by Nick Tosches
33
IN THIS LAND WHOSE PRIMARY RESOURCE AND SUSTENANCE were misery, I was by now accustomed to the dire, dour faces of long-bearded men in robes the color of death and mourning. But I had not before seen such dire dourness as I saw on the faces of the many Sanhedrin before whom Jesus stood in the Hall of Hewn Stones.
He was asked to state his name. He stated his name. He was asked to state his profession.
“Bond-servant to Gaius Fulvius Falconius, Roman citizen of the equestrian order and former member of the court of the princeps.”
“A slave.”
“Yes. As are all men who live.”
“And is it true that on many occasions you have claimed to be the Messiah?”
“No, that is not true. I have encountered many who have made such claims, but I have never been one of them. A few fools moved by my little orations of stories from the Book may have thought me to be the Messiah, or any number of other things. That was their doing, not mine.”
“There are those here who would contradict you.”
“There are those who would contradict that the sun sets in the west. Contradictions of the truth do not turn black to white or white to black, truth to lies or lies to truth.”
Ephraim the Sadducee rabbi was brought into the hall. Most of the Sanhedrin were Sadducees. The rabbi affirmed that, yes, Jesus had on many occasions claimed to be the Messiah.
“Who is this man, and how would he know?” asked Jesus.
“I observed him in his travels,” Ephraim answered directly.
“My travels? My master is a good and kind man, but he allows me no travels without him.”
“He was there too. I saw him.”
I stood and declaimed:
“This is preposterous! It is a travesty. You summon one of your own to testify against my servant. Enough of this.”
“Silence!” demanded one of the Sanhedrin. “Many of us did hear and observe you ourselves from the windows of this very temple.”
“And what wrong did I utter?” asked Jesus.
“You blasphemed all that is holy.”
“I said only that sects are a strife unto God. Do you, the Sanhedrin—Sadducees and Pharisees—constitute all that is holy? To me, other things are holy as well. God, for one. Purity of heart, for another. Do you not hold life itself to be holy?”
“And did you not teach strange ideas unto the peoples of the land?”
“I said only that they were fruit of the true vine, and that their Father who is in heaven is the vine-dresser. I told them to love one another.”
“And did you not stir the people to rise against the Temple, and also against Rome itself?”
“I said that all men should render unto Caesar that which is Caesar’s, and unto God that which is God’s. Are these words that inspire or advocate revolution against God or government?”
“And what is it that you mean when you speak of the Word and the Way?”
“I mean the Word of God as revealed in the Book. I mean the Way that God instructs us to live as revealed in the Book.”
“And nothing else? Nothing that is presented as emanating from you?”
“Yes, there is a belief that is mine and not to be found in the Book. I believe that if you bring forth what is within you, what you bring forth will save you. If you do not bring forth what is within you, what you do not bring forth will destroy you.”
Murmurs flowed among the ranks of the Sanhedrin. Where there were no murmurs, there were silent stares directed at Jesus, if not as a defendant before them, then as the source of the elusive wisdom heard but not grasped by them.
Again silence was demanded, this time by and of the court itself.
“And did you not speak of the building of a new temple? What did you mean by this?”
“I spoke of a temple of the spirit, not a temple of rock and mortar. A temple that could be felt but not touched.”
On saying this, he slowly raised and placed two fingers to his chest.
“And then why was it that you solicited funds for the building of such a temple?”
“I never solicited funds for anything. When people gave me alms, I gave them in turn to the poor. My master treats me well. I have no need for alms. I hope to earn my manumission by teaching in Rome, and there to continue in service to my master as a freedman.”
“And did you not raise the dead?”
“I once resuscitated with my breath a man who was taken for dead but was not. I did no more than what midwives do with newborn infants who are blue and purpling for want of air in them.”
“And did you not commune with demons that dwelt in men?”
“No. There are no demons. I helped a few drunkards to see the error of their ways, so that their shaking and howling might end. Is it a culpable act to feel compassion for one’s fellow man? I should think not. I should think the lack of compassion to be culpable.”
“And is it not true that you did travel to Egypt as a youth, and there apprentice yourself to a mage?”
“No, it is not true. I have never been to Egypt. I have never been beyond Judea and Syria.”
“And did you not profess magic by advising others, most sinfully, morbidly, and horrifically, that they should eat of the bread of Pesach for, through magic, you had transformed it into your flesh, and that they should drink of the wine of Seder for, through magic, you had transformed it into your blood? Why should you wish others to eat your flesh and drink your blood, if not to effect godless magic most dark?”
“I never said any such thing. I never had any such wish. I should like to know why whoever concocted this incredible nonsense for you isn’t standing here instead of me.”
I stood again, declaimed again:
“This surpasses all decency. These insults to the nature of my good servant greaten to where they overflow onto me.”
“Master,” said Jesus. “Be not concerned. These men mean right, but they know not what they do.”
Lassitude was starting to show in his performance. “Silence!”
I exhaled with audible disconcertion.
“And did you not…”
So it went. Whatever his refutation, and however reasonable and convincing it was, the assembly ignored it forthwith and moved on to the next accusation. This effectively rendered the refutations to be as mere interruptions of the accusations, and the accusations to seem as statements of fact rather than questions. This was not a trial. It was a ritual formality preceding a predetermined verdict. These high holy judges had from the start been sitting with their thumbs already turned.
This was jurisprudence and justice as practiced by the Sanhedrin in the Hall of Hewn Stones.
Jesus eventually became so worn down and discouraged by this hopeless pretense of a proceeding that he relinquished his attempts to assail their charges. One of the judges was in the middle of some vague accusatory question about desecration when Jesus, in a voice too tired to convey anger, resigned himself finally to whatever inevitability might be at the end of it all.
“Whatever you want me to be guilty of, I am guilty of. If you want me to be innocent of anything, I am innocent.”
“Are those your final words in this matter?”
“Should you wish further words from me, I respectfully ask that you speak them for me.”
In Rome he would have been acquitted on the grounds of eloquence alone. But this was not Rome.
“I have one question,” I said. “If it is not in your jurisdiction to try a citizen of Rome, how comes it that you have the power to try the property of a citizen of Rome?”
“Because your property is a Jew.”
No, this was not Rome.
The black-robed elders who sat to either side of the prince of the Sanhedrin rose. Together, in a monotone, they uttered some formulaic lines of Hebrew. After they sat, the chief justice of the Sanhedrin stood and for the first time spoke:
“You are guilty of blasphemy. You are guilty of sedition. You are guilty of embracing
that which is forbidden. You are guilty of teachings that are contrary to the laws of God and men.”
He sat; again the elders that sat to either side of him rose and, in their monotone, enounced further formulaic words in Hebrew. As soon as these elders sat, all of the many Sanhedrin, except for the chief justice and the elders to either side of him, said as if they were one:
“Amen.”
The prince of the Sanhedrin slowly stood and began to make his way from the chamber. I called out to him:
“Wait! When shall you pronounce my man’s punishment, that I might pay it?”
As they had spoken as if they were one, there now could be heard from them, as if they were one, a stunned low sound. I apparently had committed an unspeakable act in asking the chief justice to pause and hear my question. He himself turned, regarded me blankly, then moved on. All the Sanhedrin stood and bowed their heads as he passed them. He made no acknowledgment of them.
The officers brought Jesus to the entrance of the chamber that led to the street. There he was handed over, by the legionary, to a group of soldiers. The legionary explained to me that these soldiers were auxiliaries of the Roman force stationed at Antonia citadel, close by the Temple and looking onto the Temple mount. They were all Judeans, he said, save one, who was Syrian. The daylight was quite harsh after the dimness in the Hall of Hewn Stones.
The three-towered palace-fortress that Herod had built in Jerusalem was in the Upper City, at the northwest corner of the First Wall. Though the king was dead, it was still called Herod’s Palace. The grand praetorium of the palace was now used as the prefect’s residence when he came to Jerusalem during the Pesach.
It was to this palace praetorium, and to Pontius Pilate, that Jesus was taken. We were kept waiting for some time under guard before being summoned. During this time, my hope grew. Surely the prefect, my fellow equestrian, would resolve our difficulties. My heart fell to find Pilate in cordial company with the prince of the Sanhedrin and his “good friend” Caiaphas, the high priest who had spat on Jesus earlier in the dark of this day. But when we were brought into the praetorium, he stood and wished these men good-bye.
“I thank you for bringing this matter to my attention,” he said to them.
He and Caiaphas did not embrace, as they had at the public platform.
Pilate did not at first remember me. I gave him my name again. I reminded him of our talk at his palace in Caesarea. The bread, the olive oil, the mountains, the fields of the Abruzzi, our shared heritage there, and our shared rank. Tiberius and Sejanus. My rolled document sealed with the mark of the princeps.
“Of course,” he said at last, with recognition and pleasure in his voice. “Yes, of course. Now I recall our meeting very well. For a good time afterward, I reflected with laughter on the nature of our world, that a mad ruler should direct a sane man to compose his orations for him.”
Then he smiled at Jesus, looking him over, and turned again to me.
“Your man here seems to have gotten himself into some trouble,” he said.
“Yes, but he has done no wrong.”
“That may be, but he stands convicted.
“You are from Nazareth, are you not?” he asked Jesus.
“I am,” said Jesus.
“And Nazareth is in Galilee, is it not?”
“It is,” said Jesus.
“I have an idea.”
Residing in the palace at this time was Herod Antipater, who also had come to Jerusalem for the Pesach. This son of Herod the Great, the builder of this palace, was tetrarch of Galilee.
Pilate called for one of his attendants, and told him to ask the tetrarch to join them.
“Antipas,” said Pilate to the tetrarch, greeting him by his nickname, “my countryman’s servant here is from the region you govern. He is Jesus by name, Jesus of Nazareth.”
“I have heard of him,” said the tetrarch, “and have often wished to meet him.”
Antipas extended to Jesus his right hand in fellowship, but Jesus did not extend his.
Pilate’s face showed disapproval and discontent, and the tetrarch became a different man.
“Why do you behave as if I am not before you?” he said, loudly and indignantly.
Jesus said nothing.
Even in these straits, he was being the fool. Even in these straits, he had the capacity to anger me and fill me with an urge to leave him, abandon him, relinquish him.
“I was told that you were a wise and humble man. You are in fact an insolent and ill-mannered child.” He turned then to Pilate and said, “When next you ask to introduce me to someone, please be so kind as to see to it that it is someone who will acknowledge my presence.”
“Accept my apology,” said Pilate, as Antipas strode away in anger.
Tired-looking, bald-headed Pilate put his hands on his knees and leaned forward toward Jesus.
“That was not good,” he said. “I was going to ask that man to grant you refuge in Galilee.” He looked then to me. “Is this the sort of comportment you countenance in a servant? In anyone?”
“He is not himself,” I said. “They have made him to suffer through an ordeal that has been most unjust, and he is the worse for it.”
“Tell me,” he said to me, “is there any truth at all to what they have told me about him? That he has blasphemed his God? That he has preached sedition? That he has dealt in demonry? That he has made corpses sing and dance?”
“He has never blasphemed his God. He has shown only honor toward Rome and toward his homeland. ‘Give unto Caesar that which is Caesar’s, and give unto God that which is God’s.’ Those are words that I first heard from him. As to the rest, surely you know that there is and can be no truth therein. There is no truth to any of this.”
He leaned again toward Jesus.
“Tell me,” he said, “why did you not speak to Antipas, the tetrarch of Galilee? Why did you not accept his hand in fellowship?”
He did not answer. I was on the verge of striking him, striking him very hard, as I would an obstinate, ill-tempered slave. But then he spoke.
“It is as my master says. I do not feel well from all this.”
“For what reason, do you believe, have these authorities from the Holy Temple persecuted you?”
“For the reason that they will not tolerate the slightest comment on their wealth and power. They are corrupt. Their devotion is to themselves, not God. They care more for the money-lenders than for the poor of their flock. But they would pluck out the eyes of anyone who sees this. They would sever the tongue of anyone who remarks it.”
The prefect turned to me.
“He is not only outspoken, but also well-spoken. I believe that what Antipas heard is true, that he is a wise and humble man. And a most perceptive one.”
“I am proud of him,” I said. “And I stand by him as he has stood by me.”
“Tell me, Jesus,” Pilate said. “What have you sought in life?”
“The truth.”
“That is a noble-sounding thing. But, surely, if what you say of the men who have persecuted you is the truth, as I believe it is, it must be that they, too, know the truth of things, and of themselves. Do you not agree that truth is neither good nor bad, but simply the truth?”
“Yes,” said Jesus, “I do.”
“The truth may be that, given the opportunity, you might seek what those men seek: wealth and power.”
“That is not true.”
“Truth is nothing,” said the prefect. “It is a word used by liars, fools, and wise men alike. And no man is only one of these. Every man is all of them. And if a man finds the truth, he is better not to look at it too long, for he might see the truth.”
Jesus looked long into Pilate’s eyes. When Pilate next spoke, it was to say: “I find no crime in this man.”
My heart lightened. The world seemed to lighten.
“Please, then,” I said, “let him free. Whatever fine must be imposed, I will pay it. Free him from this worst of dreams.”
I told Pilate of my plans to set sail for Rome, bringing Jesus with me.
“Tell your prefect,” I said to Jesus.
“I hope to earn my manumission by teaching in Rome, and to there continue in service to my master as a freedman.”
Pilate revealed understanding, compassion, and pity in the troubled features of his face. Slowly, gravely, he shook his head; but, it seemed to me, as much in consideration of his own situation as ours.
“Caiaphas is a detestable and despicable man,” he said. “But it is my duty to appease him, that concord between Rome and Judea be maintained. For that one small detestable and despicable man, the high priest of the status quo of the aristocracy that is called the Holy Temple, constitutes a greater threat to the stability of Rome’s government of this province than all the Zealots and rebellion-minded paupers in these parts. Caiaphas has held the throne far longer than any other high priest. The people of Judea will not allow Rome to depose him. He could, from his throne of lies, bring about an insurrection with ease and alacrity. But, as Jesus has so much as said, the only insurrection he cares about is one that might be against him, his wealth, and his power.
“He has heard Jesus speak. He has heard reports from others who have heard Jesus speak. He sees Jesus as a threat. He sees him as a small spark with the potential to start a widespread conflagration. So that spark must be extinguished.
“That is why Caiaphas has had him convicted of crimes against God, Judea, and Rome. That is why he has turned the minds of Jews against him, recasting him as their enemy, and the enemy of their God and their nation as well. And that is why Caiaphas has had him brought here, to me.”
“But in having him brought to you, has he not effectively surrendered to you the determination of the fine, or dismissal of it, and the mandate of prompt and rightful return to me of my property?”
“On the surface of it, yes, what you say is true. But only on the surface.”
“I do not understand.”
“He was brought here because the will of Caiaphas—and of his Sanhedrin and Pharisees—can wreak itself only through me. He—and his Sanhedrin and Pharisees—can have his appeasement only through me. And, as I have said, it is my duty to appease him.