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

allowed to disturb the dignity of the service.
    Marcus recognized the sharp contrast to the Purim disturbance a month earlier. On that occasion Jerusalem had nearly been plunged into full-scale rioting. The tetrarch of the Galil, Herod Antipas, had decided to celebrate his birthday by flinging bread and money to the masses. People had been killed, and further insurrection had been prevented only by the timely arrival of Marcus and his men.
    Pilate was taking no such chances today. Rome had no qualms about breaking whatever heads needed to be broken, but political unrest was bad for commerce. Keeping taxes and trade flowing in an orderly manner was a governor’s highest priority.
    The rite concluded, the crowd began to drift away. Pilate and Vitellius retreated into the cool interior of the temple, followed by a squadron of troopers.
    Felix identified himself to the captain of the guard but was told he would have to wait yet again for the two officials to complete their private devotions.
    As Marcus’ eyes grew accustomed to the dim interior, he made out the thrice-life-sized statues. Augustus, portrayed as Olympian Zeus, sat enthroned, complete with an upraised arm holding an eagle-headed staff. The unmoving icon of Corinthian bronze extended its burnished left foot for mere mortals to kiss. Seated beside Augustus was the less threatening but still colossal figure of Roma, or Mother Rome, dressed as the goddess Hera.
    Kneeling before Augustus was Pilate. Vitellius was down on one knee in front of Roma.
    The two men, supposedly locked in their prayers, were instead enmeshed in discussion. From the particulars it was no doubt supposed to be confidential. But Vitellius had probably lost part of his hearing to the desert winds, and his voice, combined with the acoustics of the domed building, conveyed every word to Marcus.
    â€œThe coin’s a good gesture,” Vitellius said to Pilate, “but simply a start. You have a lot of ground to make up with Tiberius.”
    â€œReally?” Pilate’s jocular reply was meant to sound confident, but a higher-than-normal pitch betrayed his anxiety. “Then I’d better send him more of those white Judean dates with the juice like honey. That should soothe him.” Tiberius’ sweet tooth was well known. Such trifles truly did please the man who commanded the wealth of the empire.
    Vitellius mocked, “Dates! You saw the letter. If ink were brimstone, his comments to you would have scorched the fingers of the scribe! Did you think he forgot what happened two years ago? Putting up the standards was stupid enough, but then capitulating to a mob . . . and a Jewish mob at that! Tiberius was unable to control his fury when news came of what happened in Jerusalem at Herod Antipas’ birthday last month.”
    Pilate murmured a protest that the Purim riot had not been his fault, but Vitellius cut his words short. “You’re the governor! Anything that goes wrong here is your fault! Believe it! If you can’t control the province any better than that, Tiberius will replace you with someone who can!”
    No wonder Pilate’s smile had resembled the rictus of a corpse. Word of the disturbances had reached Rome before Vitellius’ departure, in time for the emperor to vent his displeasure.
    â€œIt took all of Sejanus’ wheedling to placate the emperor. Otherwise it would have been a notice of recall!” Vitellius concluded.
    To Marcus’ eye, Pilate’s back was as stiff as a pilum shaft. Sejanus was the prefect of the Imperial Praetorian guard and chief advisor to Tiberius. Pilate was his protégé and owed his appointment to Sejanus.
    â€œAnd don’t try to honey-coat your reply,” Vitellius warned. “Tiberius wants the truth.”
    Pilate’s uneasy chuckle crossed the dome more in betrayal of nervousness than lightness of spirit. “What is truth?” he queried mockingly. “Isn’t it in the