“The Emperor Tiberius Caesar,” he relented.
“Well, then,” Jesus said, handing him back the coin. “Render unto Caesar that which is Caesar’s; and render unto God the things that are God’s.”
Justus had to stifle a chuckle at the flabbergasted looks upon the faces of the Herodians and Sanhedrin. Most of the people, though, nodded and muttered approvingly amongst themselves. There were other lessons given, with the crowd growing even as the disgruntled Sanhedrin dispersed. One of the men who remained asked the teacher about a passage in one of their holy books that spoke of loving one’s neighbor.
“It is true,” the Nazarene replied. “One must love their neighbor. But I tell you this; love not just your neighbors, but also your enemies.”
While these words certainly caught many people by surprise, they were all Justus needed to hear, and he quietly left the scene.
Tripolis was a much smaller port than Caesarea, and Artorius was glad that he’d forgone bringing his horse or allowing the men anything but the barest essentials. Just getting off the ship proved to be a nightmare, as it seemed there were crew, passengers, and cargo from a dozen vessels all trying to use one narrow pier. His men had been compelled to forcibly make their way through the crowds, violently shoving people aside with their large shields as they made room for the cart bearing the weapons for the Twelfth Legion. It was late afternoon by the time they made their way out of the dockyards.
“We’ll camp just outside the town,” Artorius told Valens and his principle officers. “Raphaneae is perhaps another full day’s march from here.”
“Understood,” Valens replied before barking out a series of orders for the Decanii.
As Tripolis fell within the Roman province of Syria, and given its proximity to Raphaneae and the fortress of the Twelfth Legion, they were more used to seeing legionaries than the citizens of Judea. The capitol of Antioch was several days’ march further north though, thankfully, there was no need for them to go that far. As Artorius led his men through the streets of the city, there was less cause for alarm or the terrified stare. They also noticed the statues of Roman deities that lined the main town forum, as well as great statues of both Tiberius and Augustus that adorned the center.
“At least the Syrians know who their masters are,” Valens muttered as he walked next to his centurion.
Artorius’ servant, Nathaniel, could clearly hear him, though he remained silent. Having been a slave his entire life, he was used to the veiled and not-so-veiled insults against his people.
Nathaniel had proven useful to Artorius since they arrived in Judea. His knowledge of local languages and customs had made the daily interactions of his master with the populace far less painful. As a reward for discovering the arms smugglers, Artorius had offered to buy his slave a wife, though he had respectfully declined, stating that if he were to ever marry it needed to be out of love rather than obligation. Instead, Artorius purchased for him one of the Jewish holy books that Nathanial had long wished for.
On the outskirts of the city, the century made ready to camp for the night. Given the brevity of their journey, they had kept their baggage to a minimum, electing to sleep under the stars and only bringing a handful of pack mules with cooking supplies and rations. The nights were cool during the late winter and early spring, and those legionaries not on sentry duty huddled beneath their cloaks around a series of campfires.
The next day they arrived at the fortress of Legio XII Fulminata, also called The Thundering Legion. The absentee legate, Lamia, had at last been replaced after having governed for ten years without so much as leaving Rome. The new legion commander, as well as governor of Syria, was a man named Lucius Pomponius Flaccus. Despite the similar name, he was unrelated to the retired optio that served with Artorius during the early years of his career in Legio XX. However, as he governed from Antioch, it was not he, but rather his very young chief tribune, who greeted the detachment from Judea. Instead of armor or uniform, he wore a civilian toga, with emphasis on the broad purple stripe that denoted his status as a member of the senatorial class.
“Detachment from the First Italic Cohort, reporting” Artorius said, saluting.
The tribune returned it rather lazily. “Hmm, I see you have our weapons that were stolen by those beastly renegades.”
“Yes, sir. One hundred and fifty gladii, with the same number of pilum. Almost enough to equip two centuries.”
“And yet no word on the men who perpetuated this crime,” the tribune noted. “It would seem Pilate is still lacking as always when it comes to garnering information from prisoners. No doubt he’s already crucified this Jesus Barabbas before he could be persuaded to spill his guts to us.”
The tribune’s insulting behavior grated on the centurion, and as such he elected to keep quiet about Barabbas, who was still very much alive. He was sentenced to die, certainly. However, Pilate’s best interrogators were still working to get any useful information about who at the depot was stealing arms to sell on the underground markets.
“At any rate, we’ll take those weapons off your hands,” the tribune said, snapping his fingers.
A dozen legionaries who’d accompanied him surrounded the wagon and started to guide it into the fortress. He appeared surprised that Artorius still stood before him. “You are relieved, centurion.”
“I had hoped my men could rest here for the night,” Artorius remarked. “It is late in the day, and we traveled light, with only minimal provisions and no tents.”
“That’s not my problem, is it?” the tribune scoffed. “You’ve finished your mission and are no longer needed. And you can tell that incompetent fool, Pilate, that though he may have survived the aftermath of his precious patron, Sejanus’, fall, we still remember him as nothing more than that praetorian’s lackey. Now off with you!”
“What is it, Justus?” Pilate asked a few days later as he read through the weekly pile of decrees, tax notices, public works projects, and the never-ending complaints from the Sanhedrin.
“It’s about the Nazarene,” the centurion replied.
“Which Nazarene?” Pilate asked, still reading the latest note from Caiaphas that had him irritated at the moment.
“The so-called prophet, Jesus of Nazareth. You tasked us with following him for a week and then reporting back.”
“Oh, that Nazarene,” Pilate said, letting out a loud yawn. “Well, what did he say; anything seditious that you had to cut his heart out for?”
“Actually, no,” Justus replied with a chuckle. “He…he told the people to pay their taxes!”
Pilate was signing a document when Justus’ words made him scrawl the quill across the parchment.
“Come again?” he asked, looking up at him for the first time. “These bloody Jews never talk about paying taxes unless they are complaining! Hell, I couldn’t even get them to pay for their own damned aqueduct from the fat coffers of their precious temple without causing a riot!”
“I know,” Justus continued. “It was truly the strangest thing.” Justus then went on to explain to Pilate about the conversation that ended with Jesus telling the people to ‘Render unto Caesar that which is Caesar’s’.
“And the people didn’t lynch him on the spot?”
“No sir, they love him,” Justus answered. “I don’t doubt that his comment will garner him few friends within the Pharisees or the Sanhedrin, but the common people adore him. He said something else, too. He told the people that they should love not just their neighbors, but also their enemies.”
“A Jewish prophet who tells the people to pay their taxes, and that they should love their enemies, meaning us.” Pilate sat in thought for a minute before addressing the centurion once more. “Well done, Justus. Continue to observe this man. If he is, indeed, loved by the people, he may prove useful to us.”