“Claudia, my dear . . .” He embraced her. “And where is our boy, Philo?”
She laughed. “Where he would love to be all the time—riding his pony out by the stables.”
He took her hand. “So, tell me everything you have heard, seen, discovered about this rabbi . . . and how you and Philo are . . .”
They were just walking toward the house when the rapid clattering of horse hooves surfaced and grew steadily closer.
The instant Claudia saw Pavor, she knew. Marcus.
She tilted her head, puzzled. After his demotion, she hadn’t seen much of him. Perhaps he was purposefully staying out of Pilate’s sights. So why come by now? Because Pilate was away? Or because Marcus had something to report? Could it be about the healer?
As Marcus leaped off his horse, she moved toward him. When he turned toward her and she saw his eyes, she knew there was something different about him. Yes, he was still the sun-bronzed, battle-hardened soldier she had loved . . . and still loved, when she admitted it to herself. But now joy radiated from his being. Cockiness and anger toward her were gone, replaced with gentleness.
He halted a foot from her and extended one hand, as if beseeching her. “Claudia,” he murmured. “I have found it—the truth we’ve been seeking. And hope . . . such hope! Carta was broken, near to death . . .” His voice choked.
“Carta?” She flung her hands to her mouth, covering it in dismay. The sorrow of a mother’s heart overflowed. “Oh, Marcus, Carta was hurt? Is he—”
Marcus held up a hand. “I will explain all to you. But I must ask you to do something first—prepare for a journey. I have seen Jesus of Nazareth. Jono and I talked about him—”
“Jono? Where did you see Jono? How is—”
He held up his hand again. “He is all right. Fine, in fact. I will give you the answers you desire in due time. For now, you must trust me. We will have a journey ahead in which I can explain. Jono and I have agreed that Philo must be taken to the healer. Claudia, if Jesus could heal Carta, he could heal—”
“Our beloved boy,” Josephus concluded. He had now arrived and stood behind Claudia like the immovable bulwark of an aging ship. He put a hand on her shoulder. “Yes,” he said confidently, “Marcus is right. I have much to tell you too—of what I have heard. We must travel as soon as possible. I too want to meet this Jesus of Nazareth.”
Hope stirred. Claudia made up her mind. Pilate was away. There was nothing to hold her here. “Then we will leave within the hour,” she announced.
Claudia was already on her way, preceding the men to the house, when she suddenly swiveled. Fixing Marcus with an intense stare, she added, “And then, Centurion, you will tell me everything . . . until I am satisfied.”
Marcus smirked. “At your service, Lady Claudia.”
She gave a simple nod, then pivoted back toward the house.
Behind her, she heard a chuckle, quickly muffled. Another followed.
“Women,” Marcus said in amused exasperation. “They think they have us wound around their fingers.”
A full laugh bubbled from Josephus. “But they do, dear boy, they do.”
Claudia swept on toward the house as if she hadn’t heard a thing.
The cart hauling Claudia, Josephus, and Philo rattled over stony ground. Pulled by a donkey, to keep from rattling the occupants to pieces it scarcely traveled as fast as a man could walk. Marcus, riding alongside on Pavor, had to rein him in to keep company with the wagon.
The trip up the tributary creek of the Sea of Galilee took much longer than expected. All night they traveled, unable to move faster and unwilling to stop for the night. A brilliant last-quarter moon hung in the eastern sky, illuminating the path. No one spoke. Philo dozed in his mother’s arms.
Marcus drew to a halt and signaled Josephus to stop the cart as well. “I think I see their camp.” Marcus pointed up the slope toward the deeper shadow cast by a grove of locust trees. “We should halt here, I think. Mustn’t frighten them.”
Peering ahead, Claudia spotted a faint orange glow that signaled a campfire. “I hope it’s Jesus.” Then she added in a hesitant whisper, “I hope he’ll see us.”
Josephus turned toward her and Marcus leaned over the horse’s wither. “My dear child,” the scholar said, “why would he not?”
“They say . . .,” Claudia began, then added, “what if it’s true that he knows everything? What if he knows who I am—the wife of the Roman governor? What if he won’t see us?”
Smiling gently, Josephus patted Philo’s crooked leg and then touched Claudia’s shoulder. “I will go first,” he volunteered. “I will speak to him.”
Marcus tied up his horse, then secured the reins of the donkey.
After clasping both of Claudia’s hands in his, Josephus set off toward the glowing embers.
A few minutes later Josephus’s words floated down to them. “Hello, the camp. May I come in?”
A trio of gruff Galilean accents challenged him. “Who are you? What do you want here? The master is asleep.”
Another voice added a soothing quality to the mix. Claudia could not hear the words, but all argument ceased, and quiet returned to the mountainside.
Pressed against her, Philo stirred. Dreamily he stretched, yawned, and asked, “Where are we, Mama? Why have we come here?”
Firmly, investing her words with confidence she did not herself feel, she replied, “We’ve come to see a king.”
A pair of forms loomed up out of the shadows into the silver light cast by the moon. One was the stooped form of the scholar.
The other became more defined as he walked closer. It was Jesus. There was no hesitation as he strode toward the cart. If he knew Claudia’s identity, it did not seem to repel him. In fact, curiously, it did not matter at all. Coming directly to them, he nodded to Marcus and to Claudia.
But his first words were for Philo. “What is your name?” he said in a friendly manner.
“Philo. Are you a king? My mama says we’ve come to see a king. Are you him?”
Jesus simply smiled at the boy, then turned toward Claudia. When his face caught the moon’s rays, his features leapt into startling focus. In that instant Claudia thought, This is how I will remember this moment forever.
The Nazarene asked, “Do you believe I can do this?”
Nodding, and then realizing the slight gesture was not adequate in the dim light, she said, “Lord, I do believe.”
His smile beamed as fully as the tenderness that flowed from his eyes. Laying his hands on Philo’s crooked leg, Jesus lifted his face toward heaven. His lips moved, but Claudia could not hear his prayers.
Claudia was also praying. Oh, God of my ancestors, there is no reason for you to regard me or my prayers. But if this good man should ask on my son’s behalf, please don’t let anything I have done . . . or been . . . keep your mercy from flowing.
“Philo,” Jesus said, smiling even more broadly, “come with me. Let’s walk awhile beside the river.”
Philo leapt into Jesus’ arms and was lifted above the head of his mother, up onto Jesus’ shoulder. Together they moved toward the water, into the face of the rising sun. Boy and man were silhouetted against the blazing disk, as if their forms were outlined in gold.
Then Jesus put Philo down beside him—Philo on his own two feet.
Claudia held her breath. A cry was quickly stifled. Fear of hoping clashed with the fear of failing to believe. But the reality outstripped the fears.
Jesus and Philo walked together by the stream. Jesus pointed out where the penetrating rays of the sun gave the stream a crystalline q
uality as it bubbled over the rocks.
Covering her mouth with both hands, Claudia gasped to see her son . . . her only son . . . walking beside the Nazarene. Relinquishing Jesus’ hand, Philo ran ahead, skipped like a young lamb, and jumped up on a boulder by the river’s edge.
Tears spilled down Claudia’s cheeks. She did not sob. Her heart simply overflowed in streams of wonder and joy.
Beside her Josephus lifted both hands skyward, praying and thanking the God of miracles for allowing him to see this day.
And Marcus? Marcus wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.
When Jesus turned from the stream at last to walk back toward the cart, Philo ran—ran!—to catch up with him, tugging on Jesus’ arm to take him back to Claudia.
Part Five
“What about you?” he asked. “Who do you say I am?”
Simon Peter answered, “You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God.”
MATTHEW 16:15–16
Chapter 38
The closer Claudia, Philo, and Josephus drew near to the palace in Jerusalem, the more she dreaded the scene that would surely follow. The message from Pilate had been terse. You and the boy will return to Jerusalem with all haste.
There was no question that she would obey his authority. It was a command.
Had it been anyone else, Claudia would have thought with great joy, So he has heard of Philo’s healing and wants to see it for himself. Wants to rejoice with us.
But this was Pilate, who had wanted Philo dead at birth and who had, other than that, ignored him for much of his life.
Then a tiny spark of hope entered. Still, how could any man not rejoice at a child’s healing?
She shook her head. No, more likely he wants us back within his control. She shivered involuntarily.
Josephus, his expression knowing and compassionate, clasped Claudia’s hand between his two wrinkled ones. “I will petition God on your behalf,” he murmured to her. Then he smiled at the now sleeping Philo beside him.
Marcus had stood quietly watching. It was all he could do, she knew, to let them go.
As they were transported from the palace in Tiberias and toward Jerusalem, with one of the legionaries following in Josephus’s donkey cart, Claudia sighed. Once again, the machinations of Rome and Imperial power had asserted control over their lives, and she and her son were being drawn inexorably in a direction she did not want to go.
The only choice she had was whether or not to look back at Marcus . . . and all she had been forced to leave behind. At Tiberias, the air had been fresh and the winds of Pilate’s whims had not blown.
She chose not to glance behind. Thinking of the losses was too painful. Instead she set her mind firmly toward Jerusalem and what was to come.
The campfire flickered, offering small competition to the myriad of brilliant stars wheeling overhead in the region of Caesarea Philippi. Fat from the quail spitted on sticks sizzled as it dripped into the coals.
James, the son of Zebedee, withdrew a roasting bird, studied it, then returned to holding it over the low flame. “More and more of John’s followers are finding their way to us,” he observed to no one in particular.
Judas, his heavy black beard and dark olive skin merging his face with the shadows, added, “And welcome to them, I say, as long as they bring their swords.”
The man who spoke next had gold flecks in his brown eyes and gold lights in his brown hair. “Judas,” Jesus said, “those who live by the sword will die by the sword.”14
Judas would not be silenced yet. “We will have to fight them someday. Just as the Maccabees fought the Greek tyrants and won.”
Breaking off a piece of barley bread, Jesus passed the loaf to Shim’on bar Jonah.
“And who do men say that I am?” Jesus inquired.
James spoke quickly. “Some say you are the prophet Elijah returned from the whirlwind.”
Brushing crumbs from his beard, Shim’on rumbled, “Some say you are a prophet.”
John, the younger of the two Zebedee brothers, offered, “Healer.”
“Magician,” Thomas suggested.
Nathaniel said, “In Jerusalem the high priest says you are a blasphemer because you heal on the Sabbath.”
Judas cleared his throat before speaking again. “Herod says you are a liar and an impostor.”
Matthew, the former tax collector, noted, “In the villages I hear men talk. They all hope you are a general, like Judah Maccabee, who will lead us in battle and overthrow both Herod and Rome.”
John and James exchanged a knowing look and a wry smile. James passed the spit to his brother, who tore off a chunk.
John juggled the hot food, blew on his burned fingers, then said, “Everyone wants something from you. You cannot be everything. The truth is, nobody is sure who . . . or what . . . you are.”
Jesus persisted. “But who do you say that I am?”
Blurting in a manner that suggested he surprised even himself, Shim’on asserted, “You are the Messiah, Redeemer. You are the Son of the living God!”
There was a stunned silence around the campfire. Everyone stared at the big fisherman.
Jesus offered Shim’on a gentle smile. “Blessed are you, Shim’on, son of Jonah. Flesh and blood did not reveal this to you, but the Holy Spirit. Your name was Shim’on, but from now on you will be called Peter . . . Rock. And this is the rock on which I will build my church.”15
A message arrived, summoning Marcus also to the palace in Jerusalem. Marcus shook his head at the timing.
Then reality struck. Pilate could have ordered Marcus to accompany Claudia and Philo back to Jerusalem. However, the summons had arrived mere hours after his wife and the boy, as well as Josephus, had left—but with no possibility of encountering them on the road.
So, Pilate was still jealous. Marcus would have to watch every word he said.
Chapter 39
Marcus had spurred Pavor on to travel as swiftly as he could to Jerusalem. When he arrived, Cassius stood at the entrance to the palace.
“Pilate is in a foul mood,” Cassius warned.
With Philo now no longer crippled, why wasn’t Pilate overjoyed?
“Worse than usual?” Marcus quipped.
Cassius nodded. “Ordered a legionary crucified for failing to salute him properly. I barely saved the man’s life . . . thirty-nine lashes instead.”
“Even after Jesus . . .” Marcus stopped himself. If the governor was already in such a temper, best not make Jesus his target. “Any reason?”
“I heard it just now from a wine merchant newly returned from Rome. Lucius Sejanus is dead. Executed for treason.”
“Sejanus? Pilate’s patron?”
“The same. Got too big for himself, even for a Praetorian . . . or so the man said. With Caesar in Capri, guess he didn’t like Sejanus replacing the Praetorian Guard with those loyal to him instead of Caesar. Or that he pushed so hard to marry into the royals and become Caesar’s heir.” Cassius mimicked a man being garroted with a cord. “Just think. The last words Sejanus heard when the silk noose went round his throat were the ones he himself often used when he executed any rivals. ‘You are no friend of Caesar.’ I’ll wager the news made our dear governor look over his shoulder.”
“I’ll tread softly,” Marcus agreed.
Claudia had often suffered from her husband’s arrogance and haughty disdain, in addition to his physical beatings. But she had never before felt such icy hatred emanating from him.
Pilate, seated in his chair of office, pointed at Marcus. “You risked the liv
es of my wife and child!” The governor’s words trembled with angry accusation.
The centurion, in his best dress armor, plumed helmet tucked under his arm, remained coolly unmoved.
Claudia, struck with amazement and disbelief, blurted, “Your child? Do you not see the good? Philo is healed!”
“Silence, woman,” Pilate thundered. “You could just as easily have been killed!”
“I won’t be silent!” Claudia shot back. “It is a miracle. My son can walk!”
“Longinus,” Pilate said, ignoring Claudia completely, “be grateful I do not order you crucified. Long ago, I trusted you with the safety of my wife and son. You not only failed in that trust, you willingly took them into danger. This is your doing.”
With the slightest bow of his head, Marcus acknowledged Pilate’s statement.
Even though neither man was looking at her, Claudia protested, “But he did not fail. Besides, I asked him . . . no.” She lifted her chin. “I commanded him.”
“So,” Pilate remarked to Marcus, “what kind of soldier lets his good sense and his obedience be overruled by the whim of a foolish woman?”
Claudia opened her mouth but was silenced by an imperious gesture from her husband. Pilate’s earlier threat finally hit home. The governor could order a centurion to be arrested and crucified and would have to answer to Caesar alone for his actions.
Now she merely stood, trembling with fury.
Pilate was not through flaying Marcus. “This is the second time since we arrived in Judea I had to demote you . . . and the last. Be glad you aren’t imprisoned or worse. I am not convinced this Jewish sorcerer is no threat to Rome. So, your new posting? Keep your eye on this Jewish fanatic and your mind off my wife.”
Claudia stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind her. Fleeing to her chamber, she did not stop moving until she reached the balcony. A weight on her chest crushed the life and breath out of her.