by John Rechy
She moved away, to the window, surveying this foreign city. “We come from Rome, Pontius and I, we don’t understand all this furor about messiahs and —” She threw up her hands.
“He’s not the Messiah.” I wanted to convince her to help me. “He’s just a man, a good man, a very good man. When they bring him to your husband, for sentencing —”
She had listened intently. “No, I don’t understand anything about these dangerous politics and intrigues; I don’t care to. But, my dear, I do understand a woman in love. You do love this man, don’t you?”
“With all my heart.”
“Then I shall help you. Tell me how.” She folded her hands over her breasts, raising them delightedly.
“Convince your husband —”
“Easy enough — when he’s in bed with me.” She smiled. She picked up the abandoned orchid from the floor and inspected it. All its golden pollen was gone. She smiled at a fresh memory. “But when he dons his official robes —” She became serious. “How can I intercede, my dear?”
I had examined every possibility as I had hurried here through dark streets. “It’s known that Pilate is superstitious.”
She laughed. “Oh, he would hate it if he knew that that’s been discovered. He denies it, but it’s true.” She kissed the orchid, and held it to her cheek.
“Tell him that in a dream —”
“Create a dream for me, my dear. Go on. I welcome some intrigue.”
“Tell him that in a dream you perceived a warning that this man must not die.”
She shrugged. “Done. I shall write him a note, and” — she laughed a throaty laughter — “I shall sprinkle it with . . . orchid pollen!”
I reached for her hand, to kiss it in gratitude. She clasped mine, brought it to her own lips and held it to her mouth, moistening it with her tongue, which rose slowly along my arm. “Do you have time to —?” She looked up at me and nodded toward the rumpled bed.
I shook my head.
“Ah, well, perhaps another time, my dear, we shall . . . dream . . . together?” She released my hand slowly, and I ran out, hearing the curiously muffled murmurs of the mob following Jesus, who was being led through back alleys to the old priest named Annas.
Night remained. Tangles of weeds gathered from the desert by the wind tumbled desultorily along the strangely empty streets.
I found Judas among the strange crowd. He was no longer attempting to hide his presence — nor did I, but no one seemed to notice us. We entered the courtyard of Annas. Tall torches, one on each side — the only light — flanked the priest where he stood on a balcony. A very short man wearing elevated sandals in an unsuccessful effort to disguise his lack of stature, he peered at Jesus for ominous moments.
In the barren courtyard, dying bushes revealed a failed recent attempt to create a garden. Weeds, with tiny dots of grayish flowers, had been shoved by roaming whirlwinds against the edges of the gates. The tall gates that had opened to bring Jesus in had remained parted. An invitation to the crowd that had appeared at the garden?
Staring at the sinister, anxious people rushing in — allowed, expected? — I recognized them, these men and women who had appeared immediately after the arrest in Gethsemane; they were the same that Judas and I had seen infiltrating the festive throngs when Jesus entered Jerusalem days earlier.
Judas, too, recognized them: “They were brought here to demand a brutal sentence,” he said with certainty.
“Pilate’s wife will stop it all.” I was certain the beautiful woman glittering with the golden pollen of white orchids would keep her word. The dab of gold dust she had placed on my left breast — was it still there? — yes — had asserted her promise.
But where were the people who had truly rejoiced for Jesus that earlier Sunday? Not the people in Annas’s courtyard now. Did it seem so only to me that this night and its long darkness were supporting a conspiracy of secrecy? Would there be time enough to rouse, from whatever slumber enveloped them, those who had greeted Jesus joyously into the City? Time enough to spread word of his arrest? Would Jesus’ real followers be ready to storm these gates in protest?
Judas winced at the harsh sound of scraping locks, as if he had been trapped within it. I looked behind me. The tall gates into the courtyard had been bolted. Armed soldiers guarded the portals. No one else would enter.
“Lady, who do you suppose sent the people who were let into the courtyard of the corrupt priest?” Madame Bernice interjected. Ermenegildo leaned his head to one side, then the other, wondering the same.
“The rulers — Whoever stood to gain the most from the unfolding horror, whoever —” I stopped. My own words resounded.
Whoever stood to gain the most from the unfolding horror!
I inhaled. For centuries my essence must have pondered the question.
I thought I was about to answer it, but before I could, Madame had clamped her hands to her temples and stored the matter firmly for future important consideration.
XXX
WE HAD EXTENDED OUR EXPLORATIONS deep into the night. We realized that when we sipped our tea and found it cold. The pastries were stale. We discovered that when Ermenegildo emphatically rejected one. The night was warm, almost hot, as if some of the dark heat from Calvary had seeped into Madame’s garden — heat in which, I noticed without calling Madame’s attention to it, the strangely distorted lilies by the veranda thrived, their petals fully open. We sat in the glow of candles that spilled from inside the château. Late as it was, I must continue:
Those who had hailed Jesus would not be allowed into Annas’s courtyard. But when the shut gates opened again and it was daylight and the word had spread, they would surge in protest — I clung to hope, hope I tried to share with Judas by holding his hand in mine.
The fat priest Annas leaned his fleshy elbows on the railing of his balcony, attempting to raise his body so he might be able to peer down at Jesus. One elbow slipped. Doubly angered, Annas shouted at Jesus:
“Are you the Messiah? Are you!”
Silent, Jesus stood in stunning dignity before his grotesque tormentor.
The fat priest screeched like a petulant child: “I demand you tell me, Jesus! Are you?”
The crowd added heckling sounds to their muffled curses, which the resurgent wind multiplied, and over it all there emerged only one clear word, still only whispered, slowly:
“Blasphemer.”
Jesus did not wince.
I understood — unequivocally and with startling clarity — what was occurring. Jesus was awaiting the moment when God would free him. That would be now while he stood before this marionette of a man.
But — I noticed this and winced — Jesus had made a slight movement to loosen the knots clenching his wrists behind him. When he couldn’t, he frowned in surprise, as if realizing only now that he was truly bound. I saw Judas twist his own hands behind him, as if to share the pain of his beloved’s restraints.
The priest screamed: “I can’t tolerate this false prophet anymore. Take him to Caiaphas!”
“To Caiaphas!” Several voices out of the mob demanded. Others, contorted with hatred, crouched, hissed, repeated the terrifying whisper into the dusty howling wind:
“Blasphemer.”
Armed centurions surrounded Jesus. Anticipating a riot when the people woke from the spell of this eternal night? A helmeted soldier tied a long heavy rope to Jesus’ wrists, to lead him out of the courtyard in humiliation.
Jesus was not humbled. He knew that God would not allow this to move much further. It would all end triumphantly, and soon. Jesus’ resolute smile told us that as he located us and nodded, without fear.
Outside the courtyard, Judas and I wedged forward. A group from the crowd encircled Jesus —
“—hiding him!” Judas shouted over the howling desert wind. “They don’t want the people to know what’s happening. Why is the night lasting so long? Why is the City so still?”
Yes, it had all grown increasingly s
till. I was aware only of the sound of the wind assaulting palm trees, shoving dry fronds against the walls of the City.
We followed as the soldiers led Jesus along hidden back streets, a circuitous route that avoided the center of the City. Clusters of weeds scraped into vacant alleys.
The Court of Caiaphas was in the largest hall of a building of arches and austere vestibules. The hall was sheltered from the wind but not from its heat nor its howling.
A tall, thin, powerful man of stern features — his eyes seemed to have been scorched into their sockets — the high priest sat in his courtroom flanked by the rulers of the City — other priests, aristocrats, rich merchants. I recognized among them the merchant who had questioned Jesus in the Temple. He leaned toward the high priest and said: “His grasping for power must end this night!”
When Jesus heard those words, a look of bewilderment flickered on his face. This night? — when events were racing? His brow smoothed, thrusting concern away. He raised his head before the gathered men, his faith in God’s promise intact.
Behind us, the deadly mob surged in. Here, too, the portals locked.
“You are facing, Jesus” — Caiaphas paused between each word, adding gravity — “the Supreme Court of the Land.”
A growing film of perspiration on his face — that was all that indicated the ominous words might have touched Jesus. Was there a slight toss of his head? In disbelief? No, it was a manifestation of his defiance, the certainty that the violent currents swirling about him would be thrust away no matter how close they came to him. His serenity assured that. A miraculous coolness that seemed to have sought him out within the hot room evaporated the moisture on his body.
Rising, Caiaphas walked toward Jesus, step by slow step. He stopped abruptly. “Are you the Christ!” he hurled his words.
Judas’s lips moved in a silent exhortation to Jesus: Deny what they need you to claim!
Jesus did not wince, did not look down in fear, did not retreat as the high priest approached closer.
“Do you deny being the Messiah?” Caiaphas’s voice had become almost gentle. “We know you have claimed to be. Why deny it? If you are His son, God will surely protect you. Are you the Messiah?”
No! Judas shouted soundlessly. Say no!
Jesus stared ahead, up.
Swiftly, Caiaphas circled Jesus, moved away, advanced within inches of him, moved back again, resumed his stalking, stopped abruptly and confronted him again: “Are you afraid your God will forsake you? Betray you?” Caiaphas’s words were a kind, sweet whisper. “Don’t you trust God?”
Jesus nodded.
After this, God will intercede! I longed for Jesus.
“Your silence contradicts you.” Caiaphas began to turn away from Jesus. Then he whirled about and shouted: “Are you the Messiah, Jesus!”
Jesus opened his mouth, to speak.
The perspiration on Judas’s hand as he clenched mine was cold, colder than mine.
With raised, mocking eyebrows, his head cocked, Caiaphas faced the stern judges and rulers. “Clearly, this man distrusts his own God.”
“I am the Messiah,” Jesus said. “My Father shall protect me against you.”
Judas turned his head to one side, rejecting what was now in motion.
“We have heard blasphemy,” the high priest announced calmly to the rulers and priests leaning back in relief at the table.
A man out of the mob rushed at Jesus and spat on him:
“Blasphemer!”
Judas pushed forward to shelter Jesus. Bodies thrust him back roughly.
Jesus tilted his face, to discard the spittle. Had he understood this damning occurrence? He had not flinched. His eyes sought me and Judas. I saw in his look — this cut into me like a shard — a spark of . . . panic. No, no, not that; only a flicker of uncertainty — not even that. It was gone now, whatever I thought I had seen in his beautiful eyes.
The mob swooped on Jesus, tearing at his clothes. As he was tossed about, I saw — yes, it was there, the beginning of bewilderment on Jesus’ face. Perhaps fear. Perhaps — No, it was not fear!
Judas struggled against the wall of bodies that separated us from Jesus. Caiaphas’s terrifying words stopped him:
“What shall be the punishment?” the high priest asked the mob.
“Crucify him!”
Stripped to tatters, Jesus looked down at his sides, where his freed hands would have been, looked down in puzzlement. He pulled at his restraints, as if with little force he might free himself. His body wrenched as the rope dug into his wrists. His mouth opened — to utter a cry? His lips closed firmly. When he aimed his gaze at Heaven, all doubt had disappeared.
“Take him to Pontius Pilate!” the high priest demanded. “And assure the sentence is death.”
“No!” Judas shouted. “No!” I echoed. Our protest was drowned by the mob’s chanted taunts:
“Death to the blasphemer! Death to the powerless king!”
Outside, we struggled to keep within sight of Jesus. Surging bodies about him had grown in number, more bands of the same shadowy men and women that had appeared at the arrest, that had followed its course.
And still not yet dawn! I searched the edges of the sky for the beginning of light. Nothing but darkness.
Only when I saw Peter lingering outside with John and the tall James did I realize I had not wondered where the disciples had gone after the arrest. Had they fled? Jesus was led past them. I saw tears in Peter’s eyes, and John’s. James covered his mouth.
“Do you know that man?” a soldier barked at them, and pointed to Jesus.
“No!” Peter denied. James and John remained silent, their heads lowered.
Judas pushed forward. “I know him! I love him!”
“I, too, know him,” I said. “I, too, love him!”
Our words were swept away by the rising curses of the mob.
Although spittle dripped down his bound body covered with shreds that the wind flailed about him, Jesus was unbowed. A few more steps, only a few more, and it would all end in his vindication. He would be freed by God. I knew it was that certainty that supported him.
Between the columns of his stately Roman home, Pontius Pilate waited outside on the steps of his portico. The wind abated briefly, dust hovered in thick clouds.
The moment I saw Pilate, I was sure that Jesus would not die. Pilate was looking on with bemusement, only bemusement, at the crunching crowd before him. They had formed an arc, like a curved wall, enclosing the scene unfolding.
Jesus was thrust forward to face Pilate.
“From all I know, this man has done nothing,” Pilate said easily, moving to end it all, perhaps to return to his wife.
“Magdalene, Magdalene” — Judas allowed joy into his words — “it won’t happen, he won’t die. We won’t die.”
“This man — this Jesus — he’s not only blasphemed,” one of the rulers at the head of the crowd shouted to arouse Pilate’s anger, “he’s denounced us. Your emperor and Rome are next — and you!”
Pilate laughed. He asked Jesus, in a kind voice, “Are you really claiming to be the Son of God?”
“It’s they who say that,” Jesus answered.
Had his voice wavered? Was the certainty that had sustained him beginning to crumble? Those considerations didn’t matter now. Pilate would release him.
The mob chanted their accusation at Jesus: “He’s a blasphemer!”
Pilate looked about him as if perplexed by this excess. He said aloud to himself, “Will dawn never come?” He addressed the mob: “Let this man go.” His eyes raked the crowd. He located me. He smiled. “Besides, I had a very strange dream —”
The priests led the crowd forward, narrowing the circle that enclosed Jesus as he faced Pilate.
Jesus’ body remained unbent. But he seemed . . . startled, and . . . No, no, not afraid . . . But . . .
“Does he look to you as if he’s hurting, Magdalene?” Judas begged me for the answer he needed.
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br /> “No, he’s strong, remember that, Judas; he’s strong.”
“If I could shield his body with mine, I would,” Judas said, “so that he would not hurt. I would die for him —”
“He won’t die!” I asserted.
“No, he won’t die,” Judas said.
The priests and rulers had bunched before Pilate. “You insult us!” “The law demands sentencing.” “He’ll threaten Rome next.” “And you.”
Pilate stared at them with contempt. “Very well,” he said calmly. “It’s the time during which the custom allows one convicted man to be freed. There’s only one other, Barabbas, a brutal rapist, a murderer who has sworn to rape and kill and torture again. Your wives and daughters will be in danger — Now! Who shall be freed?” His smile was confident, attempting to shame the mob.
“You’ll have to keep your word,” a priest hissed at Pilate.
“I shall — if you will give me yours” — Pilate added more confidence to his words — “to leave me in peace once the choice is made.”
The priest faced the crowd: “Who shall be freed?”
“Barabbas!”
“No!” I screamed. No, it was Judas who had screamed.
As the crowd shifted in exultation, we both saw it clearly, the look of astonishment on Jesus’ face. Perspiration flowed down his body; the shreds of his clothes, suddenly wet, were pasted to his flesh. His eyes darted everywhere, as if to locate evidence that this was not still proceeding.
“Crucify him!” A priest ascended the steps to face Pilate.
Pilate looked angered, trapped. “I shall not sentence an innocent man!” He turned to ask a hovering servant for a basin of water. He washed his hands. “If you do this, you’ll spill innocent blood. It shall not be on my hands — only on yours. I give you another opportunity to choose!”
It would work! They would cringe from this abomination.
Jesus looked up at the black sky. The wind was rising with a shriek.
Out of the mob came a firm, harsh voice, which coaxed: “Let his blood be on us and on our children.”