All the streets of the city were bathed in a silver-clear shower of moonbeams, — the air was balmy and scented with the fragrance of roses and orange-boughs, — groups of youths and maidens sauntered here and there in the cool of the various gardens, laughing, chatting, and now and then lifting up their well-attuned voices in strophes of choral song. Jerusalem basked in the soft radiance of the Eastern night like a fairy city of pleasure, and there was no sign among her joyous people, to show that the Redeemer of the world had died for the world’s sake that day.
In marked contrast to the animation prevailing in other streets and courts, a great stillness surrounded the house of Pontius Pilate, the Roman governor. The fountain in the outer colonnade alone made music to itself as it tossed up its delicate dust-like spray that fell tinkling back again into the marble basin, — no wandering breeze ruffled the petals of the white roses that clung like little bunches of crumpled silk to the dark walls, — even the thirsty and monotonous chirp-chirping of the locusts had ceased. Now and then a servant crossed the court on some errand, with noiseless feet, — and one Roman soldier on guard paced slowly to and fro, his sandals making scarcely any sound as he measured his stately march forward a dozen lengths or so, then backward, then forward again, the drooping pennon on his lifted lance throwing a floating snake-like shadow behind him as he moved. Pilate, since the morning, had been seriously indisposed, and all his retinue were more or less uneasy. Quiet had been enforced upon the household by its haughty and resolute mistress, — and now that night had fallen the deep hush seemed likely to be unbroken till a new day should dawn. So that when a loud and urgent knocking was heard at the outmost gate, the porter who opened it was almost speechless with indignation and amazement.
“I prithee cease thy rude clamour” — he said, after he had looked out of his loophole of observation and seen that the would-be intruder was a man of distinguished appearance and attire—” Thou canst not enter here with all thy knocking, — the governor is ill and sees no man.”
“Nevertheless I must have speech with him,” responded the visitor— “I do beseech thee, friend, delay me not — my matter presses.”
“I tell thee ’tis not possible” — said the porter—” Wouldst have us lose our heads for disobeying orders? Or crucified even as the ‘Nazarene’?”
“My business doth concern the ‘ Nazarene’” — was the reply, given hurriedly and with evident emotion—” Tell this to one in authority; and say that ’tis Joseph of Arimathea who waits without.”
At these words the porter ceased arguing, and disappeared across the court into the house. Presently he returned, accompanied by a tall slave, wearing a silver chain of office.
“Worthy Counsellor” — said the retainer, respectfully saluting the Arimathean, “ Thou canst not at this late hour have speech with Pilate, who hath been sorely overwrought by the harassments of the day, — but I am commanded by the lady Justitia to say that she will receive thee willingly if indeed thy matter is of the Man of Nazareth.”
“It is — it is” — answered Joseph eagerly—” I do entreat thee, bring me to thy lady straight, for every moment lost doth hinder the fulfilment of mine errand.”
The slave said no more, but signed to the porter to unbar the gate with as little noise as possible. Then he led the way across the court, gave a word of explanation to the soldier on guard, and finally escorted the visitor into an arched vestibule adorned with flowering plants, and cooled by sparkling jets of water that ran from carved lions’ mouths into a deep basin of yellow marble. Here the slave disappeared, leaving the Arimathean alone. He paced up and down with some impatience, full of his own burning thoughts that chafed at every fresh delay, and he was violently startled, when a grave mellow voice said close to him, —
“What of the Christ? Have ye indeed slain Him?”
“Lady!”... he stammered, and turned to confront the wife of Pilate, who had silently entered the vestibule behind him. For a moment he could find no words wherewith to answer her, — the steadfastness of her dark eyes troubled him. She was beautiful in a grand and stately way, — her resolute features and brooding brows expressed more fierceness than tenderness, and yet her lips quivered with some deeply suppressed emotion as she spoke again and said —
“Surely thou art a Jew, and hast had thy share in this murder?”
With the shock of this bitterly pronounced accusation he recovered his self-possession.
“Noble Justitia, I beseech thee in the name of God number me not with the evil ones of this misguided nation!” he answered passionately—” Could I have saved the heaven-born ‘Nazarene,’ surely I would have given my own life willingly! For I have gathered profit from His holy doctrine, and am His sworn disciple, though secretly, for fear of the harshness of mine own people, who would cast me out from their midst, if they knew the change wrought within my soul. Moreover I am a man who hath studied the sayings of the prophets, not lightly but with sober judgment, and do accept all the things that now have chanced to us as fulfilment of the word of God. And most heartily do I render thanks unto the Most High that He hath in His great mercy permitted me to see with mortal eyes His chosen true Messiah!”
“Thou dost then freely acknowledge Him as One Divine?” said Justitia, fixing a searching look upon him.
“Most surely, lady! If ever any god did dwell on earth, ’twas He.”
“Then He lives yet?”
Joseph looked perplexed and troubled.
“Nay! He is dead. Hath He not been crucified?”
“Doth a god die?” asked Justitia, her sombre eyes glittering strangely—” What power have mortal tortures on immortal spirit? Summon thy reason and think calmly — art sure that He is dead?”
Her words and manner were so solemn and impressive that the Arimathean counsellor was for a moment bewildered and amazed, and knew not what to say. Then, after a doubtful pause, he answered, —
“Lady, as far as human eye and sense can judge, life hath verily departed from Him. His body hath been taken down from off the Cross, and for the reason that they found Him dead, they have spared the breaking of His limbs. Whereas the malefactors that were crucified with Him have had their joints twisted and snapt asunder lest haply any spark of pained existence should linger in them, yet. But He of Nazareth having perished utterly, and no faint pulse of blood being feebly astir in any portion of His matchless frame, the men of the law have judged it politic and merciful to give His mortal pure remains to her who bore Him, — Mary, His sorrowing Mother, who weeps beside Him now.”
Justitia heard, and her pale resolute face grew paler.
“Is’t possible Divinity can perish!” she murmured. Again she looked steadily, searchingly at the thoughtful and earnest countenance of the Arimathean, and added with a touch of the domineering haughtiness which made her name a terror to her household, “ Then, Counsellor Joseph, if thy words be true, and the Galilean Prophet be no longer living, what can thine errand be concerning Him?”
“’Tis naught but one of simple duty to the noble dead” — he replied quickly, and with anxiety— “I fain would bury the body of the Lord where it may be most reverently shrined and undisturbed. There is a sepulchre newly hewn among the rocks outside the city, not far from Calvary, but going downwards towards Gethsemane, ’twas meant for mine own tomb, for well I know the years-advance with me, and only God knoweth how soon I may be called upon to die, — nevertheless if I may lay the body of the Master therein, I shall be well content to be interred in baser ground below Him. We would not have Him sepulchred with common malefactors, — wherefore, noble lady, I seek thy lord the governor’s permission to place within this unused burial cave of mine own choosing and purchase, the sacred corpse of One who, to my thinking, was indeed the Christ, albeit He hath been crucified. This is my errand, — and I have sped hither in haste to ask from Pilate his free and favourable consent, which, if it be granted will make of me a grateful debtor to the gentleness of Rome.”
Justitia smiled darkly at the courteous phrase “the gentleness of Rome,” — then her fierce brows contracted in a puzzled line.
“Truly I know not how to aid thee, friend,” — she said after a pause—” I have no power to grant thee this permit, — and my lord is sorely wearied and distempered by strange fancies and — dreams, — unhappy and confusing dreams,” — she repeated slowly and with a slight shudder— “Yet — stay! Wait but one moment, — I will inquire of him his mood, — perchance it may relieve him to have speech with thee.”
Gliding away on her noiseless sandalled feet, her majestic figure in its trailing robes of white glimmered in and out the marble columns of the corridor and rapidly disappeared. Joseph of Arimathea sighed heavily, and stood looking vaguely at the trickling water running from the mouths of the stone lions into the marble-lined hollow in the centre of the vestibule, wondering to himself why his heart had beat so violently, and why his thoughts had been so suddenly troubled when he had been asked the question, “Art sure that He is dead?” He was not left long alone to indulge in his reflections, — Justitia returned almost as quickly as she had vanished, and pausing at a little distance beckoned to him.
“Pilate will see thee” — she said, as he eagerly obeyed her gesture—” But shouldst thou find him wild and wandering in discourse, I pray thee heed him not. And beware how thou dost speak of his distemper to the curious gossips of the city, — I would not have it noised abroad that he hath been all day so far distracted from his usual self” — here her steady voice trembled and her proud eyes filled with sudden tears—” He hath been ill — very ill — and only I have tended him; and notwithstanding he is calmer now, thou must in converse use discretion.”
“Trust me, noble lady” — replied the Arimathean with profound feeling, “I will most faithfully endeavour that I shall not err in aught, or chafe thy lord with any new displeasure.”
She bent her haughty head, partly in acknowledgment of his words, partly to hide the tears that glittered on her lashes, and, without further parley, led the way to her husband’s private room. In deep silence, hushing his footsteps heedfully as he moved, the Arimathean counsellor followed her.
CHAPTER XXV.
PASSING through a narrow passage curtained off from the rest of the house, they entered a long low vaulted apartment brilliantly ablaze with lights. Roman lamps set on iron brackets illuminated every corner that would otherwise have been dark, — waxen torches flamed in every fixed sconce. There was so much flare, and faint smoke from burnt perfumes, that for a moment it was impossible to discern anything clearly, although the wide casement window was set open to the night and steps led down from it to a closely-walled garden on which the moon poured refreshing showers of silver radiance eclipsing all the artificial glamour and glare within. And at this casement, extended on a couch, lay Pilate, pallid and inert, with halfclosed eyes and limp hands falling on either side of the silken coverlet spread over him — he had the supine and passive air of a long-ailing dying man to whom death would be release and blessedness. Joseph of Arimathea could scarcely restrain an exclamation of amazed compassion as he saw him, — but a warning glance from Justitia silenced him, and he repressed his feeling. She meanwhile went up to her husband’s couch and knelt beside it.
“The counsellor is here, Pontius” — she said softly—” Hast thou strength to give him audience?”
Pilate opened his eyes widely and stared vaguely at his visitor, — then lifting one hand that trembled in the air with weakness beckoned him to approach.
“Come nearer, nearer still” — he murmured with a kind of feeble pettishness, “Thou hast the look of a shadow yonder, — the room is full of shadows. Thou art Joseph? From that city of the Jews called Arimathea?”
“Even so, my lord” — answered Joseph in subdued accents, noting with pained concern the Roman governor’s prostrate and evidently suffering condition.
“And being a Jew, what dost thou seek of me?” went on Pilate, his heavy lids again half closing over his eyes—” Surely I have this day fully satisfied the Israelitish thirst for blood!”
“Most noble governor,” said Joseph, with as careful gentleness and humility as he could command—” Believe me that I am not one of those who forced thee to the deed ’twas evident thy spirit did repudiate and abhor. And albeit thou hast been named a tyrant and a cruel man by the unthinking of my nation, I know thy gentleness, having discovered much of thy good work in deeds of charity among the poor, — therefore I come to beg of thee the Body of the Christ” —— —— —— —
With a sudden excited movement, Pilate dashed aside the silken draperies that covered him and sat up, nervously clutching his wife’s arm.
“The Body of the Christ!” he echoed wildly—” Hearest thou that, Justitia! The Body of the Christ!”
His purple garments fell about him in disordered folds — his vest half open showed his chest heaving agitatedly with his unquiet and irregular breathing, — his eyes grew feverishly luminous, and gleamed with a strange restless light from under the shadow of his tossed and tumbled hair. Joseph, alarmed at his aspect, stood hesitating, — Justitia looked at him and made him a mute sign to go on and make his appeal quickly.
“Yea, ’tis the Body of the Christ I ask from thee” — he proceeded then, anxiously yet resolvedly— “And verily I would not have troubled thee at this hour, Pilate, but that thou art governor and ruler of the civil laws within Judæa, therefore thou alone canst give me that which hath been slain by law. I fain would lay the sacred corpse within mine own new sepulchre, with all the tears and prayers befitting a great hero dead.”
“Dead?” cried Pilate, fixing a wild stare upon him—” Already dead? Nay — art thou sure?”
A chill tremor shook the strong nerves of the Arimathean. Here was the same question Justitia had asked him a few minutes since, — and it aroused the same strange trouble in his mind. And while he stood amazed, unable to find words for an immediate response, Pilate sprang erect, tossing his arms up like a man distraught.
“Dead!” he cried again. “O fools, fools whose sight is so deceived! No mortal power can slay the ‘Nazarene,’ — He lives and He hath always lived! yea, from the beginning even unto the end, if any end there be! What? ye have crucified Him? — ye have seen His flesh pierced, and His blood flow? Ye have touched Him? — ye have seen Him share in mortal labours, mortal woes, and mortal needs, — ye have proved Him made of perishable fleshy stuff that ye can torture and destroy? — O poor dim-sighted fools! Lo, ye have done the bravest and most wondrous deed that ever was inscribed in history, — ye have crucified a Divine Appearance — ye have gloated over the seeming death of the Deathless! A God was with us, wearing apparent mortal vesture, — but those who saw the suffering Man and Man alone, did only think they saw! I looked beyond, — I, Pilate, — I beheld” — Here he broke off with a smothered exclamation, his eyes fixing themselves alarmedly upon the outer garden bathed in the full glory of the moon. “Justitia! Justitia!” he cried; She sprang to him, — and he caught her convulsively in his arms, drawing her head down against his bosom and straining her to his heart with passionate violence.
“Hush! — hush!” he murmured, “ Let us not weep, — the thing is done, — remorse will not avail. Accursed Jews! — they forced my hand, — they, with their devilish priest, did slay the Man, not I. ‘Ecce Homo!’ I cried to them, — I sought to make them see even as I saw, — the glory, the terror, and the wonder, — the radiance of that seeming-human Form, so fine and marvellous, that methought it would have vanished into ether! Even as the lightning did He shine! His flesh was but a garment, transparent as a mist through which one sees the sun! Nevertheless, let us not weep despairingly, — tears are but foolish — for He is not dead — He could not die, although He hath been crucified. He hath the secret clue of death; ’tis a mystery unfathomable, — for what the gods may mean by this we know not, — and what the world hath done we know not, — howbeit let the world look to it, for w
e are not to blame!” He paused, caressing with a sort of fierce tenderness the dark ripples of his wife’s luxuriant hair. “My love!” he said, pityingly—” My poor tired anxious heart! No more tears, Justitia, I pray thee, — we will forget this day, for truly it concerns us not, ’tis the Jews’ work, — let the Jews answer for it — for I will not, neither to Cæsar nor to God! I have said and still will say — I am innocent of the blood of this just Man!”
Here, loosening his arms suddenly from around his wife, he raised them with a proud and dignified gesture of protest, — then turning suddenly, and perceiving Joseph of Arimathea where he stood apart, a silent and troubled spectator of the scene, he advanced towards him, and said, gently, —
“Friend, what seekest thou of me?”
The Arimathean cast a despairing glance of appeal at Justitia, who, hastily dashing away the tears on her cheeks and mastering the emotion that betrayed itself in her pale and sorrowful countenance, came to his rescue.
“Dear lord, hast thou forgotten?” she said gently, as with a guiding movement of her hand she persuaded Pilate to resume his seat upon the couch near the open window—” Thou art not well, and the harassments of thy work have over-wearied thee. This man doth seek the body of the ‘Nazarene’ for burial, — himself he charges with the duties of this office if thou wilt give him thy permit, — grant him his boon I do beseéch thee, and let him go his way, for thou must rest again and sleep — thou hast been sorely tried.”
Pilate sank heavily among his cushions, looking blankly into nothingness.
“Thou wouldst bury the Christ?” he asked at last, speaking with difficulty as though his tongue were stiff and refused utterance.
“Such is my one desire, my lord” — answered Joseph, hopefully now, for Pilate seemed more capable of reason.
“In thine own sepulchre?”
“Even there.”
“’Tis large? Will’t hold embodied Light and Life and yet not rive asunder?”
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli Page 304
