The Redemption of Pontius Pilate

by Lewis Ben Smith

  At this point, most excellent Tiberius, I felt that I could not proceed any further without at least trying to find out what this Galilean holy man had to say for himself. My Aramaic is not the best, so I sent one of my centurions into the crowd to find an interpreter. He returned a few moments later with a terrified-looking youth of about 20 years of age, whom he described as one of Jesus’ disciples. I found myself admiring his courage, following a screaming mob that was howling for his master’s blood! The young fellow did not speak Latin very well, but his Greek was quite passable. Although the mob outside and their religious leaders had voiced many charges against the bloodied figure before me, I asked him about the only one that really mattered to me as a Roman magistrate. “Are you the King of the Jews?” I demanded, nodding at the youth to translate.

  My interpreter proved unnecessary. Jesus looked at me with a deep and curious gaze that I found quite unnerving, then spoke in clear, excellent Latin without a trace of an accent. “Do you say this of your own accord?” he asked. “Or did someone else tell you this about me?”

  “Am I a Jew?” I asked, more harshly than I intended. His intense stare was throwing me off balance. “Your own people—your own priests!—have delivered you up to me as an evildoer. What do you say for yourself?”

  He was silent for a long moment, his lips moving as if he was speaking to someone I could not see. Finally, his eyes met mine again, and he spoke with incredible force and clarity. “My kingdom,” he said, “is not of this world!”

  Caesar, I have stood in the presence of majesty on many occasions. I can remember your noble father, the Imperator Augustus, speaking before his armies and the Senate, and you know that I fought as a legate under you in Germania as well, and saw the honor your legionaries rightly accorded you there. I have stood in the presence of many foreign potentates as well, from Herod to King Juba. As you know, most Eastern monarchs are grasping, venal creatures whose only nobility is in the trappings they cover themselves with. Trust me when I say that this bloodied and battered Galilean itinerant radiated as much honor and dignitas as any Roman patrician. But there was also something . . . alien about him. Otherworldly. His statement, as ridiculous as it no doubt sounds when I recount it, made perfect sense to me as I stood there looking into his eyes. But he was not done—he continued: “If my kingdom was of this world, my servants would be fighting to rescue me as we speak. As it is, my kingdom is not of this realm.”

  I asked the question more directly. “So you are a king, then?”

  He nodded, and replied: “You say correctly that I am a king. For this purpose I have been born, and come into this world, that I might testify to the truth. Everyone who welcomes truth will hear my voice.”

  I pondered his statement a moment, and I said out loud the thought that leaped into my mind. “Quid est veritas?” But I had heard all I needed for the moment, and did not wait for his answer. This man was no threat to Rome, I was convinced of that. I stepped out onto the balcony and addressed the mob below.

  “Absolvo!” I cried. “I find no guilt in this man!”

  The crowd exploded with rage.

  Noble Caesar, anyone who has lived in Rome for any time has seen a Roman mob in action at some point or other. But I have never seen such raw hatred for any human being expressed so loudly and strongly as this crowd of Jews screamed its hate at Jesus. Ironic, since a few days before, half the city had been ready to crown him as their king. Now for the first time, they took up that awful cry: “CRUCIFY! CRUCIFY!!”

  “Why?” I shouted. “What evil has he done?”

  One of the priests stepped forward—although not so far as to step past the threshold of the Praetorium. Hounding an innocent man to his death was apparently fine according to his religious convictions, but setting foot in the home of a pagan like me would have made him unclean! “We have a law,” he shouted. “And by that law he ought to die, for being a man, he made himself out to be a god!”

  The situation was deteriorating, so I removed Jesus from their sight—as well as myself. They were determined to see blood, it seemed. Very well, I would give them blood. But not as much as they wanted. I turned to Brutus Appius, the centurion who led my household guard. “Take him and flog him,” I said. “But don’t kill him!”

  The young Jew that had been brought in to interpret leaped to his feet in protest. I had forgotten he was there, but I looked at him now and saw his raw fear, barely held at bay in his concern for his master. “I am trying to save his life,” I said, as gently as I could, and retreated to my quarters until the deed was done.

  I was not pleased when my legionaries brought the Galilean back to me. As I had ordered, they had not killed him, but they had come very close. His back was scored to the bone in places, and they had placed an old purple robe over his shoulders and a crown of poisonous Galilean thorn branches upon his head. Most legionaries hate the Jews, of course—this is not a choice posting for a hard-drinking, hard-fighting Roman man—and given a chance to humiliate one of them, the men had taken full advantage of it. But, I thought, perhaps I could play Jesus’ pitiful condition to my own advantage. I led him back out onto the porch of the Praetorium and shoved him in front of me, giving the mob a good view. “Ecce homo!” I shouted. Some of the crowd cried out in pity, but the priests once again took up that hateful cry: “Crucify! Crucify!”

  I held up my hands for silence. For the life of me I did not know what to do. This man had an enormous following. If I put him to death, would the common people who loved him rise up in open revolt? But if I spared him, the ruling class, whose cooperation is so vital to our government here, would be turned against me, perhaps permanently. What to do?

  I thought of something. Raising my hands for silence, I cried out, “People of Jerusalem, you know that it is my custom to release one prisoner to you during your Passover each year. This year, I give you a choice. Shall I release this Jesus of Nazareth, your king?” I laced my voice with sarcasm, trying to throw scorn on the very idea that this wretched figure could ever be considered royalty. “Or shall I release to you the murderer Bar Abbas?”

  Once more the crowd roared. “Bar Abbas! Bar Abbas!!” they cried.

  By this time, Your Excellency, I was rapidly running out of options. I pulled Jesus back into the Praetorium and looked at him in frustration. Those remarkable eyes stared into mine through the blood, bruises, and grime without a trace of fear, which began to anger me. “Where are you really from?” I demanded. He gave no answer. “Why will you not speak to me?” I shouted. “Don’t you know that I have the authority to crucify you, or to set you free?”

  He answered softly, “You would have no authority over me at all except for that which is given you from Heaven,” he said. “You do not understand what you are doing; therefore the ones who delivered me up to you have the greater guilt.”

  Caesar, I am not a superstitious man, and I am certainly no coward. But I will tell you in truth that his words shook me to the core. I felt as if I was the one on trial, and that this strange figure before me had somehow found me wanting. I led him back out before the mob. They were still screaming for the Galilean’s blood.

  “Behold, I bring him forth to tell you that I find no guilt in him!” I cried for the last time.

  Then the former High Priest, Annas, lifted his voice to be heard. “If you release this man, you are no friend of Caesar! Everyone who proclaims himself a king is Caesar’s enemy!” The threat was very clear—he would report me to you unless I did his bidding.

  I had done everything in my power, Caesar, to prevent the execution of an innocent man. But at this point the continued government of this troublesome province seemed to be hanging by a hair. Personally, I have never been more revolted by the hypocrisy of the Jewish leadership. I called for a basin of water, and sat down in the judgment seat overlooking the crowd. I dipped my hands in the water three times and carefully dried them, then spoke.

  “I am innocent of this man’s blood!” I cried. “I wa
sh my hands of this whole affair!”

  Old Annas spoke again. “Let his blood be on us and on our children!” he shouted back. Even his son-in-law Caiaphas scowled at this remark, and many in the crowd howled their opposition, but the old man glared at them and refused to retract his ridiculous statement. But then that hateful cry of “Crucify, Crucify!” drowned out their argument.

  I had had enough. “Take him then, and crucify him!” I snapped to the legionaries. “But I find no guilt in him,” I muttered as they left. There was one duty left to attend—listing the formal charge against Jesus, to be posted on the cross above his head. I took a broad-tipped quill and wrote in bold letters: “This is Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews!” and ordered my scribe to copy it in Greek and Hebrew. I would accord the strange man this much honor, at least. For in my heart, I think he may have been a king of some sort.

  As I returned to my quarters, I found the young disciple of Jesus, whom I had quite forgotten, staring at me with tears streaming down his face. “Get him out of here!” I snapped.

  Even after I had granted them their wish, Caesar, the Jewish priests were still not happy with my handling of the Galilean. I had just sat down to my noontide meal when I got word that one of Caiaphas’ secretaries wanted to see me. Once more I had to leave the Praetorium, since their ridiculous religion would not allow them to cross the threshold of a Roman. “What is it now?” I snapped.

  “The inscription,” he said. “You wrote ‘This is the King of the Jews.’ It should read that he called himself the King of the Jews.”

  I had had just about enough from these fools at this point. “I have written what I have written!” I snapped. “I will hear no more of this!”

  It was a strange day after that. Within the next hour, the sky grew black as night, even though there was not a cloud in view. The light of the sun simply faded—not blotted out gradually, as in an eclipse, but all at once, and did not return to normal for three hours. At the third hour past noon, a huge earthquake shook the city. My centurion told me that it happened at the exact moment that Jesus died, and he was much shaken, babbling that we had murdered a living god—although he was quite drunk when he said it.

  Not long after that, a very different sort of Jew came to see me. His name was Joseph, and he ignored protocol and entered the Praetorium to speak with me. He explained that, while he was a Pharisee and a member of the Jewish Senate, he had not even been informed of the charges against Jesus, nor was he present at the trial. He asked me for Jesus’ body, that he might give the Galilean a decent burial. I instructed my soldiers that he could take custody of the body as soon as they had made sure that Jesus was truly dead. The least I could do for this harmless man I had failed to save was let those who loved him bury him according to their own religious rituals.

  I am sorry to have troubled you for so long about this matter, Caesar, but I am afraid that the story does not yet end. The sun had not yet set on that endless Friday when emissaries from the High Priest came to see me yet again. As you can imagine, they found me in no good mood. Why could they not return to their sacrificial Passover lambs and leave me be?

  “Noble procurator,” purred old Annas. “While he was alive, this troublemaker repeatedly said that if he was killed, he would return to life on the third day. Could we trouble you for some guards to watch over the tomb until after the first day of the week? We fear his disciples may try to steal his body and proclaim him alive again, and then the deception will only grow worse!”

  “You have your Temple guards,” I growled. “Guard the bloody tomb yourselves!”

  They bowed and scurried out, anxious to return to their families before sunset, when their religious observance actually began. After they left, I called in primus pilus centurion, Gaius Cassius Longinus, who had headed the crucifixion detail. He had sobered up some, but was obviously still deeply troubled over his afternoon’s work.

  “The Jews think someone may attempt to disturb the Galilean’s grave,” I told him. “First of all, are you sure that he was dead when his family cut him down from the cross?” I asked.

  “Absolutely,” he said. “He had quit breathing a half hour before, but I still had one of my boys skewer his heart with a spear before I allowed them to cut him down. I have never seen anyone die so bravely, sir. Not a curse! In fact, he even prayed for us as he hung there. Asked his father to forgive us! I’ve never heard the like!”

  “Never mind that,” I said. “Just make sure a couple of your legionaries keep an eye on that tomb for the next few days.”

  That Saturday, Caesar, was one of the quietest days during my entire tenure here in Judea. The Jewish leaders, having gotten their way, were quiescent the whole time, absorbed in their Passover rituals. The Galilean’s followers were in hiding, no doubt in shock and grief at his death. After that incredibly long and difficult Friday, I began to feel I could breathe again.

  But Sunday morning, shortly before the noontide meal, Longinus came to see me. He saluted crisply, but his countenance was grim. Not just grim, either. He was afraid.

  “He’s gone,” he said.

  “Who is gone?” I asked.

  “That bloody Galilean! Jesus of Nazareth! His tomb is empty, his shroud an empty shell, and his body is missing!”

  Rage filled me. “How could this happen?” I demanded.

  “My three legionaries were camped some distance away,” he said. “But there were twenty of those Jewish Temple guards watching the tomb, and the stone across the entrance would have taken a dozen men to move! They had even sealed it with a big wax seal, proclaiming death to any who violated the tomb.”

  “Then what happened?” I demanded.

  “Just before dawn, they heard the ground shake, and the Jewish Temple guards shrieking. My two boys started towards the tomb, and saw the Jews lying on the grass as if dead. The huge stone was moved several yards away from the entrance. Decius Carmella approached the opening, and then a blinding flash of light knocked both of them out cold. When they woke up, the Jews had fled, and there was a group of women at the tomb wondering what had happened. That is when they came and reported to me!”

  Caesar, I write these last pages with my own hand, because I am not sure that I trust even my faithful scribe with the words that follow. As soon as Longinus made his report, I ordered him to arrest some of the Temple guards and bring them to me immediately. It took a couple of hours, as they were closeted with the priests in some secret meeting. My legionaries discreetly nabbed two of them as soon as they left, and dragged them to the Praetorium.

  At first they tried to pass off the story that the disciples of Jesus had stolen the body as they slept near the tomb. This tale was obviously a concoction—a guard detachment of twenty all asleep at the same time? The band of frightened rabbits that was too afraid to rescue their beloved rabbi, suddenly risking life and limb to retrieve his ravaged corpse? Ridiculous! I ordered them scourged, and their story soon changed.

  What they told us was that before dawn Sunday morning, about half the detachment was asleep as the other half stood in front of the tomb, bored and talking among themselves. Suddenly there was a blinding flash of light and a great earthquake that knocked them all to their knees, and the stone in front of the tomb was flung about ten yards away, nearly crushing one of them. As they stared at the entrance of the tomb, two glowing balls of light descended from the sky and assumed human form at the entrance. They turned and looked at the guards, and every one of them fell down as if dead. When they came to, the tomb was empty, and three Roman soldiers were there unconscious as well. They fled to the Temple to report what they had seen to the High Priest, leaving my men stretched out on the grass.

  The story sounds unbelievable, but even after another dose of the cat-o-nine-tails, they refused to change it. I ordered them both put to death and buried outside the city walls, so that no one would know what they had told me. Then I summoned the High Priest and met him outside the Temple District.

  “Wha
t has happened?” I demanded.

  “Exactly what I warned you of!” he snapped. “The Galileans came at night and stole the body of the Nazarene!”

  “You mean all of your Temple guards let themselves be overpowered by a dozen frightened fishermen?” I sneered.

  “There were nearly a hundred of them!” he said, obviously shaken that I refused to believe him.

  “So how many did your guards kill?” I asked.

  “None!” he said. “The blackguards overwhelmed them as they slept!”

  His lies were so preposterous I did not want to listen any more. I turned on my heel and called over my shoulder: “It sounds like your guards were derelict in their duty. Let me know if you want them crucified, too!”

  By evening the city was abuzz with rumors that the crucified Galilean had been seen again, by several of his disciples and by a group of women as well. There were also stories that the earthquake had torn the veil of the Temple, that several long-dead holy men had been seen wandering the streets preaching about the Messiah, and that the disciple who betrayed Jesus had hung himself. The priests were strangely silent, and I did not know what to believe myself.