Free Second Touch by Bodie Thoene, Brock Thoene Page A

the evening. Pharisees had been pious keepers of the strict laws of Moses during the two centuries since Judah Maccabee cleansed and rededicated the Holy Mountain. They had little in common with the Temple authorities or others of their sect, the Sadducees. Sadducee to the core, High Priest Caiaphas had married into a politically well-connected family. His name was derived from a Hebrew word meaning “low place,” like the sink of a swamp or a valley where refuse was dumped. Caiaphas often joked about the reference, saying that it was proof how far above his origins a man of ability and ambition could rise. Simon performed a quick mental calculation. Caiaphas had been raised to the high priesthood by Governor Pilate’s predecessor, Gratus, about the third year of the reign of Tiberius. So Caiaphas had held the office for some eleven or twelve years now. Evidently his ability and ambition were satisfactory to the Roman overlords. Simon wandered among rooftop gardens surrounding an expansive courtyard. Planter boxes encouraged fig, citron, and orange trees to flourish in the heart of the Holy City. Carefully tended miniature arbors produced grapes for the high priest’s table. The clatter of tramping feet from the quadrangle proved to be the sunset changing of the cohen hagadol’s personal squad of Temple Guards. For several months rumors had circulated throughout the province. They said Caiaphas allowed sacred korban funds from the Temple to be used unlawfully by Governor Pilate. Since then the high priest had received an increasing number of death threats. With Zealot rebels coming out of the hills to murder those they called collaborators, this was no time to be seen as working hand in glove with the Romans. At the mental image Simon tugged at his own soft leather glove, then absentmindedly scratched his left ear . . . and jumped when Caiaphas spoke suddenly from behind him. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” the jovial voice of the high priest boomed broadly. “My secretary always pesters me for just one more letter . . . you know how it is.” Caiaphas gestured with both hands. He included Simon in his portrayal of important men of affairs bearing up ¬under the cares of their duty. Everything about Caiaphas was done broadly. Whether he spoke to one man or a thousand, his speech had the quality of a lecture from a tutor to a class of simpleminded children. Pay attention, his manner implied. I realize this is hard for you to grasp, but try, because ¬everything I say is significant. “¬I’m sorry I ¬can’t invite you to stay to supper,” Caiaphas added. “¬I’m entertaining the ambassador of the Nabatean king, Aretas. Diplomacy, you see, is one of the unexpected additional requirements of my office.” Inclining his head to one side and tapping the side of his ample nose with an imperial forefinger, he added in a lower tone, “Te¬trarch Herod Antipas needs my assistance in smoothing over some . . . but ¬can’t go into that,

can I?” Simon ¬wasn’t certain if he should nod or shake his head, so he merely responded with dignity, “I ¬understand. You asked for my help?” “Right to the point,” Caiaphas rumbled. “I like that. Too many men want to know what’s in it for them before they act as all good citizens should. All right, here it is: The troublemaker Yeshua of Nazareth has to be dealt with. Too many of the common people—” Caiaphas managed to make common sound synonymous with defiled—“flock to his speeches, neglecting their work. They give too much attention to his message, which, as we know, ¬undermines proper submission to proper authority. You should know: Your father-in-law has been expelled from his post because of his support of Yeshua.” “The old man is nothing to me. Always was pigheaded. I’ve not allowed my wife to see him in years. Our son has never met him.” “It’s a wise man who keeps a rebel from his door,” Caiaphas counseled. “The old man talks too much.”