The Secret of the Kingdom

SECOND LETTER

MARCUS TO TULLIA:

I write this on the Jews’ feast day of the Passover in their holy city, Jerusalem, in the Antonia fortress. Something which I could never have dreamt of has befallen me, and I still do not know what it really is. Tullia, I am utterly bewildered, and so I am writing to sort out for myself and for you what it is that has happened.

I no longer despise omens, and indeed in my heart have never done so, scornfully though I may have spoken and written of them. With alarming certainty I believe that my steps have been led upon this journey and that I could not have avoided it even had I so wished. But what powers have guided me, I know not. I will begin at the beginning.

I hired a donkey in the market, to be my traveling companion, resisting all enticements to make a more comfortable journey, and set off to go up to Jerusalem with the last of the pilgrims. My donkey was a well-schooled and amiable beast, so that never once was I at odds with it the whole way.

As far as I could make out, it had plodded back and forth between Joppa and Jerusalem so often that it knew every well, and every halt, village and inn along the road. I could have wished for no better guide, and I think it came to feel friendly toward me, because I never rode it, even on downhill stretches, but walked on my own feet to refresh myself by exercise.

From Joppa to Jerusalem is barely a two days’ march for a legionary, although the hills are more tiring than level ground for the traveler on foot. But the road is all the more varied for that, and Judea is a beautiful and fertile land. The almond trees have already finished flowering in the valleys, but along the road the slopes are covered with blossom, and their bittersweet fragrance accompanied me all the way. I had rested, I felt rejuvenated, and it was a pleasure to tire my limbs, just as it used to be on the sportsground in my youth.

Both my upbringing and the caution which, as you know, my destiny has forced upon me, have taught me to shun displays. Neither by my behavior nor by my dress do I wish to single myself out from the crowd. That sort of vanity makes me laugh. I have no need of servants and runners to proclaim my arrival. In the course of my journey I drew my donkey meekly aside when great folk came hurrying by, busily urging on their slaves and animals. I derived more pleasure from the intelligent way my donkey pricked its ears as it turned to look at me than I would have felt if the rich and exalted persons had halted and greeted me, and invited me to join their company.

The Jews wear tassels at the corners of their mantles, and by this they recognize each other anywhere in the world, even though in other respects they may dress as we do. Yet this road, which Rome has improved and turned into an excellent army route, is so old and so well accustomed to many races that no one paid me any attention despite my lack of tassels. At the wayside inn to which the donkey led me, I was given water, like all the rest, to water my beast with and to wash my hands and feet. In the throng the inn servants could not stay to discriminate between foreigner and Jew. It was as if every race besides that of the country had been on the move to celebrate with joy and mirth the liberation of the Jews from slavery in Egypt.

I might easily have reached Jerusalem by the evening of the second day if I had made any haste. But I was a stranger, untouched by the fervor of the Jews. I enjoyed breathing the fresh air of the hills, and the splendor of the flowers on the slopes delighted my eye. After the feverish life of Alexandria my spirit felt lightened and I enjoyed every moment, so that a plain loaf of bread tasted better than all the delicacies of Egypt. Yes, I did not even desire to mingle wine with my water on this journey, lest I should blunt my senses; water alone tasted good enough to me.

So I purposely lingered on the road, and the sound of the shepherds’ reed pipes upon a hillside as they gathered their flocks together for the night surprised me when I was still some way from Jerusalem. I might have rested for a while, and then gone on to Jerusalem by moonlight; but I had heard of the marvelous spectacle that meets the wayfarer who approaches the city by day and beholds it rise beyond the valley, with its dazzling white and golden temple lit by the sun.

It was thus that I wished to see the Jews’ holy city for the first time; and so, to the astonishment of my donkey, I turned aside from the road and went to speak to a shepherd who was on his way to a cave in the hillside with his close-packed flock. He spoke the country dialect but could understand my Aramaic, and he assured me that there were no wolves in this populated region. He had not even a dog to protect his flock against beasts of prey, but said that for safety’s sake he slept at the mouth of the cave in case of jackals. His provisions consisted of sooty barley bread and goat cheese kneaded into a ball, so he was delighted when I broke wheaten bread for him and offered him a honeycomb and some dried figs.

Seeing that I was not a Jew, he would not share my meat, but he did not shun me for that. We ate together, sitting at the mouth of the cave, while my donkey cropped avidly among the thorny bushes of the hillside. Then the world suddenly turned as purple as a slope of anemones, darkness fell and the stars were kindled in the sky. At the same time the air turned cool, and I felt the concentrated warmth of the sheep wafting out of the cave. The smell of wool and tallow was strong, but I did not dislike it; it gave me a safe feeling, like a breath of childhood and of home. I was astonished to feel tears forcing themselves from my eyes. But they were not for you, Tullia. These were tears of weariness, I thought, because my wayfaring had tired my weakened body. Yet I suppose I was really weeping on my own account, for all that lay behind me and was irrevocably gone, but also for what still lies ahead. In that hour I would fearlessly have bent down and drunk from the spring of oblivion.

I slept on the ground outside the cave, with the starry sky for my roof, like the poorest pilgrim. So soundly did I sleep that the shepherd had taken his sheep to pasture when I woke. I could not remember one ill-boding dream, and yet everything seemed different from what it had been when I lay down to rest. The hillside faced west and still lay in shadow, although the sun lay upon the slopes opposite. I felt bruised, limp and listless; and the donkey stood near with drooping head. I could not make out how this change of mood had come about, for surely I was not so pampered that a couple of days’ walking and a night’s hard couch should so exhaust me. I supposed it must betoken a change in the weather, for I have always been as susceptible to that as to dreams and omens.

So listless was I that I did not want to eat. I felt unable to swallow a single morsel. I took a few mouthfuls of wine from the wineskin but it did not revive me, and I began to fear that I had drunk polluted water and was falling sick.

Away on the road I saw travelers climbing the next hill; but a long time passed before I could overcome my revulsion, load up the ass and return to that road myself. It was an effort to toil up the hill, but when at last I reached the top I realized what had happened. A scorching wind was blowing in my face, the persistent desert wind which, once it has risen, continues day after day, bringing sickness with it, and causing heads to ache and women to vomit; the wind that howls through the chinks of the houses and rattles the shutters all night through.

This wind parched my face in an instant and made my eyes smart. The sun, already high, was darkened to a glowing red disk. It was then that I saw the holy city of the Jews rising beyond the valley, girdled by its walls. With smarting eyes and a salt taste in my mouth I beheld the towers of Herod’s palace, the clusters of great houses on the slopes, the theatre and circus buildings and, loftier than all, the white and gold temple, with its walls, outer buildings and colonnades.

But beneath this darkened sun the temple did not shine, as I had been told it would. The marble was dull and the gilding devoid of luster. It is unquestionably a vast and mighty structure, an incomparable creation of modern architecture. But I did not feel what the Jews feel on beholding it. Instead, I looked at it from a sense of duty, because it was the thing to do after the long journey I had made. I was no longer young, as I was when I first saw the temple at Ephesus. I did not feel the same veneration for the miracle of beauty now, with a hot wind driving salt dust into my eyes.

My donkey turned its head and looked at me in surprise when I urged it forward once more. It had halted of its own accord on the crest of the hill, at the best view-point, surely expecting me to devote some time to cries of wonder and joy, to songs of praise, and to prayer. I accused myself of arrogance and of being a slave to comfort, because I failed to be enraptured by a vision which for countless people was the most sacred of any, just because my body was weary and the wind malevolent. The donkey twitched its ears in annoyance and set off down the winding road to the valley. I walked beside it holding the bridle, so weak in the knees did I feel.

The farther down we went, the less were we vexed by the wind, and at the bottom we hardly noticed it. At about noon we reached the point where the Joppa road joins the road from Caesarea and becomes a Roman highway. A whole throng was walking toward the city. Near the gate I saw that people were halting in groups and staring at a nearby mound, though many others covered their heads and hurried on. My donkey began to shy. On raising my eyes I saw three crosses standing on the thornbush-clad hill, and could discern the twitching bodies of the crucified men. Quite a large number of people had gathered on the slope opposite the city, to look on.

The road too was crowded, and I could not have made my way to the gate even had I wanted to. I had seen crucified criminals before, of course, and had paused to watch their torments, to harden myself against the sight of suffering. In the circus arena I have beheld yet crueler forms of death, but there was something exciting about those. A crucifixion offers nothing of that sort: it is merely a degrading, protracted method of depriving a man of his life. If I feel any satisfaction in my Roman citizenship, it is that at least I am sure of being executed by a swift swordstroke, should I ever be condemned to death.

In any other frame of mind I believe I would simply have averted my eyes, tried to forget the evil omen and pressed forward as best I might. But the sight of the three crucified men somehow intensified the feeling of distaste which the weather had engendered in me, although their fate was no concern of mine. I don’t know why I felt compelled to do as I did, but I led the donkey off the road for about a furlong and shouldered my way uphill through the silent crowd.

Some Syrian soldiers of the twelfth legion were lounging on the ground by the crosses, throwing dice and drinking sour wine.

It did not seem as if the victims were ordinary slaves or criminals, for at a little distance from the soldiers a centurion was also on guard.

At first I glanced only casually at the convulsively jerking figures, but then I noticed that at the top of the middle cross, above the head of the condemned man, an inscription had been fixed. On it, in Greek, Latin, and the people’s own language, was written: JESUS OF NAZARETH, KING OF THE JEWS. At first I didn’t take in the sense of what I read, so greatly was I disturbed. Then I saw that a wreath of thorns was pressed hard down about the drooping head of this man, to represent a king’s crown. His face was streaked with dried blood which had trickled from the wounds made by the thorns.

Almost at the same moment, both the inscription and the face of the crucified man grew dim before my eyes, the sun disappeared, and the day turned so dark, though it was about noon, that I could barely make out the people nearest to me. The birds fell quite silent, as during an eclipse, and so did the voices of the people, until all one heard was the clink of the soldiers’ dice on their shields and the gasping breath of the condemned men.

I had set forth in search of the king of the Jews, Tullia, as I half-jokingly told you in my last letter. I found him outside the gate of Jerusalem, still alive but nailed to a cross on a hill. When I understood the inscription and saw the crown of thorns on his head, I never for a moment doubted that I had found the man I sought: the man whose birth had been foretold by a conjunction of stars; the king of the Jews who, according to their scriptures, was to rise up as ruler of the world. How I came to understand this at once, and so clearly, I cannot possibly explain, although certainly the depression I had felt ever since early morning had prepared me for this somber sight.

I was glad of the darkened sky, which spared me from witnessing his shame and torture too closely and indiscreetly. I had already noticed that he had been struck hard in the face and flogged in the Roman manner. He was therefore in a considerably worse state than the two others, who were powerful, tough men of the people.

For a little while, as the sun was darkened, all the voices of men and nature fell silent. Then exclamations of wonder and fear broke out here and there. Even the centurion raised his eyes and scanned every quarter of the sky. My eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, and I began to make out something of the ground and the people about me. Now a few Jews of high rank began to press through the crowd, whose terror they had observed. From their headdresses I saw that they were leading men and scholars, and they wore splendid tassels at the corners of their mantles. They shouted loudly and cheeringly to the throng and began to deride the crucified man, bidding him show himself a king and step down from the cross. They shouted other spiteful remarks as well, plainly alluding to things which at some time he had said to the people.

In this way they tried to carry the crowd with them, and here and there one could hear a few shouts of abuse. But the greater part of the crowd remained stubbornly silent, as if wishing to hide their feelings. To judge by their clothes and faces they were mostly poor folk, among them many countrymen who had come up for the feast of the Passover. I had the notion that in their hearts they were favorably disposed toward their crucified king, although they dared not show this in front of the legionaries and their own leaders. There were a number of women in the crowd, and many of them had hidden their heads and were weeping.

When the crucified man heard the shouts, he lifted his trembling head and braced himself upward on his nailed feet. He had been fixed to the cross with his knees bent, so that he should not die too soon, of suffocation. Now he gasped for breath, and his bleeding body was shaken by convulsive jerks. He opened his eyes and looked dazedly around as if in search of something. But to the words of derision he returned no answer; he had enough to do to endure his more immediate suffering.

The two other men had a fair degree of strength remaining. The one on the left took the opportunity of pulling faces at the crowd. To show his own stamina he turned his head to the king, perhaps seeking some miserable gratification of his pride by joining in the mockery. “Weren’t you the anointed?” he shouted. “Then surely you can help yourself, and us too.”

But he on the right cursed him from his own cross, and taking the part of the king he said, “We suffer for our deeds, but this man has done no wrong.” Then he turned humbly and sorrowfully to the king and begged, “Jesus, remember me when you’re in your kingdom.”

At that moment, faced with an agonizing death, he could still speak of a kingdom. My old self would probably have burst out laughing at so obstinate a faith, but now I was in no mood for mirth: there was something far too piteous and moving in those words. But still more did I marvel when the king of the Jews turned his head toward him and in a half-strangled voice comforted him, saying, “You shall be with me in the garden of the king.”

I did not know what he meant. Just then a learned man came by, looking searchingly and suspiciously at the crowd. I stopped him and asked, “What does your king mean by his garden? Why has he been crucified if he has done no wrong?”

The scribe burst into mocking laughter and said, “Are you a stranger in Jerusalem? Do you put more faith in the testimony of a thief than in the Supreme Council, or in the Roman Governor who condemned him? It is he alone who calls himself a king, and he has blasphemed against God. Even now, on the cross, he blasphemes in speaking of the king’s garden.”

He wrapped his mantle more closely about him, so that not even a tassel should brush against me. Offended, I said, “I mean to look into this matter.”

He gave me a menacing look and replied in a tone of warning, “Have a care to yourself, rather. Surely you are no follower of his? He bemused many, but will do so no more. Do not pity him. He is a demagogue, an agitator; he is worse than either of the criminals beside him.”

Then my distress found vent in wrath; I thrust him aside, forgetful of my donkey and my rank, walked over to the centurion and, speaking in Latin to be on the safe side, pointed to the Jewish scribe and said, “I am a Roman citizen, but that Jew there is threatening me.”

The centurion regarded me curiously in the half-darkness, sighed, and with clanking equipment walked a few paces along the edge of the crowd, forcing it to move back and leave more room in front of the crosses. Then he returned my greeting in Latin, to show his education, but changed immediately to Greek and said, “Peace, brother. If you are in truth a Roman citizen it does not become your rank to quarrel with the Jews, now, before the Sabbath.”

Then turning to the people, without particularly addressing the leaders or scribes, he shouted, “Be off with you now, and go home. You’ve wagged your tongues long enough. There’ll be no more miracles. Trot along to your roast mutton, and I hope it chokes you.”

From this I realized that besides hostile bystanders, there were those among the crowd who really were awaiting a miracle, and were hoping that their king would step down from the cross of his own accord. But they were compelled to keep silence, for they feared the authorities. Many seemed to obey the centurion, and set off for the city. The throng upon the road had dispersed too.

The centurion nudged me in a friendly fashion and said, “Come along and have a mouthful of wine. This affair does not concern us at all; I am just here on duty. The Jews have a habit of slaying their prophets, and if they’re bent on having their king crucified with Roman help, no Roman has any reason to interfere.”

He led me to a place behind the crosses, where the condemned men’s clothes lay upon the ground. The soldiers had shared them out among themselves and made separate bundles of them. Picking up the men’s wineskin he offered it to me; for politeness’ sake I took a gulp of the sour legionary wine, and he drank too. Then he puffed and said, “The best thing is to get drunk. Luckily the job ends this evening. It’s the eve of the Sabbath, and the Jews don’t let corpses hang out overnight.”

He went on, “Jerusalem is one huge, hissing snakes’ nest. The more I know of the Jews, the more I believe that the only good Jew is a dead one. So it’s just as well to have a scarecrow or two hanging by the roadside before the feast, as a warning to troublemakers not to stab the life out of any of our men who happen to be careless. But this man is an innocent man, and a prophet.”

The darkness continued, though from time to time it was lit by a fleeting, reddish glow. The air was scorching hot, and heavy to breathe. Looking up at the sky, he said, “The desert wind seems to have driven up a sand cloud, but I’ve never seen so dense a one before. If I were a Jew I should believe that the sun was hiding its face and the heavens mourning the death of a son of God. That’s what this Jesus says he is, you see, and that’s why he’s being tortured to death.”

He addressed me without particular respect, and did his best in the twilight to scrutinize my clothes and face and discover what manner of person I was. Then he tried to laugh, but the laughter stuck in his throat and he looked once more at the sky.

“The animals are restless, too,” he said. “Dogs and foxes run up into the hills, and the camels have been restive ever since this morning and refuse to pass through the gates. Today is an evil day for the whole city.”

“An evil day for the whole world,” I said, seized by a sense of foreboding.

The centurion was dismayed. Raising his hands in deprecation he protested, “This matter concerns the Jews alone, not the Romans. The Procurator had no wish to condemn him, and would have let him go. But his enemies shouted with one voice: ‘Crucify him, crucify him!’ Their Council threatened to refer the matter to Caesar, and to lay a complaint that an agitator was being aided and abetted. So then the Governor washed his hands in a basin of consecrated water, to cleanse himself from innocent blood. The mob howled, and swore that they would gladly take the prophet’s blood upon their own heads.”

“Who is Roman Proconsul in Judea now?” I asked. “I ought to know, but I am a stranger in this country. I’ve come from Alexandria, where I’ve been studying all the winter.”

“Pontius Pilate,” he answered, with a superior glance. No doubt he took me for a wandering sophist.

I was astonished. “But I know him,” I exclaimed. “Or at least, I met his wife in Rome. Is she not Claudia, and her family name Procula?”

Once, long ago, I was a guest at the Proculus house, where I had to listen to a boring reading from a work designed to show what great service the family had rendered Rome in Asia. But the wine and the rest of the entertainment were excellent, and I had had a lively conversation with Claudia Procula, although she was considerably older than myself. She had impressed me as a sensitive woman, and we had both warmly expressed our hope of another meeting someday. This was not merely out of politeness. Yet somehow we never did meet again. I dimly remembered that she had fallen sick and left Rome. You, Tullia, are probably too young to remember her. She was often at the imperial court before Tiberius moved to Capri.

I was so greatly astounded by this piece of information that for a moment I forgot time and place, and was lost in recollections of my youth and of my earliest disappointments. The centurion brought me back to reality by saying, “If you are truly a friend of the Proconsul’s, a Roman citizen and a stranger to the city, I would seriously advise you to confine yourself to Roman society during the Passover. The Jews are always extremely excitable during the religious festivals; that is why the Proconsul himself has come up from Caesarea to Jerusalem so that he may quell any disturbance immediately. It may be that the people will calm down now that they have had a holy man crucified; one never knows with them. At any rate his followers have gone into hiding, and they’re not likely to start anything: and he won’t be coming down from that cross now.”

He walked around the crosses, stood before them looking attentively at the thorn-crowned king and the two criminals, and said with the air of an expert, “He’ll die soon. He was well knocked about last night when he was arrested and brought before their Council. Then the Proconsul had him scourged in the Roman manner, so that the people might pity him, or at least that death might come to him more quickly. As you know, a sound flogging before crucifixion is an act of mercy. But we shall have to break the bones of those other two, so that they hang without foot support and suffocate before evening.”

At that moment I heard a most frightful braying, such as I had never heard before. The darkness lifted, giving place to a ghastly red shimmering, and the crowd stirred in fear. I saw that my donkey had bolted, load and all, along the highroad away from Jerusalem. Some passers-by caught it and held it fast, but it stretched out its neck and brayed once more, with a horrifying noise, as if voicing the agony of all creation. I ran down to the road. The animal was quiet now, but trembling all over and drenched with sweat. I tried to pat it and calm it, but this peaceable beast of mine tossed its head angrily and tried to bite me; and one of those who had caught it remarked that all animals seemed bewitched today. It happens sometimes when the desert wind blows.

From his place by the gate the leader of the donkey drivers came hurrying up, examined the beast’s harness and earmarks and said heatedly, “This is one of our donkeys. What have you been doing to it? If it falls sick and has to be destroyed, you must pay compensation.”

I myself was shocked by its behavior, for never had I seen any animal in so strange and shaky a condition. I began to unload it, and said defensively, “All of you here in Jerusalem are mad. I’ve done nothing to the donkey. It’s afraid of the smell of blood and death, because you have crucified your king.”

But our dispute was broken off and the saddlebags fell from my hands, for at that moment the whole world was filled with a curious sound, like a vast sigh, and the earth shuddered beneath my feet. I had encountered this phenomenon before, and I thought I understood now why the sun had been darkened, why the animals had neighed and brayed and I myself gasped with fear. I realized that to enter the city and go under a roof was not the wisest plan, although what I most longed to do was to throw myself on a bed, wrap my head in a blanket and try to forget the world about me.

I gave the donkey driver a silver denarius and said, “Let us not quarrel at such a moment as this, when the earth quivers in pain. See to my belongings; I will fetch them from you at the gate.”

With blows and kicks he tried to get the donkey to move but it would not budge, and he had to be content with hobbling its forelegs. Taking the load upon his own shoulders, he went back to his pitch by the city gate.

I know not whether it was fear of the earthquake that kept me from entering the city or a compelling need to return to the hill and the crucified men, repugnant though it was to me to behold that suffering. In my heart I prayed to the gods, both known and unknown, and to the veiled gods of my kin, and said, “Of my own will I have studied the prophecies, but it was your omens that sent me from Alexandria and led me to this place at this time. I came hither to find the king of the future, to enter his service and to be rewarded. Let me at least have fortitude enough to do him honor until his death, even should I receive no reward at all.”

So I walked lingeringly up the slope to join the crowd. It had thinned, and beyond it I saw a group of women who stood and wept. I did not see their faces, for they had veiled them. To comfort and protect them there was but one young man, whose handsome face was distorted with fear and anguish. I asked who they were, and a scribe’s servant told me readily that these women had come with Jesus all the way from Galilee, where he had stirred up the people and offended against the law.

“The man is one of his disciples, but no one can molest him, for he and his family are known to the high priest, and he’s but a misguided youth,” the servant explained; then, pointing contemptuously at a woman whom the young man was supporting, he said, “I believe that is the mother of the crucified man.”

Hearing this I felt too diffident to approach and speak to them, though I was very curious and would gladly have heard something of this Jesus from his own followers. But I was horror-stricken by the thought that his own mother should behold her son’s shameful death. Even the king’s enemies seemed to feel too much respect for her agony to disturb the group of mourning women.

Therefore I loitered where I was among the others, and the time went by. The sky darkened once more, more deeply than before, and the dry heat of the air made it difficult to breathe. Persistent flies and crawling insects had gathered about the eyes and wounds of the men, whose bodies quivered with cramp. Then King Jesus raised himself up once more on his cross and cried aloud, “My strength, my strength, why did you forsake me?”

His voice was so broken that it was hard to distinguish the words. Some declared that he had said that God had forsaken him, but others that he called upon Elias. Elias was a Jewish prophet who went up to heaven in a chariot of fire. Therefore the most ill-disposed among the onlookers reviled him once more and shouted to him to mount up to heaven likewise, if I rightly understood them. But the curious ones, and those who expected miracles, whispered together and hoped in earnest that the prophet Elias would descend from heaven and come to his aid. Many were so much afraid at this thought that they withdrew a little from the cross, and prepared to cover their faces.

The king said something else, and those who stood nearest cried that he was complaining of thirst. Some merciful person came running, soaked a sponge in sour wine from the soldiers’ wineskin, impaled it on a stake and held it up to his mouth. Neither soldiers nor centurion tried to stop this. I don’t know whether he was still able to drink, for it was now too dark to distinguish his face. At least his lips were moistened, for his voice was clearer now, and even in that ghastly death struggle it sounded as if released when, in a little while, he braced himself up on his feet again and cried out, “It is fulfilled.”

Again people began arguing about what he had said. One affirmed this, another that. But in the darkness I heard a cracking sound as his body slackened and hung from the stretched arms, and his head fell upon his breast. It was a most dreadful sound in that darkness; I knew he was dying and would not be able to raise his head again. I was glad on his account, for surely he had suffered enough, however grievously he may have offended against his people’s laws.

That he really was dead I knew with certainty, because the earth sighed again and trembled under my feet. A muffled, subterranean roar, fainter but more menacing than a peal of thunder, sounded from beneath us and died away toward the city. Then I heard a rock split and the crash of a landslide, and I threw myself on the ground like everyone else; for although this earthquake was brief and quickly over, it was very frightening.

Then utter silence rested upon the earth, until from the road came the sound of hoofbeats from draught animals that had broken loose. The sky slowly cleared, the day grew comparatively light again, and people scrambled to their feet and shook their clothes. The crosses stood upright, but Jesus of Nazareth, the king of the Jews, hung by the arms, tortured and haggard, and breathed no longer. Even the soldiers stood up and gathered together to look at him in wonder and fear, whispering among themselves.

Presumably the centurion voiced their feelings when he said boldly, “He was a good man.” As he stared at the frightened Jews he became angry with them and disgusted at his own task, and he shouted, “Truly he was the son of God.”

But I called to mind the prophecies which I had studied during the winter, marveled greatly, and whispered to myself, “Peace be with you, ruler of the world, king of the Jews. Nothing came, then, of your kingdom.”

At the same time I resolved to find out as well as I could how and why all this had happened, and what acts of his had caused him to be nailed to the cross and executed in so shameful a manner, without a hand being raised in his defense. It seemed to me that his political plans must have been very simple, and that he could have had no adviser well versed in statecraft. This in itself was understandable, for surely no one in his senses would ally himself with a Jew to conquer the world.

The sun reappeared but its light was still strange and unfamiliar, and in it people’s faces looked pale and queer. And one thing I must confess to you, Tullia. It must be something in myself, but I cannot describe to you what the king of the Jews looked like. I saw him with my own eyes, and frightful though his torment was I ought to be able to recall his face. But with the best will in the world I can say no more than that it was swollen and blue from blows, and bloodied from the wounds made by the crown of thorns, yet there must have been something divine about that face, since, having read the inscription on the cross, I never for a moment doubted that he was really the king of the Jews.

Now, after the event, I should like to say that he had a sort of gentle dignity, but I am much afraid that those are words I have thought of since. I can better remember the meek resignation which showed that he had become reconciled to his fate. Yet how can a king who knows that he is born to rule the world be meek and resigned when he has failed, and dies a disgraceful death? What was it that he felt had been accomplished? Or was it just that he knew that he was breathing his last?

I didn’t scan his face as a keen observer therefore, for I was disturbed in my own mind. It was as if a sense of reverence forbade me to scrutinize him too closely as long as his sufferings endured. You must remember also that it was fairly dark all the time—now and then so dark that one could barely discern the men on the crosses at all. When the sun came back he was dead, and reverence forbade me to stare rudely at his lifeless face.

When the king was dead, many people went away, so that there was then plenty of room around the crosses. The Jewish scribes and leaders likewise hastened off, to make ready for the Sabbath, leaving only a few servants to watch the course of events. One of the crucified criminals began wailing piteously in his intolerable agony. Two compassionate women went up to the centurion carrying a jar, and begged leave to give him more of the drugged wine. They used the same sponge and stick as before, soaked the sponge in the jar and gave both criminals a drink.

The sun showed that the ninth hour of the day was already past. The centurion began fidgeting, for his main task was at an end and he wanted to be rid of the thieves as well, as soon as might be. And presently from Antonia there came two men, a soldier and an executioner who carried a board. He looked expertly at Jesus, saw that he was dead, and then cold-bloodedly began to snap the shinbones of the two others with the board. The cracking noise was cruel to hear and both the victims shrieked and moaned, but the executioner consoled them, saying that this was a work of pure mercy. The soldier who accompanied him was named Longinus. He was not satisfied with the executioner’s verdict, and thrusting his spear up into the king’s side he drove it in practiced fashion well through the heart. When he withdrew the spear, blood and water ran out of the wound.

The guards began gathering their belongings and the clothes of the condemned men together, joking in relief among themselves because their tedious spell of duty was nearing its end. But as the thieves’ cries were stifled and died away, some agitators who had slunk in among the crowd took the opportunity of shouting anti-Roman slogans. The soldiers moved easily into the throng and began buffeting people aside with their shields and the butts of their spears. In the course of this clash, one of the agitators had his jawbone broken. This cowed the rest and they drifted away, threatening to slaughter all Romans and their lackeys in the temple next time they had a weapon handy. These were not followers of King Jesus, the centurion explained to me, but fellow criminals of the other two crucified men.

He decided to be polite, and coming up to me he apologized for the little disturbance, and hoped that I had noticed how easily he had put a stop to it. The Proconsul has forbidden the troops to kill Jews except in the gravest emergency. It is not thought worthwhile even to arrest ordinary demonstrators, for a yelling mob always collects and follows them to the fort, and there stays by the gate, bawling and clamoring. Any disturbance is to be avoided, especially at the Jewish festivals. At least such is now Pontius Pilate’s policy, though at first he tried sterner measures and reaped nothing but trouble, and even reprimand from Caesar.

At last the centurion said, “My name is Adenabar. When I’ve finished this spell of duty I will gladly take you to the fort, and present you to the Proconsul when I make my report. It would be unwise for you to walk through the city alone: those oafs have seen us talking together and know that you’re not a Jew. It would only make for unpleasantness if they molested you, or killed a Roman citizen. It would mean inquiries and punishment, and in this accursed city there are a hundred thousand hiding places.”

He laughed, and hastened to soften his words: “So in that way we shall avoid unnecessary trouble; but apart from that I like the look of you, and I respect all learned men. I can read and write myself, though my Latin is shaky. The fort is fairly crowded, but I think we can find you quarters befitting one of your standing.”

The Proconsul lives very simply, he explained, and when visiting Jerusalem is usually content to stay with the garrison in Antonia. The mighty palace that Herod has had built would be a far more splendid residence, but the garrison is so small a force that, after some unpleasant experiences, the Proconsul is unwilling to divide it into two. Antonia is an impregnable fortress, commanding the temple area, and it is in the forecourt of the temple that disturbances usually start.

Adenabar jerked his thumb at the body on the cross behind him, laughed loudly and said, “I never saw anything funnier in my life than when that Jesus looped up a rope into a scourge, drove out the dove sellers from the temple forecourt and upset the money-changers’ tables. The authorities dared not oppose him that time, for he had brought a good many followers with him. When he rode into Jerusalem on a donkey, people were so beside themselves with joy that they spread their garments on the road before him, waved palm branches and hailed him as the son of David. It was the only way they dared show him that they regarded him as their king. And indeed he was descended from David both on the father’s and the mother’s side.”

He nodded almost imperceptibly toward a group of women who had remained on the hillside, and remarked, “There’s his mother.”

When the press of people had dispersed, the women had sunk down upon the ground as if exhausted by an overwhelming anguish. But they no longer hid their faces; they were looking up at the cross, and I did not need to guess which of them was his mother. She was not old, and at that moment her face seemed to me the most beautiful of any I had ever seen. Stony with sorrow though it was, it was in some way both transfigured and unapproachable, as if never again in her life would she utter an unnecessary word. She had no need to prove her royal descent; her face was evidence enough, though her dress was as simple as that of the other countrywomen.

I could have wished that her companions would lead her away from that place; I would have liked to go and comfort her, and tell her that her son was dead and would suffer no more. But her face was so exalted, so beautiful and so contained in its grief that it was impossible for me to approach her. On the ground at her feet lay another woman, whose feverish face quivered and whose eyes stared at the cross as if she had not yet fully grasped what had happened. The third woman seemed the eldest, and her stern Jewish features expressed more of wrath and disappointment than of sorrow. It was as if up to the last she had been awaiting a miracle and could not be reconciled to the fact that nothing had happened. The rest of the women stood behind these three.

My eyes returned to Jesus’ mother, and I gazed at her as if bewitched, without hearing what Adenabar was saying. Not until he touched my arm did I escape from the spell. “Now that my task is finished, I’ll not stay in this gloomy place any longer,” he told me. “The Jews must see to the bodies themselves if they don’t want to have them hanging there over the Sabbath. It’s no longer any concern of ours.”

Yet he left a few men on guard by the crosses. Presumably he went for the sake of the executioner, who dared not return to the fortress with only two companions as the robbers’ friends might have been lying in wait for him. The road was emptier now, and there was no throng by the city gate. From the houses the smell of roast meat wafted all the way to the hill, but I was very far from hungry.

Glancing at the sun, Adenabar remarked, “There’s some time to go before evening. The Jewish Sabbath does not begin until just before the sun sets in the west. This evening they eat their paschal lamb, though there is a sect among them that did so last night. Their temple is one great slaughterhouse. Yesterday and today they have been letting blood from thousands upon thousands of lambs, as is their custom. From every beast slain their priests receive a shoulder and their god the tallow.”

My belongings were in safekeeping by the gate, and curtly he ordered the reluctant donkey driver to shoulder my bundles and carry them to the fortress. The man dared not protest. So we made our way up to Antonia, the iron-shod boots of the legionaries clashing in a steady rhythm on the paving. The men were in good training, for none of them seemed to get breathless on the way. I did, however, by the time we reached the arched gateway of the stronghold, for in places the road had been very steep. The Jew set down my things in the archway, and refused to pass through it. I gave him a coin or two in reward, although Adenabar told me that this was quite unnecessary, and in spite of my liberality the fellow stopped at a safe distance from the gate, shook his fist and loudly cursed all Romans. When the sentry raised his spear threateningly he made off, and the legionaries roared with laughter as they watched him run.

When we reached the solid paving of the forecourt, Adenabar halted uncertainly and looked me up and down. I was aware that my appearance made a poor impression and that I could hardly present myself before the Proconsul in my present state, whatever the centurion and I might have agreed upon at the place of execution. Here in the courtyard, Roman discipline and order prevailed, and I smelled the barrack smell. This odor of metal, leather, polishing materials and smoke is not unpleasant, but it makes a man glance at his dusty feet and adjust the folds of his mantle. Here too was the altar of the legion, and I saluted it with respect; but nowhere did I see the image of Caesar.

Adenabar regretted that the fortress had only meager facilities for washing, as water had to be used very sparingly, but he took me into the officers’ mess and ordered the slaves to look after me. Meanwhile he would go and report to the Proconsul, he said: and he promised to mention my arrival.

I undressed, washed, oiled and combed my hair; slipped into a clean tunic and had my mantle brushed. I also thought it well to put on my thumb ring, though it is not my custom as I dislike attracting needless attention. I hurried through all this and returned to the courtyard, arriving there just as the Procurator Pontius Pilate came down the steps from the tower, attended by his suite. He looked impatient. Some rich Jew wanted to speak with him but would come no farther than the forecourt, lest he defile himself on the eve of the Sabbath.

He must have been an influential man and on good terms with the Romans, since the Governor was willing to receive him like this at dusk. I drew nearer and joined the staring soldiers. The visit seemed to be connected with the events of the day, for quietly and with dignity the rich old man asked leave to remove the Nazarene’s body from the cross before the Sabbath began, and bury it in his garden, which lay near the place of execution.

Pontius Pilate asked the bystanders whether the king of the Jews had indeed died upon the cross, and then said, “We have had trouble enough over him already. My wife is quite ill with all this unnecessary fuss. Take him and carry him away, and let me be rid of the whole wretched business.”

The Jew gave his present to Pilate’s scribe and went his way with as much dignity as when he had come. Pilate in surprise asked his suite, “Is not Joseph of Arimathea a member of the Council that condemned Jesus? If Jesus had sympathizers of such standing they might have used their influence in time, and spared us an affair which does us no honor.”

Now Adenabar signed to me. I stepped forward with a respectful greeting, addressed him as Proconsul and gave my name. He acknowledged my greeting carelessly, saying, to show how good a memory he had, “Yes, of course, of course; I know you. Your father was the astronomer Manilius, but you are related also to the renowned Maecenas family. This has been a dismal day for your arrival in Jerusalem. Fortunately the earthquake has caused no damage worth mentioning. Well, and so you too saw Jesus of Nazareth die. But enough of him. In another year he will be quite forgotten.”

Without waiting for my reply, he continued, “My wife will be delighted to meet you. She is a little indisposed, but is sure to get up and dine with us. I myself am not at my best; I have an attack of my old rheumatism, and as you may see for yourself my duties in Jerusalem consist chiefly in running up and down steep stairs.”

He moved no less briskly and freely for that, and there was such a restlessness in him that he could scarcely stand still. He is slight of build and is beginning to go bald, though he tries to hide this by combing his hair forward over the top of his head. His eyes are cold and searching. I knew that his career had not been a particularly brilliant one, but thanks to his marriage he had managed to secure the post of Procurator; and this, in spite of everything, is fairly lucrative. Of course he is no true proconsul, but a subordinate proconsul for Syria. Yet he is not an unlikable man. He can smile dryly and jest at his own expense. I believe he has a very strong sense of his duty as a Roman to dispense justice among refractory foreigners, and so the case of this Jesus of Nazareth was troubling him.

He said bitterly, “If I so much as try to go up to my rooms I can wager that the Jews will soon be here again with more festival business, and oblige me to come running down into the courtyard. It’s easy for Rome to urge me to respect their ways and customs, but it makes me their servant rather than their master.”

He began pacing impatiently about the courtyard, and with a gesture gave me leave to walk beside him. “Have you seen their temple yet?” he asked me. “We heathen have free access to the forecourt, but no uncircumcised may set foot in the innermost court on pain of death. One would never think we were living within the Roman empire. We may not even display Caesar’s likeness. And the death penalty is no empty threat, as we have found to our cost. Now and then some mad traveler takes it into his head to dress up as a Jew out of sheer curiosity, just to look at the inside of the temple, though there’s nothing particular to see there. In the thick of the festival crowds he may be lucky, but if he’s found out they stone him without mercy. They are entitled to do this, and it’s not a pleasant death. I hope you have no such project.”

Then he asked cautiously for news from Rome, and was noticeably relieved when I told him that I had spent the winter in Alexandria, studying philosophy. He realized then that I was politically harmless, and as a mark of favor he took me into the inner court, forgetful of his rheumatism, and accompanied me up into the great tower, which commands a view of the whole temple area. The temple was magnificent in the evening light, with all its many courtyards and colonnades. He pointed out the brokers’ and foreigners’ courts, the women’s court and the Jews’ court, as well as the central building in the sacred precincts where the holy of holies is situated. To that place even the high priest may go only once a year.

I asked whether there was any foundation for the story that in the holy of holies the Jews worshiped a wild ass’s head made of gold. One comes upon this tale firmly rooted among every race. The Proconsul declared that there was no truth in it. “There is nothing there at all. The place is quite empty. When the old temple was burnt down, Pompey went in behind the veil with some officers and found nothing whatever. This is a fact.”

Now more people came to see him and we went down into the outer courtyard. There, attended by Jewish temple guards, a representative of the high priest was waiting to demand in a stubbornly whining voice that the bodies of the crucified might be taken away before sunset. Pontius Pilate bade him carry away whatever remained to be carried away, and for form’s sake they argued together as to whether this was a matter for Jews or Romans, although the envoy had evidently made ready to perform the unpleasant task himself, and for this reason had brought the temple guards with him. Their purpose was to take the bodies to the Jewish refuse place and destroy them in the fire that burned there day and night, and in which all rubbish was incinerated.

The Proconsul pointed out with some sharpness that the body of Jesus of Nazareth was not to be touched if it had not yet been buried, as he had already promised it to another. This was no agreeable news to the emissary, but he could not begin a dispute about it, having plainly been given no more than a general order to remove the corpses before the Sabbath began. Nevertheless he tried to discover who had wanted to take charge of the body, and how and why; but the Proconsul wearied of the man and said curtly, “What I have said I have said,” and turned his back to show that the interview was at an end; and with that the Jew and his guards had to depart.

I said, “The king of the Jews seems to be troublesome even when dead.”

Pontius Pilate, deep in thought, replied, “You’re right. I’m an experienced man, and don’t usually bother my head about trifles, but this perverted judgment is more painful to me than I could have expected. Early this morning this Jesus himself owned to me that he was the king of the Jews, but he added that his kingdom was not of this world. This showed me that he was politically harmless, and I had no wish to condemn him, but the populace compelled me.”

He struck his fist into the palm of his hand, and said in anger, “Yes, truly, I have been the victim of Jewish agitation and intrigue. They arrested him in the middle of the night and just managed to scrape together a quorum of the Council, to condemn him. They might easily have stoned him themselves for blasphemy, though they have no right to carry out a death sentence. But this sort of thing has happened before, and then they made the hypocritical excuse that they couldn’t restrain the righteous indignation of the people. But this time I suppose they dared not, because of those same people, and wanted to involve Rome in the affair. Yes, I sent him to the Tetrarch of Galilee, who is a Jew himself, to be sentenced; but that sly old fox, Herod Antipas, merely reviled him and sent him back to me, so that I might bear the blame of it.”

“But what did he mean,” I ventured to ask, “by saying that his kingdom was not of this world? I’m not superstitious, but it is a fact that the earth trembled when he died. The sky darkened, too, in mercy, so that his sufferings should not be seen too plainly.”

The Proconsul gave me an angry look, and rebuked me over-sharply. “I trust that you, a stranger, are not going to start nagging as my wife has been nagging ever since this morning. I’ll have the centurion, Adenabar, locked up too if he goes on romancing about a son of God. That Syrian superstition is intolerable. Remember that you are a Roman.”

I thanked my good fortune that during our confidential moment in the tower I had said nothing of the prophecies that brought me to Jerusalem. But his irritability confirmed me in my resolve to go into the whole story as thoroughly as possible. It is not like a Roman procurator to let himself be depressed by the crucifixion of a Jewish agitator. The king of the Jews must have been an unusual man.

Pontius Pilate started to go upstairs to his apartments, bidding me welcome to his table when darkness had fallen. I returned to the officers’ mess, where the after-duty wine drinking was in full swing. Judea is a fine country for wine, the officers told me, and I could well believe it after tasting theirs. Mixed with water it is fresh and light and not too sweet. I chatted with officers, technicians and experts of the legion, and realized that it was indeed with reluctance and only because of Jewish pressure that Pontius Pilate has sentenced the king of the Jews to the cross. It is true that he had been scourged and mocked by the soldiers in the courtyard, but only for their amusement and because it was the custom. Afterwards they had been ready to let him go. They all seemed troubled by a feeling of guilt, for each of them was anxious to defend himself and blame the Jews. The earthquake had made a deep impression upon them, and when some of them became tipsy they repeated stories they had heard from the Jews about the wonders the king had wrought. He had healed sick people and driven out demons; and only a few days before, so it was said, he had revived a dead man who had lain for some days in his tomb, not far from Jerusalem.

I regarded this story as a classic example of how quickly rumors can grow after any sensational event. I could hardly hide my smile when I saw how readily these fairly enlightened men listened to and believed such absurdities. One even thought he knew the name of the resurrected man. They affirmed in all seriousness that this resurrection—of which the story spread throughout Jerusalem—had been the crowning stroke for the Jewish authorities, and that after it they decided to take the miracle worker’s life.

As a further example of Jewish intolerance, the officer commanding a camel troop which had been summoned to Jerusalem from the edge of the desert, for the Passover, told how only a year or so earlier the Tetrarch Herod of Galilee had ordered the execution of a prophet from the desert. This man had persuaded crowds of people to be baptized in the river Jordan and so be made subjects of a future kingdom. The officer had seen the man with his own eyes: he wore a mantle of camel’s hair and ate no meat.

I also heard that a Jewish community of several hundred men had been founded in an inaccessible part of the desert by the Dead Sea, to search the scriptures and await the new kingdom. These austere men follow a time reckoning different from that of orthodox Jews, and have many different degrees of initiation.

Darkness fell, the lamps were lit, and it was time for me to go up to the Governor’s apartments. I came in for a good deal of banter over this, but was also told in confidence that the officers had managed to smuggle some musicians and a couple of Syrian dancing girls into the mess. When the Proconsul had retired I would be welcome to come back and join in the general gaiety. They felt they deserved some enjoyment during the Jewish feast, which had caused the legion so much extra trouble.

An attempt had been made to disguise the gloom of the Governor’s tower rooms with costly mats and hangings, and the feather beds of the couches were covered with fine fabrics. The dinner service was Syrian and the wine was served in glass goblets. There was another guest there besides myself, the garrison commander, a taciturn man who may well have been an eminent strategist but who felt so ill at ease in the presence of Claudia Procula and her lady in waiting that he couldn’t open his mouth. Adenabar and the Proconsul’s secretary were there too. The lamps were filled with sweet-smelling oil, and both women vied with them in fragrance.

I was glad to meet Claudia Procula again, although truth to tell I would hardly have recognized her had I caught sight of her in the street. She was haggard and pale, and to hide her graying hair she had dyed it henna-red. Her eyes alone were familiar, and when I looked into them I was aware of the same restless sensibility that had once enchanted me for a whole afternoon of my youth, at the Proculus house in Rome.

She gave me both her thin, well-tended hands and looked long into my eyes. Then, to my utter amazement, she flung her arms about my neck, pressed close to me, kissed me on both cheeks and burst into tears, sobbing, “Marcus, Marcus! How glad I am that you have come to comfort me on this terrible evening!”

The garrison commander turned away, embarrassed on his host’s account and on mine. Pontius Pilate was painfully disturbed and rebuked her, saying, “Now, now, Claudia. Try to control yourself. We all know you’re unwell.”

Claudia Procula loosened her arms from about my neck, her beauty a little disarranged by the running of blue eye-shadow and tears down her painted cheeks. But she stamped on the floor and retorted, “It is no fault of mine if I am beset by evil dreams. Did I not warn you against touching that holy man?”

When I saw how troubled Pontius Pilate was, it struck me that he must now be paying a high price for the position his lady’s connections had procured for him. Another man would no doubt have bidden his wife withdraw and compose herself a little, but the Proconsul merely patted her awkwardly on the shoulder. The lady in waiting, a strikingly beautiful woman, began hastily repairing her mistress’s make-up.

Taking a ladle handed to him by a slave, the Proconsul poured wine from the mixing bowl into the glass goblets, of which he seemed justifiably proud. The first cup he handed to me, past the garrison commander. This was a sign that he had caused my luggage to be searched. I had purposely left visible the brief letter of introduction which I had been given, simultaneously with a hint that I would do well to shake the dust of Rome from my feet. At the head of the letter is a name which I will not mention here, but which I now find to be a name of power in eastern lands as well. So I thank you yet again, Tullia, for having at least obtained that name for my protection when you dismissed me from Rome.

When we drank the toasts, Pontius Pilate attempted a pale smile and said half aloud that he had begun to understand at least one custom of the Jews, namely the one forbidding women to eat in company with men. But Claudia Procula had by now calmed herself, and bade me recline next to her at table so that she could reach to stroke my hair. “And there’s no harm in that,” she said. “I am old enough to be your mother. And you, poor orphan, have never had a mother.”

“For the gods nothing is impossible,” I said, “so we may take it that you might have borne a son at the age of five.” It was gross flattery, of course, but that is what women like. Claudia Procula eyed me coquettishly beneath her brows, called me a humbug and warned her lady in waiting against believing a word I said, because I was the craftiest seducer in all Rome, and by the age of fourteen had known my Ovid by heart. Luckily she gave no hint of the Will that made me rich.

The Proconsul took no offense at the jest. On the contrary, I had the feeling that he welcomed anything that might put his wife in a good humor. He urged me to hold myself in check and to remember that the wife of a proconsul was beyond reproach. He did really call himself Proconsul. Besides, he assured me, Claudia Procula had grown more staid from her sojourn among the Jews, and had cast off the frivolity of Roman society.

Prattling thus we began to eat. I have had better suppers, but there was no fault to find with this one, though the Proconsul is moderate in his habits. At least everything that was served was fresh and made from good ingredients, which is surely the basis of all culinary art. But the most amusing part of it was the climax of the meal, when a great pot with a lid was brought in and set on the table, after which the Governor sent the slaves out of the room. With his own hand he removed the cover, and from the vessel arose a delicious aroma of roast pork and rosemary. Both Adenabar and the garrison commander uttered a shout of delight.

Pontius Pilate explained to me laughing, “Now you can see how completely we are under the Jewish thumb. The Roman Proconsul is compelled to smuggle his pork into Antonia illegally, from beyond Jordan.”

I learned that east of the Sea of Galilee whole herds of swine are bred for the use of the garrisons, but that it is strictly forbidden to bring any pork into Jerusalem, for that would offend the Jews. The customs officers are obliged to enforce the prohibition, however friendly-disposed they may be toward Rome. Therefore pork for the Governor’s table is smuggled into Antonia as courier-mail, under the seal of the Roman State.

“That reminds me,” remarked Adenabar, to get his word into the conversation, “that the only real harm that king of the Jews did was at Gadara, east of Jordan. He wasn’t at all bigoted; he broke the Jewish laws and even the Sabbath, with all his might. Still, he must have shared the Jewish prejudice against pork, for one day, a couple of years ago, when he was journeying through the Gadara region, he and his disciples drove a whole herd of them—about a thousand—over a cliff into the water. The pigs were all drowned and their owner lost quite a bit by it. But the culprits fled back over the border into Galilee. It would have been difficult to bring them to trial and one couldn’t have got compensation out of them anyhow, for they were all poor men. They lived on what their followers gave them, and did a little work from time to time. So the owner of the pigs just had to suffer his loss. I don’t suppose one could have got hold of any witnesses even, for his reputation had spread across the border and people feared him because of his miracles.”

Adenabar told his story animatedly, sitting up on the edge of his couch, and at the end of it burst into noisy laughter. Only then did he perceive that we had not been in the least entertained by his narration, for here we were back at this Jesus, whom we had succeeded in forgetting for a while by talking a lot of nonsense, as society manners require. Although it may be that we had not forgotten him entirely.

Adenabar looked abashed, and his laughter died abruptly. Pontius Pilate spat: “We’ve talked quite enough about that man already.”

But Claudia Procula began to tremble, and losing her self-command, she cried, “He was holy—he was a healer and miracle worker such as has never been seen in the world before. If you had been a man and a true Roman, you would never have sentenced him. What if you did wash your hands afterwards? That doesn’t absolve you. You said yourself you found no fault in him. Who rules in Jerusalem, the Jews or you?”

The Proconsul whitened with rage, and he would have flung his winecup on the floor had he not bethought himself that nothing would be achieved by smashing a valuable glass. He reflected, looked about him, and noting that the company was small and select and that no servants were present, he answered with forced calm.

“I believe only what my own eyes see and witness. He performed no miracles before me or Herod, although Herod expressly asked him to give proof of his powers. The whole affair was political in an underhand sort of way, and I saw nothing for it but to sentence him. Indeed, legally speaking, it was not I who sentenced him at all. All I did was to let the Jews have their own way. Politics are politics, and there it is expediency rather than any formal tribunal that determines the issue. In minor questions it is expedient to let the Jews have their way; it satisfies their national pride. In all important matters it is I who exercise control.”

“What about the water supply for Jerusalem?” Claudia Procula put in, with feminine malice. “Wasn’t that your idea—your pride—a monument to your period of office? Well, where is it? You had all the plans drawn up and the fall calculated.”

“I couldn’t rob the temple treasury,” the Proconsul retorted defensively. “If the Jews don’t know what’s good for them, the blame is theirs, not mine.”

“My ruler!” said Claudia Procula sarcastically. “All these years you’ve had to yield to the Jews time after time in any serious matter, whether great or small. Just this once you might have shown yourself a man, and you would have had right on your side. Why wouldn’t you believe me when I sent word to you not to condemn an innocent man?”

Adenabar tried to save the situation by remarking jocularly, “The aqueduct came to nothing through the obstinacy of the women of Jerusalem. Fetching water gives them their one chance to meet and gossip at the wells. The longer and more toilsome their way, the more leisure they have to chatter.”

“The women of Jerusalem are not quite as simple-minded as you think,” Claudia Procula replied. “Had it all not happened so quickly, in such a hugger-mugger fashion, and had one of his own disciples not betrayed him for money, he would never have been convicted. If you’d been man enough at least to postpone the decision until after the Passover, things would look very different now. He had the working people on his side, as well as all those throughout the country who call themselves the quiet ones and await the kingdom. There are more of them than you think. Even a member of the Supreme Council came and asked you for his body, that he might lay it in his own tomb. I know a great deal that you don’t know; I even know things that not even his simple disciples are aware of. But now it’s all too late. You have taken his life.”

Pontius Pilate raised his hands, called upon the gods of Rome and the genius of Caesar to aid him, and cried, “If I hadn’t sent him to the cross the Jews would have complained to Rome and said I was no friend to Caesar. Claudia, have I not forbidden you to meet those women who go into trances? Their dreams only make you worse. Men, Romans, I appeal to you. What would you have done in my place? Would you have hazarded your position and career for the sake of a Jew who made trouble over his religion?”

The garrison commander opened his mouth at last and said, “Jews are Jews, snipers, snakes in the grass. In dealing with them, scourge, spear and cross are the only policy.”

Adenabar said, “The earth shook as he died. I believe he was a son of God. But you could have done nothing else. He is dead now, and won’t come back.”

I said, “I would like to know more about his kingdom.”

Claudia Procula looked at us with widened eyes and asked, “What if he does come back? What will you do then?”

She said it so gravely that a shudder ran through me: the hairs on my body stood on end and I had to remind myself that with my own eyes I had seen the king of the Jews yield up his spirit on his cross.

Pontius Pilate looked pityingly at his wife, shook his head and said, as if to a simple-minded person, “He’s welcome to come back. Sufficient unto the day...”

A servant entered cautiously with a message for the secretary. The Procurator sighed with relief and said, “Soon we shall have news. Let us leave this tedious topic.”

We finished the meal in an atmosphere of constraint, the table was cleared and we drank more wine. To amuse the ladies I hummed the latest songs from Alexandria, and Adenabar contributed, in a quite well-trained voice, a shameless ditty originating in the twelfth legion. Then the scribe came back, and Pontius Pilate, showing that we had his confidence, bade him tell what he knew in our presence. Evidently the spies that the Proconsul kept among the Jews stole back to the fortress after dark to make their report. The secretary told us this:

“The earthquake has caused great alarm in the temple, for when it happened the outer veil was torn from top to bottom. The man who betrayed the Nazarene returned to the temple today and flung the thirty denarii he had been given back at the priests. At the high priest’s house, great indignation has been aroused by the fact that it was two members of the Council, Joseph and Nicodemus, who removed the body from the cross and together buried it in a prepared sepulcher near the place of execution. Nicodemus paid for the winding sheet, and also for a hundred pounds’ weight of myrrh and aloes for the burial. Apart from that the city is quiet, and the eve of the Passover is being celebrated in the usual way. Jesus’ followers have vanished. The Council has issued a slogan: It is better that one man should die for the people than that all the people should perish. This has had a calming effect on the city. At any rate, no one talks aloud about Jesus any more. The superstitious awe in which he was held seems to have evaporated, since he performed no miracle but died a dishonored death.”

The secretary glanced at us, cleared his throat, gave a forced little laugh and continued. “Then there is one more thing which I wouldn’t even have troubled to mention if I hadn’t heard it from two separate sources. This man Jesus is said to have threatened to rise up from the dead on the third day. Where the story comes from I haven’t found out, but it is known to the high priest too. In his house they are now wondering what they can do to prevent it.”

“What did I tell you!” exclaimed Claudia Procula in triumph.

The secretary hastily corrected himself. “I don’t mean they believe he will rise again, of course. But his adherents might try to steal the body, so as to deceive simple folk. That is why the priests and the Council are annoyed that the body was not burned on the refuse-tip with those of the other two criminals.”

Pilate said bitterly, “I might have known that even my night’s sleep would be spoiled by that man.”

So much disturbed was he by this foolish tale that he took Adenabar and me on one side to assure himself yet again that King Jesus was really dead. We had seen it with our own eyes; we had also seen the soldier thrust his spear into the heart of the lifeless body, and we both swore, “That man died hanging on the cross and will never take another step.”

I had a restless night because of the wine and all that I had experienced so that, weary though I was, I slept badly and had evil dreams. The drunken bawling from the officers’ mess disturbed me too, all night long. At dawn I was finally aroused by shrill trumpet blasts from the temple precincts which resounded over the whole city, and all that I had seen and heard the previous day returned immediately to my mind.

To sort out my thoughts and to recall everything just as I had seen it, I sat down to write and went on writing until Adenabar came, puffy-eyed and still fuddled, to bid me come down to the forecourt to see some fun. And there indeed stood a deputation to the Proconsul from the Council and the high priesthood, although it was the Sabbath and a very great Sabbath, at that. Pontius Pilate kept these people waiting and then reviled them for all the trouble they had caused.

But they were really desperate, and vowed that the latest uproar would be worse than the first if the followers of Jesus succeeded in stealing his body from the tomb and then pro-claimed that he had kept his promise and risen up from the dead on the third day. They begged and implored the Governor to set a guard of legionaries on the sepulcher for a few days because they did not entirely trust their own men, and for safety’s sake to seal the tomb with his own procurator’s seal, which no Jew would dare to break.

Pilate called them old women and half-wits and mocked them, saying, “You seem more afraid of a dead man than a live one.”

But they promised to send him rich gifts directly after the Sabbath, since during the Sabbath they were not allowed to bring anything with them. At last Pontius Pilate yielded, and sent two men and the legion secretary to the tomb. The secretary was given the task of sealing the tomb, not with the procurator’s seal but with the official signet of the twelfth legion, which Pilate thought quite good enough. He gave orders that at night the guard should be increased to four or eight if the officer of the watch thought it necessary, for he well knew that two Roman legionaries on their own could never feel safe outside the city wall at night.

I felt that a walk would do me good, and so I went with the secretary to the tomb. At the place of execution the bloodstained uprights still stood, though the crossbeams had been removed when the bodies were taken down. Only a little way off was a beautiful garden, and in it a tomb hewed in a wall of rock. A great millstone had been placed on edge in a groove before the opening. To roll it aside would have needed the strength of two men, and it was a hot day. The secretary saw no need to open the tomb, for the Jewish guards assured him that no one had touched it since the traitors of the Council, Joseph and Nicodemus and their servants, had rolled the stone into place.

While the secretary was sealing the entrance, I seemed to smell a strong fragrance of myrrh coming from it. But it may only have been the garden flowers that gave out so powerful a scent. Both the legionaries made coarse jests about their task, but they were evidently glad to stand the daytime watch and be relieved at nightfall.

On the way back I went to see the Jews’ temple, leaving the secretary, for he told me I might safely go as far as the forecourt. I crossed to the holy hill by a bridge over the valley, and was admitted, with a great crowd of others, through a mighty archway into the court of the heathen. People had been flocking in from the city all the morning, but in the forecourt there was still room for more, and I admired its colonnades. At last the endless chanting and loud prayers, the smell of sacrifice and the excitement and ecstasy of the Jews began to sicken me. I thought of the body of the crucified man lying in the cold rock tomb and my sympathy was all with their king, little though I knew of him.

I returned to Antonia, and I have now been writing far into the night to free myself from dismal thoughts. Yet I feel none the better for it, Tullia, for while I have been writing I have not felt your presence in the same way as before.

So far as I am concerned, the story of the king of the Jews is not yet at an end, for I long to know more of his kingdom, and already I have certain plans for getting in touch with his followers and hearing what he taught while he was alive.