CHAPTER 21

This was the life. The great estate of my friend sprawled out before me on a vast hillside a few miles outside the city, wheat fields and vineyards stretching in every direction. The air was cooler and crisper here, a nice reprieve from the stale air that hung over Jerusalem.

I sipped the wine, Judea’s best, from a silver cup. We stood on a marble terrace, leaning on a railing of carved stone, staring mindlessly at the thousands of oil lamps that still burned in the city.

I was surprised when Nicodemus told me that the volcanic rabbi in the Temple, Jesus of Nazareth, had stood on this same terrace before. Nearly a year earlier, he had come at night, at the request of Nicodemus, and shared a cup of wine with one of Israel’s wealthiest rulers.

“I’ve become a disciple,” Nicodemus said. “Though I haven’t let it be widely known.”

“Your rabbi certainly has a flair for the dramatic.”

“You could say that.”

I took a deep breath of night air and felt myself relax. I had learned a long time ago that Nicodemus was my intellectual equal. Neither of us felt the need to impress the other. Our growing friendship transcended cultural differences.

“What did you talk about when he was here?” I asked.

“He’s a rabbi, Theophilus. We talked about religion.”

“Is he a threat to Rome?” I asked, getting right to the point.

Nicodemus took his time thinking about it. When he spoke, he seemed to be measuring his words. “Have you heard about the way he healed the centurion’s servant?”

“No. My Jewish sources seem to be failing me.”

Nicodemus ignored my little barb and told me the story of how Jesus had allegedly healed the servant of a Roman centurion. “He didn’t even need to go and see him, Theophilus. He just said the word and the man was healed.”

“Sounds impressive,” I said. “If it’s true.”

Nicodemus chuckled. “Always the skeptic.”

“I’m Roman. It’s in my blood.”

“The point, my friend, is that even after the healing, Jesus never tried to get the centurion to leave the service of Rome. In fact, Jesus told his own followers that he’d never seen such great faith in all of Israel. Does that sound like somebody intent on overthrowing Rome?”

I enjoyed another swallow of wine and relaxed a bit more. Perhaps it was the drink. More likely it was the relief of knowing we didn’t have a major problem on our hands.

“Why would a rabbi like you —someone revered throughout all of Israel —become the disciple of another rabbi?” I asked.

“Ah,” Nicodemus said as if I had finally stepped into his trap. He looked out over the hills and began telling me about Jesus —the things Nicodemus had heard before inviting the man to his estate. The man could cast out demons, heal the lame, cause the blind to see, silence his critics, multiply food. “Some say he walked on water,” Nicodemus said, turning just in time to see me smirk. “I know,” he quickly added. “I didn’t believe that one at first either.”

Nicodemus filled me in on their conversation. The rabbi’s strange response when Nicodemus asked him about all the miraculous signs he was performing: “‘Unless a man is born again, he cannot see the Kingdom of God.’”

Nicodemus paused as if the rabbi’s statement was incredibly profound.

I shrugged. What did that even mean? For obvious reasons, I didn’t care for the mention of a kingdom, but the reincarnation aspect seemed harmless enough. It was the essence of Eastern religions, and I was surprised Nicodemus had bought into it.

“I don’t understand,” I said.

“Nor did I,” Nicodemus admitted. “When I asked what he meant, he told me that unless a man was born of water and the Spirit, he could not enter the Kingdom of God. He said that what was born of the flesh was flesh, but what was born of the Spirit was spirit.”

Again Nicodemus paused as if measuring my reaction. He seemed to be describing the separation of body and soul, a concept familiar to me. It was why in Rome we cremated our dead. The soul journeyed on, but the body did not. A man’s soul soared to heaven when it was freed from his body, or it descended through the corridors of the underworld if his life did not measure up.

We talked for nearly an hour. Everlasting life. Immortality. Didn’t we all strive for that? Augustus Caesar had lived the kind of life that achieved immortality. And during my time in Greece I could feel the spirit of Cicero coursing through my veins, the man’s words and achievements outlasting him. This was why I trained to be an advocate, to develop strength of character, to lead a moral life. But immortality was a rugged climb and not for the faint of heart. In my way of thinking, it was for a select few —those who had the blood of the right ancestors flowing through their veins, who proved themselves in turbulent times. It was not something that could be achieved by normal men.

Nicodemus respectfully but enthusiastically disagreed. Even in the dark, I could see the spark in his eyes. He claimed that Jesus was the Son of God. That whoever believed in him could have eternal life. Even lowly peasants.

I swirled my wine, letting the sweet smell of the grapes fill my nostrils. I reminded my friend that the “Son of God” title had already been taken. The great Tiberius Caesar, son of the divine Augustus.

Nicodemus told me that I should go listen to the rabbi teach. “The leaders of the Sanhedrin are planning to set a trap for him tomorrow in the Temple courtyard,” Nicodemus said. “They’re going to ask him whether we should pay the imperial tax to Rome.”

The imperial tax, paid only by those who lived in the provinces and not by Roman citizens, formed the backbone of Rome’s economy. The trap for Jesus was obvious, though no less clever for its transparency. Answer yes and lose the crowd —what kind of Messiah supports the imperial tax? Answer no and lose your life. What kind of Roman ruler would allow such sedition?

Nicodemus had my attention. “What do you think he’ll say?”

“Why don’t you come and see for yourself?” Nicodemus asked.

I told him I just might. I finished my wine and thanked him for his hospitality. As I was leaving, he put a hand on my shoulder, appraising me with earnest eyes. “You’ve been a good friend, Theophilus. That’s something I cherish. But I cannot put our friendship above the words of the prophets. If this man is the Messiah —and I believe he is —Rome won’t be able to stop him. He’s not a threat in the way you’re worried about. He’s not going to take up arms against Rome. But the prophecies are clear. The rulers of the world will all eventually bow to the Jewish Messiah. I don’t want you to be on the wrong side of fate.”

The words were nearly treasonous, but I figured it was just the wine talking. One thing was certain —Nicodemus would follow this new Messiah anywhere. Yet right now, his main concern seemed to be my welfare.

I decided to shrug it off. “We are Romans, Nicodemus. We make our own fate.”