His personal guard now steered his litter in the direction of the northwest-most corner of the upper city and headed for the Palace of Herod Antipas, where was situated his praetorium in the city of Jerusalem. The thought of seeing Herod brought him back to the other reason he had come to this infested place, to quell another one of those uprisings that had become a way of life since the death of Herod the Great, and the rise of his violent and wicked son, Archelaus.
Over the years, uprisings against Archelaus had caused Rome to crucify thousands, and to send just as many into slavery. Finally, sick of the killing spree, Archelaus’ own subjects had begged Caesar to intervene on their behalf. Caesar then, quite wisely, had Archelaus thrown into exile, creating a new province called Judea and appointing a governor to rule it. But these measures did not put a halt to the unrest, which continued below the surface, and not long ago his own spies had warned Rufus of a renewal of discontent, this time against Roman taxes.
When Rufus heard of this uprising predicted for the sacred holiday of Passover, being the ambitious man he was, he had seized it as a perfect opportunity to make his mark and had petitioned Quirenius for a Legion. Quirenius, however, had responded by sending him only two cohorts – barely enough to prevent a skirmish – and had wished him a good journey into the bargain. Thus had he forced Rufus to see the entire matter to the end despite the indignity made to his person.
To think on it now filled him with an evil humour, a humour that grew more evil the closer he came to Herod’s palace.
The palace was almost a city itself, flanked by three great towers whose walls enclosed spacious grounds, and terrace upon terrace of stately mansions and gardens. To his mind it cascaded like an overgrown weed towards the crowded streets of the lower suburbs of Jerusalem. Now the noise coming from these suburbs penetrated his sheltered carriage and reminded him of how much he despised this place, its bazaars and spice markets, its shops and its hawkers. In truth he hated people in general, and Jews in particular, despising their language and their dress, their peculiar religious fervour, their superior mien, their exaggerated piety, their exotic customs and their frequent and cumbersome rituals. He loathed the priests and scholars and students who congregated near the Temple to chew on the ears of those who would listen to their endless diatribes. Moreover he found the discordant strain of the Levite chant distasteful and the reek of their sacrifices nauseating, and this hate, having newly risen to the surface of his shallow mind, caused him now to contemplate the insatiable hunger of his own people – who had swallowed up the entire known world and now suffered indigestion for it.
Yes, into Rome’s belly had gone countless races and their cities, their vineyards, farms, villages and provinces; their produce, their merchandise, their culture, their art and their religion. For Rome did not believe in any one god but rather chose to impregnate herself with the seed of all the gods of the world, changing only their names and giving birth to them anew. Was it any wonder that Rome found she had too many gods to feed? Mithras, Isis, Adonis, Attis, Astarte…all the gods and demons of Greece were hers and all the devils and angels of Asia and Africa were hers. Yet Rome had never once sought the loving attentions of that hard-hearted god of the Jews, the god whose arrogance would have no other god before him, the god who was so devastating to behold that no image could be made of him. From this god, Rome cringed and snarled, since He dared to call Rome a whore!
Rufus looked around him. What arrogance from a world soiled, noise-some, disordered and decadent! What haughtiness from a backward gazing, spawn-hole of insurgents and dissenters, from an uncivilized rabble of mongrel races and tongues! He was wondering, with distaste, what good could come from travelling to this end of the world, when his litter came to a stop and he was forced to turn his mind to the moment.
Herod Antipas was waiting for him in a luxurious room sitting upon a dinning sofa strewn with soft cushions of gold and burnished red damask. In truth the man’s silken dress was dyed in similar hues and contrived to make of him an oversized cushion, were it not for his raven hair, curled and braided and dotted here and there with precious stones, and his thick neck and arms adorned with gold and silver. To Rufus, he looked more like an Arab than a Jew and less like a man than a woman. And although he had never met the man before, he loathed him immediately.
Herod clapped his plump hands and music sounded from some unseen place. A breeze made sheer curtains shimmer between columns and carried the heady smell of incense, which made Rufus cough and sneeze.
Herod Antipas, friend of Augustus, King of Galilee and the whole land east of the Jordan did not stand to greet him. He pulled a half smile, lank and thinly made at him and said,