by Ryu Mitsuse
The man of Nazareth was gazing off into a corner of the courtyard, perhaps listening to Pilate’s words, perhaps not. When the prefect had finished talking, Jesus turned bodily to face him. His eyes glimmered like flames. “It was not suggested to me that I come to Jerusalem, nor was I so commanded. I came because I had to.”
“You had to come?”
“Prefect, do you believe in miracles?”
Pilate fell silent. His previous discussion with Ceint drifted up unwelcome in his mind. “What about miracles?”
“If I am to show the people that I am truly the Son of God, then I must show them miracles.”
“And exactly what sort of miracle will you perform to prove that you are the Son of God?”
The Nazarene’s face twisted into a smile, revealing filthy teeth that stuck out from between his scabbed lips.
“That’s the thing, isn’t it?” Jesus nodded, pleased that they were finally getting to this part of the conversation.
“What’s the thing, now?”
The man of Nazareth extended his arms out straight to either side. “One of you wanted to put me death? Then do it. I don’t care. I’ve come to Jerusalem to reveal my greatest miracle. I will show you. No, I will show all of Jerusalem—everyone throughout the entire Roman Empire—that I am truly the Son of the one true God.”
“You mean to say that you came to Jerusalem knowing full well that you would be put to death?” Pilate shook his head. Leaning back in his seat, he tapped the silver rod in his hand upon the arm of the sofa.
“Prefect, I will be nailed to the cross. And upon that cross I will die. At that time, there will be a great miracle, and men will tremble in fright, and they will fall to the ground and beg forgiveness before God for all the sins they have committed.”
Pilate took another cup of milk tea from his servant, downed most of it in one gulp, then threw the bowl at the captive’s feet. It broke into shards and the remaining tea splashed across the stone tiles like a scattering of white petals.
Jesus spoke on. “For those who doubt that I am the Son of God and the Messiah, I must give them proof. The time is nigh. Put me up on the cross! It is all I wish.”
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 s
oldiers 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.
“Judas Iscariot should do,” Pilate called out to his back. “The man is well versed in both astronomy and geography.”
The summoned man arrived a few minutes later, led by two of Pilate’s men. Judas Iscariot was sixty years of age, the top astronomer in Jerusalem, and a well-known prophet among the people.
He wore hempen robes dyed deep green and a wide oxhide belt of the same color. His uneven gray hair was bound into a small knot at the back of his head and wrapped with a black cloth. His feet were large and sturdy, and he wore heavy-looking sandals of thick woven leather.
“Over here, Judas,” Pilate called from the balcony.
“When I first saw that marvelous cloud of light in the northern sky this late at night, I prepared myself for your call, Lord Prefect.” Judas swept aside the hanging curtain and stepped out onto the balcony.
“Well? What do you think it is? Tell me plain.”
Pilate crossed his arms and turned to face the brilliance in the north.
Judas held his peace. Hands clasped behind his back, he strolled along the edge of the balcony.
After a moment Pilate spoke again. “I’m sure you know that Jesus of Nazareth is to be executed on the morn.”
Judas nodded, his face dark.
“There are people who believe he is the Son of God, that he is the Messiah—they believe that his execution will be the end of our world, and they’re frightened because they think this light and his execution are connected. Well, Judas? Tell me what you think it is.”
The prophet put both hands upon the white marble balustrade and leaned out, his eyes searching far off into the night sky. A long silence passed.
“Judas. I must confide in you that the more I saw of this Jesus of Nazareth, the more I found it hard to believe that everything he said was a fiction.”
Judas seemed to smile then, faintly. “Lord Prefect. I’m surprised to hear you admitting such things. This man must be persuasive indeed. No wonder the people take him for the Messiah.”
Pilate scowled.
“Lord Prefect. Two years ago, when the carpenter of Nazareth was still proselytizing on his own up near Samaria and Arbela I requested that he be apprehended. Do you recall this?”
“I do,” Pilate replied, a bitterness in his voice.
“Lord Prefect, it is true that of the many acts that he calls miracles, some do not follow the course of logic or any natural scheme. They are wondrous, to be sure. He calls them miracles of God. And he foretells that these miracles will one day govern our world. Lord Prefect, you should have sentenced him two years ago. I’m afraid that now you may have waited too long,” Judas said.
The prophet had indeed recommended this course of action to Pilate several times before. And perhaps he was right, Pilate thought, though the realization didn’t make him any more pleased to be reminded of it now. He felt a chill sting, as though he’d been struck upon the cheek by a thin razor. He wanted very much to say something piercing, something that would stab into the heart of the wise man, but as always before Judas, he found himself unable to summon the perfect retort.
“True,” he said eventually, “but back then I never expected him to gain so many fervent followers in the city.”
“I would not say they are that many.”
“Yes, but still—”
If you do not think them too many, then why accuse me of staying my hand overlong in his execution?
“They are merely frightened, Prefect. Fear and faith are two different things . . . though tomorrow their fear will become faith in truth.”
“How can you say that?” asked Pilate sharply. He was sure that Iscariot had some specific knowledge of Jesus, something about the carpenter of Nazareth he was unwilling to share, that had disposed him against the man. It was almost as if he bore him ill will.
“Do you know what his apostles do now?” Judas changed the topic, leaving Pilate’s unanswered question to drift away with the night breeze.
“I’ve heard that they dispersed after he was taken into custody and went into hiding. Apparently, the profound guidance of their God was not enough to eliminate their fear of death altogether. They probably were worried they might pass on before their paradise came to Earth.”
Judas shook his head. “I wonder how much his apostles really understood of Jesus. The love and the God he spoke of are little more than a kind of code. In fact, everything he says comes from a very different place than human thought and desire.”
“So whose God is Jesus of Nazareth talking about? Who is it that he’s preaching for?”
“I do not know, though I will admit I had expected much of him.”
This time, Pilate’s question seemed to have struck a chord in Judas’s heart.
“When first I saw him giving a sermon, in a small village in Galilee, I knew he was different from the many other prophets I had seen—those false prophets who are so numerous that on a given day, a man might throw his sandal in any direction and be sure to hit one. Why?” Judas said. “Because he does not speak in prophecies. The things he says may indeed cause unhappiness, but they will never bring joy.”
“Why not?”
“Because if a final judgment by God is truly necessary, would that not suggest that our world was on a path to ruin?”
Pilate stood still and silent as a stone. A hot wind blew up from the Jordan River Valley and swept between the two men.
Together they stood listening to the sound of the wind in their ears.
At last Judas lifted his right hand and pointed toward the far-off brilliance of the night sky. “That light? To be quite frank, this is the first time I have ever seen anything of the kind. An elder sailor of Phoenicia once told me that there is a frozen sea at the northern end of the world and a land of ice at the far southern end, and in those places, sometimes, one can see strange, beautiful lights in the skies. Yet I cannot help but think that this is something altogether different.”
“Then you think it has something to do with Jesus’s execution.”
“No. I think it has nothing to do with that man’s faith. That this spectacle should appear on the night before his execution is merely a coincidence. I believe this is a simple yet exceedingly rare natural phenomenon, nothing more. You have nothing to fear from that light, at least. You should tell this to the people and see them safely to their beds.”
“Judas,” Pilate said, “that still won’t stop them from saying that a terrible miracle was witnessed on the night before the Nazarene’s death.”
Something pale and without form, invisible to the eye, emerged from Judas’s body and blew directly over Pilate.
Pilate thought he heard Judas say, “It is a terrifying thing.”
“Terrifying? What’s terrifying?”
“I fear . . .”
“Yes?”
Judas turned away from the burning in the northern sky, as though his back might bear the brunt of the tragedy and destruction it would bring.
“Yes. The people will connect the execution of the man from Nazareth with something truly terrible, and they will tell their children.” With that, like a shadow, Judas drifted across the marble balcony and returned to the chamber within.
A short wh
ile later, Ceint came hurrying out. “Prefect, Judas Iscariot gave instructions as he left.”
“What did he have to say?”
“He said we should place soldiers at every crossroad in the city from the very early morning and prepare for the worst. He said we should also check our stores of food and watch the roads closely.”
Pilate let his shoulders drop. “Very well, Ceint. Do it, and do it quickly.”
Ceint cast a wondering glance at his master’s face. “Have you received word of some rebellion? I did not get that impression from Judas.”
“I expect no rebellion.”
“Does this have something to do with the execution of the man from Nazareth?”
Pilate put a hand to his forehead, a pained look on his face. “Ceint, in truth I have no idea. But Judas may be right about the need for caution. Do as he says.”
“Prefect, if it is a matter of such gravity, shall I not summon Iscariot once again and have him explain himself?”
Pilate pressed his fingers against his temples and shook his head. “No, Judas will tell us nothing. It is likely he himself does not know exactly what will transpire. All will be revealed on the morrow. Go now, Ceint. Go.”
Ceint lingered for a moment longer, but when he saw that Pilate intended no further words, he departed.
Clouds of multicolored light continued to shimmer in the north, but when Pilate looked to the east, he saw there the watery light of approaching dawn. The stars in the north and east were already dim, filled with the premonition of a terrible ending to come, yet the strong winds that whipped past the vast star field directly overhead promised that the day would dawn hot, without a single cloud in the sky.
High in the sky over Mount Zion and the ridges of Har Hatzofim across the wide Jordan River Valley, gigantic thunderheads had been gathering since morning. But the sun still shone on the near side of the river, suffusing the region’s famous cliffs of white granite with blinding light.