He didn’t know what to say. When had she ever cared about the affairs of state or for the welfare of a common prisoner?
Her eyes dropped, not able to meet his. “I have suffered many things in a dream this night because of him, Pontius. Please! Don’t have anything to do with this.”
And then, before he could get over his astonishment, she went up on her toes, kissed him on the cheek, and turned and strode back inside.
Troubled more deeply than he was willing to admit, Pilate walked slowly back to Jesus. Marcus gave him a questioning look, but the governor ignored it. He sat back heavily in the chair, brooding sullenly, thinking of Fortunata’s dream. From birth, Romans were taught to look for portents and deep meaning in their dreams. This was making him increasing frustrated. Finally, he looked up. “Are you the king of the Jews?” he growled darkly.
Jesus’ head came up to look at him. “Do you say this of yourself, or did others tell you that?”
Leaping to his feet, Pilate lashed out. “Am I a Jew?” He began pacing back and forth in front of him. “It is your nation and your chief priests that have delivered you to me. What have you done?”
Marcus leaned forward, curious to hear the answer to that.
“My kingdom is not of this world,” came the calm response. “If it were, then my followers would fight for me, that I be not delivered into the hands of the Jews. But my kingdom is not from here.”
Marcus felt himself relax. Just as he had said. This man was no threat. But to his surprise, Pilate seemed only the more troubled by that answer. “So are you a king then?” he pressed, staring into those fathomless eyes.
For a long moment Jesus seemed to be taking the measure of his accuser, but then finally he nodded. “Yes, it is as you say. To this end was I born, and for this cause came I into the world, that I should bear witness of the truth.” He paused. “Everyone that is of the truth hears my voice.”
Pilate stiffened at the implications of that. “What is truth?” he snapped angrily. He turned to Sextus and flipped his hand. “Hold him in the corridor,” he said. Then he motioned Marcus forward.
“Yes, sire.”
Pilate sat down in the judgment seat, not looking up. “Do you find this man a threat to Rome?”
“No, sire. As I said before, I believe the greater threat would be stirring up the people against us. He’s very popular.”
The older Roman took a deep breath, his eyes half closing as he considered. Then he stood and strode back out onto the balcony. The people milling around below went quiet again. Pilate looked directly down at Mordechai, Caiaphas, Annas, and Azariah. “I find no fault in this man,” he called loudly.
A howl of protest exploded from many lips.
“There is nothing here worthy of death,” he shouted over the noise.
“Not so!” Azariah bellowed. “This man has been stirring up the people from the Galilee to Jerusalem. Thousands flock to him saying he is the King who shall deliver them from Rome’s oppression.”
The last was meant to serve as a barb to the procurator, but Pilate hadn’t heard it. At the mention of Galilee, he spun back around to Marcus. “He is a Galilean?”
“Yes, sire. He’s from Nazareth. That’s in the upper Galilee.”
“And Herod is here in Jerusalem for the feast?”
“Yes, Excellency, he is.”
Pilate pulled at his chin. After the breakup of the kingdom of Herod the Great, Emperor Tiberias had divided up the kingdom among Herod’s sons. Some had lost their portions through mismanagement or falling out of favor with the emperor, and those areas had become the province of Judea, governed directly by Rome. But the tetrarchy of the Galilee, which had gone to Herod Antipas, had remained intact. Antipas and Pilate had fought many a battle over who really had primary responsibility there, and Pilate detested the man. But . . .
“The Galilee is his territory, as he continually likes to remind me.” He made up his mind. “Take the prisoner to Herod’s Palace. Let that old weasel take jurisdiction here.”
IV
“Wait here,” Simeon murmured, touching Miriam’s arm.
Her eyes widened. “You’re not going to try to—”
He gave her a comforting smile. “No, I’m not going to follow them. I just want to get a better idea of what is going on. I’ll be right back.”
When the soldiers marched Jesus out the gate with the Jewish leaders hard behind, word spread that Pilate had sent Jesus to Herod. A few people filed out after the soldiers to see what would happen with Herod, but Menachem, after a whispered word from Mordechai, stopped at the gate and turned most of the crowd back. They were to stay where they were. The delegation would be back, he promised.
That’s when Simeon knew for sure that something smelled bad, very bad. The Sadducee who served Mordechai moved among the people—or rather, among a select group of the people—there in the courtyard. He would join a group, whisper briefly to them, wait for the nod of acknowledgment, then move on. His contacts were always with the men who made Simeon’s flesh crawl a little. None of them were the kind of men you wanted in the house when you were trying to sleep.
Certain that Menachem wouldn’t recognize him—Simeon had always been in a crowd when he had been in Menachem’s presence—he pushed his way through the people, going at an angle so he would intercept Menachem as he met the next group. On reaching them, Simeon turned his back, bending down, pretending to lace his sandals up more tightly. Menachem was right behind him.
“You know what to do?” Menachem asked softly.
There was a mutter of agreement.
“Good. Just follow my lead.”
“And when do we get paid?” another voice demanded.
“Shut up, you fool,” Menachem warned. “You’ll get paid when you’ve done what you were brought here to do.”
He moved off again. Simeon stood and, without turning to look back, started a large circle around the court to the place where James, John, Andrew, and the others had gathered. As he did so, he saw the group of women who had come from Bethany. They too were deep in the shadows. He saw that Mary Magdalene and Martha were standing beside Jesus’ mother, holding her by both arms to help steady her.
V
Pilate was waiting for them, drumming his fingers rapidly on the arms of his seat. At the sight of Jesus, he stood up. “What is this?” He pointed at Jesus, who now had a gorgeous, full-length scarlet robe draped around his shoulders.
Marcus motioned for Sextus to stand Jesus where he had been before, then turned to his commander. “Herod put it on him.”
The governor reached out and fingered the material. It was beautiful. The cloth was thick and finely woven. Such color came from a dye made by crushing a rare species of shellfish in Phoenicia. It was rare enough that only the wealthiest could own such fabric. This was not an insignificant gift.
Marcus sensed what was going through the governor’s mind. “Jesus refused to answer any questions, which annoyed Herod. But some of the people started calling Jesus the king. That amused Herod greatly, and he called for the robe to be placed on Jesus’ shoulders.”
Though they were speaking in Latin, and Pilate assumed this simple Galilean could not understand their words, Jesus’ steady gaze made Pilate uncomfortable. He moved back and then said, “So? Herod didn’t pronounce sentence?”
“No, sire. It was a waste of time. The Jewish leaders were there, making the same accusations they did for us. As I said, the king questioned Jesus at some length, but he never once opened his mouth. Finally, Herod turned him back to me, saying that he didn’t find anything in him worthy of death.” He smiled ironically. “Sire, the king expressed his deep appreciation for your consideration in sending Jesus to him. He has heard much about him and wanted to meet him. It was a wise courtesy. He said he hopes this leads to a more amicable relationship between the two of you in the future.”
“Good.” Pilate turned back to look at Jesus. “But he made no judgment?”
�
�None. He said it was in your hands.”
Pilate snorted softly. So Herod didn’t want this hot coal thrown into his bag either. He stood there, deep in thought for a moment, then strode past Jesus and out onto the balcony again. “Bring him out here,” he said to Marcus as he passed.
The people, who had waited lazily while the soldiers were gone, had come fully awake again. Jesus was back. They looked up at the governor, waiting for his word. Once again Mordechai and the other leaders stood directly below him.
Pilate put his fists on the marble railing and leaned far out. “Leaders of the Great Council of Jerusalem,” he intoned, “you have brought me this man—” he gestured with a hand to the figure just behind him—“and say that he has been perverting the people. Behold, I have examined him and have found no fault in this man touching the things of which he is accused.”
His voice rose sharply as an angry rumble erupted below him. “I sent this man to Herod Antipas, and, as you can see, he has returned. Neither did he find anything worthy of death in him.”
The rumble became a roar before he had finished speaking. People screamed up at him, shaking their fists, shouting insults.
Pilate flushed and turned to Marcus. His tribune moved up quickly beside him. “Sire, I have a suggestion.”
“Yes?”
“Remember that it is our tradition to release a Jewish prisoner during Passover.”
Pilate’s eyes lighted. “Yes,” he mused. “Near the end of the feast.”
“We have been holding the three Zealot leaders we captured last fall and planned to crucify them this week as a reminder to the people of what happens to rebels.”
Pilate turned slowly, suddenly interested. “Yes, go on.”
“I mentioned to you the other day that the Jews want us to release the chief of them, the one called Barabbas, in keeping with the custom.”
“Barabbas?”
“Yes, sire. He is a murderer and a dangerous man. I think it is a mistake to release him. So what if we released this Jesus instead?”
Whatever feelings of frustration Marcus had from time to time with his commanding officer, he had never considered him dull witted or slow of perception. Pilate saw immediately the advantages of what Marcus was suggesting. “Hmm,” he mused. “As popular as Jesus is with the people, they should love that.”
“It would extricate us from a sticky situation here.”
“Good thinking, Marcus.” He turned back and looked into the faces of the people, holding up his hands. They quieted somewhat, but not totally. They were getting restless, and an ugly undercurrent of anger was swelling, which worried Pilate a little. “Citizens,” he said loudly, “as you know, it is our custom to release a prisoner to you during this festival time. Since neither I nor Herod find any fault in Jesus, I will chastise him and then we will release him as—”
“No!” It was Mordechai who shouted it, but others had cried out as well. “Away with this man!”
Several days before, as the council discussed the possible release of a prisoner during the feast and settled on Jesus Barabbas, Mordechai had objected. He hated the Zealots and knew they represented a very real danger to the nation. Their blind fanaticism threatened to bring down the wrath of Rome on their heads. To set one of the most dangerous leaders free was a mistake. But the people’s love for the Zealots was in direct correlation to their hatred of Rome. A large majority insisted on asking for Barabbas. And so he had finally backed down.
Mordechai exchanged a glance with Menachem. “Barabbas,” he whispered. Then he looked up at Pilate. “We don’t want this man. Release Barabbas unto us.”
“Barabbas!” Menachem shouted, whirling around. “We want Barabbas!” He pumped his hand. “We want Barabbas!”
Then men in his pay saw what he was doing and joined in immediately. It spread quickly through the whole group.
“We want Barabbas! We want Barabbas!”
For a long moment, the procurator stared down into the faces of what was very quickly becoming a mob. Then, shaking his head, he turned, motioning with his finger for the guards to bring Jesus back inside. The thundering chant followed after them.
He dropped into his chair and put his head in his hands, pressing his fingers against his ears. When he looked up, Marcus was watching him. “We can disperse them if you wish, sire.”
Pilate shook his head. “No, that could quickly get out of hand. What is it going to take to satisfy them? Their heads are like blocks of granite.”
Marcus said nothing. After a minute or two, Pilate stirred. “Take the prisoner downstairs and scourge him. That will show them we’re not being soft with him. Then bring him back to me.”
Marcus was surprised. There had been no determination of guilt. But he didn’t feel it wise to point that out to Pilate. He turned to Sextus. “You heard the governor.”
Sextus, uncharacteristically subdued, answered with a nod, but his eyes were on the ground and he didn’t look at the tribune.
“Sextus?” Marcus warned in a low voice, guessing what was causing his hesitation. Sextus turned before Marcus could say more and started barking orders to the guards. Four of them surrounded Jesus and marched him out. Sextus followed behind, not turning to look back as they left the room.
VI
No one was exactly sure who had first devised the scourge as an instrument of punishment, but, as they had with so many other things, the Romans had perfected it. Whips of one sort or another were initially invented to control animals. When men began viewing other men as animals, it was not surprising that the whip should find a new application.
The Roman flagrum, or flagellum, had a hollow wooden handle through which passed several leather strands. The length of these thongs could be shortened or lengthened as desired by pulling them one way or the other through the handle.
Three was the most commonly favored number of strands, but Sextus had seen as many as nine. A strip of dry rawhide, even when wielded by a powerful man, usually left only angry red welts. So the Romans had developed an enhanced version of the instrument for use when more severe punishment was required. Three very thin strings of leather were braided together, with pieces of bone or shards of metal added every two or three inches. With that, there was no longer any question of damage. The flesh was ripped and torn even with a light blow.
Sextus stood back as the soldiers prepared the prisoner. The centurion watched Jesus, wondering if he remembered him from Capernaum. How could he not, when Sextus had spoken to him face to face and asked him to heal his servant? But if Jesus recognized him, he gave no sign. Jesus had not looked at him directly at any time since being brought to the Praetorium.
In almost thirty years of service, Sextus had watched more scourgings than he could count. Some he had administered himself, usually to a legionnaire who had fallen asleep on duty or lost his courage and fled during battle. He had never liked it, but this was the first time he was sickened by it.
The soldiers, bored after several days of barracks duty, were eager to carry out the sentence. They had heard that the prisoner was accused of being a king. His being clothed in the scarlet robe only piqued their curiosity the more. They found the whole idea hilarious. It had not been their privilege to scourge a king before. They called him, “Your grace,” or “Your majesty,” bowing low in exaggerated homage, treating him with mock deference. Someone found an old dried reed and stuck it in his hand as a scepter. All of this was punctuated with raucous peals of laughter and slaps across his face, blows to his head, or savage kicks to his ankles and shins. Jesus submitted without protest or outward sign of response.
Then two of the men had an idea. They ran to the garden that was at the back of the Praetorium. There a large thorn bush grew. Its long willowy branches were studded with two-inch spikes that could draw blood like the point of a knife. They cut off two or three branches and trooped back to the dungeon. Then, as their comrades shouted encouragement, they wove the branches together to form a “crown.”
A powerfully muscled legionnaire with a pockmarked face walked over to the bench and picked up the scourge. The laughter died away. No matter how hardened a man might be, there was rarely much laughter during the actual punishment.
As the man reached Jesus and planted his feet, checking the thongs on the scourge to be sure they were the proper length, Sextus raised a hand. The legionnaire stopped, clearly surprised. All heads turned to their centurion, waiting expectantly. Sextus paused, then shook his head, dropped his hand, and turned away. “Bring him back up to the judgment chambers when you are finished,” he said.
VII
The crowd had been getting restless, and Pilate had finally sent Marcus out to tell them that the target of their hatred was undergoing a Roman scourging. That brought a ragged cheer, and they settled down again somewhat. But some of the people had been there for almost three hours, and Pilate could sense he wasn’t going to be able to pacify them much longer.
He jumped to his feet when the door opened and Sextus came in. Behind him came the first two legionnaires, then Jesus. Pilate started toward the balcony, then stopped again, turning back. Jesus was still in shadow, but something caught Pilate’s eye. Then as Jesus came forward, Pilate’s breath drew in sharply. The prisoner was still clothed in the scarlet robe, and his wrists were bound together. But his face was streaked with blood. That puzzled Pilate for a moment. A scourging did not involve the head. Then he saw it. A cleverly woven crown of thorns had been pressed deeply into Jesus’ hair. Blood glistened on several of the tips, and Pilate winced involuntarily as he realized what his soldiers had done.
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