The Secret of the Kingdom

THIRD LETTER

MARCUS MEZENTIUS MANILIANUS TO TULLIA:

I have written my name above, and yours, Tullia; yet seeing my own on the papyrus I cannot but wonder whether it is I who write, or some stranger within me. I am no longer myself, and now and then during these longest days of my life I have suspected that Jewish sorcery has cast a spell upon me. If indeed all has happened as I myself have seen it, then either I have witnessed things which have never happened before, or I shall be forced to believe literally in many tales of which philosophers and cynics long ago revealed the symbolic meaning.

I don’t know whether I dare send you this letter. My previous scrolls still lie here undispatched; and perhaps it is as well, for if ever you read this you will scarcely escape the conviction that poor Marcus has lost the last vestiges of his reason. Yet I don’t regard myself as a dreamer, even though—albeit with unsleeping skepticism—I have sought for something in this world beyond the pleasures both of virtue and of the senses. I confess that because of my origins I went to extremes when young, and never succeeded in finding the truly wise man’s balance between renunciation and self-indulgence. There was immoderation in my vigils, fasts and bodily exercises during my school days in Rhodes. Immoderate too was my love for you, Tullia; there I was insatiable.

In spite of all this I can assure you that at the core of my being is something cool and watchful which prevents me from destroying myself. Had it not been for this sober sentinel I would hardly have left Rome: I would have forfeited my possessions and perhaps even my life rather than give you up. Now, as I write, this sentinel is at his most alert, for I try continually to distinguish between what I myself have seen, what I have merely heard, and what I may regard as conclusively proved.

I feel it necessary to record all my experiences in detail, even though I may never send you this letter. I shall include much that is immaterial, being not yet able to discriminate between the irrelevant and the essential. I believe I have witnessed the coming into the world of a new god. This of course will seem madness to anyone who has not himself experienced the event. But if it be so, then the veriest trifles may later prove to be significant. Let this be my excuse for so much verbiage. For if this thing is true, the world will be changed—is changed already—and a new age has dawned.

My sentinel is awake, and warns me against believing what may be no more than my own hopes. But could I ever have hoped and wished for anything so inconceivable? No. It would have been impossible for me to invent or dream of such a thing. If I thought of anything, it was of a new realm on this earth, but there is no question of anything like that. This is something quite different which I don’t yet comprehend.

I warn myself against reading more into what has come about than is really there, from sheer vanity. For who am I, Marcus, that such a thing should happen to me? I have no illusions as to my own importance. On the other hand, I cannot deny my experiences. Therefore I relate them.

When I finished my last letter it was late; I had cramp in my fingers and at first I could not sleep. Later I slept well, but only for a short time, for before dawn I was awakened by another earthquake, longer and more frightening than the first. The tinkle of smashed jars and the crash of shields falling from the wall racks brought everyone in Antonia from their beds. The stone floor rocked beneath my feet so violently that I fell headlong. Guards sounded the alarm in the courtyard. I can only admire the discipline of the legion, for however drugged with sleep the men may have been in the dead of night, not one dashed out without his weapons, although their first thought must have been to escape from under falling roofs.

It was still so dark that torches had to be lit in the courtyard. When the first flurry and confusion had subsided, it was found that the wall had split in one or two places, but that no one in the fortress had been killed. Only minor sprains, bruises and wounds were reported; and even these had resulted rather from the stampede in the darkness than from the earth-tremor itself. The garrison commander at once sent patrols into the city to discover what damage had been done, and alerted the legion’s fire brigade; for the fires resulting from earthquakes usually cause more havoc than the tremors themselves.

The Proconsul came straight from his bed, a mantle thrown round him, and stood barefoot on the stairs, neither descending to the courtyard nor adding his voice to any of the commands. As there was no repetition of the earthquake and one could hear the cocks in the city beginning to crow, he did not feel it necessary to send the women to safety beyond the walls. Nevertheless, it was understandable that after this alarm no one felt inclined to return to bed. The sky grew lighter, and as the stars faded there came again the powerful blasts of horns from the Jews’ temple, showing that their religious ceremonies were continuing as if nothing had happened.

The soldiers were sent back to their regular duties, but only dry rations were issued to them, the cooks being forbidden to light fires for the time being, for safety’s sake. One patrol after another returned with the report that alarm and confusion reigned in the city and many people had fled to open country outside it, but that except for a few house walls that had collapsed, no real damage had been caused. The earthquake seemed to have been confined chiefly to the area around the fortress and the temple.

The guards were relieved, and with only slight delay the first cohort marched through the city to their exercises at the circus. No contests of gladiators or wild beasts have been held in this costly building for years; the arena is used solely for the drill and training of the legion.

I walked back to my room over crunching fragments of crockery, washed, and dressed myself properly. While I was still doing this a messenger came to summon me to the Proconsul. Pontius Pilate had had a chair moved out onto the steps for the day’s audience. I think he was glad to stay out of doors, though he gave no sign of being afraid that the earthquake might recur.

Before him stood the garrison commander and the legion secretary, as well as Adenabar and two legionaries who, in the Syrian manner, were gesticulating vigorously as they spoke, while still trying to stand at attention out of respect for their commander in chief.

Pontius Pilate said to me irritably, “The changing of the guard was delayed this morning because of the earthquake. It was these two Syrian oafs who were sent to relieve the men at that accursed tomb. There had been six fellows there all night, and they were supposed to keep watch two at a time while the others slept. Now they’ve come back from the place to report that the legion seal has been broken and the stone rolled away from the tomb, and that the men of the night guard have vanished.”

He turned to the legionaries and snapped, “Was the body still in the tomb?”

Both men answered with one voice, “We never went into the tomb. We had no orders to go into the tomb.”

Pilate asked, “Why didn’t one of you, at least, remain on guard while the other ran back with his report? Now anyone may have entered it.”

Without attempting an excuse they confessed, “Neither of us dared stay there alone.”

The garrison commander felt he must speak in defense of his men, for the ultimate responsibility was his. He said curtly, “They have strict orders to move always in pairs outside the fortress.”

But from the faces of these legionaries it was plain to see that it was not danger to their lives that they had feared; it was the tomb that had terrified them, while the disappearance of their comrades had filled them with superstitious dread.

The Proconsul seemed aware of this, for he said vehemently, “There is nothing supernatural about what has happened. Naturally the earthquake shifted the stone before the sepulcher. Those superstitious Syrian cowards have taken to their heels and dare not return. They must be hunted down as deserters. They deserve the most rigorous punishment.”

Turning to me, he explained, “The legion’s honor is here involved, so I will trust no interested party. And I am not to be fobbed off with windy talk. What we need is an impartial witness. You, Marcus, are a clear-headed man with sufficient knowledge of the law. Take with you Adenabar and these two men. You may have a whole cohort to attend you if you like, so that you may cordon off the place and guard it to be sure that these two don’t make off as well. Find out what has happened, then come back and tell me.”

The garrison commander at once shouted for his trumpeter. This made the Proconsul angrier than before, and pounding his palm with his fist he yelled, “Have you all taken leave of your wits? You don’t need a cohort—just a few reliable men. It would be madness to attract attention and make a to-do over this thing, which brings shame upon us all. Now perhaps you will be good enough to start.”

Adenabar summoned ten men or so, and having paraded them in the courtyard he ordered them to move off at the double. The Proconsul had to shout Halt, and remind us that the best way to collect a mob of inquisitive Jews was to cross the city at a run. I was glad enough not to do this, for, out of training as I am, I could hardly have kept up with the legionaries even without equipment, though we had not far to go.

People who had fled beyond the walls were now returning to the city. However, they had enough to think about already and we attracted no attention. The Jews even forgot to spit after the legionaries and shout their usual curses.

The garden partly concealed the tomb, yet while we were still a long way off we could see two Jews coming out of the opening in the rock. They were undoubtedly followers of the Nazarene, for I am fairly sure that one of them was the handsome young man I had seen protecting the sorrowing women at the place of execution. The other was a big, bearded, round-headed man. When they saw us coming they fled and disappeared, although we called after them.

“Now the fat’s in the fire,” exclaimed Adenabar. But he sent no one in pursuit, thinking it wiser not to disperse our force and knowing that the Jews could easily lead the legionaries astray among gardens, thickets, hillocks and clefts.

But we had seen enough of them to be sure that they had carried nothing away with them from the tomb.

On reaching the sepulcher we saw that the stone had broken the edge of the groove with its weight. It had rolled outwards from the opening and begun to run down the slope until it was brought up short against the edge of a rock, where it had split in two. We could see no marks of any tools. Anyone wishing to open the tomb from outside would have rolled the stone sideways along the groove, as was intended. A piece of cord still hung from the broken legion seal. It was thus evident that the earthquake had shifted the stone from its place. A strong scent of myrrh and aloes wafted out of the dark tomb into the damp morning air.

“You go first and I’ll follow,” said Adenabar. He was gray with fear, and trembling all over. The legionaries halted at a respectful distance from the sepulcher and huddled together like a flock of sheep.

We stepped into the outer chamber and thence through a narrower opening into the grave chamber itself. We could barely make out the white graveclothes on the stone bench until our eyes grew accustomed to the darkness. At first we both thought that the body was there; then, when we could see more clearly, we found that it had left its winding sheets and disappeared. The linen had stiffened with the myrrh and aloes and still showed the contours of the body that had lain in it, while the sweat cloth that had covered the face lay somewhat apart.

At first I did not believe my eyes, and put my hand in the space between shroud and sweat cloth. There was nothing there. But the linen had not been unwound; it had merely sunk a little, and still held the shape of the body. It would have been impossible to remove the corpse without unfolding the linen. Yet it was gone. Our own eyes bore witness.

“Do you see what I see?” Adenabar whispered.

My tongue would not obey me. I simply nodded. He whispered again, “Did I not say he was a son of God?”

Then he recovered himself, ceased trembling, wiped his face and said, “I haven’t seen this kind of sorcery before. It might be as well for you and me to be the only witnesses, for the present.”

I doubt if even threats would have induced those legionaries to enter the tomb, so great was the terror that had seized them at the disappearance of their comrades; for there was no sign of any struggle outside.

Adenabar and I did not point out to each other that no one could have wriggled out of stiffened graveclothes without disturbing them. And if those pieces of linen, which were gummed so firmly together with myrrh and aloes, had been unfolded, we should certainly have found signs of it. The most skillful hand could not have replaced them so as to preserve the shape of the body.

As soon as I had fully grasped this I was filled with a sense of profound peace, and was no longer in the least afraid. Adenabar plainly had a similar feeling. Yet I cannot explain how it was we felt no fear, considering that we had just become aware that a miracle had taken place and that we ought, by all human reasoning, to have been more terrified than ever. Calmly we left the tomb and told the legionaries that the body was not there.

The men showed not the smallest wish to enter the tomb and verify this for themselves, nor would we have allowed them to do so. Some of them, calling to mind the honor of the legion, looked about them and pointed out that stones had also rolled away from two other old tombs hewn out of the same rock. It was evidently here that the earthquake had been most violent, and this did not surprise me. They suggested that we might take a corpse from one of the old tombs and lay it where the king of the Jews had lain. I forbade them sternly even to think of such a ruse.

While we were still in doubt as to what we should do, a couple of legionaries appeared among the bushes and came hesitantly toward us. Adenabar saw at once that they were two of those who had run away, and shouted at them to lay down their arms. But they protested vehemently, vowing that they had performed their duty and watched the tomb closely from a safe place within sight of it. And indeed no one had stated how near to the tomb they were to stand.

They said, “We two and two others were asleep, and two were on guard, when toward morning the earthquake began. The stone up here loosened and came bounding down over us, and it was by mere chance that none of us were crushed. We moved farther away—still within sight—for we were afraid that there might be more tremors. Four men hurried off to tell the Jews what had happened, for it was on their account and not the legion’s that we were guarding the tomb.”

They excused themselves with such energy as to suggest that they were keeping something back. They said also, “We saw those two Jews coming to relieve us but we didn’t show ourselves, although they called us, for we were waiting here for our comrades and guarding the sepulcher; and we legionaries stand by each other. If there is anything to be explained we’ll do it together, and agree amongst ourselves what to say and what not to say.”

Both Adenabar and I questioned them and learned that at dawn they had seen two Jewish women approach the grave, carrying something. They hesitated outside and but one of them entered, only to come out again soon. Just then the sun rose and dazzled the eyes of the guards, yet they could take their oath that nothing had been carried either in or out of the tomb. The women had set down their burden outside; on leaving they picked it up and ran away, although the soldiers had not chased them.

Just before our own arrival two Jews, also running, came to the place, a young man first and an older man, breathless, a little behind. The young one had not dared to enter the tomb alone, but just peered in through the opening. The older man, however, went in, and the younger took courage and followed. The women had clearly given them the alarm, but the men too lingered only for a moment in the sepulcher and brought nothing out of it. The soldiers assured us that they had observed them closely from their hiding place, so as to arrest them if they attempted to remove the body.

“For we were put here to guard the body, and this we have done to the best of our ability and according to regulations, and not even the earthquake made us run away; we only moved to a safe distance from the tomb,” said they with one voice.

But I was watching them keenly, and from their looks and their restless eyes I saw that they were hiding something. “At any rate, the body has gone,” I said sternly.

Then they began waving their hands in the Syrian manner and crying, “That is not our fault. Not for a moment have we been out of sight of the sepulcher.”

There was no more to be got out of them, and the interrogation was cut short, for now from the city came the four other guards and with them three Jewish elders, whom one could recognize from afar by their headdresses. When the four soldiers saw their two comrades in our midst they began shouting to them while they were still a long way off, warning them and saying, “Hold your tongues now, and don’t drivel! The matter has all been straightened out with the Jews. We’ve confessed everything and thanks to their kindness and understanding, our mistake has been pardoned.”

All three Jews were evidently members of the Council, for when they came up they greeted us with dignity and said, “We have been long in coming, but we desired first to call the Council together hastily, to debate this matter among ourselves. The legionaries guard the tomb upon our account and at our request, and we do not wish them to be punished for their stupidity. How could they guess that the disciples of this accursed Nazarene would be so crafty? We have settled the affair between us, and we allow the guard to go in peace. And do you yourselves also go in peace, for neither we nor the Romans have any further business here. The damage is done and we will leave it at that, to avoid trouble and needless gossip.”

“No, no,” I said. “Roman military law is here involved and we must have a formal inquiry, for the body of your king has disappeared and these sentries are responsible.”

They asked, “Who are you and why do you argue with us? You are clean-shaven and still a young man. You should respect our rank and age. If the matter must be discussed with anyone, we shall discuss it with the Governor, not with you.”

But having looked into the tomb I felt only repugnance for these astute old men who had condemned their king and forced the Proconsul to crucify him. Therefore I replied stubbornly, “Your king has vanished from the tomb, and for that reason the case must be thoroughly investigated.”

They contradicted me in vexation. “He was no king of ours. He alone called himself so. We have investigated the matter already. Foolishly the guards lay down to sleep, and while they slept his disciples crept up and stole his body. The guards are willing to confirm this and so atone for their fault. We pardon them, therefore, and do not demand their punishment.”

Their words were so much at variance with common sense and the evidence of my own eyes that I knew they must have hit on some stratagem and won the soldiers over to their side; so I appealed to Adenabar, saying, “According to Roman military law a soldier who sleeps at his post or deserts it without leave must be flogged and executed with the sword.”

Our two legionaries started in fear and goggled at each other, but the four who had returned in company with the Jews nudged both their comrades, winked at them and signed to them with much gesticulation that they had nothing to fear. The Jews repeated their assurances: “It was for us they stood watch, not for Rome. It is for us to demand their punishment or acquittal.”

But I was overmastered by the desire to know what had really happened, and so I made a mistake. To frighten the Jews I suggested, “Go into the tomb and see for yourselves. Then question the guards again if you will—and dare.”

Adenabar was cleverer, and said hastily, “Why should such righteous men as you defile yourselves to no purpose by entering that place?”

Yet from both my words and his the Jews realized there was something in the sepulcher that was worth seeing. After consulting one another in their sacred language, which I did not understand, one after the other stooped to enter, and naturally we could not prevent them. They remained within for a long time, although it must have been cramped in there for the three of them, until at last I went over and peered in. I saw their bowed backs, and heard their animated conversation.

At length they emerged again, red in the face and shifty-eyed, and they said, “Now we have defiled ourselves so that we may be able to testify that all has come about as the guards described it. And as nothing can make us uncleaner than we already are, let us go straight to the Governor and have the matter out with him, to prevent the spreading of lies and false information.”

Seized with misgivings I quickly entered the tomb. As soon as I could make anything out in there I found that they had torn up all the grave clothes in their frenzied search for the body.

I flew into a rage, for my own stupidity had led them to destroy the only piece of evidence which showed that the king had left the tomb in a supernatural manner. But at the same moment I felt a giddiness resulting from exhaustion and lack of sleep, and from the drugging scent of myrrh in the narrow grave chamber. I was aware of a shadowy feeling of unreality, and a powerful sense of the presence of a superior force. It was as if invisible hands were holding me by the shoulders, and preventing me from dashing out and accusing the Jews. I recovered my self-control, and with it my peace of mind, so that I came out again with my head bent, saying nothing to the Jews and not even looking at them.

Briefly I explained to Adenabar what they had done. He looked at me appealingly, as if wanting to consult me as to our next step; then threw up his hands in resignation. Once more he bade the guards lay down their arms, but they talked excitedly in their own defense and asked, “Is that an order? If we lay down our arms it will seem like an admission of a breach of duty. In the name of the ox-god, this is a Jewish tomb we have been guarding, at the Jews’ request, so it can be no crime to sleep at our post; it shows rather that we are brave men and not afraid of the dark. If you allow us to keep our weapons and leave the Jews to explain the thing to the Proconsul, you shall not regret it. This we guarantee, and so will the Jews.”

Again Adenabar gave me a dubious look, as if to suggest that I too ought to try to gain some advantage from a situation which was now past altering; but he dared not open his mouth. So we returned in an orderly manner to the city and the fortress, the Jews following behind. They stood rigidly by their decision that since the body had been stolen there was no longer any need to guard the tomb. The six guards walked in a tight group by themselves, whispering eagerly to each other all the way.

When we reached the fortress, Pontius Pilate was still seated in his red-covered chair of justice at the top of the steps. He had had a table brought out and set beside him, and wine too, and his mood was entirely changed.

“Come before me, all of you,” he bade us in the gentlest of voices. “You, Marcus, who are a man of learning and an impartial witness, stand here beside me and try to remember that the Jews are liberal people. In serious matters they are very pleasant to deal with. Bring seats for these honored Councilors, who do not despise the Romans. My own secretary shall take down the minutes, and you there, the scapegoats of the legion, draw nearer. Have no fear of me, but tell me without disguise what happened to you.”

The soldiers glanced from him to the Jews and back again, and a broad grin overspread their rugged Syrian faces. They shoved forward a spokesman, who began his story with the assurance:

“By Caesar’s genius and the bull-god, these are the words of truth. With your approval, the Jews hired us to guard the tomb in which the crucified Nazarene had been laid. All six of us went there last night. Having seen that the seal was unbroken, we let the day watch go and camped on the ground before the tomb. Thanks to the generosity of the Jews we had plenty of wine with us to keep out the night cold. We had intended to keep watch two at a time while the other four slept, but that evening none of us wanted to sleep. We threw dice, sang and made merry, and only girls were lacking to our enjoyment. But, lord, you know yourself that the wines of Judea are treacherous. During the night we lost count of the shifts and fell to quarreling over them, not knowing for certain who were to watch and who to sleep. In fact we were so tipsy that we all six seem to have slept, although each believed that two of the others were at their posts.”

He appealed to his companions, who nodded brazenly and said, “That is what happened. That is the truth.”

The spokesman continued his tale. “We didn’t wake until the earthquake, and then we saw that the disciples of the crucified man had broken into the tomb and were just carrying the body out. There were many of them: cruel, bloodthirsty-looking fellows. When they saw that we were awakening, they rolled the stone from the mouth of the tomb down upon us, and so made their escape.”

Pilate inquired with apparent curiosity, “How many of them were there?”

“Twelve,” declared the man firmly. “They clashed their weapons, and shouted, to scare us off.”

One of the Jewish Councilors joined in the conversation, saying, “There can scarcely have been more than eleven, for the twelfth—the man who deserted them—has been murdered in revenge. At least his body was found near the city wall early this morning by herdsmen. He had been strangled with his own girdle and thrown into a gully, so that his belly had split and his entrails burst out.”

Pilate asked, “Did they carry the body away as it was, or had they removed the graveclothes inside the tomb?”

Disconcerted, the spokesman glanced sideways at his companions, and then said, “Oh, the body must still have been in its shroud. They were in a hurry because of the earthquake.”

The Jews rose from their chairs and cried vehemently, “No, no, that is a mistake. They removed the linen from the body while it was still in the grave chamber, to make people believe he had risen from the dead. We saw it lying there higgledy-piggledy.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” the soldier said. “How could we have seen that in the darkness, confused as we were by the wine and the earthquake?”

“Yet apart from that you saw and observed plainly all that happened, despite the darkness,” said Pilate approvingly. “You are excellent men, and a credit to the twelfth legion.”

His tone was so ominous that the soldiers glanced at each other, stared at the ground and wriggled. Then they nudged their spokesman, who looked guiltily at the Jews and said, “Well, in fact...” Then repeated, “In fact...” But the words stuck in his throat.

“Sir,” I began, but Pilate signed to me to be silent, and pronounced his verdict.

“I have listened to the account given by these trustworthy men, and I have weighty reasons for believing that they have spoken the truth without deceit. They have satisfied our Jewish friends also, and no punishment has been demanded. Why then should I interfere in questions of internal discipline within the legion? Have I spoken rightly?”

The Jewish elders answered warmly with one voice: “Rightly indeed!” The soldiers too stamped their feet: “Rightly have you spoken. May the gods of Rome and our own gods bless you with all good things!”

“I have now dealt with this matter,” the Proconsul said, “and it is closed. If anyone has anything to add, let him speak now and not afterwards.”

“Allow me to say one thing,” I begged; for this farce of a trial seemed to me more like a scene from an Oscan comedy than an episode in real life.

Pilate, in feigned astonishment, turned to me and said, “Oh, you were there too, then, and saw it all?”

“Of course not,” I returned, “and I don’t pretend I was. But you yourself sent me there afterwards, as a witness, to find out what did happen.”

“So you didn’t see it,” the Proconsul remarked. “The soldiers did, however, so you had best not speak on matters of which you have no knowledge. When I sent you, I thought the soldiers had run away and brought dishonor on the legion. But here they stand, as gentle as lambs, and have made full confession.”

He rose from his place with ironical reverence, to show the Jews that he had had enough of them, and they thanked him and withdrew through the archway. The soldiers too were about to leave when the Proconsul signed to them casually and said, “Wait a little.” He then turned to the garrison commander, remarking, “From your gloomy looks I conclude that the high priest’s treasurer did not deem it necessary to secure your friendship. It is not for me, as I said, to interfere in matters of discipline within the legion. I have indeed shown clemency to these fellows, but that need not prevent you from taking appropriate action against them by way of a lesson. In my opinion you might well put them under arrest for the time being and let them meditate upon what really occurred.”

He added in a low voice, “Nor need anything prevent you from discovering how much money the Jews gave them in token of their love of truth.”

The commandant’s somber face was split by a cheerful grin; he gave a few orders, and the guards were disarmed before they quite grasped what was going on. They were taken down to the detention cellar, and the commandant followed to assure himself that the money was correctly counted.

When they had gone, the Proconsul smiled to himself and said, “Adenabar, you are a Syrian. Go and find out what those rogues really saw.”

Stiffly he started up the steps and beckoned to me most benevolently to follow. I went with him to his office where he ordered the others to withdraw, sat down puffing, rubbed his knees, permitted me also to be seated, and said encouragingly, “Speak. I can see you are bursting to do so.”

Absently he took up a leather bag, broke the sealed cord and let the pure gold coins, stamped with the head of Tiberius, run through his fingers.

“Sir,” I said after a moment’s reflection, “I don’t know why you did as you did just now, but I take it that you have your reasons. I am not in a position to judge your actions as a Roman official.”

He jingled the coins and answered, “As I have already explained to you, I have sound reasons—the weightiest reasons in the world, so long as the world remains what it is. You know yourself that the censors keep a sharp eye on procurators. One can no longer grow rich in the provinces as one could in the days of the republic. But if the Jews insist on forcing presents on me, out of sheer friendship, I should be mad to refuse them. I’m not a rich man, and Claudia keeps a firm hand on her own property. So far as I know, you are well enough off not to envy the gifts that I receive.”

Of course I did not envy him anything, but my mind was so full of what I had seen that I exclaimed, “So long as the world remains what it is, you say. I believe the world will no longer be quite the same, for the king of the Jews whom you crucified has risen from the dead. The earthquake rolled the stone away from the doorway and he left the sepulcher, passing through winding sheet and sweat cloth despite whatever lies the legionaries and Jews may tell.”

Pilate looked at me searchingly, and concealed his thoughts. I told him what Adenabar and I had discovered by examining the ground outside the tomb, and what we had beheld within it. “The folds of the linen were still stuck together and had not been loosened,” I cried. “To conceal this, the Jews tore up the graveclothes in a rage, or you might have satisfied yourself that he kept his promise and rose up from the dead on the third day, and walked out of his tomb. Adenabar too can testify to this.”

Pontius Pilate smiled with open sarcasm, saying, “Do you imagine that I would have stooped to go there myself and look at the Jews’ conjuring tricks?” He said this so pityingly that for a moment I doubted the evidence of my own eyes, and recalled all the illusionist arts of Egypt with which simple folk are cheated.

The Proconsul poured the money back, drew the cord tight and tossed the bag down with a jingle. Then he said gravely, “On the other hand I know perfectly well that the guards are lying and that they have concocted this story in return for Jewish bribes. No legionary sleeps at his post when he has the seal of his own legion to guard. Besides, Syrians are so superstitious by nature, so afraid of the dark, that they would hardly have dared to sleep. It must have been the earthquake that opened the tomb, as you say; what I would like to know is what happened afterwards.”

Resting his elbows on his knees and his thin chin on his hands, he stared before him. “He impressed me too, of course, that Jewish miracle worker,” he admitted. “More deeply than you know—than Claudia knows. But there have been miracle workers, prophets and Messiahs in Judea before now. One and all stirred up the people and made trouble before they were rendered harmless. But this man was no agitator. He was so humble that I found it hard to look him in the eye when I was interrogating him. Remember that I had the opportunity of questioning him privately, with no Jews listening. According to their accusation he called himself a king, thereby setting himself up against Caesar. But it was obvious he regarded his kingship as something purely symbolic, and so far as I know he never even refused to pay tax to the Roman State. His kingdom was not of this world, he told me; and he said also that he had been born into this world to bear witness to the truth. Naturally this moved me deeply, thick-skinned though I may be. But the Sophists proved long ago that there is no absolute truth in the world; that all truths are relative and must be measured against each other. In fact, I asked him what truth was. But to that he either would not or could not make any reply.

“No, I found no evil in that man,” Pilate went on thoughtfully. “In the wretched state he was in after the Jews’ ill-treatment he seemed to me on the contrary the most innocent and, in a noble way, the humblest man I have ever met. He was not at all afraid of me—he never even defended himself. There was strength in him. I may say that in a sense I felt inferior to him, for all my position. But it was no humiliating feeling. Rather I felt cheered as I spoke with him and he answered in his temperate fashion. He never defended himself or tried to argue.”

Pilate looked up at me, smiled again and added conciliatingly, “I think it best to tell you all this so that you may not misjudge me. I desired his own good, but the political situation was hopelessly against him. It was not possible to save him, since he would not lift a finger to help himself. On the contrary, it was as if he had been merely awaiting his fate, and had known beforehand what it would be.”

His face hardened; he looked darkly upon me again, and said at last, “An exceptional man, perhaps a holy man; let us call him that. But, Marcus, he was no god; cherish no illusions of that sort. He was a man, a living human being like other human beings. You yourself saw him die as men die. Not the furies themselves could persuade me that a corpse can rise again, or vanish into the air through a shroud. Everything in this world has a natural and usually a very simple explanation.”

Thus he spoke to me, for the matter continued to trouble him, and as a Roman official he wanted to confine himself to tangible facts. He had to do so. I perceived this and did not contradict him, but maintained a stubborn silence. Afterwards I regretted it, for if I had asked him he would surely have been willing to tell me, in this moment of self-examination, all that had happened during the interrogation, and what the Nazarene had answered.

Presently Adenabar entered. The Proconsul nodded to him and said, “Speak.”

Adenabar rubbed his hands in embarrassment and asked, “Sir, what am I to tell you?”

Pilate said sternly, “This is no cross-examination at the bar, but a confidential conversation within four walls. I don’t say to you ‘tell the truth,’ for truth is something that neither you nor I knows much about. Just tell me what those fellows really think they saw.”

“Each of them was given thirty silver pieces,” said Adenabar. “For that price the Jews put into their mouths what they were to say. In fact they were afraid and hardly dared sleep for fear of ghosts at the tomb. Quite certainly two of them were awake, as they were supposed to be, when the earthquake came. The shock knocked them over; they all awoke just as the stone in front of the tomb broke loose, and they heard it rolling toward them in the darkness. And then—”

Adenabar broke off in embarrassment and said apologetically, “I am but repeating what I heard. They didn’t even have to be flogged, so eager were they to talk, for they were most indignant when we took their money away. Having escaped the stone they were all trembling with fright and they saw a light like a lightning flash, though they heard no thunder. The lightning struck them to the ground again, and they lay there like dead men, dazzled for a long time. But they heard no one moving, no noise and no footsteps, when they ventured to approach the tomb again. They saw no thieves, and they believe that no one would have had time to go in and out of the tomb without their seeing him. After consulting together they left two men on guard, and the other four went to tell the Jews what had happened, not daring to enter the tomb themselves to find out whether the body was still there.”

Pilate pondered what he had heard, then turning to me he asked, “Marcus, which story do you find the more credible: the one the Jews believe to be consistent with the truth or the one you have just heard?”

I answered frankly, “I know the logic of the Sophists and the truth of the cynics. I have also been initiated into mysteries, although these—for all the beauty of their symbolism—never convinced me. Philosophy has made a doubter of me, but earthly truth has always been like the stab of a knife in my heart. Now I understand it completely. With my own eyes I saw him die. Today with my own eyes I saw that no earthly power had broken open the tomb where he lay. The truth is simple, as you said just now. His kingdom came to this world this morning. The earth shook and opened his tomb. His light dazzled the guards when he rose and came out from it. How simple it is. Why should I rather believe doctored stories which bear no relation to the facts?”

“Marcus, don’t make a fool of yourself,” said the Proconsul. “Remember you’re a Roman citizen. Now you, Adenabar, which story do you choose?”

“Sir, in this matter I have no views,” returned Adenabar diplomatically.

“Marcus,” the Proconsul repeated pleadingly. “Do you seriously mean me to make myself a laughingstock by alerting the legion and all the garrisons in Judea, and bidding them capture a man who has run away from his tomb? Such would be my duty, if I believed you. Distinguishing marks: a wound in the side, penetrating the heart, and nail holes in his hands and feet. Calls himself king of the Jews.”

He went on more mildly, “But we can make the choice easier for you. I did not ask you what you think is the truth, but which of the stories is the more credible in the world in which we find ourselves? Or, even better, which story is politically the more expedient, from both the Jewish and the Roman point of view? You surely understand that whatever my own opinion may be, I must act in a way that is politically expedient.”

“Yes, and I can see why you asked him what truth is,” I returned bitterly. “Be it as you say. You’re evidently satisfied. The Jews have decided for you and have given you both a credible story and a present to help you swallow it. Of course their version is the more expedient. I don’t intend to run my head into the snare and let you charge me with political conspiracy. I’m not such a fool. But perhaps you’ll allow me to reserve my own opinion. I won’t noise it abroad.”

“Then we’re all three agreed,” said the Proconsul serenely. “The sooner we forget the affair the better. Adenabar, you and the commandant may each keep a third of the Jews’ money—that’s no more than fair—but give the men ten silver coins each, to stop their mouths. Tomorrow they may be released, and in due course transferred to the border, preferably to different places. But if they start spreading absurd rumors we must take immediate steps.”

I took this as a hint that I too would be wise to remain silent so long as I remain in Judea. But on thinking it over I realize that nowhere in the whole of the civilized world could I speak openly of my experiences. I should be regarded as a crank, or a liar wanting to attract attention. If the worst came to the worst, Pilate could denounce me as a political troublemaker who was meddling in Jewish affairs in order to harm Rome. Citizens have been executed for less than that in our days.

These thoughts depressed me, yet I was consoled by the reflection that I wanted to know the truth for my own sake rather than to tell it to others. So when Adenabar had gone I said meekly, “But you will let me investigate this matter of the king of the Jews? Not his resurrection; I will keep silent about that. But I want to know something of what he did and taught. There may be something to be learned from it. You yourself said that he was an exceptional man.”

Pilate scratched his chin, looked at me kindly and answered, “I think it would be best to forget all about him; I wouldn’t like you to addle your brains with the Jewish religion. You’re still young, you’re well off and free, you have influential friends and life smiles upon you. But to each his destiny. I shall not stand in your way, so long as you satisfy your curiosity discreetly, without attracting attention. Jerusalem is full of talk about him just now, but you can have no idea how short a memory the people have. His disciples will soon disperse in all directions and return to their homes. Believe me, in a few years he will be quite forgotten.”

I realized that our conversation was at an end and went down to the officers’ mess to eat, since he did not invite me to his own table. I was tormented by such uneasiness that I hardly heard what was said to me, and after the meal I couldn’t rest as the others did. Irresolutely I walked through the gateway and strolled about the city. The streets were full of people on their way home after the festival. I saw folk of every race, and tried to look at wares from every country in the shops of the Jewish merchants. But I had seen the same before in other great cities, and found nothing to amuse me.

Sometime later I noticed that I was looking at nothing but the beggars squatting along the house walls; at their maimed limbs, blind eyes and ulcerous sores. This surprised me, for a traveler becomes so well accustomed to beggars that he notices them no more than he notices the flies that beset him. They sat in rows on each side of the street in front of the temple, and each of them seemed to have his own special place. They held forth their hands and cried out their woes, and cuffed and jostled one another.

It was as if there had been something wrong with my eyes, for instead of observing the gorgeous merchandise, the Pharisees with their huge mantle tassels, the oriental traders, the graceful walk of the women water carriers, I saw only the maimed and wretched beggars. So, wearying of the city streets, I went out through the gate and once more saw the hill of execution before me. I walked past it quickly and into the garden where the tomb was. I noticed that with its fruit trees and herb garden it was more lovely than I had thought. Now, in the time of the midday rest, it was empty of people. My steps took me to the rock tomb; I entered it once more and looked about. The linen cloths had been removed and I was aware only of the fragrance of ointments.

When I came out again I was overwhelmed by a feeling of weariness such as I never remember having felt before. I had had no proper sleep for two nights, and it seemed to me that the past two days and this third one had been the longest of my life. Reeling with exhaustion I went over to the shade of a myrtle bush, lay down on the grass, rolled myself in my mantle and at once fell asleep.

When I awoke, the sun had declined and it was already the fourth hour by Roman reckoning. The sound of twittering birds surrounded me, and the scent of mignonette, and fresher air. I sat up, feeling marvelously rested. My unease had vanished and I felt no need to torment myself with foolish thoughts. I inhaled the cool air, the world looked younger to me, and I suddenly realized that the dry, oppressive desert wind had ceased and that all was different. The wind may have changed that morning, though I had not noticed it. But now my head ached no longer, my eyes no longer smarted from lack of sleep and I was neither hungry nor thirsty. All I felt was the wonder of breathing, living, existing as a man in the world of men.

I saw a gardener moving about the garden, lifting the boughs of the fruit trees and feeling the setting fruit. He was dressed like a man of the people in a simple mantle with small tassels, and he had covered his head to protect it from the sun. I thought I might have annoyed him by lying down without leave to sleep in his garden, for Jewish customs are very complex and I know little of them. I therefore rose hastily, went up to him, greeted him and said, “Your garden is glorious, and I hope you didn’t think it wrong of me to rest here without asking leave.” At that moment I would not have offended anyone in the world.

He turned and smiled more kindly than any Jew had ever smiled at me, a clean-shaven Roman. But his reply surprised me even more, for he answered gently, almost shyly, “In my garden there is room for you too, for I know you.”

I thought his sight must be bad and that he mistook me for another.

“But I’m not a Jew,” I said astonished. “How should you know me?”

He beckoned as if inviting me to go with him. Thinking that he wished to show me something or offer me something in token of friendship, I accompanied him willingly. He walked ahead and I saw that he was limping badly, though he was not at all an old man. Where the path turned, he again lifted a hanging fruit bough and I saw that he had hurt his hand. He had an ugly wound at his wrist that was not yet healed. Seeing this I stood as if petrified, and for a moment my limbs refused to obey me. Again he looked at me as at someone he knew and then continued along the path around a steep slope.

When my feet obeyed me once more I gave a cry and ran after him, but when I rounded the slope he had vanished. I saw that the path continued, but he was no longer to be seen, nor could I spy any place where he might have hidden in so short a time.

My knees gave way and I sat down in the middle of the path, not knowing what to think. I have written it down exactly as it happened. Now that I have written it I confess that for a while I firmly believed that I had beheld the Jews’ resurrected king, in the shape of this gardener. The ugly wound at his wrist was just at the place where the executioner drives in the nail at a crucifixion, so that the bones may support the weight of the limp body.

He said that he knew me. How could he have known me unless he had seen me at the cross? But the moment of rapture passed, the earth faded to gray again before my eyes, and my reason returned. I was sitting on a dusty path and a kindly Jew had smiled at me. Why had I been so bemused by that? There might well be numbers of Jews who were friendly to strangers. I had seen plenty of lame men in the city, and a gardener often hurts his hands at his work. I must have misunderstood his gesture; he may not have meant me to follow him at all, and had slipped away into some hiding place.

Above all, if he had been the king of the Jews, why should he have shown himself to me, of all people? Who am I that he should do such a thing? And on the other hand, if he had had some special reason for it, surely he would have explained what he wanted of me; otherwise there was no sense in it.

Next I thought that I had just been dreaming. But when I scrambled to my feet and walked along the path I saw the place by the myrtle bush where I had slept. No, it was no dream. I lay down again and my reason, sharpened by intellectual training, rebelled against the pointlessness of my vision. Naturally I should have been more than glad to see the crucified king resurrected and alive, but I had no right to take my wish for reality, and fancy that I had seen him.

In this way were my thoughts divided, and I was seized by a frightening feeling of being split into two different creatures, one desiring to believe and the other deriding such credulity. The mocker told me that I had lost some of my youth and stamina. The wear and tear of that winter in Alexandria, spent by turns in wine drinking and frivolous company and in the study of dim prophecies, had addled my brains. The journey on foot from Joppa, the shattering events that I had witnessed, added to wakeful nights and excessive writing, had proved the last drop in a brimming cup, or the feather of the sophists that breaks the camel’s back. I could no longer trust my own senses, far less my powers of judgment.

Pontius Pilate is older than I, and an experienced, judicious man. If I were sensible I would take his advice; rest, view the sights in the holy city of the Jews, and forget.

I thought of the demons which according to Jewish tales enter into weak people and take possession of their bodies. I had slept near tombs and exposed myself to peril. My difficulty was to determine which part of me was the demon: the part that wanted me to believe that the king of the Jews had risen from his grave and that I had seen him in the shape of the gardener; or the part that so fiercely condemned this idea.

I had hardly had time to think thusly before the reviler within me flared up. “You’re so far gone that you believe in the Jews’ demons. You’ve seen the physicians of Alexandria dissecting human bodies, and you’ve heard how they have cut open condemned criminals to find their soul. But they found nothing. You imagine that one man among men has risen from the dead, although you saw him expire on the cross and watched a seasoned legionary pierce his heart with a spear. Such things are not possible, and what is not possible cannot be true.”

But my credulous self-rebelled against this: “Marcus, if you give up now and turn away, you will never in your life know any peace, you will always be tormenting yourself with the thought that something happened before your eyes which had never happened before. So don’t be too clever. Cleverness is limited and misleading, as the sophists have proved. There is nothing to prevent you from investigating the matter, in a humble, practical way. Examine first, then think. The fact that nothing like this has happened before doesn’t prove that it can’t happen. This is something more than the signs and omens of which you have always believed at least half. Rely more on your sensibility than on your reason. You are not one of the seven wise masters, and no one has ever won success in anything by means of reason alone. Sulla relied on his luck, Caesar did not believe that the Ides of March would bring him destruction. Even the dumb brutes are wiser than man, as when the birds fell silent and the donkey bolted before the earthquake, and as when rats desert a ship that is fated to be wrecked on her next voyage.”

It is hard to describe this duality, for I believe no one can apprehend it without having experienced it himself. The sensation is terrifying, and I might have gone out of my mind were it not that in the innermost part of me there dwells a coldness that has protected me through even the worst emotional storms. But I knew from experience that it was best to be silent and to shun futile brooding.

When I had collected my thoughts, evening was already near and the valleys were filled with the shadows of the hills, though on the lofty height of the city the temple of the Jews shone with a ruddy light in the sun. I went now and sought out the house of the Jewish banker, to present my draft, for I guessed that I should need money to continue my researches. The building stood near the theatre and the high priest’s house, in a recently rebuilt quarter of the city.

The banker himself received me when I had stated my business to his servant. He came as a real surprise to me after the Jewish contumacy that I had so far encountered. He at once invited me to address him by his Greek name, Aristainos, and said, “I have heard of you already. I had a letter from Alexandria and wondered whether you had fallen among robbers on the way, as you didn’t call upon me at once. Foreign travelers usually come to me first of all to change money and ask advice about how best to squander it; for gloomy though Jerusalem may seem, it is gay and full of variety during the feast. Then they come back to borrow money for their return journey, and truth to tell I make more by that than by cashing bankers’ orders. If you should meet with any difficulties during your stay here, don’t hesitate to call upon me. I’m never surprised at anything merry-minded young travelers may do. Sometimes in the morning, when the horns of the temple sound and my gate is opened, some client of mine may be found asleep outside with his head on the bare stones, having lost both mantle and sandals.”

He talked easily, like a man of the world, and for all his position he was not much older than myself. For form’s sake he wore a little beard, and the tassels of his mantle were almost too small to be seen. He had curled his hair in the Greek manner and smelled of fine ointments, and he was in every way a handsome and agreeable man.

I explained that I had been staying in Antonia fortress as the guest of the Proconsul, because the Romans were afraid of disturbances and had warned me against lodging in the city during the feast of the Passover. He spread out his hands in surprise, and with an exclamation said, “That is a lie; that is false, malicious talk. Our Council has a fully adequate police force to keep order. I believe our own priests deal more competently with agitators and fanatics than the Romans do. Naturally the people of Jerusalem dislike the Syrian legionaries, but that is chiefly because of their arrogant behavior. A traveling foreigner who brings money to the city, respects our customs and complies with city regulations is given the best possible reception. He is waited upon and cared for; guides vie with one another in showing him the sights, while many scholars are ready to expound to him the truths of our faith; he can choose any inn at any price from the dearest to the most moderate, and within the walls of certain houses all imaginable pleasures are permitted and available to him, whether of the Egyptian, Greek or Babylonian kind. You may even find Indian dancing girls here, should you wish to experience something very special. But of course the traveler would be wise to lodge in the new quarter near the forum.”

I said that the east wind had given me an unpleasant headache, and that it was disagreeable to be roused at dawn by an earthquake and the clatter of falling shields.

He spoke yet more warmly in defense of his city and said, “Those two little shocks were of no consequence. They caused no damage. If you had been living here in the better part of the city I believe you would hardly have noticed this morning’s tremor. I never even troubled to get out of bed, but it must have been more violent in the Antonia district.”

I knew I was being discourteous, but I wanted to lead the conversation around to Jesus of Nazareth, and I said, as if making a further complaint, “And then you went and crucified your king just when I arrived, and that was no pleasant sight.”

Aristainos’ face darkened. He clapped his hands, ordered honey wine and pastries and replied, “You’re an odd sort of traveler, to notice nothing but unpleasant things in this the only really holy city in the world. Be good enough to sit down and let me explain a few points, since it is evident that you don’t know what you’re saying. We Jews are weary of holy scriptures and prophecies, and that is natural enough, for our doctrine is the most remarkable one in the world and our history is incredible. Of all the nations, ours is the only one that worships the one God, who permits us to have no other gods; and of all the countries in the world we are alone in having one single temple here in Jerusalem, where we worship our God according to the laws which he himself has revealed to us through the great leaders of our people.”

Smiling, he bade me take a goblet and taste the cakes, but he did not offer me the cup with his own hand, and I noticed that his cakes and mine were on different plates.

He followed my glance and said, laughing, “You see I’m a bigoted Jew. But it’s only on the servants’ account that I don’t drink from the same cup as you or touch the same dish. Don’t imagine that I think myself any better than you. I’m an enlightened man and break the law in many ways, though outwardly I try to keep it. We have our Pharisees who make their own and other people’s lives unbearable by insisting that tradition must be followed to the letter. This is our conflict. Our law holds our people together. In all the cities of the world the same law holds all Jews together and prevents them from mingling with others and being swallowed up by them. Were it not so, this race, which has known slavery in both Egypt and Babylon, would long ago have been wiped out. I myself am an educated man, Greek at heart, and I cannot agree that the spirit should be bound by the letter, although if it came to the point I would let myself be hacked to pieces in defense of our God and our temple. Our history proves that we Jews are God’s chosen people, but a sensible man must appreciate that in comparison with the infinite glory of our God, it matters little how one eats or drinks or washes hands or vessels. But these complicated customs and traditions, circumcision, observance of the Sabbath, and all the other things that are too troublesome to explain to a stranger—these things hold our people together here in this little land between east and west, so that we do not merge with other races, but will be ready when Messiah comes on earth and brings in the millennium.”

He glanced at me sideways and added hastily, “That is what our prophets have foretold, but on no account take it literally, or even as some political dream, that one day the Jews, led by Messiah, will rule the world. It is only the simple people—the plebeians, as you would call them—who cherish dreams. Speaking generally, we Jews are enthusiasts, and so one Messiah after another appears among us to try his luck, and there is no miracle worker too inferior to gather a few simple souls about him as long as he has confidence in himself. You may be sure that we shall be able to distinguish the true Messiah from the false ones when and if he comes. We have had some experience. Our own Maccabean king had three thousand fanatical humbugs crucified. Do you then mourn just one who tried to fool people into believing that he was a king and Messiah?”

I had been drinking honey wine and eating cakes as he talked. The wine went merrily to my head, and I laughed too, saying, “How much and how heatedly you talk about so trivial a matter!”

He declared, “Believe me, Messiahs come and go, but our God stands eternal, and the temple gathers all Jews together throughout the ages. We have reason to be grateful to the Romans, who have recognized our especial status among nations because of our doctrine, and allow us to govern ourselves. Both the emperors Augustus and Tiberius have been gracious to us and heard our complaints, so that our position is now consolidated. In fact, we prosper better beneath the wing of Rome than we would if we were an independent state and had to waste money on a standing army and continual wars with envious neighbors. As it is, we have supporters and spokesmen in every city of importance throughout the world, as far away as Gaul and Britain and the Scythian coasts; for barbarians too respect our commercial ability. I myself, by way of pastime, busy myself with the export of fruit and nuts to Rome. The only thing that vexes me is that we have no shipping of our own, because for some reason we Jews mistrust the sea. But every devout Jew who is able will always journey to the temple to offer sacrifice there, and with him comes ever-increasing wealth in the form of gifts for our temple. So you may perhaps understand that we cannot afford to allow the people to be stirred up by dreams of kings.”

He was intensely concerned to convince me of the justice of the Council’s policy, and leaning forward he went on, “And yet we live on the brink of an abyss. Any greedy procurator is prepared to rule us by dividing us, yes, and to lend some measure of support to ambitious men of the people, so that later he may accuse us of sedition and revolt, curtail the powers of our administration, and take his own share of the temple funds. But it is to our advantage, and really to Rome’s too, that the present situation should be preserved and strengthened so that the politically unprejudiced Council may receive all possible support. You may best understand just what the Council is if I say that it corresponds to the Roman senate, and appoints its own members. These consist of the high priesthood, the most learned of the scholars, and, as lay members, those we call elders, though they are by no means all old, but qualify for membership by birth or fortune. The people are politically unschooled and we can allow them no decisive voice. Therefore we must stifle at birth any attempt of theirs to extend political rights and reintroduce the monarchy, however innocent such an attempt may seem—as for instance when it is made under cover of our religion or, let us say, from love of mankind.”

My scornful silence stung him to defend himself with even greater heat, as if he did nevertheless feel guilty in some way. He explained, “As a Roman, accustomed to worshiping mere images, you cannot conceive of the vast influence that religion has here. Our religion is our strength but at the same time our greatest danger, for a political enthusiast is forced to hold fast by our scriptures, and with their help demonstrate that his aims are right and proper, whatever his secret purposes may be. Now of course, you will say that Jesus of Nazareth, whom we had barely time to crucify before the Passover feast, was an innocent and righteous man, a great healer and a great teacher. But it is just such blameless idealists, who by their personality induce the people to embrace their program of reform, that are the most dangerous. Being politically inexperienced, such a man believes the best of everyone and becomes the tool of ambitious men—men who care not a farthing if our whole society collapses and the people perish under the wrath of Rome, so long as they themselves may for a time satisfy their greed for power. Believe me, a man who makes himself Messiah is a political criminal and deserves death, however honest and sincere he may be as an individual.”

He hesitated, and then added hurriedly, “Of course at the same time he incurs the guilt of blasphemy, which by our law is punishable by death. But among enlightened people like ourselves that is a secondary issue. If he had shown himself in the temple once more, during the Passover, rioting would have broken out, fanatics would have seized leadership with him as their figurehead, and blood would have flowed. Then the Romans would have interfered and we should have forfeited our self-government. Better that one man should die than that the whole people should perish.”

“I’ve heard that slogan before,” I remarked.

“Forget him,” urged Aristainos. “We’re not proud of his execution; indeed, I myself am grieved that he had to die, for he was really a good fellow, that Galilean Jesus. He should have stayed in Galilee, and then he would hardly have come to any harm. There, even the tax collectors liked him, and the commandant of Capernaum is said to have been one of his friends.”

I saw that there would be no use in hinting that Jesus had risen again; he would only have lost all regard for me and thought me a credulous fool. I reflected for a little, and then said, “You have convinced me, and I understand perfectly well that from the Jewish point of view it was politically desirable that he should die. But in the course of my travels I like to take note of all kinds of remarkable events, so that later I may amuse people with my knowledge, and perhaps also learn a little myself. Among other things I am interested in all sorts of healing. In Antioch, when I was young, I once saw a famous Syrian magus who healed people in a wonderful manner; and in Egypt too there are places of pilgrimage where healing is done. So I would much like to meet some sick person whom that man cured, and learn something of his methods.”

I pretended to have had a sudden idea. “But of course the most interesting thing of all would be to meet one of his disciples,” I exclaimed. “Then I should gain first-hand information about him and about what he was really after.”

Aristainos looked embarrassed and said, “Naturally they’re now in hiding or have fled back to Galilee. His closest disciples numbered only twelve, so far as I know, and incidentally it was one of them who revealed his hiding place to the Council. They’re all simple folk, fishermen from the Sea of Galilee and so on; except for a certain John, a young man of good family who has certainly studied, and speaks Greek. But then there was a customs man among them too—that sort of rabble, you under-stand. I hardly think you would have much to gain from them.

“But,” he said hesitantly, “if you really are curious—though frankly I can’t quite see why, when you could be leading a gay life in Jerusalem—there is a member of the Council called Nicodemus who could give you information. He is a pious searcher of the scriptures—a waiting, yearning man, if I may so describe him. There is no evil in him although he caused bad blood in the Council by defending Jesus. He is far too naive a man to hold such a high position; and that was why he was not summoned to the night meeting of the Council, for it would have distressed him very much to have been of those who condemned the Nazarene to death.”

“I have heard of him,” I said. “Was it not he who took the king down from the cross and laid him in the sepulcher? He is said to have given a hundred pounds’ weight of ointments for the enshrouding.”

The word “king” jarred upon Aristainos, but at least he did not correct me as other Jews did. He admitted reluctantly, “You are well informed. It was a public demonstration on the part of Nicodemus and Joseph of Arimathea, but one must allow them that salve to their conscience. Joseph is merely an elder, but Nicodemus is one of the teachers of Israel and should have known better. Still, one should never judge a man’s intentions from his appearance. It may be that by burying the Galilean those two are attempting to gather about them an opposition party within the Council, to whittle away the power of the high priest.”

The idea delighted him, and he exclaimed, “I have no objection to that! Caiaphas’ insolence has already begun to damage our commerce. He has put all trading in sacrificial beasts and the money changing of the temple into the hands of his countless kinsmen. You’ll hardly believe it, but not even I have an exchange table in the forecourt under my own name. It may be that, in all innocence, Nicodemus is a really good politician. It is not seemly—it is not even lawful—for the forecourt of the temple to be made a rowdy market place. A certain degree of competition should be permitted in the case of money changing. All pious pilgrims would benefit if they were not forced to accept Caiaphas’ rate of exchange for temple shekels.”

His business affairs were of no interest to me. I said, “I would like to meet Nicodemus, but he would hardly be willing to receive me, since I am a Roman.”

“But, my dear friend,” exclaimed Aristainos, “that is a recommendation! A Jewish scholar regards it as an honor when any Roman citizen desires to gain knowledge of our doctrine. You can always feign piety. That will open all doors to you and commit you to nothing. I will gladly commend you to him, if you wish.”

It was agreed that he should send word of me. The following evening I should be able to go and meet Nicodemus immediately after dark. I drew some money from Aristainos, but left the greater part in his keeping. He pressed me eagerly to employ one of his servants, who was an experienced guide and could open all the secret doors and delights of Jerusalem to me; but I said that I had taken certain vows since my dissolute winter in Alexandria. He swallowed that whole, expressed admiration for my will power, but regretted that I would miss so much.

We parted as friends. He came with me to his gate and would have given me a forerunner to clear my way through the city, but I did not wish to attract needless attention. Once again he assured me that I might come to him at any time if I found myself in difficulties. He is without doubt the most agreeable Jew I have met so far, yet for some reason I cannot feel unmixed friendship for him. His dispassionate pronouncements chilled me and revived my doubts, and that may account for my feeling of reserve.

When I returned to Antonia I learned that Claudia Procula had sent for me several times. I hastened to her tower room. She had already gone to bed, but she put on a thin silk robe, threw a mantle over her shoulders and came out, attended by her lady in waiting, to talk to me. There was an alarming glitter in her eyes. The lines in her pale face had been smoothed out, and she appeared to be in a state of ecstasy.

Grasping my hands in both of hers she exclaimed, “Marcus, Marcus, he has risen from the dead! The king of the Jews has risen from the dead!”

I asked crossly, “Didn’t the Proconsul tell you that his disciples came to the tomb last night and stole his body? There is an official record of the matter, attested by six legionaries.”

Claudia Procula stamped and cried, “Do you suppose that Pontius believes in anything but his purse and his own advantage? But I have women friends in Jerusalem. Have you not heard how one of his followers went to the tomb at dawn—the woman from whom he drove out seven demons? The tomb was empty, except for an angel wearing robes that seemed made of light, and with a face as of fire.”

“In that case,” I said coarsely, “she must have got her demons back again.” And I wondered, downcast, in what I had involved myself. Was I so crazy as to want to compete with raving women?

Claudia Procula was hurt and bitterly disappointed. “You too then, Marcus,” she said reproachfully, with a sob. “I thought you were on his side, as I heard that you had been to the tomb and found it empty. Do you believe more in Pontius Pilate and his corruptible soldiers than in the evidence of your own eyes?”

I relented, for when she wept her rapt face took on a strange fire, and I would have liked to comfort her. But I realized the danger of confiding what I had seen to an overwrought woman. In my opinion, all the women’s wild talk of resurrection, visions and angels merely served the cause of the Jewish Council and made everything more incredible than it need have been.

“Don’t take it to heart so, Claudia,” I begged. “You know I have heard too much of the teaching of the cynics, and find it hard to believe in supernatural things. On the other hand, I have no wish to deny everything. Who is your witness and what is her name?”

“Her name is Mary,” Claudia replied very eagerly, to convince me. “That is a common Jewish name, but she comes from Magdala by the Sea of Galilee. She is a lady of means, and a well-known breeder of doves. Her lofts produce thousands of unblemished doves every year for temple offerings. It is true that she won a bad name for herself after the demons had got her into their power, but when Jesus of Nazareth healed her she changed completely, and followed the teacher everywhere upon his wanderings. I met her when I visited a distinguished Jewish lady of my acquaintance, and she impressed me greatly by what she told me of her teacher.”

“I should have to hear it from her own mouth to believe it,” I said. “She may be just one of those fanatical dreamers who are bent on attracting attention at all costs. Do you think I might meet her somehow?”

“Is it wrong to have dreams?” Claudia Procula protested. “I have been so persecuted by dreams that I warned my husband against sentencing so devout a man. In the middle of the night I had word that he had been arrested, and people implored me to use influence with my husband so that he should not be convicted. But the dreams I had had earlier made a greater impact than this secret message. I still believe that my husband committed the most foolish act of his life in handing over that man to be crucified.”

“Do you think I might meet this Mary of yours?” I persisted.

Claudia Procula became evasive. “It is not seemly for a Jewish woman to meet an unknown man, least of all a foreigner. I don’t even know where she lives. I admit that she’s an emotional woman, and a suspicious man like yourself might form a wrong impression of her if you were to meet. But that doesn’t prevent me from believing her story.” Nevertheless Claudia Procula’s eagerness began to die down.

“But if by chance I should meet this Mary of Magdala,” I said, “may I mention your name and assure her that she may speak freely and confidently of what she has seen?”

Claudia murmured that a man can’t win a woman’s trust as another woman can, and that anyhow no man can ever really understand a woman. However, reluctantly, she gave her consent. “But if you cause her the least trouble or unpleasantness,” she said threateningly, “you will have to account for it to me.”

With this our conversation ended, although Claudia Procula had obviously hoped to win me over as a fellow enthusiast and persuade me of the Jewish king’s resurrection. In a way, I am bound to believe in it, after having seen the graveclothes lying untouched in the empty tomb. But I want to examine the whole matter in a rational way.