Hot Night in the City

by Trevanian

  "An end of misery for themselves, and harsh punishment for the rest of us, eh?" my master mused. "A heady and attractive mixture. Both surcease and revenge. Hmm."

  "Yes, and each of these 'cristos' dangles this promise before all those who will listen. They promise that the poor and the meek and the downtrodden will reign in heaven, while the rest of us will suffer all the torments of Dis. I view these messages as so many embers thrown onto dry grasslands. While most of them will smoulder, then die out, there is a danger that the promises of one of these messiahs—it hardly matters which one—might catch and flair into a great conflagration that will sweep across the world. And that will be a dark day for all men of culture and refinement, for we shall become the despised minority in a tyranny of the ignorant underclass."

  Pilatus half closed his eyes and nodded to himself, then he turned and spoke down to the awaiting priests and the eager rabble. "I have interrogated this man that you brought before me, accused of perverting the people. I have examined him before your eyes, and I have found no fault in him."

  The chief priest stepped forth and said, "We have a law, and by our law he ought to die, because he claims to be the Son of God."

  "Die because he's an uneducated, superstitious fanatic?" Pilatus said with scornful disbelief. "Die because he suffers from a terrible longing to be noticed, to be 'someone'? Come, come, my friends. What harm can he do? He's but one among the many who wander the desert with their little bands of followers, working sleight-of-hand miracles and preaching comfortable, rustic home truths. Why not just take him out and give him a good flogging. Surely that will serve to dissuade the others."

  But one of the scribes stepped forward and said, "If you let this man go free, you are not Cæsar's friend, for whosoever claims himself to be a king speaks against Caesar."

  I threw my master a warning frown. Was he aware that by shifting their accusation from religious grounds to political ones, they were transferring the responsibility for his punishment from their shoulders to his? If the man were guilty of blasphemy, he would be punished by the Sanhedrin and the Procurator's only role would be granting or denying them recourse to the penalty of death; but if he were guilty of treason, then Rome's representative in Judæa would be obliged to punish him, so all the responsibility would devolve upon Pilatus. It was obvious to me that they meant to skewer my master on the horns of a dilemma, giving him a choice between permitting the execution of this simple man or seeming to condone his treasonable claims.

  But the Procurator had experience of the duplicitous Levantine mind; he sidestepped the trap without seeming to notice it had been laid in his path.

  He spoke to the priests, saying, "And if he now recants his claim to be King of the Jews? Surely then you must let him go." Pilatus turned to the prisoner and said in an undertone, "Consider your answers very carefully, son." Then he asked in full voice, "Are you the King of the Jews?"

  The accused one made no answer, but only looked upon Pilatus with that gentle, but utter and intractable stubbornness I remember so well in my own mother's eyes. It was obvious to me that this one intended to find his martyrdom, but my master would not let him destroy himself so easily. "Aren't you going to answer? Don't you hear the crimes they accuse you of? They say you call yourself King of the Jews, and that you preach against paying tribute to Caesar! These are very serious matters, son. It's your life that's at stake."

  But still the prisoner refused to speak.

  "Are you King of the Jews?" Pilatus asked, clipping off the words in a dry tone that clearly proclaimed this to be his last chance to recant.

  Seeming to realize this, the young rabbi lifted his head and said, "My kingdom is not of this world."

  "There!" my master said triumphantly. "Did you hear that? His kingdom is not of this world. He denies being king of anything real and substantial. He no longer claims to be King of the Jews!"

  But the tenacious scribe had no intention of losing his prey. "But he has stirred up the people throughout all Jewry, all the way from Galilee to here!"

  "From Galilee?" Pilatus said, suddenly seeing a way to slip between the horns of his dilemma. "You say this man is a Galilaean? Well then, he falls under the jurisdiction of Herod Antipas, who happens to be here in Jerusalem to celebrate your Passover. Bring your prisoner before Herod, for I find no fault in him."

  With a gesture, he commanded the guards to escort the accused man down to the awaiting throng, then he turned and strode back into the Praetorium followed by his guards. After watching the priests and scribes take their prisoner and, with angry growls, push him roughly before them out of the Judgment Hall, I followed my master into the feasting place.

  When I approached, Pilatus was receiving a cup of wine from the hands of Claudia Procula, whose countenance revealed deep concern. I stood near, my eyes lowered and my face turned aside in a way I have of becoming nearly invisible while not missing a word.

  "...but you mustn't worry," Pilatus told his wife. "It's nothing serious. Just another of those cristos."

  "You say don't worry, Pontius, but I can't help it. If they're so unimportant as you claim, I cannot understand why you take the risks involved in dealing with them yourself."

  "It's my job, my dear. And, to tell the truth, they intrigue me, with their eagerness to sacrifice everything for notoriety, even their lives. It's the professional actor's disease writ large."

  "Pontius, I beg you. Please have nothing more to do with this affair. All last night I was tormented by a recurring dream about these wild-eyed fanatics, a dream that you were being destroyed by them, your reputation annihilated."

  Pilatus chuckled. "My reputation in Rome is already in tatters, as you know."

  "Don't joke, Pontius. I have a very strong, very dark premonition about this evening."

  "Now, now, go back to our guests, Claudia. I'll join you soon."

  "You are such a fool sometimes, Pontius."

  "Mm? Yes, yes, I suppose so."

  She turned angrily and went to the guests, and for a moment my master sipped his wine meditatively. "There's something that's been tickling my curiosity," he said, almost to himself, but knowing that I was nearby and listening.

  "And what is that, master?"

  "You suggested that one of these messiahs might someday gain a great following from among the world's unwashed and unwanted, and you used some sort of muddy metaphor about embers and grassfires to describe the spread of the messiah's cult."

  "...Muddy?"

  "But how can that be? Surely when posterity looks back upon this plague of messiahs it will harbor grave doubts that one among them could have been the true son of god, while all the rest were rogues or fools."

  "Oh no, sire. Future generations will not wonder about the scores of unsuccessful cristos, because they will not know about them. History is always written by the winners, and if my doleful prediction comes true, the tale will be written by the followers of the successful messiah—whichever one that turns out to be. And you can bet that these disciples will make no mention of the other messiahs, because to do so would diminish their own importance as the followers of the one true voice out of the wilderness. The scores of forgotten messiahs of my 'muddy metaphor' will fall from the memory of man, and the successful messiah will shine forth without blemish or defect. His doubts will be glorified into philosophical questions while his weaknesses—if any are admitted—will be lauded as proofs of his humanity. He will be presented as perfect, pure of spirit and body. A virgin, like his mother. If he had a wife in life, his disciples will debase her or deny her existence. No, master, the successful cristo will have neither flaw nor competitor."

  Pilatus had listened to me with an air of thinking of something else, something dark and deep, and this made me uneasy, for I was sure he needed his wits about him now more than ever.

  "Sire, may I speak?" I asked.

  "You do little else," he muttered.

  "I fear there may be something to your noble wife's premonitions
of danger. When dealing with these messiahs, you might quickly find your neck in a forked stick. If you decide in favor of the rustic preachers, the priests and scribes are sure to protest loudly enough to be heard in Rome. If you decide in favor of the priests and scribes, then you can expect scores of fanatical disciples to bare their chests to Roman spears and clamber up onto crosses to inflict their public suffering on you."

  "You're saying there is no way I can win?"

  "Once they start hurling the corpses of their 'oiled ones' at your head, it will no longer be a matter of winning, just a matter of not losing too much, and not losing it too publicly. Your salvation lies in doing nothing, while seeming to understand and sympathize with the rights and fears of both sides."

  The Procurator nodded thoughtfully. Then he said, "I wonder how our lad is doing with Herod Antipas?"

  "What do you plan to do, should he be dragged before you again?"

  He closed his eyes and pressed his fingers deep into the sockets in weariness. "I shall do what I can to save the poor fellow's life, and if that fails, I shall try to give him a dignified death. Perhaps I can satisfy the priests by merely chastising and mocking him publicly, hoping they'll let it go at that."

  "And if they won't let it go at that?"

  "Then I'll offer to exchange the life of this harmless preacher for that of one of the condemned murderers we have in custody. Surely that will satisfy them."

  "Surely? Have you forgotten that you are in Judæa?"

  "What do you suggest I do?"

  "If your efforts to placate them by chastizing and mocking this poor fanatic fail, and if the blood lust of the mob will not be satisfied by throwing them a murderer, then there is only one thing you can do. Publicly wash your hands of the matter and let the priests punish the man for blasphemy."

  "But the penalty for blasphemy is stoning."

  "It's their penalty. Their tradition. Your hands will be clean. Rome will not be responsible."

  "Have you ever seen a stoning? I have. The first year I was here, I forced myself to witness one of their ritual lapidations. The spectacle of the vicious mob was more revolting, more frightening, than the gruesome fate of the victim, a poor woman taken in adultery. If you had seen the way they all joined in to deliver the punishment—tentatively at first... one small stone taken up and thrown listlessly, more a gesture of disapproval of the sin than a punishment for the sinner. But then a second stone was thrown, and a third, and suddenly the madness was upon them. Their eyes shone... little yapping cries escaped them as each encouraged the others... flecks of foam at the corners of their mouths. And the victim. The poor woman! Pleading... weeping... trying to reason with them as the stones struck her, knocking dust puffs from her robes. She tried at first not to show pain, because she sensed that pain would stimulate their frenzy... then she panicked when she tasted the blood running down her face. She fell, and the stones rained down upon her. She staggered to her feet, but the storm of stones continued. The stones they use are small ones, too small for any one blow to kill. This has the double advantage of freeing individual members of the mob from the guilt of murder and prolonging the victim's torment. She fell again and lay unmoving, and the mob waited, silent and panting. She quivered, then moved, then slowly rose and stood there, weak and swaying, blinded by her own blood, muttering words of gratitude as best she could through broken teeth, thinking that they had decided to show her mercy after all. The crowd listened and watched in tense, tingling silence. Then, as though stirred by a single urge, they began pelting her again. Finally... more than two hours after the thing began... a pulpy mess lay in the middle of the panting, sweating circle. The occasional stone made a thick plopping sound as it hit the amorphous bog they had created out of a woman. Then the crowd moved away in silence, chastened, satisfied, and no doubt many of them expressed to their families their disgust at the animal nature of their fellowman." My master's eyes focused again upon the here and now. "And the worst part was that no one was responsible. No individual citizen had killed her. It was the anonymous, snarling mob that had done this terrible thing." He looked at me, his eyes haggard from having reseen the horrors of the stoning in his memory. "Have you ever noticed, Greek, that when I am obliged to punish some rogue everyone says: 'Pilatus had the poor devil whipped', or "The Procurator crucified three murderers'. But when they speak of a stoning, they always use the passive voice, saying: 'The criminal was stoned to death', as though the stones themselves had done the deed, not those who cast them? No, I will not let them stone this poor fanatic whose only crime is a terrible lust for fame and significance. If there is no option but to execute him, I'll oblige them to use a more humane way."

  "Crucifixion?" I asked.

  "It's the quickest and least painful of the public methods available to me."

  "But stoning is the established punishment for blasphemy. You cannot change that."

  "No. But I can change the charge. I can order him executed for treason to Rome, rather than for blasphemy."

  "But, sire! That will shift the responsibility for this fellow's death from the shoulders of the priests to your own!"

  "I'm aware of that. But my mind is made up. If he must be killed, it will be for treason, and he'll be crucified. I'll see to it that they use nails to shorten the suffering. Those who are only tied onto the cross with rope can linger, suffering, for days. And I'll order a guard to give him a coup de grâce with a spear. But... but let's hope it doesn't come to that. Let's hope that Herod Antipas finds a way to subvert the will of the Sanhedrin. He's a crafty old devil."

  "Crafty enough to dodge his responsibilities and send the decision back to you, master. And you will ultimately harvest most of the blame in this matter."

  He nodded, resigned.

  At this juncture, the officer-of-the-guard came stamping in again, announcing a delegation of priests awaiting the Procurator down in the Hall of Judgment. They had a prisoner with them.

  "So soon?" Pilatus said, setting his wine cup down. "Has Herod already managed to slither out of the trap?"

  I offered to go first and speak to the scribes, then advise Pilatus of their intentions and mood. I had decided to reason, to bargain, to plead with the priests... anything to extricate my master from their snare. When, having made the priests wait for a quarter of an hour, Pilatus appeared at the top of the stairs I met him with a smile, relieved to be able to inform him that the prisoner they had with them was not, thank the Gods, the poor devil we had questioned earlier.

  "Yet another suicidal messiah?" Pilatus asked, looking down upon the bound prisoner standing surrounded by priests and scribes. "Two in one day. Is there no end to them?"

  "Apparently not, my lord."

  "And I suppose this one also claims to have been born of a virgin, and to have descended from the family of David, and fled to Egypt to avoid persecution, and taught in the wilderness, and performed miracles and—all the rest of it."

  "No doubt, my master."

  Pilatus sighed. "Ah, well." He gestured for the prisoner to be brought to him. "Who knows? Perhaps this one will allow himself to be saved."

  "Let us hope so, sire. This messiah's name is Joshua. Joshua of Nazareth. But he affects the Greek version of his name: Jesus."

  POSTSCRIPTUM FOR THE CURIOUS

  The historical spore left behind by Pontius Pilatus is surprisingly faint, considering that he is the most famous Roman of them all—more widely known than even Julius Cæsar. We only have two passing mentions of his name in official records, and one rather dodgy inscription on a long-ago-vandalized tomb. He must be regarded, therefore, as a figure in church history, rather than Roman history. And even within church history, the sources are few and unreliable.

  Among the spurious, quasiapocryphal writings of the Pseudoepigraphia we find accounts of Pontius Pilate by Josephus and Philo, and in the thoroughly apocryphal "Letters to the Emperor" and "The Acts of Pilate," Eusebius tells us that Pilate was eventually ordered back to Rome to explain his inab
ility to calm and quell the Jews; but by the time he arrived, Tiberius had died (that would be in March of A.D. 37) and Pilate was not reappointed as Procurator of Judæa. Eusebius goes on to recount the tradition that Pilate became a Christian in result of his encounter with Joshua of Nazareth and subsequently committed suicide—presumably in a paroxysm of guilt and grief. Those with a taste for irony can reflect on the fact that Pilate's wife was eventually elevated to the rank of a minor saint of the Orthodox Church (because of her prophetic dream?), and Pilate himself is a saint of the Coptic Church.

  THE ENGINE OF FATE

  It was an outrage! Earlier that afternoon he had interrupted his hectic preparations for returning to his native village, and he had rushed all the way down to Telephone Central, where he had been obliged to stand for half an hour with his ear pressed to the listening tube, groaning with impatience while the woman sitting before her infernal tangle of wires and plugs struggled to keep him in contact with the Lafitte-Caillard travel office. He had subjected himself to the mysterious complexities of the 'phone because he knew that the usual New Year rush for places on the night train for Hendaye would be intensified by holiday makers wanting to mark the arrival of the new century in a special way, so to avoid any delay he wanted to make sure his tickets would be ready and waiting for him when he showed up later that evening. But after arriving at the Lafitte-Caillard's at the last minute, jumping out of his fiacre, shouting orders to the driver to wait there for him, dashing through the snow and, spurning the slow elevator, running three stairs at a time up to the third-floor office, intending to slap his money down on the counter and snatch up his tickets, what did he find? He found himself at the end of a queue of last-minute travelers, that's what he found! It was an outrage!