I get outside before the temple guards can shake me down for the coins I have left and start to walk around the temple area. I expect to find everyone talking about Jesus and the miracles he’s performing but instead the people are scattering. I see a man whose deformed legs were healed by Jesus walking away so I catch up to him.
“Your legs look strong and sound. Shouldn’t you be dancing and praising God?”
He says nothing.
“I was mute and Jesus healed my voice. I want to sing.”
“Quiet fool or I’ll make you mute again myself.”
“Quiet? Why should I be quiet when I have a voice again?”
“The Pharisees listen everywhere and they’re not happy,” he says and strides away from me.
Chapter Twenty-Six
For the next three days I find Jesus and listen to him teach wherever I’m able to follow and spend the night in the hay at Esther’s relative’s house. Esther left the city with her new sheep before I could tell her that I’ve been healed.
Sometimes Jesus teaches in the Temple and sometimes I find him teaching to crowds in the street. I hear many more of the parables found in the Bible, including those that are meant to warn the Pharisees. All the while I stand on the edge of the crowd and hear the whispers as the Pharisees continue to spread rumors and deceit. The more direct Jesus gets in his admonishment of their ways, the louder their whispers grow.
On Thursday Jesus is teaching on the grounds outside the Temple when the Pharisee who was happy to keep my silver again spots me on the edge of the crowd.
“You there. Stand where you are.”
There are Temple guards behind him and I’ve spotted others trying to blend in with the crowd so it would be foolish to run.
“You’ve claimed in the street that you were mute and that you were healed by that man,” he says and indicates Jesus.
Jesus stops speaking but says nothing to defend me. He just stands there and watches curiously.
Jesus told me to use my talents.
“That’s correct.”
I speak in Greek just to aggravate the Pharisee.
“I have a witness who says you spoke to him before this fake miracle occurred. Admit your guilt in this deceit and you will find mercy.”
“Who is this witness?” I switch back to Aramaic so more in the crowd can understand me.
The Pharisee waves his hand and I see a man being brought through. It’s the man with the deformed legs that warned me to be quiet the day he and I were both healed.
“This man is mistaken. I didn’t speak to him until after Jesus restored my voice.”
“He says you were both paid by the followers of this false prophet to act like a mute and a cripple and make it appear that you were healed.”
When the healed man is before me I can see he’s been beaten. He just stares at the ground without saying anything.
“Does the man who bears witness against me not speak for himself?”
“He admitted his guilt and has received his punishment. The liar’s tongue has been cut out.”
The Pharisee smiles at me.
“How convenient for you.”
Jesus smiles but people in the crowd are giving each other sideways glances and look fearful for me.
“Admit your guilt now for all to hear.” The Pharisee yells to draw more attention from the crowd. “Admit your guilt and you will find mercy.”
“You’re afraid of Jesus so you take your wrath out on me and even break your own laws by bearing false witness.”
The Pharisee barely controls his rage at my challenge. I hear someone in the crowd murmur that I must be insane.
He’s just another little tin dictator using the Word of God to take power over men.
“Bring him,” the Pharisee says to the guards.
“Arrest me if you will,” I reply loudly in Latin, “But be warned that I’m a citizen of Rome and therefore under the protection of Caesar.”
His eyes go wide. I’d like to pierce him with my old cult hunter “death mask” but instead instinct tells me to soften my face to a calm confidence.
“If I’m to be arrested then bring in Roman soldiers to do it and explain your charges to them.”
The Pharisee glares at me while he weighs his options.
“This is not the man we seek.” He turns to the man whose tongue has been cut. “You bore false witness against a Roman citizen and will be punished.”
The Pharisee withdraws and I decide to leave before he can change his mind.
***
Tonight Jesus will be betrayed and tomorrow he’ll be tried and crucified. Throngs of people will be there to witness the spectacle and emotions will run high for everyone, including the Pharisees. There’ll be times when I’d be safest blending in with the Jews and times when I’d be better off claiming to be a Roman citizen. Some Roman clothes would be useful.
The market doesn’t have clothing but there are still some vendors selling food and wine as the people prepare their Passover meals. The silver buys me a sizeable amount of bread, meat and wine with change to spare. I take my purchases and head straight for the section of the city where most of the Roman soldiers are garrisoned.
“Hail, soldiers of Rome,” I say in Latin as I approach a group. “I’m a Roman citizen bearing gifts for Caesar’s finest.”
They don’t even touch their sword handles in warning as I approach. Few of the locals speak Latin fluently and wouldn’t dare approach the soldiers in this way even if they did. The soldier who appears to be in charge steps towards me.
“Gifts? Why do you brings gifts?”
“I was robbed and beaten by Samarians as I traveled here and I was saved by some of our brave men who were on a patrol. The men who saved me are not here, but I can thank them by thanking you for keeping all Romans safe in this horrid land.”
He looks at my cloak and then me, taking particular interest in my blue eyes.
“You’re a citizen of Rome?”
“Yes, the Samarians took the fine toga and cloak I bought in Naples before I began this cursed journey. It was so much nicer than the coarse weaves they make here. Their cloth isn’t fit to put on a Roman’s horse.”
The Romans all laugh.
You’re in.
“I have wine, meat and bread. Perhaps we could share a meal and I could spend an evening where I feel safe in this land?”
“What’s your name?” the leader asks.
“I’m called Petrus. I was named by grandmother. She was a blue-eyed slave girl from Gaul that my grandfather took as his wife.”
It’ll be centuries before anyone figures out blue eyes are a recessive trait and I should therefore have brown eyes.
“I am Flavius. Come Petrus, our watch is over. We’d be happy to share your wine.”
Two hours later we’ve gone through all of the wine that I bought plus much more. I’ve had very little compared to the soldiers, who could easily out drink anyone from my time. I’ve spent the last two hours telling them how great it is to be in the company of Rome’s finest soldiers and they’ve told me over and over how much they hate Jerusalem and want to go home.
“I too long for Rome,” I say when they seem to be impaired enough. “How I wish I had a fine Roman toga and tunic instead of this rag. Then at least I’d look and feel like a Roman again.”
“There’s a merchant here to see Pilate,” Flavius says. “He brings things from Rome so perhaps he has clothes to sell.”
Flavius and two others take me through the dark streets. As we pass, the few people who are left outside scurry into dark corners and whisper things about Romans they don’t dare say out loud.
“That’s the house where Pilate lives.”
Flavius points to a large stone structure with many columns.
“The merchant is probably in that house over there setting up his wares for Pilate to inspect tomorrow.”
We go to the house and Flavius bangs on the door. A Hebrew se
rvant answers and Flavius brushes past him like he’s the family pet rather than a person.
“What’s the merchant’s name and city?” I ask the servant in Aramaic.
“He’s Marcus Varius of Venice.”
“Where’s the merchant?” we can hear Flavius bellow from the next room.
“Why are you here?” a man in expensive looking clothes asks as he emerges. “These wares are for Pilate first, others can buy according to rank when Pilate is done.”
“We found this Roman citizen beaten and robbed and left to wear Samarian rags.” Flavius is either confusing or embellishing the facts.
“I don’t care who he is or what his story may be. Pilate is always first.”
“I can’t believe my luck,” I say as I enter the room. “It’s Marcus Varius, here all the way from Venice to save me in my despair.”
I bow low.
“Do I know you?”
“We’ve not met, but I of course know you by your reputation and by the splendor of these wares.”
“You do not recognize this man? He is Petrus, grandson to the king of the Gaul’s who now serves as Caesar’s magistrate there,” Flavius says.
Flavius may be drunk but he catches onto a scam quickly.
“My dear Marcus. I’ve been robbed and beaten. That’s why I must humbly present myself in this state. Just being in your presence in these rags is a stain upon my honor. I would not presume to usurp Pilate’s privilege in seeing your wares first. I ask only if you have a toga and tunic not fit for Pilate’s eyes that I may buy so I can look like a proper Roman in this land. Surely your reputation for generosity will allow this?”
“This fine Roman has nowhere else to turn,” Flavius adds.
“I have some old things that might suit you.”
Marcus relents with a sigh then leads me out of the house to a wagon filled with all sorts of things. He does indeed have some clothes that will work perfectly. They’re distinctly Roman but not showy.
“This is all the money I have.”
I hold out the bronze coins I have left.
“It’s not nearly enough to repay your kindness but I’ll send word of this night to my grandfather. If you are ever in Gaul he’ll buy your finest things at the price you set because he’ll know you’re an honest man.”
“Keep the Hebrew money and be gone.”
“Yes, and I’ll keep this old cloak as well. Perhaps I can find a horse that it suits.”
Flavius and the other soldiers laugh.
On our way out the door I give the bronze coins to the servant. The soldiers and I laugh all the way back to the garrison house.
***
When I wake up the next morning I’m feeling hung over but the Romans are bright and alert like they were drinking water instead of wine all night. I hadn’t noticed when we came in but there are several prostitutes in the room.
I guess some parts of the future are identical to the past.
“Get up Petrus.”
Flavius addresses me like I’m one of his soldiers.
“Thank you for letting me sleep here last night, Flavius. It was nice to be among friends.”
“Thank you for the fine wine and food, but now you must leave. There was an arrest last night that has caused a stir among the Jews so we have been called as an extra guard at Pilate’s house.”
The group falls out and joins several other groups so I follow them through the streets until I see Pilate’s house. It’s still early in the morning but a crowd has formed outside. I take off my cloak so I’ll look like a Roman and stand near Flavius and the other soldiers.
When Pilate comes out of the house the crowd quiets but there are still murmurs. I can see Pharisees working the crowd. Many of the people in the crowd are saying if Jesus were the true messiah he would destroy the Romans for them. Pilate says a few words and then reminds the crowd of the “generous Roman tradition” of releasing one prisoner during the Passover celebration.
I slept through Jesus being scourged.
“Which one do you want me to release to you, Barabbas, or Jesus who is called the Messiah?” Pilate asks then sits to hear the response of the crowd. As he sits a messenger comes out of the house and speaks in his ear. Pilate gets a curious look on his face but simply nods.
The Pharisees are moving through the crowd now, I can hear them saying “Ask for Barabbas” and “Crucify the other.” I can see one of Christ’s disciples on the edge of the crowd saying nothing, frozen with fear of what would happen should he speak out. I wish I was mute again. If I was mute I wouldn’t have to bear the shame of standing silent while an innocent man is murdered.
“Which of these two do you want me to release to you?” Pilate asks again.
With the Pharisees leading, the crowd shouts “Barabbas”.
“But if I release Barabbas, what should I do with Jesus who is called the Messiah?”
“Crucify him!”
“Why? What crime has he committed?”
Pilate gets no explanation, the crowd just yells louder and louder for Jesus to be crucified so Pilate goes back into the house.
They have no idea why they’re calling for a crucifixion. They’re becoming a mob.
Five years ago in my time frame there was a street riot in Los Angeles. Every single person in that crowd was well fed and lacked for nothing and yet they broke windows and started fires and attacked people. When asked, most had no idea why they did it. They just felt a need to fill a void in their lives with some senseless violence and temporarily lost their common sense.
I’m struck by how much those who participated in that riot have in common with the mob that’s formed before me in this time frame. Both represent a people who are lost and wandering around looking for some sort of meaning in their lives. The people in this time by and large have no material possessions while those in my time have more than even the richest kings of this time. Yet both are marked by an internal emptiness they have no way of filling by themselves.
Pilate returns.
“I’m going to bring him out to you now, but understand that I clearly find him not guilty.”
Jesus is ushered out of the house by Roman soldiers. He’s wearing a purple robe and there’s a crown of long, sharp thorns pressed into his head. There’s blood running down his face and it’s clear he’s already been whipped to the point that the skin is hanging in tatters on his back. At times the flail wrapped around to his front as well, leaving red welts and cuts that I can see where he’s not covered by the robe. His whole body is trembling and his eyes look glassy from the pain.
“Here is the man!” Pilate says.
The priests and the Temple guards start the chant again, “Crucify! Crucify!” and the crowd goes back to its frenzied state.
I can see the frustration on Pilate’s face. He wants an explanation of why Christ should be crucified but he’s getting nowhere. Many of the Roman soldiers now have their hands on their sword handles, ready to draw their weapons at the first sign the crowd is going to turn on them next. Pilate speaks to a messenger and a few moments later a bowl of water is brought out.
Just then on a balcony above the crowd a woman dressed in a Roman toga dumps a bucket of dirty bath water that douses several Jews at the back of the crowd. At first I thought she poured it carelessly but when I look up at her I see she has a smirk of contempt on her face. She looks like a child who teases a pet just because they can. The Jews curse all Romans under their breath for the indignity.
Pilate washes his hands for the crowd to see.
“I’m innocent of the blood of this man. The responsibility is yours.”
When the hand washing is done the Hebrew servant who brought the bowl dumps the water with the same look of contempt as the Roman with the bucket.
Pilate then announces he’ll release Barabbas and Jesus will be turned over to the Roman soldiers to be crucified. The crowd yells all the louder. They look like a crowd at a sporting event whose team has just wo
n a great victory.
I’m the only one here who knows that this is the beginning rather than the end.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
As the crowd and the soldiers disperse I slip my Hebrew cloak back on, this is not a good time to look like a Roman. I remember the maps showing the path Jesus will walk to his crucifixion but by the time I work my way through the crowds Jesus has already begun his journey. I can see a crowd following him and yelling all sorts of insults.
I think I can use a shortcut to get ahead of the crowd but as I turn I see another crowd has formed behind me, though it’s taking a very different course. At the head of the crowd is a rough-looking man in tattered clothes. I can hear those lining the streets yelling “Barabbas”.
He has an insufferable look on his face as he receives the adoration of the crowd. It’s galling to watch him strut through the streets like a peacock.
“Barabbas, you don’t deserve to live.”
He looks my way.
“What did you say to me?”
“That man Jesus who carries a cross is innocent and you are a murderer. You are the one who deserves to die, not him.”
Barabbas gives me an ugly smile.
“We all deserve to die,” Barabbas sneers then laughs.
“Not him. He doesn’t deserve it. He’s blameless.”
“Then I guess he’s dying in my place today, so that I might live. I’ll have to thank him later.”
Barabbas laughs again and the crowd laughs with him.
My jaw drops. I’ve studied Christianity my entire life and even if he doesn’t understand what he’s saying, a murderous criminal is standing before me teaching me what I failed to grasp.
“You‘re right Barabbas, we do all deserve to die. But he’s not dying for you, he’s dying today so that we all might live.”
I disappear through the crowd, looking for a shortcut back to Christ.
***
When I reach him he’s fallen. The heavy cross beam is on top of him and the Roman guards are whipping him and telling him to get up. I can see the skin on his back has already been whipped to tatters and he’s lost a lot of blood. I can’t imagine how he finds the strength but he makes it to his knees and then can rise no further. A guard picks a man named Simon from the crowd and tells him to help carry the cross.