Miriam decided not to pursue that line of conversation. Old fussy Azariah was no longer with them—he had gone to Capernaum and would make his own way home—and she didn’t need anyone else darkening her mood. It was a glorious day. The birds were singing, the flowers were everywhere in rich profusion, they were going to the city which, next to Jerusalem, was Miriam’s favorite in all of Israel. She began to hum softly, determined to turn her mind to other things.
II
Say what you would about Herod the Great as a man, Miriam thought, no one could ever belittle him as a builder. During his almost forty-year reign, the man had used the enormous wealth generated within his kingdom to undertake a construction effort like few except the Caesars themselves had ever done. Whole new cities had been started. Old ones were totally reconstructed. One stronghold after another had been created or strengthened in a large ring around the land. His enemies said it was because he always wanted to be close to a fortress when his people turned against him. There was Machaerus, the Herodium, the majestic mountaintop fortress of Masada overlooking the Sea of Salt. In Jerusalem he had changed the entire face of the city. He built a beautiful indoor theater in the city and a great outdoor amphitheater just outside the walls. A royal palace near the Jaffa Gate in the Upper City was as much fortress as it was palace. He reconstructed the citadel at the north end of the Temple Mount and named it the Antonia Fortress for Marcus Antonius, or Marc Antony as he was more commonly known, who at that time was his Roman patron. And that was to say nothing of his most breathtaking project of all, the reconstruction of the Second Temple, a project that was still going on after nearly fifty years and that provided major employment in the city. It had become proverbial now: “He who has not seen the buildings of Herod has never seen anything beautiful.”
Of course, Caesarea was nothing compared to the Temple Mount, but it was still an incredible building project of its own. The coastline of Israel was remarkably smooth from the Nile River on the south to Mount Carmel on the north. Joppa was the only harbor of any consequence for several hundred miles, and it provided little shelter from the storms that roared in off the Great Sea. So Herod had decided to remedy that situation. At an ancient site called Strato’s Tower, he began construction of a new city. Always mindful of whose patronage kept him in power, he named the city Caesarea, in honor of Augustus Caesar. Completed after twelve full years of intensive labor, it was a beautiful coastal city, with a magnificent temple built in honor of Caesar and a spectacular amphitheater that overlooked the blue waters of the sea.
What was most incredible, however, was the artificial harbor. Herod had brought massive stones from quarries that were a considerable distance from the city, put them on barges, and, one by one, dropped them into the sea, thus creating a giant breakwater that extended a furlong or more out into the water. Lesser men looked for natural harbors that provided a haven for ships. Herod built his own, creating the most important seaport between Alexandria and Tyre, and added even more to his immense wealth as his custom agents taxed the goods brought there by ships from all over the Roman Empire.
Miriam breathed deeply, smelling the sea and tasting the salt on her tongue as the breeze stiffened in the late afternoon. Her father, seeming to have had his own mood brightened by hers, laughed at the expression on her face. “You would think you were smelling the winds blowing out of heaven’s gate.”
“Oh, Papa, I love the sea. I love this city. Everything is so beautiful and so clean.”
He laughed again. “I think I could take you to parts of Caesarea where you might change your mind about that.”
“Don’t tell me,” she said quickly. “I don’t want to hear it.”
“Spoken like the daughter of Alexandra of Lydda. You are your mother’s offspring, that is for certain.”
“Well,” she said, half defensively, “I know that there is squalor and filth in the world, but do I have to have it placed before my eyes?”
Their carriage rounded a corner and started down a broad street that led toward the center of the city. “Look,” Mordechai said, pointing. “There is the Praetorium.”
Miriam had recognized it too. “I see it,” she said in excitement.
From behind them, Livia was leaning forward, taking everything in eagerly. She had not come with Miriam on a previous trip and so had never been in Caesarea. “Is that where the procurator lives then?” she asked.
“Lives and rules,” Miriam’s father agreed. “It is his palace and the seat of government.”
Miriam could already see that there were several Roman legionnaires at the massive gate to the complex. “Do you think they will let us in?” she asked. “They say Pilate is very distrustful of his Jewish subjects and keeps a close guard at all times.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” her father answered gravely. “What shall we do if he doesn’t give us audience?”
She thought he was teasing her, but Miriam wasn’t sure. Her father was a powerful man in Jerusalem, but most of that power lay in his position with their own people. Romans, and especially Roman governors, didn’t seem to take much stock in the political maneuverings of their subject peoples.
“Well, if worse comes to worst,” he said, watching the soldiers now as well, “we can always find lodging at the Inn of the Golden Lion.”
Miriam decided that maybe he wasn’t just teasing her after all, that he really wasn’t sure if they could get in to see the governor. “That will be fine with me.” The inn, which was really more of a lavish guest house for travelers of substantial means, was only a stone’s throw from the beach. A walk along the water’s edge, even with her tender feet, would be the appropriate end to a pleasant and enjoyable day.
As they approached the Praetorium, the soldiers saw that the carriage was going to pass them by. They were instantly alert, and a centurion in full armor came forward quickly, holding up his hand. Their carriage driver, a man who had hardly spoken a word since they had left Beth Neelah, pulled the team of horses to a stop, lowering his eyes to the ground.
“State your business,” the centurion said gruffly as he came up to them, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword.
“Mordechai ben Uzziel of Jerusalem, requesting an audience with the governor.” He glanced quickly at Miriam as if to say, “Well, it’s worth a try at least.”
The man came to full attention, and his arm slapped at his chest in a brisk salute. “Yes, sire. We’ve been expecting you.” He turned and waved some men forward. “The governor has requested your presence for dinner. In the meantime, may I escort you to your quarters so that you can rest and freshen up?”
Mordechai bowed his head slightly, a tiny smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “That would be most kind of you, centurion. Thank you.”
As the soldiers sprang to get their baggage and Miriam and Livia climbed down from the carriage, Miriam pulled a face at her father. “You knew all along?” she mouthed.
He laughed in pure amusement. “One is never sure about such things,” he said softly, “but one can always hope.”
III
Pontius Pilate rose from his marble chair the moment the servant opened the door and showed Mordechai ben Uzziel and his daughter into the spacious hall. Everyone else in the room stood as well, and every head turned in their direction. Pilate didn’t move from his place beyond the head of the long table—that would have been seen as a sign of weakness—but the fact that he did not remain seated showed astonishing respect for a non-Roman. Once again Miriam had to fight to keep her face expressionless. Her father was being welcomed as though he were another procurator.
Mordechai took Miriam by the elbow and guided her forward. He had warned her that it was not appropriate for her to smile or acknowledge the other guests until they had paid their respects to the governor. She moved gracefully, aware that every eye in the room was following her movements, even more than those of her father.
Finally, as they were just a few steps from the throne—for it wa
s more than simply a chair—the procurator stepped forward, hand extended. “Shalom, Mordechai ben Uzziel. Welcome to Caesarea.” To Miriam’s surprise, he greeted them in Aramaic. He spoke with a heavy accent, but he spoke easily and clearly. And then she wondered why she should be surprised. Pilate had been here now for more than four years. That was plenty of time to learn the language of his subjects.
He was dressed in a white toga, every fold meticulously arranged—by a slave, Miriam was sure. On his feet were sandals of fine leather with gold trim on the latchets. He wore a plain gold bracelet on his left arm and a thick ring on one little finger. Other than that he was the picture of elegant simplicity, which was the Roman way.
“Thank you, Your Excellency,” her father said in Latin that was not nearly so assured as Pilate’s Aramaic had been.
Pilate waved a hand. “Please. We feel comfortable conversing in your language.”
“Thank you. I do better in Greek if that is more to your liking.”
“Aramaic is fine.”
“Thank you.” He touched Miriam’s elbow and brought her forward. “May I present my daughter, Miriam.” He smiled. “Her Latin is much better than mine.”
Pilate took her hand and spoke in Latin. “We are pleased that you were able to accompany your father, Miriam of Jerusalem. Welcome to the Praetorium.”
“Thank you, Excellency,” she answered back in the same language. “The beauty of your palace outdoes the wonders of your city. It is an honor to be invited to sit at your table.”
Pilate brought up her hand and kissed it briefly, then looked at her father. “You are right, Mordechai. Her Latin is nearly flawless.” Then to Miriam he added, “You are more lovely than I had remembered from our previous meeting.”
Miriam blushed with pleasure. She felt a little bewildered by the warmth of the greeting. It had been about two years ago that her father had taken her to a banquet hosted by the Great Council of Jerusalem in honor of the governor. She had been introduced to the procurator and his wife in a reception line, along with many others, but they had not sat at their table. She had met him only one other time, again very briefly, at a ceremony that was part of the Festival of Purim just a year ago. She had doubted he would even remember her.
“We thank you, Excellency,” Mordechai said now. “Thank you for extending this invitation to us.”
Miriam had to fight not to turn and stare at him. Pilate had extended this invitation? Her father hadn’t asked for an audience. That took her completely by surprise.
Pilate turned, and a woman stepped forward. “May I present my wife, Fortunata Cassandra Drusus Pilatus.”
Miriam had already recognized her from their previous meetings. She bent one knee and bowed her head slightly. “We are honored by your kind hospitality, madam.”
She accepted the greeting with a smile and a quick curtsy, but said nothing. Fortunata Pilate was dressed in the same simple elegance as her husband. Like his toga, her outer dress was of glistening white and delicately draped around her shoulders and arms. She wore a filigreed gold necklace and matching bracelet and a band of gold with a row of small emeralds in her hair, which was piled high atop her head. It was a style that her father told her had become quite popular in Rome now. Where her husband’s features were coarse and weathered, Fortunata’s were fine, almost fragile, and her skin milky white. It was well known in Jerusalem that the governor’s wife hated the unforgiving Judean sun and went to great lengths to protect herself from it. She rarely ventured out with him when he went on his trips of state.
Pilate took Mordechai’s elbow and turned him. Standing just behind the table, not quite at the head, was a Roman officer in full dress uniform except for the red-plumed helmet, which was sitting on a bench in one corner. “Mordechai, this is Tribune Marcus Quadratus Didius, commander of my garrison here in Caesarea. Marcus, this is Mordechai ben Uzziel, leading member of the Great Sanhedrin of Jerusalem.”
“Sire,” the officer said, coming to attention with a sharp snap of his heels. He brought one arm up across his chest in a salute. “It is a pleasure to greet you.”
“And you as well, Tribune,” Mordechai said easily. He started to turn to Miriam to bring her forward, but the officer was ahead of him. He took one step forward, made a sweeping bow, then took Miriam’s hand and kissed it briefly, as had the governor. As he straightened, he was looking directly into Miriam’s eyes. What she saw on his face took her aback a little. It was evident surprise and open admiration.
He was a strikingly handsome man. His hair was dark and slightly curled, a pleasant contrast to the brilliant red of his cape and the polished brass of his breastplate. His eyes were a deep green and filled with both curiosity and intelligence. His cheekbones were high and prominent, his nose definitely Roman, his mouth firm and yet pleasant. Yes, definitely a striking figure of a man.
“The governor told me that the daughter of Mordechai ben Uzziel was lovely, but—” He spoke to Pilate without his eyes ever leaving her. “I’m sorry to contradict my commanding officer, sire, but I fear you have not done the lady justice with your words.”
Pilate laughed, then shook a finger at her in mock severity. “Watch this one, Miriam. He is as quick with his tongue as he is with the sword.”
Miriam realized that she was blushing even more deeply and finally looked away. “Thank you,” she murmured. Then her eyes lifted and met the officer’s. “It is easy to slip on a tongue that is too smooth.”
Pilate’s wife clapped her hands in pleased surprise. “Well spoken, Miriam.” She turned to Marcus, still chuckling. “You shall have to watch yourself, friend Marcus. I think you have met your match.”
Marcus, laughing softly, gave her a grudging nod, but the brazen admiration never left his eyes. Miriam was keenly aware that those eyes did not leave her as the governor and his wife took her and her father around the circle and introduced them to the rest of the guests.
As they finished, Pilate and his wife assigned them their places at the triclinia, the long couches or divans placed around the table. It was customary for the Romans, just as it was for the Jews, to eat in a semireclining position, leaning on one elbow, with their feet extending outward from the table. The triclinium got its name from the fact that it was wide enough for three people to recline on the same couch. Pilate and his wife were alone on one couch at the head of the table. Mordechai was placed to Pilate’s right on the first triclinia—another mild surprise for Miriam, for this was the place of honor—with Miriam beside him. It was less of a surprise to Miriam when Marcus took his place beside her, though she could not tell if that had been Fortunata’s plan all along or if she had changed her mind when she saw the reaction of the tribune to the daughter of Mordechai of Jerusalem.
Miriam decided she didn’t care. This was going to prove to be a very interesting evening.
IV
It was not surprising that Miriam found many of the Roman customs and practices strikingly different from her own, even peculiar in many ways. That was to be expected from two cultures that were so dramatically different. But one difference she found more amusing than annoying was the fact that the Romans always had to have entertainment as part of a proper dinner party. For her people, conversation was its own entertainment. Once the prayer of thanks was offered over the food at a Jewish dinner, the room would virtually explode with talk that ran the gamut from courteous to heated, from exploratory to accusatory. It was far more stimulating and invigorating than any imported entertainment might be.
Tonight’s dinner had shown just how different the two cultures were. Throughout the evening the mood had been solidly respectable and consistently dignified. As the slaves began bringing out the sumptuous courses of food, another slave—obviously trained for this very purpose—stood off to one side and recited poetry. Not many listened, but out of respect for the poet—not the slave—all conversation was kept subdued. The poetry had been followed by a vocal soloist, who sang ballads and love songs accompanied by two
musicians with flute and lyre. When they began, all conversation stopped. Then as the last of the food was cleared away and the wine brought out, a professional storyteller began regaling them with amusing stories and anecdotes. He was so entertaining that, though it didn’t seem to be expected as it had been during the singing, again all conversation virtually stopped until he finished.
Miriam could tell that Marcus Quadratus Didius had hoped for more opportunity to talk to his companion at the table. And she was a little disappointed as well. As the governor stirred and it was obvious that the dinner was coming to an end, it surprised her when Pilate turned to his tribune.
“Marcus?”
“Yes, sire?”
“Mordechai and I have some matters to discuss. I think our lovely guest might enjoy a tour of the palace and the grounds.”
Marcus looked momentarily startled, then instantly smiled. Not many commands from the governor were as pleasant as this one to carry out. He got to his feet and offered a hand to Miriam. “Unless you are too tired from your journey?”
She shook her head quickly and allowed him to help her up, being careful not to put too much weight on her feet all at once. Her blisters were healing nicely, but she still had to be careful. “I would very much like to see the Praetorium,” she said to Pilate. “I was most impressed as we arrived today.”
“Good.” He gave a dismissive wave of his hand, and Marcus took Miriam’s elbow. Fortunata saw that as her signal as well and started shepherding the rest of the guests toward the large doors at the end of the hall. The procurator then signaled to one of the slaves, who quickly secured a flask of wine and two golden goblets and took them into a small atrium off the main hall.