The Morning
My name is Flavius. I
am a subordinate assigned to the procurator overseeing this forsaken piece of
dry earth. It is difficult to see it any
other way. I should not complain. I am fortunate to have this position. Our military strength here is solid. They have suppressed every uprising, making
an example of those who seek to defy the empire. Still, there are better places to serve.
I woke just before the sun began to creep over the
horizon. I open the shutters and gazed
out into the courtyard as the sun began to push the night back toward
Hades. The Jews speak of the world of
darkness, calling it Gehenna. I wonder
if there is such a place, and if so, are we destined to embrace it, their view along with our own.
What have we done? I
have pondered this thought during my waking hours, and in the dark void of
night I found very little sleep. These
Jews and their monotheistic god are a strange lot. I served under Gratus for a short time, the
previous procurator, before the present governor was sent by Tiberius. Gratus took down revolts with an iron
fist. But now, under this new
procurator, we have done much worse.
There’s a knock on my door.
It is still early. I am not
expecting anyone. Perhaps the procurator
is still drunk and requires some more wine.
“Enter,” I bark out the order, still gazing out the window as
the new day slowly comes to life.
The door opens. “Flavius, I know the hour is early—”
I turn, raise a hand, silencing my visitor. His name is Titus. He is a freedman, serving as one of my aides.
“I have hardly slept these past two nights,” I say, a bit harsher than I
intend. “I have no time for explanations or apologies. Why have you disturbed me at this hour?”
“Have you not heard?”
I turn back to the window and witness the first thin crescent
of the orange sun rising over the buildings to the east. “I expect your news has
to do with the Nazorean.”
“Caiaphas is demanding to see the procurator.”
“And Pilate is still swimming in a pool of wine,” I respond.
“He should have listened to Claudia. She
told me about her dreams. The wife of
the procurator sought out my ear, when her husband felt all he needed to do was
wash his hands of an innocent man’s blood.
Do you know, Titus, the name of Pontius Pilate will be detested for all
time. That was the dream of the
procurator’s wife.”
“It happened as you said it would,” Titus states meekly,
trying to turn the subject away from my rant about Claudia’s dream.
“Not I,” I remind him, turning back, away from the world
outside my room. “My friend from Arimathea.
He spoke to me about their prophets.
I have only repeated his words. Do
you know, Titus, that these people have such a thing… prophets? For thousands of years they have written
about future events they know nothing of.
One of them, Isaiah, described crucifixion, before we, in our cruelty, invented
it. We have been instruments, played as
fools. Kings, Messiahs, leave it to the
Jews. They are a people who are so
willing to go against authority, even to death.”
“In the name of their god,” Titus adds.
I nod agreement. “So what is this news you bring? It has to be something of more urgency than
the pompous puppet wanted to see Pilate.”
“The guards, those sent to the tomb, have run off.”
“Has it been reported to their commander?” I ask, knowing
that Titus is efficient and will have done as I have asked.
“A patrol is searching now.
There is more, Flavius. They must
have sent ten men. It would have taken
at least that many to move the stone and break the seal. It appears that the followers of that man,
chased off the guards, opened the tomb, and stole the body, leaving the rags
they wrapped him in behind.”
I turn back to window, wondering about guards and open tombs.
“I spoke with him yesterday,” I say, my back toward Titus. “The one from
Arimathea. Joseph, I believe that is his
name. He is an elder. I believe he is part of the religious sect
known as Pharisees, but that’s not important.
I met him in secret, to discuss the injustice we have done.”
“Why, Flavius?”
“Because I am not a fool to be led around by some
self-serving priests,” My words are harsh.
I wish they were more so.
“He was tried, Flavius,” Titus says from behind me. “The
procurator condemned him.”
“A mockery,” I reply, raising my hand to silence him, without
so much as casting a backward glance. “Among some of the Jews this was
expected. Not that their king would be
killed, but that he would come, ride into the city to shouts of glory, and sit
on his throne.”
“Not a throne, Flavius.
A cross. Is that what these
people would consider a king?”
“Power and politics,” I respond. “That’s what rules us and
them. Some of their leaders would rather
see their king put to death in order to maintain their perceived power. They are foolish men. I have heard things about this one. He touched a leper. Who would do such a thing? He embraced decaying flesh. The thought makes me shutter. Still, if what I’ve heard is true, he spoke
with much wisdom. He called himself the
Son-of-Man.”
“What does that even mean, aren’t we all sons of men?”
Titus’s question hangs in the room’s musty air as the sun
slips into view. I can hear the words of
Joseph in my memories. His eyes were
touched by a craziness I cannot describe.
He quoted passages from the scriptures of his people. I listened, wanting to know more about such
things as prophecies and covenants. I
sense Titus’s impatient movement behind me, shifting his weight from one leg to
the other. I close my eyes on the
courtyard, and speak. “So, the tomb is empty.
Have you heard that he said it would be?
He spoke these words, and now the tomb where he was placed is empty,
despite all that we did to ensure a dead man would remain dead.”
“Cornelius trust a spear into his side, Flavius. By order of Pilate. You know that. He was dead.
This member of the council who spoke to you, is feeling his own guilt. You have no reason to feel the same.”
“As they all should,” I say, with a calmness I cannot explain.
“As should we. Without concern, we spilt
innocent blood at the request of the Jews... demand of the Jews.
We joined them in their folly.
Those who strut in the street with their fancy robes and those stupid
boxes attached to their foreheads, the pompous and self-righteous, they are the
guilty ones, but they will blame us.”
“Still, they wait,” Titus states, pulling me from a dark pit.
“In Pilate’s condition… perhaps—”
“I will speak to them,” I interrupt. “I will tell them that Jewish fishermen with clubs were too much for Roman soldiers. Perhaps it would be better to let their darkest fears fester. I am sure they will have concocted an explanation. They will think we can quell any movement of men, like themselves, lost in a fever of religion. In truth, Titus, I think we are only witnesses to the spark of a flame that will consume the empire.”
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