01 - Alexandria

The air of Alexandria, celebrated throughout the empire and praised by many a Roman poet, was at its freshest and clearest on the shore of Lake Mareotis where the water from the Nile came streaming in, bringing the sweet odor of green fields. The house of the wealthy magistrate of the Alexandrian Jews was located here across from the government house and just outside the Jewish quarter. The great arched windows of the house shone with many lamps of glass and earthenware, hanging by silk cords from the capitals of the columns.

A large group of Jewish harbor workers was assembled at the foot of the stairs clashing little cymbals and chanting, “King! King!” for the visitor inside the house was Agrippa, the new Jewish king. There were perfume merchants, potters, weavers, even housewives with their children. All had left their occupations and schools to greet their new king. Wealthier Jews also came from other quarters in their mantles of Sidonian linen and oil glistened hair.

Agrippa himself, who had tried and failed to slip into town unnoticed, was inside the house with members of the Jewish Senate, including the philosopher Philo, the magistrate’s brother. Agrippa, who’d been imprisoned by the emperor Tiberias, was released and exalted by the new emperor Caligula. So instead of prison chains, he now wore the golden chains of kingship. He was on his way to Palestine to replace his brother-in-law, Herod Antipas. He stopped off in Alexandria to visit the magistrate, who had lent him great sums of money during his years of waiting.

Because of the chanting he was forced several times to show himself, but to the crowd’s disappointment, he wasn’t clothed in scarlet. He didn’t even carry a scepter. He came out wearing a Roman toga, his thin, pointed nose twitching in irritation, his eyes hidden under frowning brows. He did permit himself a gracious smile, though his thoughts were centered on his aristocratic origins, his high connections in Rome, and the great sacrifice he was making in leaving the capital of the world, where he was an intimate of Caesar, to take over as ruler of an obscure little kingdom. So he stood there with that wearied look the mighty think becomes them in the presence of the poor of the earth.

The joyous tumult became louder when his wife appeared. She was known for her piety and for the fact that she was the only one who could keep her husband in check and maintain his interest in the Jewish masses. The Jews expected a lot from a king, especially one of their own blood. His anointing made him a symbol of Messiah, so it was hoped that his wife’s influence would be high enough to make him a good king. It was true that he was not the legitimate heir to the throne, not being in the line of direct descent. But since he was descended from the Hasmonians, who were also of the Davidic line, the Jews forgot the Edomite side of his ancestry, and treated him as legitimate.

And so a riot of celebration had broken out in Alexandrian Jewry. The street was packed from end to end and the harbor was deserted. After a while, the magistrate sent his servants out to disperse the people, telling them to get back to their jobs. It was dangerous to arouse the envy of the Greeks and Egyptians by such demonstrations. And indeed, shouting “Hail, King!” did not fill the stomach. So once they realized that Agrippa was not coming out again they finally went back to the harbor, shops, and marketplaces, leaving only the chronic idlers who lived for such occasions.

After meeting with the leading members of the Jewish Senate, Agrippa withdrew to the library with the magistrate. Leading scholars of the Academy of Alexandria, hoping to see some evidence that Agrippa would continue the traditional Herodian attachment to the sciences, joined them. City officials were also there, partly in hope of gifts, and partly in hope that the new king would build some striking edifice in Alexandria. Joined by officials of the world’s greatest library, they were all anxious to hear the latest news from the imperial capital. Agrippa was close to the most important figures of Rome and was considered highly influential. In the eastern territories his views and decisions would be of huge importance.

There was one notable absence from the group. The governor of Alexandria, Caesar’s local representative, Flaccus, was not there. Speculation as to why he wasn’t there ranged from an unwillingness to pay homage to the new king, to the cold relations that existed between him and the magistrate. Or maybe he just had other things on his mind.

It was common knowledge that Flaccus’ days as governor were numbered, as there was no love lost between the new emperor and the governor. So his absence was matter for speculation, but nothing more. They agreed that he was the only one who stood to lose by this piece of tactlessness, and Agrippa felt himself too powerful to take the matter to heart.

In fact, he was rather pleased by the popular reception in spite of his outward indifference. He was surrounded by the leading figures of Alexandria, his friends and family, his son Agrippa and his lovely daughters, Veronica and Antelope. The latter was also the bride of the magistrate’s son.


As the meeting went on, a new and different kind of tumult could be heard coming from the street. Some of the guests went to the windows and saw a crowd gathering in the half darkness. The servants hurried through the courtyard to close the gates and then reported that some Greeks and Egyptians were gathering. Amid rising voices, there were cymbals clashing and flutes wailing.

The guests started to become uneasy. All except the king, of course, who kept his calm bearing and maintained the same look of boredom he had when the Jews were cheering. In the imperial court, the great never betrayed emotion in the presence of the masses, nor even show interest. The magistrate looked at the king, composed himself, and imitated his indifference. The guests, though, couldn’t help but show their concern.

One of the servants reported that Karabas, a famous city buffoon, was there with a prayer-shawl on his shoulders, a scepter in his hand, and a crown of papyrus on his head. The Greeks and Egyptians were dancing around him and shouting in a lusty voice, “Maron! Maron!”

(Now Maron was an ancient Olympian god, who guided the chariot of Dionysus.)

Looking out the window, the magistrate could see the mob surrounding Karabas, gesturing in a grotesque imitation of the Jews, and yelling in a Jewish accent.

The magistrate consulted the captain of the guard about this insult to the new Jewish king, but the captain responded that it would be folly to attempt to disburse the mob. The priest Isidorus was in the crowd egging it on, and messengers had been sent to the governor’s palace to report this rebellion. Meanwhile, the Gentile guests were quietly slipping out of the room, without a formal goodbye. Before long, only the Jews remained.

The yelling of the mob became louder as new masses poured into the square. A tortured screaming was heard. The mob was breaking into Jewish homes and herding men, women and children into the street. Flames began to light up the sky.

Where was the governor, whose duty it was to preserve order in the city? Where were the mighty legions of Rome? Didn’t the governor know that the second largest city in the empire was in revolt?

Aristobulus, the king’s brother, and the only member of the family on speaking terms with the governor, rushed into the room. His face was white. He reported that the governor refused to see him. He simply sent word that the indignation of the Alexandrians was just and he would do nothing. He was still governor, for now, and he would decide what was right and what was wrong.

This, then, was the last desperate act of a governor who knew himself to be condemned to death. If nothing else, the empire was founded on law, and if a Roman governor refused to maintain order, what was there left in the world? Savagery would be the state of man, and the empire would dissolve and melt away. Flaccus knew he was a condemned man, and this was his revenge on the Jews.

Meanwhile, new and frightful reports poured in. Broadswords were being distributed from the arsenal while officials looked the other way, and a massacre had begun in the Jewish quarter. City officials mixed with the mob and said that the governor was in sympathy with the rioters. Jewish women were dragged out of their homes into the theaters and forced to eat swine’s flesh. Something had to be done, but no one had an answer.

“One thing we must not do,” explained the king, “is to set ourselves against the legions. We can’t provide Flaccus with the excuse that he was defending the soldiers of Rome.”

So word was quickly sent out in the name of the king, the magistrate, and the senate, that under no circumstances were the Jews to defend themselves. They must shed no blood, but rely on the clemency of Caesar and the justice of Rome. Caesar would restore their rights and punish the rioters.

The king was certain that the law and order of Rome would prevail. Agrippa felt he knew Gaius well, for they had talked often. The new Caesar had freed him from his chains, right? And Agrippa’s mother, Bernice, was the most intimate friend of the mighty empress. Jewish privilege was a sacred right in the traditions of Rome, ever since the days of Julius. This was just an insane act of a criminal bent on self-destruction, an official who, in desperation, was taking revenge on the people of Agrippa for his impending fall.

So Agrippa showed no signs of vulgar excitement. He patted Veronica’s head and sent the women off to their apartments to lie down and rest as best they could, while he remained in the library with the old philosopher Philo and a few members of the Jewish Senate.

In spite of his outward indifference, the king was far from calm. This spoiled man, whose whole life was a gamble, was accustomed to staking huge sums of money on a single roll of the dice, money he usually borrowed or extorted from his friends. For him life had but one meaning, power. So he couldn’t help but be aware, at this moment, of the insecurity of his position, backed not by the might of Rome, but by the Jews, a futile and impotent people. The only crutch he had to rely on were a few words on a bronze tablet dictated by a Caesar. Tomorrow another Caesar could recall the appointment. In the meantime any higher Roman official could laugh in his face like Flaccus was doing now.

This was the foundation of his kingdom. He thought of the people whose king he’d become and remembered that the Jews had never accepted Rome as the foundation of their strength. They looked to the grace of God, and His promise, as their security. The people were courageous enough to stand up to Rome, for Rome was a human thing, uncertain and deceptive. Not so the Law of God, which the Jews obeyed. No, Rome was not the foundation of the Jews. Jerusalem was. Perhaps his wife was right. Whenever he returned from an audience with Caesar, radiant with joy, she would quote from the sacred books of the Jews, “Put not your trust in princes.”

“Perhaps I would do well to listen to the words of the rabbis in Jerusalem,” he said to himself.

He quickly shook off these thoughts, though, for if he lost his faith in Rome, he was naked indeed. He would not let himself be unsettled by a meaningless riot. Tomorrow the incident would be over, and the day after it would be forgotten.


There was another in the room also deep in thought. The famous scholar and philosopher Philo, the brother of the magistrate, was now past sixty, but he looked even older. He had a permanent stoop from bending over his manuscripts, but his face, for all the evidence of the years, was filled with light. He wasn’t accustomed to being in the company of the great, and in fact, he’d always avoided them. His brother tried to draw him into the conversation several times, but without success. He just stayed in a corner with his thoughts.

Philo was not afraid either for his own life or the life of his companions. He believed they were in the hands of God, and if God decided that their time was up, so be it. If their time was not up, no power could prevail against them. Wickedness itself didn’t frighten him, for evil is transient. Only goodness is eternal, for goodness is the nature of God, not evil. God first created the spiritual world of ideas, and this spirit ruled the world. Evil might overshadow it for a moment, but it was bound to emerge again.

No, what disturbed Philo was quite another matter. He believed that the Jewish law was the highest wisdom and the highest love that God had given to the world. Only this wisdom can bring the peace of God to mankind. But what is God’s love and wisdom worth if these things are entrusted to a weak, persecuted people, to pitiful, insecure human beings who are being swept away in a storm of ignorance, defilement, and depravity?

In such a soul, anchored as it was in God, the incidents of that night would not give rise to feelings of revenge, but rather of pity. What men call evil is really only ignorance and blindness. What good does it do that the Jews are a peculiar people, chosen of God, if the world is evil because of ignorance? God’s wisdom must be made to cover the world; the Torah must become the portion of all mankind. The Logos, or directing spirit, appointed by God as His first Son to rule the world with love and justice for all, must become the redemption of the whole world, not just the peculiar people.

This was Philo’s philosophy, developed over time. The peculiar people, chosen and trained by God, had only been given the idea. The embodiment of the idea would have to emerge in the power of the Logos. The Logos in action, not the Logos in thought, is the wisdom of God. Therefore, the wisdom of God cannot be the privilege of individuals, or even of a peculiar people. It had to become the redemption of all humanity, as only through the Logos in action could love and justice be brought to humanity.

This was the philosophy on which Philo meditated in that night of terror.

* * * * *

There was a history of agitation behind the Alexandrian riots, which the Jews ignored. A man named Apion had written a number of scurrilous insane pamphlets advocating the destruction of the Jews. And the authorities, far from trying to suppress him, actually gave him their implicit backing.

The Jews had ignored these warnings, and in fact, they felt quite secure in their position. Alexander, the city’s founder, who wished to replace Tyre, which he’d destroyed, had brought them there. The Jews had taken the place of the Phoenicians as traders. Jewish merchants owned the ships that dropped anchor in the harbor. The workers in the harbor were all Jews. What would the city be without them?

So who cared if Apion reviled them, and Isidorus, the priest, preached against them? It was common knowledge that Isidorus had turned the temple of Isis into a public brothel and that he collected vast sums from the women who served as prostitutes. And it was also common knowledge that Apion was a common thief, who’d once been sold as a slave for his crimes. So who would listen to them anyway?

So rather than draw more attention to the libels, the Jews had ignored them. But the agitation bore fruit. The riots that began that night lasted for weeks. Agrippa slipped out of the country secretly, but as long as Flaccus remained in power, the mob roamed the streets and did as it pleased. One section after another of the Jewish quarter was attacked. Drunken crowds went from street to street dressed in Jewish clothes they’d stolen. Day after day the most brutal excesses were committed with impunity. Over here was a group of terrified Jews, their clothes having been ripped from their bodies. Over there was a Chaldean stargazer standing in a circle of admirers, a heap of stolen goods at his feet.

Throughout the weeks of rioting the Alexandrian theater was filled with spectators watching things never seen before in the history of the city. Jews were thrown into the arena to become playthings for the tormentors. Their faces were smeared with wine and honey, and lumps of swine meat were forced into their mouths. The crowds roared with glee as men, women, and children fought, screamed and writhed with loathing as the forbidden meat was forced between their teeth.

Members of the Jewish Senate weren’t spared either. In fact, they were subjected to special treatment. They were stripped naked, thrown across benches, and lashed.

In between these brutalities, actors entertained the spectators with obscene parodies of Jewish life. One appeared wearing an ass’s head, supposedly representing the Jewish God. Others, in Jewish costumes, bowed before him. The ceremony of circumcision was enacted several times, much to the delight of the women spectators. And from time to time, “serious” speakers, such as Apion and Isidorus, came in to harangue the Alexandrians on the baseness of the Jews.


Flaccus the governor published an edict withdrawing from the Jews the rights guaranteed them by the Roman Senate, and Philo left his ivory tower to go among the people and exhort and encourage them.

Philo assured his people that the edict was unlawful and would be overturned by Rome. He pleaded with the people to offer no armed resistance. Not only was it useless, it would only lead to more excesses in Alexandria and would compromise their cause in Rome. The important thing, he said, was not the individual Jew, but rather the Jewish people as a whole. The storm will pass, and God’s justice will prevail. Be patient, and endure. Accept the calamities as the will of God, and wait for a better time.


But then the news got worse. Word came from Rome that the wild young Caesar, Gaius, better known as Caligula, had proclaimed himself a god and had ordered all people to place his image in their temples and to offer him sacrifice. All of the people in the empire obeyed – except the Jews.

A great transformation suddenly took place. The people who’d submitted to every cruelty and indignity with the meekness of lambs, suddenly became like lions. Even Philo came out for resistance. He told the Jews to suffer a thousand deaths rather than prostrate themselves in worship before an idol. Such an act would strike at the very root of Israel. Let them slay you, he said, but do not throw even one pinch of incense on the altar fire.

Of course this gave the Greeks of Alexandria a new weapon against the Jews. Apion called them blasphemers and eternal aliens. The Jews were enemies of both the gods and Caesar. But this time Apion did not get his way. When a mob appeared before the great Alexandrian synagogue with an image of Caesar they intended to install there, the Jews, who had suffered the long pogrom without counterattacking, closed the doors of the synagogue, threw themselves on the idolaters, and drove them clear out of the Jewish quarter.


Philo realized that the time for action had come. As old as he was, and a stranger to public affairs, he agreed to head a delegation to Gaius Caligula, the emperor.

A delegation of Alexandrian Greeks also proceeded to the capital, to present their side of the story.