10 Billion Days & 100 Billion Nights

by Ryu Mitsuse

  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.”

  The kohanim stood one after the other, black rage mounting in their faces. Their murmurs of fury were audible across the chamber.

  “Silence!” Ceint’s voice cut through the air like a blade. He fixed the prisoner with a piercing stare. “Where? Where did you meet Michael?”

  Jesus cast his eyes over toward the kohanim, then back to Ceint. “In the Jordan Valley. He came down from Heav
en.” He lifted a finger on his right hand, pointing upward. For a moment, the face of the Nazarene was transformed entirely, filled with an unshakeable, ironclad confidence. His profile was as rough as if it had been hastily carven with a chisel, his eyes intoxicated and wild as briars. “Yes, I saw him,” he said. “I saw him!” He began to pace before the representatives of Rome, muttering loudly.

  “There’s not much time left,” he continued. “It’s just a feeling I have. The Kingdom of God may well be at hand! The Kingdom of God, the Kingdom of God, the Kingdom of God—”

  He put his hands to his head as though he were searching through murky memories for some clue.

  “Only those who have received the permission of God may enter God’s kingdom. Heaven’s gates are very wide, but how many will be able to enter? His judgment is harsh—so harsh.” Jesus spoke in a monotone, as though relaying someone else’s words.

  “What was that?”

  “Stake him to the cross!” the kohanim shouted, their whiskers bristling with outrage.

  “Death to the fool who does not fear God!”

  “Death, death!”

  “Prefect. Order this man to his death. The worst death possible!”

  Pilate grabbed the glorious silk cape that hung over his shoulders and used it to wipe the sweat from his forehead.

  “Your orders, Prefect?” Ceint asked, kneeling beside the sofa. Pilate crossed his arms and frowned.

  “Death to him!” The echoing voices of the kohanim hit Pilate’s chest like a physical blow.

  He stared at the man from Nazareth.

  It would be so easy to give the kohanim what they wanted. He could think up any reason he required. This man might in fact be blameless, yet what did it matter? This was nothing more than a provincial squabble.

  “Shall we return Jesus to his cell, Prefect?” Ceint asked softly, trying to read his master’s mind. They had resolved several similar incidents in the past by returning the accused to his cell and there ending his life by poison or assassination. Death by “illness” in prison had a way of stifling trouble before it started.

  “Do you think that will satisfy the kohanim?” Pilate had already accepted the fact that the carpenter-turned-preacher would not be returning to the streets of Jerusalem alive. He scowled bitterly. “We could have let him go if he hadn’t gone on about meeting Michael like that. The fool!” A sudden anger rose inside him toward the man who had put the simple carpenter on the spot in the first place.

  “Achaioi!”

  He beckoned the High Judge to him. “What do you think of what this man has said here?”

  Achaioi responded with his eyes downcast, one hand stroking his snow-

  white beard. “I believe he has a sickness of the mind. However, there is a certain percentage of the folk in the poorer parts of town who actually believe him—they think he is their savior—and the number grows. In order to avoid needless entanglements between the representative of Rome and the—the unique religious issues in this province—it falls to us to be very wary of this sort of disturbance, and careful of how we handle the present matter.”

  Pilate nodded and waved Achaioi back to his original position.

  “Ceint. I propose we call a hiatus.”

  Ceint shouted a few orders and the judges and the kohanim shuffled out of the courtyard, followed by the prisoner and his escort. When the last spear-toting guard had disappeared from sight, the heat of the day seemed to rush in suddenly to fill the empty space between the walls. There was silence outside; training was over at the garrison.

  “Well, Ceint. What do you think of what he had to say?”

  “You mean the bit about him meeting the Archangel Michael?”

  “That too.”

  Pontius Pilate and his advisor looked at each other for a long moment, neither saying a word. There was confusion in the eyes of both men.

  “I don’t think much of it at all. But the town officials say that he’s been healing people—sick people waiting to die and those who cannot stand. He brings them back to health in an instant, and former cripples run like the wind. There are even some town officials who say they have seen these things for themselves.”

  “Some kind of sorcery, then?”

  “That is what the kohanim call it, for certain. They’re quite incensed. They see it as blasphemous.”

  “What I want to know is how you see it, Ceint. Do you think the stories are genuine?”

  Ceint put a hand to his head. He always did this when he lacked a response.

  “Prefect,” he said after a long pause. “I wonder if some of these accounts might not actually be true.” Ceint spoke slowly, carefully selecting his words.

  “Some of them?” Pilate leaned forward. “If even one of these stories is the truth, we have a serious situation on our hands.”

  “Which is why, Prefect, I feel it is highly dangerous to allow this Jesus any more free rein.”

  “Why, Ceint . . . it sounds as though you actually believe this man possesses some sort of mighty Heaven-sent power.”

  Pilate’s adviser did not answer, but instead turned his face toward the sunlight that poured in through the windows. There was a sudden pallor in his visage. “If he—” Ceint began at last, then swallowed his words. Pilate saw his throat move with the effort. “If he has truly caused cripples to run and lifted those waiting to die from their sick beds, then I would have to say that he may truly be a—well, a god.”

  “And someone says they’ve seen him do this?”

  Ceint turned slowly back toward Pontius Pilate. “Prefect, if you saw him hand out a single piece of bread to a throng of the poor who came to hear his sermons, and you saw those who took the tiniest crumb and put it to their lips filled with joy and sustenance—if you saw this, what would you think?”

  Tiny beads of sweat had appeared on Ceint’s face. Several of them joined together and ran down his cheek, forming a glistening droplet at the tip of his chin.

  Pilate stared at his advisor. He didn’t move a muscle. He hardly even breathed. “You saw this, didn’t you?” he said finally.

  Ceint gave no reply, but his silence was testament enough to the conflict in his heart.

  “Miracles.” Pilate moaned. “Splendid. Who else but a god possesses such power?”

  A spear that a soldier had left leaning in one corner of the chamber slid and fell to the floor with a loud echoing clang, but neither of the two men so much as glanced in its direction.

  “But, Ceint. Can gods really appear just like that in our world?”

  Pontius Pilate found himself struggling to grasp the situation. His Roman upbringing and secular spirit left him ill equipped to grapple with the improbable, radical gods that seemed to persist behind every shadow in this land of the Jews—and in every word and deed of the poor carpenter from Nazareth.

  “Ceint. I’m afraid I don’t understand how feeding a crowd of the poor with a piece of bread necessarily makes one a god.”

  “The gods control man’s destiny, and through natural phenomena they let their existence and their will be known. Usually, they are far removed from men, but when they do appear to us . . . that’s when we say a miracle has occurred.”

  “A miracle did occur. Does that make Jesus of Nazareth the Messiah?”

  “Prefect. We must not allow Jesus to live because—”

  “Yes?” Pilate said.

  The light reflected from the leaves outside the window gave a greenish cast to the tense features of the two men. Or perhaps it was the unease they felt in their hearts showing on their faces.

  “You know why.”

  Pontius Pilate uncrossed and recrossed his legs and rearranged his cape across his shoulder.

  “It is time to finish this trial.”

  Once again the judges and the kohanim were called back into the chamber. Behind them came the guard, dragging Jesus of Nazareth by a rope that was tied around his waist. High Judge Achaioi declared the court back in session.

  W
ith the silver rod of office in his hand, Pontius Pilate pointed toward the priests.

  “Kohanim. Before I pronounce my judgment upon this man, I have a question to ask of you.”

  As one, the kohanim inclined their heads.

  “Kohanim. I would like to know what you think about the Day of Judgment this man of Nazareth predicts. Tell me.”

  An old man, the eldest of the kohanim, stepped forward. The depth of his anger was clear upon his face.

  “Prefect, God is not some—some thing which comes after some final day of judgment, such as this man claims. What, I ask you, is this judgment at the end of days—this Final Judgment? Does God judge men? God gave birth to men. Men are an expression of God’s will. Perhaps, after we were created, our thoughts and our actions were somewhat different than what God had hoped for.” The old man had a far-off look in his eyes as he spoke. “Thus there might be a time when God reviews mankind and decides to create men anew . . .”

  “And isn’t that the Final Judgment?” Pilate asked.

  The kohen waved his hands in a grand gesture. “Absolutely not. Prefect, this review will not take the form of a judgment. God speaks through his prophets to communicate his desires. Men follow these prophecies to plan their lives.”

  Another of the old kohen stood. “Prefect. What troubles me is what this man says about the need for us to purify our hearts and rectify our actions in anticipation of God’s judgment. There is a terrible threat veiled within these words. The dread of a Final Judgment is a terrifying thing for this man to lay upon our unknowing, piteous people.”

  The third kohen stood. “Even if peace should come to our land as a result of the people’s fear, it would be a distant thing indeed from true happiness. God is not some kind of side effect, Prefect.”

  Then the final kohen, unable to restrain himself any longer, threw up his hands and shouted, “Nail him to the cross!”

  “Yes, Prefect,” the first kohen declared, “what more questioning could you possibly require? His guilt is clear and apparent. Give him a swift death!”

  Pilate waved down the kohanim with one hand and turned to the accused. “Jesus of Nazareth. I have a question for you. You must’ve known when you came into Jerusalem that this would happen. I cannot believe you imagined you would leave the city alive. So why did you come? What was it about coming to this place that made it worth risking your life? Did someone tell you to do this? If so, then who? Well?” Pilate’s eyes flashed.