“We object to your using them to desecrate the temple of our God in his Holy City!”
The Roman had run out of arguments; it was time for him to refer to higher authority. “Our standards will continue to fly. Only the Prefect Pontius Pilatus can order them lowered.”
The priest and the treasurer left the Antonia to address the crowd. There would be a meeting of the Great Sanhedrin that afternoon, Jonathan shouted. Meanwhile, everyone was to avert his eyes immediately from the Tower Antonia, lest the hated ensigns reappear.
In controlled fury, the multitude dispersed from the despised precincts of the Roman citadel. An emergency convocation of the Sanhedrin that afternoon decided to send a delegation to Pilate in Caesarea. Any citizens of Jerusalem who wished might accompany the deputation. What finally set out the next morning resembled an ethnic migration, so aroused was the populace at what it thought a deliberate provocation.
A courier had briefed Pilate on the confrontation in Jerusalem and alerted him to the approaching delegation. The news surprised but hardly troubled him, since friction between governor and governed was the anticipated rule for Judea. Better to face the encounter and have done with it.
But Pilate miscalculated the size of the protest. He had expected an embassy of no more than twenty, the usual size for Mediterranean diplomacy, since the point at issue seemed only a laboring of religious minutiae, a Judean analogue to a Roman controversy over whether thunder on the right were a good or bad omen if a person were left-handed. However, the great throng which now surged into Caesarea caught him entirely off guard, and he nervously put his cohorts on alert.
Swelled by Judeans from the countryside, the mass delegation was well regulated by a corps of priests as it made its way to the Herodian palace and presented a formal petition that the offending ensigns be withdrawn from Jerusalem. In essence, the following arguments were cited: (1) the standards specifically contradicted the Mosaic law against graven images and were therefore idolatrous; (2) actual sacrifice to these standards had been perpetrated by soldiers in full view of the people of Jerusalem; (3) the ensigns themselves, as well as the shrine in which they were housed, were regarded as numinous, spirit-filled, and thus contrary to Mosaic law; (4) for these insignia to be present anywhere in the holy city of Jerusalem was sacrilege, but to have them fluttering over the temple from the proximity of the Antonia was absolutely intolerable. The petition was signed by all seventy-one members of the Great Sanhedrin.
Pilate received a committee of spokesmen and made only one inquiry: “Did the high priest, Joseph Caiaphas, or his father Annas accompany you?”
“No, Excellency,” one of them replied.
“Honored Rabbis,” said Pilate, “I shall reply to your petition tomorrow after consulting with my council of state. I am sure you understand.” When this drew no objection, Pilate dismissed the Jewish leaders with a tactful suggestion that they do something to disperse the mass of people outside.
Later, he was appalled to learn that the multitude of Jews was not breaking up for the day, but simply adjusting to spending the night where they were, in the great square adjoining the Herodian palace. They had resolved not to move until their Holy City was rid of its sacrilege. It became a study in human adaptation. Those who had planned ahead now unloaded tents from the backs of braying burros, but most of the people simply spread out blankets and used staffs to support sheets for protection against the chilly November winds. Meanwhile, the merchants of Caesarea eagerly descended on this ready-made market with food, wine, and other items for sale at inflated prices.
Pilate viewed the scene from a lofty palace balcony. “I’ll not negotiate under pressure!” He cursed softly. Rome never permitted it from anyone, ever, under any circumstances, and here it was taking place before his eyes. His resolve focused on two words, “Be firm”—the most-repeated piece of advice he had received from everyone with whom he had discussed Judea. Now, then, was the time to be firm.
In debating the crisis with his council, Pilate demanded to know why he had not been better informed on Jewish sensitivity to images. The advisers might have replied that their opinions had not been solicited at the time, but more diplomatically, they explained that the Augustan Cohort had not been stationed in Jerusalem since its iconic ensigns had been awarded, therefore the present issue was unprecedented.
All agreed that for Pilate to accede to the Jewish demands at this time would set a bad precedent for his administration. It might be misinterpreted as weakness, the one sin Rome would not tolerate in her governors, for weakness bred rebellion.
Pilate and his council drew up a reply to the Jewish petition which rejected any removal of the medallions, on the following bases: (1) The ensigns were designed for and owned by Romans and the Roman military, not Jews; (2) Jews were not to draw religious conclusions from military customs which did not concern them; (3) Jews were not required to reverence the standards, and since Rome left Jewish practices and customs unmolested, why should Jews not exercise a similar tolerance toward Romans? (4) To tamper with its choicest military medallions would unnecessarily penalize the worthy Augustan Cohort.
A final item was written in darker letters to indicate its importance as an argument that could stand even if the rest fell away: “Removing their imperial effigies from the cohort’s standards would be a direct and unforgivable insult to the majesties of Caesar Augustus and Tiberius Caesar.”
The next morning, the committee of spokesmen for the mass delegation was invited to appear before Pilate and his council, and the reply was handed to them in written form. The priests and scribes read it, then struck their breasts in sorrow. Several younger rabbis challenged the statement that Rome left Jewish customs unmolested by pointing out the obvious interference of Valerius Gratus in changing the high-priesthood five different times. But it became increasingly apparent that Pilate and his council would not concede on any point.
Finally, an elderly priest with sun-bleached beard and leather-brown skin consulted briefly with the rest, uttered a prayer in Hebrew, and then told Pilate defiantly, “We cannot allow the abolition of our ancient laws. We shall remain here in Caesarea and pray that God will lead you to remove the accursed abomination from Jerusalem!”
“Amen!” “Amen!” the others agreed. Then they left to join their people.
“Maybe they aren’t representative,” ventured Pilate. “Centurion, read this reply aloud from the dais in front of the palace. Perhaps the people will see the obvious logic in our stand.” Then he added, “But save the part about our rejecting their petition until the end.”
The centurion did as directed, but a roar of disapproval swelled as the refusal became obvious. At the close, the massed thousands took up the cry, “REMOVE THE ABOMINATIONS! AWAY WITH THE IDOLS!” The priests, it seemed, were representative indeed.
Pilate and his advisers listened to the tumult for several minutes from the palace balcony, then descended to a rear garden for an outdoor lunch. Pilate was making a strong effort to appear unruffled in this, his first crisis. That, he knew, would be in character for a strong governor. “A little wine, a little music, colleagues, and we transcend the clamoring crowd,” he quipped, trying to cite an author he could not quite remember. A pipe, horn, and lyre ensemble tried heroically to defeat the sound of the chanting multitude, as the prefect dined with his council.
“That mob will soon tire of shouting, then tire of standing, and finally tire of Caesarea,” a tribune laughed. “I’ll wager half of them will be gone before sundown, and the rest will leave when the chill comes on after supper.”