Pontius Pilate: A Novel

by Paul L Maier

He handed her the note, then watched her face for the reaction which came almost with the first line, a flash of concern, nearly a sad frown.

  “A fair trial,” she said. “Do you think there’s any chance he’ll get a fair trial?”

  “Perhaps. After all, they’re only trying to head off a possible rebellion and preserve the peace. They could be after the death penalty, though Caiaphas would probably have told me if that were the case. What they may do is imprison Jesus as an object lesson, or humiliate him in some way which will compromise him with his following. Anyway, his support will melt away from Jerusalem after the Passover.”

  With that, Pilate dispatched orders to the Antonia commandant: “Put your men on full alert, in shifts, until further notice.”

  Meanwhile, Jesus was taken to the house of Annas for a hearing prior to formal arraignment before his son-in-law Caiaphas. For several moments the white-haired priestly patriarch stared at the prisoner. “Axe you Yeshu Hannosri?” he finally asked.

  Jesus nodded.

  “So you’re the man tongues are wagging about from here to Galilee. What is it, then, Yeshu? Why are you so bitter at our leadership here in Jerusalem? You’ve said and done some fearful things in the temple…and elsewhere.”

  Jesus made no comment.

  Annas continued, “How big is your movement? Who are your chief supporters? What is your doctrine, your message? What are you telling the people?”

  But Jesus, knowing that his appearance before Annas was simply a lower-court hearing before the inevitable confrontation with Caiaphas, blunted the interrogation: “My teachings are a matter of public record. I taught openly in the synagogue and in the temple. Ask the people what I said.”

  One of the temple police thought his attitude impertinent and struck him on the cheek, snarling, “Is that the way you answer a former high priest?”

  Jesus turned to him and said, “If I spoke wrongly, produce the evidence. But if correctly, why do you strike me?”

  Annas glowered and said, “If the accused will not cooperate, this hearing is ended. Guards, bind the prisoner and take him to the high priest.”

  Members of the Great Sanhedrin were gathering at the palace of Caiaphas for an extraordinary night session. With the gates of the temple mount locked at night, they could not meet in their regular chamber. All seventy Jewish senators now took their places in a semicircle which fanned out around Caiaphas, the president of the Sanhedrin, and two clerks of the court. The great hall of Caiaphas’s palace was bathed in the rosy amber glow of flickering torches. The place smelled resinous and smoky.

  Excited crosscurrents of conversation hushed when Jesus was led into the hall and directed to stand in front of Caiaphas. The prisoner glanced up at the rising tiers of benches arced about him and felt the stare of 140 eyes. Witnesses and some of the public which had been attracted to the trial crowded into the hall behind him.

  Caiaphas, clad in his official garments, called the Sanhedrin to order and opened the case by soliciting witnesses who had any evidence to bring against Jesus. In Jewish law, a minimum of two witnesses was necessary to support a given charge or it would have to be quashed.

  A dozen or more elbowed their way to the front and were formally interrogated by Ananias, who was known for his skill in crossexamination. Most of the witnesses reported isolated acts in which Jesus had apparently violated the Sabbath, but each told of a different occasion, no two the same, so their otherwise damaging evidence had to be disallowed.

  Caiaphas called for more witnesses, and more struggled through the press to the front of the court. Some of these were riffraff from the streets who wanted to have a part in this great hour, but they were expelled after their false testimony proved ridiculous. Other witnesses agreed on technically incriminating evidence, but Ananias hesitated to admit it when it dealt with a kindly or serviceable action of Jesus such as healing on the Sabbath day, for example. Even the learned rabbis disagreed on that, though it was firm tradition that medical help was allowed only if life itself were in danger. A mere broken leg, for example, could not be set on the Sabbath.

  Further evidence was offered, but even statements about the same incident did not tally. Finally Ananias thought he could derive a solid charge from the allegations of two men who agreed that Jesus had said, “I will destroy this temple, and rebuild it in three days.” Since any threat against the temple was capital blasphemy, this charge alone, if proved, could result in the death sentence, and Ananias pursued it like a hawk.

  Then someone from the crowd shouted, “Yeshu meant the ‘temple’ of his body, not the great temple.” A loud murmuring developed, and Caiaphas called for order. Then, fixing a piercing glare at the defendant, he asked, “Have you no answer to the charges these witnesses bring against you?”

  Jesus did not reply. Legally, he did not have to, since no proven evidence had been introduced into the proceedings. Caiaphas knew it. For the last minutes he had been deploring the situation which had brought him to this legal impasse. Because of the inordinate haste in this trial, they had neglected to weed out the false witnesses and secure those with truly incriminating evidence. It was a wretched oversight on his part. In an agony of frustration, he realized that the goal to which he had been pressing over the past months might now elude him. For unless a proven charge were introduced, the prosecution would collapse and the Sanhedrin would be legally bound to declare Jesus innocent and free him. That would render him more popular than ever with the people, while disastrously embarrassing the religious establishment in Jerusalem.

  All eyes in the hall were fastened on Caiaphas. As a “Caiaphas” (meaning inquisitor), he was belying his name. Perspiring profusely, he groped for fundamentals. What evidence did he have?…Why did he despise Yeshu Hannosri? Four reasons: (1) he was a lawbreaking false prophet, who deceived the people with dangerous doctrines; (2) he attacked the Jewish authorities abusively; (3) he was probably planning sedition, which would lead to Roman intervention; and (4) he did not repudiate Messianic claims. Alas, without proper witnesses, no case could be constructed on the first three charges…But the fourth! No witnesses? Why not create seventy of them!

  Caiaphas stood up from his judiciary seat and walked over to the prisoner. The other members of the Sanhedrin also rose to their feet, for custom demanded this honor for the president. “You will not answer these charges?” the high priest asked. “Then perhaps you will respond to this: I adjure you by the Living God to tell us…Are you the Messiah? Are you the Son of God?”

  Caiaphas had prefaced the question with the dreaded Oath of the Covenant. Once it had been spoken, even a reply of silence would be criminal, while a false answer would be damnable. But the question need not have been charged with this explosive, for the mysterious time to which Jesus had repeatedly referred in his public ministry when he said, “My hour has not yet come,” had now come in fact.

  “Are you the Son of God?” Caiaphas repeated.

  His gaze penetrating to the very soul of the high priest, Jesus replied, “I am…as you have said. And you will see the Son of Man sitting at the right hand of the power of God.”

  There it was, an answer complete and categorical. Caiaphas tore his priestly garment in fury. Straining to be heard above the great commotion, he cried, “Blasphemy! Do we need any further witnesses? You’ve heard his blasphemy. You are now the witnesses! What is your judgment?”

  Each member of the Sanhedrin would now have to decide whether Jesus’ statement was sober truth, or the worst blasphemy a Jew could frame with his mouth. Caiaphas had just said it was the latter, virtually a directed verdict of capital blasphemy, but the Sanhedrists might think differently.

  All attention now focused on the youngest of the seventy members of the Sanhedrin, who was sitting at the edge of the semicircle, for, in standard procedure, the voting would begin with him and end with the eldest member, the president casting the final vote. The youthful Sanhedrist stood up in the hushed chamber and said, “He is worthy of death.�
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  A chorus of whispering erupted. The next member got up and said the same. Commotion in the hall rose steadily as the tally continued, “Guilty.” “Death.”

  A look of satisfaction softened the features of Joseph Caiaphas, and when thirty-seven condemnations were recorded, he had triumphed. Only a simple majority of two votes was necessary for a sentence of condemnation. Nevertheless, all seventy would be polled.

  When the clerk read the name Joseph of Arimathea, a richly clad man of medium build stood up and said, “I abstain.” There was a brief hubbub in the chamber and Caiaphas glared at Joseph, but then the voting continued.

  One more abstention from a man called Nicodemus caused a flurry, but finally Caiaphas cast his concluding vote and announced, “Brethren, there are 69 votes for condemnation and 2 abstentions. Yeshu Hannosri is herewith sentenced to death.”

  The hall broke into a great commotion of shouts and applause as the Sanhedrin adjourned. Temple police now grabbed Jesus and hauled him into the courtyard, where they beat and abused him, standard procedure for one condemned. Several spit in his face, while others blindfolded him and taunted, “Now, prophesy for us, you Messiah, who just slapped you?”

  One glaring difficulty remained. The trial was illegal, according to Jewish law, since only cases involving monetary matters were heard after sunset. Capital trials could take place only in the daytime. That technicality was removed shortly after dawn the next day, when Jesus was brought before an official session of the Great Sanhedrin, which convened on the temple mount. After bare formalities, Caiaphas again requested a verdict from members of the Sanhedrin. Once more the court clerk read off each name, beginning with the youngest. Each, in turn, arose and replied, “Death,” until, except for the same two abstentions, another unanimous decision was reached.

  A final complication was simply disregarded. To avoid hasty convictions, Jewish law stated that a capital sentence could not be pronounced until the day following a trial. Therefore a Friday trial which ended in condemnation was illegal, since it would be followed by the Sabbath, when sentencing or execution were impossible. The only verdict permitted a court on Friday, if it took formal action, was acquittal. But in this emergency, the Sanhedrin did not feel bound by such a restriction.

  If Judea were not a Roman province, Jesus would now have been executed by stoning, probably below the east wall of Jerusalem. On the way there, a herald would have preceded the execution detail, calling:

  Yeshu Hannosri, son of Mary of Nazareth, is going forth to be stoned because he has uttered blasphemy and is a false prophet and deceiver. Members of the Sanhedrin are witnesses against him. If anyone knows anything in favor of his acquittal, let him come and plead it.

  About ten cubits from the place of execution they would say, “Make your confession.”

  “May my death be an atonement for all my sins,” would have been a standard response, though Jesus would not have made it.

  At the place of stoning, his clothes would have been stripped off. Then one of the Sanhedrists, as witness to his “blasphemy,” would have shoved him off a precipice onto the rocks below. If he were still alive, a second member of the Sanhedrin would have dropped a boulder onto his heart. If he still survived, the entire Sanhedrin and any others present would have been obliged to hurl stones down on him until he died.

  However, with the jus gladii now reserved for the Roman prefect, Pilate would have to review the Sanhedrin’s verdict, pronounce sentence, and issue orders for execution—or dismiss the case. Had he been in Caesarea and the Antonia commandant otherwise occupied, the Sanhedral authorities might have risked taking matters into their own hands and stoning Jesus anyway, claiming mob action. But Pilate was very much present in the Holy City of Jerusalem.

  Chapter 18

  It was six o’clock in the morning of Friday, April 3, A.D. 33—to Jews, Nisan 14, of the year 3793. In the sumptuous royal bedroom of the Herodian palace, Procula was sleeping later than usual. Her husband glanced at the tousle of hair spilling over the pretty face on the pillow next to him and did not disturb her as he pulled himself out of bed. He needed an early start for the docket of cases awaiting him at the tribunal.

  Pilate looked out over Jerusalem on that crisp spring morning. The sun was starting to daub a hazy luminescence on the mists hovering over the summit of the Mount of Olives. Soon it would be unseasonably warm. He gave orders to have his official dais set up in the inner shaded courtyard of the palace, as on the previous morning. It would be transferred to the front of the palace in the afternoon when he no longer had to face the sun.

  After a quick breakfast, Pilate mounted his tribunal and glanced at the small knots of people before him who would play some role in the day’s litigation. He now called for unfinished business from yesterday. The two highwaymen whose sentencing had been postponed were brought before him.

  “I judge you guilty,” Pilate told them. ‘’The sentence, in both cases, is death.” The men did not flinch. The extreme penalty was standard punishment in that era for offenses less than theirs, and they fully expected it. “Staurotheto kai staurotheto,” Pilate called to his guards while nodding at the two culprits—“Let him be crucified, and let him be crucified.” And the pair were prepared for that dreaded punishment, the regular Roman method of execution for slaves and criminals who did not possess Roman citizenship.

  While this case was concluding, a rather remarkable procession of priests, temple guardsmen, scribes, and a great crowd of people were filing into the esplanade before the palace. In the interior courtyard, a man came running up to the tribunal. Angrily, Pilate asked him, “What do you mean by this interruption, Malchus?”

  “Forgive this intrusion, Excellency. My Lord Caiaphas and the entire Sanhedrin are outside to ask your confirmation of their verdict against Yeshu Hannosri.”

  “Do you mean they’ve already tried him?” snapped Pilate.

  “Yes,” replied Malchus, with a slight frown.

  “But there hasn’t been enough time…”

  “Hardly enough, though two sessions of the Sanhedrin have been held since the arrest.”

  “What was their verdict?”

  “Guilty.”

  “The punishment?”

  “They seek the death penalty.”

  “Death?”

  “Yes. Otherwise they would not have brought the prisoner here.” A centurion broke into their conversation. “Pardon, my Prefect, but you should know that a huge crowd is gathering in front of the palace. Shall I send to the Antonia for reinforcements?”

  “Yes, but keep them out of sight.” Then, turning back to Malchus, he said, “This is extraordinary. The high priest should not have dared to interrupt my tribunal in this manner.” Pilate thought seriously of making the Sanhedrin wait its turn for a hearing, perhaps until after the Bar-Abbas trial the following week. But, sobered by past confrontations with the Jews and with another eye to the throng which was gathering for obviously this case, he thought better of the plan.

  “My Lord Caiaphas told me to express his profound regret for this interruption,” Malchus continued, “but he said you would understand the danger of serious rioting if this matter were not adjudicated promptly. He also stated that the Sanhedrin does not expect you to interrupt your schedule with a trial at this time—the trial has already taken place—they merely request a simple confirmation of their sentence, which should not take long.”

  Pilate was angry. “Let them come in, then,” he said quietly.

  “Unfortunately, Sire, they must remain outside the praetorium to avoid defilement, so that they can eat the Passover Seder tonight.”

  Struggling to control his fury, Pilate waved Malchus away. Then he ordered his ivory sella curulis, the magistrate’s chair, moved outdoors to the regular afternoon location facing the esplanade. The transfer made, he emerged from the palace to face the multitude, ascending his elevated tribunal.

  Pilate sat down in his curule chair, grasping the arms of it with a grip
which whitened his knuckles. For some moments he pondered the issue…How the Sanhedrin could have given the complex case of Jesus a fair hearing in the brief interval since Pilate received the note which promised it, he could not fathom…And the death penalty? While not surprising, in view of the hatred between the Jewish authorities and Jesus, it was at least inexpedient, considering Caiaphas’s concern about a riot erupting. Kill the prophet and disorder would break out…Then, without advance word, to confront him like this…And finally the implication: “Don’t bother judging him, Pilate. You wouldn’t be qualified. This is a religious case. Just countersign our order for execution, like a good prefect.”

  “But I will,” he decided. “I will judge this case. And thoroughly.”

  He looked down from his dais. Jesus was stationed directly in front of the tribunal, with members of the Sanhedrin flanking him on both sides. Ranging off to Pilate’s right were the familiar faces of Annas, Caiaphas, Ananias, Zadok, Helcias, Eleazar, and Jonathan. He guessed they would constitute the chief accusers if, as they thought unlikely, it came to a formal trial; for without accusers, there could be no trial in Roman law. Behind Jesus stood the leading Pharisees, Sadducees, scribes, elders, and the temple guard. Beyond the semicircle of these principals, some two hundred in number, ranged the vast and growing mass of spectators.

  But only one face in this rising lake of humanity intrigued Pilate. He scrutinized the figure immediately in front of him and was a trifle disappointed. In the past months he had heard so many reports about the mysterious powers of Jesus that the man was becoming larger than life in his imagination, and yet here he was, bound, unkempt, evidently powerless. His dark hair, parted roughly in the middle, fell to shoulder length. This, along with his mustache and beard marked him as a typical Palestinian Jew of the time. Still, the erect and tallish figure seemed to speak eloquently through his eyes. They were tired, but they were not the eyes of a prisoner—not imploring, fearful, or ashamed; nor were they vindictive or threatening. Pilate had seen all these eyes in prisoners whom he had condemned. Those of Jesus registered only serenity, with a trace of disappointment and resignation.