32 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-two.
T H I R T Y — T W O
The High Priest lifted a fig from his wife’s hammered copper plate and took a bite. She frowned at his impertinence. As he watched her eyebrows tighten, she snatched the remaining half from his fingers and tossed it into her mouth. It was their cherished habit to share the mid-day meal, together and alone. The short daily interlude allowed them to be themselves as they once were. Judith was the only daughter among Annaias’ six offspring, and Caiaphas loved her as much as he hated her father.
When informed by his most senior slave Josef had returned, the High Priest’s response was to let him wait.
“Husband,” Judith chided, “you forget yourself. You are the High Priest, Caiaphas, and must set an example in all things, even hospitality.”
“I never forget my duties, wife. I merely choose to spend these moments with you rather than with a Galilean carpenter delivering a fee to purchase his son’s life.”
“What did the boy do to deserve death?”
“He is not a boy at all. Our children are all younger than him. His name is Iesu, son of Josef of Nazareth, known as the Nazarene.”
“That name echoes across the city,” Judith said. “Praised by the poor and cursed by the wealthy. Of what is he guilty?”
“Annoying your father.” He said it before he thought of how she might take it.
Judith seemed oblivious to what the statement could mean — or chose to save it for later. “What is this?” she asked as she stood. “I remind you of your duty and then become the cause of your failure. I have eaten my fill,” she added as she walked to the entry, then turned back. “If your business is soon done, you could take tea with me in the garden.”
“Bring him,” Caiaphas ordered. The slave inclined his head and stepped backwards from the room. When he reappeared leading Josef, Judith was nowhere to be seen.
“Let me see your coin,” the High Priest demanded. He was angry he had not had the chance to detail his latest milestones in the Temple’s construction and he wanted her advice. Well, he wanted to hear her offer her advice, though he had never once followed it. How could he let a woman influence something as important as the Temple?
Josef’s answer did nothing to soothe the High Priest’s mood. “Let me see my son.”
“Show respect,” Caiaphas barked. “Recall who I am. I shall release your son to his exile when the fee is paid. Do you have it?”
“Forgive me, High Priest,” Josef said. “I meant no disrespect. You agreed to retract the charge of blasphemy and accept Iesu’s exile to Aegypt in exchange for a fee. Yet even now, having been judged not guilty by Pilate, my son endures a second trial by Herod Antipas. How does this comply with our bargain?”
“Herod cannot judge your son. He knows less of our laws than the slave who brought you to me. Antipas is interested in one thing — outbuilding his father.”
“Then when may I expect to have my son released?” Josef pressed.
“When I have the fee,” Caiaphas repeated. “Do you have it?”
“I possess enough coin to pay your fee — ” Caiaphas waved him to silence.
“It is not ‘my’ fee. I will add it to the general accounts for the Temple’s completion.”
“As I said,” Josef continued, “I am able to meet the cost for my son’s freedom, but — ”
“But what?”
Josef produced the purse. “I do not have the whole with me. I must send it from Nazareth when I return there.” He placed the purse on the low table in front of Caiaphas. “Here is half.”
Is it a sin if your goal is to benefit God? The High Priest dismissed the thought. Nothing done in the name of completing Herod’s Temple Mount — God’s House — could be a sin. “We did not agree on ‘half’,” he growled. “Is your son’s life worth ‘half’ of what we agreed?”
“Of course not,” Josef stammered. “All I ask is for your patience. I arranged a loan from my friend, the scribe Solomon, son of David, but you refused to accept it.”
“He is shunned by all. He questions our evidence for God. He obeys the law, but he doubts our truths. If I could charge him with blasphemy, I would.”
“You play with me, Caiaphas,” Josef said before he could prevent himself. “You agreed to our bargain only to avoid having to adhere to the laws you so earnestly apply to others. Are you above the law, priest?”
“The death of your son means nothing to me,” Caiaphas replied. “Your fee does. It benefits the Temple, and completing it is dear to my heart. I was ready to accuse your son of being a false prophet, which would have rendered him into obscurity. But Annaias made me understand his true danger — stripping the Sadducees of their hereditary authority was central, yes, but also our tribal status before God. Your son threatens everything we are, all that defines us. They will not blame me for the end of the Hebrews.”
“Then why are you not calling for his execution?”
“There is no profit in it. Exile or execution both rid me of him, but only exile pays.”
Josef took some small comfort from the High Priest’s statement. “So where do we stand, priest?”
Caiaphas’ gaze left Josef for a moment. The slave was back. “I see only one way to keep our bargain,” he replied. “The fee must rise to accommodate your shortfall and my patience. If you find the whole fee today, it remains the same. If not, then the fee rises to include this purse.”
“Excellency. Your father-in-law is here.” Caiaphas sat up as if stung by a bee. The slave reluctantly added, “He will not enter, but summons you to him.”
Caiaphas lifted the bag of coins, hefting it in his palm. Then he frowned and tossed it to Josef. “Return before sunset.”
To his slave, Caiaphas said, “Take my guest into the kitchen and show him out. Annaias must not see him.” The High Priest stood up. “I will greet my father-in-law.”
If the bent old priest danced, this is what he might look like, Caiaphas thought on seeing Annaias. His age forgotten, Annaias bounced from one foot to the other, joyous with excitement. The High Priest doubted he would share the little priest’s exuberance.
“Come, Caiaphas!” Annaias shouted as soon as he saw the High Priest. “Herod looked at the peasant and saw he was not a noble, and refused to judge him. But I was able to convince him to return the peasant to Pilate, where he remains. Come. This is our last chance.”
Caiaphas couldn’t reconcile Annaias’ joy with his news. He knew where the Procurator stood and knew also Annaias’ renewed pleas would lead nowhere. But the High Priest thought of how enjoyable witnessing his father-in-law’s frustration would be. Over Annaias’s stooped shoulders, he watched Josef walk through the gate.
The two palanquins moved in line, Annaias’ grotesque sedan in front to take advantage of the scrambling fear that the linen-covered bearers fostered in the crowds. The bells hanging from the necks of the leading servants left no one unaware of the sedan chair’s approach, their tempo communicating the urgency of their mission. Today, the bells rang as if to herald madness, and made them even more effective. People heard them, turned, saw the shrouded bearers and were rightly terrified, eager to move out of the path. Today, there was nowhere for them to go — the streets were, at first, torpid rivers of humanity, but soon the bells were accompanied by a growing orchestra of screams and shouts.
Then Caiaphas could hear — something else. A low rumble like the roar of a fire from a distance or waves breaking on the sand in a storm. Neither applied here. As the volume grew, so did the pace of those alongside his palanquin. Greater and greater numbers traveled in the opposite direction, and the roar took on depth. Two words stood out — ‘blasphemer’ and ‘Nazarene’ — then a picture of his father-in-law on the palace steps flashed in his mind, and all became clear. His wife would mourn sooner than later.
Worse, all the goodwill he had nurtured among the Pharisees would vanish if the riot spread too far. A wave of relief washed over him when he heard the Roman whistles directing orders for violence with shrill urgency.
A wave of slapping steps approached, and for a span, the High Priest worried that his station might not be enough to protect him from the chaos beyond his curtains. Then they were past, and Caiaphas pulled back the corner of the embroidered panel to open a narrow gap. He saw a tight line of soldiers, a few of whom had stepped aside so he and Annaias could pass. More than a few casualties lay motionless on the cobbles. A greater number nursed wounds.
The priests and their escorts found themselves ushered behind the Praetorium’s outer wall, and then into the arched tunnel and through the gate into the palace proper.
Caiaphas had planned to let Annaias break himself against Pilate’s — and his own — position that the Nazarene was innocent. The riot changed everything. It would take careful diplomacy to restore balance in his city.
As they waited in a small, dark room for the Procurator’s attention, the High Priest studied his father-in-law. He thought back to a time when he worshipped Annaias for his cunning diplomatic strategies and his proud participation in the old priest’s daring terrorisms. Annaias had been a hero then, gaining freedoms for his people unheard of elsewhere in the empire. Nowhere else in Rome’s conquered territories were the subjugated races able to keep their traditional religions. All were forced to adopt the Roman pantheon — except the Hebrews.
Then young Caiaphas noticed certain patterns repeated in Annaias’ negotiations, and his mentor’s careless dismissal of the consequences from their increasingly risky attacks. Caiaphas learned that any agreement or policy Annaias negotiated always profited Annaias. He saw it was not enough to inflict damage on Rome’s infrastructure or personnel. It also had to humiliate the empire. Rome’s inevitable retaliations were brutal affairs of wanton violence delivered on the community nearest to the site of the vandalism. Often it involved slaughtering the weak and enslaving the rest, forcing them to watch their homes razed, their land salted before they were led away in chains.
Annaias always answered the same when held to account. “They are blessed sacrifices for our freedom.”
Caiaphas could have left. He should have left, and he would have left, if not for love. He met Judith through her father, and she was why he stayed.
“It is a curious thing,” Caiaphas said. “This sudden eruption of violence between the Nazarene’s supporters and another, unknown faction that echoes your perspective, Father.”
The stooped priest looked up. “I will see that peasant dead.”
“And how many others must suffer or die so you may have your way?”
Annaias was defiant. “Saved us is what I did. Pilate’s hand is forced now.”
“Is it?” replied the High Priest. “And if he does not change his decision?”
“He must,” growled Annaias. “There can be no other path.”
Caiaphas moved to stand in front of his father-in-law. “Know this, Father. If Pilate demands my head, I will serve him yours. After today, you will cease to be a priest. We can no longer afford the cost of your singular hatred of Rome. I will have peace with Pilate.”
“I hold no fear of you, Caiaphas,” Annaias snarled. “You are High Priest because I made it so. I can unmake it if need be. I am Jerusalem. I am the power within these walls and I am the moral centre of our race. I have ruled here for longer than your life. The peace you and Pilate toy with, I provide. Should I take your toy away?”
Caiaphas nodded his agreement. “I believe you would, Annaias. On a whim, just to prove you can, you would push the city into chaos and bloodshed. And afterwards, you would wipe your hands and disown the blame.”
The Procurator’s aide appeared in the doorway and the priests rose. “Keep your silence, Father,” Caiaphas said. “You have caused enough damage.”
Pilate stayed seated as the two Sadducees entered his office, watching for a reaction. The High Priest showed no sign of noticing, but it was all Annaias could do to hold his tongue. Instead, his scowl seemed to reach his wrinkled neck.
The Procurator added insult to injury by not inviting his guests to sit. “I thought we understood each other, Caiaphas,” he said. He not so much as glanced at Annaias.
The High Priest sighed. “We do, Excellency. We do.”
“Then why were my men forced to discipline your citizens just now? Were we in accord, these confrontations would not be possible. Therefore, we must share the blame — and the consequences.”
Ignored, Annaias felt invisible, and his genuine emotions found expression on his face, in his eyes, even in his posture. The corners of Pilate’s mouth twitched upwards, but he kept his gaze on Caiaphas.
“Consequences, Excellency?” asked Caiaphas. “I still do not know what happened, let alone who is responsible.”
“And here is the crux, High Priest. The both of us must bear responsibility for those we rule, and so we are obligated to know them.”
“Excellency, please. Those who follow the Nazarene have been gathering in these last weeks, and in all that time they have never found cause to riot. I am bereft of any knowledge of those they fought today. It is as if they were conjured just to break the peace and require your intervention.”
“Can you think of a motivation for such tactics, High Priest?”
Caiaphas could do nothing else but shake his head. “Excellency, I cannot.”
Pilate thumped his fist on his desk. “I can.”
Caiaphas’ surprise was genuine. “You can?”
The Procurator’s eyes swung away from the High Priest to his stooped companion. “Yes, Caiaphas. The one responsible is in this room.”
“Procurator,” Caiaphas said, “Excellency — ”
“Not you, High Priest. This is Annaias’ work.”
“No!” Annaias shouted. “You do not dare to arrest me. I have done nothing.”
“No?” asked Pilate. “Do you imagine that Amrith only takes your coin?”
“Caiaphas!” the little priest screamed. “Do not let them take me.”
The Procurator stood. “He can do nothing to help you, priest. You transgressed against Roman law. My law. Guards!”
An awkward silence remained after Annaias’s screams diminished, High Priest and Procurator on opposite sides of the desk. “Sit, please,” Pilate offered and did so himself. Caiaphas was having difficulty processing his father-in-law’s arrest, made more difficult by his uncertainty about how much Pilate truly knew. He wasn’t about to speak until his mind was clear.
Pilate cleared it. “I do not know nor do I care whether you knew of your father’s activities, because I do know you were not involved. Yet — ”
“Yet?”
“You know as well as I that Annaias may not be blamed for today’s events. But someone must be blamed and punished, or we risk repeating them.”
“I agree, Excellency,” the High Priest said, “but who?”
“Annaias’ nemesis. He remains in my cells.”
Caiaphas’ respect for the Roman blossomed with those words. The man was brilliant. But how to keep to his bargain with the carpenter? “Perfect, Excellency. How will you punish him?”
“Forty lashes. The people will see the lengths I am prepared to go to keep the peace, the punishment gives closure to the day and the prisoner will live, albeit in pain for some time.”
The High Priest did his best to hide his relief. “And Annaias?”
“Worry not, my friend. You will leave here with your father-in-law’s body. It will look as if his heart failed.”
