insisted. “He lambasted the Tetrarch that day we came on him at
Bethabara, too, but he wasn’t challenging Herod’s authority as Tetrarch;
he was denouncing his wickedness as a man and calling upon him as a man
to repent just as others were repenting. There’s a difference, Longinus,
even though it’s hard for us Romans to understand that. We bundle our
religion—if we have any, which few of us do, I suspect—and our imperial
government into one packet. But the Jews keep their religion and their
government, or rather our enforced government over them, separate. And
their religion is predominant. In ordering John imprisoned, therefore,
Herod is allowing the government to invade the Jews’ religious
precincts, just as Pilate did when he had the army’s ensigns flown from
the ramparts of Antonia. He’s likely to find himself in the same sort of
situation that Pilate faced. It will do him no good; John at Machaerus
will likely have more power over the people than he would have had if
Herod had left him unmolested.” He glanced quizzically toward his
friend. “Don’t you think so?”
“I’ve never thought of it. Nor do I care, by the gods, what becomes of
that Wilderness fellow, or....” He paused and glanced about.
“There’s no one to hear us.”
Nor was there. From the early evening meal, eaten in the stuffiness of
the garrison’s mess hall at a table with the other officers, Cornelius
had brought his guest to the flat roof. Up here they would escape the
heat and the heavy odors of food and wine and sweating soldiers and at
the same time catch any vagrant breeze that might be stirring from the
sea. Nor would there be any ears to overhear.
“I was going to say that I cared little what happened to him or Antipas
... or, by great Jove, even Pontius Pilate.”
“Both Herod and Pilate have blundered. And I’m sure Sejanus will be
hearing about it; that is, if he hasn’t heard of it already.”
Longinus nodded, then casually changed the subject. “By the way,” he
commented, “that reminds me; what ever became of that carpenter you said
the desert preacher hailed as the Jews’ Messiah? Has he begun yet the
task of wrecking the Roman Empire with his hammer and chisels?”
“It’s just possible that he has, though not with any hammer and chisel.”
His smile was enigmatic. “Certainly the Empire, if I understand him,
isn’t built on any plan that he approves.”
“By all the gods, Cornelius!” Longinus, who had been sprawled in his
chair with his feet propped on the low rampart, sat up with a start.
“What do you mean?”
Cornelius held up his hand. “Now wait,” he said calmly. “There’s nothing
to be alarmed about. You won’t need to report to Sejanus about the
carpenter. But since I saw you last he has gained a great following,
even among some of the more influential people. You remember that
beautiful woman Herod took with him to Jerusalem, the one called Mary of
Magdala?”
“Who could forget her?”
“I agree. Well, she’s a disciple of the carpenter now, and a different
woman, they say; she’s forsworn the Tetrarch’s bedchamber.”
“Maybe”—Longinus grinned—“that’s because Herodias has moved in.”
“Could be; I don’t know. But the report is that she’s given up all her
amatory pursuits in order to follow him. All up and down the seaside, in
fact, the people are swarming to hear him and beseech his help.”
“But insurrection, Cornelius....”
“Oh, it isn’t that, Longinus. The Galilean isn’t concerned with the
government, as I understand his teachings, though I’ve seen little of
him myself; I get my information from some of the Jews in the synagogue
at Capernaum”—he smiled—“who secretly, I suspect, are followers of the
man, though many others among the Jews are hostile. I think he wants to
change people as individuals, not their governments; he wants to help
them. I’m sure he’s never given any thought to fomenting rebellion
against Rome.”
Longinus relaxed and sat back. “Then he’s just another of these
religious fanatics, isn’t he? Well, I’m relieved to hear that, though
Palestine seems to have more than its share of these charlatans.”
“Charlatan? I wouldn’t say that. Let me tell you a story, and then you
can deduce what you wish. It happened only a few weeks ago. When you see
Chuza, Herod’s steward....”
“I saw him today.”
“When you see him again, ask him to tell you what happened to his son.
Everybody in this part of the country has heard about it; the news swept
through Galilee like flames across a parched grassland.”
“Well, by the gods, Cornelius, what did happen?”
“Chuza’s young son had come down with a fever. In this low country along
the lakeside, you know, fevers are pretty common, but they’re not often
dangerous. So Chuza and Joanna—she’s his wife—weren’t alarmed at first.
But when days passed and the boy didn’t improve—in fact, his condition
grew worse—they became concerned. One physician after another was called
in, and they exhausted all the treatments they knew how to give. But the
child was failing fast, and Chuza and Joanna were frantic; it looked as
though their son wouldn’t live much longer. The fever was consuming him.
What could they do? Where could they get help?
“It happened that on the last day, when it appeared that the boy was
about to die, a Jewish fisherman who had occasionally been supplying the
palace came to Chuza. He and his brother and two other brothers with
whom he frequently fished had made a heavy catch, and this Simon had
come to inquire if Chuza would buy a mess for the Tetrarch’s household.
“But a servant came to the door and told him his master could not
discuss business; the steward’s son, he explained, was dying.
“‘In that case, I must see him,’ the fisherman said to the servant. ‘I
can tell him how his son’s life may be saved.’
“But the servant told him that the physicians had despaired of saving
the child and that the parents were momentarily awaiting his death. He
ordered Simon to leave.
“The fisherman, a headstrong fellow, insisted, however, on being shown
into the chamberlain’s presence, and the argument grew so loud that
Chuza heard and came out to discover what was taking place. The
fisherman Simon then told the Tetrarch’s steward of the Galilean
carpenter’s amazing ability to effect miraculous cures, and he suggested
that a servant be sent on horseback to find this young man, whom Simon
referred to as ‘the Master.’ ‘And when the servant finds him,’ he said
‘have him bring the Master here, and he will heal your son.’
“Of course Chuza protested,” Cornelius continued, “that skilled
physicians had been unable to cure the child. ‘Only try the Master,’
Simon then implored him. ‘Only have faith in him and ask him to heal
your son, and he will heal him.’
“And suddenly the thought came to Chuza that surely he had nothing to
lose by seeking out the Galilean mystic. The child was already on the
verge of death; certainly this Jesus ben Joseph, whatever he might do,
wouldn’t further endanger the boy’s life. So he asked Simon where his
master might be found and whether he would come at once to his son’s
bedside.
“The Galilean was visiting friends at Cana, a village a few miles west
of the little sea. And Simon assured Chuza that he would come.
“So Chuza decided to seek the carpenter’s aid. But he sent no servant
for him. Instead, he had three horses saddled, one for Simon, one for
himself, and one for this Jesus ben Joseph.
“‘As we rode westward toward Cana,’ Chuza told me, ‘I felt a growing
hope that the strange Galilean might really be able to restore my son to
health, and I was possessed by an overpowering urge to find the man.
Soon Simon and I were racing along the dusty road. When we reached Cana
and found the house, we discovered this Jesus seated with his friends at
the noonday meal.’”
Cornelius got up from his chair, sat down again on the rampart, and
looked out toward a small fleet of fishing boats coming in to shore with
the day’s catch.
“By the gods,” Longinus asked, “what happened then? Go on; it’s a good
story.”
“When he looked into the understanding eyes of the young man from
Nazareth, Chuza told me, a strange warmth, not physical warmth from the
hard riding but a sense of eased tension, of peace, perhaps, something
he said he couldn’t describe to me and didn’t entirely understand
himself, took possession of him. He knew then, he was utterly certain,
he said, that the young man smiling at him had the power to heal his
son, if he could but get him to Tiberias in time!”
Once more Cornelius paused in his recital to study a fishing boat
unloading a heavy catch. Then he resumed the narrative.
“Chuza said he didn’t remember what he said to the man, except that he
blurted out his plea for help and begged the stranger to return with him
to the boy’s bedside. He and his wife loved their son so much, he
pleaded, and the little fellow was dying. If only the carpenter would
intervene to save him, he knew the child’s life would be spared.
“Then,” Cornelius went on, “the Nazareth carpenter said a strange thing.
He turned his intent, kindly gaze from Chuza to glance at those at the
table with him. ‘Always you must have signs and wonders,’ he said.
‘Can’t you believe without actually seeing these things done before your
eyes?’
“Chuza didn’t understand the man’s words, but he didn’t try to find out
what they meant. His son was dying, his need was desperate. Once more he
begged the carpenter for his help. ‘O, sir, my boy is dying,’ he
pleaded; ‘he won’t last out the day unless you go to him. Won’t you
leave with us now, sir, and restore him?’”
Cornelius paused again. Longinus, his forehead creased in heavy
concentration, seemed absorbed in the doings of several fishermen down
at the water’s edge as they struggled with a heavy net. But he turned
quickly to confront his friend. “Pluto blast you, Cornelius! Why do you
keep stopping? Did the carpenter return with him or didn’t he?”
“No, he didn’t. He laid his hand on Chuza’s shoulder. ‘Return to your
son,’ he said. ‘The fever has left him. He has been restored.’”
“And I suppose when Chuza and the fisherman got back, they found that
the boy’s fever had actually broken?”
“Yes, he was fully recovered. And when Chuza asked Joanna what time it
was when the fever broke, she said it was the seventh hour, which was
exactly when the carpenter had told Chuza that the boy had been
restored.” Cornelius smiled and stood up. “That’s the story, Centurion
... Chuza’s story, not mine. What do you make of it?”
“A good story, and ably told by you. I’d call it an entertaining account
of a remarkable coincidence.”
“Only a coincidence?”
“What else could it be? Surely you don’t believe that this carpenter
fellow, without even going to the sick boy, drove out the fever? You
know that fever victims either get well or die and that once the fever
reaches a certain point, it goes one way or the other; it’s either death
or a very rapid recovery, and the odds are about the same.” He shrugged
his shoulders. “After hearing Chuza’s story the carpenter probably
calculated it was time for the fever to break, and he simply gambled on
the outcome.” Then he was suddenly serious, his eyes questioning.
“Cornelius, don’t tell me you believe the carpenter actually cured the
boy?”
“I don’t know, Longinus. But I’ll say this: I don’t disbelieve it. And I
do know that the boy is alive and well today.” Cornelius stood up and
stretched. “After all, to Chuza and Joanna that’s the important thing.
When you see Chuza, you might ask him what he thinks of the Galilean.”
“If that carpenter did cure the boy in the manner you described,
Cornelius, then he’s bound to be a god. And would a carpenter be a god,
and a Galilean carpenter, at that? To me the whole idea is preposterous.
But I’m just a Roman soldier; I haven’t been exposed, like you, to these
eastern workers of magic.”
“This Jesus is no magician. In fact, he seems reluctant to perform
these—what did he call them—‘signs and wonders.’ But the sick and the
crippled continually besiege him to heal them, and his sympathies for
the unfortunate appear to be boundless.” Cornelius sat down again on the
parapet. “Tell me, do you remember that day we were sailing down the
Tiber, standing at the ‘Palmyra’s’ rail talking about the various gods,
and you said that you could never comprehend a spirit god, something
that was nothing, you said, a being without a body?”
“Yes, and I still feel that way.”
“But what about a god that does have a body, a god-man? If a god should
have a physical body and be in every physical respect like a man, would
that make sense to you? Could you comprehend such a god?”
“By Jove, Cornelius, you’ve been out here with these Jews for much too
long. You’ve been listening to too much prattle about their Yahweh. A
god without a body, a body that houses a god. Bah! I put no credence in
any of these notions. As for that carpenter, I’d say he’s another
Wilderness preacher, not as fanatical perhaps, not as desert-parched and
smelling of dried sweat as John, but certainly no god—whatever a god is,
if there is such a thing, which I most seriously doubt. A carpenter from
Nazareth, that hillside cluster of huts! Cornelius, I’ve been to
Nazareth, as I’m sure you have. I ask you, would a god choose Nazareth
to come from?” He stood up. “Nevertheless, the story you told was
entertaining. Maybe to some it would be convincing. To me, though....”
He shook his head slowly. Then suddenly a wide grin lighted his grim
countenance. “How is it that you and I inevitably get around sooner or
later to a discussion of the gods? And where do we invariably end?
Nowhere. Talk, that’s all. And talk is all it can ever be, isn’t it?
It’s all too nebulous, intangible....”
“But, Longinus, if this all-powerful, all-wise, all-good god that old
Pheidias envisioned, this supreme one god, in order to communicate with
his earthly creatures”—Cornelius held up his hand to stop Longinus, who
had been about to interrupt—“should decide to take the form of a man, an
ordinary man....”
“By all the small and great gods,” Longinus did interrupt, “do you think
then that he would choose to be a carpenter from Nazareth?”
Cornelius stared at the fishing boats, now pulled up on the beach; the
lengthening shadows had already begun to obscure them. “I wonder,” he
said.
21
Herod Antipas was in a bad mood; he said little and appeared preoccupied
during the meal. When they had finished he announced that he planned to
spend the remainder of the evening conferring with his ministers. “I’ve
been out of the country for a long time,” he explained casually. “I
suspect there will be many trying problems awaiting consideration.”
When the Tetrarch withdrew from the lofty dining chamber, Herodias had
servants place couches at the eastern edge of the terrace beside the
bordering balustrade of faintly rose-hued marble, and with Neaera and
Tullia hovering discreetly near them, the new Tetrarchess and her guest
lay back comfortably to relax after the heavy meal. Out here it was
cooler than it had been in the great chamber, for the white marble
palace of Herod Antipas had been built on an upflung spit of land that
pushed out like a flattened giant thumb into the Sea of Galilee, and
whenever there was a breeze from off the water it swept unobstructed
across the spacious terrace.
This terrace had been built seaward from an immense glass-covered
peristylium, paved with tiny marble blocks in colors that had been laid
to form an intricate but pleasing mosaic pattern and alive with
fountains, flowers, and luxuriant tropical plants. Predominantly Roman
in architecture, decoration, and furnishings, the palace reminded
Claudia of the Procurator’s Palace at Caesarea. “Except that it’s more
pretentious,” she told Herodias.
“Yes, it is,” Herodias agreed. “Antipas was determined for once to outdo
his father. He had always lived in the shadow of old Herod, and I think
he resented it. But even so, he has never had the ambition or the
courage that his father had.”
“But surely, Herodias, you don’t see any virtue in your grandfather.
Didn’t he have your grandmother and your father killed?”
“Yes, and my father’s brother Alexander. No, he was a monster,
particularly in his last years when I think he must have been demented.
But he was an able man, and he had courage. He never would have
permitted that desert fellow to stand there and insult him and his wife,
for example, even if the man had had all the Jews in Galilee at his
side. Nor would he have yielded, as your Pilate did, to those Jews at
Caesarea. He would have had them run through with swords and would have
roared with laughter at their agonized dying. But perhaps I offend you.”
“No, you don’t offend me, my dear. Nor do I defend Pilate. But you must
remember, he has Sejanus to deal with and also my beloved stepfather.
Neither of those pillars of the Empire would have sanctioned the
massacre of thousands of Jews. Pilate does have a difficult role to
play.”
Herodias smiled and pointed a ringed forefinger. “And are you going to
help him play it, my dear Claudia, or will you...?” She paused and
allowed her question to hang in mid-air.
“Or will I conspire with Longinus to lead Pilate into making further
wrong moves, thereby getting him recalled and perhaps banished and
permitting me to divorce him and marry Longinus?” Laughing, Claudia sat
up and swung her feet to the floor. “You are so subtle, my dear, so very
subtle.” Now she shook an accusing finger at her hostess. “But tell me,
what will you do when Aretas’ daughter returns to Tiberias and demands
her place as Tetrarchess?”
“She won’t return; Antipas is sending her a bill of divorcement. Surely
you must know that I would see to that. In fact, I think she left with
her mind made up that she was finished as Tetrarchess. My only
thought—and that isn’t concern—is what old Aretas will do about it.”
Behind them now the lamps had been lighted in the palace. A brilliant
full moon slowly climbed the sky above the little sea; both women lay
back luxuriously to watch the moon mount higher, and before long their
talk had slowed into silence. Suddenly Herodias realized that she had
become almost senseless. She sat up with a start.
“By the gods, Claudia, we’re almost asleep!”
“We’re tired from the journey,” Claudia said, rubbing her eyes.
“Yes. Maybe we should go to bed. Can I have Neaera bring you something?
Some wine and wafers, fruit, or a glass of hot milk?”
“No, not a thing. I’m still stuffed from the wonderful dinner. I only
want to get to bed and to sleep. I am really quite tired.”
“You must be indeed.” Her smile, Claudia saw plainly in the brightness
of the full moon, was positively devilish. It was impossible to mistake
its meaning.
“Oh, that,” she laughed, then added, “but surely you heard him tell the
Tetrarch he would spend the night with Cornelius?”
“Yes, I heard him tell the Tetrarch.” She stood up. “Let’s go to bed.”
They crossed the terrace and entered the palace. “I’ll see you to your
chamber,” she said.
An inner room that opened into Claudia’s had been prepared for Tullia.
Herodias glanced quickly around the apartment, then turned to go. At the
door opening onto the corridor she paused. “I hope you will be
comfortable and sleep well.” Her eyes brightened. “You won’t be
disturbed. And you’ll discover”—she swept her hand in an arc to embrace
Claudia’s chamber—“that all your doors have bolts opening from the
inside, including,” she added with a knowing smile, “the one to the
terrace. Good night, Claudia. And, by all the gods”—her dark, wanton
eyes had burst into dancing flames—“I envy you!”
22
Claudia sat up in bed, instantly and fully awake. She knew that she had
been dreaming, a confused, wandering, disconnected, senseless sort of
dream, though now with her awakening it had vanished completely,
dissolved into nothing. But the gentle tapping that had been mixed with
the dreaming, had not been a part of it; the tapping at the door to the
terrace was real and repeated and insistent.
She kicked her feet free of the sheet and swung them to the floor. From
the waist down, as she arose, she stood in the narrow band of
silver-cold moonlight spearing through the tall window behind her to cut
diagonally across the foot of the bed; quickly she stepped into the less
revealing shadows at the doorway.
“Longinus?” she whispered, her face close to the panel.
“Yes.”
“One minute until I can draw the bolt.”
When he was inside and she was closing and bolting the door, he slipped
his toga off and, stepping past the shaft of moonlight, dropped it on a
chair against the wall near the head of the bed. As he turned around,
she came toward him, her arms outstretched; crossing the bright beam,
her white body stood plainly revealed through the sheerness of the black
gown.
“Oh, Longinus”—she flung herself into his arms—“I thought you really had
decided to stay with Cornelius.”
He lifted her to her toes and held her, almost crushingly, against him,
and then he caught her chin and raising her face so that he could look
into her eyes, bent down and kissed her red and warmly eager lips.
“Didn’t you know,” he asked when he released her after a long while,
“that those words were for Antipas and not you? Didn’t you know that
nothing could possibly keep me from you tonight?”
Gently, almost carrying her, he led her the two or three steps to the
bed. They sat down beside each other, and he bent forward to unbuckle
his sandals. When he sat up again, she twisted her feet around and
lifted them to the bed, doubled up her knees, and lay with her head and
right shoulder pressed hard against his side. “Are you tired from the
journey and anxious to get to sleep?” she asked, turning her head to
look into his face.
“Tired maybe, and warm from walking from the Antonia”—he pulled his
tunic open at the throat and to his waist—“but sleepy, no.” He laughed,
but not loudly, for the palace was as quiet as a sepulcher. “Do you
think any man in my present situation could be sleepy?”
“Yes, by all the gods, I know one.” She sat up and swung her feet to the
floor. “Pontius Pilate.”
“No, Claudia, he couldn’t be that cold-blooded.” He pulled her to him,
and drew her warm body into the closing circle of his arms. She lifted
her feet again to the bed and slid down into the brightness of the
moonlight.
“But, I tell you he is, Longinus. All the man ever thinks of is guarding
and extending the powers and authority of the Procuratorship and piling
up Jewish shekels. To him my only attraction is being the Emperor’s
stepdaughter.”
“Then he’s an even bigger fool than I thought.” Gently he pushed her
chin down to pull her lips slightly apart and, bending over her, crushed
his mouth upon them.
“Oh, Longinus,” she cried out, when finally, breathing heavily, he
raised his head, “do take me away from him! Do, Longinus, oh, do, do! I
cannot endure him! By all the gods, I simply cannot!”
“But where would we go?” He looked deeply into her troubled eyes,
luminous even in the shadows. “How could we escape the Emperor and the
Prefect, my dear girl? How could we?”
“We couldn’t, of course. If we attempted it, they would soon find us,
and Tiberius would do to you what my grandfather did to my poor father.
I know that, Longinus. But it’s so long from one time with you to
another, from one night so quickly passed to the gods only know when
again.” She slipped her hand beneath his tunic and caressingly ran her
fingers across the damp, warm expanse of his chest. “It’s so hard
waiting for these few stolen hours,” she murmured. “Must we be forever
waiting, Longinus?”
“No, Claudia, no. Pluto burn him! One of these days he’ll go too far
with the Emperor and Sejanus. But we’ve got to give him time to be
caught in his own trap. Then when he’s ruined himself, the Emperor will
permit you to divorce him. But in the meantime, we must steal all the
hours we can”—his words were blurred as he buried his face in her
lustrous, fragrant hair—“and not be too concerned with Pilate or our
future.” They remained silent side by side for a while, then Longinus
raised his head. Claudia lay stretched out full length upon the bed, and
from the waist down now her scarcely concealed body came within the
rapidly widening band of moonlight. “We mustn’t try to anticipate
things,” he said quietly. “We must seize the opportunities as they come.
Carpe diem, that’s all.” He bent lower to look into her eyes. “More to
the point, let’s enjoy the night while we have it.”
He stood up quickly and in the shadows hastily stripped off his clothes.
23