From his position behind Pilate, Ceint called out. “Jesus of Nazareth. Do you understand what it means to be crucified? Have you ever seen a man die upon the cross?”
Ceint’s irritation was clear in his voice. He clearly still found it frustrating that he’d been unable to win a battle of words with this man who was so poor and simple—practically a refugee. “No, let me say instead that I believe it is a terribly noble thing to follow one’s beliefs even to the point of self-destruction. But, Jesus, tell us about this miracle you have planned. Is it truly so great that you are willing to trade your life for it, with no regrets?”
“Don’t you want to see a miracle? You do, I know. I will show it to you—for I do believe that I’m truly the Son of God. In fact, I don’t even know why I’m wasting my breath telling you this. I will show you my miracle and you will believe whether you want to or not.”
Jesus’s face dripped with sweat, and he thrust his arms out forcefully as he spoke. He shook at the knees like a man suffering from heat stroke. Even looking as he did—his shoulders thin and pointed, his body covered in dirt and grime—he was a living example of confidence so complete and unshakeable that it could overcome even the fear of death.
A cold and unfamiliar sensation raced through Pilate’s breast. It froze his heart like ice and split it like a naked blade. The prefect exchanged a quick glance with Ceint.
“So we are supposed to love Jehovah, not fear him?” Pilate muttered.
“And when the Day of Judgment comes, God will judge all mankind and make Heaven here on Earth,” Ceint intoned.
For a moment, despair flickered in their eyes.
“And we’re supposed to believe this day will come and so give ourselves to God, I suppose?”
“The Messiah has come—really!”
Then the two men softly laughed. It was a laugh drier than cobblestones left all summer in the sun—for at that moment the two Roman nobles felt an insurmountable finality seep into their hearts. Perhaps the feeling was brought on by the palpable tenacity emanating from the upstart Nazarene—or perhaps his terrifying vision of the Final Judgment had grown within them until it cast its shadow wholly through them.
Pilate stood, his lip curling. There was only one thing he need say now. One wager he need make.
He was aware of the possibility that his words might draw a terrible truth out into the light—that all of Rome was lending a hand right now to the scheme of this man from Nazareth.
There was only one thing he could say. “I, Pontius Pilate, representative of Rome and Prefect of Jerusalem, have tried and judged Yeshua, carpenter of Nazareth, here before this court. He is hereby found guilty of two crimes. Firstly, he has troubled the ignorant yet good people of this land by summoning images of a dreadful ‘Final Judgment,’ stirring within them unfounded fears and disrupting their daily lives.
“Secondly, he has profaned the teachings of the ancient deity of the Jewish faith, slandering their sects with baseless claims and committing numerous attacks upon the faith of the kohanim.
“For these two crimes, I, Pontius Pilate, Prefect of Jerusalem and representative of Rome, sentence Jesus, carpenter of Nazareth, to death.”
At once, the kohanim burst into cheers.
“Long live Rome! Long live the emperor! Pax Romana!” they shouted.
“Fools!” Pilate found he could remain in the chamber no longer. He turned and departed, his cape whipping behind him.
“Lord Prefect!” the High Judge followed behind him, calling out. “Upon what day shall the execution take place?”
Pilate stopped. “A good question. What do you think?” he called out over the judge’s shoulder to Ceint, who had appeared in the hall behind.
“Today’s the twenty-fourth of March. How about tomorrow, in the morning, with the rising of the sun?”
Pilate turned again and did not look back. It was only when he had reached the walk leading to his residential chambers that it occurred to him that he hadn’t seen the expression on Jesus’s face when the sentence was pronounced. He couldn’t even clearly remember whether or not the carpenter had still been standing there. But of course—he had to have been there. Where else could he have gone?
He regretted that he had not watched the man’s face more closely as he spoke the words of the sentence. Not that there was any chance Jesus would have been appropriately crestfallen. Perhaps, then, it was best that he hadn’t looked at him at all. He would not have wished to carry around the memory of the man’s smiling face as his death was declared.
Pontius Pilate slept fitfully that night.
Jesus of Nazareth is to be crucified—
The word spread quickly through Jerusalem, and all who heard it had their own response. Some knelt and prayed to God, others nodded and said it was his just reward, while still others frowned and muttered quietly their hopes that nothing unwelcome would result.
Late that night, a strange light was seen far off in the sky to the north. It shimmered like a multicolored curtain, rippling in waves, flowing through the middle of the sky in great promontories of light. People ran from their houses, summoned by the cries of those who had gathered to stare.
“What could it be?” one whispered.
“An omen of bad things to come,” another replied.
“It’s the Devil’s fire,” said another.
Some called out the name of God and pressed their eyes shut, as though they had seen something they were not meant to see.
In order to quell the spreading unrest, Pilate was forced to send his company of guardsmen to walk the streets. The soldiers went from alleyway to alleyway, chasing people back inside their homes.
“In you go now!”
“Prefect’s orders. Everyone inside, shut your doors, and latch your windows.”
The soldiers stood out as dark silhouettes against the backdrop of the strangely shimmering light.
“Look at that, Ceint. Do you see that? It does not fade! It’s growing even brighter, and redder now. It’s as if the sky itself were burning.”
Pilate turned to his assistant, who stood behind him on the balcony. The white night robes of both men faintly reflected the glimmering in the northern sky.
“I would guess it comes from somewhere up in Syria, north of the Tigris, perhaps? Either there is a wildfire large enough to cover every mountainside up there, or a great city is burning.” Ceint’s broad forehead was colored with atypical unease. “I think we can expect considerable unrest tomorrow.”
“Summon a scholar!”
“At once.” Ceint turned and headed inside.