scowling. But quickly he smiled again. “Centurion, I am going to the
cohort’s headquarters; I wish to talk with Sergius Paulus.” He clapped
his hands, and a slave came running. “Summon my sedan bearers,” he
commanded. “May I take you to your quarters,” he asked Longinus, “or
will you stay longer and entertain Claudia?” He turned to his wife and
smiled warmly. “A familiar face, and a Roman one, is particularly
welcome in this strange outpost of the Empire, isn’t it, my dear
Claudia?”
“Yes, indeed, Pilate.” She reached over and put her hand lightly on the
centurion’s arm. “Longinus, do stay and talk. You can give me
instructions on how to act out here in this strange region, strange to
Pilate and me, at any rate.”
In a few minutes the servant announced that the sedan bearers were
awaiting him, and Pilate excused himself. When he was gone, Longinus
moved his chair nearer Claudia. “I wonder why he invited me to stay,” he
said. “Does he suspect us, do you suppose? Or,” he added with a wry
smile, “is there no longer any occasion for his doing that?”
“I don’t think he suspects us, although I haven’t yet learned how to
weigh his words or actions. But what if he does?” She shrugged. “With me
everything is just as it was before you left Rome. But maybe”—coyly she
looked up at him from beneath her long lashes—“you have discovered some
woman out here....”
“No. And I haven’t looked. But I wonder how much he knows or suspects.”
He told her of his last conversation with the Prefect, of the
determination of Sejanus to keep her happily away from Rome, of that
wily rascal’s invitation—in fact, almost command—to do whatever might be
necessary, including the invasion of the Procurator’s bed, to detain her
in contented exile. “But I don’t think he suspected then that we were
planning to get married almost immediately. And I’m sure Pilate didn’t.”
His forehead wrinkled in deep study. “By any chance, Claudia, have you
let slip...?”
“About us, to him? Of course not.”
“To anyone... Herodias maybe, the gods forbid. I wouldn’t trust that
woman as far as I could throw that grain ship over there. Could you,
without realizing it, have let slip...?”
“Yes, I did tell Herodias. She does know that you and I were planning to
marry and come out to Palestine. But I’m sure neither she nor Antipas
has said anything to Pilate about it ... if they’ve even seen him since.
And certainly they haven’t talked with Sejanus.”
“Anyway, Claudia, we must be doubly careful. So long as Sejanus thinks
I’m simply keeping you ... satisfied, he called it, it’s all right. But
should he get the notion that I might be planning to take you away from
Pilate and back to Rome ...” he broke off, scowling. “And here there’ll
be other eyes and ears watching and listening, too. But when Pilate goes
to Jerusalem, can’t we arrange...?”
“I’ll be going, too,” she interrupted. “And so must you. We can contrive
some excuse for your accompanying us.” Her eyes were bright with
smoldering fires, he saw, and her lips warm, he knew, and red and eager,
and he remembered the taste of the Falernian upon them. But adamantly he
turned his eyes away to look toward the great harbor. “And in Jerusalem,
Longinus, beloved”—her hand had caught his arm and was squeezing
hard—“we’ll find some way.”
13
Sergius Paulus, who commanded the legionaries escorting Procurator
Pontius Pilate and his party to Jerusalem, halted his column several
hundred paces west of the great market square outside the Joppa Gate.
“Sheathe the cohort’s emblems!” he commanded, and quickly down the line
of march the soldiers began covering the banners of the Second
Italian—the likenesses of the Emperor Tiberius, the screaming eagles,
the fasces with their bundled arrows and axes, everything that flaunted
the proud victories of this cohort of Rome’s conquering armies.
“But Commander Sergius,” Pilate began to protest, “by whose orders must
Rome thus bow to these haughty Jews? Is this, by any chance, _your_
scheme for forestalling possible disorder?”
“No, Excellency, the sheathing of the emblems in Jerusalem is not of my
devising; it follows a long established custom, started, I believe, by
the Emperor Augustus as a result of a pact with the Jewish leaders and
continued by the Emperor Tiberius through orders transmitted to us by
the Prefect Sejanus.” His smile was coldly professional. “I assure you,
sir, covering our emblems before the gates of Jerusalem is as
distasteful to me as it must be to the Procurator, but this is an order
I dare not violate.”
The round face of the helmeted Procurator reddened with fury. He shook
his head angrily and banged his heavy fist against the apron of the
chariot in which he stood beside his wife. “I am not accustomed to
seeing Rome display humility—abject humility—which is what this action
seems to me to be. But I shall not countermand the order you have given,
though to me it is both humiliating and exasperating that our
legionaries are forced thus to yield to these outrageous Jews.” He
raised his hand to signal. “When you are ready, Commander, let us
proceed into the city.” Then he turned to address Longinus, who had
halted near the Procurator. “Centurion, will you exchange places with my
driver? Claudia and I are entering Jerusalem for the first time; would
you be our guide and point out the principal places of interest?”
Quickly the exchange was accomplished, and the detachment, its emblems
shielded now from view, resumed its march. Crossing the market place at
the gate, a suddenly stilled large square that a moment before the
Romans’ arrival had been a hubbub of shouts and shrill cries of
bargaining, the procession moved through the gateway to enter a narrow
cobblestoned street also strangely deserted.
“But where are the people to welcome us?” Pilate inquired, his balding
high forehead creased in anger and consternation. “Why this unnatural
calm?”
“They have retreated inside their shops and houses and closed the
shutters; right now they are peering at us through lattices and from the
roof tops, Excellency. This is the way they show their scorn for their
conquerors. It will be our good fortune if we are not pelted with rotten
vegetables and fruit thrown from the house tops, or even tiles from the
roofs.” He smiled, not too happily. “The Jews, Excellency, don’t have
much affection for us Romans.”
The veins in the Procurator’s neck swelled as though they might burst,
and his countenance was livid. “In every province in which I have
formerly entered with our troops,” he declared, “the populace has
welcomed us thunderously, often with flowers and branches of trees
thrown in our way, and many times they have even prostrated themselves
before us.” He knotted his fist again. “By all the gods, I shall teach
these Jews better manners. Nor shall I delay long in setting them to
their lessons!”
Claudia laid a soothing hand on her husband’s arm; with the other she
pointed to the right. “Those huge buildings! Longinus, they appear to be
towers. And what tremendous stones. I didn’t know these Jews were
capable of raising such structures.”
“Yes, on the contrary, the Jews are good artisans, and old Herod, who
built many great edifices here as well as at Caesarea and other cities,
also employed many foreign workers of great skill. He evidently wished
to emulate Augustus in raising magnificent public buildings.” They were
coming now to a great square tower, one of those to which Claudia had
pointed. “This first one is the Hippicus Tower, named, I have heard, for
a friend of Herod. The next one, in the middle, is Phasael, called that
in honor of Herod’s brother. But that one”—he pointed in the direction
of a third—“is the most famous, perhaps because he built it to the
memory of the only wife he really loved. It’s called the Mariamne Tower,
after the one he had killed. They say that the old reprobate almost went
insane with grief after he’d executed her. Claudia, this Mariamne was
the grandmother of Herodias and her spendthrift brother Agrippa.
Mariamne was a member of the ancient Hasmonean line of Israelite rulers.
Very soon now we’ll be passing the old Hasmonean Palace; it’s over near
the viaduct that connects Zion Hill with the Temple.”
“But, Longinus, where is the Procurator’s Palace?”
“Yes, Centurion, I’d be interested in seeing it.”
“It’s behind that wall joining the three towers, sir. And it’s a
tremendous place, too, with fountains and flowers and grass and
trees—you will love it, Claudia—it serves as headquarters of the
Procurator when he visits Jerusalem, though it’s called Herod’s Palace.
When the Tetrarch is in Jerusalem, especially if the Procurator is here
at the same time—for instance, during Passover feasts—the Tetrarch
usually stays at the Hasmonean Palace. Excellency”—he faced the
Procurator again, for he had been busy with the reins in an attempt to
dodge a heavily loaded cart being pulled by a trudging donkey—“do you
plan to stop here at Herod’s Palace, or will you stay in the
Procurator’s quarters at the Tower of Antonia?”
“What was the custom of Valerius Gratus? Where did he stay?”
“He usually lodged here, I believe. It’s more comfortable, of course,
and perhaps will be quieter than the quarters at Antonia.”
“Perhaps”—Pilate faced Claudia, his expression questioning—“then we
should stay at Herod’s Palace. But, pray the gods, why should it be
called Herod’s Palace now? The Herods no longer have authority in
Judaea.”
“It was built by old Herod, sir, and the name persists. Things change
slowly out here; tradition and custom rule in Judaea. I’m sure you’ll
realize that more the longer you remain in Palestine.” They were nearing
a gate in the high wall that gave admittance to the palace. Several
guards at the gate, seeing the procession of Roman troops, straightened
and raised their arms in salute. Longinus lifted the reins to halt the
chariot.
“No, not yet,” Pilate said. “Claudia wishes to see the Temple and
Antonia Tower before we stop. Don’t you, my dear?”
“I do. Then, after I’ve had a look at them, we can return, can’t we? And
if the Procurator is kept at Antonia Tower longer than he expects to be,
perhaps the centurion would fetch me back here?”
Longinus smiled. “Of course,” he murmured, then turned to Pilate. “But,
sir, you won’t be able to proceed far with the chariots. You’ll have to
change to horseback or be borne in a sedan chair. These Jerusalem
streets are very narrow, and many of them ascend and descend stairs that
a chariot could scarcely manage.”
Pilate nodded. “Thank you, Centurion. In that case we’ll leave the
chariots here, and I’ll ride horseback. Claudia can take a sedan chair.”
He looked toward his wife, and his eyes were questioning. “That is, if
she still wishes to go on to Antonia.”
“Yes, I’d particularly like to see the Temple; I’ve heard stories of
what a marvelous structure it is. I’ll go on, and Longinus can bring me
back.” She smiled. “Would you?”
“As you wish,” he said.
Pilate nodded. “If you will, Centurion. Or I can send someone to bring
you here, Claudia, if the centurion finds that he cannot get away from
his duties. I’ll probably be detained for some time at the Tower. I am
determined to see the High Priest before the sun sets. I had planned to
call on him at his palace, but now, after the reception Jerusalem has
given me, by all the gods”—his face was reddening again—“I shall summon
him to come to me!”
So the column was halted along the narrow way in front of the sprawling
Herod’s Palace. The chariots were driven inside the palace grounds and
left there, and a sedan chair was brought out by bearers quickly
recruited from the palace’s staff of servants.
“Centurion, if you will ride in the sedan chair with Claudia,” the
Procurator said, “you can point out to her the places of importance in
this nest of obstinate Jewry.” He mounted a gaily caparisoned horse and
rode forward to the head of the column.
“Perhaps, Excellency, it would be best for me to go ahead with the
advance guard”—Sergius Paulus smiled grimly as Pilate came abreast of
him—“to absorb the stones that may be hurled at the new Procurator, not
that there is any personal animosity toward you, sir, but because you
are a symbol of Rome’s dominion....”
“No! I’m not afraid of them!” the Procurator angrily interrupted. “And,
by great Jove, I’ll teach them to respect the dominion of Rome!” He
spurred his horse several paces ahead of the cohort commander.
Meanwhile Claudia and Longinus had settled themselves in the sedan
chair. As it moved off, they did not draw the curtains. “It isn’t
because I am afraid to draw them,” Claudia said to him. “I’m not afraid
of Pilate, nor am I afraid of the people out there. It’s because I want
to see Jerusalem.”
“You don’t think Pilate might become suspicious, do you, or even
jealous?”
“Pilate thinks only of Pilate and how he can advance his own fortune.
He’s ambitious and egotistical; he craves authority, and he covets
riches. He’ll do nothing to displease me, not because of affection for
me, but because I’m the stepdaughter of the Emperor and because our
marriage was arranged by the Prefect. If he’s ever jealous of me—and I
think he never will be—I’m quite certain he will make every effort not
to show it.”
“Which means?”
“That it should not be difficult for us to contrive to see each
other....”
“Tonight?”
Claudia laughed. “Are you, I hope, that eager?”
“I’ve been that eager for many weeks, Claudia.” He leaned across to take
her hand. She drew it back.
“Not now, Centurion. The soldiers, you know....”
“Then you are afraid of the Procurator’s knowing....”
“Not afraid, Longinus. Say, rather, discreet.”
Now they were being borne down a flight of stone steps. The hoofs of the
horses in front of and behind them clattered and slipped, and sometimes
an animal would go to its knees, though the heavily burdened donkeys
coming up the stairs and keeping close to the buildings managed to
scramble forward on nimble, sure feet. Sometimes a swaying load piled
high on a donkey’s back would be overbalanced and topple as its
containing straps burst, and in a moment the merchandise would be
trampled to bits by the soldiers’ steeds.
When they reached the bottom of the steps and began to move along a
level portion of the street where there was an open space between the
buildings on the right, Claudia suddenly pointed. “That must be the old
Hasmonean Palace where the ancestors of Herodias’ mother lived.”
“Yes.”
She scowled. “It’s a stern and forbidding pile of stones.”
“You’ll find that most Jewish public buildings are that way, the palaces
especially. But once you get inside them, you’re bound to find them
enchanting. Herod’s Palace has a sumptuous array of grass and flowers
and fountains; you should enjoy your stay there.”
“Perhaps.” She smiled coyly. “It depends.” Then she pointed. “What on
earth is that next building? It, too, looks like a fortress.”
“That place is called the Xystus; it’s a Roman-style gymnasium built by
King Herod, who also constructed down this way”—he pointed off toward
the south—“an open-air theatre and”—he nodded in the opposite
direction—“northeast of the Temple area a large hippodrome where he held
games and gladiatorial sports modeled after ours at home. But the
orthodox Jews will have nothing to do with any of these things; they
won’t even go near the places. To do so would violate some of their
religious laws.”
The sound of the horses’ hoofs pounding ahead suddenly changed.
“Are we on a bridge?” Claudia asked, as she leaned out left. She rode
facing forward, while Longinus sat opposite her, his back to the streets
unwinding ahead of them. “Yes, I see we are,” she answered her own
question. “And it’s a high one. Look, Longinus, by the Bountiful Mother!
That structure across there! It’s ... it’s unbelievable!”
“That’s the Temple,” he announced. “It’s the Jews’ temple to their
Yahweh. And it is one of the most gorgeous—if that’s the proper word,
Claudia—and costliest buildings in the world. It’s made of white marble,
the finest cedarwood, and untold bronze and other materials of the most
extravagant quality, and trimmed with sheet gold and precious gems.
You’ll see when we cross the bridge and enter its walls.” Their sedan
chair was nearing the middle of the viaduct now. “See, it’s a high
bridge. It connects Zion Hill, which we’ve just left, with the Temple
region. Over there”—he twisted about to point to the Temple on his right
and behind him—“is Mount Moriah. Between the two hills is this sharp
drop called the Tyropoeon Valley; some call it the Valley of the
Cheesemongers. In festival times these hillsides swarm with pilgrims
coming from all over the world to worship at the Temple, which they
consider the residing place of their Yahweh.” He laughed, then gestured
with outflung hands. “But we should have Cornelius here to be your
guide. He knows far more about the religious customs and beliefs of the
Jews than I do; in fact, we had quite a talk about it on the boat coming
out, and I charged him with being a worshiper of the Jews’ god himself.”
Near the end of the towering viaduct the procession stopped, and the
soldiers dismounted. Quickly a litter was provided for the Procurator,
and then the marching column, with Pilate’s sedan chair in the vanguard
and Longinus and Claudia some paces behind him, moved off the viaduct
and passed beneath a great arch.
“This is called the Gate Shalleketh,” Longinus told her. “It’s the main
gate into the Temple area from the Zion section of the city.”
“I’m amazed that you know so much about Jerusalem,” Claudia began, then
suddenly stopped as, startled, she caught sight of a veritable forest of
marble columns, gigantic, reaching upward out of her range of vision
from within the constricting sedan chair. “Bona Dea! Longinus, this is
unbelievable! What a majestic structure! And look how far it extends!
It’s mammoth, breath-taking!”
“And that’s only one of the porches, as they call it,” Longinus hastened
to explain. “This one is styled the Royal Portico of Herod. Its marble
columns, as you can see, are more than a hundred feet high. And look,
Claudia”—he pointed behind, over his shoulder—“the colonnade itself runs
almost a thousand feet. Have you ever seen anything so fantastic?”
“No, and I’m sure the High Priest couldn’t be a bit more effective than
you in singing the Temple’s praises,” Claudia declared, laughing. “But
it really is a marvelous structure these Jews have built to their
superstition.”
“Yes, I agree. And that’s exactly what I told Cornelius.”
The procession turned squarely to the left and started to emerge from
beneath the great roofed colonnade into the strong sunlight of an
immense open square.
“This is called the Court of the Gentiles,” Longinus explained. “And
over there is the Temple proper. Inside it is a place they call the Holy
of Holies. Only the High Priest himself, they say, is permitted to enter
it, and then only on a feast day, maybe once a year.”
“I’ve heard that inside that room there’s a golden head of an ass and
that the Jews actually worship this ass’s head.”
Longinus smiled. It was an old story he had heard many times, he
explained, though never from a Jew. Perhaps it started, so far as Rome
was concerned at any rate, with the time that Pompey, searching for
treasure, invaded the holy shrine of the Jews. “But he found no golden
head of an ass. He found only an empty chamber, severe and forbidding,
with nothing in it but a few golden vessels and some furniture that was
probably used as an altar. That’s the story the Jews tell, anyway.”
“But this one god, Longinus, what did you say they call him?”
“Yahweh, or Jehovah.”
“Yes, I remember. But where is he? Don’t they have any statues of him
somewhere in the Temple, Centurion?”
“No, according to what I’ve heard from the Jews themselves and from what
Cornelius has told me—and he knows far more about their religious
customs and beliefs than I do—statues are one thing they definitely do
not have. They declare that their god is a spirit without body and to
them any sort of representation in physical form—whether it be statues,
carvings, or whatnot—would be sacrilege. That’s why they were so
violently opposed to our bringing in unsheathed emblems. They have the
strange belief that our army emblems are what they call ‘graven images,’
and their laws expressly forbid any such thing. They won’t even engrave
the head of a man or an animal on any of their coins.” He shook his
head, as though scarcely able to believe his own words. “Strange, these
Jews. But you will discover that for yourself before you’ve been out
here many weeks.”
They were coming opposite the eastern face of the Temple proper. “Look
at that gate, or door!” Claudia pointed again. “Whatever it is, it’s
tremendous! And it shines as though it were gold!”
“They call it the Beautiful Gate. It’s made of Corinthian brass and
plates of gold, and it’s so heavy it takes a score of strong men to open
and close it. They say it was given by a rich foreign Jew. It must have
cost many a sesterce, don’t you think?”
“I’m sure it did.” Her eyes were wide with disbelief. “The whole place
is magnificent; why I’ve never seen anything like....” Suddenly she
clamped a hand to her nose. “By all the gods, Longinus, what an odor!”
She leaned her head out. “Bona Dea, all that cattle. No wonder that
awful stench. What on earth are cattle and sheep doing in this beautiful
place, Longinus? Can it be for sacrificing, by all the great and little
gods!”
“Yes, it’s for sacrificing.” Longinus grimaced. “The Jews think that
slitting an animal’s throat and throwing the blood on that great altar
somehow cleanses them of their sins. I don’t understand how it
could....”
The young woman’s laugh was derisive. “Bringing all those poor animals
in here to befoul this beautiful place, these gorgeous mosaics, to
pollute the very air, and they call that cleansing themselves. Bona Dea,
their Yahweh, if he demands this sort of worship, must be a bloodthirsty
god. It just goes to prove, Centurion, that this one-god religion has
less sense to it than even our silly superstitions.”
“That’s what I told Cornelius. I see no efficacy in slitting the throats
of poor beasts and slaughtering countless doves and pigeons in order to
serve some god. Of course, so far as the priests are concerned, it’s a
highly profitable business. But, of course, why should we criticize the
Jews when we do it in Rome, too, though not on such a grand scale?”
A few paces farther on, the procession turned squarely to the left again
and proceeded along a third side of the Temple enclosure, past the
stalls of the lowing, frightened cattle and the cages of birds and the
money-changers seated behind their tables. From the long portico the
marchers pivoted to the right, then ascended steps that led to a wide,
paved esplanade.
“This is the platform before the Tower of Antonia. We’re coming to it
now.” He motioned behind him. “It’s the Roman military headquarters in
Jerusalem. But Pilate must have told you all about it.”
She leaned out and looked westward along the platform. “Pilate tells me
very little,” she answered. “By the gods, it’s a tall structure and a
grim-looking one. Doubtless overrun with soldiers, too, even in the
Procurator’s private apartments.” She winked and smiled. “I’m glad
Pilate decided to stop at the Herod Palace during our visit to
Jerusalem. He’ll probably be here at Antonia much of the time. It should
be easier then to arrange things over there.”
“Things?”
“Well”—her tone was playful, her eyelids fluttered teasingly—“yes,
things for people to do ... two people.”
14
It was past midnight when Longinus returned at last to the now quiet
Tower of Antonia. Before leaving Caesarea he had arranged with Sergius
Paulus to have little more than token duty during the stay in Jerusalem.
In the weeks since his arrival in Palestine, he and the cohort commander
had come to an understanding; although Sergius knew little of the
centurion’s reasons for being in this far eastern province, he did know
that Longinus had been sent out by the Prefect Sejanus, and Sergius was
not disposed to challenge, or even question actions of the Prefect.
Pontius Pilate had not returned to the palace; presumably he had eaten
his evening meal at the tower with the officers there. At any rate,
Longinus and Claudia had not been disturbed.