Questioning Pilate

One scene in The Case of the Empty Tomb that I liked, was Maximus questioning Pontius Pilate about when Jesus was brought before him. The night before Maximus had been attacked in the night and he stood before Pilate with cuts and bruises. 

Pontius Pilate had received his appointment from Emperor Tiberias, and took over the governorship of Judea about three years ago. I had only been in Judea a year. Pilate had a reputation as a good administrator. The construction of the new aqueduct had garnered him much praise from all quarters. Since Jerusalem was on the edge of a desert, everyone appreciated the need for water in the city. As an administrator, Pontius Pilate managed to exceed the usual amount of bribery, corruption, cruelty, murder, misappropriation of funds and malfeasance, while still carrying out his duties. For a Roman, duty was the main objective, and we carried it out per fas et nefas– through right and wrong. Pilate’s position of governor gave him control of the military forces, and he carried the authority to order the death sentence. His feeling towards the Jews was no secret; he did not like them. The Jews, of course, reciprocated similarly. As Governor of Judea his home was in Caesarea, the Roman administrative centre. Fortunately for me, the Governor was still in Jerusalem. As it was, the Prefect would not see me until midday. While I waited, I privately thanked Ruth for convincing me to visit the baths before my interview with Pilate. I felt clean and refreshed, prepared for any eventuality.

I was shown into an audience chamber of Pontius Pilate’s residence in Jerusalem. The room was richly decorated with ornately carved columns, and imitation marble panels on the wall. Several chairs and statues stood around the room. In the centre of the room was an ornamental pool whose bottom consisted of an intricate wave-pattern mosaic. To the right of the double doors I entered, were two long steps that ran half the length of the room to a balcony. Against the far wall, upon a handsome chair with eagle heads carved into the arms, and surrounded by attendants, sat the prefect.

Pontius Pilate was a serious looking man. He was tall and thin and bony. Bony shoulders poked through his toga. Bony elbows rested on the arms of his chair. And bony knees peeked out at me from beneath his tunic. His thin lips did not smile, for fear people would not take him seriously, and so he also refrained from revealing any humour or wit. His close-set blue eyes regarded me curtly. Pilate seldom looked at me directly during the interview, but chose, instead, to study his hands.

"Claudius Maximus, what happened to you?" he asked more out of curiosity than concern.

"An accident, your excellency" I responded.

He clearly did not like that answer. "It distresses us that one of our tribunes allows himself to be seen in public in this condition. I trust you will be more careful in the future."

"Yes, Prefect."

"What is it you wished to see us about?" His thin lips barely moved as he spoke. His voice and manner were condescending. This was not going to be at all pleasant.

"Prefect, I am tending to the matter of a disappearance of a body from its tomb." I regarded him closely for some sort of reaction, but he revealed none. "Do you recall the man? His name was Jesus. He was crucified last Friday. I was led to understand you were interested in the incident."

"Yes, Tribune," he exclaimed hastily. "You need not remind us. What is it you want?"

"I find I must know the details that led up to his crucifixion." Pilate sat and with a wave of his hand, his dismissed the attendants. The governor waited until they were out of the room before he allowed me to continue. "Prefect, I understand you presided over the trial, and pronounced sentence on him."

Still he said nothing. He was not going to make this at all easy for me. I decided to stare back. It worked. After a tense moment he spoke.

"When the man Jesus was brought before me, it was simply pro forma. His fate had already been determined by his own people, and in regards to them, they were merely going through political channels. It was all predicted."

"But Prefect, you have total authority," I spoke as politely as I could. "The man did not have to die."

Pontius Pilate did not appear to agree. He regarded me coldly, and then continued.

"The governorship of Judea is not an easy nor simple task," he began in a monotone voice. "For one thing I must keep Rome happy, and that means money in the way of taxes. It is also my duty to bring Roman law and Roman order to these desert people." He said ‘desert people’ with no little contempt. "These Jews are a thick-neck lot. You could fill parchment after parchment with their laws and customs. And they cling to these laws and customs as if their very lives depended on them. I, on the other hand, must impose Roman law while trying to keep these people from open rebellion. I am a military governor, yes, and I have the might of our legions under my command, but I am a governor never-the-less, which means I must carefully choose when to force the will of Rome upon the Hebrews, and when to gracefully withdraw from a situation where the possible consequence would outweigh any benefit. Before I came to Judea, the Emperor himself entrusted me with the Pax Romana– the peace of Rome. I intend to honour that trust.

"You were not present in Jerusalem at the time, Tribune, but one of my first acts after arriving here was to erect image-baring standards in the city. You would think that to be a very common, and simple decision. Not so when dealing with Jews. They considered the standards idolatrous. They petitioned me to remove the standards. I declined. The next thing I knew they protested vigorously, and finally I was forced to remove the standards. As Romans– as leaders of the world– we understand that these decisions must be made from time to time. Your father understood.

"If one man must die so Jerusalem may have a little peace, then clearly exitus acta probat– the result validates the deed. Is that so difficult to understand, Tribune? Besides, if it does not deal directly with Rome, or pose any threat to Rome I allow the Jews to handle their own affairs."

This I knew to be only partly true. Pilate himself could appoint the Jewish high priest, and he exercised control over funds in the Temple treasury. It was not common knowledge around Jerusalem, but I knew that Pilate was using Temple funds to help pay for the new aqueduct that brought water into the city from a nearby spring. I decided not to reveal to Pilate that I was privy to this information.

"Prefect, could you tell me something of the man Jesus?" I asked him.

Pilate stared off trying to make it appear he was not thinking about the question.

"He was a man like any other," he replied.

"Was he intelligent?"

"At times he appeared most intelligent," Pilate admitted. "Yet at other times he appeared quite ignorant and stupid."

"How so?"

"Even after being impressed with the severity of the matter, the man would not say a word in his own defence."

"Surely he could see the gravity of the situation," I suggested.

"I suspected he knew. He simply did not care."

"What did he say?"

"Very little. I asked him if he were the messiah, a self-proclaimed king of the Jews. He said these words were not his."

"Why did you ask him that?"

It was clear Pilate did not like being questioned.

"These were the accusations made by the high priests," he spoke slowly and deliberately.

"Were they present during the questioning?"

"No. They waited outside."

"Why was that?"

Pilate shook his head. "They made some reference about not being allowed inside the praetorium during their holiday. As I told you, they have a myriad of rules and laws."

"What happened then?"

"Jesus would say little else. I went out to the high priests to tell them I found no guilt in the man. They insisted he was a criminal. ‘Then try him yourselves!’ I told them in disgust. They make me sick, these so-called ‘holy-men’.

"They practically told me they wanted the man dead, and I was the only one authorized to order the death sentence. I wanted no part of it, so I ordered the man to be brought before Herod."

"Why Herod?"

"Jesus was a Galilean. As tetrarch, Herod’s domain encompasses Galilee."

"What did Herod do?"

"How should I know? He questioned the man and sent him back to me."

"Passing the sestertius," I observed.

"Respondeat superior! The sestertius stops here!" Pilate responded forcibly and with some anger, as he pointed to the floor in front of him. "Jesus was again brought before me and again I tried to save him."
                 
"Why?" I asked. I knew Pilate had no love for Jews. I could not see him urinating on a Jew if one burst into flames in front of him. Why did he try to save this one?

Pontius Pilate regarded me briefly and with some irritation, like he would a pesky insect.

"Just who is being investigated here, Tribune?" he asked suspiciously. "The Galilean or myself? If you are attempting to uncover some unlawful act on my part for a report to Rome, be aware that there are worse places than Judea where you might find yourself stationed. Places so remote that they have never heard of your family name, nor care whose son you are."

I thought it best not to respond to this, but waited for his ire to right itself. It did.

Pilate’s features softened slightly and I knew what was next.

"Of course the reverse is also true," he remarked, beginning to purr like a cat. "If you can bring this problem to a successful conclusion, it would reflect very favourably on you in my report to Rome." He let the last word hang in the air. "I could practically guarantee your request for a change of assignment to anywhere in the Empire. Yes, I dare say, you may even be granted an assignment in caput mundi."

And there it was, the threat and the bribe– the very heart of Roman diplomacy.

"As to your last question of ‘why?’," Pilate continued, "I have no interest in seeing an innocent man, be he Roman, Jew or other, put to death needlessly. Especially this man in particular."

I was not certain what he meant by this last part, but decided not to pursue it.

"To appease the Jewish leaders I ordered the man flogged, but that was not good enough for them– they wanted him dead. I decided to try another way around it. I told the Hebrew populace that during their Passover holiday it is traditional that as Governor I may release a Jewish prisoner. I gave the people a choice: I could release Jesus or the rebel Barabas. They chose Barabas.

"As a politician I have to recognize expediency. I fell back on an old Roman axiom, ‘give the people what they want’."

"So it was a decision made ad captandum vulgus," I commented with a hint of contempt. "In order to win over the masses."

"They were calling me a traitor to Caesar!" Pilate stated, and there was a hint of fear under his anger now. "Me, a traitor to Caesar! I did not need any grief over this. Better to be done with it. I handed Jesus over to be crucified and washed my hands of the entire affair." In an unconscious gesture he studied his hands.

"After the crucifixion you called the centurion, Lucius Drusus," I stated in an attempt to draw the Prefect back into the conversation. "You questioned the centurion if Jesus were dead. Why was that?"

Pontius Pilate lowered his hands into his lap, and looked away. He winced as if trying to recall the incident I mentioned. "Ah, yes," he said. "There was a request made by a Hebrew from Arimathea. This man wished to have the body of Jesus for burial. Before allowing him to take the body I thought it prudent to make certain Jesus was dead."

"And you allowed the Arimathean to take the body?"

"Yes."

"Why?" I asked. Pilate regarded at me with hostility and I attempted to explain my reasoning to avoid any misunderstanding. "Did you know this man? Did he claim kinship with Jesus? What was his interest in the body?"

Pilate turned to me with contempt. "It was a simple request, Tribune. I did not see any reason to refuse."

"Yes, but - "

Pilate stared at me steadily for the first time. "We are finished here, Tribune."

 

Stephen Gaspar's books are available on Amazon

Biblical Noir

A number of years ago I had an idea for a detective story regarding Christ's resurrection. I decided to write the story in the style of Hammett and ChandlerI have posted blogs previously at Easter time about The Case of the Empty Tomb, and I thought this Easter I would post some excerpts from parts of the book never before posted.

This is an excerpt from the second chapter, after my protagonist, Tribune Claudius Maximus receives an order to investigate the rumor circulating around Jerusalem about a recently crucified Jew who is apparently missing from his tomb.


The first step in my investigation was to visit Meshullam Malachi, a Hebrew elder, scholar and philosopher, and perhaps the only friend I had in all Jerusalem. I was not certain why Malachi and I had struck up such a quick friendship– me being a young Roman Tribune of twenty-eight, and he a Hebrew elder of sixty-seven. Perhaps it was that we both shared Roman citizenship, neither of us being native of Judea, both outcasts from the lands of our birth. Maybe it was because both he and I knew that things were never as simple as they seemed. We were both men of the world and did not cling to any of the superstitions and steadfast beliefs other did. Not that Malachi did not believe in his religion, it was simply that he did not have to go about proving it to others every day like a Pharisee.

I descended the long, wide stairs of the Antonia Fortress and entered the market area in the city’s lowest ravine referred to as the Valley of the Cheesemakers. The market appeared remarkably crowded and busy today, due mainly to the fact that this was the Hebrews’ largest public festival– Passover, they called it. At this time of year Jerusalem saw an incredible influx of Hebrews from all over the world, as pilgrims swarmed into the city to celebrate an ancient tradition. During the seven-day festival, the Jewish population had swelled to four times its number, and I, for one, was pleased that these pilgrims would soon be leaving the city and returning to their homeland. The last thing Jerusalem needed was more Jews.

I passed the seemingly endless stalls where merchants hawked their wares and haggled with customers as if their very lives depended on making a bargain. The market was noisy with activity, and the smells of fruits and vegetables mingled with the aromas of spices and perfumes– not always a pleasant mixture. I pushed my way through the hurly-burly detecting foreign accents and spotting pilgrims from their different style of dress. They stood out on the streets of Jerusalem as much as I did.

I purchased some sun-dried grapes for breakfast and stuffed them into my mouth as I walked south through the city. To my left, adjoining the fortress, stood the mighty walls of the Temple Mount, and beyond the walls in the middle of a spacious court surrounded by stone balustrades with pinnacles, stood the mysterious Temple. The Temple was the centre of life for the Hebrews and the sole reason the pilgrims had come to Jerusalem. There were more Jews in the rest of the world than there were in the entire country I would wager, and all of them, both foreign and domestic, payed tithes to the Temple. I walked beside the long wall of large square-cut stones that led to a viaduct. Passing under the viaduct that cut across the city from east to west and connected the Temple Mount to the Citadel, I entered the Upper City. Here lived Jerusalem’s elite, the rich, the influential, the elders and priests. Here also was the modest home of Meshullam Malachi. It was not generally acceptable for Jews to be seen associating with non-Jews, so Malachi and I set up a system so we could meet and talk sub rosa. In his home I greeted him by his Greco-Roman name of Marcus because I knew he did not like it.

"Greetings, young Maximus," he replied showing no offence. He was a handsome man, for an old Hebrew, with a long, straight nose that was more Greek than Roman, and a large, flexible mouth. His long grey hair matched his beard, but his most notable features were his green eyes that looked as they must have when he was a young man– vital and sharp. The deep lines on his face betrayed his age and reflected great wisdom. I found him dressed in robes common to his people, though understated for one of his station. It was a plain white ankle-length, seamless tunic tied at the waist by a long girdle. Malachi seldom smiled openly, but there was still honour and mirth hidden there on his face. The man was Thracian by birth, educated in Jerusalem as a boy, and in the rest of the world as a man. He spoke a dozen languages and knew practically everything. In my position he was indispensable to me.

"You are well?" he asked sincerely.

"I am as well as I can be," I answered. "And how are things?"

"Things are as they are. What brings the Roman Tribune Maximus to my humble abode?"

"I am in need of your services."

"My services are that of a teacher. Have you come to learn?"

I nodded.

"I teach men the ways of the Hebrew faith," he said. "Have you come to learn the Hebrew faith?"

"Partly."

"One does not learn part of the Hebrew faith, my young friend. It is all or nothing."

I said, "I have a problem."

"As always."

"I need information."

"As always."

"I am in need of information that only you can provide," I began the litany. "If you can aid me in this, I will be humbly in your debt."

There was a hint of a smile on his lips as he heard the words he was waiting for.

"Tribune Maximus, my limited knowledge is at your service. How may I aid you and the Roman Empire?"

Sometimes Malachi put on displays of servitude– the conquered serving the conqueror, but we both knew he took undue pleasure in seeing a Roman ask a Hebrew for aid. Moreover, it made him feel useful, and gave him the opportunity to display his remarkable mind.

"What can you tell me of a man called Jesus of Nazareth?" I asked plainly.

Malachi’s face grew a little sterner, and said just as plainly: "He is dead. You Romans crucified him."

"That much I know. What else can you tell me about him?"

The old man paused briefly. From his demeanour, I– who knew him better than even he imagined– could see that his mind was recalling information, and was preparing to bring it forth like a fountain spouts out water.

"Born in Bethlehem to a good family. Father was a tradesman– now deceased. Mother is a very holy woman. Jesus lived in Nazareth most of his life. There is nothing remarkable about his early years. About three years ago he began a life as a teacher and developed a quick following. His teachings were ridiculed in the Hebrew community. Some say he blasphemed and taught heresy. He more often could be found amongst known sinners than with respectable, God-fearing people. Some uncorroborated accounts state that he performed miracles of healing. Still other say his teachings opposed the word of God."

"Did he?"

"Did he what?"

"Did Jesus go against the word of God?" I asked.

"Basically he did– according to the letter of the law."

"You Hebrews and your law," I remarked with a chuckle.

"Our law," Malachi said with conviction, "which was passed down to us from Moses, who, in turn, received them from God, is all we have! It is who we are! Rome has many laws. Where would the Roman Empire be without them?"

I felt that I had struck a nerve, and made a mental note never to do it again.

"Did the Hebrew elders see Jesus’s teachings as a serious infraction of your law?" I asked.

"Yes," he replied simply, but it was in the way he answered that told me there was something more. "The elders considered some of the Galilean’s teaching as blasphemous," he added.

"And that is serious?"

Marcus Malachi looked me in the eye, then turned away and said slightly abashed, "The penalty for blasphemy is death."

I looked back at him, surprised, and repeated, "Death? That seems quite harsh."

He nodded. "I did not say it was easy being Hebrew. We have come to understand dura lex sed lex– the law is hard but it is the law."

I nodded in understanding.

"You stated that legally Jesus spoke against God’s law," I said in a calm tone. "Do you believe that to be true?"

The old man studied me intently. This conversation had arisen before. He wanted me to understand that the law was the law. But the law was interpreted by men, he had once told me in confidence, and whereas God was infallible, men were not. Some law was open to interpretation. Malachi had argued in the past with high priests and elders regarding their law. He learned to be discreet in his teachings and how he interpreted the law. He had not been so discreet in Thrace, and it was this indiscretion that brought about his banishment.

"I heard Jesus speak in the Temple once," he told me with a combination of sadness and admiration. "Later I had the opportunity to converse with him."

"And?"

"A very charismatic young man. He was only around thirty years of age. I could not help but see something in him--something unique. Not that all of his teachings were unique, but his views were different. Non nova sed nove– not new things but in a new way. He put things in such a simple manner that they were difficult to refute. The more complicated you proposed a viewpoint or problem, the more simple he would make it."

"Your people boast of producing prophets, Malachi. Was Jesus simply another prophet?"

"Perhaps he was," he uttered. "But his teachings were not shared by the elders and high priests. He had made enemies in the Sanhedrin. And as you know, young Maximus, although Jerusalem is under the occupation of Rome, the Sanhedrin tribunal holds authority over Hebrew religious and legal disputes."

"Yes," I said thoughtfully, "but tell me, Marcus, to whom do you owe allegiance, the Sadducees or the Pharisees?"

"You know I do not choose sides in the tribunal," he stated. "I find the rift between the two groups only weaken us as a nation. The differences between the Pharisees and the Sadducees are minor. Unfortunately they continue to argue their petty points, instead of tending to the welfare of the people."

"Was that view also shared by Jesus?" I queried.

He nodded and said, "I believe so."

I shook my head in incomprehension. "What is the point of it all?" I asked. "Will you people ever change?"

Malachi drew back as if struck. "There is no way I can make you understand what it is to be Hebrew," he said. "Our beliefs date back to Abraham. They are beliefs and traditions hallowed by time, honed through practice, past on by generations. It is what links us to the past and binds us to the one true God. You smile. Have I said something to amuse you?"

"It is strange to hear you speak this way. I did not believe you were encumbered by superstition."

"Make no mistake, Tribune"--he called me tribune. He wished to remind me that I was Roman and he was Hebrew, and that there were certain lines we could not cross. "Despite the Roman citizenship I inherited from my father, I am first and foremost Hebrew. My faith and my beliefs are two other things I also inherited from my father, who inherited them from his father all the way back to Abraham. I could no more deny them than I could the nose on my face. It is who I am."

"Point taken," I said. "But did the Sanhedrin consider Jesus a threat?"

"The elders and priests took it as an insult when Jesus challenged them on teachings they spent their entire lives studying. Pride is a fragile thing to a man. Arrogance grows from it. It is not easy for a learned man to admit he has more to learn. We are teachers– we do not wish to be taught. To many of us on the Sanhedrin, it was clear Jesus was a traitor to his people and his beliefs. Rome had to be convinced he was their enemy also."

"How much of that do you believe?" I asked.

Stephen Gaspar's books can be found on Amazon
 

 

Othello and Star Trek

There have been many very good productions of Shakespeare's Othello both on the stage and on the screen. One of my favorite movie versions is the National Theatre Company’s staging of Othello in 1965 staring Laurence Olivier. While re-watching it the other day, I was struck by how act II, scene iii reminded me of a scene from Star Trek’s The Trouble With Tribbles.

In Othello, the villain Iago plans the downfall of Michael Cassio. Iago plies Cassio with wine and has Roderigo pick a fight with Cassio. The good Montano tries to intervene, only to have the drunken Cassio turn on him. There is the cry of mutiny and the town bell is rung.

Othello comes to break up the fight, but not before Montano is wounded by Cassio.

Dismayed that his own men are behaving like barbarous Turks, Othello demands of Iago, "Who began this?" Iago answers, "I do not know." Othello then turns to his lieutenant, Cassio, who replies, "I cannot speak."

This scene is similar to scene in The Trouble With Tribbles, where the Enterprise crew get into a barroom brawl with a Klingon crew while they are both aboard Deep Space Station K7.

When Captain Kirk confronts his men, he wants to know, "Who started the fight?" and he gets a few "I don’t know, sir," from his men.

After Kirk dismisses his men he asks Mister Scott to confide who started the fight.

 In Othello, it is Iago who explains, seemingly reluctantly, how the fight broke out.
 "... I heard the clink and fall of swords,
... I found them close together
At blow and thrust ..."

When Othello finds out Cassio started the fight, he strips him of his rank.
"Cassio, I love thee:
But never more be officer of mine."

When Captain Kirk learns that it was Scotty who started the fight:
"Scotty, you’re restricted to quarters until further notice."

 Scotty takes the reprimand with a smile.
"Thank you, sir. That will give me a chance to catch up on my technical journals."

Cassio takes his upbraiding more seriously.

"O, I have lost my reputation!
I have lost the immortal part of myself,
and what remains is bestial."

The Trouble With Tribbles has a happy ending, with the bridge crew of the Enterprise laughing. The ending of Othello is not so joyful.

Stephen Gaspar's books can be found on Amazon

Shakespeare’s King John

We just returned from the Stratford Festival where my wife Susan and I took in an excellent production of King John. It was this season’s sleeper being overshadowed by King Lear, Midsummer’s Nights Dream and Antony and Cleopatra.

King John (played by Tom McCamus) is not one of the Bard’s more favored plays, though I read in its day it was quite popular and Jane Austin preferred it over Hamlet.

We are not so familiar with the great lines from King John, such as:

　
That smooth-faced gentleman, tickling Commodity, Commodity, the bias of the world.

Here I and sorrows sit;

　
Life is as tedious as a twice-told tale, Vexing the dull ear of a drowsy man.

The star of the show is Philip, Shakespeare’s most likable bastard. The Bastard (played by Graham Abbey) has more lines than the title character. When we are introduced to Philip, he is a bit of a verbose madcap with a quick wit and honest about his position.

Madam, I was not old Sir Robert's son:
Sir Robert might have eat his part in me 
 Upon Good Friday, and ne'er broke his fast.

The Bastard has no illusions that he is ambitious and will suffer excommunication to flourish.

　
Bell, book, and candle shall not drive me back,
When gold and silver becks me to come on.

Philip reveals fighting nobility towards the end of the play when he attempts to inspire King John to action.

　
Let not the world see fear, and sad distrust.
Govern the motion of a kingly eye:
Be stirring as the time; be fire with fire;
Threaten the threatener, and outface the brow 
 Of bragging horror: so shall inferior eyes, 
 That borrow their behaviours from the great, 
 Grow great by your example, and put on
The dauntless spirit of resolution.     

There are two strong women in the play; Elinor, King John’s mother who wishes her son to remain king, and Constance, John’s widowed sister-in-law from his old brother. Constance has a young son, Arthur, who she wishes to see king. The two woman verbally jab at one another.

QUEEN ELINOR

There's a good mother, boy, that blots thy father.

CONSTANCE

There's a good grandam, boy, that would blot thee.

 

　
Constance (played by Seana McKenna) is the more intriguing of the two. She is left alone in a man’s world to fight for the future of her child’s life and her own.

When Austria and the King of France renege on their promise to go to war with England to put Constance’s son Arthur on the throne, she rails against Austria:

　
 What a fool art thou,A ramping fool, to brag and stamp and swear
Upon my party! Thou cold-blooded slave,
Hast thou not spoke like thunder on my side,
Been sworn my soldier, bidding me depend
Upon thy stars, thy fortune and thy strength,
And dost thou now fall over to my foes?
Thou wear a lion's hide! doff it for shame,
And hang a calf's-skin on those recreant limbs.

Pressure from Rome persuades France to war with England, but the French are defeated and Arthur is taken prisoner. Constance is overly distraught.

　
Death, death; O amiable lovely death!
Thou odouriferous stench! sound rottenness!
Arise forth from the couch of lasting night,
Thou hate and terror to prosperity,
And I will kiss thy detestable bones
And put my eyeballs in thy vaulty brows
And ring these fingers with thy household worms
And stop this gap of breath with fulsome dust
And be a carrion monster like thyself:

Fearing he may lose the crown, King John relates to Hubert that he will not feel safe unless Arthur is dead. There is an absolutely heartbreaking scene when Hubert prepares the hot irons to put out the eyes of young Arthur (played by Noah Jalava).

　
I will not struggle, I will stand stone-still.
For heaven sake, Hubert, let me not be bound!
Nay, hear me, Hubert, drive these men away,
 And I will sit as quiet as a lamb:

Or, Hubert, if you will, cut out my tongue,
So I may keep mine eyes: O, spare mine eyes.
Though to no use but still to look on you!

As with many of Shakespeare’s history plays, the subject of what makes a ruler is closely examined. It is a play of political intrigue and political convenience set among human drama; ambition, pain and death.

Mad world! mad kings! mad composition!


Stephen Gaspar's books are available on Amazon

Victoria Day

I love holidays! It is nice to have an extra day away from work to rest and enjoy the day. It is important to remember why we have a day off to break the workweek routine. Take for example Monday, May 19. Why are some of us here in Canada having the day off? 
Queen Victoria was queen of Great Britain from 1837 to 1901—the longest reign of any other British monarch in history.
Back in 1897, Queen Victoria (whose birthday we celebrate here in Canada in the month of May) celebrated her Diamond Jubilee—60 years on the throne.

 1897 just happens to be the year that The Canadian Adventures of Sherlock Holmes is set, and I felt I had to mention the event in the chapter entitled The Weeping Madonna. An earlier chapter has Holmes and Watson in the service of none other than Prime Minister Wilfred Laurier. In The Weeping Madonna, Holmes and Watson pay a visit to Laurier after he has returned from England where he attended the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee.
Prime Minister Laurier describes London:
"A great city," he declared. "But not as I pictured it. I went expecting to see a typically British city and found it full of strange faces from around the world. Assembled there were the troops of the colonies dressed in their native garb. They seemed so out of place in all that Englishness. The entire town did not seem itself. It was scrubbed clean and the streets were choked with traffic. Crowds stood atop unsightly and shaky scaffolds and people hung out of windows. The Jubilee was scheduled for June 22nd, and the day before I was knighted by the Queen. The morning of the Jubilee was overcast as the procession lined up along the Victoria Embankment. Fifty thousand service men lined along both sides of the six-mile route, and, as a bugle sounded at eight o'clock, the sun shone through the clouds as if by Royal command, and the procession began. The Colonial Procession was magnificent, premiers accompanied by their troops and bands from all over the world. There were the Zaptiehs of Cypress, the Dyaks of Borneo, bearded, turbaned Sikhs, pigtailed Chinese from Hong Kong, Maltese, Singhalese, and Malays. Men from the islands, deserts, and jungles. We filed up the length of the Mall in just under an hour and into a cleared square before the gates of Buckingham Palace, and filed down the length of Constitution Hill. We stopped before the entrance to St. Paul's and we premiers stepped down from our carriages and sat under a vast canopied pavilion where we observed the approach of the Royal Procession. The Queen arrived to the deafening cheers of the crowd. There was a short ceremony followed by the blast of the big guns and the procession moved on again.
    "I must confess, gentlemen, the entire experience was the proudest time in my life. To think that a Canadian of French decent offered the  principles of freedom in the parliament of Great Britain.”

The Canadian Adventures of Sherlock Holmes is available on Amazon.

Shakespeare: The Elderly and Madness

The use of madness in Shakespeare’s plays is not uncommon. There seems plenty of mental illness in Hamlet. The Melancholy Dane seems at first to feign madness, then does some pretty crazy things. Ophelia goes mad and commits suicide.

Shakespeare had some memorable quotes on madness.

Though this be madness, yet there is method in't.

Madness in great ones must not unwatched go.

Love is merely a madness.

In Titus Andronicus an elderly Roman general who spent his entire life in service of his country finds himself and his family persecuted through the vengeful manipulation of others. Pushed to a point beyond human endurance, Titus seems to go mad. It is difficult to tell whether Titus is indeed mad or only pretending to be so he may exact revenge against those who perpetrated terrible crimes on him and his daughter. In the final scenes Titus does things that most would consider to be the actions of a madman. Perhaps he is indeed mad, driven to it by intolerable cruelties.

 

The Canadian Mental Health Association states: It is estimated that the prevalence of mental health problems in adults over 65 years ranges from 17 to 30 percent. This report identifies services and supports needed for older adults at risk/or living with mental health conditions.

 

CMHA states on their website:

The consequences of loss, sorrow and grief as a result of life events affect many older adults, causing ongoing negative mental health consequences. Anxiety, depression and perhaps substance abuse are just some of the mental health problems that arise as people navigate these transitions in later life.
 

In King Lear we see an elderly king aware that age is creeping up on him, so he decides to divide up his kingdom but still wishes to be king. It doesn’t help the situation that two of his three daughters are scheming, selfish ... women. 

 

You see how full of changes his age is, says one.

'Tis the infirmity of his age, says the other.

When Lear is not shown the due respect of his age and position by his daughter, he begins to doubt who he is.

Doth any here know me? This is not Lear:

Doth Lear walk thus? speak thus?

He strikes his own head and says:

O Lear, Lear, Lear!

Beat at this gate, that let thy folly in,

When his other daughter treats him just as unkindly, Lear says:

I have full cause of weeping; but this heart

Shall break into a hundred thousand flaws,

Or ere I'll weep. O fool, I shall go mad!

Lear himself suspects he may be losing his faculties.

O! let me not be mad, not mad, sweet heaven;

Keep me in temper; I would not be mad!

Perhaps the turning point in King Lear is when the king stands in the middle of the heath during a terrible storm and he rails at the elements.

Blow, winds ...! rage! blow!

...You sulphurous and thought-executing fires,

Vaunt-couriers to oak-cleaving thunderbolts,

Singe my white head!

It is heart-wrenching to see Lear sink deeper into madness. He does not get his revenge like Titus. Lear’s tale is one of extreme tragedy, for as Macbeth said: 

 

And that which should accompany old age,    

As honor, love, obedience, troops of friends,    

I must not look to have

I look forward to seeing this season's Stratford Festival production of King Lear staring Colm Feore.

Stephen Gaspar's books are available on Amazon

 

Sherlock Holmes in Toronto

The city of Toronto has certainly received some bad press in the past year, much of it being directed at Mayor Rob Ford who has taken a leave to seek help for his drug addition.

Toronto has long ceased to be the bastion of 19^th century Victorian morality that earned it the nickname, Toronto the Good.

In my book, The Canadian Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, there is a chapter in which Holmes and Watson visit Toronto. Here is the beginning of the chapter entitled The Murder of John Steward. In it we see a more fledgling Toronto of 1897 with horse drawn carriages and high button boots. In other words; this isn't Rob Ford's Toronto,

The Murder of John Steward

On a beautiful September day Sherlock Holmes and I reached the city of Toronto, Ontario, where we were forced to stay overnight to catch a train the following day. Toronto is a thriving, growing city situated on the northwest corner of Lake Ontario. This fine metropolis of two hundred thousand began, as most Canadian cities, as a trading post dating back to the French regime. It was a remarkably peaceful community, but it had seen its share of conflict from the War of 1812 to the 1837 Rebellion. Toronto's strategic central location not only made it an excellent export centre to the east and west but also to the United States. The exports from Toronto were not limited to North America. In Britain we had long appreciated the Canadian pork that reached our dinner tables. Toronto was home to the largest pork-packing companies in the Empire and earned the city the distinctive name of Hogtown.

Numerous smoke stacks bespoke the city's busy industrial centre, and Toronto boasted more churches than any city I had ever seen. They were beautiful churches that reflected the city's strong Protestant influence: St. Michael's Cathedral, a Gothic structure built in 1848, and St. James Cathedral built in 1853, which had a ninety-seven_metre steeple, the tallest in Canada.

Toronto was a Tory town, settled by Loyalists who fled from the American Revolution to the north in order to remain loyal to the Crown.



On September the 22nd, Holmes and I had spent the day seeing the sights of Toronto and had stopped at a restaurant on Queen Street. No sooner had we stepped out upon the pavement and we were crossing the street, when I heard the terrified whinny of a horse. We turned in time to see the horse rear up, which was to start a chain of events that would result in my friend's crippling and in setting me off on a case without him at my side. The horse was part of a team that had been pulling a heavy wagon carrying a load of beer barrels with the name Labatt's printed on them.


The driver of the beer wagon had been arguing with the driver of another beer wagon, this one Carling, who was approaching in the opposite direction. It seemed neither driver would give the other the right of way, and an argument ensued. I do not know what had caused the horse to rear, but as the animal struggled and jerked, several barrels from the Labatt's wagon came loose and crashed to the ground. A smaller cart attempting to bypass the two feuding beer drivers turned suddenly to avoid the rolling barrels and cut off a young woman who had been coming along quickly riding a bicycle. She in turn lost control of her vehicle and headed straight for us. Sherlock Holmes, whom I might add is quite fast on his feet and possesses catlike agility, attempted to stay clear of the woman's path. Do what he would, darting this way and that, he could not avoid her as she seemed to follow his every move. Both woman and bicycle crashed into my friend. All three struck the ground, and I heard Holmes cry out in pain.   

"My dear fellow, are you hurt?" I asked, as I attempted to dig him out from under the bicycle and driver. All were now a tangled mess.

"I believe my ankle is broken," I heard Holmes reply through clenched teeth.

"Oh sir! Oh sir, I am so sorry! It was an accident, please believe me! I did not mean to run into you! Oh sir, please forgive me!"

Bending over to aid my friend, we both looked up to see the young woman cyclist standing before us, wringing her hands and pleading her innocence in a sincere and frantic voice. She was perhaps twenty years of age, of average height, and strongly built from much exercise. Indeed there was nothing delicate or demure about her. Her eyes were close and intense. She had a wide nose with marks on either side near the top, a full lipped mouth, ruddy cheeks, and chestnut hair under a tan cap. She was dressed in a practical, but plain riding apparel that matched her cap.

"Do you think you can stand, old fellow?" I asked Holmes.

"I believe so. If you would be so good to lend me a hand."

"Of course."

"Here sir, let me," said the young woman intrusively. "I'm strong, lean on me."

"Thank you," said Holmes, much perturbed. "Perhaps you best see to your vehicle."

She bent down and picked up her Massey Harris bicycle. "There seems to be no damage here," she commented giving the machine a cursory look.

"How fortunate," uttered Holmes dryly. "Watson, I would appreciate if we could return to our rooms at the hotel."

"Yes, of course, Holmes. I need to get a look at that ankle."

I hailed a cab and we drove off with the young woman proclaiming her regrets and apologies. Upon reaching our hotel I examined Holmes's ankle and found it was not broken. He had, however, sustained a nasty sprain that would not allow him to travel for several days. My diagnosis was difficult for my companion to accept, for there was nothing he loathed so much as to be forced to lounge around in a strange place with nothing to occupy his extraordinary mind. I found him absolutely miserable, and it did not help his mood when he received a visitor the following day. Answering a knock at the door I found the young woman cyclist from the previous day.

"Why, hello," I greeted her, quite surprised.

"Hello Dr. Watson, I never got the chance to tell you my name yesterday. I am Irene O'Brian. I came to see if Mr. Sherlock Holmes is doing well."

"He is better, thank you," I told her and updated her on Holmes's medical condition.

She appeared a bit relieved. "I cannot tell you, Doctor, how sorry I am about what happened."

"I'm certain you are, Miss O'Brian, but it was an accident."

"Still, litigation has sometimes followed accidents."

"I do not think you have anything to fear in that area, young lady. Tell me, how did you find us?"

"When you and Mr. Holmes drove off, I simply followed you to this hotel. At the front desk I inquired after the man with the injured ankle, and they gave me your names and room number."

"Yes, of course. Please come in."

She entered dressed in the same tan riding outfit I'd seen her in before, and I noted how well it suited her. Not that she lacked any femininity, but I could hardly picture her in a dainty hat or bonnet with feathers and satin ribbons or dressed in a bustle back with heavy lace trim. Even her voice and tone carried a certain sturdy strength. I found Irene O'Brian a simple and practical young lady, and her appearance did not lead one to believe otherwise. She carried a canvas bag that I could see contained several books and I showed her into the room where Holmes was convalescing. Upon seeing her, Holmes let out a moan of despair.


"Look who has come to see you, Holmes, our friend Miss Irene O'Brian."

"Mr. Holmes, let me just say again how sorry I - "

"Yes, Miss O'Brian, of that I'm sure. Thank you for stopping by, but, as you see, I am recovering nicely, so if you .... " Holmes began motioning to the door but the woman only moved closer.

"Oh, think nothing of it, Mr. Holmes," she replied, and pulling up a chair she sat by Holmes's side. "I could not live with myself if I did not come to see you. After all I was partly responsible for your accident."

"Partly?!"

"Well yes, don't you agree? At any rate I am so happy that it is not a serious injury and has caused you no inconvenience."

"Well, it has delayed our journey home," I remarked.

"To England?" she asked. "I thought you were British. What is it you do there?" she asked Holmes directly.

He was a trifle taken back by her forward manner, so I volunteered: "Mr. Holmes is a consulting detective."

"A detective!" she exclaimed eagerly. "Why, I have heard of you Mr. Holmes!"

"Have you?"

"Why yes, I have. I used to think you were the figment of some writer's vivid imagination. After all, how could a man possibly find clues from such obscure little things in those strange and obtuse stories?"

"Obtuse?!" I protested.

"Really, Miss O'Brian, you find the stories too fantastic to believe?" Holmes asked, smirking.

"Not to cast any doubt on your abilities, Mr. Holmes, but I must imagine it is some kind of trick, or merely an exaggeration."

"Watson, I am feeling a bit tired. Would you kindly show Miss O'Brian out?"

"I mean really, Mr. Holmes, drawing conclusions from people you meet without knowing them. What deductions can you draw regarding myself?"

"Truly, Miss O'Brian, now is not the time."


"Please, Mr. Holmes, I shan’t leave until I get a glimpse of your true ability."

"If I must," Holmes replied, impatiently. He quickly looked the woman up and down then announced, "You are a young lady of some means. You are strong minded, determined, resourceful and intelligent. You are currently studying law and are neither married nor engaged. You do not fall in the category of what society deems a proper young lady, you use a typewriter a good deal, and own a dog. You are also near-sighted, wear glasses but do not like to wear them, for if you did, I may not be sitting here in this condition."

Irene O'Brian's look was one of happiness rather than astonishment or surprise. "Oh, Mr. Holmes, you simply must tell me how you did that!"

"No, Miss O'Brian, I do not. Watson, if you please."

I rose and escorted the young woman out to the sitting room, where she swore she would not leave until I revealed to her how Sherlock Holmes made his deductions. I had little choice but to comply.

"The books in your bag are law books, and where it is not totally unheard of women entering law, in this day and age it takes a special kind of woman--intelligent and unconventional. That you can attend law school and have your own bicycle proves you are a woman of some means and resourcefulness. Those lines on your sleeves above your wrists where you rest them on the table, and the spatulate finger-end speak plainly that you do a good deal of typing. You wear no wedding or engagement ring. Those short hairs on your skirt show where a dog sat on your lap today. Those marks show on either side of your nose where glasses usually rest, but you are not wearing them now or during the accident yesterday. Hence the double deduction that you wear glasses but do not like to wear them."

I escorted her to the door where she turned and asked:

"What of Mr. Holmes's deduction that I am strong-minded and determined?" she asked.

"Perhaps a lucky guess, Miss O'Brian," I replied as I closed the door on her.

The next day was Sunday, a remarkable day in Toronto where it appeared the entire city closed for the day. Practically nothing could be purchased, and it was fortunate for Holmes and me that we had a good supply of tobacco and an excellent Canadian rye whiskey in our rooms. Miss O'Brian came back for another visit, but knowing Holmes's feelings toward her, I made up an excuse and sent her on her way.

The next day we were roused by a very loud voice and pounding at our door. When I opened it, Miss Irene O'Brian practically exploded into the room in a highly excited state.

"Oh, Dr. Watson, thank heavens!" she exclaimed and actually grabbed the lapels of my coat. "Dr. Watson I must see Mr. Holmes at once! It is a matter of utmost importance!" Before I could say another word, she rushed past me and burst into Holmes's room, from where I heard him cry out in shock and surprise. I quickly entered the room and found my poor friend upon the couch with his injured ankle resting upon a cushion. He was cringing back, attempting to keep away from the frantic young woman who pressed in on him as she spoke and gesticulated wildly.

"Watson!" Holmes called out. "This woman is obviously insane! Please remove her at once!"

I endeavoured to pull Miss O'Brian from his presence--no easy task--as she continued to talk frantically and fought to hold her position. Suddenly Holmes shouted.

"Watson, wait! Miss O'Brian, would you kindly repeat that. Did you say murder?"

I released my hold on her, and she attempted to regain some semblance of composure.

"Yes Mr. Holmes, I said murder!" she exclaimed, breathlessly.

Holmes motioned for her to sit. I pulled up a chair for Miss O'Brian so she might explain herself comfortably.

"An elderly gentleman named John Steward. He was stabbed in the street yesterday. The police have arrested a suspect running from the scene of the crime, a young man by the name of Robert Alloway. But the man is innocent, I swear it!"

"What makes you say that, Miss O'Brian?"

"Because I know Robert Alloway and have known him for many years. I know in my heart he could not harm anyone!"

"I am afraid heartfelt sentiments mean very little to the police, Miss O'Brian," said I.

"I have discovered that on my own, Doctor," she declared haughtily. "For I have been to the authorities and proclaimed Mr. Alloway's innocence, but they refused to listen."

"It has been my experience, Miss O'Brian, that most law enforcement agencies, whether they are in England, on the continent, or here in Canada, once they have arrested a suspect, they have no hinge or loop to hang a doubt on," said Holmes.

"What does that mean, Mr. Holmes?"

"It means the police do not appreciate being told they are mistaken," answered Holmes. "Even if I wished to aid you in your quest to free your friend, I am quite incapacitated, as you well know."

"But a young man is being unjustly incarcerated, while his life and reputation hang in the balance. And if you, Sherlock Holmes will not help investigate this matter, then Dr. Watson and I will do it alone!"

"I beg your pardon?" I asked, not certain I had heard her correctly.

"That would be the best and only alternative," said Holmes approvingly. "Since I am here, laid by the heels, the two of you can be my arms and legs and eyes and ears. Find out what you can. Watson, you alone will report your findings. Now off you go, the two of you. Remember Watson, he who has begun is half done. Goodbye and good luck." The Canadian Adventures of Sherlock Holmes and all of Stephen Gaspar's books can be found on Amazon