I am the commander of the Roman troops of Jerusalem. My primary job is to keep law and order among the troublesome Jews. Suddenly, one day there was a commotion as people came running from all directions. The city was aroused, in an uproar—a riot.

As a man of action, I took some officers and soldiers and ran into the center of the disturbance. Seeing us coming, the people stopped their merciless beating of a man they had caught. Quickly I had him bound with two chains to ensure that he wouldn’t escape, and escorted him out of the raving mob of Jews who would have killed him. I must have caught the Egyptian who revolted against Rome with 4,000 terrorists. That should be worth a bit of gold. My prisoner asked me a question in Greek. He must not be the Egyptian troublemaker, after all. Who am I? And who is the man I captured?

My name means “Zeus reared” or “nursling of Zeus.” Thus my anscestory is something to boast about, for this name is used only in noble and ancient families.

Because I am good, I love to be first. Because I love to be first, I will have nothing to do with that fisherman’s son or “elder” as he styles himself. What is worst is that he accuses me, a blue-blooded Greek, of gossiping–even “maliciously.” That is a quote “from the horse’s mouth,” so to speak. The boor! Who am I?