The wedding was a discreet compromise between a Roman civil marriage and the Jewish ceremony, which apparently satisfied those attending the nuptials, the first such social mixing between Jewish and gentile elements at Caesarea in anyone’s memory. The couple had settled their religious differences by simple inertia. Since Cornelius was as skeptical as Pilate about the deities of Roman mythology, he believed in nothing supernatural. But his bride, as a good Jewess, had a strong faith. And since something is usually better than nothing, Cornelius promised to let his wife practice her religion unhindered, with the stipulation that she not try to make a Jew out of him. They had not yet agreed on how their children would be reared.
The secret matchmaker in this unlikely romance was Procula. She did not want her role a matter of public knowledge for fear it might embarrass her husband, but since the bride had been one of Procula’s favorite attendants, it was she who first introduced her to Cornelius and then watched their romance ripen into marriage. Procula had always been liberal in such matters.
She also had a higher respect for Judaism than did her husband. The hysteria and political bloodshed at Rome had shaken her once-unquestioning confidence in Roman state religion. What kind of deities could have been in charge of the Empire to let such atrocities happen? In contrast, the Jewish belief in one god, and only one, seemed to her less confusing than juggling loyalties to several dozen gods, goddesses, demigods, spirits, and dead emperors. More than that, the Jews had a dynamic code of conduct—their law—which guided their lives far more meaningfully than watching the gustatory habits of sacred chickens or poking around a sheep’s liver. Romans, she felt, had been getting their omens from animals for so long that they were starting to live like them also.
Pilate was happy to learn of his wife’s disenchantment with Roman paganism, but her new admiration for Judaism worried him. He feared she was becoming a Jewish proselyte, and right under his governor’s nose.
“Tolerance is not conversion,” Procula replied.
“But tell me, then,” he probed, “why did you choose the young Cornelius for your experiment in interethnic romance?”
“Experiment? This will be a very happy marriage. You’ll see. But why Cornelius? Because he’s as much a favorite of mine as yours. In fact,” she said, “I saw quite a bit of him while you were away in Jerusalem. We’ve had long conversations…”
“Oh?” Pilate raised his left eyebrow. “Should I be jealous?”
“I hardly think so,” she said coyly. “We had a wedding to plan. But there was also something which you never even told me about.”
“What’s that?”
“The fascinating reports about that new prophet up in Galilee.”
“Who now?” he grumbled. What Pilate needed least at the moment was a new prophet in the land.
“He’s called Yeshua.”
“Oh, him. Yes, I know about that Jesus. He seems to be some kind of faith healer.”
“More than that, apparently. While you were in Jerusalem watching the Jews prepare their Passover Seder, this Jesus provided his own kind of Passover feast for more than five thousand people who were hearing him teach near the Sea of Tiberias.”
“Well, that was kind of him…but hardly spectacular. Caesar’s friend Crassus once threw a banquet for the entire citizenry of Rome, and several times fifty thousand crowded to the tables he set up in the streets—”
“Let me finish, Pilate. This was entirely different. Jesus hoped to get away from the crowds by taking his twelve student followers on an excursion across the Sea of Tiberias. But the people moved along the shore and intercepted him just after he landed. So he spent most of the day teaching and healing the people anyway, but when evening came they were all hungry and the nearest market was miles away. A little shepherd boy sold them five barley loaves and two carp, but that was hardly enough—”
“Procula, this is a moving little tale of dedication, but does the story have a point?”
“I’m coming to it. Jesus had the people sit down on the grass. Then he prayed and started handing out the loaves and fish. He multiplied them, and everyone had so much to eat that twelve baskets full of crumbs were collected afterward.”
“All from five loaves and two fish, I suppose?”
“Yes.”
“What they did was to unload food supplies from their ship.”
“No.”
“The people brought lunch baskets along for the day’s outing and shared.”
“No.”
Pilate reflected a moment, then commented, “Well, I don’t know what you heard or what the people actually saw, but what you report is impossible, that’s all.”
“I knew that would be your attitude, but Cornelius says there are people here in Caesarea who ate bread and fish up there that evening.”
This time Pilate was intrigued enough to trace down the fantastic story and find a reasonable explanation for it. He asked Cornelius to locate and bring to the palace any Caesareans who had actually participated in the now-famous outdoor meal. Two days later, the centurion presented six people who had made the pilgrimage to Galilee. They were rather nervous at being summoned before the governor of Judea, but when they understood that he only wanted to hear their versions of the event which was now being discussed throughout Palestine, they readily told their stories.
But the accounts agreed substantially with Procula’s version, though there were differing opinions on the size of the multitude. And one old woman insisted it was two loaves and five fish, rather than vice versa. Pilate dismissed the people with thanks.
Later he related the interviews to Procula, but insisted, “Regardless of what they saw, there has to be some explanation. If I’d been there, I’d have found it, I’m sure.” Then he wrinkled his brow. “But one bit of information from these people rings true.”
“What’s that?”
“The reaction of the crowd. Once they were fed, some shouted, ‘Let this man be our king.’ Now that part of it I believe. A man who can heal the sick and produce food for the masses, he could become king. But fortunately for this Jesus, he made the right decision when the people offered him a crown.”
“By withdrawing into the hills? Why do you say ‘fortunately’?” Procula asked.
“Because if he had in any way accepted the title of king, Herod Antipas would have had to indict him for high treason against the emperor.”
Something else about this phenomenon bothered Pilate. The people referred to Jesus as “the Christos.” He knew that this meant “the Anointed One,” but he was startled to learn that it was merely the Greek translation of the Hebrew term “Messiah.” Messiahs were dangerous to Rome.
Throughout 32 A.D., Pilate scanned every straw in the winds from Rome, and the news was very discouraging. Tiberius remained in his self-imposed exile on Capri, except for one sailing excursion up the shores of Italy to the mouth of the Tiber. Here he landed, and Rome prepared a glittering welcome for the returning emperor only to learn that Tiberius had changed his mind and returned to the rocky solitude of Capri. Tongues wagged that the lusty princeps could not stand being away from the lewd games he concocted in the villas and groves of Capri. But Pilate was skeptical about the gossip. Would an embittered seventy-two-year-old actually engage in such gymnastics, especially when his only real appetite now was for revenge on the partisans of Sejanus?