Pontius Pilate: A Novel

by Paul L Maier

  Brushing his hand slowly across his brow, Pilate asked, “Was he, Councilor? Was he a ‘son of God’?” and before Joseph could reply he continued, “Then why would he choose to die? And on a cross. What kind of divinity is that?”

  He saw his execution squad returning and asked the men, “Did you break their legs?”

  “Yes,” the centurion replied. “They’re all dead now. But we didn’t have to smash the prophet’s legs. He had already died. Just to make sure, though, one of the men shoved a lance into his side. He was quite dead.”

  “Tell me what happened, Centurion.”

  Still shaken from his afternoon at Golgotha, the officer gave Pilate a full briefing. He reported confiscating the prisoners’ clothing, as was their legal right, then shaking dice for the prophet’s seamless tunic, which the centurion won…Jesus asking his “Father” to forgive them, whoever “them” was…offering the crucified the usual drugged, narcotic wine, but the prophet’s refusal to take any…Caiaphas and the Sanhedrin waiting in vain for the man to recant so that they could absolve him and let him die a blessed death…the strange conduct of the bandits, one mocking him; the other asking his blessing…bystanders challenging him to use his touted supernatural powers to climb down from the cross…the eerie darkness…Jesus’ farewell messages to his mother and several followers who were there…the troops giving Jesus a little posca via saturated sponge on a reed…and then his death and the frightening earthquake. “It almost seemed as if the gods were angry, Prefect,” the centurion declared. “Whom did we crucify?”

  During the narration, Joseph of Arimathea was trying to attract Pilate’s attention. Finally he succeeded. “Oh yes, Councilor,” Pilate turned to him. “Sorry to have kept you waiting. You may bury the body of Jesus.”

  At the temple, meanwhile, the busiest afternoon of the year was concluding. Townspeople and pilgrims alike had converged on the sanctuary in order to have their Passover lambs slaughtered according to sacred ritual, and this had greatly reduced the crowd which might otherwise have thronged Golgotha to witness Jesus’ crucifixion. Indeed, Caiaphas and members of the Sanhedrin had left Skull Place by 1:00 P.M. in order to conduct the Passover preparatory liturgy at the temple and supervise the sacrifice of lambs.

  The ceremonial had not gone well that afternoon. The sudden darkness frightened the worshipers, and the earthquake, while not causing any loss of life, had still terrified the people. The worst news was shielded from them: the large fissure from the quake had torn in two the sacred curtains which screened off the Holy of Holies from the rest of the temple. The portent was so terrible that the priests did not try to interpret its significance, except for Rabbi Zadok, who resumed his intermittent forty-year fast for the safety of Jerusalem. However, since most worshipers were in the outer courts and did not see the damage, no panic resulted.

  The ritual now ended with a final sacrifice of three official lambs. Caiaphas, resplendent in his robes of office with gleaming breastplate and sacred ephod, presided over the ceremony, assisted by three Levites. The animals were unblemished specimens, and their throats were cut in a single stroke. There was no anguished bleating, just the sound of blood dripping into golden vessels. When enough was collected, the incarnadine was splashed onto a sacred stone. The victims were then flayed and the viscera carefully examined. In Rome, augurs would have determined the future from such probing; here it was only to authenticate that the lambs had been in perfect health, for nothing less than flawless sacrifices were offered to God. The lambs proved physically impeccable, the ceremony successful. The people returned to their homes, where the Seder was in final preparation.

  Procula felt well enough to join Pilate for dinner that evening, but her taciturnity cued him that she was informed of the day’s events. Pilate was equally silent, not looking forward to the criticism from his wife he fully expected.

  “Procula,” he finally ventured, “why did you send that note out to the tribunal today? What sort of dream did you have?”

  After she described her nightmare, Pilate laughed. “But there is some truth to it. I was trying to free Jesus. And I was almost tempted to have Caiaphas crucified instead. Then the people really would have lynched me!”

  Slowly she raised her eyes to his and transfixed him with a chilly stare. “How does it feel, Pilate, to send an innocent man to his death?”

  Immediately abandoning his whimsy, he replied, “It’s not that simple, Procula.”

  “Was he guilty or innocent?”

  “Guilty, as far as the Jews are concerned.”

  “And the Romans?”

  “Technically guilty of the charge of treason for calling himself king, rex. Remember, ‘king’ is one of the most despised terms in our language. We had seven kings after Rome was founded, but that was enough. And what was the Senate going to debate on the Ides of March? Whether to confer the title of rex on Caesar. It didn’t happen! Even the emperors, with powers greater than any king, never allow themselves to be called by that hateful title.”

  “Stop, Pilate. Was Jesus’ kingship intended in any political sense?”

  “No…”

  “How could you condemn him then?”

  “Were you given a full report of the trial? The whole thing, my defense of Jesus throughout—”

  “Yes, the centurion told me everything. You were doing so well, Pilate, acting nobly, in fact. I might even have forgiven you for ordering him scourged if I could be sure it was only to win sympathy from the people.”

  “It was.”

  “Then why did you fail?”

  “How fail?” A touch of ire was seeping into his voice.

  “Fail the cause of justice. You condemned a man you knew was innocent, the worst thing any judge can do. Freeing a guilty man is far more forgivable than what you’ve done.”

  “But—”

  “You knew what was just and right. You knew what you should have done.” She now had tears welling in her eyes. “Yet you didn’t have the moral fiber to do it. I…I didn’t know I married a man without spine—”

  “Stop it, Procula!” he thundered. “I had to do it. Don’t you understand? If I would have released Jesus—no, the crowd wouldn’t have attacked me as your dream had it—but Jesus would likely have been lynched anyway once we left Jerusalem and our guard was removed. And if I hadn’t given in, another riot would have broken out, shedding far more Jewish blood than that of one visionary prophet. Which would have been worse? Sometimes a little evil is necessary to bring about a greater good.”

  “You’ve opposed Jewish crowds on other occasions.”

  “And you know the result. If the long shadow of Sejanus weren’t touching us, I might have countered the crowd. But with Tiberius committed to his new pro-Jewish policy, it would have been insanity.”

  Procula was silent for some moments. Then she said, “What if it were true, Pilate? What if he were the son of God?”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yes.”

  “You always were the superstitious one, weren’t you? Well, you may find it hard to believe, but even I gave a moment’s thought to that possibility when I was searching for a way to release him. Yet I reasoned that if, in some fantastic unlikelihood, I actually were judging divinity, the whole affair wouldn’t get very far. Jesus would have waited for my judgment, then laughed at me and the screaming mob and either struck us all down or simply walked away from the tribunal. And none of us could have done a thing about it. But the fact that he couldn’t prevent his punishment proves that he was not, in fact, what he claimed to be. A true ‘son of God,’ if such exists, wouldn’t allow himself to be beaten, mocked, insulted. Therefore, when the scourging took place successfully, when the first drop of blood reddened his back, I knew we had a mere mortal on our hands, and that, if crucified, the man would actually die. You see, Procula, no divinity could die.”

  “You make the logical error of assuming that what did happen, had to happen. Because Jesus did not defend himself doesn�
�t prove he could not defend himself. Perhaps he meant to suffer. Anyway, none of this excuses you from judicial murder.”

  “Watch your language, Wife!” He glared at her. “Now, we’ve established that this was no son of God in fact—”

  “We established nothing of the sort.”

  “All right. The one body qualified to judge such arcane matters, the Sanhedrin, decided that this was no son of God. Therefore, they condemned him as a false prophet and blasphemer. Now, even though I think it’s barbaric to execute someone who uses his tongue the wrong way while involving their deity, this is their law. And Tiberius ordered me to uphold their law. What else could I do?”

  When Procula did not respond, he pressed his case. “Four years ago, Jesus wouldn’t even have come before my tribunal. The Sanhedrin still had the jus gladii over Jewish nationals at that time. But under pressure from Sejanus I withdrew their right to execute; yet it was understood that I’d usually endorse their verdict in capital cases. It was extraordinary on my part even to conduct a second hearing.”

  “Why did you do it, then?”

  “Because I wanted to determine if the man were really guilty, also according to their law. This was a very rare situation, since they hardly ever seek capital punishment. One rabbi told me: ‘The Sanhedrin which issues a verdict of death more than once in seven years is a slaughterhouse.’ So you can see how important this case was to them. But the point is this: if Jesus’ trial had been held four years ago, they could simply have stoned him to death without asking our permission.”

  “Doesn’t it seem a rather strange argument, Pilate? ‘I can crucify an innocent man, because four years ago they would have stoned an innocent man.’”

  Pilate fumed. “You keep calling him innocent. Remember, he was guilty in the eyes of the Jewish authorities. Should I blithely have disregarded Tiberius’s orders to respect their ancient and holy laws?”

  Procula hesitated, then asked, “Was there no chance of sending him to a higher court, or appealing to Caesar?”

  “No, for two reasons. He made no appeal. And he couldn’t have appealed, since he wasn’t a Roman citizen. But put the case that he had been. Tiberius still wouldn’t have heard the appeal, since he’s not bothered with such affairs on Capri. Probably Macro, as praetorian prefect, would have handled this appeal, and you know Macro.”

  Procula said nothing for the next minutes. Finally she asked, “If you had to judge the case over again, would you give the same sentence?”

  With only a moment’s hesitation, Pilate replied, “Yes, of course. I would have had to. My hands were tied.”

  “I thought they were washed, Pilate.”

  “Enough!” he bellowed. “There simply was no other way. Would you have preferred a riot, then an angry delegation to Tiberius? In his present testy mood, he’d have listened only to their side of it, and I’d be recalled in disgrace, imprisoned, exiled, or ‘invited’ to commit suicide, while you’d be stigmatized for the rest of your life. It was simply a choice—a choice between us and this man Jesus. Can’t you see that? Be honest now, Procula!”

  “Yes…that’s probably true.”

  “Well?”

  Slowly and deliberately, she said, “To have acquitted him anyway would have been a glorious demonstration of principle, an act of supreme altruism.”

  “Supreme folly!”

  Saturday mornings were always quiet in Jerusalem, and this one especially so. Except for the faithful attending worship, there was no activity in the city during that high and holy day, for this Sabbath was also the Passover. Pilate was doubly surprised, then, when a number of priests and leading Pharisees paid him a visit about mid-morning.

  “Your Excellency,” said Rabbi Helcias, “we recall how that deceiver once said, while he was still alive, ‘In three days I will rise again.’ Not that he will, of course.” The temple treasurer smiled. “But could you arrange to have his sepulcher guarded until after that third day? Otherwise his disciples may come and steal the body. Then they would announce that he had risen from the dead. And this last fraud would be worse than the first.”

  Pilate wanted no part of it. He had washed his hands of the case once and for all. “You have your own guard. Take your temple police and make the tomb as secure as you can,” he retorted, amazed at a fanaticism which could hound a man not only to his grave, but beyond it.

  The priests followed Pilate’s advice, dispatching a detail from the temple guard to surround Joseph’s tomb. They secured the precinct, sealed the stone which had been rolled in front of the sepulcher, and remained on guard.

  The rest of Saturday lazily exhausted itself in a torpor which served as welcome contrast to the previous day. It was an unusually warm Sabbath for so early in spring, but the evening was beautiful, as were all nights that week, shimmering in a silvery sea of moonlight. The Passover fell at the time of the first full moon on or after the vernal equinox.

  The fact of the full moon was bothering Pilate. He was still somewhat intrigued by the atmospheric phenomena which had blackened part of Friday afternoon. At first he had written off the unnatural darkness as a solar eclipse. Though hardly an astronomer, he now realized that when the moon was full, any eclipse of the sun was utterly impossible. The moon was in a diametrically wrong position.

  Pilate shrugged his shoulders. Perhaps Joseph of Arimathea was right…nothing was normal that Friday.

  Chapter 20

  Sunday dawned clear and bright, though the northwestern part of Jerusalem was shaken by another mild tremor just before sunrise. The quake evidently centered in a small park or garden just west of Golgotha, for reports reached Pilate that knots of people were starting to cluster there, perhaps to survey a deep fissure of some kind. Before the day was out, the clusters had grown to sizable groups.

  On Monday, the groups developed into crowds, and all Jerusalem buzzed with rumors that the dead Jesus of Nazareth had risen from the dead, as he had predicted. Pilate learned that it was no fissure at all which was attracting the people west of Golgotha, but the sepulcher of Joseph of Arimathea in which Jesus had been buried. Supposedly it was empty.

  Pilate scoffed at the report, but toward evening he and the tribune of the Antonia garrison visited the site. Escorted by troops who shouldered them through the ranks of curiosity seekers, they peered inside the tomb. A large, circular stone which served as door had been rolled aside to reveal an ample rock-hewn sepulcher, hollowed out of the side of a hill. Inside were linen grave wrappings lying on the slab of stone where a body would repose, and at the head end, rolled up separately, was a burial napkin intended to cover the face of the corpse. The cloths still exuded a spicy and resinous odor of myrrh and aloes. But there was no body.

  “Are you sure this is the right tomb?” Pilate asked his tribune.

  “This was the one sealed up by the temple guard.”

  “And just where is the guard?”

  “They left after the earth tremor early Sunday morning. We couldn’t learn much from them over at the Antonia, but it seems this stone broke its seal and rolled open in connection with the earthquake.”

  “How? And the body—how did it disappear?”

  “The guards claim the disciples of this Jesus stole the body while they slept.”

  “Right from under their noses?”

  “We couldn’t get any more out of them—they’re pretty sheepish about it.”

  “Small wonder, the incompetents,” Pilate sneered. He examined the seal, which was fractured in two, part attached to the edge of the door stone, and part hanging from the lintel. He also searched the walls and floor of the tomb chamber for any hidden exits or passageways, but found none.

  “Tribune, find Joseph of Arimathea, a member of the Sanhedrin, and bring him here. Check with him if this is the sepulcher in which he buried Jesus. If not, we’ll put a Roman guard on the right one. Any police who can let a dead man ‘escape’ are stupid enough to seal and guard a wrong tomb!”

  Late that evening,
the tribune reported that he had taken Joseph of Arimathea to the sepulcher which they had examined. It was the right one.

  Pilate reflected for several moments, then grinned. “Those rascally disciples of his, they certainly brought it off. Imagine, right under the noses of the guards!”

  “Shall I have his followers rounded up and arrested, sir?”

  “No, I don’t think so, Tribune. Rome doesn’t much care who has possession of a body after crucifixion. Besides, Caiaphas will be hard pressed to explain an empty tomb. Why should we help him out by locating the body?”

  For all his jocularity, Pilate still had trouble falling asleep that night. His logical Roman mind first had to find a solution to the puzzle which had been thrust on him by the missing corpse. Of course it was the disciples’ work. Who else would have a motive for stealing the body? Caiaphas’s thinking was correct on that score. But how could that Galilean cadre have been clever enough to outwit a detail of some fifteen temple police? Granted even that they were all sleeping Saturday night, which was unlikely, rolling away that huge stone should have caused a commotion and a grinding which would have awakened them. No. It was impossible. The disciples would probably have had to step on their slumbering faces in order to move the stone and extricate the body…How did it happen then? Pilate ground a fist into his other palm, weighing the riddle.

  Of course! The solution was so delightfully obvious that anyone would have missed it at first blush. The chief priests had come asking for a guard on Saturday morning. Jesus had died late Friday afternoon. Therefore there was no guard at the tomb during all of Friday night! The disciples must have come that very night, while all Jerusalem was sleeping off the Passover meal, and removed the body of their dead teacher, replacing the stone at the doorway to hide the empty tomb. That was it! Rather pleased with himself, Pilate could now drop off to sleep.