“I understand. You were in some kind of cross fire, weren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“And you have an understanding or arrangement with Sejanus, don’t you—I don’t mean about Claudia? Wait....” He held up his hand. “Don’t answer that. But I do want you to remember, Longinus, that regardless of what may happen, I’m on your side ... yours and Claudia’s.”
“I know that, my friend. And I’m on your side ... regardless. And it may be that sometime we’ll need one another’s support. With old Tiberius and crafty Sejanus on the one hand and this vain and ambitious Pilate on the other, and perhaps Herod Antipas....” With mention of the Tetrarch’s name, he paused. “I assume you got him delivered to Tiberias in safety. What did his Arabian Tetrarchess say about Herodias?”
“She had heard about it before we reached Tiberias, perhaps from some of that fellow Chuza’s servants, the ones who fetched the furnishings from Ptolemaïs, you remember. But that was only the beginning. Now they’re wondering at the palace what she’ll do when Antipas gets back with his new wife; he’s already left for Rome, they say, to fetch her, and when Herodias arrives, she’ll probably be taking over as Tetrarchess.”
They sat for a long time in the coolness of the gallery high above the sleeping Temple, and Cornelius related his experiences in escorting the Tetrarch up the narrow defile of the Jordan River and their encounter that day with the strange Wilderness preacher. He described the man’s bitter denunciation of Herod and his sudden and dramatic pointing out of a tall young Galilean carpenter as the Jews’ long looked for Messiah, the man foretold by the ancient Israelite prophets as he who would redeem their historic homeland from its bondage.
“As we were leaving the place, I turned and looked back,” Cornelius added. “The strange prophet and the tall Galilean were standing in the river with the water up to their loincloths; the tall one had asked to receive something they call baptism, a symbolic cleansing of one’s sins, as I understand it.” Cornelius paused and stared thoughtfully at his hands. “I shall never forget the look on that man’s face, Longinus. Ever since that day I have been wondering about him. The Jewish Messiah.” He said it slowly, as though he were talking more to himself than to his friend. “Do you remember that day on the ‘Palmyra’ when we were talking about this Yahweh of the Jews, this one-god spirit? You said then that you would never be able to imagine a being without a body.”
“Yes, I remember it quite clearly. But what are you going to say,” Longinus demanded, “that this tall fellow might have been a god turned into a man? By all the gods, Cornelius, you don’t mean to tell me you think this Galilean could be the Messiah of the Jews? Their Messiah, if I understand it correctly, will be a great military leader who will drive us pagan Romans out of Palestine and re-establish the ancient Israelite kingdom. Even the Jews don’t believe he’ll be a god, do they?”
“I don’t know, Longinus. I think most Jews believe he’ll be a great earthly king, as you say. But listening to that wild fellow and seeing the look on that young man’s face”—he paused, then ventured a hesitant grin—“well, those strange words, the prophet’s evident sincerity, his intense manner....”
“Jewish gibberish.” Longinus shook his head and scowled. “This superstition has captured you, my friend. This eastern mysticism that comes to a head in that cruel and extravagant circus down there.” He pointed toward the great Temple, whose gold-plated roof shone brilliantly in the light of the moon now emerging from behind a cloud. “A carpenter from Galilee to overthrow imperial Rome! What with, pray great Jove! A hammer and a chisel and a flat-headed adz?”