Matthew guffawed.
“Stark raving mad!” he said.
His companions joined in laughing.
Alexandros had heard that in Judaea, and especially in Galilee, many people these days were awaiting the Last Judgment; false prophets were claiming, with those exact same piercing eyes, that the Messiah was due any day now; their followers were wandering around the two provinces offering purification before the imminent Last Judgment, anointing people with oil or dunking them in water or fasting for weeks in penitence.
“Instead of doing something,” he added disparagingly.
“Harmless blockheads,” was Matthew’s comment. “There was a prophet in Galilee once who made rain during a drought and brought about cures by setting his hands on people. He was stoned in Jerusalem for his troubles, just after Passover, but it was before I was born and the rains didn’t come after all.”
“That must have been Honi,” said Plotius. “He would draw a circle around himself at times of drought and would not step outside it until it rained. He fasted inside the circle, the others outside it, and they would encourage each other… I once met his grandson, he was also named Honi; people thought he was also a miracle worker, and with every drought they would hound him to step inside a circle too, but he did not want to stand in a circle; he was not a sorcerer, he would snarl and hide in the outhouse, and he would not come out for days on end…”
They laughed.
“I have heard exactly the same about a man by the name of Onias,” Alexandros said.
“That’s the one,” Matthew clarified. “In Greek it’s Onias; in Aramaic, Honi.”
They chartered seven donkeys in the harbor after paying one sestertius per head in municipal duties.
It was no easy matter to bargain with the excise men, because apart from the capital tax they demanded two and a half percent of the value of the luggage. It was useless to say they had nothing of value; not only did they make them unpack the sacks, they also searched their persons. The excise men even examined the tefillin. The tax collectors also examined the cheap and crude clay water jugs, unwilling to believe that this was all they had. When they saw that there really was nothing else, they demanded a further three sesterces per head, but it was impossible to know why. Matthew haggled that down to one sestertius each, and then they could set off.
Matthew laughed: the excise men had not noticed that only six names were on the safe-conduct, and he winked at Uri. Uri did not wink back; he was still unhappy about his name not being on the safe-conduct.
They saw nothing of Messana, that charming little town.
This particular mode of transport was even less comfortable than walking, Uri soon found; his delicate behind was not made for an ass’s lumpy back. They rode the donkeys in single file, and as they tried to keep their feet off the ground and steer clear of roadside trees and rocks, they swapped theories about the inhabitants of Judaea and Galilee.
Uri figured that Matthew the boatman, Plotius the joiner, and Alexandros the merchant were all somewhat conversant in Judaean affairs, and the rest as clueless as himself. Apart from vague family myths, he had no idea what life was like and what people believed in Judaea and Galilee.
Alexandros knew the name of the present prefect; he was called Pilatus. He had held the office for nine years, and in those years had quarreled with the Jew just once, when he tried to build a new aqueduct in Jerusalem and had asked for money from the Temple’s treasury. The new aqueduct was not built because most of the community had protested, and the high priest did not dare defy them.
“They held demonstrations on the Temple Square,” Alexandros confirmed. “The soldiers allegedly attacked the crowd and slaughtered many protesters, but I have not met anyone who was there that evening. It’s not customary to slaughter in the Temple Square,” he went on. “There is not enough room for a crowd anyway — not near the tabernacle, in any case. I’ve never managed; it’s guarded dearly.”
“It’s been guarded so tightly,” chipped in Valerius, assistant to the archisynagogos, “ever since the Samaritans scattered human ashes around to desecrate the altar.”
“When was that?” Uri inquired.
“A long time back,” Valerius replied.
“Ten years before the Jews were driven out of Rome,” said Matthew. “There was a huge outcry; it was hard to keep some people from overrunning Samaria.”
Uri figured this must have been seven years before he was born.
Matthew recounted that Pilatus had embarked upon a major construction project as soon as he was appointed. In Caesarea, it was he who built the sanctuary dedicated to the emperor Tiberius, the Tiberium as it was called, and laying the foundation stone was his first official act. The group could soon see for themselves, he said. It was a massive building, and splendid indeed by Hellenistic standards. He also related that the prefect had wanted a stadium built in Jerusalem also, under the Temple Mount, but the Sanhedrin dissuaded him.
“Whereupon the Sanhedrin,” he added with a laugh, “went ahead and built one, and no one protested against that… Not that it would have been possible, because it was converted from a hippodrome by Herod, and they adjusted to that… It is not used very much for anything; there are Greeks living there. It’s used to house people during festivals, so it serves that purpose.”
He was asked if he had met this Pilatus personally.
He had met him, and more than once; he was a meticulously cautious, straight-talking, easy-mannered man, who wouldn’t hurt a fly.
“It is completely out of the question,” asserted Matthew, “to think he would try to sneak Roman military standards into Jerusalem.”
“Maybe he is unaware that it’s forbidden for Jews,” Hilarus guessed.
“How could he not know!” Matthew spluttered. “He’s been kicking his heels in Judaea for nine years; he knows exactly what is allowed and what’s not.”
Silence fell. Maybe it would be better, Uri thought, if he does not know our laws, if what those flaming-eyed men said was true.
“I saw him once in Rome,” said Alexandros. “Before he was appointed prefect. He was there when I was meeting several of my clients. They told me he was interested in Palestine; he wanted to trade with that part of the world, because he was a knight of the equestrian order.”
“An equestrian,” Matthew confirmed.
“A knight of the equestrian becoming a prefect?” Uri queried.
“Judaea is a province of the third rank,” said Matthew. “Being a knight is sufficient to be sent there.”
“As far as I recall,” Alexandros continued, “he was not ignorant about our affairs, but that’s as it should be, if Tiberius named him prefect. It’s a fair bet there were other candidates.”
Matthew snorted. Uri saw that he was glancing toward him as he laughed — as if the laughter were directed against him. He did not understand; he shook off his doubts, he had been needlessly oversensitive before.
There was a lull as they rode the donkeys silently, heavy with worry.
“They’re lunatics, that’s what they are,” Matthew broke the silence. “Nothing happened in Caesarea, and nothing forbidden was taken into Jerusalem. They are looking for something to get excited about. Sailors on my ships tell yarns after an uneventful voyage; each one has seen a dozen sirens, and Pluto himself visits them in the company of Proserpina. Judaeans arriving in Ostia have praised the moderation of the present governor. He never meddles and he doesn’t try to steal any more than is feasible. Obviously he has business dealings with the high priests; otherwise why would he be prefect in the first place? He must have lined his pockets a fair bit over nine years. Business is booming, so why spoil it? He was only looking to do good with the aqueduct; he was in the right, and not the rabble.”