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Updated: May 17, 2025
And now, as he gargled the wine that left a pink foam on his lips, even that irritation lapsed in the perplexing absence of Pahul. Pahul was a butler of his, a Greek whom he had picked up one adventurous night in Rome, who had made himself useful, whom he had attached to his household, whom he consulted, and on whom he relied.
Antipas had no explanation to offer. “Then,” Pahul continued, “he said he had come down from heaven. A man near me exclaimed, ‘He is the Messiah;’ but others——” “The Messiah!” echoed the tetrarch. For a moment his thoughts stammered, then at once he was back in the citadel. On one side was the procurator, on the other the emir of Tadmor.
“And who is Satan?” “Satan? Satan is a—He’s a Jew god. Why? But what do you mean by asking me questions?” Pahul nodded absently. “I heard him say,” he continued, “that no man could serve God and Mammon. At first I thought he meant you. It was this way. I got into conversation with a friend of his, a man named Judas. He told me any number of things about him, that he cured the sick——” “Bah!
Caiaphas glowered, and his fingers twitched. “He claims to be king!” At this statement the tetrarch laughed too. He gave an order to Pahul, who vanished with a grin. “He has jeered at the Temple your father built,” Caiaphas continued. “He has declared he could destroy it and rebuild a better one, in three days at that.” “He is king, then, but of fools.”
“And he has called you a fox,” Caiaphas added, significantly. “He doesn’t claim to be one himself, does he?” “He is guilty of treason, and it is for you, his ruler, to sentence him.” “Not I. The blood of kings is sacred. Pahul, make haste!” The butler, reappearing, held in his hand the glittering white vestment of a candidate. The tetrarch took it and held it in air.
“It is odd that Pahul does not return,” the tetrarch reflected; and then, it may be for consolation’s sake, he plunged his face in a jar of wine that had been drained, in accordance with a recipe of Vitellius, through cinnamon and calamus, and drank abundantly. Long since he had deserted Machærus.
On noiseless sandals Pahul had approached, and stood before him nodding his head with an air of assured conviction. The ape had fled and a stork stepped gingerly away. “It is he,” the Greek repeated—“John the Baptist.” Antipas plucked at his beard. “But he is dead,” he gasped; “I beheaded him. What nonsense you talk!” “It is he, I tell you, only grown younger. I found him in the synagogue.”
Pahul continued: “And many of them seemed to be at odds with each other. They wrangled so that often I could not distinguish a word. Some of them left the synagogue.
In front of him was a drunken rabble, wrangling Pharisees, and one man dominating the din with an announcement of the Messiah’s approach. The murmur of lutes threaded through it all; and now, as his thoughts deviated, he wondered could that announcement have been the truth. “But others,” Pahul continued, “objected loudly. For a little I could not catch a word.
He had never heard of Aretas, but he said that in the desert this Satan had come and offered him—what do you suppose? The empire of the earth!” Antipas shook with fright. “It must have been Aretas.” “But that he had refused.” “Then it is John.” “There, you see.” And Pahul dandled himself with the air of one who is master of logic. “That’s what I said myself.
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