Jerusalem's Hope by Brock Thoene Read Free Book Online Page A

the local populace understood clearly that in the scope of things, all gods were not created equal.
    It was one of the ironies of life in the Jewish province, Marcus reflected. Herod, the former king of the Jews, had not been a Jew by either birth or piety. Had he not been a brutal murderer he might have gained a reputation as a famous compromiser. He spent lavish sums to promote Augustus to godhood, then poured out money like water, renovating and expanding the Jerusalem temple to the unnamable Hebrew deity.
    This sort of duality was perfectly acceptable in a world that saw the heavens as crowded with godlings. Being recently promoted, like Augustus, or of longer standing, like Zeus, made little difference . . . anywhere except Judea. Alone in the empire, only the Jews insisted there was one true God. They also taught that He could only be properly worshipped in Jerusalem, and that one of His cherished commandments involved repudiating every other god.
    Despite the early morning hour, a crowd of dignitaries gathered on the slope below the temple. There were visitors from every other province of the empire . . . and no Jews. At least there were no Jews recognizable as such, and certainly no Pharisees, Levites, or priests.
    The time was near for the Jewish Festival of Passover, and no religious Jew wanted to risk ceremonial uncleanness at such a time. It was impossible to enter Caesarea without being defiled. To a pious son of Abraham the entire city was an abomination.
    As Marcus and Felix arrived below the temple, Governor Pilate appeared in the center of the crowd on the terrace. Pilate stepped upon a raised dais so he could be seen by all. In his hand he held a simpulum, the saucer-like clay container used for pouring out libations to the gods. A minute later he spoke to the assembly while wine that flashed red in the sunlight drizzled from the simpulum over a marble altar. The stone was emblazoned with the carvings of bulls garlanded with flowers and the name of Augustus.
    Though Marcus was too far away to hear Pilate’s words, he could guess at the meaning: invoking the blessing of Augustus on Emperor Tiberius, on the province of Judea, and on Pilate himself as the humble servant of the empire.
    Beside the tall, thin-lipped governor stood another notable dressed like him. Both wore the toga praetexta, the long, substantial, multi-pleated robe of state. Their official clothes were bordered with the dark crimson stripe referred to as “purple,” denoting the emperor’s representatives.
    Marcus recognized the second man. He was shorter and squatter than Pilate, more tanned from more years in the region, with a permanent squint from campaigning against the Parthians in the desert. This chief guest was Prefect Vitellius, governor of Syria and Pilate’s superior officer in the diplomatic corps of Rome. Marcus understood Vitellius had wintered in Rome. His recent return from there had to account for the timing of this ceremony: Pilate wanted Vitellius to see how well he was performing as a junior governor.
    Felix visibly fidgeted, wanting to approach Pilate with his news, but forced by propriety to delay until the ceremony ended. Marcus observed the two Roman dignitaries receiving the congratulations of the leading citizens of Caesarea. Pilate’s smile looked fixed, even forced, to Marcus’ way of thinking. As each participant passed in the receiving line, Pilate dipped his hand into a leather pouch and handed something over.
    It had to be a commemorative distribution of the newly minted coins. Pilate’s motive was clear: he wanted to cement his close connection to the emperor in the minds of the populace. At the same time it didn’t hurt Pilate’s standing to display a respectful crowd of well wishers, eager for a fleeting touch of the gubernatorial palm.
    It was all so calm and organized. A century of legionaries kept the common people away. No rabble, no potential rebels would be