Free The Master's Quilt by Michael J. Webb

placate the
people who despised the ruler they felt had sold them out to the
Romans, it was not the case. No, Herod the Great was far too shrewd
a man to have such a single-minded, benevolent purpose.
    Pilate remembered the conversation well. He’d
invited the tetrarch to partake of his private stock of fine
Sicilian wine, hoping the man would reveal his secrets.
    Antipas had not let him down.
    “Why is it you Jews are so preoccupied with
your place of worship?” he asked, genuinely interested. “Your
father spent a good portion of his treasury, and the better part of
his life, rebuilding a decaying monument to a God who has turned
His back on His people.”
    The aging tetrarch did not answer
immediately. He stood on the porch, looking down at the splendor
below him. When he finally replied, his eyes held a glint of
cruelty and satisfaction, as if by revealing the truth of his
father’s motive he was at once betraying a family secret and
striking a continuous blow against a demon that had ridden his back
far too long.
    “My father’s intent,” he snarled, letting
loose a resounding belch, “was to possess all of the public
genealogies collected in the Temple. Especially those relating to
the priestly families.”
    “I don’t understand.”
    “He intended to destroy the genealogy of the
expected Messiah, to prevent Him from being born, and then to usurp
His kingdom.”
    Pilate arched his eyebrows at the mention of
a Messiah, but said nothing.
    “To accomplish his purpose he went to extreme
lengths to make our people understand he was doing them a great
kindness. He funded the massive project from money taken out of his
own pockets—”
    “Which had gotten fat by the taxes he exacted
under the guise of Roman mandate,” interjected Pilate.
    Antipas turned from the window revealing a
malevolent smile accompanied by derisive laughter. “Oh, yes indeed.
My father was truly beguiling. He convinced the people that his
magnanimous appropriation of personal funds for such a holy purpose
would be atonement for the very abuse that made the gesture
possible.”
    “And how did he accomplish such a fraud?”
asked Pilate, impressed by the man’s audacity.
    Antipas filled his goblet with more wine and
shrugged. “He promised the priests he would not attempt to build a
new Temple, but would merely restore the ancient magnificence of
the one built by David’s son, Solomon. When the priests questioned
him further as to his intentions, he told them that the restoration
by Zerrubbabel, made upon the return of Israel from the Babylonian
captivity, had fallen short in architectural measurement, according
to Scripture, by some sixty cubits in height.”
    “I see,” said Pilate, though in reality he
was just beginning to understand. “And no doubt your father, being
true to his title, promised to rectify that not insignificant
oversight.”
    “He pointed out that the entire structure
evidenced substantial deterioration and compared it to rotting
teeth, scarred with decay, then argued persuasively that a Temple
whose purpose was to glorify God should not be allowed to remain in
such a cursed state of disrepair. I believe his exact words were,
‘A man’s mouth feeds his body so that the flesh will not wither and
die, and so it behooves him to keep his teeth in good condition
that he may partake of all the good things his Father has provided
for sustenance. Similarly, the Temple is the mouth of the
priesthood, the tithes of the people being the food on which it
survives.’”
    “The priests agreed with his assessment, and
the Temple was razed down to its original foundation. My father
hired one thousand wagons to carry stones and ten thousand skilled
workmen to teach the priests the art of stone cutting, carpentry,
and metal-smithing. After eighteen months of nonstop labor the
Temple proper was completed. Although the work still continues and
although he did not gain possession of the public genealogies, my
father believed he