CHAPTER 20

The magnificence of Herod’s Praetorium was surpassed in Jerusalem only by the grandeur of the Temple. Even for a person like me, raised in the gleaming city of Rome, the sight was breathtaking. The Temple complex was the center of the Jewish universe, the place where all culture and religion ultimately found its expression. If Herod’s Praetorium was the moon, the Temple was the sun. The former was a dwelling place for an egocentric provincial governor; the latter was a dwelling place for God.

Herod had rebuilt the Temple during his reign, throwing ten thousand workers and over a thousand priests at the task. You could see it from miles away, a great white structure framed by a granite courtyard spanning thirty-five acres. It was surrounded by great porticoes consisting of two rows of huge marble columns, thirty-eight feet high, supporting cedar beams and a red-tiled roof. Only the purest white stone was used in the Temple construction, and it gave the building and its courtyard an incandescent feel. To see the Temple, said the Jews, was to glimpse the glory of God.

At the center of the massive outer Temple courtyard, commonly referred to as the Courtyard of the Gentiles, was the sacred core of Temple buildings. Those buildings were separated from the Courtyard of the Gentiles by a stone wall about four feet high and a gate with signs in both Greek and Latin, warning Gentiles like me that we could proceed no farther on pain of death.

The lowliest Jewish peasant from the smallest crag in the land of Galilee could enter, but Pilate and I could not go past that gate. Rome might rule the entire Mediterranean world, yet Romans couldn’t set foot on this small piece of real estate at the center of Herod’s Temple.

Inside the stone wall were other barriers that filtered more people out —the Courtyard of Women and the Courtyard of Priests. The Temple itself stood in the very middle, its white granite carefully polished, its gold overlay flashing in the sun. It had a flat roof with gold spikes to keep the birds away. And inside the Temple, behind an enormous double curtain, was a place the Israelites called the Holy of Holies —so sacred that it could only be entered by the high priest once a year on Yom Kippur, after the priest had ritually purified himself and offered appropriate sacrifices. It was, according to the Jews, the place where their God, Yahweh, dwelled. Entering the Holy of Holies was so dangerous that they tied a rope to the priest’s ankle in order to drag him out if he died while performing his tasks.

I was fascinated by the transformation of the Temple during Passover. Dusty travelers and dirty animals turned the marble Courtyard of the Gentiles into a farmyard. The smell of blood and incense filled the air for an entire week, mixed in with the peculiar smell of serious money being made.

The first time I had wandered through the courtyard during Passover week, I realized that the Romans could learn a thing or two from the Jews about taxation. For starters, the Temple tax could only be paid using Tyrian coins, meaning that tables of money changers were spread throughout the courtyard to convert common coinage into Tyrian shekels. All at an appropriate premium, of course. And that was just the beginning.

The Passover pilgrims were also required to bring an animal deemed acceptable for sacrifice. For even the poorest Jews, this meant at least a pigeon. But there was a catch. The bird had to be spotless and pure, with no bruises or imperfections from the journey. As I watched, the Temple priests solemnly inspected the birds and sadly shook their heads. Not good enough. Fortunately for the traveler, however, the priests had a whole cage of pigeons that were preapproved. The traveler traded his damaged bird for an approved bird, again at a steep premium. Once the worshiper sulked away, the priest took the defective bird, inspected it again, and realized that the animal was more pure and spotless than originally thought. Into the cage it went to be sold to the next road-weary worshiper.

The second day of our week in Jerusalem, I was standing on the balcony of the Antonia Fortress, a fortified tower that hovered over the northwest corner of the Courtyard of the Gentiles. I was watching the soldiers play a game with knucklebones that they called basilinda, the Greek word for king. The events in the courtyard below happened so quickly that I nearly missed them.

There was shouting and pointing, a commotion under the porticoes at the north end. In the center of the action was a single man, a furious Jew who was creating all kinds of chaos, overturning the tables of the money changers and releasing pigeons from their cages.

The soldiers saw it and started fastening their armor. I held out a hand to the captain. There were Temple guards down there; let them handle it.

The Jew at the center of the havoc was shouting something, his white robe flying behind him. He was thin and sinewy, but he had the hardened look of a laborer. He sent tables flying with explosive strength. A crowd formed in his wake, and the Temple traders scrambled around on the ground, chasing after coins that were rolling on marble. They cursed at the interloper. Others packed up their tables and moved out of the way before he could get to them.

The crowd behind him started cheering, and I found myself relishing this spontaneous rebellion against the money changers. “It’s about time,” I mumbled to myself.

The man had no weapons, and the Temple guards started closing in. Despite my attempts to delay them, the Roman soldiers from the fortress had sprung into action as well, rushing toward the steps of the Temple courtyard. They were bored. They wanted action.

As suddenly as he started, the madman stopped. He caught his breath and turned this way and that as if he were daring anyone to challenge him. The crowd fell back; the priests and guards gave him a wide berth.

“My house shall be called a house of prayer for all nations!” he shouted at the priests. He swept his arm in a great arc. “But you have made it a den of thieves!”

For a moment there was silence, and it seemed like the crowd held its collective breath, waiting for the religious leaders to respond. But the priests just sneered and walked away. The Temple guards put their swords back in their sheaths. One or two folded their arms across their chests.

A member of the crowd shouted, “Hosanna!” and others echoed the cheer. People began pressing toward the man, approaching from all areas of the courtyard —thousands of them, trying to get close enough to touch him. He talked to them and smiled, reaching out to place a hand on a beggar’s head, stopping to pray for a man who appeared to be blind.

From the balcony, I witnessed a strange phenomenon. The inner courtyards and the Temple proper, with all its polished marble and gleaming gold, were attracting little attention. The center of gravity had shifted to this table turner, this fearless maniac who seemed to have a grudge against the religious establishment. At the very least, he was now a folk hero.

Or perhaps he was more. The crowd gathered close around and listened in hushed silence as he talked, hanging on his every word. A stillness spread out from him in every direction. At one point, he apparently called for the children, and they scrambled up into his lap.

Was he a threat to Rome? I didn’t think so. A Temple reformer? Maybe. The priests and the Temple guards were certainly keeping their distance, gathering in small huddles and casting sideways glances at him.

Our own soldiers stayed on the edges of the crowd, letting the people see that the Roman guards were there to keep the peace. Yet the man who had started it all didn’t seem to notice or care. He looked like he was having fun now, a man of the people.

I wanted to find out more about him. I needed information. And I needed a good glass of wine. Once the sun went down and much of the city went to sleep, I knew a place where I could find both.