19 The Remains of the Week

TITUS SAT STILL ASTRIDE HIS HORSE, surveying his conquest. He marveled at the resiliency and stubbornness of the Jewish people in the face of the mighty Roman army. Why had it taken so long for Roma to pacify this small land? Why so much resistance? Why did so many of its citizens not comply with the usual means of pacification—bribes, trade deals, alliances? Why such an all-or-nothing approach? Yes, there were some reasonable ones, like Josephus, but he was rare. Most ordinary Jews wanted nothing to do with war—but neither did they want anything to do with bowing and scraping to Roma. They simply would rather die than worship Roman gods, especially the emperor! How was it possible to believe in only one god, when there was so much good and evil in the world?

These were the thoughts running through Titus’s mind as he surveyed the remains of the city of Jerusalem from atop the Mount of Olives. In the end, he simply could not comprehend such a fastidious, even fanatical, people for whom religion was the heart of the matter.

On this morning of the seventh day, the ruins of the city were no longer smoking, and the stench of rotting flesh that had clotted the air was beginning to subside. For the past few days Titus’s troops had tackled the ugly task of burying unclaimed bodies in a mass grave in the Hinnom Valley, just south of the city. Even the Jews who had been crucified as grisly examples had been taken down and buried in the mass grave. Titus had watched from afar. As battle-hardened as he was, he had retched from the smell and sight. He had had enough war, engaged enough battles, smelled enough of his enemies’ defeat, drunk enough victory wine. It was time to go home, to have his triumphal march into Rome, and to do something else. At heart, Titus was not a bloodthirsty or vindictive person, and he did not relish torturing Rome’s enemies. Like his father, the Emperor Vespasian, Titus felt he had the heart of a common man, that he understood the people. But then why couldn’t he understand these Jews?

Rousing himself from these musings, with a “Tchk tchk” to his horse he began to descend the northern slope of the Mount of Olives. Down, down to the olive presses below, down to a little grove of olive trees—he’d heard it called the Garden of Gethsemane—where he dismounted. Earlier he had noticed a limestone slab in its peaceful setting, and now he would offer there a victory libation to the gods.

Titus had not noticed an old man, seated on a rock and screened off by the olive trees not far away. He had been observing Titus, and now he called out to the commander in that holy boldness the years had invested in him: “What good is it to make offerings to gods that are not really gods at all?”

Startled, Titus turned. “Not real? How do you think we won this victory, old man?”

“Because the one true G-d allowed it, who had warned by his prophets that because of the sins of his people, judgment would fall on their city and their temple. You were merely the agent of G-d’s judgment, though you did not know it.”

“And by the one true god, I take it you mean the Jewish god?”

“Of course. There is none other. And all other worship is vain.” The old man’s dark eyes were piercing.

Titus raised one eyebrow. “How then would you account for the rise of the Roman Empire?”

“It is foretold in our prophets, in Daniel. But you would not know this.”

“I do know of it, actually. One of your own, a man named Josephus, told me about it.”

At the name of Josephus, the old man spat on the ground, “A traitor! Curse him!”

“Or perhaps a wiser man than you, who can see which way the wind blows.”

The old man was unmoved. “All empires, all kingdoms rise and fall, except G-d’s. His kingdom is coming, but not by violence. It will be by the good news.”

“I have heard of this,” said Titus. “But only a little. Are you referring to the Nazarene who died on a cross near here. Where is his kingdom now?”

The old man smiled. “One day he will return to rule the world. Here’s an irony. You are praying right at the spot where he prayed on the night he was betrayed.”

Titus was incredulous at the man’s bold nonsense. “How can you believe in a god that suffers and dies? A god of weakness! This makes no sense.”

“Have you never learned that one gains strength through suffering and prevailing beyond it, through struggling and being vindicated after it, through having an unconquerable spirit, despite what may happen to the body? G-d raised Jesus from the dead after he suffered on the cross. He was vindicated. Your soldiers searched and could not find his body.

“His appearances after death are why his followers are still around, still growing in number. It is why we have hope, even here beside the ruins of Jerusalem. We have been knocked down, but not knocked out. We may be downcast for a while, but not in despair. G-d has not abandoned us.”

Titus snorted and replied, “What a strange god you seem to believe in, old man. A god who suffers for others, rather than others suffering for him.”

“Think about it for a moment,” said the man. “Ask yourself—how are sins atoned for? By a sacrifice of course, the offering of a lamb, the pouring out of its lifeblood. But an animal sacrifice is of only limited value, limited efficacy. Its benefit lasts only until the next sin is committed. But suppose there could be a divine sacrifice, a sacrifice that atoned for all sins, once and for all. Suppose G-d’s son loved us so much that he decided to offer such a sacrifice? Wouldn’t a once-for-all sacrifice by a god be so much better than all these little sacrifices, again, and again, and again? Wouldn’t it be the ultimate sign of G-d’s love for us, that G-d knew we could never adequately atone for our sins, and so he provided the once-for-all-person, the once-for-all remedy? That is something well worth believing in. We don’t need priests, temples, or sacrifices any more. The atoning, the paying, has all been taken care of.”

“Well, not quite all,” replied Titus with a wry grin. “You still have to pay your taxes.”

The old man stood up and began to walk away. As he did he said, “Think about it. It will do you good.”

**Figure 19.2.** The Tomb of Absalom (first century AD) in the Kidron Valley

Titus watched the man limp off. A seed of doubt had been planted in his heart. Could the old man be right?

Getting back on his horse, Titus road down the valley toward Bethany, past gigantic tombs, including the recently constructed shrine called the tomb of Absalom.

“Death calls on us all,” murmured Titus. “No one can escape, and who knows for sure what happens beyond the grave. I trust that the spirits of my ancestors are alive in Hades, the Underworld, or even in Elysium. But it is a matter of faith.”

**Figure 19.3.** Other first-century tombs in the Kidron Valley

There were still many weeks of work for Titus before he could hand the province over to the new procurator. Conquering was one thing; ruling was quite another. Pacifying was one thing, keeping the peace another—even, it seemed, for Romans.

“Someday I may understand what all the bloodshed is really for,” sighed Titus. “Someday.”

Elysium

Elysium was a Greek conception of the afterlife that initially was considered a locale separate from Hades (see Homer), reserved for heroes and those related to some deity, such as rulers or emperors. Later it was thought to also include the righteous, and the Elysian fields were considered a place of pure bliss, unlike Hades, which was a shadowy realm of mere existence. Some suggested that Elysium was on some islands in the far western region of the known world.