When the kohanim heard that Pontius Pilate had taken Jesus of Nazareth into custody they were greatly pleased. This representative of Rome had never shown much promise before, but the latest turn of events was worthy of attention. With time, the kohanim decided, they might even be moved to reassess their views on the prefect. Future potential aside, it was an excellent sign that this man of Rome could be dealt with.
The next morning, before the sun had risen, a crowd of men in long black clerical robes had gathered in the stone-tiled courtyard of Pontius Pilate’s villa. The harsh criticisms they had muttered on the day before were gone, replaced by an intense interest in the sentencing of Jesus.
The sun was already well into the sky when Pilate left his bedroom. He spent a long time straightening his hair, clipping the nails on his hands and feet, and arranging his new toga, before he finally made his way toward the annex where his official offices were located. A band of merchants from the East had collected on the cobblestones beneath the hall that connected the main villa to the annex. Pontius Pilate recalled the amount of gold he had received from them the night before as a fee for permission to set up their markets here in Jerusalem. A great deal of that gold was destined for his own personal coffers. With that in mind, the prospect of Jesus’s trial—which would probably take up most of his afternoon—didn’t seem quite so onerous.
✦ ✦ ✦
In the court adjacent to Pilate’s offices, six judges under the direct employ of Rome sat in tall chairs along the wall. Across from the judges sat four priests, representatives of the kohanim who were there both as observers and as the plaintiffs. When the prefect arrived, the kohanim were huddled together as they discussed something in low voices.
Pilate sat languidly upon his sofa, which was covered with the thick mane of a mountain lion.
Immediately High Judge Achaioi stood beside him and proclaimed, “Hereby begins the trial of Jesus of Nazareth in the name of Pontius Pilate, Prefect of Jerusalem and representative of Rome in Israel.”
“All right, let’s begin,” Pilate said, nodding to Achaioi. He accepted a cup of milk tea from a servant who stood in attendance behind the sofa.
“Bring Jesus forth.” Achaioi signaled to a guard standing in one corner of the room. The guard went outside, his chain-mail hauberk rattling, and returned immediately with the man they had taken into custody in the Plaza of the Dead the day before. Silently the guard brought the prisoner into the center of the chamber and then held him steady there with the butt of his short spear on the man’s shoulder.
“Back to your place.”
The guard nodded and returned to his corner.
Jesus blinked several times and looked around the chamber nervously with bloodshot eyes. He looked as if he hadn’t slept the night before.
Achaioi began to read the allegations, the grim words persisting in the heavy air until their weight seemed tangibly to press against the captive’s back, pushing him toward his fate.
Pilate sipped his milk tea—it was pleasantly, mildly bitter—and withstood the long boredom. Occasional sharp calls could be heard through the open window from the street outside—the shouts of the Roman guards stationed at the prefect’s villa, practicing their formations for battle. The cries seemed oddly erratic, continuing, fading, then erupting again as soon as he thought they had finally ceased. “My officers have been lacking in spirit lately,” Pilate muttered from behind his bowl.
“Prefect?”
Achaioi was leaning over Pilate. He had apparently been addressing the prefect for some time. Pilate snapped back into the present and quickly handed his bowl off to his servant. He did not need to hear the judge again. Achaioi was asking him whether he, as representative of Rome, had any questions for the accused. What that meant was that the long explanation of charges was finished, and the trial was finally moving to its conclusion.
Pilate had been gradually sinking into his sofa until he was half buried in furs. Now he sat up and addressed the prisoner.
“I have but one question.”
The man from Nazareth stood in the center of the courtyard, staring in Pilate’s direction. His face betrayed no emotion.
“Jesus. This ‘end of the world’ of which you speak—exactly when will it occur?”
The carpenter leaned forward, a sudden passion kindled inside him. “You mean the Final Judgment?”
There is a certain imbecility behind his earnestness, thought Pilate.
“Yes. This judgment of God you like to talk about.”
Jesus nodded several times, his face flushed, like a young boy who is asked a question regarding his favorite subject.
“Ah yes, that!”
“Yes, that. What else could I be asking about?”
“It is not clear exactly when it will come, but it will come soon.”
“Soon?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
The accused shut his mouth with finality, as though he had said all that needed to be said on the subject. He was the star student again, eagerly awaiting the next question.
“And?” Pilate asked with the faintest of sighs. “What do you think we should do to get ready for this end of days?”
“Well, I think everyone, including me of course, should prepare their hearts to be judged by God.”
“How exactly should we prepare?”
“Prepare for what?”
“Prepare to be judged by God!”
“Well, pray to Him with a pure heart. Pray and follow Him.” Then he added in a deeper voice, half as though he were admonishing himself, “And we must repent, yes. That is the way to true prayer.”
“What am I supposed to make of that? It’s too vague, what you’re saying. That’s why people accuse you of things, you know.”
Ceint, on Pilate’s left, discreetly nudged the prefect’s arm. One of the judges stood from his tall chair, faced Pilate, and bowed.
“Proceed.” Pilate yielded the floor and sank back into his sofa.
“Jesus of Nazareth!” Jesus turned to face the judge. “I’ve heard that you call yourself the Messiah.”
“I am the Messiah. People call me a prophet, but they’re wrong. I’m no prophet. Prophets speak of life and death and destinies that stretch into an unseen tomorrow, but I do not do these things. I save people. I free them from their sins.”
Another of the judges stood. “And you claim you will atone for the sins of all people before God in Heaven?”
“Indeed I will. I am the Messiah. I am the Son of God. That is why I will atone in anticipation of the Final Judgment that will come before long. In your stead, I will do penance for all your sins.”
The carpenter’s thick, pallid lips moved quickly, as though he were discussing a glorious plan for future entertainment. Spittle flew from the corner of his mouth.
“I have no desire for you to take on my sins, Jesus of Nazareth. I just want to know whence comes your confidence in claiming that you are the Messiah. I’ve heard you can perform miracles?”
There was a titter of laughter among the kohanim.
“The Messiah will appear as a servant to all men,” Jesus said, his eyes now fixed on a point in space somewhere above the judges, as though he were reciting from memory. “He will bear mankind’s sins and suffer upon the cross, offering himself up to appease God’s anger. Thus will my soul act as a guide, leading all men to the Kingdom of Heaven.”
“Jesus!” Ceint spoke suddenly. “Who told you that?”
Jesus blanched. “Who told me?”
“Yes, who told you? Don’t tell me you heard it directly from God himself?”
“The prophet John.”
Ceint lifted an eyebrow. “John? The one King Herod Antipas executed in Balqa?”
The man shook his head. “No, he’s not dead. John cannot die.”
Ceint smirked. “Why ever not?”
“Because he’s friends with the Archangel Michael. He even introduced me. Though I only offered my greetings from a distance.” The prisoner’s voice was soft with chagrin.
The poor fellow wanted a closer look at the angel, Pilate thought, before realizing how ridiculous the story was, and how foolhardy.
Ceint tensed for a moment. “Are you saying you met the Archangel Michael?”
“Yes.”