31 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 Thirty-one.
T H I R T Y — O N E
The cloaked and hooded figure blended in with the rest of the traffic climbing the hill. There was nothing remarkable in the quality of his clothes or in his bearing, though he moved with more urgency than those around him. There had been a time when he feared they would know him during these excursions, but that was some months ago. Now it had become a daily habit, as familiar as an old tunic, though in a week it would become a fading memory.
Herod’s Palace was the most comfortable habitation he had ever called home. Built against the city’s western wall and as well fortified as the Antonia Fortress, this palace was unlike any other in the city. Many other homes of the wealthy in the Upper City had direct access to the huge arched aqueduct that carried fresh, clear water from the mountains, but this palace was first served, and in sufficient quantity to allow multiple fountains, two kitchens and its own baths.
A walled courtyard ran the length of the eastern side of the palace. The Praetorium served many purposes. Pontius Pilate, Roman Procurator for the province of Palestine, delivered his decrees and blessings from a balcony three stories above the yard, where his voice could carry to the crowd — safely. On darker days, it was a place of punishments. It was rumoured that its paving stones had tasted the blood of a thousand men in the three decades since Herod the Great commissioned its construction. In the whole of Jerusalem was there no other place as eagerly avoided as the Praetorium.
It was empty this morning, as it had been at this time every other day, but the most powerful man in the land kept his hood up until he was deep within the shadows of the tunnel in the Southwest corner used to transfer prisoners from their cells for public punishment. And, like every other day, one of his men watched and waited to open the heavy gate for him.
Damn his wife, anyway, he thought. They had promised to love one another from late childhood. She had been by his side as he scrambled up the ranks of Roman society, sharing the boredom of backwoods postings and enduring the dangers of the empire’s borders to get here. Not that here was the goal, but it was the most significant, the most important step in his career. After this, he, Pontius Pilate, Roman equestrian, could choose his future postings.
And then, one insignificant, unremarkable day, she returned from a holiday in Galilee changed. And not changed in the way the milestones of life change you, but — he tasted a variety of words in his mind before he bit into the right one — reborn as someone else. He didn’t understand how his wife of two decades could turn her back on her gods, on Rome, on him.
He felt betrayed. He had loved her — and still did, if he was honest with himself — and so he tried to understand her new beliefs, tolerated her disdain for the gods that formed the foundations of his existence and suffered through her embarrassing refusal to at least pretend she was still Roman. And what did he get in return? The destruction of a lifetime’s collection of marble statuary, a small fortune in mosaics smashed into dust, his frescoes — commissioned with his own wealth — buried under coats of lime.
And that was the least of it. If even a rumour of her behaviour was whispered in the wrong ear, Rome would learn of it and his career would be over. It had taken time, but he had located a suitable, isolated estate, hand-picked the men he would trust with his secret and just last night he had been informed the furniture for her new home had finally arrived.
She would be gone from him in less than a week, and then he could end these furtive visits to his hidden altar. He would call the gods back to him in his own home, indulge them with extravagant sacrifices and worship them as generations of his ancestors had done. The gods gauged their value to you by what you were willing to offer in exchange for what you asked of them. Why? Because their status among their fellow gods was determined through your sacrifices. Why would he trade that for a single god who expected you to earn His blessing? It made no sense.
Still, he had but one request of the gods, and every day he repeated it, and he would keep repeating it until they were so tired of hearing it, they would grant it just to silence him. He wanted the man responsible for tearing his life apart.
“Excellency?” His personal aide stood at attention nearby, his uniform spotless, his armour shining.
“Yes?”
“The priest Annaias awaits, sir.”
“Let him wait. I must wash and eat.”
“Yes, Excellency.”
Some time later, Pilate permitted the bent priest into his office and pretended not to notice how devoted the man was to his frown. A legionnaire from Pilate’s personal guard watched from the door, out of earshot but near enough to prevent trouble.
“I have delivered the blasphemer, Procurator.”
“And Caiaphas? Is it not his duty to deliver the victims of the Sanhedrin?”
“I have the authority to transport the guilty. It is up to you now to execute him. And it must be done today, and early enough that they may lay his body to rest before sunset.”
“All that, Annaias, and in such a short time? What blasphemy demands such swift and final answer?”
“His crime is of no concern to you, Roman, only the verdict of the Sanhedrin. We find him guilty, but we risk a riot if we impose the punishment. If you do it, none can protest.”
“Is that how you see it, priest? My view is different. I view your request as cowardly. You are eager to wield your power, but afraid to get blood on your hands.”
“Caiaphas told me you had agreed.”
“I agreed to hold a trial. If that trial proves his guilt, I will execute him. Do you have a favoured method?”
Annaias’s scowl was intimidating, but his feral smile was worse. “Something slow, to make him recall who holds real power and how little is his.”
“I know just the thing.” Pilate stood and gestured at the door. “Allow my man to escort you, Annaias. I will be there directly.”
The steady rhythm of the guard’s steps had yet to fade when another door opened and his aide gestured Caiaphas into the room.
“Greetings, Procurator. You must think me incapable of controlling my priests,” the High Priest began, his robes swirling. “I assure you, if any of my Sadducees thinks to over-rule one of your officers in the future, do not warn them off. You are welcome to execute them summarily. Please accept my most humble apologies again.”
Pilate waved off the apology. He was beginning to like the High Priest. The man thought like he did. “It is past, Caiaphas. We understand each other and that is what is important. Wine?”
“Thank you, no, Procurator. The man you are about to try is an innocent. His only crime is to have earned my father-in-law’s hate, an emotion more and more common. He should step away, but my wife adores him and I, of course, adore her.”
“What do you wish me to do, High Priest?”
“The man is — touched, Procurator. He believes himself to be what he is not. His family is waiting to return with him to the hills of Galilee, where he may believe whatever he wishes without drawing the anger of our more conservative priests.”
“But I have said I will try him, and so I must.”
“Of course, Excellency. I may assure you he will answer your questions honestly, and you will find him innocent of any infraction of — Roman law.”
Ah, Pilate thought. “An excellent suggestion, Caiaphas. I must judge him under my law, not yours. May I count on your support for my verdict?”
“Of course, Procurator.”
The two men entered the Praetorium from different directions. Pilate emerged from the tunnel, though his step faltered at the size of the crowd gathered to observe the trial of a madman. More and more curious, he thought. A single chair sat near the southern wall of the yard and it was his. Pilate took it without looking up.
Annaias had not expected his son-in-law’s appearance when he pushed through the crowd, but he thought there was little Caiaphas could do now to influence the Procurator.
When they brought the Nazarene in, he could not stand, but his guards lowered rather than dropped him to the stones. His tunic was filthy and torn in more than a few places. He looked half-starved and barely aware, which only lent strength to the High Priest’s claim that the prisoner was mad.
Pilate shook his head at the man’s condition and kept his gaze on the old Sadducee until their eyes locked. Annaias stared back at the Roman unapologetically.
Pilate asked the accused his name, birthplace and age. The prisoner answered without hesitation, though damage to his mouth caused his speech to slur. The Procurator kept his questions direct and simple. The prisoner answered likewise. He did not seem delusional, Pilate thought, and he had a significant popularity, considering the size of the crowd. Annaias’ motivation was clear, and perhaps Caiaphas wished only to frustrate him, but the Procurator had navigated the subtle savagery of the empire’s political elites to get here, and he knew there was more to learn.
“Why did your own kind charge you with blasphemy?” he asked.
“They did not,” the prisoner replied. “There was no trial, only my arrest at my wedding feast followed by abuse at the hand of the priest Annaias.”
Casting his gaze at the old priest, the man appeared to be asleep on his feet. “Annaias!”
Annaias did not respond. “Annaias!” Pilate called again. The Sadducee ignored him.
“Guard,” Pilate said to one of the men standing over Iesu, “wake that man. Whatever it takes.”
Before the guard had taken his second step, Caiaphas took pleasure from elbowing his father-in-law in the side. Annaias stood bolt upright, turning towards the High Priest.
“Annaias!” Pilate shouted once again. “Does the prisoner speak the truth?”
“He is guilty of blasphemy,” Annaias said.
“That is not an answer to my question. Caiaphas, was this man granted a trial?”
The High Priest looked only at the Procurator. “No, Procurator. We scheduled the trial for today.”
“You have no right to interfere with our law,” Annaias spat. “You are only to carry out the punishments the Sanhedrin specifies.”
The Procurator stared at Annaias in silence for many moments. Then the edge of his mouth quirked upwards. “Iesu of Nazareth is guilty of breaking no Roman law. He is free to go.”
A howl erupted from Annaias. “No! I forbid it. He is a blasphemer!”
Looking at Caiaphas, Pilate spoke for all to hear. “High Priest, it is my judgement that the man before us, whose mind is broken, is not a prisoner of your Sanhedrin, but a victim of Annaias’ hateful appetites. Annaias, never set foot in this Praetorium again unaccompanied by Caiaphas. This trial is complete.”
Cheering erupted from the crowd, but fury fuelled one voice to rise above the rest. “Herod!” Annaias screamed. “This peasant is a Galilean. Herod Antipas is in the city. Let Herod judge.”
Pilate’s eyes met the High Priest’s, and Caiaphas gave a slight shrug of permission.
“So be it,” he ordered. “Take the prisoner to Herod.” With that, Pilate stood and walked into the shadow of the tunnel.
“I have said before we cannot trust him,” Annaias said, too loudly. Nor was he finished. “Romans cannot be trusted.”
Caiaphas clenched his robes to prevent harming his father-in-law. “Keep your voice down, Annaias. You are becoming a liability with your bitter hatreds.”
Annaias ignored the criticism. “I will persuade Herod to judge the peasant guilty.”
“You will do no such thing,” Caiaphas said with as much authority he could muster. “You will return to the Temple, and you will stay there.”
The bent old man heard the High Priest’s words, but he didn’t listen. He had just noticed that almost all the spectators were the Nazarene’s. That would not do.
Caiaphas’ hand squeezed his shoulder, hard. As he was about to teach the upstart respect, the High Priest leaned in. “Go to the Temple. Nowhere else. Nowhere. Am I clear?”
Annaias gave a minute nod of his head and Caiaphas took it as a victory. “I will meet you there, but I must stop at my home.”
The High Priest’s father-in-law watched as the four muscular guard recruits bore Caiaphas away and then shuffled to his own palanquin. Not so much standing apart as avoided by others, Annaias’ palanquin also had four bearers. The difference was these were swathed head to toe in raw linen, like lepers. And like for lepers, people made way for them. Two Temple guards kept it safe and a half-dozen acolytes followed it like drops of blood flung from a wound. Annaias liked that he could foster fear among his subjects. He was not a king, but they were his subjects. Though High Priest for a mere ten years, Annaias had been the power behind the throne for near on four decades, and the Temple priests were the Hebrew rulers. He had ruled for longer than many kings, and without the threat of regicide. Until now.
The Nazarene was a threat unlike any before him. Others had shifted interpretations of Moses’ laws, but Annaias thought the peasant meant to rip them apart. He would die before he let that happen. Pilate found the peasant not guilty of any infraction of Roman law. All he had to do, Annaias thought, was to force the peasant to break that law — or seem to.
Parting the curtain, he called for messengers. Faster and easier than writing his instructions, Annaias preferred to use messengers in pairs — the message retained its veracity and two acolytes could be far better trusted than one. This message could risk no question — it had to be accepted and obeyed without delay, so three acolytes sprinted into the crowds toward the Temple. The other three he sent as heralds into the poor Lower City where hunger would answer his call. Those ran away. He told his bearers his destination and named a short detour.
He found them in their alley, engaged in their version of sparring and weapons practice. Amrith’s band of thugs were a perfect tool. They had an appetite for mayhem balanced with a keen sense of survival. Coupled with a lifetime’s knowledge of the city, Amrith and his friends were effective and cheap.
The priest explained his plan and how they would know when to act. Amrith’s thugs were to start a riot by pretending to be with the Nazarene and assaulting those shouting blasphemer. They would know when to start by watching the acolytes. When they saw the acolytes’ purses were empty, they would scream the Nazarene’s name and attack. He paid half of their fee and went on his way.
Josef felt brief flashes of familiarity as he walked the halls of his childhood home, but it had been a very long time. He remembered the way the sunlight reached deeper into the palace than the heat did, and he still did not understand why. He had no recollection of the low stone ring in the centre of the garden that had been the fort of his childhood, but he listened to his father’s tales of his early years.
Jacob broke from his tale, and Josef saw tears coursing down his cheeks and into his beard, though he was smiling nonetheless. The son stepped forward and embraced the father, and for a time, they stood together. Jacob broke the hug, taking a pace backwards in order to see that which he had never thought to.
“I searched for you,” he told his son. “For a long time I paid merchants and caravan guards to watch for a young man who seemed older than he was, a meticulous young man able to converse in four tongues but retain humility. I looked for you in Capernaum, Caesarea, Philippa, even as far as Damascus.”
“I am sorry, Father, but I had no choice.”
“No, Josef. You did, you were just not aware of it.”
“David — “
Jacob held his hand up and Josef quieted. “David was a disappointment as a merchant, a husband and a man. I tried to show him that there were other, better paths. And I was patient. Until — David purchased a ship, but I refused him a loan. He found the coin elsewhere, but his enterprise failed and he threatened to charge your sister with adultery if I would not pay his debts. I went to see these men he owed, but I did not pay. I brought them to him and he left as their slave.”
“I left from shame, Father, and fear for your disgrace by my hand,” Josef admitted. “You have lifted a shadow from my soul by your welcome, and I am more grateful than I can say. My life as a carpenter was not as profitable as your business, but it has been enough. When I return, I will convince you of why I believe the hand of God directed all that occurred. But my time is short, and I must free my son.”
They walked through the palace, passing from the private rooms into the public ones. Each space held carpets sorted by size and stacked in low piles. Josef halted at the top of the steps within the cool, shadowed air, but Jacob gripped his arm and pulled him towards the gate. “This is not a loan, Josef,” he said, the purse in his other, open palm. “It is my gift to you.”
The gate swung open as they approached, and Josef stepped through ahead of his father. He walked to Marcus, but the Roman was looking past him. Turning, he saw Jacob backing away. Sorrow and fear crossed his features, his mouth forming silent words.
“Father, what disturbs you so?”
Jacob pointed at Marcus. “No. You said nothing of this. It is forbidden to do business with the Romans and those who do business with them. I would be shunned.”
“He is my dearest friend.”
Jacob stared at the purse in his hand as if it held scorpions. “To give you this is to ruin my trade.” He looked at his son and made a decision. “So be it. I would trade the whole of my wealth for the time we lost.” He held the purse out for Josef to take.
Instead, Josef turned away and mounted his horse. “Father, I left you once before to prevent your ruin. I will not cause it now. My thanks, though. I will return.”
Marcus and Josef started back towards Solomon’s in silence. More than once, the Tribune looked at Josef, but his friend’s thoughtful expression prevented any attempt at a light banter. Instead, the Roman chose their path through the flow of traffic.
“Could you process my fee?” Josef asked him. “Today?”
“I am sure I could arrange something. All I need is the Quartermaster’s requisition. And I am the Quartermaster. I will bring it to Solomon’s.” Marcus peeled away.
Women’s laughter welcomed Josef as he jogged up the stairs and entered the palace. Mother and daughter shared a divan facing the scribe’s, and Solomon waited for them to regain their composure before continuing his tale. Metlip stood nearby, feet apart and arms folded across his chest, his smile disguising the sadness in his eyes. Josef’s appearance wiped the smile away and sobered the other three.
“What happened?” Mother asked.
“I could not accept it. It would have ruined his business and cause him to be shunned by all who know him.”
“Why?” Maryam stood and offered her place to Josef, who smiled and sat.
“The blame is my own,” he admitted. “My father came to the gate and saw Marcus. He hesitated, but explained his dilemma. Even then, he was prepared to give up everything he has to prevent me losing Iesu like I was lost to him. I left once to save his business and told him I would not ruin it now.”
“What will we do, husband?”
“Let me loan what you need,” Solomon announced.
Josef’s inner dialogue was plain on his face, but he said, “I cannot ask such a sum from you, my friend.”
“You do not need to ask, Josef. Only accept my offer.”
He shook his head, but then Mother laid her hand on his wrist. Josef could not refuse her pleading eyes nor her hopeful smile. “Thank you, Solomon. We welcome your generosity.”
The scribe, however, waved thanks away with his one hand and gestured for his writing tools with the other. Short minutes later, he was blowing sand from the papyrus.
“My people shun me on the street, but welcome my wealth in their purses. And I have always found the safest means to prevent its loss is to allow others to take responsibility for it. Unfortunately, it takes a time to retrieve it. This letter,” he gave it a last wave before rolling and sealing it, “promises Caiaphas I will present him with payment in full after Passover.”
Josef’s relief swept like a shudder through his body, and he swayed as if to fall. Metlip gripped his arms as Maryam rose from her seat.
“You have not slept, Master,” the slave said. “We have prepared a chamber for you.”
Tugging his arms free, the carpenter said, “I will not sleep until my son is free.”
“Rest, then, Husband. Until Sol’s offer is answered,” Mother added. “Metlip will bring word to you when Iesu returns.”
He wanted to protest, but fatigue smothered his resolve, and Josef let Metlip lead him up the wide marble stairs. Such was his exhaustion that he could not summon the energy to refuse a bed large enough for several occupants, but then a half-formed thought regarding his host melted away before he could hold it in his mind.
He did not want to sleep, had no intention of surrendering to his body’s exhaustion, but the battle was lost to the thick, wool-stuffed mattress and silk-covered feather pillows.
And he was quite certain he hadn’t, despite his slave’s repetition of his title. He resented the intrusion and chose to ignore it until a persistent gentle nudging roused his temper. “What — ?” he began, opening his eyes.
Metlip had already straightened. “Your response from the High Priest awaits.” The Nubian gestured at a tray set on a table nearby. “There is water to wash and wine to drink, Master. Will you rise and hear the message with the others or should I fetch Solomon’s boy to you?”
“How are we answered so soon? It was only a moment ago that I lay down.”
“No, Master. You slept from when your head reached the pillows until now, a little longer than a turn of the sand.”
Metlip held a linen towel as his master rinsed away the last strands of sleep, then poured a cup of wine as Josef dried his face. Exchanging cloth for cup, Josef raised it and drank. He lowered the empty goblet to the table and said, “I am ready.”
Marcus waited with the rest. Josef noticed the undercurrent of disappointment as he entered the room, but Solomon spoke before he could. “Caiaphas repeats your father’s words, my friend. He is forbidden to accept my coin.”
As Josef’s face registered this news, Marcus held out a bag to him, making it jingle as he shook it. “Your payment for the furniture, dear Josef. In full.”
“It is not enough,” Josef replied.
“It must be enough, Husband,” Mother announced. “Tell the High Priest you will send the rest when we are home. I will not lose my son over coin.” Her words reached into Josef’s doubts and swept them away.
“Yes, Maryam, these will be enough. I will persuade Caiaphas to accept them as partial payment and proof of my fidelity, even if the price rises in consequence.” He took the purse from Marcus. “But I must go now.” As he turned to leave, Marcus called his name.
“The Procurator, Pontius Pilate, acquitted Iesu,” the Roman added. “But the priest Annaias demanded your son face Herod Antipas and so they took Iesu to him. I know nothing more.”
