70 A.D.

May 16th, 66AD / 6th of Sivan, 3826 The Roman Province of Judea Jerusalem The Roman procurator stood by his chair staring at the many anxious faces before him. Complete control lined the edges of his lips and eyes, yet stirring rage and hatred burned within. “Bastards, Jewish whore bastards,” he whispered under his breath as he felt a trickle of sweat run down his neck. He glanced at the long silk curtains that swayed gently from the breeze which struggled to cool down the palace hall. He had taken sanctuary here the previous day after he had unleashed a small detachment of his troops to pillage the upper city of Jerusalem, but it had all been their fault, pompous priests and royal nobodies, thinking they knew best. His thoughts were like a whirlwind of plotted wickedness. Gessius Florus turned slowly and walked around his chair with his hands clasped behind him in complete confidence, a somewhat comical expression plastered upon his face as he continued to think. He could have heard a pin drop upon the stones of the hall with the quietness of the Sanhedrin and the power and intimidation his presence commanded. There was nothing to debate over. Florus knew they hated him, but he grinned because he hated them more. He glanced up at them swiftly to see their reaction and many of the Jewish elite shifted uneasily, unbeknownst of what was coming their way. Florus stopped in front of his chair, straightened the purple sash edged in gold that he wore as his standard as procurator and slowly sat down trying neither to disrupt his toga or the sash. He mumbled to a slave nearby to fetch him wine and then he slid his hands down the arm rests on either side and waited. Florus glanced for only a brief moment at his filed finger nails, inspecting the work of the groomer and then exhaled loudly as if boredom was descending upon him. Straightening one of the many jeweled rings on his plump fingers, he began to drum upon the ivory gilded edges of the chair. The slave was obviously nervous as she brought a copper jug with a narrow neck towards her master. A silver goblet was passed to Florus who waited impatiently as it was filled with the thick red liquid. Without even looking at the slave, Florus motioned her away with a flick of his hand. He proceeded to drink meanwhile eyeing the members of the Sanhedrin with piercing eyes. Once he was finished he dropped the goblet upon the ground as if it were a worthless clay vessel and sneered through clenched teeth, “Is anyone… going to say… a damn thing?” Anyone with a sense of observation could have seen all the members of the Jewish elite swallow nervously as if large rocks had been lodged in their throats. A second of hesitation crept by and slowly a man stepped out nodding towards Florus. “I am Annanus ben Annanus, High Priest of Jerusalem, my Procurator, and the voice of this council.” Florus nodded with boredom and rolled his eyes, so Annanus continued, “We ask as a council, what is it that the procurator wants to know having already sacked the upper city before a decision or court ruling was made?” Florus exploded to his feet from his chair screaming with crimson rage, “You dare play stupid with me, you sack of swine, you holy, fringed, catamite, bastard!” Two guards behind Florus half drew their gladii as he continued shouting, “You all know what I want! The names are what I want! Nobody makes a fool of me in my own city! You remember Caesarea, you impotent cow! I am Procurator of Rome and I serve the ruler of the world. I pray by the powers of Jupiter that I will get what I want!” His chest heaved up and down beneath his breastplate which was richly decorated in wreaths and faces of gods. He stared around the room wild-eyed daring anyone to oppose him. The problem had arisen weeks earlier when Florus had demanded seventeen talents of gold from the Temple treasury, coining the phrase sent by the envoys, “for Caesars needs.” However, when he had arrived to collect the money, Jewish youths had openly mocked him with bowls of collected pennies from the citizens throughout the city of Jerusalem. Florus had been so insulted by this display that he had let loose his cavalry on the Upper City to profit from whatever they could lay their hands on. A high number of crucifixions had decorated the streets outside the city as Florus had even extended his brutal hand to include men of equestrian rank and nobility to suffer upon the crosses as an example. Florus had watched them nailed to the crosses in contorted positions with spikes driven through arms and feet, screaming terribly. After awhile of amusement at this spectacle, he had finally sought refuge in the royal palace where he had summoned the Sanhedrin to answer for the mockery. Annanus waited for a moment to collect himself from the sudden outburst of this madman. Convincingly similar to Nero, Annanus thought to himself but stayed silent for a moment longer as he thought of a strategy in which to try and reason. It was more like trying to befriend a stone then trying to exchange a logical conversation with this man who had turned an entire country against him. Yet, Annanus still feared Florus for he knew the man’s unpredictable temper and had witnessed the extent of his brutality.