CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CAPERNAUM

What the brother had done, the sister had failed to do. Drusilla had hesitated, and a fear that her father would forbid her union with a low-born soldier had trapped her thinking. As the days passed, her fear grew more obsessive. Then guilt entered. She should never have encouraged the attachment, for misery was its only end. Yet, for the moment, any thought of breaking with Marcus ceased each time that he appeared, and each time she resolved anew to stand against her doubts, but they came again, clinging, carrying belief, and using reason, it appeared, to make their case.

She should have confided in Felix, but the stoical habit of fighting alone prevailed, leaving her isolated until she was ashamed to speak. She felt different from others, and their capacity for simple enjoyment seemed out of reach. It had been the same in Rome, though now, in Capernaum, there was a new intensity, spurred by her love of Marcus Tullus. Happiness was present, enjoyment within her, yet it was barred. The strong belief clung, sickly sweet and familiar. She hated it, and to be free she knew she had to sacrifice her love for Tullus, but that she could not do.

At times, especially in his company, she saw the madness of her thoughts. Indeed, something deep within her knew their falsity. Fear, however, held them close; fear of being overwhelmed, and that she could not cope. A grace was given, though; she did not panic.

The Centurion had noticed Drusilla’s agitation, but had thought it understandable, as awaiting word from Machaerus had not been easy, and even though the good news had arrived two days before, there was sure to be an aftermath. Weeks of tension did not vanish overnight.

Tullus was about to leave for his usual evening visit to the Ben Josephs when he heard the sound of marching soldiers and a heavy cart grinding to a halt. At once he guessed it was Cornelia.

Atticus was the first to climb from the wagon, and then, with his assistance, Cornelia alighted. Drusilla and Felix had not exaggerated, Tullus thought; she was beautiful. Her features, framed by blond hair, would still be striking in middle age. She had poise and grace, not unlike Drusilla, and with a note of restraint in her bearing that added maturity to her youthful years.

Tullus, realising that the Tribune was not present, moved forward.

“Welcome to Capernaum!” he said in greeting, his deep voice sounding large in the evening air.

“Sir, I’m most grateful to be here, and I’m especially grateful to you, for clearly you are the noble Centurion to whom I owe so much.”

He smiled in acknowledgement, noting the richness of her voice – just like Drusilla’s.

Immediately she saw Felix she ran to him. They embraced warmly, tears streaming down the old servant’s cheeks.

“My dear, you’ve changed. You’re a beautiful young woman!”

“You’ve changed too, Master Felix.”

“Are the wrinkles so obvious?” he chuckled.

“No! No! – you’re so – so – open.”

“Seeing you, my dear,” he said quickly.

“It’s the Rabbi! He’s seen the Rabbi five days running!” The mutterings of James the Galilean were discernible only to the Centurion.

“James, meet the Lady Cornelia.”

“James,” she said graciously.

His twinkling eyes acknowledged the greeting.

“Master, Capernaum has a princess,” he added, with his usual flintlike sharpness.

Cornelia laughed lightly.

“We had hoped the Tribune would be with you,” Tullus said, his concern for the missing despatch still paramount.

“Alas, no, he was anxious to start his tour of the border areas, but he’s sent you a long letter, and there’s one for my lady, too – where is my lady?”

“I’ll take you to her. She’s staying in a villa close by, which will be your home as well.”

The joy of Drusilla and Cornelia was beautiful to watch. Emotions ran strongly, yet withal there was a gentle dignity about their greeting. This was no meeting of a mistress and her slave. On the contrary, Tullus thought, more like a mother and her long-lost daughter.

Drusilla was full of questions, to which Cornelia responded modestly. Tullus was impressed, for he would have understood if her answers had been breathless and indulgent. However, when it came to describing the Tribune’s role in her rescue, her adoration was plainly obvious. Had something happened? For the high drama at Machaerus was a potent setting. Had the seeds of tragedy been sown? Tullus knew the law. An Equestrian could marry a freedwoman, but such a course was not open to the Senatorial order, and he knew of no exceptions.

The news that two carts had been sabotaged jolted Tullus into the present. Battle was engaged in earnest, he thought, but why the violent urgency? He was alerted again, if not astonished, when Cornelia spoke of the visit to Qumran.

“And they cured my brother overnight?” Drusilla reacted, knowing the trouble he had had before.

“Yes, my lady.”

“What sort of people are they?”

“Very disciplined – like super stoics in a way.”

“Do you know about this sect, Marcus?” Drusilla asked.

“Yes – the Community of the New Covenant is a name I’ve heard them called, and ‘super stoics’ is a good description. They’re noted for their healing powers.”

“Your thoughts are deep, Marcus,” Drusilla observed, sensitive to the Centurion’s mood. “Are you worried about my brother’s connection with these people?”

“No, not worried; they and the Essenes further down the valley at En Gaddi are a profound people. There could be some political embarrassment, however, as the Temple authorities in Jerusalem have little love for Qumran, and with cause, for the New Covenant was originally founded by priests who broke away, disgusted by corruption at the Temple.”

She did not question further, for he knew about the strange world of Jewry in a way she did not understand. Then, as if defeating her guard, a shaft of doubt struck her, almost physically, it seemed. Who was Marcus Tullus? Was he one of them? – and working for them? Trying to influence her brother? She shuddered with aversion. What gross ingratitude, she thought, after all his help in rescuing Cornelia. Idiocy, she said strongly to herself, but the stain of doubt remained, and it distressed her greatly. The fear of her inability to cope was gaining ground.

“Are you well, Drusilla?” The Centurion had noticed her discomfort.

“Yes! Yes, thank you,” she answered with embarrassment, but he sensed otherwise, though it was not the time to press the matter.

The Ben Josephs arrived. There were introductions, and the conversation continued, with Cornelia as its natural focus. Suddenly Tullus realised that the Tribune’s roll was unopened and firmly clasped in his hand. Excusing himself, he broke the seal and began to read.

‘An eight-man reinforcement, and more to come.’ Good, he thought, as he extracted the main points. Herod’s cart to be returned to Tiberius – a simple task, but what an irony. – The Tribune’s itinerary was detailed, an exhausting programme that ignored his recent illness, but the main issue was the missing despatch. Here the Tribune was direct: ‘Write, admit the loss, and request a copy urgently.’ The Centurion admired the honesty. Nevertheless, the loss of the Emperor’s despatch was a devastating admission.

Since the message had been lost his men had scoured the countryside for information, but to no avail. A horse had been taken from the stables, after which the missing slave had seemingly vanished. His owner, Marius, maintained an unperturbed, if not arrogant, confidence. The slave was useless anyhow, he maintained, and not worth pursuing. He would buy another.

The Centurion decided to act on the Tribune’s instructions immediately, and bowing to the company he took his leave, but the anxious look of Drusilla troubled him. Something was wrong.

Once in his quarters he drafted despatches both to the Emperor’s secretariat and to the Governor Aelius Lamia, writing simply as the Tribune had directed. Two horsemen were selected to take the messages to Caesarea and the Imperial post. It was dark, but the star cover, hanging brilliant in the sky, gave a faint light, enough to follow the road. They could leave at once, but his report to the Tribune could wait till the morning.

He was busy writing to Valerius when Felix entered, breathless with exertion.

“I’ve found the missing roll, but you must know of this!”

“I certainly don’t!” the Centurion reacted incredulously.

“You don’t! That’s what they said at the Ben Josephs’, and I didn’t believe them. It’s a mystery, but I’ve found it – I’m certain, for it’s addressed to Capernaum, and carries the correct receipt date, no doubt recorded by you – and it’s from Capri.”

“Where did you find it?”

“Amongst the Tribune’s papers that arrived from Jericho – and he didn’t say!”

“No – on the contrary, he lamented at the loss – you’re sure, Felix?”

“Certain, Marcus.”

“Was the seal broken?”

“Oh, yes, someone’s read it all right, and I read it too, for in the circumstances I saw no point in standing on ceremony.”

“What does it say?”

“Very little, mostly pleasantries, that is until the last line – here, read it for yourself,” Felix added, handing the roll to Tullus.

Tullus mouthed the words until he reached the last sentence which he spoke out loud.

‘“Make sure the Navy and their ports are loyal to the Principate.’ – a general directive concluding a rambling and casual despatch – purposely casual, no doubt, but what does it imply, that’s the question?”

Felix shook his head. “Why single out the Navy?”

“Perhaps he wants to use it,” the Centurion said, looking quizzically at Felix.

“For what?”

“To escape!”

“By the gods!” Felix reacted, “I see what you mean – Sejanus is poised to usurp power, and the Emperor is securing his retreat!”

“Exactly – Syria with its four legions is a perfect power base for an exiled Emperor, as access to the army on the German border would be much too difficult.”

“Pannonia would be difficult as well, and there’s no other major concentration of the legions – Hispania, maybe, and there’s Egypt of course, with two legions, but Germanicus was the idol of Alexandria, so I doubt if he would choose that option. Yes, Syria, with its four legions, is the obvious place,” Felix concluded.

“It certainly puts the Tribune’s role within a different context.”

“A dangerous context, Marcus. We must warn him.”

“Two men will leave by first light…”

“It’s worrying,” Felix interjected, anxious for his master’s son.

“Yes, but Gallo would not dare attack the Tribune openly, for the friend of Sejanus cannot implicate himself in any crime against the Emperor’s personal legate. Sejanus would disown him if that happened.”

“Accidents can happen, Marcus – like the carts from Machaerus.”

“Even an accident suffered by the Tribune could spell trouble for Sejanus.”

“He’s very powerful, Marcus.”

“But what’s his power based upon? – the Praetorian Guard and the so-called friendship of the Emperor, for beneath the smiles the Senate see him as an upstart.”

“He can manipulate the Plebs, and he’s got his place-men everywhere.”

“He has power all right, but it’s precarious. He’s on a pinnacle, a knife-edge, and a feather-weight could push him either way, and if the Emperor reached the legions here in Syria the purple would rest but briefly on his shoulders.”

“That’s if the Emperor got here – it’s a long, uncertain sea journey.”

“It’s a desperate option for a desperate situation, Felix, for if Tiberius left Capri there could be civil war, though I doubt it, as I can’t see the German border legions having any love for the Praetorian or its mighty Prefect, but you never know – the promise of a Consulship works wonders!”

Felix smiled wryly. “What a brood we’ve hatched from one small sentence – we’re better than the Oracle!”

“And without the mystic vapours!”

Tullus bent down and pulled two cords hanging close to his writing table.

“I’ve just called James and Cornelius, for we’ve got to move quickly, as it’s vital that the messages to Capri and Rome are stopped.”

“Will you send Cornelius?”

“No, I’ll go myself,” Tullus answered, adding that he would remain in Caesarea, renew his old contacts, and give them a watching brief on all new navy personnel, including the established staff who showed the signs of sudden affluence.

“Felix,” he continued, “I’ll not have time to write to the Tribune, but you can detail what has happened, and also could you tell the ladies that my stay at supper will be less than short?”

Outside, the stars with their flint-sharp points of light seemed to reach down, close and intimate. The sense of witness was strong, calling Felix from his thoughts, but the thoughts persisted. Tullus was well informed, very well informed, and far above the standard needed for his role in Capernaum. Again, the practised ease with which he planned to set up agents in Caesarea was impressive and certainly not the thinking of a novice.

Felix had reached the villa. “Good night, sir,” said one of the guards as he went inside.

Not long after, the Centurion arrived, but he had only time to eat a few mouthfuls before his two-wheeled cart drew up outside the villa.

“That’s the indomitable Atticus, my usual companion on journeys,” Tullus said with a smile. “Age and tiredness are unfamiliar words to him – he insisted on coming.”

“A true son of the Army,” Felix responded. “Never a truce!”

Drusilla accompanied Tullus to the door where she clung to him desperately, as if trying to blot out her doubt and its attendant misery.

“You’re troubled, dear Drusilla – what’s wrong?”

“Nothing, Marcus, nothing – I’m just a silly woman.”

He looked at her closely, the flickering light of the lamps illuminating her face. There was something wrong, but Atticus was waiting.

“If your trouble does not pass, speak to Felix.”

They embraced again, and then he left her.

Standing alone, she listened to the sound of the cart receding until the faint noise faded into stillness. She was tired, very tired, and all she wished for was rest; to go to bed and sleep, and to forget.

The Tribune abandoned his hope of visiting Palmyra when he received the Emperor’s despatch. Instead, he headed for Antioch, and as the days wore on messages from Damascus and Apamea spoke of his progress. Then three weeks passed without communication, and Cornelius, troubled by the lack of contact, sent a three-man team with despatches to the Villa Demetrianus.

It was over ten days before the weary messengers returned, their number swollen by a further three from Antioch. The Tribune and his party were safe and well, they reported, and billeted at the Legate’s residence.

A message had been sent to Capernaum, and its non-arrival meant that two of the soldiers were missing. He was greatly saddened, the Tribune wrote, as one of the missing men had been with him since Machaerus. Clearly the roads from Antioch were dangerous, and in future messages would be both infrequent and heavily guarded.

The Centurion had no such trouble. His messages arrived on a near-weekly basis, but he did not use the army as a carrier. Sometimes he employed a merchant, and at other times a simple labourer. He even used a Rabbi once. It was the mark of the professional, and for Felix further evidence that Tullus either was or had been an agent. James had told him that his master had been called to Rome three years before – some time after the famous ambush – but Marcus Tullus never talked of this.

If Tullus was an agent, his work and that of Master Lucius seemed to be as one, for there was not the slightest hint of conflict. This area of the Centurion’s activity, although intriguing, was to Felix peripheral to the steady strength that was constant in his nature. To walk with Tullus in Capernaum was an experience, for he seemed to know everyone from the Elder to the street vendor. He did not stand apart from the people, yet he did not forget his dignity, and he never pretended to be other than a Roman, but the townsfolk saw more than a Roman Centurion; they saw a friend, the friend who had helped them build their synagogue. Felix saw ample evidence of this. In the case of the Rabbi Jesus and his disciples, Tullus was wholly tolerant. In fact, he publicly adopted a protective role, not surprisingly, considering his faith in the Rabbi’s teaching. Now Felix shared this faith as well.

The first time he saw the Rabbi he was struck with awe. The teacher’s message was direct, starkly direct, without concession or compromise. To the proud and self-important he was harsh, but even though his words cut through their ignorance he himself seemed unaffected. It was speech that spoke, not he. He was gentle with the meek, and those with faith received his blessing, but what struck Felix most was the change that he felt within himself. It amazed him that by simply being in the Rabbi’s presence a weight of thought was lifted from him, and what was more, his step was lighter.

The day after the messengers returned from Antioch Felix and his daughter Sarah went as usual into Capernaum. It was a beautiful morning. The heat of summer had mellowed to the gentle warmth of autumn, and a slight breeze from the lake brought a touch of freshness. It was idyllic.

As they approached the centre of the town they could see a crowd gathered round the entrance to the synagogue. It was the Rabbi. He was earlier than usual. They quickened pace, and his words became discernible as they moved nearer.

“Why call me Lord, Lord, and do not the things which I say?”

Felix smiled to himself. The Rabbi was very practical. Slowly he and Sarah edged themselves towards the centre, and for a moment the noise of a nearby farmer’s cart drowned the Rabbi’s words. Felix could see him now. He had finished speaking and was sitting silently on a stool, his look inclined towards the gravel surface before him. Behind, the Disciple John was standing, alert and watchful.

There was something ever new about the teacher’s presence that defied description, yet paradoxically the newness was constant, stable, unshakable, always the same. His eyes lifted and looked straight at the grey-haired Roman. Felix felt exposed, as if his thoughts were visible to all, and, conscious of his awkwardness, his eyes sought refuge from the steady gaze.

“Come!” The Rabbi’s voice was irresistible. Felix looked up, full of inner panic, but the teacher’s call was not addressed to him. He was beckoning someone else, a crippled woman, bent almost double.

“She’s been like that for eighteen years,” someone whispered.

The Rabbi waited while she was helped forward, and the crowd, expecting a miracle, were hushed.

“Woman, you are loosed from your infirmity,” he said when she was close. There was no sentiment in the teacher’s voice, none whatever. Then he laid his hands on her, and she rose straight, full of wonder and gratitude.

At once the crowd erupted in exultation, yet Felix remained quiet. True, the healing he had witnessed was a miracle, but the real miracle was the man before him. What he had seen was the natural expression of the Rabbi’s power, or his Father’s power, as no doubt he would say.

It was difficult to hear amidst the hubbub that followed. Felix could see a rigid-faced man, an elder perhaps, confronting the Rabbi. He heard the word ‘Sabbath’, and as the crowd grew quiet the man’s speech became discernible. There were six days in which to work, and in which time healing should proceed, but not upon the Sabbath.

The Rabbi waited until the indignant outburst had finished, then he slowly raised his head. There was no sense of anger, but his words were arrows, sharp and pointed.

“You hypocrite, do not each one of you on the Sabbath loose his ox or his ass from the stall and lead him away to watering?

“And ought not this woman, being a daughter of Abraham, whom Satan has bound these eighteen years, be loosed from this bond on the Sabbath day?”

The man, visibly ashamed, did not answer; in fact no one answered. The Rabbi stood motionless, but he did not give the sense of waiting. He was there, Felix thought, just that. Then suddenly he was gone, moving quickly through the crowd.

Felix held Sarah’s hand and led her from the gathering. They were a familiar sight to the townsfolk; the grave, grey-haired Roman and his young adopted daughter, vivacious at his side.

“Hello, Senator!” said one of the young bloods as they passed. He laughed and waved at them, and they saluted gravely, at which he laughed again. The townsfolk had accepted him.

As he walked, Felix was aware of a new clarity in his mind. Something had been shifted at the time he met the Rabbi’s gaze. He was full of questions, pressing questions. Who was the Rabbi Jesus? Was he god or man, and if a man, what kind of being? What did he mean by ‘I and my Father are one’ – that he, a Jewish Rabbi was one with the Father, the mighty Jupiter himself? It was too gross an arrogance for flesh and blood, yet there was no arrogance in the Rabbi; authority, yes, but never arrogance. Indeed, his reason had the penetration of a Socrates, and when he spoke it seemed as if the truth itself had uttered.

The Rabbi, of course, was not always in Capernaum, and to Felix this was a growing frustration, so much so that he had resolved to follow him, for why rest idle when the living truth was walking in the land?

That evening at the Ben Josephs’ he revealed his intention of following the Rabbi on his journeys outside Capernaum, but Ben Joseph discounted the idea as impractical and dangerous. A Roman wandering about Galilee unprotected was simply ridiculous. Ben Joseph was adamant. Felix, however was equally determined, and continued to outline his plans. He would need a cart, he said, ideally a covered one, with enough sleeping space for Sarah and himself.

“You can’t put the little girl at risk, Felix,” Ben Joseph protested.

“We’ll be in the company of the Rabbi. No harm will come our way,” Felix returned simply.

The Roman’s plain statement of faith silenced Ben Joseph, and the two men sat quietly for some time before being joined by Drusilla and Cornelia.

“Marcus has arrived,” Drusilla announced. “He’s paying a lightning visit.”

The Centurion looked tired when he entered, Felix thought, though his manner gave no hint of this. As usual his presence seemed to fill the room, and Drusilla could not keep her eyes away from him, but Felix was disturbed to note her look of fearfulness. He had seen the look before during her childhood when doubt and indecision used to freeze her movement.

She laughed, however, when Tullus joked about his experiences in Caesarea, but a sense of humour had always been her saving grace, and as the stories continued, no doubt for her benefit, her laughter grew more free. As usual, Felix concluded, Marcus Tullus was master of the situation. He was wrong. The Centurion was not in control. Indeed, he had been hurt, deeply hurt, by the coolness in Drusilla’s eyes.

Wrongly believing her fearfulness contained, Felix’s attention returned to the Rabbi and the powerful desire to follow him. Quickly he reiterated his plans to Tullus, while summarising the reservations of Ben Joseph.

“I want to go, Marcus, but I must respect reasonable advice.”

“Our friend Ben Joseph is right. It is dangerous, and the Tribune could be against it.”

“Master Lucius would refer the matter to you, Marcus,” Felix returned quietly.

Drusilla nodded in agreement. “My brother would never oppose Felix on such an issue.”

“There’s a political consideration, Felix, for in the people’s eyes the Tribune and yourself are one.”

“I could be investigating the ‘Messiah cult’,” Felix responded with a knowing smile. “After all, it is the Emperor’s wish!”

“You rogue, Felix!” Tullus reacted. Then he fell quiet, his head bent in reflection.

“I would be loth to prevent any man from following the Rabbi,” he said eventually. “James could go with you. He would like that, and would be the perfect guide. A legionary guard would isolate you, and reduce you to a figure of ridicule. Indeed, that option would be intolerable. However, to have a knowledge of the people and their customs is a great security, and James has that knowledge, but the greatest security is the presence of the Rabbi himself.”

“If any of my countrymen tell me ever again that Romans are without faith I shall laugh them to scorn,” Ben Joseph said emphatically.

Drusilla had been listening intently. She had heard about the Rabbi from Felix many times in the past weeks, but his descriptions had been distant, like a story. Now, with his decision to journey in the Rabbi’s following, a new sense of the Teacher’s proximity arose in her mind. It held a strange attraction, but the narrow, loveless world of her isolation soon returned. This isolation had grown acute during the Centurion’s absence in Caesarea, when the fear of having to choose between Tullus and her father began to dominate. In fact, her fear had grown to belief. How could a Valerius marry a Tuscan farmer’s son? It was not possible.

The conversation over supper was lively, and Drusilla disguised her misery well, but not completely, for Tullus was well aware of her unease. Again, when it was time to leave, he was conscious of how she engineered their parting to be public. The hurt of her rejection was sorely felt. It had happened before, of course, but never with a woman like Drusilla. Their estrangement would be painful, for she was much too close to his heart’s desire to be easily forgotten.

By first light the Centurion left for Caesarea. As he passed the Ben Joseph villa he turned and looked intently, but he did not see Drusilla standing in the half-light, there to watch him start his journey. She stood motionless but tearful, bitterly regretting her behaviour of the previous evening. Then, when the last sound of the cart had gone, she went inside.

The following day, Felix, Sarah and James also left. Capernaum was empty, Drusilla moaned inwardly. She felt very alone.

Cornelia, on the other hand, was not oppressed by loneliness. True, she longed to see the Tribune, yet there was a measure of contentment in her waiting, for she remembered clearly the words of the kindly Joanna – ‘Be patient, he will find a way’. They still sounded prophetic. However, she was not without uncertainty. How could she hope for union with one who came from the highest level of Roman society? It was an incredible presumption, but hope remained, rooted deeply in those moments of affection that had happened from the instant of her rescue.

She was deeply grateful for the miracle of her deliverance. Indeed, when she reflected on it, her life was little other than a miracle, in its sudden changes from dark despair to fairest fortune. She still vividly remembered the day the Senator brusquely snatched her from the slave market in northern Gaul – the picture of herself shivering on the platform was etched deeply in her memory. She had been bewildered and frightened, a sudden orphan by the curse of tribal warfare. Then there were the Senator’s angry words with the merchant. She had been terrified, but this had quickly passed as her amazing change of circumstance unfolded. At that time she had felt, just as now, an overwhelming sense of gratitude.