Emperor _or_ a new Prefect. And in either case there’ll be a new
Procurator in Judaea and”—he smiled playfully—“a new husband for the
present Procurator’s wife. It’s even possible,” he added with a studied
air, “that the present Procurator’s wife will be the wife of the new
Procurator.”
“But, Longinus, you wouldn’t want to be Procurator in this dreary
province....”
“No,” he broke in, “but if the present Procurator’s wife went with the
assignment”—he shrugged—“I believe I could endure it.” Then he was
serious. “Before the summer is ended, Claudia, I firmly believe that
Tiberius or Sejanus will be dead—and little I care which—or both of them
even, and there’ll be a new regime at Rome. By then, and maybe earlier,
Pilate will have been banished to Gaul or Britannia or some other remote
province, and you and I will be together ... maybe living out at Baiae.”
“Oh, Longinus, I hope so, I do hope so.” She clung to him tightly, for
in a few minutes, she knew, he would be leaving her to join Cornelius
for the journey down into Galilee. “Already it has been so long, and I
am utterly weary of waiting. May the beneficent gods grant you swift
sailing and an early safe return.”
With an arm about her waist he lifted her to her toes. “But there are no
gods, remember?” Teasingly, he pushed her chin until her eager lips
parted, and then hungrily he bent once again to savor them.
59
Longinus and the orderly carrying his luggage had almost reached the
foot of the Antonia stairway when a soldier came hurrying down the steps
behind them. The Procurator Pontius Pilate, the soldier announced,
wished to speak immediately with the centurion.
“Take the bags to the pack train,” Longinus instructed his man, “and
tell Centurion Cornelius I’ll be there as quickly as the Procurator
dismisses me.” Then he went at once to the Procurator’s chamber.
Pontius Pilate was standing before the window, staring in the direction
of the forlorn and frightful Hill of the Skull. When he heard the
centurion, he turned quickly and advanced toward the center of the
chamber. “Have a seat, Centurion,” he said, as he pointed to a chair
across the desk from his own. “I’ll detain you only a moment.” His round
face lighted with an unctuous smile as he sat down heavily. “You’ll soon
be leaving Jerusalem, no doubt?”
“Yes, Excellency. I was on my way, in fact, when your aide overtook me.”
“It occurred to me, though I haven’t seen her since we three were here
two days ago, that Lady Claudia might like to ride with you as far as
Caesarea. She is weary of Jerusalem, I know, but I’ll not be able to
leave here for several days. And at Caesarea you two could enjoy one
another’s company until your ship sails for Rome.”
“But I’m not going to Caesarea, Excellency. I’m going to accompany
Centurion Cornelius down into Galilee, and from there I’ll cross to
Ptolemaïs and get a vessel for Rome.”
“Oh. Well, then, yes.” Pilate’s honeyed smile vanished, and he licked
his lips. “I thought you two would welcome an opportunity....” But he
did not pursue the thought further. He leaned forward, elbows on desk.
“Centurion, this ‘matter of utmost concern’ that takes you to Rome, I
wonder if....”
“You read the Prefect’s message,” Longinus said, when the Procurator
paused. “And of course, Excellency, I’ve had no further communication
from him.”
“The Prefect must be calling you to Rome to discuss the situation out
here, Longinus. It would hardly be anything in Rome that he’s concerned
about, because you wouldn’t be familiar with affairs there. I’ve been
trying to think what it could be that commands his attention here.”
Pilate’s expression was grim now, his shallow suavity gone. “It must be
that he’s dissatisfied with my governing, or even”—he swallowed, and his
face was somber—“that he’s planning to remove me as Procurator and
extend Herod’s domain to include Judaea, with that incompetent weasel as
king over the entire realm his father ruled.” He paused, his expression
questioning. “Herodias’ scheming, I’ll wager.”
“I can’t say, Excellency”—Longinus shook his head—“what the Prefect may
be planning for any of us.”
“Us? By all the gods, Longinus, I hadn’t thought that his plans might
concern you, too!” His expression suddenly brightened. “Why, that’s it,
great Jupiter, that would solve the dilemma!”
“But, Excellency, I don’t....”
“I beg you then, Centurion, in your report to the Prefect to deal
charitably....”
“But, what....?”
“Petition him to transfer me, with comparable position and emoluments,
to some other post, Gaul, Spain, Alexandria maybe, even Rome, and name
you Procurator of Judaea, Longinus.” The unctuous smile, patently
contrived, momentarily relieved his grimness. “And then, though the
Prefect and the Emperor might not permit Lady Claudia to go with me to a
new post, particularly if it should be at Rome or near the capital, I’m
sure they would permit her to divorce me and marry you.”
“But the day the Galilean died”—the discipline of long training kept
Longinus’ tone level, even though his fist ached to be smashed against
the stupidly grinning round face—“you appeared to be most anxious to
retain your post here.”
The mere mention of the Galilean made violence unnecessary; the
Procurator’s mask of laughter was instantly ripped away, and the terror
beneath it now lay exposed. “Yes, Centurion,” he began, “but since then
I ... I....” He threw out both hands as if in desperation. “I’ve had no
peace! It’s these insufferable Jews, Centurion. And the arrogant,
demanding, conniving High Priest, may the great Pluto grill him to
cinders! I must get away from these Jews before they drive me mad,
Longinus.” He stood up and glanced toward the window, then shuddered and
quickly turned away. “That Galilean, the one you crucified....”
“The one you condemned to the cross, Excellency.”
“Yes, the one _I_ condemned.” Pilate seemed suddenly very weary. “I
thought I’d purchase immunity by involving you. But I was thinking of
the High Priest on the one hand and the Prefect on the other. I never
thought of _him_. And now, now I can’t get away from him. I can’t sleep,
Centurion. He’s always there between me and sleep, his calm face
confronting me, his dark eyes studying me. It’s as though _he_ were
trying _me_! I ... I can’t get away from him, Longinus. He’ll haunt me
as long as I remain in this abominable province.” He leaned on the desk
with fists clenched. “Nor will they let him lie in his tomb and be
forgotten. Have you heard the foolish rumor”—his eyes narrowed as he
hesitated, and then he leaned nearer the centurion—“that the Galilean
has walked from his tomb and is on his way to Galilee?”
“Yes, Excellency, Cornelius told me the man had disappeared under the
noses of his guardsmen.”
“So he told me. But of course the guards were asleep. And since
Cornelius reported the man’s disappearance, I’ve been told some of the
guards were bribed by Caiaphas—Pluto take him—to say that they permitted
certain of his followers to steal the body to make it appear that he had
come to life, as they claimed he would.” He shook his forefinger to
emphasize his venom. “That arrogant Jew never relents in his efforts to
embarrass me and undermine my administration of Judaea’s government.”
“But, Excellency, the body _wasn’t stolen_. Cornelius assured me they
were all wide-awake. And there was that heavy stone sealing the
mouth....”
“By great Jupiter, Longinus”—Pilate sank to his chair, and his eyes were
incredulous—“surely you don’t believe he had supernatural power to
restore himself to life and roll back the stone?” He sat back; his eyes
were fixed unseeing, it seemed, on the wall beyond and above the
centurion’s head. “He said that his kingdom was not of this world. He
said that were he to command it, a host of his followers”—he paused, and
his eyes, intent and fearful, sought the centurion’s—“unearthly
followers, Longinus, spirits, demons....” Quickly he leaned forward.
“Could he have been in a trance after all? Could you have failed to take
his life?”
“He was dead, Procurator; I assure you he was dead when we put him in
the tomb.” Longinus leaned nearer his questioner. “But we didn’t _take_
his life. When he was ready to die, he _surrendered_ it.”
“Centurion, do you realize what you’re saying?” A sickly smile played at
the corners of his mouth, and his usually florid face was the shade of
ashes. He braced his hands, palms down, on the desk’s gleaming surface.
“By great Jupiter, Longinus, do you believe the Galilean really did
return to life, that he’s _alive now_?”
“Excellency”—Longinus looked the Procurator straight in the eyes—“what
other explanation could I offer?”
Pilate opened his mouth, but no answer came. Instead, with the tip of
his thick tongue he circled his dry lips, and a heavy sigh stirred his
ponderous frame. “I should have had the courage to resist the High
Priest and release the man,” he observed, more to himself than to the
centurion across the desk from him. “But I condemned him. Then I tried
to cleanse these hands”—he turned them over and, palms up, studied
them—“of his guiltless blood. I _could_ have freed him.” He glanced
toward the window but quickly turned back to face Longinus. “Centurion,
do you suppose”—perspiration was beading on the Procurator’s plainly
frightened face—“he will be coming back soon from Galilee ... to
Jerusalem, the Temple, to _Antonia_? By great Jupiter, Longinus”—he did
not pause for the centurion’s reply—“help me escape him! Urge the
Prefect to transfer me, send me to some post across the world from this
frightful Judaea, to Gaul, Germania, even, by the gods, to Britannia!”
His eyes were wild, his hands on the desk were shaking, and he clenched
them into white-knuckled fists. “Tell him to give you Claudia; she’s
been yours anyway all along.” He attempted a feeble smile. “But I ... I
mustn’t keep you. Centurion Cornelius will be awaiting you, Longinus.
Go, and the gods give you good winds.” His voice had calmed. “And I beg
you, Centurion, say a good word to the Prefect.”
Longinus nodded and quietly left the chamber. As the door closed gently
behind him, Pilate sat motionless, frozen in his chair. But some moments
later, hearing the commotion in the courtyard below, he went to the
window and watched the century, with Cornelius and Longinus leading the
column and the pack animals at the rear, until it disappeared around the
bend of the narrow street. Then as he raised his eyes from the
cobblestones to the huddled houses beyond the Damascus Gate, a sudden
sharp glint of sunshine was reflected to them from a white-painted
titulus board nailed to a heavy timber thrusting upward from a forlorn
scarred mound on the other side of the city wall.
“No! No!” Pilate whirled about hands before his eyes as though the flash
of sunlight had blinded him. “Flavius! Flavius!”
The startled attendant rushed in. “Yes, Excellency?” he asked.
“Go find the commander of Antonia and tell him I want every cross
upright out there on the Hill of the Skull pulled down, and by great
Jupiter, I want it done now!” Breathing heavily, Pilate sat again at his
desk. “Wait. Before you go, draw those draperies. I’m sick of the
sight.” Flavius went to the window and busied himself with the curtains,
but when he had pulled one, he discovered that he could not draw the
other all the way until the bronze stand and wine-colored vase on it had
been moved. Quickly he shifted them to the western window a few paces
away and almost directly behind the Procurator.
As he did so he saw that the sun shining through the vase shot straight
outward from the delicate glass a band of red light that crossed the
floor, climbed the back of Pilate’s chair, and went obliquely over his
shoulder to split evenly the polished surface of the desk. Flavius
turned back to the first window and pulled the curtains together, so
that not even a sliver of sunshine came through. Then he came around in
front of the Procurator. But Pilate said nothing, and Flavius withdrew
quietly, closing the door behind him.
The Procurator leaned back in his chair; his arms were folded across his
middle, and his eyes appeared fixed upon a spot above the door. But
Pilate was not seeing the ornate panels; his eyes were being held
instead in the calm and untroubled gaze of another pair of eyes....
Suddenly he shook his head, vigorously, as though to rid himself of this
haunting vision. “What’s this?” he said aloud. “The man’s dead. Of
course the guards dozed. Gods-come-to-earth, spirits, demons. Woman
dreaming. Jewish fanaticism. Bah! Cornelius and Longinus wished to
confuse and frighten me.”
_... Even if he did walk from the tomb, he can cross no seas to haunt me
with pitying sad eyes. In Gaul or Germania, anywhere but in this
despicable land, I’ll be free of him. I’ll have escaped him. By great
Jupiter, I, afraid of a Galilean carpenter. Imagine, I, a Roman soldier,
I, by the gods, Procurator of Judaea...._
“I’ll have an end to this foolishness, this child’s business,” he said
loudly. He sat up straight. “The other day I washed my hands of that
man’s death. Today, this moment, I wash them of _him_, his circlet of
thorns, his slashed back, his searching eyes, his blood, by the gods of
Rome. I’m free of him, do you hear?”
_... And I’m not afraid to look through that window at his hill of
death...._
“Flavius!” he shouted. “Come draw aside the draperies. I want to see
outside.”
He lifted his hands to the desk and, leaning forward, began to rise.
_... By great Jupiter, I’ll go look out the window now. I’ve purged
myself of the Galilean; I’ve washed my hands of that man...._
He glanced downward.
Flavius, entering the chamber in response to Pilate’s summons, halted
abruptly. Procurator Pontius Pilate, ruler of Judaea, his eyes wide with
terror, stood rigid in his tracks, staring at his hands.
From wrists to fingertips, in the fiery beam from the window, they
flamed a gory crimson.
[Illustration: Ever since the publication of his best-selling novels,
_Bold Galilean_ and _The Tree of Judas_, the name of LeGette Blythe has
been synonymous with the finest in historical fiction. Hear Me, Pilate!
demonstrates once again his amazing ability to recreate scenes from the
past with drama and authenticity. Mr. Blythe is a graduate of the
University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, is married, and has three
children.]
Transcriber’s Notes
--Copyright notice provided as in the original—this e-text is public
domain in the country of publication.
--Silently corrected palpable typos; left non-standard spellings and
dialect unchanged.
--In the text versions, delimited italicized text by _underscores_.
End of Project Gutenberg's Hear Me, Pilate!, by William LeGette Blythe