Pontius Pilate: A Novel

by Paul L Maier

  By this time the crowd had hushed to hear the governor’s first statement. Turning to the chief priests on his right, he asked, in common Hellenistic Greek, “What charge do you bring against this man?”

  The Jewish leaders were thunderstruck, for this was the opening formula of a Roman trial, the interrogatio. Pilate was not going to endorse the action of the Sanhedrin; instead, he was reopening the case and beginning his own hearing!

  “If he were not a criminal, we would not have brought him before you,” replied Ananias defiantly, caught off guard by this turn of events.

  Stung by the insolent reply, Pilate retorted, “Very well, then, take him out of this court and judge him according to your own law.”

  “That is not possible according to your law,” said Caiaphas, speaking for the first time. “We are not allowed to put anyone to death.”

  A trace of a smile warped Pilate’s lips. Were it not for the mass of observers and his own problems in Rome, he would have ended the hearing then and there.

  Again he asked, “What charge do you bring against this man?”

  This time several of the chief priests prepared to act as the principal accusatores or prosecutors. They presented a formal bill of indictment, which opened the case against Jesus: “We found this man subverting our nation, forbidding the payment of tribute money to Tiberius Caesar, and claiming that he is Messiah, a king.”

  It was a triple accusation, magnificently tailored to alarm a Roman prefect, since the charges were thoroughly political. Of the religious grounds on which Jesus had been condemned by the Sanhedrin there was not a word, since the Judean authorities knew that Pilate would not likely put a man to death for the purely theological offense of blasphemy.

  Touching the tips of his fingers together, Pilate paused to review the charges. The first, that Jesus was an instigator of sedition, a resistance leader, was very serious. According to a Roman legal compendium, those who caused sedition or incited the populace were liable to crucifixion or were “thrown to the beasts, or deported to an island.” But the subversion charge would have to be proven, since, from all reports, Jesus seemed to shy away from political involvement.

  The second accusation, that he opposed payment of the tribute, Pilate knew to be a lie, but he checked himself from flinging it back at the prosecutors. They might have used the charge in good faith from garbled reports, although their attitude seemed hypocritical. Many of these plaintiffs, especially the Pharisees, spent their days protesting payment of the Roman tribute, yet here they were patriotically defending it.

  But the third indictment, that Jesus was giving himself out as “Messiah, a king,” was the gravest. Depending on the nature of that kingship, the claim could be construed as maiestas, high treason, the most heinous crime known in Roman law. The weary succession of trials in Rome after the Sejanian conspiracy had all been prosecuted under the rubric of maiestas. With Tiberius as emperor, here was a provincial allegedly daring to call himself king. It could be harmless, perhaps a delusion of grandeur. But it could also be deadly treason.

  Since no one seemed ready to defend Jesus, Pilate thought it fair to give him a brief, confidential hearing before proceeding with the trial in order to learn something more about the defendant away from the glare of his accusers. He stepped back into the palace, summoning Jesus inside the reception hall.

  “Are you the king of the Jews?” asked Pilate. “How do you plead?”

  Jesus looked up at him. “Do you ask this of your own accord, or did others tell it to you concerning me?”

  “What! Am I a Jew? Your own nation and the chief priests have brought you before me. What have you done?”

  “My kingship is not of this world. If it were, my followers would fight to defend me. But my authority as king comes from elsewhere.”

  “So? You are a king, then?”

  “It is as you say, that I am a king. For this I was born, and for this I have come into the world: to bear witness to the truth. Everyone who is of the truth hears my voice.”

  “A kingship of truth, you say?” Pilate asked quizzically. “What is truth?”

  What was truth indeed, Pilate reflected. As a child he had believed in the mythological gods and goddesses, only to repudiate them as a thinking adult. Truth used to be the word of Sejanus, yet Sejanus was a liar. Once he could swear by the nobility of Rome, but that city murdered innocent children and flung them into the Tiber. Truth was the Roman state, yet now the Senate itself could not trust the princeps, nor he the Senate.

  The private hearing, however, convinced Pilate that Jesus’ claims for kingship, his visionary “kingship of truth,” had no political implications, so it would hardly be possible to construct a case of maiestas against him. But he might do well to avoid using the dangerous term king in the future.

  Pilate led Jesus back to his outdoor tribunal and announced, “I find no guilt in him.” Ordinarily, this would have signified a quashing of the major indictments, if not of the entire case itself. In Pilate’s now-tenuous status in Judea, however, it was more a way to test the prosecution, which was already greeting Pilate’s statement with loud murmuring.

  “I find no case against Jesus thus far,” Pilate repeated. “What evidence do you have to substantiate your charges?”

  Annas bent over to whisper something to Caiaphas, who then relayed the information to Ananias. After a quick review of strategy by the principal accusatores, they now summoned witnesses by name, some of them Sanhedrists, to lend stature to their testimony. In ranks of two or three at a time, they supplied their evidence to Pilate, for Roman law also required plural witnesses. A scribe in a conical hat told of hearing Jesus attack the Jerusalem authorities on three different occasions and inciting the masses thereby. A gray-bearded priest spoke eloquently of his violence at the temple. An elder member of the Sanhedrin, his story well-corroborated by colleagues, reported Jesus’ claim to be Messiah-king in front of the entire Sanhedrin.

  Clearly, the prosecution was better organized than at the Sanhedral hearing. Caiaphas had chosen his witnesses well. But a certain, seemingly contrived sameness in the evidence Pilate found less than convincing, while such other items as Jesus’ supposed opposition to the tribute he knew to be false.

  After providing testimony on the principal charges, the plaintiffs now introduced additional subsidiary accusations against the defendant, indicting him also for magic and sorcery. In planning his confrontation with Pilate, what had worried Caiaphas most, if it came to a trial, was how to neutralize the testimony of witnesses for the defense, if any dared show themselves, since their evidence would largely concern good deeds, healings, and other apparent miracles wrought by the accused. He now shrewdly forestalled such testimony by producing his own witnesses to these spectacular deeds, who explained them as products of the black arts. Sorcery was also punishable under Roman law.

  When the prosecution rested its case, Pilate turned to Jesus, who had remained silent the whole time, and asked, “Have you nothing to say in your defense? Don’t you hear all this evidence against you?”

  But Jesus remained silent. He supplied no defense, not even to a single charge. Pilate was astonished at this conduct. In his seven years on the provincial bench, this had never happened. Innocent defendants at his bar usually could hardly wait to launch their counterattacks on the prosecution, and even the obviously guilty at least pleaded some mitigating circumstance and sought leniency. But Jesus was making no defense. And no advocate was pleading in his behalf.

  Pilate addressed the crowd, “Can anyone offer evidence favoring the defendant, Jesus?” A buzzing developed throughout the palace esplanade, which by now had filled with people.

  “Louder, Prefect!” someone yelled.

  “I said, can anyone offer testimony in defense of Jesus of Nazareth?”

  Some hands, it seems, were waved at the edge of the crowd, while others were trying to make their way toward the tribunal in response to Pilate’s invitation. But so many in the multitude
supported the prosecution that the few who seemed to venture forward were being jostled or blocked. Whenever a lone voice protested, “He is innocent!” a great chorus responded with the antiphon, “He is guilty!”

  This was enough to steer Pilate’s sympathy toward the defenseless accused, though he was growing impatient with Jesus for refusing to say a word. Once more he called out, “Will anyone testify in behalf of Jesus?” The only reply was more growling from the mass assembly and several violent fist fights at the periphery. The mood was getting ugly.

  “You see, Prefect, Yeshu Hannosri means trouble wherever he goes, even here at your tribunal,” Rabbi Jonathan argued. “The man is a born troublemaker. You know of the riot he caused in the temple just this past Monday: illegally, without any authority whatever, interrupting people at their worship by driving away their sacrifices! And in overturning the exchange tables with great financial loss to the temple, Yeshu is, in effect, a temple robber…Now, you may not feel concerned over what takes place inside our sanctuary, but this firebrand may one day upset your provincial finances in the same way. We’ve already cited his attitude toward the Roman tribute. But did you know that he lured a tax collector away from his profession? He’s now one of his disciples, a man named Matthew. Yet financial harm is as nothing compared to Yeshu’s role as political agitator. His teachings are inflaming the people throughout all Judea, starting from Galilee and spreading even as far as this city.”

  Something in Jonathan’s summation caught Pilate’s attention. “Wait, Rabbi, did you say that Jesus began teaching in Galilee?”

  “Yes…”

  “What’s his home town?”

  “He came from Nazareth, of course, but lately, I understand, he was lodging at Kephar Nahum.”

  “Where?”

  “A town on the Sea of Tiberias. You probably know it as Capernaum.”

  “Both places are in Galilee. Are they not?”

  “Yes…”

  Pilate thought for several moments, then said, “The defendant, thus, is clearly a Galilean, and, as such, under the authority of the tetrarch Herod Antipas.” Pilate’s eyes brightened as he spoke. “And since Herod is in Jerusalem at this very moment, I think it eminently proper to remand this case to his jurisdiction.”

  “But Prefect, surely this isn’t necessary,” Caiaphas objected. “The crimes committed by Yeshu Hannosri took place also in Judea. You would certainly have the legal right—”

  “Thank you, noble Pontiff, but I need not be schooled on points of Roman law. Yes, I would have the legal prerogative to try this man in Judea as the forum delicti of his alleged crimes, the place of the offense. But yes, I also have the option of remanding this case to the jurisdiction of the sovereign of the accused, since Galilee is his forum domicilii, the place of residence. And I believe it most appropriate to bind the defendant over to his own tetrarch, particularly because your charges have religious implications within Jewish law which Herod Antipas could adjudicate far better than I.”

  Caiaphas and Annas went into brief consultation with Helcias and other chief Sanhedrists, after which Ananias said, “Very well, Prefect, we shall accept adjudication by Herod the Tetrarch, if he is willing.”

  Pilate then announced officially, “This court takes no action in the case of Jesus of Nazareth. This tribunal is adjourned.”

  While temple heralds instructed the crowd to proceed immediately to the Hasmonean palace, where Antipas was lodging, Pilate stood up from his curule chair, walked off the dais, and entered his palace with a sense of victory. He was enormously pleased with himself. The change of venue rid him of a sticky case involving a probably innocent man whom it would have been wrong to convict, and yet dangerous to acquit, in view of the Sanhedrin’s attitude. It was also a bit of diplomacy toward Herod Antipas, who could not fail to recognize this as an olive branch in their perennial feud. It was like saying, “You stabbed me in the back in the shields affair, Antipas, but that’s history now. In transferring this case, you can see my consideration for the Jews. So quit stirring up the lion on Capri.” Pilate quaffed some wine, then returned to judge the cases awaiting him.

  The Hasmonean palace lay due east of the Herodian, about two-thirds of the distance to the temple, and the leaders of the Sanhedrin argued strategy while marching in front of their manacled prisoner en route to seeing Antipas. Several suggested that it might be more difficult to get a conviction from the tetrarch, since his hands were already stained with the Baptizer’s blood and he might not wish to redden them again with that of another so-called prophet. Antipas had not wanted John killed, and might now choose to defend the Nazarene as a fellow Galilean. After all, he had not arrested Yeshu during his three years of teaching in Galilee, though he had threatened to.

  But Caiaphas countered confidently, “Antipas has shown much more sensitivity to our laws than Pilate. Undoubtedly he’ll convict Yeshu with the same fine cooperation he showed us in the case of the golden shields.”

  Since the tetrarch had few official duties to perform in Jerusalem and was largely on vacation, he and Herodias were entertaining their relatives Philip and Salome at a leisurely breakfast when a courier brought news of the imminent arraignment. While Antipas had learned of Jesus’ arrest, this development caught him off guard and he hastily prepared for the hearing. But he was pleased with the turn of events, since he had wanted to meet Jesus for some months. Even before he had finished grooming himself, a mass of people was pressing against the gates of the Hasmonean palace. Officialdom, the Sanhedrin and its prisoner, and a few representatives of the people were allowed into the atrium of the palace, but much of the throng had to wait outside because of limited space.

  While Herodias, Philip, and Salome watched from the wings, Antipas mounted his tetrarch’s throne and ordered the hearing to begin. The priestly plaintiffs produced political charges similar to those raised before Pilate, but this time they did not demur at introducing also the religious issues which had led to Jesus’ conviction before the Sanhedrin.

  Antipas listened intently to the accusation, then startled everyone by his unorthodox procedure. Turning to the chief priests, he said, “Thank you, honored Rabbis, for your presentation of the case. Actually I’m quite familiar with the charges against Yeshu Hannosri, but I’ve never yet had the occasion to meet him.” Then, in an almost kindly tone, he addressed the prisoner, “Yeshu, will you step forward?”

  For several moments Antipas studied the manacled figure in front of him. Then he said, “I’ve wanted to see you for some time. You’ve been given credit for certain…rather magnificent exploits, especially in our Galilee. I wish I could have witnessed some of them.”

  Antipas noticed that the plaintiffs were looking uneasy, even alarmed at his gentle treatment of the prisoner. Jesus himself showed no reaction, but continued gazing into Antipas’s eyes.

  “Several times I looked for you in Galilee,” the tetrarch continued. “You probably thought I meant you harm, but I didn’t. I only wanted to see a prophet for myself. If, indeed, that’s what you are. John the Baptizer was supposed to be a prophet, but he didn’t perform any miracles. And yet you can, I understand. Well, I’ve never seen a miracle. Why not show us one now?”

  All eyes shifted from Antipas to Jesus. The chief priests were apprehensive, for Herod’s tone was serious, not taunting. What would he do if their prisoner actually performed a bit of magic—declare him a true prophet and free him? But they need not have been concerned. Jesus made no move whatever, other than shutting his eyes in inner concentration and then opening them.

  “Come now, Yeshu,” said Herod, “I know you once called me a ‘fox,’ and for the shrewdness implied, why, I thank you for the compliment.” This raised a bit of laughter from Antipas’s guards. “But my request has no further slyness than this: you’re either a true prophet or a false one. The latter achieves wonders by tricks; the former by the power of God. Now I believe that I can see through tricks. So if you perform an actual sign for us, wouldn’t th
at demonstrate that you are a true prophet?”

  Jesus said nothing, did nothing.

  “Look, don’t just stand there, man!” Herod was losing his temper. “You haven’t much of a bargaining position, and no one’s speaking in your defense. I’m showing you a way out. Do a miracle! Even a simple one…say…have those fetters break off your wrists.”

  Jesus was silent.

  “Well, if you can’t do anything, can you say something?” Herod glared, starting to lose all sympathy for the prisoner. The tetrarch of Galilee was simply not disobeyed, especially not by one on trial, and yet here was a defendant mocking him by his silence.

  But Jesus held his peace. Antipas might have known he would stage no spectacle for a man who had executed his close friend, forerunner, and cousin, John. He would not entertain the fox.

  At this point, the chief priests and scribal lawyers quite logically broke into the silence, vigorously pressing their case against Jesus. “Do you know why he won’t perform any wonders, noble Tetrarch?” asked Jonathan. “Because he can’t! The signs ascribed to him are merely tricks—hoaxes.”

  “And according to your own flawless logic,” Ananias added, “Yeshu must therefore be a false prophet.”

  Much affirmative head-nodding supported that observation. Antipas let the accusatores speak on to a summation. Then he addressed Jesus a final time. “No defense, Nazarene?” After the now-expected silence, Antipas broke into derisive laughter. “Of course there’s no defense for a charlatan—a fraud! I must marvel at the people of Judea and Galilee—to consider this one a prophet. Ridiculous! At least the Baptizer had the courage to speak out, even in prison. But the Nazarene can’t even find his tongue. Guards, I think it’s time for you to show due reverence to our Messiah-king here.”

  Antipas’s troops converged on the prisoner for a round of mockery and ridicule. Playfully they dropped to their knees or bowed deeply. Several fell flat on their faces before him and pounded the floor. Trumpeters blew a fanfare directly into his ears. Then they dressed him in a brilliant white robe, one of Antipas’s discards, for the Messiah was expected to wear such.