Free The Master's Quilt by Michael J. Webb Page B
Authors: Michael J. Webb
so, Pontius?” he asked, genuine concern evident
in his voice.” I thought you’d be pleased with my information.”
Seeming not to hear a word Deucalion had
said, Pilate replied, “Your hand. . . What happened?”
Deucalion glanced at his bandaged appendage.
“It’s nothing to be concerned about, Pontius. I had a minor
altercation with a couple of men in the streets last night, on my
way home from Doras’ house.”
“Jews?” snarled Pilate, spitting the word
instead of speaking it.
“No. . .they were not Jews, Pontius.”
“You’re certain?”
“Yes, I’m certain,” sighed the younger man.
“Tell me, why do you hate them so?”
Pilate turned and stared into Deucalion’s
eyes, his own eyes glistening with fear. “Because they are my
death,” he whispered in a scratchy, guttural voice.
• • •
As Deucalion walked the streets of Jerusalem
in the early afternoon hours, he remembered Pilate’s words. Death is not a subject that I am unfamiliar with , he
thought. He’d experienced its more violent forms firsthand in the
service of Rome. “No . . . death is no stranger to me,” he
muttered.
Fortunately, he did not need the constant
memory of battle to remind him of how it sickened him. As much as
he had reconciled himself to the necessity of killing in time of
war, he had never been able to steel himself to the brutality many
members of the Legion, including some generals, seemed to inflict
unnecessarily. And that was why he was so disturbed now.
Pilate had instructed him to take personal
charge of insuring that there were no outbreaks of rebellion among
the disenchanted followers of the dead and buried Jesus,
emphasizing the “dead and buried” a little too forcefully.
When Deucalion had asked exactly what the
Procurator had in mind, he was informed that there was a Jew who
had taken a personal interest in the “disease” that was festering
like pus in an untreated wound. This Jew had taken it upon himself,
with the blessing of Rome of course, to lance the wound as deeply
as he deemed necessary in order to cleanse it—permanently—of all
infection.
And Pilate had instructed Deucalion to
provide “support as required” whenever this Jew deemed it
necessary.
“I’ve already agreed to provide whatever
judicial authorization is needed,” said the Procurator with
finality. “I’ve further pledged the full support of the garrison.
Because this is a religious and not a military problem, Rome’s
official position on the matter is it is the responsibility of the
Sanhedrin to insure that the fanatics are eliminated—preferably as
rapidly and efficiently as possible.”
The thought of possibly having to participate
in violent activities against the unarmed populace brought a rise
of bile into the Praetorian’s throat. We have sold our souls to
the god of power , he thought miserably, and we pay for it
with the gold of our blood. We lose our humanity as fast as the
Jews lose their lives.
Pilate had also informed him that he sent a
message to Caiaphas. His superior intended to confront the High
Priest in three days with the information that Doras had supplied
to them and demand an explanation of his activities.
That was the only hopeful note. At least
Deucalion would have time to do what he planned. If he was
successful, perhaps he could prevent things from getting totally
out of hand. In the meantime, he was to make his services and those
of the garrison available to the Jew. On his way out, he’d asked
Pilate, “And who exactly is this Jew who will wipe out the disease
of Jesus’ followers?”
“Saul of Tarsus,” replied Pilate, dismissing
him with a wave of his hand.
Now the Praetorian was on his way to see
Antipas, needing to locate this Saul who was so anxious to
persecute his own people. As he entered the marketplace to the
south of the Herodian Palace he experienced a moment of
disorientation. Increasingly there were moments when he felt if he
were to try and
in his voice.” I thought you’d be pleased with my information.”
Seeming not to hear a word Deucalion had
said, Pilate replied, “Your hand. . . What happened?”
Deucalion glanced at his bandaged appendage.
“It’s nothing to be concerned about, Pontius. I had a minor
altercation with a couple of men in the streets last night, on my
way home from Doras’ house.”
“Jews?” snarled Pilate, spitting the word
instead of speaking it.
“No. . .they were not Jews, Pontius.”
“You’re certain?”
“Yes, I’m certain,” sighed the younger man.
“Tell me, why do you hate them so?”
Pilate turned and stared into Deucalion’s
eyes, his own eyes glistening with fear. “Because they are my
death,” he whispered in a scratchy, guttural voice.
• • •
As Deucalion walked the streets of Jerusalem
in the early afternoon hours, he remembered Pilate’s words. Death is not a subject that I am unfamiliar with , he
thought. He’d experienced its more violent forms firsthand in the
service of Rome. “No . . . death is no stranger to me,” he
muttered.
Fortunately, he did not need the constant
memory of battle to remind him of how it sickened him. As much as
he had reconciled himself to the necessity of killing in time of
war, he had never been able to steel himself to the brutality many
members of the Legion, including some generals, seemed to inflict
unnecessarily. And that was why he was so disturbed now.
Pilate had instructed him to take personal
charge of insuring that there were no outbreaks of rebellion among
the disenchanted followers of the dead and buried Jesus,
emphasizing the “dead and buried” a little too forcefully.
When Deucalion had asked exactly what the
Procurator had in mind, he was informed that there was a Jew who
had taken a personal interest in the “disease” that was festering
like pus in an untreated wound. This Jew had taken it upon himself,
with the blessing of Rome of course, to lance the wound as deeply
as he deemed necessary in order to cleanse it—permanently—of all
infection.
And Pilate had instructed Deucalion to
provide “support as required” whenever this Jew deemed it
necessary.
“I’ve already agreed to provide whatever
judicial authorization is needed,” said the Procurator with
finality. “I’ve further pledged the full support of the garrison.
Because this is a religious and not a military problem, Rome’s
official position on the matter is it is the responsibility of the
Sanhedrin to insure that the fanatics are eliminated—preferably as
rapidly and efficiently as possible.”
The thought of possibly having to participate
in violent activities against the unarmed populace brought a rise
of bile into the Praetorian’s throat. We have sold our souls to
the god of power , he thought miserably, and we pay for it
with the gold of our blood. We lose our humanity as fast as the
Jews lose their lives.
Pilate had also informed him that he sent a
message to Caiaphas. His superior intended to confront the High
Priest in three days with the information that Doras had supplied
to them and demand an explanation of his activities.
That was the only hopeful note. At least
Deucalion would have time to do what he planned. If he was
successful, perhaps he could prevent things from getting totally
out of hand. In the meantime, he was to make his services and those
of the garrison available to the Jew. On his way out, he’d asked
Pilate, “And who exactly is this Jew who will wipe out the disease
of Jesus’ followers?”
“Saul of Tarsus,” replied Pilate, dismissing
him with a wave of his hand.
Now the Praetorian was on his way to see
Antipas, needing to locate this Saul who was so anxious to
persecute his own people. As he entered the marketplace to the
south of the Herodian Palace he experienced a moment of
disorientation. Increasingly there were moments when he felt if he
were to try and