Seeing the governor’s eyes fill with comprehension, the guard behind Jesus grinned impudently. “Here’s your king back, sire. He’s been properly coronated.”
Sextus swung on the man, but Pilate waved him back. “It’s all right. The men need to have their diversion.” Then he was back to business. “Bring him outside.”
Marcus, sensing that Pilate was growing impatient, moved forward and took Jesus by the elbow. The guard stayed on the other side but let Marcus lead out.
At the sight of Jesus crowned and bleeding, the crowd exploded with approval. They stamped the pavement with their feet, clapped their hands, whistled, cheered.
Mordechai stood up. He too was growing impatient. Pilate was stalling. Mordechai knew that as surely as he knew he wasn’t going to let Pilate get away with it.
Pilate brought Jesus forward to the balustrade. He stepped back so Jesus stood alone, a pitiful, solitary figure. Mordechai saw the red stripes on the prisoner’s shoulders. And yet his head was high and his eyes, though dark with pain, were clear; they showed no signs of madness, a common result of a thorough scourging.
Gradually, when neither man on the balcony moved or said anything, the crowd subsided. When it was finally quiet, Pilate straightened and held out one hand, pointing to Jesus. “Behold the man!” he called out loudly.
For a moment, the people gave no response as every eye looked up. Mordechai, sensing an opportunity, tipped his head back. “Crucify him!” he shouted.
Menachem, recognizing his mentor’s voice, immediately took it up. “Crucify him! Crucify him!”
Caleb, mingling in the crowd, added his voice. “Crucify him!”
As the chant quickly spread and became a roar, Pilate, rankled, leaned over, peering down at Mordechai and his associates. “You take him and crucify him,” he yelled. “I find no fault in this man.”
Mordechai bristled at the insult. Pilate knew they couldn’t carry out that sentence. Only the Romans could. He waved at Menachem, who, surprised, began shushing the crowd again. “We have a law,” Mordechai called up at the procurator when he could be heard, “and the emperor has said that you are sworn to honor our laws. This man claims to be the Son of God, and by our law, he must die for such an outrage.”
Pilate stepped back, his lips pulling down into an angry grimace. The old Jew was trying to force his hand. He was right, of course. As long as a people peacefully accepted Roman rule, the head administrator was instructed to support and uphold their laws, unless they contradicted Roman law. It didn’t matter whether Pilate thought the laws were ridiculous or not.
But even as the anger boiled up in him, he felt a deeper reaction, one of dismay, perhaps even a touch of fear. The Son of God? Once again he strode back inside the judgment hall. Marcus and the guard took Jesus and followed after him.
VIII
Outside the gate to the Praetorium, Miriam stood beside Simeon, watching Deborah and Martha and Mary Magdalene kneeling beside the mother of the Master. Mary had crumpled to the ground at the sight of her son, then began to sob as the chant swelled.
Andrew was there too. John held her up, steadying her. Any concerns about their being recognized were gone. The shock was too deep, too total, placing their entire focus on Jesus and what was happening to him. The women were weeping bitterly. Every new cry brought further horror. Surely this couldn’t be happening!
Then Simeon felt Miriam sag beside him. He flung an arm around her and held her up. Her shoulders started to shake convulsively as great sobs tore through her body. He pulled her closer to him. “Miriam! What is it?” He knew she was in shock. The cry for crucifixion hit them all like a massive blow. But this was something more.
She looked up at him. Tears streamed from swollen eyes. “Didn’t you hear him?”
He reared back a little. “Hear him? Who?”
She just shook her head, unable to speak. He felt a movement and turned. Leah was beside him. She too was weeping, but she was somewhat in control of herself. He gave her a searching look. “Who, Leah?”
But Miriam knew she had to be the one to say it. No one else had caught it. “My father,” she blurted between her tears. “It was my father’s voice who first shouted it out.”
IX
Once they were inside again, Pilate whirled on Jesus. “From whence do you come?” he demanded, his voice sharp and almost frightened.
Jesus turned his head enough to look at him but said nothing.
Pilate turned and kicked at a footstool, sending it crashing away. “You won’t answer me?” he bellowed. “Don’t you know that I have the power to release you or crucify you?”
Jesus watched him steadily, completely unaffected by the outburst. Then he spoke. “You could have no power over me at all if it weren’t given you from above.” His head turned, and he looked toward the balcony. “However, he that delivered me up to you has the greater sin.”
Pilate felt something cold brush across his soul. It had been spoken with such unruffled majesty. This man spoke of power and unseen things and the consequences for sin as if all of those were his to give or withhold. At that moment, Fortunata’s frightened face passed before his mind. He is a just man, and you can have nothing to do with him. He felt a prickle at the back of his neck.
Swearing softly, he turned and strode back outside. Again he leaned out, shouting down at the four men below him. “I find no fault in this man! I shall release him, as is the custom.”
“We want Barabbas,” Mordechai shouted.
“Barabbas!” screamed Menachem.
“Barabbas! Barabbas! Barabbas!” The building trembled beneath the pounding words. Swallowing hard, Pilate turned his head. “Marcus!”
Marcus stiffened and saluted. “Yes, sire.”
“Do we have Barabbas here?”
“Yes, sire, in one of the cells down below.”
“Release him.”
The response was deafening. A mighty shout of triumph reverberated off the walls.
“And what would you have me do with Jesus?” Marcus asked, turning back.
“Crucify him!” shouted Azariah.
“Crucify him!” Caleb echoed.
“Crucify him! Crucify him!” roared the crowd.
Pilate was trembling with anger. “Would you have me crucify your king?” he screamed at the crowd.
Annas looked up in disgust. “We have no king but Caesar,” he shouted back.
Mordechai took a step forward and cupped his hands to his mouth to make himself heard above the crowd. “If you let this man go, you are no friend of Caesar’s. Any man who makes himself a king speaks directly against Caesar.”
Pilate paled and fell back a step. That was no accidental phrase Mordechai had invoked. Friend to Caesar was a formal title given to provincial governors, especially provincial governors who were in particular favor with the emperor.
Pilate knew that Mordechai ben Uzziel understood the procurator’s tenuous standing with the emperor right now. Three different times during his reign he had undertaken to put these intransigent Jews in their place, and three times disaster had resulted. The last time, a delegation from the Great Council, perhaps even Mordechai himself, had written a letter of protest to Rome. A few weeks later, Pilate had received a terse reprimand from the legate in Syria. The message was blunt and to the point. “If you wish to keep your position as governor, make peace with the Jews. The emperor does not want any trouble in the east right now.”
The procurator moved away from the balcony, looking trapped. His mind was racing. But there was no way out. That last threat had just overturned everything, like a chariot hitting a stone at full speed.
Marcus watched the governor in surprise. He had seen him leaning over, obviously talking to the four council leaders below him, but he was shocked to see his commander’s face when he straightened again. He came forward quickly.
Pilate barely saw him. He dropped into his chair and buried his head in his hands. After a moment, he began to massage his t
emples. Marcus waited, not sure he should disturb the procurator.
After what seemed like several minutes, the leonine head came up, the eyes defeated but defiant. “Marcus?” He had lost sight of him.
Marcus sprang closer. “Yes, sire?”
“Have the servants bring me a pitcher of water and a basin.”
Marcus stared at him for a moment.
“A pitcher and a basin,” he snapped. “And a towel. Now!”
But Sextus had already heard it and was moving towards the door, calling for one of the servants.
As they sat back and waited, Pilate started to chuckle. It had a strangled quality to it and sounded like it came from a mad man. Marcus stared more closely, feeling a sense of uneasiness.
“Have you ever studied the Jewish law?” Pilate asked suddenly.
Marcus slowly shook his head. “No, sire. I have not.”
“A labyrinth,” he said to himself. “Totally incomprehensible.” He smiled again, a secretive, sly smile. “But sometimes understanding the folly of one’s enemy has its advantages.”
“Oh?” Marcus didn’t dare say anything more than that.
“Yes. They have rules to cover every possible situation. Did you know they even have a commandment that tells them what to do when someone is killed and they can’t find the guilty party?”
“Really?” This was growing stranger by the moment.
The smile broadened, a smile of triumph. “The law says that if they wash their hands of it, it signifies there is no guilt.”
Marcus felt instant relief. Pilate was troubled, but he was still in possession of his senses. Then Marcus smiled as well as he thought about the implications. “I understand, sire. Excellent idea.” His admiration went up a notch. This was the crafty old politician he had come to know. You didn’t count this one out too easily.
“Move that small table out here. And a chair.” As Marcus jumped to obey, he added. “And I want you to help me, not the servant.”
“Yes, sire.”
The crowd sensed something unusual was occurring and quieted quickly. They watched as the large basin was set on the table. The servant laid a towel over Marcus’s arm, then handed him the heavy pitcher. Pilate took the chair and sat down carefully. He held out his hands and nodded at Marcus.
Marcus poured a stream of water over Pilate’s hands. The splash of the liquid in the basin could be clearly heard throughout the courtyard, so total had become the silence. Pilate rubbed his hands together with exaggerated slowness as the water continued to hit them. Then he nodded, and Marcus stopped.
Marcus handed the pitcher to the servant, who stood off to one side, then extended the towel to Pilate. He took it and stood up. Lifting his hands high for all to see, he dried them with that same slow, ritualistic movement. Then he tossed the towel to one side.
“I am innocent of the blood of this just person,” he said solemnly. His head dropped, and he looked directly at the four leaders who waited below him. “You have your crucifixion. See you to it.”
He spun on his heel and started toward the door to the inner hallways. Over his shoulder he barked a command. “Marcus. Send for the cross beam. Take him to Golgotha.”
“What about the other two, sire?”
Pilate didn’t break his stride. “Of course,” he flashed angrily. “Crucify them all.”
Chapter Notes
Though Matthew, who describes the washing of the hands, does not say that Pilate was aware of the Mosaic Law about hand-washing, this was a well-known custom, and after being in Palestine for several years, it is likely that Pilate was aware of exactly what he was doing. One commentator put it this way: “The hand-washing was a Jewish custom to signify the removal of guilt (Deuteronomy 21:6; Psalm 73:13), but Pilate may have used it either in desperation or in mockery” (Guthrie, p. 849).
An oft-asked question is, “How come there were vast multitudes swarming out to wildly welcome Jesus as the Messiah at the triumphal entry, then just a few days later, those same people are howling for his blood?”
Perhaps there are better explanations than having the Sanhedrin “seed” the crowd, as is shown here, but there are some peculiarities in the brief descriptions of that morning. First, we know that the Great Council went to great lengths to take Jesus secretly so as not to stir up the crowds. Second, it was early in the morning when they went to Pilate. Obviously, the disciples had spread the word of Jesus’ arrest during the night, but likely that only went to their own small circle. So where did the crowds come from at such an early hour? And why were they so hostile to Jesus?
Manipulating events by controlling a mob has long been a device used by evil men to accomplish their own purposes, and that tactic makes good sense in this setting. There is one phrase in Matthew that hints that undue influence was being exercised that morning. Matthew says that the chief priests and elders “persuaded the multitudes that they should ask [for] Barabbas and destroy Jesus” (Matthew 27:20; emphasis added).
One note of interest about Barabbas. Little is known about him other than what is given in connection with the trial of Jesus. In one of the ancient manuscripts, however, his name is given as Jesus Barabbas. That would not be surprising, since Jesus (Yeshua in Aramaic) was a common name at the time. Barabbas is a patronymic—bar meaning “son of,” abba or abbas being the word for “father” (Hastings, p. 84). Thus Pilate, probably without knowing the significance of what he was saying, asked the crowd, “Do you want me to release to you this brigand, Jesus, son of the father, or shall I release your Messiah, Jesus, the Son of the Father?”
Chapter 34
And after that . . . they led him away to crucify him.
—Matthew 27:31
I
Jerusalem, Upper City, the Praetorium 4 April, a.d. 33
Marcus looked up and saw Sextus watching him steadily. He looked away and refilled his cup. He emptied it again. When he glanced up, his centurion’s gaze had not shifted. “What are you looking at?” he snarled.
Sextus’s expression never changed. “The detachment is ready when you are, Tribune Didius.”
“Oh,” Marcus said, mocking his tone, “so now it’s Tribune Didius, is it? And why the formality all of a sudden? It wasn’t my decision to crucify your Jesus.”
Sextus acknowledged Marcus’s disclaimer with a quick bob of his grizzled head. “I’ve called out the full century, sire. I thought we’d send eight quarternions ahead of you to keep the crowds back.” His expression darkened momentarily. “The word is out. There are large crowds in the street.”
That was enough to bring Marcus out of the alcoholic haze that was starting to fill his head. “Already?”
“Yes, sire. And now most of these seem to be Jesus’ followers.”
“Is a century going to be enough?” He could tell his voice was getting a little thick. He didn’t care. He poured another half a goblet and took a drink.
“Unlike the bunch down below, the crowds out there seem to be more in shock than anything.”
“Good.”
Sextus went on as if there had been no interruption. “I’ve detailed eight men with each of the prisoners. The rest of the company will bring up the rear, again to make sure the people are kept back.”
Marcus stared at the fire in the grate in one corner of the room.
“Sire?”
He didn’t look up.
“Would you like me to send word to Lady Diana that you will be gone for a time?”
He jerked up. He had completely forgotten about his wife. What would she say if she knew what he was about to do—not once, but three times? “No,” he blurted. Then, more calmly, “She’s used to waking up and having me gone.”
“As you wish, sire.” Sextus started to turn, his eyes still completely inscrutable. “I’ll be with the men.”
Marcus got slowly to his feet and had to reach out and steady himself against the wall. “You have the crossbeams?”
“Yes, each prisoner has his own.”
> Marcus took a quick breath, his mind already racing forward, feeling the dread welling up again. “Mallets and spikes?”
“All is in readiness, sire,” came the quiet reply.
Marcus slammed down the cup, splashing wine across the table and his hand. “Then let’s be done with it.”
II
Miriam was sickened at the sight of Jesus, staggering under the weight of the thick beam lashed across his shoulders. His face was bloodied from the lacerating thorns, and on his bare shoulders she could see the dark stripes from the scourging. Numbed beyond anything she had ever experienced, she didn’t even think to avert her face as the soldiers passed.
Marcus was on his horse, staring straight ahead, holding the reins tightly as the animal pranced nervously among the crowd. Then he saw Miriam’s face in the crowd. He stiffened, his eyes widening. They narrowed instantly when he saw Simeon beside her. But Miriam saw none of that. She did not take her eyes from the prisoner.
Only when she heard her name spoken sharply did she turn. The Romans had required the leaders of the Great Council of Jerusalem to walk directly in front of the prisoners. She fell back half a step when she looked directly into the cold, hard eyes of her father. In one instant, her face registered the revulsion she was feeling. He was largely responsible for this scene, and she knew it as well as he did. She looked away, the tears coming even more heavily than before.
He made as if to speak to her, then jerked angrily to look at Simeon. “I told you to stay away!” he exclaimed. “Get her out of here. This is a dangerous situation.”
Simeon was as pale as death. Over and over as the horror of the night had progressed and deepened, he kept waiting for that moment when it would be enough, when Jesus would finally unleash his awesome power in his own behalf. Simeon had seen with his own eyes a mature, healthy fig tree completely wither away in less than twenty-four hours. He had been on the ship when a raging storm was stilled with a single word. He had watched in stunned astonishment as Lazarus, four days dead, came forth from the tomb. One word from Jesus and the Roman guards surrounding him could be blown aside like dry leaves before a whirlwind. One blink of his eye, and the entire Sanhedrin would wither away, just as the fig tree had done. But only now, as Simeon watched the grim procession passing, was it finally clear to him. Jesus was not going to act. He was not going to call down power of any kind in his own behalf. For reasons that Simeon could not fathom, he was submitting to this gross injustice. He had accepted his fate as calmly as does an animal being led to the slaughtering pens. He had placed himself—him, the Son of God—completely in the control of evil, wicked men.
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