from the narrow defile between the boulders had grown to envelop them,
and as they came over the rise and looked across toward the walled
density of flat-roofed stone structures, they could scarcely make out
the usually dominating mass of the Temple. Ordinarily on an early
afternoon in April the sun would have been reflected brilliantly in the
gold plates of the Temple’s roof, but today it was barely able to
penetrate the overcast. In the strangely thickening gloom the
resplendent plates had taken on a dull coating of bilious green. Faintly
discernible to the right were the darker masses of the Fortress Antonia
towers upthrust in the cloaking shadows; but westward, beyond Antonia,
the great Palace of the Herods and the other splendid abodes of the
privileged were completely shrouded; Mount Zion and the Ophel shared
equally in oblivion.
“What is it, Centurion?” Decius shook his head perplexedly. “I’ve been
out here a long time, but I’ve never seen anything like it. This strange
darkness, this stillness, and the peculiar blue-green cast. Centurion,
this isn’t just another storm coming up, another thunderstorm following
excessive heat. It’s got a queer, ghastly look, as if the gods might be
angry ...”
“The gods, Decius?”
The soldier laughed uneasily. “I use the term broadly, for want of one
more accurate.” He waved an arm in the direction of the darkened city.
“But it does have a sort of supernatural look, doesn’t it,
Centurion?”—he smiled—“though of course I have little belief in the
supernatural.” He shrugged. “How do you explain it?”
“It does have a strange, unearthly look,” Cornelius agreed. “But I don’t
believe it’s a manifestation of the gods’ anger, though I’ve never seen
one before like this. Could it be a heavy mass of sand borne in from the
desert? If that’s it, then maybe the sun shining through the
concentration of sand accounts for this strange greenish color.”
“That’s probably it,” Decius agreed. “But then, where is the wind?”
“It may be the lull before the wind. This unseasonable heat is bound to
bring on a storm. Look!” He pointed. “The sun.”
High above the city, beyond its southern wall and past the ever
smoldering refuse heaps in the Vale of Hinnom, the sun rode like a pale
copper disk behind a thinning portion of the veiling cloud. In the same
instant its rays found a rift in the mantle covering the city and shot a
pinpoint of light to bathe in sudden brilliance a small eminence just
beyond and slightly to the right of the Fortress Antonia.
“By all the gods! Bar Abbas and the two henchmen we captured last week!”
On the summit of the little hill stood three crosses, and stretched upon
each cross was the body of a man. A staring throng of spectators stood
scattered about below.
Then suddenly the rift in the covering cloud was healed; darkness
swallowed the burdened crosses.
“Poor devils,” Cornelius said. “That’s an assignment I’m glad I didn’t
get. Being late returning may have saved me.” He looked up again toward
the lowering sky. “But we’d better be getting on to Antonia. This storm
may break at any moment, and when it does, I don’t want to be in it.”
Quickly the cavalcade moved down the slope toward the Garden of
Gethsemane and the Brook Kidron beyond. Entering the walled city by Dung
Gate, it went through Ophel and ascended the slope westward to move
along the lower level of Mount Zion and cross the bridge spanning the
Tyropoeon Valley. At the eastern end of the bridge the procession turned
northward and marched along the way paralleling the Temple’s wall to the
entrance gate of the Antonia.
When Cornelius had dismissed his men, he went up at once to his
apartment in the officers’ quarters on the south side of the fortress.
He had been looking forward eagerly to a refreshing bath and a short nap
before dressing in fresh clothing for the evening meal. But as he was
about to enter his quarters he encountered a centurion coming into the
corridor from the apartment next to his.
“By Hercules, Cornelius!”
“Porcius!” He clapped a hand on the other’s shoulder. “I didn’t know you
were quartered here.”
“I’ve come since you left, Cornelius. I heard you were out pursuing a
gang of those Zealots. Did you overtake any of them?”
“Yes, and killed several. But we didn’t capture any.”
“This morning they crucified two of the ones you captured last week.”
“Three, you mean, don’t you? Bar Abbas and two of his company.”
“But Pilate released Bar Abbas.”
“Released him? Bar Abbas?”
“Yes, released him. It’s amazing, isn’t it? But the mob demanded his
release as the Passover prisoner—you know, don’t you, that the
Procurator each year, in accordance with tradition, releases one
prisoner at Passover time?”
Cornelius nodded. “But weren’t there three men crucified?”
“Yes. I was supposed to have had charge of the crucifixion of Bar Abbas.
Pilate had already condemned him to the cross when the demand for his
release was made. So he released him, and I was relieved of a most
unpleasant task.”
“You were fortunate, Porcius. But if three men were crucified, who was
the third? I didn’t know another revolutionary had been captured.”
“He was no revolutionary, Cornelius. Pilate knew he wasn’t and wanted to
free him. But the High Priest insisted that the fellow was a
troublemaker who planned to attempt to set himself up as King of Israel.
So, rather than run the risk of having the Temple leaders report him to
Rome as protector of the Emperor’s enemies, Pilate yielded and sent the
fellow to the cross. And luckily for me, he assigned Centurion Longinus
the task of conducting the man’s execution.”
“Longinus! By all the gods, Porcius, who was the fellow?”
“A Galilean. A religious fanatic, I judged him to be, but entirely
harmless. His name, if I recall it correctly, was Jesus, I think, one
Jesus from a place in Galilee called Nazareth, they said.”
“Jesus! Oh, by all the gods, when....”
“But do you know the man, Centurion?”
“When did they lead him to the Hill of the Skull?” Cornelius ignored the
centurion’s question. “How long...?”
“It was in mid-morning. He’s been on the cross for several hours now.
And he was unmercifully scourged before they started with him to the
crucifixion ground.” He stared at his companion’s suddenly ashen face.
“But, Cornelius, why...?”
“Jesus! Oh, great Jove!” Anger, utter amazement and pain were written in
swift succession on his still sweating, dust-covered face. “O God of
Israel! O his God! O _my_ God, Jesus!”
Turning, he raced along the corridor toward the steps that a moment ago
he had ascended, stone stairs that went down to the ground-floor open
area just inside the great western entrance to the fortress.
51
Cornelius had reached the gate in the north wall when the storm broke
with sudden fury. He darted beneath the flimsy awning of a fish stall to
wait out the blast.
“Here, let me help,” he said to the frantic shopkeeper as he caught a
side of the filthy cloth with which the squat Jew was trying desperately
to cover his malodorous fish to protect them from the dust and powdered
dung swirling along the cobblestones. “You’re lucky your market has the
protection of the wall, or everything would be blown away. This is one
of the worst storms I’ve ever.... By all the gods!” The ground had begun
to tremble.
“An earthquake!” the shopkeeper shouted. “Wind and torrents of rain, and
now the earth shakes!” His eyes were round and frightened. But in
another moment the tremors subsided, and the man regained his calm. “I’m
not surprised, soldier,” he observed, lifting his hands, palms up, and
shaking his head solemnly. “And it makes no difference, I’m thinking,
that my stall sits in the lee of the great wall. By the beard of the
High Priest, it, too, will be leveled to the ground!”
“What do you mean? Hasn’t this wall survived many an earthquake before
this one?”
“Indeed, soldier. But we’ve never had anything like that before.” He
indicated with a quick nod of his head the hill beyond the gate’s
square. “Never _him_ on a cross.” He looked the centurion in the eyes,
and Cornelius fancied he saw a sudden hostility. “Soldier, have you been
up there?”
“No, I’ve just come from the Fortress Antonia, and only an hour ago I
arrived in Jerusalem. What do you mean?”
“I mean that one up there, soldier, on the middle cross.” He pointed.
“It’s that rabbi from Galilee. Your Pilate tried him this morning and
sent him to the cross, and unjustly, too, it’s my opinion. And I heard
it said that the Galilean told how he would cause the Temple to be
destroyed and in three days raise it up again.” He dabbed a greasy
forefinger against the centurion’s soiled toga. “And I’m of the opinion,
soldier, he’s got the power to do it. Didn’t he raise that fellow over
at Bethany from the dead? This storm and this earthquake”—he paused and
on his countenance was an expression of understanding suddenly
gained—“soldier, maybe he’s doing it now! Nor could I blame him.” He
shook his head slowly. “I’d hate to be in Pilate’s sandals, or those
soldiers’ up there!”
Almost as quickly as it had burst upon them, the storm was ended. The
rain ceased with the blowing away of the clouds, the winds quieted, and
the great blazing disk of the sun, still high in the sky toward the
Great Sea, shone down bright and searing. The shopkeeper rolled back the
grimy cloth, crumpled it into a heap, and with it dabbed lightly at
several fish it had failed to protect; then he hurled it into a corner
and turned to wait upon pilgrims in the vanguard of a procession
Cornelius saw coming down the slope of the Hill of the Skull.
“The Galilean, is he...?”
“He’s dead,” the man answered before the fish merchant could complete
his question. “He died just as the storm broke. This fish”—he
pointed—“where was it caught?”
“No earlier than the day before yesterday, and fetched by fast cart from
the Sea of Galilee. Good, fresh carp, perches, bream.” With grimy
fingers he poked at now one and now another of his offerings. “The
finest fish in Jerusalem, and the most weight for your money!”
Cornelius stepped away from the stall into the warmth of the freshly
cleansed air. As he walked quickly along the road he could now see
plainly revealed the three crosses and their inert, mutilated burdens.
The pause in the fish market during the raging of the storm had given
him time to catch his breath after racing over the cobblestones from the
square in front of Antonia.
But why had he come on the run to the Hill of the Skull? Why had he come
at all? Porcius had said that Jesus had already been nailed to the cross
for several hours. Had the centurion hoped in some mysterious manner to
save the Galilean, to get him down from the cross and revive him? Had he
thought he might countermand Pilate’s judgment and sentence?
He hadn’t thought. He had acted on his emotions. He had wanted to see
Jesus, to protest to Longinus, to scream out his denunciation of
everyone who’d had a hand in this abominable act. He hadn’t reasoned any
course of action. He had only come as fast as he could to the place of
horrors, his whole being seething with resentment and anger and a
terrible bitterness.
And now Jesus was dead. The good man who had done no man ill, who had
done countless men good, who had restored Lucian, and Chuza’s son. Or
had he really?
Would he be up there now, perhaps already dead on a Roman cross, if he
had had the power to heal Chuza’s little boy, if he had been able by his
own mighty will to rid Lucian of the fever that was consuming him? Would
he?
Longinus had been right. Those “miracles” had been only remarkable
coincidences. The Galilean wonder worker, the good man, the son of the
Jews’ one god—Cornelius ventured to raise his head from the ascending
path and look upward toward the central cross—was hanging spiked to a
crossbeam, crumpled and lifeless, as dead, or soon to be, as those two
revolutionaries who hung there with him. And Longinus, though unhappy
that Pilate had required him to crucify an innocent man, would remind
him that all along he had been right in denying that Jesus of Galilee
had been anything more than a good man.
He found Longinus seated not far from the crosses on a low stone
outcropping. His head was bent forward, cradled in his hands, and his
eyes were fastened to the ground.
“I’ve been expecting you, Cornelius,” he said, looking up as his friend
spoke. “I knew you would be coming.”
“We didn’t get into Jerusalem until a short time before the storm. As
soon as I heard at Antonia, I came running; I was at the gate down there
when the storm struck.”
“I knew you would come.” He shook his head slowly; his eyes were fixed,
unseeing. “And I deserve everything you’re going to say.” He lifted his
face, and Cornelius saw on it fear and sorrow and a great revulsion.
“I’m undone, my friend.” He arose slowly to his feet, and his eyes, for
an instant before he looked away, encompassed the crosses behind
Cornelius.
“But, Longinus, you didn’t ... it was Pilate....” He reached out to put
his hand on his comrade’s arm, but Longinus drew back, hand raised.
“No, Cornelius, Pilate condemned him, but I _killed_ him! I, this hand.
Look!” He held it before him and turned it slowly. “His blood! His
innocent blood! I tortured to his slow death an innocent man, a good
man, Cornelius, a perfect man, yes, and by all the gods, even more than
a perfect man!”
“I’d thought that he was more, that perhaps he possessed powers no man
could have, I’d hoped so; I’d hoped that he had called upon a
supernatural power to heal Lucian. But would a god, would the son of
_the God_, if there is one, my friend”—Cornelius’ countenance was darkly
pained—“allow himself to be put to death, to accept the tortured death
of the cross?”
“I know that my saying it sounds strange, Cornelius, but ever since this
morning I’ve had the feeling that he was _allowing_ himself to be
crucified and that at any moment, if he had wished, he could have
destroyed us all. Yet in the midst of his agonies, while we were spiking
him to the crossbeam, he prayed to his god to forgive us. To forgive us,
Centurion!” He shook his head sadly. “To forgive _me_. But I killed him.
By all the gods, let me show you.”
They walked over to the foot of the center cross. The body of Jesus,
naked except for a bloody loincloth, hung out from the upright at a
grotesque angle, held by heavy spikes through the palms of the hands and
supported by a narrow wedge between the legs. The head had slumped
forward so that the twin points of his short beard splayed out across
his chest. Other large spikes through his purpling feet held them to the
upright.
“See?” Longinus pointed to a gaping wound from which blood and body
fluid still dripped slowly. Blood had gushed forth when the wound was
made, for below it the tortured flesh was wide streaked and the
loincloth was gore-soaked; his blood had run down the length of one leg,
and even as Cornelius stared, a crimson bead swelled at the end of the
great toe and dropped to the bloodstained ground.
“But why this wound?” Cornelius asked. “Did you...?”
“Yes, it was my lance that did it. He must have been already dead, but I
didn’t know. And I couldn’t bear for him to have to endure any more
agony.”
“You did it in mercy, Longinus.”
“Yes, but I killed him, Cornelius. He’s dead, and I can never have his
forgiveness. And I’m soiled, ruined, undone. I can never cleanse
myself”—he studied his hands—“of this man’s death.” He lifted his eyes
to stare at his friend. “Strange, Cornelius, but ... well you know what
I’ve always thought of the gods, Roman, Greek, Jewish, any of them, and
of the survival of the spirit or whatever you want to call it. And you
know what I thought of”—he gazed a moment at the dead man stiffening
above them—“him.... Well today I’ve been with him for several hours,
_long_, terrible hours of torture for him, and for me, too.” He paused,
trying painfully to choose his words. “Now I don’t know, Cornelius; I’m
confused, my smug assurance is gone. I’m not sure any more. But he”—he
looked up again—“by all the gods, Cornelius, he was!”
“Then you think now he may have been...?”
“If there are any gods, Cornelius”—he stared into the blood-drained face
of the Galilean, and his voice was infinitely sad—“if there exists any
being like the one your old Greek tutor spoke of, a good, all-wise,
all-powerful one god, then this man must have been the son of that god.”
52
As soon as Longinus left the palace with her message, Claudia went back
to bed in the hope of finding relaxing sleep after the terrifying dream.
But sleep would not come; she was almost afraid to close her eyes for
fear the nightmare would return. And even as she lay sleepless, staring
wide-eyed at the high ceiling of her bed-chamber, she began to envision
a pair of disembodied blood-red hands feeling their way stealthily
around and across the intricate plastered figures and medallions of its
surface.
“Tullia, it’s no use trying any longer,” she called to her maid, as she
swung her feet around to stand up. “I just can’t seem to shake off the
dream. Maybe if I dress and busy myself at something, I’ll think no more
of it. Thank the gods, though, I sent the Procurator that warning.”
But as the morning hours went by the dream did not go away; it persisted
in all its horrible detail in the forefront of her consciousness, and
the harder she tried to dispel it, the more determinedly it stayed with
her. “Why, by the Great Mother, little one, am I so disturbed by a
dream?” she at length demanded of her maid. “I put no faith in dreams. I
must have had thousands, and not one has ever before bothered me. I know
they’re nothing but rearrangements, often fanciful and sometimes, like
this one, frightening, of things that have happened to us, people we’ve
seen, places we’ve visited. You can always explain them. Even this one I
understand. You came in late from Bethany with the fearful news of the
Galilean’s arrest and the High Priest’s plotting to have Pilate condemn
him. Then soon afterward I went to sleep and dreamed about it. It’s
simple enough to understand....” She paused, silent in thought. “Or is
it?” she asked softly. “Are people ever warned in dreams? Is there
really some power...?” The question was unfinished.
“I don’t doubt it, Mistress. Our ancient scriptures tell of many
instances in which God spoke to His prophets in visions, which must have
been dreams or the like.” She paused. “And there’s the story of Julius
Caesar’s wife, you know.”
“Yes,” Claudia’s eyes narrowed. “But if your god wished to save the
Galilean’s life, why didn’t he let Pilate have the dream?”
Tullia shook her head thoughtfully. “I can’t say. I can’t fathom the
mind of God, Mistress.” A suggestion of a smile crossed her face. “Maybe
He thought you might have more influence on the Procurator than He
Himself could.”
Claudia smiled. “Certainly I’m more real to Pilate—and threatening, no
doubt—than your Yahweh.” With a quick lifting of her shoulder, she
changed her tone. “But why talk of it further? I’m sure my message
warned him sufficiently. And I want to forget the dream and the
Galilean. This terrific heat is exhausting enough. Still, I do
wonder....” She scowled and said no more.
The heat grew more intolerable. Longinus did not return, nor did any
news come from Antonia. Midday passed, and as she had done the day
before, Claudia retreated into the garden and sat on the stone bench
before the spouting fountain. But today, unlike yesterday, there were no
white puffs of clouds. Instead, from noon on, a thick overcast began to
settle upon Jerusalem, so that inside the palace servants lighted lamps,
which added, it seemed to Claudia, to the oppressiveness. As she sat
staring introspectively at the spray of water, the heat, despite the
covering of clouds screening off the sun’s rays, seemed to be mounting
as the skies darkened; in the thickening gloom the air grew still;
yesterday’s singing, twittering birds had taken cover under the heavy,
drooping foliage, and all nature seemed silently expectant of a coming
upheaval. But maybe, thought Claudia, the impending storm will not
descend; maybe the winds, like yesterday, will spring up and blow the
clouds away and bring welcome relief from this oppressive heat.
It was during this foreboding lull, some two hours past midday, that a
sedan chair entered the palace grounds, and when the bearers set it down
at the doorway, the Tetrarchess of Galilee and Peraea emerged and was
admitted to the sumptuous edifice. A moment later, with much bowing and
murmured directing, servants conducted her to the wife of the
Procurator. But the two had done little more than exchange greetings and
sit down together when the winds did come, and with a suddenness and
severity that sent them scurrying for the protection of the palace. This
time the clouds were not immediately blown away; crash after crash of
lightning sundered them, and for a few wild moments they poured a deluge
upon the steaming, crowded capital of ancient Israel.
“Claudia, I know you wonder why I have come,” Herodias said, when they
were settled in one of the inner chambers into which little of the noise
of the storm penetrated. “But soon the Feast of the Passover will be
ended, and we will be going back to our posts; I’m sure you, at any
rate, are unwilling to consider Caesarea home. So we may have little
further opportunity to talk together alone, Herod’s engaged at the
palace, and Pilate, I presume, will be busy at Antonia.” Claudia nodded.
“Yes. Well, you remember once in Rome when you came over to see me and
we were talking about Antipas and Longinus, and you wondered why I was
interested in the Tetrarch....” Herodias paused, and Claudia, smiling,
nodded again. “You may recall, too, I told you that I was interested in
what the Tetrarch could become, in the position he might attain, rather
than in Antipas as a man....”
“Yes, I recall. You said he might become a king like his father.”
“I did. Some day he might, I believe I said, with my conniving.” She
leaned forward and looked Claudia directly in the eyes. “The time has
come,” she said quietly, “for us to begin our determined conniving.”
“_Our?_” Claudia queried, her tone intent.
“Yes. What I’m scheming will concern you, and Longinus, as much as it
will Antipas and me.” Her brow suddenly furrowed. “You still feel the
same way about the centurion, don’t you, as you did when you left Rome
to come out here?”
“Well, yes, but....”
“Oh, I know, Claudia, you must be careful, must guard your tongue. But
you needn’t worry about my making indiscreet remarks, you know.” She
shrugged. “I haven’t thus far, have I? And I’ve known all along. And
now”—she did not wait for Claudia to answer her question—“the time has
come for us to strike out for what both of us want. Soon Longinus will
be going back to Rome, and more than likely this time he’ll have much to
tell the Prefect.”
“But, Herodias....”
The Tetrarchess laughed and shrugged. “Oh, nobody has told me anything,”
she said, “but I do have eyes and ears and an ability to put things
together. I know that Senator Piso and Sejanus are more than friends;
they’re bound to be business partners, for Sejanus, you may be sure, has
his fingers in any enterprise that has been operating with considerable
success. I know that Longinus has had unusual freedom for a centurion
presumably on active duty and that he has made trips back to Rome, to
Antioch, and to many another place that no centurion ordinarily would be
called on to visit in the course of duty. And you told me, remember,
that he was being sent out to Palestine on a special mission.” She
paused, and when Claudia made no comment, she smiled and gestured with
outflung hands. “Well, it makes little difference whether he was sent
out to watch Pilate or not, and maybe Antipas and me ...” she paused,
grinning, “and possibly even you, Claudia. He’ll probably be called back
to Rome soon to make some sort of report, even about the operation of
the Senator’s glassworks....”
“But how would that affect you and Antipas, and Pilate ... and maybe
me?”
“Longinus might be called back to Rome to report on Pilate’s ... well,
shortcomings.”
“Even then I fail to understand how....”