Woman of Sin

by Debra Diaz

  He stood up. “Goodnight, Claudia.”

  She paused for a moment, and with a little shrug swept breezily from the room. Paulus sat down and stared moodily into his plate. Much later, he rose again and the lamps cast his tired shadow on the walls as he moved through the corridors to his own room. He threw a glance at the bed but went instead to his writing table, where an oil lamp already burned. He sat down, pulling a set of scrolls toward him.

  He went through them methodically until he found what he was looking for. His brow furrowed in concentration.

  His interest in the prophecies concerning the hoped-for Messiah had intensified in the past few days. And he had not been able to put aside what Alysia had told him about the man, Lazarus. Sheer foolishness! And yet she believed it, and she was not a fool. Did the Nazarene have everyone mesmerized? What was the secret of his power?

  One passage caught his immediate attention: “Rejoice greatly, O daughter of Zion…your king comes to you, lowly, and riding upon a donkey…”

  He turned to the prophecies by Isaiah and read on: “All we like sheep have gone astray, every one to his own way, and the Lord has laid on him the iniquity of us all…”

  * * * *

  Paulus came slowly to awareness, realizing he had fallen asleep at the table with his head on top of his folded arms. His lamp had burned out, leaving a gray haze of smoke. He rose and walked stiffly across the room. Bending over a basin, he splashed water on his face and changed his tunic, fastening his leather cuirass with difficulty. He missed the aid of Simon, whom he’d sent on an errand out of the province more than a week ago.

  Deciding a brisk ride would work the stiffness out of his muscles, he went down the stairs and stepped outside into the gray dimness of dawn. A sentry stopped in mid-yawn to salute him, and imperceptibly tried to straighten his stance as the legate stood there, looking across the pavement.

  “What’s happening over there?” Paulus asked. He was standing next to one of the vast pillars on the porch of the praetorium, and below, down a long row of marble steps, several priests flocked about blocking from view all but the dark hair of a tall man.

  “The Jews have arrested the Nazarene preacher, sir,” replied the sentry. “They’re waiting for the prefect to come out. They won’t come inside because it would defile them during their holy season, or something like that, sir. So they say.”

  Another of their stupid, hypocritical rules, Paulus thought irritably, starting down the steps. His gaze moved over the grim faces of the priests, who weren’t speaking. There seemed to be an air of secrecy among them, a sense of urgency. One of them looked up to see Paulus coming toward them and nudged the priest next to him. A quick, whispered consultation ensued. Paulus realized that if they were waiting for Pilate, they must be demanding the death penalty. He had been half expecting this to happen, though not so soon, and certainly not on the eve of the Passover Sabbath…one of the most sacred holidays of the Jews. The movements of the priests gave him a better view of the Nazarene.

  He stood under heavy guard, as if he were the most dangerous of criminals. His wrists had been chained together before him. Blood ran from the corner of his mouth and into a bare, bleeding spot on his chin, where it looked as if someone had viciously jerked out a handful of his short beard. Paulus’ glance fell on a captain of the Temple police, who stood nearby. “By whose order was this man arrested?” he asked.

  The man spoke rapidly, seeming eager to justify his own part in the matter. “The High Priest sent us to bring him for questioning late last night, sir.”

  “Why in the middle of the night? Could it not have waited until morning?”

  The officer shrugged. “The priests and elders seemed to think there might be a riot among the people.”

  Paulus walked casually toward the prisoner, feeling anger rising in him as he observed how severely he had been beaten. Though the Nazarene’s head was slightly lowered and he didn’t look up, Paulus could readily see that the right side of his face was swollen and his eye had partially closed; his nose was also swollen and bloodied.

  He turned to the cluster of priests, holding his anger in check. “Who beat this man?”

  One of them replied, “Sir, he has received the treatment he deserves. We have found him guilty of blasphemy.”

  Paulus stared at him so contemptuously that the man took a step backward. “Do you expect the governor to condemn this man on a charge of blasphemy?”

  Another priest, standing nearby, stepped forward placatingly. “What my colleague meant to say, Legate, is that we have found this man guilty of blasphemy and sedition against Rome.”

  Paulus recognized him. “Caiaphas—this must be an important case for you to appear in person. Where is the old man who’s really in charge?”

  Caiaphas remained stoic. “If you refer to my father-in-law, he became ill last night and was unable to accompany us.”

  “Obviously you have conducted this trial in the last few hours. Correct me if I am mistaken, but isn’t it one of your laws that a trial cannot take place at night, and should carry over to a second day in order to give the accused every chance to defend himself?”

  Caiaphas’ nostrils flared. “You are correct, Legate, in saying that this is an important case, an unusual case, involving a man more dangerous than any of you suspect. This is why we have acted so expeditiously.” He stopped and drew pointedly away as Pilate marched out onto the portico, amid his surrounding bodyguards, and gazed down at them.

  It was barely dawn. To the east, pale fingers of light pointed downward toward the fortress, and at that moment bugles sounded from the main tower, marking the time. When they stopped, all was quiet except for the murmuring of a small group of spectators waiting on the level below them, down a wide set of steps. Paulus gestured to one of his men, who gathered up several legionaries. They took a stance in front of the crowd, spears in hand.

  The disciples of the Nazarene were nowhere to be seen. Paulus wondered if they were being held, incarcerated somewhere. Pilate stared hard at the prisoner, then noticed Paulus standing near him, but his eyes slid back to the Nazarene with no change of expression.

  “Well?” he said, looking much annoyed. “Who has presented the charges, and what are they?”

  “If this man were not a criminal,” Caiaphas said loudly, “we would not have brought him to you.”

  His words were spoken with none of the respect, albeit grudgingly given, with which he had spoken to Paulus. His entire manner had changed somehow…had become more hostile and almost challenging. It seemed a strange development; the High Priest had always before been extremely cordial toward the governor.

  Pilate was still annoyed. “Take him and judge him according to your own laws.”

  “As you well know,” Caiaphas answered, “we have no authority to put a man to death.”

  One of the other priests said, “We have found him guilty of perverting the people, refusing to pay taxes to Caesar, and of calling himself a king.”

  The prefect’s glance went slowly over the prisoner, taking in his plain, homespun robe and rough shoes. Then he looked at Paulus and said crisply, “Legate, escort the prisoner inside. I wish to speak to him alone.” He turned and withdrew from the portico to the inner hall. Paulus approached the Nazarene, who gazed at him solemnly from out of his good eye, and took a firm grip on his right arm. He did not have to exert any pressure; the Nazarene willingly walked up the steps with him and into the hall.

  Pilate waited in the vestibule, which was lined with statues and colorful mosaics on the walls. He looked at Paulus for a moment, seeming to sense his resentment at the treatment of the Nazarene. He addressed the prisoner directly. “Are you king of the Jews?” he asked curiously, with more than a hint of sarcasm.

  The Nazarene answered slowly, having to form his words through a bruised and bloodied mouth. “Do you ask because you want to know, or simply because others have said this of me?”

  “Am I a Jew? I care not what they say
about you. I am concerned about what you believe. Your own people and religious leaders delivered you to me—what have you done?”

  The Nazarene regarded him soberly. “If my kingdom were of this world, I would not be standing here before you. My disciples would have fought to prevent my arrest.”

  “So, then, you are a king?”

  “To this end was I born, that I should bear witness to the truth.”

  Pilate shrugged and said with mock gravity, “What is truth?”

  The Nazarene didn’t answer, but his gaze never left the prefect’s face. Frowning, Pilate stepped back and made a gesture of impatience. He stalked back to the outer portico, leaving Paulus to follow with the prisoner.

  “I find no fault in this man,” he announced.

  On the pavement below, Caiaphas’ jaw hardened with anger and he said at once, “We have found him guilty of sedition! He has urged the people not to pay their taxes to Caesar. He seeks to liberate us from Rome and has a huge following.”

  Paulus knew that the charges were not true and was amazed that the Nazarene did not attempt to defend himself, considering what was at stake. Pilate, too, seemed taken by surprise.

  “Do you not hear what they are saying against you?”

  Silence.

  “Caiaphas, you have made accusations but have offered no proof. Where are your witnesses? I repeat, I find no fault in him.”

  The High Priest, and the other leaders surrounding him, all wore the same expression of fierce determination. Just below and within hearing distance, the crowd of onlookers began to mutter.

  “I tell you, Prefect, he has stirred up the people from Galilee to Judea!”

  Angry now, Pilate said, “Send him to Herod, then. This man is a Galilean, is he not? He falls under Herod’s jurisdiction. Take him away!”

  After a brief consultation among the priests, the prisoner was prodded and shoved toward the elevated walkway to the Temple area, where they would enter the arched bridge leading to Herod’s palace. Pilate turned wordlessly to enter the praetorium, noticing that Paulus followed him.

  “I know of your interest in the man, Paulus. We’ll both benefit by having Herod decide the matter.”

  “It’s a waste of time. This man is immensely popular in both Galilee and Judea. Do you think Herod will jeopardize his position by ruling the Nazarene guilty? They will return.”

  The governor shrugged his heavy shoulders and gave an order for his breakfast to be prepared. “The man is crazy—thinks he has a kingdom not in the world. Where is it then, Mount Olympus? But he is not out to conquer Rome. I recognize those fanatics when I see them.”

  An inner door opened and Claudia entered the room in a dressing gown, her hair uncombed, her face pale. “Claudia!” Pilate exclaimed.

  “The Nazarene,” she whispered urgently, going to her husband and placing a plump hand upon his chest. “What have you done with him?”

  “Why?” he asked in amazement.

  “I haven’t slept peacefully all night. I kept having dreams—you must have nothing to do with this Nazarene!”

  Pilate could only stare at his wife, astonished at her words. “Dreams, Claudia,” he said at last, attempting a laugh. “Surely you—”

  “I know this…if you allow the death of this man yours will indeed be a black name in the history of Roman rule.”

  “History!” Pilate exploded, his patience pushed to the limit. “By the eternal gods! This entire affair will be forgotten in a few weeks, at the most!”

  “Paulus.” Claudia appealed to the silent commander.

  “There is nothing I can do, Claudia.”

  “But you are a legate!”

  “I agreed to the terms of my command before I came here. Pontius Pilate has full judicial authority.”

  The prefect appeared on the verge of apoplexy for a moment as he realized that his own wife would, if she could, wrest his power from him and place it in the hands of another. The situation was growing more complex by the moment. But with the discipline of the skilled politician he brought his emotions under control and smiled a little. “Come, Claudia. How can you be so concerned about a man you don’t even know? Let’s forget this sorry business. Herod will take care of it.”

  Paulus didn’t share his sudden amiability. “The man has already been through at least one trial, two if Annas tried him as well. The Jews have one of the fairest legal systems I’ve ever encountered, but I’ve seen none of it displayed here today. Rarely is anyone sentenced to death; first there must be at least two witnesses, who must swear an oath before they even accuse the prisoner, and the judges are supposed to act as advocates, not executioners! Who actually heard him say the things he’s alleged to have said? My sources reported that he said the very opposite.”

  “You should have been a lawyer, Paulus,” Pilate said sourly. “It’s none of my concern…what sort of investigation these Jews have conducted.”

  “Paulus is right,” Claudia said. “You should call in the magistrates and let them vote on the Nazarene’s guilt or innocence. What right have these priests to come to you, making demands upon you?”

  Pilate crossed the room, turning his back on them, then turning again. “Tell me, Paulus, who do you have in prison awaiting execution?”

  “Barabbas, for one, along with some of his men.”

  “An insurrectionist?”

  “Yes—thief and murderer as well. You’re not considering—”

  Before he could finish, a soldier appeared in the doorway. “Sir, the Jews have returned. The prisoner refused to answer any questions from the tetrarch. He made sport of the prisoner and bade the priests bring him back to you for judgment.”

  Pilate swore. Claudia bit her lip, and rising, fled to her apartments as her husband and Paulus went outside.

  It was still early in the morning, but word of the Nazarene’s arrest seemed to have spread. Below the portico, a large group of men stood apart from the rest of the crowd, and they were shouting excitedly among themselves, as though deliberately trying to create noise and confusion. They were watched by a solid line of Paulus’ soldiers.

  Pilate had to shout to make himself heard. “You presented this man to me as a criminal…as someone who attempts to incite the people to rebellion. Yet on examination I have found no basis for any of these charges. Nor has Herod. The prisoner has done nothing worthy of death. I propose to chastise and release him.”

  He proposes! Paulus thought. He is still vacillating. Why doesn’t he just release the man?

  Suddenly the unruly men in the crowd shouted, “Away with him! Crucify him!”

  The Nazarene remained motionless, his head slightly bowed as before. Sweat and blood dripped from his face. He must have been up all night, had been paraded all through the city. Paulus had to admire his stamina, but why did he not speak? Why did he not defend himself?

  Crucifixion, that unspeakable, barbarous practice of nailing men to wooden crosses…surely the Nazarene realized what it meant. Criminals hung on crosses on public highways throughout the country as a deterrent to seditionists. To the Jew, crucifixion signified something even worse than physical suffering; their Law stated that such a man was cursed by God.

  “We have a custom,” Pilate was saying, “that we release a prisoner during your Passover feast. We have Barabbas, a rebel, a thief and a murderer. Who would you have me release, Barabbas—or Jesus, who has not been found guilty of such charges?”

  Paulus started forward; he did not intend to release Barabbas, who had been difficult to catch and was as cunning as he was violent. But before he could speak the crowd took up the cry, “Barabbas! Release Barabbas!”

  The vehemence of the men calling for Barabbas’ release and Jesus’ death made Paulus think they were being paid by the priests. What reason would they have to hate the man so fervently? Pilate spoke to one of his own soldiers, who marched away toward the prison. Well, Barabbas might be released today but Paulus would catch him again tomorrow!

  As t
hey waited for Barabbas to be brought out Paulus watched the Nazarene closely, pondering what he knew about the man. He had never shown any signs of violence, except when he threw the moneychangers out of the Temple…that must have been particularly upsetting to old Annas, who controlled that function of the Temple authority. The Nazarene stood quietly, bloodied and bruised, with a haunted look about him, and yet there was also a sort of majesty, a kingliness.

  Paulus could have liked this man, a man of obvious intelligence, well-spoken, a man of action as well as words…who wasn’t afraid to speak the truth. He was supposed to have performed miracles, but if that were true he wouldn’t be standing here, silently accepting insults and false accusations and the vilest physical abuse. He would make himself invisible, or something! Paulus felt disappointed somehow, and at the same time scoffed at himself for even considering the man might be capable of such things…

  A soldier approached him without warning. “Sir, the prisoner Barabbas misunderstood why he was being taken and grabbed a weapon from the guards. A centurion was called and he was attacked as well.”

  Paulus scowled. “I will see to the prisoners. Stay here and tell the prefect I wish to be informed before he takes any action concerning the Nazarene.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Paulus strode across the pavement, speaking sharply right and left until he was accompanied by a score of armed legionaries, and descended the steps into the dungeon. Two wounded guards huddled on the floor, along with the man Pilate had sent to free Barabbas. Though the cell door stood open, all the prisoners but one remained chained to the walls. The one who was loose, a large man with a heavy beard, held a knife against the throat of a centurion.

  “Barabbas, the prefect has just offered to free you in honor of the Jewish holiday. But if you harm this soldier I swear I will kill you myself before I allow you to be released.”

  “Free me?” The man laughed harshly. “Since when have I believed the word of a Roman?”