ONE - A FRAGILE PEACE

CALEB

The streets of Jerusalem were quiet and empty this late at night. Though he rarely walked them at this hour, Caleb enjoyed the peacefulness that was absent during the day. It was not simply absent because of the hustle and bustle of a large city; it was absent because the heart of the city and the hearts of its citizens were restless with longing. Jerusalem—the name itself meant “city of peace”—had not known peace in Caleb’s lifetime. Rome, the current foreign occupier of his beloved city, claimed to be the bearers of peace, and in a sense the claim was true. By its sword Rome had brought the entire world to heel, and “peace”—the mere absence of war—was the result. The city had not seen war in a long time. But the peace Rome claimed for Jerusalem was a thin veneer under which restlessness, resentment, and desperation boiled in the hearts of a people longing to be free from tyranny.

Caleb had just come from a meeting of shopkeepers in which such longings were palpable. He owned and operated a middling sized pottery shop in Jerusalem, a shop he had grown up in and had recently inherited from his late father. His father had been instrumental in organizing a network of shop owners and artisans in the city for the purpose of navigating the complicated economic problems created by Roman occupation with the idea that economic survival in this atmosphere would be better accomplished if the many worked together. They considered pricing, trade, taxation, and any number of issues that had a bearing on economic success. They sought to adapt as a group to ever-changing Roman policies, a strategy that on the whole had been quite successful. They kept these meetings as well as the names of all who attended secret since Roman authorities would likely perceive these meetings as dangerous. Sedition was not their purpose, though seditious sentiments occasionally found their way into the meetings.

Tonight the group had discussed a rumor that the local Roman officials planned to introduce a new tax during the upcoming Passover celebration. Passover saw a great influx of people to Jerusalem as Jewish pilgrims from all over the empire came to celebrate the sacred festival in the capital city of the Jews. The population of the city regularly grew fivefold during the Passover celebration, reaching upward of three hundred thousand people. With this influx of people came increased success for local businesses, many of whom relied on this boom to carry them through year’s end. The threat of a new tax that might significantly reduce their gains had many feeling anxious and angry. Perhaps if all agreed to certain price adjustments, they could survive.

Perhaps they could. But Caleb doubted whether he could. Since his father’s death, his shop had seen a slow but steady decline in customers. His father was well loved, a gregarious man with a personality that effortlessly drew people to him. People told Caleb he was much more like his mother: quiet and analytical, kind but private. Not that Caleb could confirm such a comparison; his mother had died giving birth to his sister when he was only three years old. While these traits from his mother had served him well in his education and study of Torah, they had not served him well in the daily operation of the pottery shop. The quality of the pottery, made primarily by his sister, Miriam, and one of his cousins, had not changed, yet sales had declined. It was clear to Caleb that the sole factor was a change in the personality people encountered when they came to shop. At first, customers had remained loyal. They came to shop and also brought gifts, food, and stories of what a wonderful man his father had been. But in time, their loyalty waned. The man they loved was gone, and so was the experience they so closely associated with the shop. Of course, close friends and family still came, but their business was barely enough to keep the shop running or put food on the table.

Caleb was uncertain how long he could keep the doors open—and even more about what he would do if he had to close them. How would he support his little sister? Amid these anxious thoughts, his mind drifted to the mysterious visitor who had appeared in his shop as he was closing that evening. Could his offer be the way out?

Lost in thought, Caleb almost walked past his own front door. He entered to see Miriam kneading a loaf of bread. Everyone said she looked like his mother: she had long dark hair that framed an oval face, with big dark brown eyes and olive skin. She had an innocent appearance that did not bear the hardship their family had endured. His arrival brought her usual bright, warm smile and a question about his day. Though she looked like their mother, her personality was just like their father: eternally optimistic and endlessly kind. Caleb usually tried, but today he could not match her warmth and cheer. She quickly read the anxiety on his face. “Caleb, what is wrong? Has something happened?”

“No, my sweet sister, everything is fine,” he lied, knowing it would not convince her.

“I know something is wrong, Caleb; I can read it in your face. What has happened?”

“The Romans!” Caleb snapped, though he quickly restrained himself. “The Romans have happened.”

“Yes, I am aware,” she said playfully, “but they didn’t just happen. What have they done that is troubling you now?”

“There is a rumor they are looking to impose a new tax, one that may significantly cut our profits during the coming festivals. They see the influx of those making pilgrimage as an opportunity to profit, but that profit comes at our expense. And now, of all times!”

“We have handled these sorts of taxes before, Caleb. We can handle them again,” she replied calmly. “Are not the other shopkeepers making preparations for such a tax?”

“Yes, yes, they are. But my concern is with our own shop, Miriam. Things are bad—worse than you know.” Caleb couldn’t hide his worry and dejection.

“We have faced hard times before, Brother,” she reassured him. “We will survive these hard times as well. Keep faith. God will provide.”

“Will we? Will he? I don’t share your confidence, Sister.” It was not the first time such exchanges had taken place, and they exhausted Caleb.

“I fear for your faith, Caleb. It was once so strong, like father’s. Father believed in God’s promises. He trusted God. You used to trust as well.” He could hear the disappointment in her voice.

He shook his head. “You don’t need to remind me of father’s faith, Miriam—I know it well. But look around this city. The common people struggle to survive under heavy taxation. Those who farm the countryside live on land they once owned but lost to wealthy landowners because of unjust loans they could not repay. Most struggle to feed their families after they send the profits to Rome. Wealthy merchants control the price of materials and make deals with those in power so that they can maintain that control. As long as Rome is in control, nothing will change, Miriam.”

“But Rome won’t control this city forever. We must be patient,” Miriam said confidently. Caleb sighed—he knew what she was going to say, and he could barely stand to hear it one more time.

“God will send his Messiah, Caleb. Father said the day was near, that the Messiah was likely already alive, perhaps in our midst, and that God would raise him up and reveal him to us all. When he comes, he will drive the Romans out. He will bring justice, righteousness, and peace to our land. You know this, Caleb!” Then she said quietly, “Or at least you used to.”

“Father said a lot of things, Miriam, but Father is dead now!” He saw sorrow and shame fill her face, and he felt guilty. “I am sorry, Sister. I shouldn’t have said that. But I can’t have this conversation again. I am going to bed.” He kissed her forehead and left the room.

He lay on his bed pondering his sister’s words: “The Messiah will come.” The people of the city were obsessed with the idea, though few could agree on what this figure would be like. The writings of Israel’s prophets promised an age in which God would restore Israel to her former glory. It would be an age of peace, justice, and righteousness. Israel would no longer be the victims of oppressive foreigners; instead, their God would raise them to a place of power and glory. These same prophets seemed to allude to a figure through whom God would bring about this new age, but they only provided bits and pieces, and how to assemble them into a coherent whole was anyone’s guess.

Many agreed this figure would be a descendant of King David, though the fact that at one time many Jews were willing to see Judas Maccabeus, who had no ancestral connection to David, as a Messiah demonstrated that even this marker was negotiable. Some thought there would be two Messiahs: one a priest, one a king. Some thought the Messiah was someone whom God had appointed from the beginning of time. Some thought the Messiah was one whom God would raise up because of his faithfulness. Some thought the Messiah was a human warrior who would lead the people in a successful revolt against Rome; others thought the Messiah would be a heavenly or even angelic figure who would bring heavenly armies to destroy Rome and raise Israel above the entire world. Some thought the Messiah would come as result of faithfulness to God’s covenant with Israel, the Torah—that a pure and obedient Israel would move God to action. But for others, a minority to be sure, the Messiah would only come when the people showed faith in God’s deliverance by taking up arms against Rome—only when people showed such faith would God raise up his Messiah from among the people. Caleb’s own cousin Judah, two years younger than himself, was a passionate advocate of this view, and was relentless in his efforts to bring Caleb into the fold.

For much of his life, Caleb had engaged in such speculation and lived with a passionate messianic hope. This was in large part due to his father, a man who diligently studied the Scriptures and steeped his son in these studies from the time he was a toddler. But in the past two years since his father’s death, that hope had been all but extinguished. It wasn’t merely the loss of a father that shook Caleb’s faith, though perhaps that played a role. It was the bleak outlook for so many of his people and the unshakeable Roman power that lay heavy not only on Jerusalem but also the entire world. It had become quite clear to Caleb that the expectation of overthrowing Roman power in any significant way was nothing more than a fool’s hope. He had seen many “messianic” claimants rise, but they all met a swift and violent end at the hands of the Pax Romana—the Roman “peace.”

Most recently a prophet named John, the one called the baptizer, had rallied a large number of people around him, proclaiming that God’s new age was about to dawn and that all people must ready themselves through cleansing. Caleb himself had even gone out to the wilderness to hear him speak. This John was charismatic, passionate, and compelling. His words even began to plant hope in Caleb’s heart. But the Roman-appointed ruler of Galilee, Herod Antipas, had arrested and executed that prophet, again confirming for Caleb that hope was foolish.

Nevertheless, the faith of many remained unflappable. Most of his Jewish brothers and sisters had a deep hope in a coming Messiah. That hope was the ultimate source of tension within his city, whose Roman occupiers were committed to the reign of Caesar and whose inhabitants were committed to the coming reign of another king. How long could such conflicting commitments coexist? Caleb did not know the answer, but he was confident that when that conflict came to a climax, it would be Rome that reigned supreme. Rome would win. Rome always won.

That thought turned his mind back to this evening’s mysterious visitor and the hope he had offered.

ELEAZAR

Eleazar reclined on his bed, admiring both his wife, Joanna, and the plate of fresh dates he was sampling. He had told her he would not be present for a private dinner party they were supposed to attend that evening, so she pouted as her slave girl painted her face in preparation. But he had more pressing matters to attend to—and, if he was honest, these dinner parties were incredibly juvenile. The gossip about the young aristocrats of Jerusalem was mind-numbing.

“I don’t know why you can’t miss this one meeting with your father,” she started. “You know how long I have been looking forward to this party, and how much I have wanted you to attend. Both Salome and Bernice will be there, together with their husbands. Am I to be all alone? Will they not laugh at me when my head is turned?”

“My darling, you know I would come with you if I could, but this meeting is of the utmost importance,” said Eleazar. “The Passover is coming and preparations must be made.”

“But he is the high priest, not you,” she protested. “Can you not miss this meeting and receive word of its results after the party?”

“You know better than this, darling. My presence is imperative, perhaps not for the plans to be made, but for learning how they are made and who helps make them. If I am to be high priest one day, I will need knowledge—not only knowledge of how to rule but also knowledge of what it takes to rule. As my father says, ‘Successful authority is not founded on policies and procedures but on knowing those who surround you better than they know themselves—in this way you will always stay two steps in front of them.’”

Eleazar was the eldest son of Caiaphas, the high priest of the Jerusalem temple. The high priest was the highest ranking non-Roman in all of Judea, and practically speaking he was the governing authority within the city of Jerusalem. The Roman governor lived in Caesarea, and he delegated authority in the city to the high priest.

Caiaphas hoped Eleazar would succeed him whenever his own tenure as high priest ended. The position carried great authority and prestige, and thus was highly coveted. There was no guarantee of succession from father to son, since the Roman governor appointed the high priest, though there was precedent for it. The problem was that other powerful priests would go to great lengths to prevent that from happening. A particular threat came from Annas, Caiaphas’s father-in-law and Eleazar’s grandfather. He had opposed Caiaphas’s appointment from the start, and Caiaphas knew that even now Annas was maneuvering to secure the position for one of his own sons.

“I am sure you are right, my love,” Joanna said. “But your cousins Jacob and Mattathias will be there; perhaps it would be beneficial to speak with them. You could learn from them more about Annas’s plans or the ideas held by your uncles. Would that not be worth your while? A political investment, perhaps?”

It was a nice attempt, but it had no hope of persuading Eleazar. Yes, Annas and his uncles, Annas’s sons, were political threats that required close observation. But Jacob and Mattathias were imbeciles, with less knowledge of the political landscape than his own dear wife.

“My cousins are useless. They know more about the newest Roman dinner party fashion than they know about threats facing our city. My dear, these are troubling times. Just last week, archers in the street ambushed five Roman soldiers. The talk of new taxes only increases people’s anger, and this bloodshed increases the chances that Rome will mete out violent justice in the city. In addition to all this, Passover is coming, which you know will bring further threats to peace. I must attend tonight’s meeting!”

“I understand,” she said, dejectedly and unconvincingly. “But people will certainly ask where you are. What would you have me tell them? That you are in a private meeting with your father and a few select priests discussing the safety of Jerusalem?”

“Don’t joke, darling,” he said firmly. “You know you must not speak of this meeting to anyone, particularly my cousins or their gossiping wives.” Eleazar’s cousins might be as dense as a sack of flour, but they would rush to their fathers immediately if they had even one whiff of a secret meeting of high-ranking priests. “Tell them I am not feeling well and am sorry to miss the festivities.”

“I don’t know why such secrets must be kept,” she said in mild frustration. “You are all of the same family, and you are all priests. Doesn’t everyone want peace?”

“If only that were true, my dear,” he said in a tone that verged on condescension. “But Annas and his family do not have the best interests of this city or its faith in mind. It is their own interests they are concerned about. If a disruption of the peace would unseat my father, they would seek it for the chance to regain their power. They are the worst kind of priests, my dear Joanna—they treat our sacred faith as a tool for gaining power and prestige. They care little for the heritage of their ancestors, the covenant, or the God of Israel, and they are willing to sacrifice any of these things for political gain—though, to be sure, not to the point that it will cost them political gain. They certainly have their use for our faith.”

Eleazar’s father was nothing like his grandfather or uncles. From a young age, Caiaphas had taught his son the value of his Jewish identity and heritage. As a boy, Eleazar had learned to read Hebrew by reading from the sacred covenant, the Torah, the stories of the patriarchs and Moses, and he regularly spoke with his father about their significance and meaning. His father taught him to revere the Creator God of Israel, who had given the covenant to the Jewish people so that they might be a light to the nations. His father had not only taught but modeled the importance of these realities. Among the Sadducees, his father had a reputation as a man of true and sincere faith, which had earned him the respect of many within the party. In fact, this reputation had even earned him the respect of many prominent members of the Pharisees. This had ultimately led to his appointment as high priest.

“I have heard this opinion of your family many times before, Eleazar,” said Joanna, “but it seems overly harsh to me. Your grandfather has always been kind to me, as have your uncles. And your cousins and their wives have become my friends. I do not like keeping secrets from them. They are family, and that should be more important than political gain. But out of love for you, I will do as you wish, and not speak of your secret meeting tonight.”

Joanna was well-meaning but naive. She did not know that at the time of his father’s appointment as high priest, Eleazar’s grandfather had secretly betrayed him. Caiaphas had learned that Annas had gone to the Roman governor himself and claimed that Caiaphas’s fidelity to his Jewish faith made him a poor candidate for the position of high priest. He argued that a man with such convictions could not be successful in a position that required compromise with Rome. Despite such claims, Caiaphas received the appointment from the Roman governor Valerius Gratus, who believed there was value in a high priest whom the people of Jerusalem respected and perceived as incorruptible. Annas had not taken defeat well, and his scheming to place one of his own sons as high priest was ongoing. Of course, Annas was outwardly kind to Joanna, as he was to the rest of his family. But Caiaphas constantly reminded Eleazar not to trust this kindness.

“You are as innocent as you are beautiful, my dear, but you must trust me in this matter,” Eleazar said. “My grandfather does not have our best interest at heart. Please be mindful of what you say. My cousins might not be as friendly as they appear.”

“You worry too much, my love,” his wife said. “I wish you would worry less and enjoy life more. I’m afraid I must leave you now.”

She gently kissed his cheek and exited gracefully through the door.

Less than a second later, she stuck her head back through the door, smiled, and said playfully, “Enjoy your secret meeting.”

This drew a smile from Eleazar. He loved his wife, and only hoped she would use discretion.

His thoughts returned to Annas’s claims that a pious man like Caiaphas could never successfully be the high priest in Jerusalem. His father had quickly proven this false, as he demonstrated the ability to work well with the Roman governor—particularly the most recent governor, Pontius Pilate. In fact, it was this relationship with Pilate that kept the political maneuvers of Annas at bay. As long as Pilate was in control, Caiaphas’s position was relatively secure.

While Caiaphas’s aptitude for political life came as a surprise to many of his opponents, it did not come as a surprise to Eleazar. He had long known his father to be a pragmatist who, though devout in his Jewish identity and faith, did not suffer the foolish expressions of that faith that abounded throughout the city. Talk of Israel’s restoration, the dawning of a new and glorious age, the destruction of Rome, and an anointed Davidic King were utter nonsense to Caiaphas. Such beliefs found their origins in people’s blind commitment to the words of ancient “prophets” who had claimed to hear from God and had visions of a glorious future for the people of Israel.

Many Jews regarded these prophetic texts as sacred Scripture, but not the Sadducees. From his earliest days, Eleazar could remember his father deriding such expressions of Judaism: “Don’t listen to such fools, Son. They are blind at best and deceivers at worst. God has indeed spoken to us, and his words can be found in the Torah. It is fidelity to Torah that reveals God to the world, and we must be faithful to that charge.” Caiaphas always claimed that a human king was never God’s desire for Israel. According to Torah, God alone should be king of Israel.

It was this rejection of a Messiah-crazed Judaism that allowed his father to work so well with Pilate. They shared the goal of keeping the peace in Jerusalem, a goal that required constant vigilance against extreme expressions of Judaism that might threaten the peace. Unlike Annas, Caiaphas was not motivated by power and prestige but instead by the good of his people. He knew that messianic zeal and the hope for Rome’s destruction would only lead to Jewish suffering.

But although he worked well with Pilate, Caiaphas knew what this Roman governor and the power he represented was capable of. He had seen far too many crucifixions of those suspected of sedition to know that any substantial threat to the Pax Romana would bring swift retribution on the city. Caiaphas worked tirelessly to avoid such a fate. And, should he ever become high priest himself, Eleazar would devote himself to the same goal.

A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. Philip, a head slave in his house, informed Eleazar that his guests had arrived.

PILATE

After an unseasonably warm day, Pilate sat on the balcony of his private chambers, letting the cool sea breeze wash over him. He could taste the salt in the air and feel it on his skin. From this balcony, he could see virtually the entire city of Caesarea Maritima, with its massive temple devoted to the worship of the Great Augustus, its impressive amphitheater, its hippodrome, and, perhaps most impressive of all, its man-made harbor that rivaled any other in the world in both size and beauty.

The harbor was forty-one acres in size and enclosed by impressive concrete walls on which were massive storehouses used to facilitate the significant trade of the city. Also on the walls were six massive bronze statues and a light tower that burned with fire twenty-four hours a day. To approaching sea vessels, this harbor was truly a wonder to behold. A client king, Herod the first, the father of the current ruler in Galilee, Herod Antipas, had constructed Caesarea at the behest of the emperor Augustus, and the beauty of the city matched his reputation as a master builder. It seemed the late Herod had built all the structures worth admiring in this region, with this city on the Mediterranean being second only in beauty to the great temple in Jerusalem.

At times while walking through Caesarea, Pilate could almost imagine he was back in his home city of Rome instead of this godforsaken backwater of the illustrious Roman Empire. Aside from Caesarea and Jerusalem, there were few other cities of note in the province of Judea. Small villages dotted the region, the farms of which produced little in the way of significant wealth for the empire. To his peers back in Rome, the assignment seemed menial and of little value, but Pilate knew better. Judea controlled both land and sea routes to Egypt, the fertile bread basket of the empire. It also provided a crucial buffer between the empire and one of its most threatening enemies, the Parthians. But such importance didn’t make the snide comments and jokes about his assignment any easier to take—perception created reality for those in Rome.

The physical location was not the worst part of the assignment, despite what his friends back home might think. It was the job of ruling this province that was truly detestable. Throughout the Roman Empire, provinces thrived under the oversight and protection of Rome. The cities of Greece and Asia Minor had truly prospered through their identity as loyal provincial capitals under Roman rule. The peace and stability Rome brought allowed trade to boom, which resulted in the amassing of great wealth throughout the empire. Most who benefited from such wealth were deeply thankful and held both Rome and its rulers in high regard.

This was not the case for most of those living in Judea. Judea was the home of the Jews, a people that were as odd as they were ancient. They were devoted to one god and refused to worship any other—they wouldn’t even make an image of this god or speak his name. Pilate had discovered this the hard way, of course.

Central to their religion was a set of ancient writings that outlined the laws this god had given them. For many Jews, the writings of their prophets were also quite significant. Most Jews believed their god had spoken to them uniquely through these writings, and the prophetic writings seemed to be the crux of the problem. They promised a time in which these Jews, this small and powerless group of people, would rule over the entire world. Their capital city, Jerusalem, would be the center of a new world, and their god would live in the temple that sat on top of a mountain there—as if this mountain would be the new Olympus! All the nations would serve them and come to worship this god.

How preposterous! Could these people not see that this was impossible? They had no army, no weapons necessary for military victory, no siege equipment to tear down city walls, and most of all, no resources with which to procure any of these things. They were living in a fantasy. It didn’t help that they had had military success almost two hundred years earlier against the Greek Seleucids. But this was no reason for optimism, since the Seleucids were fighting on other fronts and could not devote the necessary resources to destroy these pesky Jews. Such was not the case with Rome.

The foolishness of this hope did not make it harmless, however. No, this hope bred hate—deep hatred of Rome and its occupation. While cities like Ephesus and Thessalonica built temples and threw massive festivals as a way of thanking Rome for its many benefits, the Jews of Judea openly despised all things Roman. They refused to allow a temple honoring Rome and its gods to be built in Jerusalem. They refused to give such gods any semblance of worship. They wouldn’t even permit any Roman image within the capital city—again, something Pilate discovered the hard way. There was no gratitude for the great wealth that Roman power had brought the region, nor even a “thank you” for the freedom of worship the Roman rulers had allowed.

The most difficult part of Pilate’s regional assignment was negotiating the complicated realities brought about by this hate. Every day felt like a constant battle to keep the peace. It often kept him up at night. Of course, the Jews could never truly threaten Roman power, but they could threaten the stability of the region. They could riot in the streets and kill Roman soldiers . . . and governors. And riots could certainly turn into open revolt. Pilate was aware of such possibilities, and was particularly aware that he did not have the military power to stop them. He had at his disposal roughly eighteen hundred Roman soldiers in the region, along with some cavalry. These forces, less than one third of a legion, were hardly enough to stop a people deeply committed to revolution. The bulk of Rome’s military power in the region was under the control of the Roman governor of Syria, who had three entire legions at his disposal—approximately eighteen thousand soldiers. If open rebellion broke out, it would take these reinforcements at least two weeks to arrive in Jerusalem. At that point, there was a good chance Pilate would not be alive to care.

With such little military support, keeping the peace often required the ability to work with local rulers and power brokers, some level of diplomacy, a cunning instinct, will, some acumen, and on top of all of that a bit of sheer luck. It was a constant struggle, and Pilate envied those who governed in friendlier provinces—where governing was not only easier but also appreciated!

But as difficult as this job was, Pilate had become quite good at it over the previous five years. He had certainly made his share of mistakes in the beginning—painful and embarrassing ones. Even now, his faced reddened when he recalled the pomp and arrogance he brought with him from Rome when he first took this assignment, and the shame he had quickly incurred because of it. Before coming to this backwards region, many warned Pilate about the difficulties he would face and the people who would hate him. A foolish young Pilate politely listened to such warnings, but ultimately ignored them. He was brashly confident he could corral these people with a dramatic display of Roman power. Who would not fall in line once they had truly tasted Roman steel or watched a beloved leader cut down or crucified for insurrection? Pilate’s opportunity for such an exhibition came quickly.

Not long after his arrival in Judea, he made a visit to Jerusalem to see this important city and introduce himself to both the common people and leading officials. Advisers had told him that these people were very particular about displaying images or any sort of likeness of a living creature, and his predecessors had been very careful to not bring any such images into the city. They stripped soldiers’ uniforms and military banners of any such images, be them of animals or the emperor, when they entered Jerusalem. But Pilate felt that such decisions showed weakness and decided it was time for these Jews to embrace the Roman power over them—images and all! Out of what Pilate believed was sensitivity, he brought the soldiers in at night so as to not cause a disturbance.

The following day it did not take long for the people to realize what had happened, and protests began outside the former palace of Herod the Great (the home of the governor when he visited Jerusalem). The crowd was shouting and yelling, but for the most part Pilate could not understand them; they were not speaking Latin or Greek. Instead of facing the mob, Pilate decided to meet with the leading officials: the high priest Caiaphas and his councilors. They explained to Pilate the gravity of his offense; if he wanted to keep the peace (something they wanted as well) he should remove the image-bearing shields immediately. Pilate responded with arguments about the lack of honor these people showed Rome, which bestowed such blessings on them. He refused to remove the images, but after much pleading, he agreed to reconsider and make a final decision in the coming days, though he had no intention of changing his mind. Pilate anticipated that as the days passed the protesters would tire and go home. While the numbers diminished at night, many stayed—some praying, some shouting. And every morning the crowd seemed larger than the day before.