The Wolf and the Lamb Page 9

  Gamaliel sighed and looked at Loukas who frowned and then nodded.

  “Do you suppose she might be in the need of a Physician? The stress of her situation must have taken a toll on her humors.” Gamaliel studied Pilate’s face for a hint of comprehension.

  “She is as healthy as a yearling calf. I don’t see a need…oh, I see. You want your man to attend to her and he will ask the questions. Yes, that would work. It would be best if Rufus led the way. It would add a bit of credibility to the enterprise, don’t you think?”

  “Indeed. Off you go, Loukas. Don’t forget your nostrums and powders.”

  The two men left, Rufus still digesting what he’d heard and what was now expected of him.

  Chapter XVI

  Gamaliel watched the Roman and his friend leave. When the door closed behind them he turned to Pilate.

  “How long has Marius been a part of your household, Prefect?”

  “The boy? I don’t know. Marius, when did you come to us?”

  “When?”

  “Yes, when, boy. Speak up.”

  “Ah…It has been a little over three moons, Excellency, to the Fortress staff.”

  “Moons? Quaint. The Fortress has what seems an endless supply of these people, Rabban. They come and they go. Some are freed, some sold or transferred, some run away, few actually succeed at that. He is useful, if not very bright.”

  Marius stirred uneasily. Whether at the insult or because he’d become the object of attention Gamaliel could not be sure. Gamaliel smiled at him.

  “There is nothing wrong with your Greek, is there Marius? Your Latin is as poor as mine, if I read your body language correctly, but the Greek is more than passable. Have you any other languages at you tongues tip?”

  “Excellency…I mean, sir?”

  “I am asking you if you speak anything else other than Greek.”

  “Latin.”

  “Sorry, we have already established that Latin is most definitely not one of them. Hebrew, perhaps?”

  Marius blinked and looked away. “No, sir, I come from the other side of the world. Hebrew is not spoken anywhere but here, so I can’t know it.”

  Gamaliel turned back to Pilate. “Perhaps we will have something to work with when Loukas returns. In the meantime, Prefect, try to remember anything that may have happened the day of the murder that, in retrospect, now strikes you as odd.”

  “I have already told you everything I know.”

  “Yes, so you say, but I find that when one is pressed to review an event or an important day, repetition of its particulars will often produce a small memory which at first might have been overlooked or deemed insignificant, but later acquires substance. So, I ask you again. Was there anything odd that day?”

  “What do you mean by odd?”

  Gamaliel gritted his teeth. For a man of unquestioned intelligence and perception, Pilate seemed annoyingly dense. “I do not mean weird or disjointed or completely out of the norm, Prefect. I mean something unexpected or out of place but not remarkable in itself.”

  “I still do not follow you. My days are routine. Except for ordering the banquet, I followed my daily rota—meetings with your people, listening to endless complaints, adjudicating minor disputes, ordering the crucifixion of a notorious bandit—”

  “Barabbas.”

  “Yes, how did you know? Never mind. The Fortress has no secrets as long as we hire servants from among your people.”

  “You do. How many on average?”

  “I couldn’t say. You will have to speak to my steward about that. It is temporary work, you understand. While I am in the city, they work and draw wages. When I leave, it’s back to the fields or shops for them.”

  “Or the street.”

  “If you say so. Is my hiring servants from among the locals important?”

  “As I implied earlier, everything is important until it is not.”

  “I see. So, back to your question, anything odd, out of the ordinary, dislocated, or just not quite right, but seemingly unimportant at the time?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let me think.” Pilate cudgeled his forehead as if in deep thought. “No, can’t think of a thing. Procula had something, but it was no concern of mine.”

  “Other than the vision, your wife spoke to you about a peculiarity?”

  “Rabban, it was nothing, a trifle. You know how women are—scattered and unreliable and…well, you know.”

  “I do not know. Please tell me what the event or incident was, no matter how trivial it may seem to you now.”

  Pilate exhaled and rolled his eyes. “Very well, she said she thought she saw a woman in our rooms that she did not recognize as one of our servants.”

  “A stranger in your rooms and you thought that unimportant?”

  “Operative word, woman, Rabban, a woman in the rooms. A cleaner, perhaps, or one of the temporary servants about which we just now spoke.”

  “But unexpected in that place at that time?”

  “I guess you could say that. Anyway, she said later that after she turned it over in her mind, the face did seem familiar after all. You know her history. She sees things that are not there.”

  “But I have heard with great accuracy as often as not. So, she thought there was a woman she believed to be a stranger, but later, on reflection, she changed her mind. Why would she change her mind?”

  “People do, Rabban. Maybe not your god, but mortals do and often. Remember, she is a woman, for all that. She had time to think about it and realized she did recognize the stranger after all and that’s an end to it.”

  “I see. Anything else?”

  “Nothing.”

  “When would this woman have been in the rooms un-

  announced?”

  “I didn’t say anything about her not being announced.”

  “But you did. Your good wife at first did not recognize her. Therefore, she noticed her. Had she been expected, no notice would have been taken. But she must have seemed out of place at the time. If she or anyone else belonged there, she would not have been, don’t you see?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t.”

  “Well, think about it. Would your wife recognize this woman again if she saw her again?”

  “I suppose she might. Gamaliel, what are you getting at? One woman more or less among so many women servants cannot be important.”

  “Maybe yes, maybe no. We shall see. I will have to have Loukas question her a second time at this rate.”

  “Bah. It seems to me you should be digging into the movements of my unexpected and unwelcome guests from Rome. You will find your killer there.”

  “It is one possibility. The problem is how do I approach their exalted personages? You know they will not stoop to being interviewed by me. Your friend, Rufus, might try, but will they respond to him? And, pardon me if I seem less than impressed, but I do not think your Roman friend could extract juice from a grape, much less the truth from your guests.”

  “Be careful, Rabban. You may have me in a tight spot at the moment, but I fully expect to be extricated from it, and then you and I will resume our respective positions.”

  “With respect, Prefect, you cannot be that slow. Haven’t you just handed me a very good reason to fail at this task? Is it wise to threaten the very person who might be able to rid you of this curse?”

  “Rabban, it is yourself who misses the point. Win or lose, I am still in a position to do you great harm. You have agreed to help me, but it does not alter our relationship, only tempers it. How long depends as much on your willingness to maintain it in a correct manner as it bears on me. You do see, don’t you?”

  Gamaliel did. Whatever temporary advantage he possessed at the moment would be swept away whether he succeeded in clearing Pilate or not. Either an angry Prefect would destroy him for failing, or the other Romans, equally angry at his success, would do the job. Life, he decided, under the thumb of these implacably brutal and coldly pragmatic people could have no good
ending for him. He yearned for the bright hopefulness of Isaiah where the wolf and the lamb were at peace. Aesop, the fabulist, had a story about a wolf and a lamb. He couldn’t remember the details except he was pretty sure that it didn’t end well for the lamb.

  Chapter XVII

  Gamaliel sat back and focused on Pilate. Could he really be this stupid or was he playing a different game than the one he’d set up for Gamaliel—murder and redemption? Pilate had imbibed a considerable quantity of wine lately and that might explain his lack of perception, but he should at least have grasped enough to realize he needed to answer questions in a coherent manner.

  Pilate raised his eyebrows and returned Gamaliel’s stare. “What?”

  “Forgive me, but I am curious about something, Prefect. You did not rise to the eminence of Prefect by being obtuse, yet as I consider your responses to my questions, you seem remarkably so.”

  “You say I am being obtuse?”

  “In a word, yes. What is it about asking you to repeat the narrative, to fill in details, to forage about in your mind for answers or memories that has caused you to seem so slow of wit?”

  “I remind you, Rabban, watch your tongue. My refusing to play your game of remembrance is what you call ‘being obtuse?’ It is you, Rabban who is obtuse.”

  “I?”

  “Why do you waste my time with these simpleminded questions about daggers and legionnaires? I understand you have your methods, but this one seems unnecessarily dense.”

  “I, dense? Prefect, it is not I but you who—”

  “Nonsense. You are squandering precious time on trivia. Who cares about the identity of a legionnaire or who works or does not work in the Fortress, or the status of the boy? The questions you should be asking are ones about the real perpetrators of this travesty.”

  “The real perpetrators…and who, might they be? I mean, if you know who committed this murder, please tell me now and we will be done here. I will go home and you can return to your duties.”

  “My visitors, my guests, the men who came to remove me from office, who else? Cassia Drusus and the Tribune Grex. They must be the co-conspirators of this whole sorry business. I have said so from the beginning and you agreed. They are the only logical answer to the question of who are the instigators, surely. Anyone not deep in the arms of Morpheus can see that.”

  Gamaliel slumped in his chair and studied his feet. This was impossible. He would never unravel this knot if the Prefect insisted on only one solution, the impossible solution. Why had he allowed himself to be talked into this fool’s errand? Why hadn’t he listened to Loukas? He sat up and fixed Pilate with as fierce a stare as he could manage.

  “Prefect, if my method, as you call it, is insufficient, I will happily withdraw. Shall I? Clearly, I have nothing to gain and everything to lose here. Before you answer, consider the following. As much as it will pain you to do so, you must accept the fact that it is possible you are wrong about your fellow Romans and their intentions.”

  “Ah, that is where you are being obtuse, Rabban. Consider the following. Priscus sends me a message but denies it, thus betraying me to them. As a reward for his perfidy, for incriminating me, and also to keep him from unbiased examination, they send him away, thus removing important information needed to prove my innocence. Further, who gains from this crime? They do, you see? Or consider this, Priscus is the one who kills Aurelius and puts me in the position of accused.”

  “Priscus says he did not send the message. They believe him. Thus, in their eyes at least, you must be the liar and that is the incriminating bit.”

  “He denies it now, but—”

  “Pilate, he says he did not send the message. I believe he did not send the message. Why would he lie? I have doubts about your adversaries being responsible for your plight, much as you might wish it.”

  “And the possibility Priscus engineered the murder?”

  “It is one possibility, however a remote one. As to the others, no, probably not.”

  “But they are such obvious suspects. I do not understand how you cannot see it.”

  “Pilate, you have convinced yourself that this business can only play out a certain way. You dull your wits at my questioning because you think I cannot grasp that important point, correct?”

  Pilate opened his mouth and was about to speak, but Gamaliel held up his hand. “Listen to me. Take a step back and consider. Put yourself in their boots. If you were to hatch such a plot would you do any of the following? Would you ask a Centurion known to be loyal to the Prefect to send a message that could lead to a murder for which he would later be accused? No, you would not. Would you use a legionnaire about whom you know nothing whatsoever to deliver such a message? Wouldn’t it be wiser to use one of your own legionnaires? Finally, would you, either as one of your visitors or as your Centurion, hatch such an elaborate a plot? It has so many parts that could easily go amiss? Think for a moment. I am not privy to the inner workings of the Roman mind or the plots and plans you people hatch to acquire power and position, but what little I know leads me to believe that if these men wished you ill, they would have taken a much more direct, dare I say pragmatic, approach to do you in? A quick thrust of the short sword and a culprit to be identified later would be far more efficient and characteristic, don’t you think? Or, better, lay trumped-up charges of treason at your feet and then clap you in irons. The word bruited about the Empire is that your Emperor needs only an accusation to produce a death sentence. So, why all this sneaking around in darkened corridors, dispatching secret messages, and ornate daggers? None of this makes any sense at all if ascribed to any of those men.”

  “But if not them…?”

  “If not them, then who? I understand. Another point, if they are, in fact, the authors of this porridge of a plot, would I be able to question them, dig out the proof, and convict? I would not. They will not deign to be questioned by me. Since that avenue is closed to me and since it is an unlikely pathway in any event, it is my intention to chase down the threads of this mystery in the only direction left open to me, and that means I need you to concentrate on your answers even if you think they are not the ones you would prefer to give.”

  “They had nothing to do with this?”

  “I don’t know, but for the reasons I just stated, I don’t think so. I admit I could be wrong, but either way—”

  “You are stuck with what you have available.” Pilate relaxed and shook his head. “Tell me this, then, if it turns out you are wrong and the guilt does lie with these men after all, will this line of investigation you are following eventually lead to them?”

  “Oh yes, certainly. But I cannot guarantee I will be able to do anything about it. Bringing them to justice will require more than a non-citizen and a Jew at that. Perhaps Rufus…?”

  “Rufus? Ah, Rufus, I see. Perhaps.”

  Chapter XVIII

  Gamaliel stood to take his leave of Pilate. The room had become oppressive and he sensed his mental and physical state required fresh air and distance between the Roman and himself. His collar rubbed his neck and aggravated his already chafed skin. The Prefect started to object but Gamaliel waved him away.

  “Enough, Prefect. I cannot go on just now. When Loukas returns, tell him to meet me on the Temple Mount. Tell him I will be with Jakob ben Aschi. He will know the place.”

  “I insist you stay.”

  “Sorry, your insistence carries the weight of a beetle’s wing at the moment. As you say, win or lose, I lose.”

  “I never said—”

  “I will call on you again tomorrow at the latest, perhaps later today.”

  The thought occurred to Gamaliel as he listened to the arrogant Roman official threaten him that the only thing that could save him from impending disaster would be for the Prefect to commit suicide. As that seemed unlikely, Gamaliel needed to escape. He wanted time to think, to contemplate his dwindling options, or at the very least to be alone for a while. He went to the Temple.

 
; The kohanim had reserved an area adjacent to the Temple where they would congregate before they assumed their duties and where they could refresh themselves, put on or shed the blood stained leather aprons worn if they’d been assigned duties at the altar, or just to relax for a moment. There would be water available and company. Gamaliel had no need of either, but he also knew that none of the Romans assigned to monitor him would follow him into the area because of the certainty they would stand out like a tree in the desert. Blending in with the priests of the Temple would be difficult for an Israelite, impossible for even the cleverest of his nemeses. Gamaliel knew he would have privacy with the kohanim. He found a stool, greeted the few priests he knew, acknowledged those he did not, and waited. Loukas joined him an hour later.

  “You bolted, the Prefect said. He is not happy with you.”

  “His happiness or lack thereof is not a condition foremost in my mind at the moment and anyway the unhappiness is mutual.”

  “If not his happiness, what is foremost in your mind?”

  “It has been made very clear to me that win or lose, I cannot survive this exercise. If I succeed in exonerating the Prefect, I will bring down the wrath of those who oppose him, both Israelite and Roman. If I fail, Pilate’s last act as Prefect will be to destroy me.”

  “But you knew that going in.”

  “Not quite. I knew only that failure might have consequences depending on the fate of Pilate and success would earn me the enmity of my fellow Hebrews. Now it seems either outcome will be the death of me.”

  “What do you plan to do, now that you comprehend the reality I tried to warn you about days ago?”

  “There is nothing I can do beyond trusting Ha Shem and doing what is right. I must confess suicide occurred to me.”

  “You can’t be serious. You would take your own life?”

  “Not me, him. If Pilate would conveniently fall on his sword, everyone’s problems would be solved—his, the Nation’s, his enemies, and most certainly mine.”