Part 12 (1/2)

”He has declared himself Israel's king!”

”Ah!” And Pilate smiled wearily. ”You are always expecting one; why not take him?”

”Why not, my lord? Because it is treason to do so.”

Pilate nodded with affected approval. ”I admire your zeal.” And with a glance at the prisoner, he added: ”You have heard the accusation; defend yourself. What!” he continued, after a moment, ”have you nothing to say?”

Caiaphas exulted openly. The corners of his mouth had the width and cruelty, and his nostrils the dilation, of a wolf.

”My lord,” he cried, ”his silence is an admission.”

”Hold your tongue! It is for me to question.” And therewith Pilate gave the high-priest a look which was tantamount to a knee pressed on the midriff. He glanced again at the tablet, then at the prisoner.

”Tell me, do you really claim to be king?”

”Is it your idea of me?” the Christ asked; and in his bearing was a dignity which did not clash with the charge; ”or have others prompted you?”

”But I am not a Jew,” Pilate retorted. ”The matter only interests me officially. It is your hierarchy that bring the charge. Why have they?

What have you done? Tell me,” he continued, in Latin, ”do you think yourself King?”

”_Tu dixisti_,” Jesus answered, and smiled as he had before, very gravely.

”But my royalty is not of the earth.” And with a glance at his bonds, one which was so significant that it annulled the charge, he added, still in Latin, ”I am Truth, and I preach it.”

Pilate with skeptical indulgence shook his head. Truth to him was an elenchicism, an abstraction of the Platonists, whom in Rome he had respected for their wisdom and avoided with care. He turned to Caiaphas.

The latter had been regretting the absence of an interpreter. This amicable conversation, which he did not understand, was not in the least to his liking, and as Pilate turned to him he frowned in his beard.

”I am unable to find him guilty,” the procurator announced. ”He may call himself king, but every philosopher does the same. You might yourself, for that matter.”

”A philosopher, this mesith!” Caiaphas gnashed back. ”Why, he seduces the people; he incites to sedition; he is a rebel to Rome. It is for you, my lord, to see the empire upheld. Would it be well to have another complaint laid before the Caesar? Ask yourself, is this Galilean worth it?”

The thrust was as keen and as venomous as the tooth of a rat. Pilate had been rebuked by the emperor already; he had no wish to incur further displeasure. Seja.n.u.s, the emperor's favorite, to whom he owed his procurators.h.i.+p, had for suspected treason been strangled in a dumb dungeon only a little before. Under Tiberius there was quiet, a future historian was to note; and Pilate was aware that, should a disturbance occur, the disturbance would be quelled, but at his expense.

An idea presented itself. ”Did I understand you to say he is a Galilean?”

he asked.

”Yes,” Caiaphas answered, expecting, perhaps, the usual jibe that was flung at those who came from there. ”Yes, he is a Nazarene.”

”Hm. In that case I have no jurisdiction. The tetrarch is my guest; take your prisoner to him.”

”My lord,” the high-priest objected, ”our law is such that if we enter the palace we cannot officiate at the Pa.s.sover to-night.”

Pilate appeared to reflect. ”I suppose,” he said at last, ”I might ask him whether he would care to come here. In which case,” he added, with a gesture of elaborate courtesy, ”you may remain uncontaminated where you are. Ressala!”

An official stepped forward; an order was given; he disappeared. Presently a ma.s.sive throne of sandalwood and gold was trundled out. Caiaphas had seen it before, and in it-Herod.

”The justice that comes from there,” he muttered, ”is as a snake that issues from a tomb.”

His words were drowned in the clamors of the crowd. The sun had crossed the zenith; in its rays the waters that gushed from the fountain-mouths of bronze lions fell in rainbows and glistened in great basins that glistened too. There was sunlight everywhere, a sky of untroubled blue, and from the Temple beyond came a glare that radiated from Olivet to Bethlehem.

Pilate was bored. The mantle which Mary wore caught his eye, and he looked at her, wondering how she came in his wife's apartment, and where he had seen her before. Her face was familiar, but the setting vague. Then at once he remembered. It was at Machaerus he had seen her, gambling with the emir, while Salome danced. She was with Antipas, of course. He looked again; she had gone.