Behold the Man Read online

  So when Kuza suggested that he pay for a new roof for the synagogue in Capernaum—in gratefulness for Boaz’s healing—and asked Marcus if he would oversee the repairs, the centurion agreed heartily.

  It was the least he could do to express his own thanks for the life of the boy who had become like a nephew to him . . . even if it would raise rumors that his sympathies lay with the beleaguered Jews over Rome’s interests.

  Chapter 27

  Supervising the restoration of the synagogue in Capernaum took every spare minute Marcus had. He’d discovered that in order to hold the refurbished roof, the structure’s walls needed bracing, and he had secretly contributed from his own funds. The legionaries in Marcus’s command—Syrians and Samaritans—couldn’t understand why a Roman would show so much interest in the project. When Marcus made them haul and stack building material, the Samaritans were incensed. When goods were damaged, Marcus had to keep an even more careful eye on his own troopers.

  Marcus was across the street at a tavern, reviewing plans and drawings, when he heard a skirmish. Rushing outside, he eyed the situation and came to his own conclusions. Several Samaritan legionaries had been throwing rocks at the Jewish laborers. Then one had kicked the scaffolding when a laborer was carrying bricks. The Jew had fallen fifteen feet. He hadn’t been killed, but his arm was clearly broken.

  Furious, Marcus burst into the laughing group of soldiers. He grabbed the first one and threw him headfirst into a wall. He punched the second one in the face.

  The remaining soldier pleaded, “We meant no harm. A bit of fun, is all.”

  Marcus narrowed his eyes. “Fun, is it? I’ll have your hide off—”

  At that instant, from behind him, he heard, “Centurion Longinus!”

  He turned. Praetorian Vara had arrived, with Tribune Felix at his side.

  “Brawling with your own men?” Vara said scathingly.

  “Disciplining,” Marcus shot back. “No concern of yours.”

  “Oh, but it is,” Vara clarified. “A word with you.” He dismounted and entered the tavern.

  Marcus glared at the legionaries, wanting to finish business with them. But he had to follow.

  Once Marcus was inside, Vara lost no time in berating him for not catching the rebel leader bar Abba yet, then added, “And you’re wasting time working on a Jewish synagogue? You took one of Herod’s royal stewards to consult with a Jewish preacher? Very questionable.” He frowned. “Finally, I’ve learned that you had a previous encounter with the two rebels I executed at Neapolis, yet you let them go unpunished. You didn’t report the matter to headquarters.”

  That’s when Marcus knew that the tribune, Felix, had betrayed him. No one else knew.

  “If it were up to me,” Vara threatened, “I’d break you completely, or worse. But Pilate has instead decided to merely reduce your rank. You will still be a centurion of First Cohort, but no longer Primus Pilus. Your new assignment will be overseeing the collection of taxes for Capernaum.” He stared at Marcus. “While keeping an eye out for rebels, of course.”

  A menial job. But Marcus couldn’t argue. It would bring the same punishment as disobeying an order. He remained silent.

  “By the way, I enjoyed your Jewish mistress,” Vara threw in. “She fought back just enough to be diverting.”

  Marcus was sickened. No woman deserved to be taken against her will, and Vara was known for his brutality. Was Miryam all right? Marcus clenched and unclenched his fists. One move toward the bully, and he would be executed. He could not, did not, rise to the bait.

  So Vara tried again. “I’m sure you can’t afford a servant in your reduced circumstances. I fancy the boy. Why not sell him to me for, say, thirty denarii?”

  “Get out,” Marcus said. His words were steel, even if his body didn’t move.

  Vara laughed as he left.

  After his demotion, Marcus continued his efforts to refurbish the synagogue. By now the Jews of Capernaum were used to seeing him around their city. Some actually smiled at him.

  Capernaum also welcomed Jesus of Nazareth, the Baptizer’s cousin, with open arms. At first he spoke only in the synagogue, sitting in the midst of the scaffolding and work in progress. Marcus avoided hearing the rabbi’s teaching. No need to further gain the attention of Rome and Praetorian Vara.

  As stories of the miraculous healings spread, the synagogue could no longer house all who wanted to hear Jesus, so he started to preach out of doors.

  One day Marcus and Carta were journeying back from Tiberias when they came to a cove of the Sea of Galilee. Jesus arrived from the opposite direction.

  “Can we stop and hear him, Master?” Carta asked.

  Marcus agreed, if they could stay at the back of the throng. Two fishermen brothers were repairing some rigging on their sail when Jesus approached. Marcus laughed as he watched. Anything Jesus wanted, he surely wouldn’t get from Shim’on, the big burly fisherman who always scowled at Marcus in the marketplace. It was rumored he was already angry that his brother was spending too much time listening to Jesus and less time with their business.

  The teacher motioned toward Shim’on’s boat and appeared to ask a question.

  The big fisherman shook his shaggy head and jammed his pointer finger toward the net.

  Jesus seemed to ask again.

  Finally, Shim’on’s brother, Andrew, called out, “What will it hurt? Let the master use the boat while we work on the nets.”

  Shim’on scowled but gave in. Together the two brothers pushed the vessel out from shore. Then, immediately, Jesus began speaking to the crowd that continued to gather.

  “The time has come! God’s kingdom is near!”

  At the word kingdom Marcus paled. Had he misjudged Jesus as harmless? Using such a word could be dangerous.

  Jesus then added, “Turn to God from your sins and believe the good news!”

  Marcus relaxed. What the teacher went on to say sounded similar to the message of John the Baptizer. But there was one puzzling difference. The Baptizer had talked about getting ready for what was coming. Jesus spoke as if that something was already here.

  When Jesus finished speaking, the crowd dissipated. He thanked Shim’on for the use of the boat. Then he said, “Row out, and let down your nets.”

  Marcus chuckled at the look Shim’on shot his brother. Clearly, this guy is crazy. But outwardly, Shim’on blustered, “We already fished all night. Worked hard too.”

  Then something happened. As Shim’on looked up into Yeshua’s face, his ranting faltered.

  Marcus moved closer to overhear the fisherman’s next words. “But if you say so, I’ll let down the nets again.”

  Jesus got into the boat with Shim’on and Andrew. When he raised his hand, they lowered the net over the side. Then the two brothers rowed in a circle to close the loop of net back on itself.

  Suddenly, Shim’on’s face turned red with the strain of trying to pull the bundle of net. “Hey,” he bellowed out in joy across the water. “Ya’acov, get John! Bring the other boat. We need help out here!”

  When the two boats were alongside each other, all four men struggled to draw in the net. The area between the boats seemed to be boiling with leaping fish! The fishermen drew basket upon basket of fish into Shim’on’s boat until it was settling low in the water. Then they heaped more fish into the other boat. There were still more.

  Marcus watched in wonder as Shim’on sank to his knees in front of Jesus. Jesus put his hands on the fisherman’s shoulders.

  What words passed between them? Marcus couldn’t hear. But he too knew this was more than just a lucky catch. He had wat
ched such fishermen with their catches. This one was far more bountiful—by seven times—than the best one he had ever seen.

  When he and Carta turned to go, Marcus was still pondering.

  Though Marcus had been demoted, no one had been assigned to replace him. But he’d lost the accommodations that had gone with his title of Primus Pilus. His new home in Capernaum was four tiny rooms. In one of them was a stand for Marcus’s armor, with the corona obsidionalis—the bronzed wreath that marked a hero—hanging on top of it. It was the only thing that remained of his pride in his years of service to Rome. In his darkest hours, he wondered if his loyalty had been misplaced.

  One day Carta announced, “Two Jews are here to see you, Master.”

  Marcus sighed. Likely it was something to do with the synagogue. “Ask them to come in.”

  “I already did,” Carta replied. “They respectfully declined because it would defile them.”

  He sighed again, then got up and stepped outside his dwelling. One of the men he recognized—Avram, a disciple of John the Baptizer. The other announced himself as Philip of Bethsaida.

  “We have heard that you are a fair man who deals justly with the Jews,” Philip said. “We were talmidim of the Baptizer. Now we follow Jesus.”

  Now they had Marcus’s attention. “Go on,” he urged.

  When Philip explained they had not heard from John since he was arrested and that they were concerned he might be ill, Marcus nodded. He well remembered the conditions of the Machaerus prison.

  “Be ready to travel fast,” Marcus said. “We leave tomorrow at dawn. It will take a week for the round-trip journey.”

  This time he directed Carta to stay. He knew the boy was intrigued to hear Yeshua speak and wanted to allow him the opportunity.

  Several days later, Marcus gained entrance easily to the Machaerus prison by implying this was an official visit. Marcus had seen imprisoned men in terrible condition before, but the changes he saw in the prophet were shocking. The Baptizer’s voice was barely recognizable, and his once-sturdy arms were reed thin.

  Furious, Marcus swiveled toward the jailer. “You were to see that no harm came to this man. Why has he been starved?”

  The jailer cowered. “I leave his bowl full, but when I return it hasn’t been touched.”

  Marcus understood now. The Baptizer had been used to living under the stars, roaming freely, and bathing in the streams. Now he was confined and in nearly continual darkness in the dungeon.

  “Master,” Philip said gently. “It is me, Philip.”

  The Baptizer at last looked up. “No one will give me any news,” he pleaded. “Was I wrong, Philip? Should we be looking for someone else? Or is he the one?”

  “Are you talking about Jesus?” Marcus interjected. “What do you mean, is he the one? The one what?”

  The Baptizer turned his eyes on Marcus. “You were here before . . . the Roman.” He lifted a bony arm. “The Deliverer sent by the Almighty to reconcile mankind to himself. Go to him. Ask him,” he begged. “And send me word of what you see and hear. But I want the truth, not what you think I want to hear.”

  His request went against all laws of Herod Antipas. Captives were not allowed to have information.

  “I will,” Marcus agreed, much to his own surprise. Perhaps the Baptizer wasn’t the only one who wanted the truth.

  And then, for some unexplained reason, Marcus felt he should return to Galilee with haste. “I’ll ride ahead,” he told his traveling companions.

  If he rode hard, he could be back in Capernaum in two days.

  Chapter 28

  It was everything Claudia had feared. Pilate’s jealousy of Jono’s kind affection for Philo had finally taken root and grown into hatred.

  Pilate paced the length of the bedchamber and back. Claudia fought panic as she brushed her hair and tried to soften his dark mood.

  “This slave, Jono. The boy is too dependent on him. For everything.”

  Claudia defended the pair. “Don’t let your imagination sweep away reason. Jono is nothing more than a slave to Philo. Jono carries him. He is our son’s legs.”

  “The boy speaks to his black creature as he might speak to a companion.”

  “It is only natural, Pilate. Philo has no friends. He has no companions. And Jono was presented as a gift to Philo.”

  “A gift from the centurion to a cripple—to mock me. Philo, the cripple, son of Pontius Pilate!”

  “Jono belongs to Philo. And in the document I am the administrator.”

  Pilate grasped her wrist and pulled her close to his scowling face. “But you would not dare oppose me.”

  “I am still the daughter of Tiberius Caesar. Release me.”

  He flung her away. “And your illustrious father banished you as surely as he banished me.”

  “We are not exiled so far that he does not hear of your every mood and every move, Pilate. He will not tolerate your abuse of his flesh any longer.”

  For a moment the thought of Caesar’s retribution appeared to sting the governor of Judea. He considered her unveiled threat in silence.

  “The buying and selling of a slave is of no concern to Rome. I can find a hundred slaves like this Ethiopian. Philo will become used to another. The boy thinks too well of the slave. A servant is a servant. Seen and not heard.”

  “And I would say to my father that Jono is a trusted bodyguard. He would die for the boy. And for me.”

  “And so he will die, if he is not sold in the slave market. Some mysterious illness, perhaps. Or a viper in his bed. Tiberius Caesar understands how accidents can happen.”

  “You are a jackal at heart, Pilate.” She glared at him, certain his threat was a reality. “You will have what you want, I see, and there is no one who can turn you back.”

  “At least we can agree on that. I will not permit a common slave to usurp the child’s affection for me. The slave must be sold.”

  Pilate stalked from the room, slamming the door behind him.

  Claudia covered her face with her hands and wept.

  “I do not know what to do.” Claudia’s eyes misted with tears as she sat across from Josephus.

  The old man studied her by the firelight. “But you know what must be done.”

  “Pilate will sell Jono if I insist he must remain with my son. Who would dispute the bill of sale signed by the Roman governor?”

  Josephus raised his finger. “By your own Roman law you are accorded some legal rights. If you do not permit the sale . . .?”

  “Then, truly, my husband will have him killed. By stealth, so no one can accuse. I considered bringing him to your service. But Jono may not remain in Jerusalem. Wherever he is, Jono is a dead man in the eyes of Pilate.”

  “You know of the Roman document of manumission. The freeing of a slave by his master?”

  “Yes. I technically retain right of ownership until Philo comes of age. I brought the documents of ownership.” She fumbled in her leather pouch and laid the parchment scroll on the table before the old man.

  Josephus unrolled the scroll and studied the wording for a long time. “It is clear the right is yours and yours alone to grant the slave his freedom. A simple document of manumission and he will be released to go. And further he will be granted the rights of Roman citizenship.” He indicated her gold ring with Claudia’s seal engraved upon it. “You carry the seal of your rank.”

  “Yes. My signet, as you see.”

  “Then it is in your authority to use your seal for good.”

  Claudia considered briefly the punishment s
he would likely receive at Pilate’s hands if she granted Jono his freedom. Then she smiled mischievously. “All right, then. Freedom,” she answered quietly. “I do not know where Jono will go, but he will be free.”

  Josephus smoothed his white beard. “Home, I would suppose. The instincts of a wild bird will carry him back to the nest where he was hatched.”

  “Ethiopia. He was a champion and a royal prince of Ethiopia. Defeated in battle by Centurion Marcus Longinus and presented as a gift to my son. Philo has been in his arms since he was a baby. This will be difficult.” She sighed. “And I do not even know where Ethiopia is. Or how long it takes to travel to such a land.”

  Josephus replied, “It is said that once the queen of Ethiopia came personally to pay homage to our great King Solomon. And from that meeting she carried back a son of Solomon in her womb. Their offspring still rule there to this very day. Ah, yes. Ethiopia. A fine destination. And if he is a prince descended from the Queen of Sheba and Solomon, then surely such a man as this must be given his freedom.”

  “So be it.”

  Josephus sharpened his quill pen and smoothed a fresh square of lambskin out before him. “The skin of a lamb will withstand the adventures such a fellow is likely to face on his way home to Ethiopia. You must write this in your own hand in Latin. And then I will write in Aramaic and Greek and Hebrew to follow. And with your signet ring pressed onto red wax, you will set the prince upon his journey home.”

  Starling’s feathers glowed iridescent purple in the early morning sunlight the next morning.

  The lambskin scroll on the table was signed by Claudia and countersigned in the childlike handwriting of Philo. It was sealed with the red wax and signet ring of Claudia.

  Claudia raised her chin and dared to speak. “Jono is a free man. Philo, your father has gone on business in Caesarea. Before he returns, we must let Jono fly from us.”