Pilate said, “Joseph is a very rich man. It is possible that bribery enters into this somewhere, and that Jesus was removed from the cross while still alive, and taken to Joseph’s house for care and healing.” The Roman moved restlessly. “Because of the rumors that He would arise from the dead on the third day, I posted guards at the tomb so that no chicanery would be employed. The high priest had asked this of me.”
He halted. He averted his head so that Lucanus could not see his face. Lucanus again waited. Then the procurator sighed. “Men are very superstitious; they are also hysterical. My guards later reported to me, and I listened, incredulous. They were almost incoherent. They had kept fires burning about the tomb, and drunk wine, and diced and jested. Could their wine have been drugged by that omnipresent old rascal, Joseph? He swears to me solemnly that this was not so. Yet my men declare, with oaths and fearful glances about them, that before dawn on the third day a great light shone about the tomb, and they were struck senseless to the ground. When they awoke, the stone, massive and heavy, had been rolled back from the sepulcher, and there was nothing within but grave cloths, an empty stone bench, and the scent of spices and ointments!”
He regarded Lucanus pleadingly. “How can a sensible man believe this to be supernatural? This was a grim joke, indeed, intended to deceive and strike awe into the breasts of the simple; a pretense to fulfill the prophecy. Look you, Lucanus, I am an educated man, of a noble family. Do you expect me to believe this nonsense about a miserable unlearned rabbi from Galilee? Who could inspire the gods less?”
“What do you wish me to say?” asked Lucanus, in a low tone.
“Tell me what you believe about this nonsense.” Pilate leaned towards him, and Lucanus saw that he was troubled, and angry at his trouble.
Lucanus felt within his garments and showed, by the light of the red sun, the cross which hung about his neck. Pilate stared at it. “Centuries ago,” said Lucanus, “this Man was prophesied by the Chaldeans and the Babylonians, and then the Jews. The rumors of Him spread to all the civilized world. The Egyptians decorated their pyramids with this Sign; the Greeks lifted altars to the Unknown God. The Scriptures of the Jews written ages ago tell of Him, of His mission, of His birth, of His life, and of His death.”
Pilate was aghast. The crimson light of the last sun lay starkly on his face. He looked at Lucanus piercingly. “You believe all this?” he asked, in an appalled voice.
“Yes. I believe it. I know it.”
Pilate was silent for a time. Then he said in a strained voice, “Then what of me, who delivered Him to death?”
“You were only an instrument.”
“The gods are vengeful — ”
“He is not vengeful. Do not fear.”
Pilate meditated. “You cured your brother who was dying — ”
“No. God cured him. I too was only an instrument.”
“Tell me what I should do!” cried Pilate, suddenly distraught. He regarded Lucanus fearfully. “I have thought much about this. That woman who was being buried — she was not dead?”
“I have told you: she was not dead. There are no dead.”
“You speak in riddles, like the Delphic oracles.”
“Men make riddles and mysteries of the simplest things, Pontius.”
“I am lost,” said Pilate, in a despairing tone. The superstitious Roman’s heart beat very fast. “Who are you, Lucanus?” he asked.
Lucanus frowned. “I am what you know I am.”
“But you have mysterious powers.”
“No. I have no power, no merit. Only God has these.”
“He, then, has bestowed them on you.”
Lucanus shook his head. But at that moment a slave came to announce the arrival of Herod Antipas, the tetrarch of Jerusalem, and his brother, Herod Phillip. The slave girls struck up triumphant music, and other girls ran onto the roof strewing baskets of rose leaves like pink snow onto the floor, and still others sprayed perfume in the air. Pilate went to meet his guests, and, as the lamps on the roof were hastily lighted, Lucanus looked curiously at the two men. Antipas reminded him instantly of a reddish fox; he had a narrow and irritable face, and was jerky and impatient of movement. He wore a short reddish beard, and Lucanus recalled that Antipas grew a beard for approaching Jewish holidays, then had it removed immediately afterward. But Phillip, the younger man, was taller and had a noble bearing, fine and liquid dark eyes, a classic face like a statue, and a quiet and dignified manner. He appeared to be engrossed in somber thought. Antipas returned Lucanus’ greeting and bow with a short word and a glance of hazel-eyed dislike. But Phillip smiled at him and inquired after his health, and asked him courteously how he found Jerusalem.
The men sat down and drank more wine, and night flowed over the city, and torches flared below, and lanterns glittered. Antipas was most apparently in a bad temper; he confined his desultory conversation to Pilate; they had once been enemies, but now they were friends. Antipas’ air toward Pilate was at once arrogant yet almost servile. Phillip glanced at him occasionally, and his black brows drew together. He talked kindly with Lucanus, and told him he had heard much of him. At this Antipas looked over his shoulder threateningly at Lucanus and said in a sharp, foxlike tone, “Yes. We must talk of this!” He jerked a thin shoulder clad in blue brocade and rubbed his beard. Before turning back to Pilate he shot a venomous glance at his brother, who received it imperturbably.
A gong sounded, and they all arose to go down to the dining hall, which sparkled with marble and gemmed hangings and rich lamps. The meal was luxurious. Antipas ate little, and drank wine abstemiously. He complained of many insignificant matters to the powerful Roman. Nothing pleased him either in Jerusalem or in his private affairs. His face softened only when he spoke of his wife, Herodias. At this Phillip straightened in his chair and regarded his brother with kindling eyes, and his mouth took on hard and bitter lines.
“How I should like to live in Rome!” exclaimed Antipas. “There one meets only the civilized and the realistic. But here all is God, all is religious observance, all is tedious religious discussion! Even the high priest can speak only of the commentaries. To the Jews nothing exists except God.”
Lucanus said, “Democritus wrote, over four hundred years ago, ‘If one choose the goods of the soul, he chooses the diviner portion; if the goods of the body, the merely mortal’.”
“That is all very well,” said Antipas, in a disagreeable tone, and with a derisive smile. “But man is mortal also, and the mortal must be nourished.” He paused. He said, almost menacingly, “I have heard strange things of you, Lucanus. There are rumors you perform miracles!” He laughed, shortly.
“No,” said Lucanus, feeling an answering stir of dislike. “I perform no miracles. Only God does that.” His cheeks colored with affront.
“Hah!” exclaimed Antipas. “That is excellent. We have had enough miracle-workers in Judea! Or charlatans! I trust you are not here to excite the people. Or to claim you have a unique mission from God!”
“I am here only to find the truth and to record it,” said Lucanus, with anger. Pilate began to smile. Phillip listened with a goblet of wine at his lips and only his alert eyes shining on Lucanus.
“And I am here to keep the peace among my people, and order,” said Antipas. “I shall be ruthless with troublemakers.” His eyes glistened with threat.
“These Judean olives are delightful, if I may be permitted to say so at my own table,” said Pilate. “What, Lucanus? You appear to have little appetite. My cook is excellent; this roast suckling pig is delicious.”
“Perhaps our honored visitor does not care for swine,” said Antipas, with a nasty smile. Lucanus refused to respond to this goading. He permitted a slave to give him some suckling meat.
He began to wonder why Antipas was so obviously agitated and irritable. The tetrarch put a handful of little salt Jewish olives in his mouth, chewed them gloomily, then spat out the pits.
“So,” he said, “you are here to find the truth and recor
d it. Tell me, are you a Christian?”
“I have been a Christian since the day of Christ’s birth,” said Lucanus. Antipas almost dropped his goblet in amazement; his mouth fell open. “What did you say?” he demanded, incredulously. Phillip leaned forward in his chair, and the subtle smile on Pilate’s face vanished.
“Are you mad?” cried Antipas, slapping his hand on the table. “No one heard of the Christians until four years ago! That Galilean first appeared at that time!”
“Nevertheless, I knew Him from the day He was born. It was my own lack of merit which made me forget Him for many years, my own obstinacy and anger.” Lucanus looked straight at Antipas, who was stupefied. “Let me explain.” He brought forth the cross once more and showed it to Antipas, who suddenly shrank. Lucanus told them of Keptah, of the Chaldeans and Babylonians, of the Egyptians and the Greeks, of their ancient prophecies. He told them of the Magi, and the great cross in their secret temple in Antioch. He told them of the Star he had seen as a young child, and its movement east. Many of the slaves along the walls leaned forward eagerly to hear, and some of their eyes filled with tears.
“I was in Athens on the day of His crucifixion,” said Lucanus, in a low and urgent tone. “The sun disappeared; there were the sounds and groanings of earthquakes. I have heard rumors, in my wanderings, that this happened everywhere in the known world. Do you think it coincidence?”
The reddish flush on Antipas’ narrow face disappeared; it was replaced by a livid tint. He was silent, but his eyes darted everywhere as if looking for escape. He licked his lips. Pontius brooded; his hand played with his goblet. Phillip smiled, and he lifted his head as if he had come to a profound resolution.
Antipas suddenly began to tremble as if with an inner rage. He said at last, in a pent and furious voice, “All this is nonsense. I talked with Jesus myself. I had hoped He was the Messias. I wished to see His alleged miracles for myself.” He shot a furtive glance at Pilate. “I know the prophecies of the Messias. I have heard them all my life.” Again he licked his lips and glanced at Pilate. “The Messias was to deliver the Jews from — from the oppressor. You will pardon me, Pontius? This was the real prophecy! But this Jesus declared He was not of this world, that the things of Caesar did not concern Him. I had Him brought to me.”
He paused; his trembling grew noticeable. “In spite of the high priest, who accused Him not only of upsetting the Law, but of inciting the people against authority and provoking riots, to the detriment of the safety of the Jewish people, I had Him brought to me for questioning. If He were the Messias he would reveal Himself in glory and miracles to me, and would be transformed before my eyes. But, to my great disappointment, He was only a miserable, rough-clad peasant from Galilee. I questioned Him. I implored Him to reveal Himself if He were truly the Messias. But He stood before me in silence and did not answer. I, the tetrarch of Jerusalem! He only stared at me as if He had not heard me. I had been informed He had called me ‘that fox’. I was prepared to forgive Him if He were the Messias in truth, for the gods have no reverence for men, not even for kings.”
For the first time, Antipas drank deeply of his wine and held out his goblet for more. He shook his head over and over.
“A wretched Galilean! The impudence of Him, asserting He was the Messias of the ages! There He stood, and only gazed at me, and would not answer. Why did He not answer? He was voluble enough among His followers and before the people! I have come to the only conclusion: faced with the majesty of authority, and full of fear, He could not speak. He had lost His tongue. Therefore I knew this was no Messias, but only an insurrectionist. He was only a poverty-stricken peasant who had deceived the simple-minded and the ignorant. I was deeply angered, both against the blasphemy and the insurrection He had instigated.
“And so I said to Him, ‘You are not the Messias. You are a fraud and a liar’. I cannot tell you of my rage and disappointment, and His dull staring at me. So I delivered Him to justice, and to mock His pretensions I threw a gorgeous garment on His shoulders and sent Him away.”
Phillip said, “You were also enraged against one called John the Baptist. He inveighed against you because of your wife, Herodias. You permitted his death, at the bequest of your wife.”
The eyes of the brothers clashed visibly, like the coming together of swords.
Then Antipas looked at his brother with hate, and said, “Do not be ambitious. I am the tetrarch of Jerusalem, and the friend of Pontius Pilate.”
Phillip shrugged. “You speak of those who are gullible. Yet you hoped that John was Elias, born again.”
Antipas turned from him and directed his reddish and malevolent gaze at Lucanus. “And so I must warn you, guest though you are of my dear friend, Pontius Pilate, and a Roman citizen, that I will permit no more disorder among my people and no more inciting. Seek what truth you will, but not among the ignorant and the deceived. I have told you the truth. Let it suffice.”
“There is nothing as laudable as frankness,” said Pilate, smiling.
“Lucanus, like all Greeks, is superstitious,” said Antipas, with another look of hate.
“Nevertheless, I shall seek the truth,” said Lucanus, regarding Herod coldly. “Who can stop me?”
Antipas’ nostrils distended, and he breathed loudly. “I am a civilized man. I know my duty as a guest of Pontius Pilate. Courtesy is expected of a guest. But I have a quarrel with you, most noble Lucanus.” He sneered. “At my request, Pontius proscribed the Christians. He is a just man, an administrator of the Roman law. Now you have influenced him to lift that proscription, in spite of my requests and my arguments. This will set off riots again, and dangerous disorders. I am prepared to deal with them.”
Pontius smiled. “I obey Caesar. Tiberius gave Lucanus a magnificent ring. Lucanus asked me to lift the proscription; he put the ring into my hand. Tiberius has great regard for him, and I could not but obey his request.” He appeared to be enjoying himself.
Herod Antipas said, “I honor Caesar. But even Caesars can be deceived.”
“True,” said Pilate, and idly played with the stem of his goblet. Lucanus compressed his lips. He was about to speak with heat when he saw that Pilate and Herod Phillip were exchanging hard and significant glances, and that Phillip’s hand had turned into a fist on the silken tablecloth. Then Pilate shook his head slightly, as if denying, and lifted the palm of his hand in a gesture asking patience.
Antipas spoke directly to Lucanus. “I have told you the truth. What you can learn otherwise, except from Pilate and myself, can only be lies. Whom will you question? The contemptible followers of Jesus? You came armed with superstitions. Children imagine many things, and what you have told us was taught you in your childhood may have been fancy on your part, or the vaporings of nameless creatures full of the belief in sorcery and magic. I remember when I was a child also. I had a dream that with my own eyes I would see the Messias!”
“And so you did,” said Lucanus.
Antipas struck the table again in complete exasperation. He appealed, with his volatile eyes, to Pilate, as if to say, ‘What can be done with such a fool?’ He said, “I understood you were a learned man, marvelously gifted in the art of healing. You were graduated from the University of Alexandria. You have traveled. Doubtless you have met wise men and scholars. Yet you, who never saw that Galilean, come here with an obstinate belief. Verily, it is too much for an intelligent man to endure!” He turned to Pilate. “I beg of you to reinstate the proscription against those who call themselves Christians, in the name of the peace of the Empire, in the name of Caesar.”
“I had no choice,” said Pilate, blandly, spreading out his hands in a gesture of surrender. “There was the ring of Tiberius. The meaning of the ring is that the owner may use it in the name of Caesar, as if Caesar were speaking himself. You understand that, my dear Antipas.”
Antipas considered that, his small yellowish teeth biting his nether lip. His eyes sparkled, deepened, glowed. Finally he spoke to Lucanus in a
changed and pleading tone. “Forgive me that I appeared to threaten you. Try to comprehend. I have heard you have a deep love for the Jewish people. Do you wish to see riots and disorders here again, and the death of the innocent? Do you wish to see the hand of Rome descend in violence on this little land, which has endured so much, and suffered so much? What has Israel to do with you, that you would destroy it?”
“I did not come to destroy,” said Lucanus. “I came only as a man seeking the truth.”
“Yes, yes,” said Antipas, impatiently. “I was not speaking of that. But when you prevailed on Pontius Pilate to lift the proscription against the ignorant and disorderly Christians, who have considerable fierceness and dedication, you opened the gate to desperate trouble again. The Jews are an argumentative people; they will fight each other for an opinion on the Law; they disagree furiously. The proscription has scattered the Christians and has kept them apart and has prevented them from quarreling with their fellow Jews. Now they will appear again, and all will be lost.”
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