The prisoner looked at the Procurator in bewilderment.

"I don’t even have an ass, Hegemon,” he said. "I did, indeed, come into Yershalaim through the Susim Gate, but on foot, accompanied by Levi Matthew alone, and nobody shouted anything at me, since nobody in Yershalaim knew me then.”

“Do you know these people,” Pilate continued, without taking his eyes off the prisoner, “a certain Dismas, a second man… Gestas, and a third. Bar-rabban?”^[76]

“I don’t know these good people,” replied the prisoner.

“Truly?”

“Truly.”

“And now tell me why it is you use the words ‘good people’ all the time? You call everyone that, do you?”

“Everyone,” replied the prisoner. “There are no evil people in the world.”

“First I’ve heard of it,” said Pilate with a grin, “but perhaps I don’t know enough about life!.. No need to record any further,” he addressed the secretary, although the latter had been recording nothing anyway, then continued saying to the prisoner: “Did you read about it in some Greek book or other?”

“No, I came to this conclusion with my own mind.”

“And is that what you preach?”

“Yes.”

“And so, for example, centurion Marcus – he’s nicknamed the Rat-Catcher – is he good?”

“Yes,” replied the prisoner. “He’s an unhappy man, it’s true. Since good people disfigured him, he’s become cruel and callous. I wonder who it was that mutilated him?”

“I can readily tell you that,” responded Pilate, “for I was a witness to it. Good people were falling upon him like dogs on a bear. Teutons had hold of his neck, his arms, his legs. An infantry maniple had walked into a trap, and if the cavalry turm which I was commanding hadn’t hacked its way in from the flank – then you, philosopher, would not have had occasion to converse with the Rat-Catcher. It was at the Battle of Idistavizo,^[77] in the Valley of the Virgins.”

“If I could have a talk with him,” said the prisoner dreamily all of a sudden, “I’m sure he’d change dramatically.”

“I imagine,” responded Pilate, “you’d bring the legate of the legion little joy if you took it into your head to talk with any of his officers or soldiers. It isn’t going to happen, however, luckily for everyone, and I’ll be the first to see to that.”

At that moment a swallow flew speedily into the colonnade, circled beneath the gold ceiling, descended, almost caught its sharp wing on the face of a bronze statue in a niche and disappeared behind the capital of a column. Perhaps it was thinking of making a nest there.

In the duration of its flight, a formulation had taken shape in the now lucid and lightened head of the Procurator. It was this: the Hegemon has heard the case of the vagrant philosopher Yeshua, also known as Ha-Nozri, and failed to find corpus delicti^[78]. In particular, he has failed to find the slightest link between the actions of Yeshua and the disturbances that have recently taken place in Yershalaim. The vagrant philosopher has turned out to be mentally ill. Consequently, the Procurator does not confirm the death sentence pronounced on Ha-Nozri by the Lesser Sanhedrin. But in view of the fact that Ha-Nozri’s mad utopian speeches could be the cause of unrest in Yershalaim, the Procurator is removing Yeshua from Yershalaim and will subject him to imprisonment in Caesarea Strato on the Mediterranean Sea – that is, in the very place where the Procurator’s residence is.

It only remained to dictate this to the secretary.

The swallow’s wings crackled just above the Hegemon’s head, the bird sped towards the bowl of the fountain and flew out to freedom. The Procurator raised his eyes to the prisoner and saw there was a column of dust suddenly ablaze beside him.

“Is that all there is about him?” Pilate asked the secretary.

“Unfortunately not,” the secretary replied unexpectedly, and handed Pilate another piece of parchment.

“What else is there?” asked Pilate, and frowned.

After reading what had been handed him, he changed countenance^[79] still more. It may have been that dark blood had flooded into his neck and face, or something else may have happened, but his skin lost its yellow tinge, grew brown, and his eyes seemed to sink.

And again it was probably the fault of the blood which had flooded into his temples and begun pounding inside them, only something happened to the Procurator’s vision. And so it seemed to him that the prisoner’s head had floated off somewhere, and another had appeared in its place. On this bald head sat a sparsely toothed golden crown^[80]. On the forehead was a round sore that was eating away at the skin and was smeared with ointment. A sunken, toothless mouth with a wilful, drooping lower lip. It seemed to Pilate that the pink columns of the balcony and the roofs of Yershalaim down below in the distance, beyond the garden, had disappeared, and everything around them was submerged in the dense, dense verdure of the gardens of Capreae. Something strange had happened to his hearing too – trumpets seemed to be sounding in the distance, low and threatening, and a nasal voice could be heard quite distinctly, haughtily drawling out the words: “The law of lese-majesty…”

His thoughts raced – brief, incoherent and extraordinary. “He’s done for^[81]!” Then: “We’re done for!” And among them was an utterly absurd one about some sort of immortality, and immortality for some reason provoked unbearable anguish.

Pilate tensed, drove the vision out, returned his gaze to the balcony, and before him again were the eyes of the prisoner.

“Listen, Ha-Nozri,” the Procurator began, giving Yeshua a strange sort of look: the Procurator’s face was threatening, but the eyes were alarmed. “Have you ever said anything about the Great Caesar? Answer! Have you? Or… have you… not?” Pilate drew out the word “not” rather more than one ought to at a trial, and sent to Yeshua in his gaze a particular thought which he seemed to want to suggest to the prisoner.

“Telling the truth is easy and pleasant,” remarked the prisoner.

“I don’t need to know,” responded Pilate in a choked, angry voice^[82], “if you find telling the truth pleasant or unpleasant. But you will have to tell it. When speaking, though, weigh every word, if you don’t want not only inevitable, but also agonizing death.”

No one knows what had happened to the Procurator of Judaea, but he allowed himself to raise a hand, as though shielding himself from a ray of sunlight, and behind that hand, as behind a shield, to send the prisoner a look with some sort of hint in it.

“And so,” he said, “answer: do you know a certain Judas of Kiriath, and what precisely did you say to him, if you did say anything, about Caesar?”

“It was like this,” the prisoner willingly began recounting. “In the evening the day before yesterday I met a young man outside the Temple who gave his name as Judas from the town of Kiriath. He invited me to his home in the Lower Town and gave me hospitality.”

“A good man?” asked Pilate, and a devilish light glinted in his eyes.

“A very good and inquisitive man,” the prisoner confirmed. “He showed the greatest interest in my ideas, received me most cordially…”

“Lit the lamps…”^[83] said Pilate through gritted teeth in the same tone as the prisoner, and his eyes were glimmering as he did so.

“Yes,” continued Yeshua, a little surprised at how well informed the Procurator was, “he asked me to set out my opinion on the power of the state. He was extremely interested in that question.”

“And so what did you say?” asked Pilate. “Or are you going to reply that you’ve forgotten what you said?” But there was already a hopelessness in Pilate’s tone.

“Among other things,” the prisoner recounted, “I said that any sort of power is coercion of the people, and that the time will come when there will be no power, neither of the caesars, nor of any other sort of authority. Man will move on to the kingdom of truth and justice, where no kind of power will be needed at all.”

“And after that?”

“There was nothing after that,” said the prisoner. “At that point people ran in, started tying me up and led me off to prison.”

The secretary was rapidly scribbling the words down on the parchment^[84], trying not to miss a single one.

“There has never been in all the world – is not and never shall be – a greater and finer power for the people than the power of the Emperor Tiberius!”^[85] waxed Pilate’s cracked and sick voice.

For some reason, the Procurator was looking with hatred at the secretary and the escort.

“And it is not for you, you mad criminal, to deliberate about it!” At this point Pilate exclaimed: “Dismiss the escort from the balcony!” and, turning to the secretary, added: “Leave me alone with the criminal; it’s a matter of state^[86] here.”

The escort lifted their spears and, with their metal-shod caligæ^[87][88] pounding rhythmically, they walked from the balcony into the garden, and the secretary followed them.

The silence on the balcony was for some time broken only by the song of the water in the fountain. Pilate could see the disc of water swelling at the top of the pipe, its edges breaking off^[89]and dropping down in little streams^[90].

The prisoner was the first to speak:

“I can see that something bad has happened because of my talking with that young man from Kiriath. I have a premonition, Hegemon, that he will suffer some misfortune, and I feel very sorry for him.”

"I think,” replied the Procurator with a strange grin, "there is someone else in the world you ought to feel more sorry for than Judas of Kiriath, and who will have a much worse time of it than Judas! And so, Marcus the Rat-Catcher, a cold and confirmed butcher; the people who, as I can see” – the Procurator indicated Yeshua’s disfigured face – “beat you for your sermons; the villains Dismas and Gestas, who, with their gang, killed four soldiers; and finally the filthy traitor Judas – they’re all good people?”

“Yes,” replied the prisoner.

“And the kingdom of truth will come?”

“It will, Hegemon,” replied Yeshua with conviction.

“It will never come!” Pilate suddenly shouted in such a terrible voice that Yeshua staggered backwards^[91]. Thus, many years before in the Valley of the Virgins, Pilate had shouted to his horsemen the words: “Cut them down! Cut them down. Rat-Catcher the giant’s been caught!” Once more he raised his voice, cracked by commands, yelling out the words so they could be heard in the garden: “Criminal! Criminal! Criminal!”

And then, lowering his voice, he asked:

“Yeshua Ha-Nozri, do you believe in any gods?”

“There’s just one God,” replied Yeshua. “I believe in Him.”

“Then pray to him! Pray as hard as you can! Stills.” – at this point Pilate’s voice sank – “it won’t help. You have no wife?” asked Pilate, mournfully somehow^[92], and not understanding what was happening to him.

“No, there’s just me.”

“Hateful city…” the Procurator suddenly muttered for some reason, then flexed his shoulders as if he were cold and rubbed his hands as though washing them. “If you’d been murdered before your meeting with Judas of Kiriath, truly, it would have been better.”

“You could release me, though, Hegemon,” the prisoner unexpectedly requested, and his voice became uneasy. “I can see they want to kill me.”

A spasm distorted Pilate’s face; he turned the inflamed, red-veined whites of his eyes to Yeshua and said:

“Do you suppose, you unfortunate man, that the Roman Procurator is going to release someone who has said what you have said? O gods, gods! Or do you think I’m prepared to take your place? I don’t share your ideas! And listen to me: if from this moment on you utter so much as a word, start talking to anyone, beware of me! I repeat to you: beware!”

“Hegemon…”

“Silence!” exclaimed Pilate, and his furious gaze followed the swallow that had again fluttered onto the balcony. “Come here!” shouted Pilate.

And when the secretary and the escort had returned to their places, Pilate announced that he was ratifying the death sentence pronounced at the meeting of the Lesser Sanhedrin on the criminal Yeshua Ha-Nozri, and the secretary recorded what Pilate said.

A minute later Marcus the Rat-Catcher stood before the Procurator. The Procurator ordered him to hand the criminal over to the Chief of the Secret Service, and at the same time to convey to him the Procurator’s order that Yeshua Ha-Nozri be kept apart from the other condemned men, and also that the Secret Service detachment be forbidden, on pain of severe punishment, to converse with Yeshua about anything whatsoever, or to reply to any of his questions.

At a sign from Marcus, the escort closed up around Yeshua and led him from the balcony.

Next in front of the Procurator appeared a handsome man with a blond beard and eagle’s feathers in the crest of his helmet, with gold lions’ faces glittering on his chest and gold studs on his sword belt, wearing triple-soled boots, laced to the knees, and with a crimson cloak thrown over his left shoulder. This was the legate in command of the legion.

The Procurator asked where the Sebastian Cohort was now. The legate reported that its men were forming a cordon on the square in front of the hippodrome where the criminals’ sentences would be announced to the people.

Then the Procurator gave orders for the legate to detail two centuries from the Roman Cohort. One of them, under the command of the Rat-Catcher, was to escort the criminals, the carts with the instruments of execution and the executioners when they departed for Bald Mountain^[93],^[94] and when they arrived there, was to form the upper cordon. The other one was to be sent to Bald Mountain straight away, and was to begin cordoning it off^[95]immediately. To this same end – that is, to guard the mount – the Procurator asked the legate to send an auxiliary cavalry regiment, the Syrian ala^[96].^[97]

When the legate had left the balcony, the Procurator ordered the secretary to invite the President of the Sanhedrin, two of its members and the chief of Yershalaim’s Temple guard to the palace, but added as he did so that he would like things arranged in such a way that he could speak with the President in advance^[98] and in private before the conference with all of these people.

The Procurator’s order was carried out^[99] quickly and precisely, and the sun, which was scorching Yershalaim with an extraordinary sort of frenzy^[100] during these days, had not yet had time to approach its highest point when, on the upper terrace of the garden by the two white-marble lions guarding the steps, the Procurator and the Acting President of the Sanhedrin, the High Priest of Judaea, Joseph Caipha, met.

It was quiet in the garden. But, having emerged from under^[101]the colonnade into the garden’s sun-drenched upper courtyard with its palm trees on monstrous elephantine legs, whence there opened up before the Procurator the whole of the Yershalaim he hated, with its suspension bridges, forts and, most importantly, the block of marble that beggared all description with the golden dragon’s scales instead of a roof – the Temple of Yershalaim – the Procurator detected with his sharp hearing, far off and down below, where a stone wall separated the lower terraces of the palace garden from the city square, a low rumbling, above which at times there would soar up, faint and shrill, what could have been either groans or cries.

The Procurator realized that there in the square an innumerable crowd of Yershalaim’s inhabitants had already gathered, stirred up by the recent disturbances, and that this crowd was awaiting with impatience the pronouncement of the sentence, and that shouting in its midst were restless water-sellers.

The Procurator began by inviting the High Priest onto the balcony to take shelter from the pitiless heat, but Caipha apologized politely and explained that he could not do that on the eve of the feast. Pilate threw a hood over his slightly balding head and began a conversation. This conversation was conducted in Greek.

Pilate said that he had heard the case of Yeshua Ha-Nozri and had ratified the death sentence^[102].

Thus, sentenced to execution, which was to be carried out that day, were three villains: Dismas, Gestas and Bar-rabban – and, in addition, this Yeshua Ha-Nozri. The first two, who had taken it into their heads to incite the people to revolt against Caesar, had been taken by force by the Roman authorities and were in the domain of the Procurator, and consequently they would not be under discussion here. But the latter two, Bar-rabban and Ha-Nozri, had been seized by the local authorities and condemned by the Sanhedrin. In accordance with the law and in accordance with custom, one of these two criminals would have to be set free^[103] in honour of the great Feast of the Passover which was starting that day.

And so the Procurator wished to know which of the two criminals the Sanhedrin intended to free: Bar-rabban or Ha-Nozri?

Caipha inclined his head to indicate that the question was clear to him and replied:

“The Sanhedrin requests the release of Bar-rabban.”

The Procurator knew very well the High Priest would reply to him in precisely this way, but his task was to show that such a reply elicited his astonishment.

Pilate did just that with great artistry. The brows on his haughty face rose, and the Procurator looked in surprise straight into the High Priest s eyes.

“I confess, that reply has amazed me,” began the Procurator gently. “I’m afraid there may be a misunderstanding here.”

Pilate explained himself. The Roman authorities were not encroaching in any way on the rights of the local spiritual authorities, the High Priest was well aware of that, but in this instance an obvious mistake was being made. And the Roman authorities did, of course, have an interest in the correction of that mistake.