — market influences beyond their control — but he needed to convince a stubborn audience. A hum rose at the stoa’s entrance, and as it spread through the hall so too did the urgency of those clustered in pairs and groups to find their seats.
The bell had not yet quieted when a slot in one of the gate’s dark panels slid open and a pair of dark, wary eyes appeared. A moment later, one of the heavy timber doors swung outwards. A large man, bronze-skinned and hairless, stepped into the gap. Muscular rather than fat, his eyes were lined with the kohl used for protection from sun and spirits alike by the people of the Nile.
Adorning his bare chest was an ornate bone whistle on a silk cord. His quick gaze evaluated Josef and, in turn, Mother and Metlip, his eyes widening a fraction as he took in Metlip’s seat and then his collar. Drawing himself up, the man offered his visitors a curt bow.
“Be welcome to my master’s palace,” he told them. “He is within. May I deliver him your names?”
Josef tugged the ring from his finger. “Please show this to your master.”
The gatekeeper inclined his head and held out his palm. He shut and latched the gate behind him.
Though this street was quiet enough, the sheer walls of the estates it serviced reflected the energetic noise of a nearby cross-street and the market square beyond. Metlip’s curiosity fed his excitement. Not only did the numbers of people impress him, but also their pace, as if there was more to life here than in Nazareth.
It seemed but moments before the gate swung open again, wider this time. “My master bids you join him, if you please,” the gatekeeper announced. Waiting to escort them was another servant, a young man. Aegyptian like the gatekeeper, eyes lined with kohl and also hairless, he was slender and wore a great deal less clothing than his older counterpart.
Josef turned to his slave. “Wait here with the wagon,” he said, offering his hand to his wife, but Mother accepted Metlip’s help from the other side of the wagon. Before the gate closed behind his master and mistress, Metlip was standing on the bench, his attention absorbed by the city. The gatekeeper’s gaze moved back and forth down the street, suspicious of every person who passed.
Tall as the wagon bench was, the Nubian could not have leapt high enough to grab the lip of the wall. As he wondered what possible dangers the city held to warrant such protections, a shadow crossed the junction of the streets. His gaze followed, and he could not believe what he saw.
And then the sight vanished. Metlip jumped to the cobbles and sprinted to the end of the street. Yes — there could be no doubt. Moving through the crowd — above the crowd — four black-haired heads. Nubian heads.
A small part of his mind protested, but the rest of him would not listen and he moved off after them. It was difficult to catch up among so many people, but his height showed him eddies of space in the crowds as they appeared before him and it was not long before the Nubians, and the palanquin they carried, halted in the road.
The Nubian bearers held it steady for the occupant to exit. Metlip could not place the style of robes the man wore, though he was certain they were not local. He forgot the passenger just as soon as the man stepped past the cloth flap hanging over a shop entrance. Metlip approached the motionless Nubians standing silent as if unaware of the surrounding bustle. The four wore thin cloth breeches the colour of wet sand that left their lower legs bare, as were their feet. They wore nothing under short, sleeveless mantles of a yellow unfamiliar to the Nubian.
Four heads turned as one when he greeted them in Aramaic. When they didn’t reply, he repeated the greeting in Hebrew, then Latin and Greek. He didn’t know what to do next. So he stood there as they compared the fine quality of his tunic and mantle, though dusty from five days on the road, and their own plain but serviceable clothes.
A sharp prod against his spine made him jump.
“What business have you with my slaves?”
Metlip turned to face the voice. “Nothing,” he began. “I wanted to — “
The words died in his throat and a wave of undefined terror washed over him. Facing him was a man of advancing years with a scar down the left side of his face where an ear should be.
“You wanted what?” the slaver demanded.
“I have never seen others like me. I was curious. Forgive me.”
The slaver spoke to the shopkeeper in Latin. “A black who speaks Aramaic. I wonder if he is for sale.”
“I am not for sale,” Metlip replied, also in Latin.
The slaver raised his rod as if to strike. “Would that you were mine. It is not for a slave to say if he is for sale. Who is your master?”
“The carpenter, Josef of Nazareth.”
“Where is he now?”
Metlip looked around, realizing for the first time that he did not know where he was.
“He is within an estate — in the Upper City — ” Metlip paused. “It is near a market on the crest of the slope. The walls are high, with black gates.”
The shopkeeper nodded, then spoke to the slaver in a language foreign to Metlip. The slaver gave a curt response and climbed behind his curtains. The merchant turned towards his shop and called a name. A boy appeared. He listened to the merchant’s instructions and then took his place at the front of the palanquin.
The slaver used his staff to part the palanquin’s curtains. “Follow,” he barked at Metlip.
Caiaphas concentrated on the throne that dominated the council space as he strode ahead of his father-in-law, Annaias. He feared if he even glanced at a single member of the council, he wouldn’t be able to keep the smile from his face. He was the most powerful man of his tribe, second in the entire province after the Roman Procurator, Pontius Pilate. This morning, the High Priest hoped to strengthen that power further by stripping what influence remained to his father-in-law.
Annaias had plotted and contrived for Caiaphas to succeed him to the post of High Priest, but thought he still held the real power. Caiaphas hated his wife’s father. He hated the bent old man’s inexhaustible capacity to sabotage the High Priest’s goal of peace with the Romans. The empire’s demands were few, but the benefits were huge. Never in his life had trade prospered as it did now, moving over Roman roads under Roman protection. And as trade prospered, so did his people. And when his people prospered, they could afford higher tithes. It was Caiaphas’ singular dream to be remembered as the High Priest who completed the Second Temple.
Annaias threatened that dream with his constant criticism of the occupation and his tirades on Hebrew freedom. Caiaphas knew his father-in-law was behind a wave of vandalisms to Roman building initiatives, and that he patronized a group of local thugs and failed legionnaires to assault his enemies using Roman weapons. The High Priest had to admire the cunning behind strategies that both silenced his rivals and fomented resentment on both sides, but it had to stop, and Caiaphas was losing patience. The High Priest loved his wife, and she loved her father, but he was thinking a period of mourning on her part could well be the lesser evil.
Caiaphas needed peace and he knew Pilate did too. If Annaias was out of the picture, peace and prosperity — and the temple’s completion — were almost inevitable. But ridding himself of his father-in-law would require a depth of cunning the High Priest could only hope he possessed. He chewed on the inside of his cheek to control his emotions.
As a religious council, the Sanhedrin always opened with prayers. It was within his power to appoint someone other than himself to lead them, and he knew Annaias revelled in being the voice God heard.
Eventually, his father-in-law’s monotonous wheeze gave way to silence, and Caiaphas called the Sanhedrin to order.
“See what we have achieved, friends. Soon the floor will be tiled,” he gestured at the floor and the empty casements in the upper walls. “Soon our temple will be complete.” He paused, scanning the room so all might see how his eyes shone with pious passion. “Complete. Think what that will mean for us, for our people, our future? How could that not rouse God to bless our tribe with our freedom?” He took a few steps towards the open centre so all might see him.
Into that pause, Annaias wheezed, “That can wait.”
Caiaphas spun to challenge his father-in-law, but the old man ignored him. “We have a greater problem.” Annaias strained to look up at the ceiling. “A problem which could render all of this pointless.”
Caiaphas saw he had lost their attention, but he would not give up his control. “What vexes you this day, Father?” he asked, his tone slick with patronizing patience.
“You know as well as I what the problem is.” The old man spat the words with such force he almost lost his balance. Caiaphas rushed to him, guiding Annaias back to his place on the bench and resting a hand on the other’s shoulder to keep him there.
One of the other blood-robed Sadducees stood. “What problem does Annaias speak of?” Caiaphas struggled to name him. A Galilean, he thought, from Philippa. Methlan, Metales. No. Methelas. The High Priest made a point of knowing the names of his fellow Sadducees — and their secrets, the costs drawn from Temple coffers.
“He worries about the peasant, the beggar rabbi they call the Nazarene.” Beside him, Annaias nodded his head.
“And so we should,” Methelas said. “He hid within my caravan, poisoning the minds of all who would listen, uttering blasphemies and speaking against us. He paints us to look like enemies of our people. He strips us of our legitimacy.”
“Why did you not take him when you discovered his identity?” Annaias growled.
“I ordered it so, but among his followers was his father, who pressed a — a Gentile, the captain of my caravan guard, to act as a judge, and — ” Angry muttering spread among the Pharisees, but the priests roared their rage.
Caiaphas patiently waited for the council members to release their emotions, judging when he needed to shout for silence. Methelas looked eager to continue rousing his fellows but Caiaphas waved at him to sit.
“What are we to do about the Nazarene?” he asked them. Every one of them knew that name. “Exile!” called some. Others — most of them Sadducees — shouted, “Execute him!”
Less patient now, Caiaphas asked, “Should we do anything? How many have walked this path? How many in your lifespans have made these same claims, earning fame overnight and then fading into obscurity?”
A Pharisee unknown to Caiaphas stood and waited for the High Priest to recognize him. “I think we should do nothing. I am a successful timber merchant and I have journeyed to the borders of the world. I have seen many things strange and beyond explanation, but only once have I witnessed God’s intercession.”
Some laughed, others became angry, but all quieted at Caiaphas’ word, and the man continued. “I personally witnessed the Nazarene perform a miracle.”
“Quiet!” Caiaphas bellowed into the chaos of noise. “Tell us,” he instructed the merchant.
“I do not recall the town in Galilee — barely a hamlet — but I remember why I stopped there. My wagons were caught up in a mass of people surrounding a house beside the road. They were so many that they blocked the entire width, nor would they move. I heard the name ‘Nazarene’ repeated and asked what it meant. ‘The Messiah,’ they said, ‘the Messiah!’ Then some men carried a boy between them on a frame, but could not approach the door. They asked to use my wagon to gain the roof so the Nazarene could heal their brother. I saw no reason to deny them, so up they climbed, and pulled away the palm fronds to make a hole through which they lowered the boy. Moments later a cheer came from within and from those on the roof, and the boy walked from the dwelling unaided.”
“Impossible!”
“Blasphemy!”
“Tricks!”
“How do you know it was a miracle?” Caiaphas demanded. “What proof did they offer?”
“My eyes provided proof,” the merchant insisted. “I witnessed a boy, unable to move his arms and legs, carried with care by his brothers onto a roof and lowered into the dwelling where the Nazarene waited. A short time later, the boy emerged unaided.”
“How do you know the Nazarene performed this miracle?” Caiaphas pressed.
“They followed the boy out, praising the Messiah and the miracle, and among them was a man, a man lacking any special features but nonetheless recognizable as a man to trust, a man you might crave to befriend.”
“Charlatans depend on making you trust them,” Annaias wheezed. “You are a fool. Did you give him any coin?”
The merchant looked at his feet. After a moment, he said, “Yes,” and as if his answer was proof against the miracle, the Sanhedrin members dismissed his testimony. After a few moments, the merchant took his seat.
Another Sadducee stood. When the High Priest nodded at him, the man said, “They brought a thief to me yesterday, but the merchant who had suffered the loss is one of the peasant’s ‘baptised’ and refused to prosecute. It denied me my fee to judge the case.”
Annaias stood and pointed at Methelas. “You. Stand.” The other man obeyed. “You say the peasant blasphemed. How did he blaspheme?”
“The father countered all of my accusations.”
“I care not how he countered your accusations,” the old priest growled. “What did the peasant say? Exactly.”
Methelas recited, “He insulted me, my family and the priesthood. He said, ’You title yourself priest, as if your avarice is sanctioned by God.”
The old man smiled. “We do not bestow ourselves with the title of priest. That is God’s word. He is a blasphemer.” Caiaphas noticed reactions differed between the two sects, but he could not side with the merchants.
Another Pharisee stood and waited to be recognized. “I am known to most of you. I am Jacob, son of Ezra. I will speak plain words. I am a busy man. I have no wish to manufacture a fragile justification to kill another man because he speaks his own truth. I say we charge him as a false prophet. His followers will desert him and he will vanish.”
“No,” growled Annaias. “He is not like any before him. He does not want to lead our people, he wants to destroy all we are. He is a blasphemer!”
“Vote!” shouted Methelas. “We must vote!” Others voiced their agreement, but did not stand with the old priest. Annaias and his new ally Methelas did not earn their majority.
At that moment, a man ran the length of the stoa, his scarlet robes disheveled and dirty. It was the Sadducee priest whose life Iesu spared. He approached Annaias and whispered into the old man’s ear. At a nod from the old priest, the new arrival turned to the seated assembly.
“Forgive my appearance, but my news demanded haste. My guards and I were set upon by the Nazarene’s mob at the Essaious Gate. All were overwhelmed save me.”
“They set upon you for no reason?” asked Jacob.
“None. I was there on Temple business.”
“What business?”
The Sadducee glanced at Annaias, then back to Jacob. “I tried to deny entry to the Nazarene’s mob. They enticed my guards into combat and then revealed a champion who defeated them and would have killed me.”
Jacob said, “How did you escape?”
“The Nazarene spared me.”
“Annaias, your enemy showed mercy where he did not need to,” Jacob pressed. “That is not the act of a blasphemer.”
But Annaias saw an opportunity. “No! See this peasant’s power; he now has guards. Those who support this upstart will soon exceed our own numbers — if they do not already. And then what? We can wait no longer. Nor can we afford to fail again. This may be our last chance. How long before he takes our place?”
“Many of us have guards, Annaias,” Jacob responded. “Even you, so I have heard.”
“You do not see what I see,” Annaias said. “You do not know what I know. The peasant seeks to shred the foundations of our tribe. He refutes the very laws God spoke to Moses. The blasphemer denies our place as first among men, insisting God has no favourites. He negates our tribal covenant, claiming such a bond may only exist between one man and God. Our very existence is at stake. It is blasphemy!”
Methelas stood once again. “The Nazarene is guilty of blasphemy. Vote!”
“Wait,” called Jacob, standing. “Nothing I have heard here meets the terms for blasphemy. This Nazarene does not deny God, nor does he claim existence of other gods. Nothing he has said profanes God or denies his reverence for God.”
“He denies us!” Annaias screamed, and collapsed. Silence followed. Hoping the old man had died, Caiaphas rushed to the crumpled, motionless figure and rolled him onto his back.
Other council members stood, and some — a few — formed a circle around the High Priest and his father-in-law. “Is he dead?” a voice asked. “Does he breathe?” Caiaphas held his hand above Annaias’ mouth. No, he thought. “He lives,” he said. Standing, the High Priest called for his acolytes, but his voice was lost in a greater noise. It seemed to come from above, then Caiaphas realized the source lay outside the open clerestory windows.
Shouting again for his acolytes, Caiaphas fought the urge to leave Annaias. “Find out what causes that noise.”
