فصل 25

XXV

How the Procurator Tried to Save Judas of Kerioth

THE darkness that had come in from the Mediterranean covered the city so detested by the procurator. The hanging bridges which connected the temple with the fearsome Antonia Tower had disappeared, an abyss descended from the sky, and covered the winged gods above the hippodrome, the Hasmonaean palace and its embrasures, the bazaars, the caravanseries, the alleys, the ponds … Yershalaim—the great city—vanished as if it had never existed. Everything was devoured by the darkness, which frightened all living creatures in Yershalaim and its surroundings. A strange dark cloud drifted in from the sea toward the end of the afternoon on the fourteenth day of the spring month of Nisan.

The cloud had already spilled its belly onto Bald Skull, where the executioners had hastily pierced the condemned men, it had broken over the temple in Yershalaim, coursed down its hills in steamy rivulets, and flooded the Lower City. The cloud gushed through windows and chased people indoors from the winding streets. It was slow to release its moisture and at first gave off only light. Whenever fire ripped through the steamy black brew, the great hulk of the temple with its glistening scaly roof soared out of the pitch darkness into view. But the fire was extinguished in an instant, and the temple again sank into the dark abyss. It leapt out several times, only to fall back again, and each time its fall was accompanied by the thunder of catastrophe.

Other quivering flashes of light summoned from the abyss the palace of Herod the Great that stood opposite the temple on the western hill, and its fearsome eyeless golden statues soared up into the black sky with their arms extended. But the heavenly fire hid once again, and heavy claps of thunder drove the golden idols back into the darkness.

The downpour broke out unexpectedly, and then the thunderstorm turned into a hurricane. On the very spot near the marble bench in the garden where the procurator had conversed with the high priest around noontime, there was a crack of thunder like a canon shot, and a cypress tree broke in two like a cane. Mingling with watery dust and hail, torn roses, magnolia leaves, small twigs, and sand swept through the colonnade onto the balcony. The hurricane scourged the garden.

At this time there was only one man under the colonnade, and that man was the procurator.

Now he was not sitting in his chair, but was instead reclining on a couch next to a low table set with food and jugs of wine. Another couch, unoccupied, stood on the other side of the table. A red puddle, which looked like blood and had not been cleaned up, was spreading out from under the procurator’s feet and in it were pieces of a broken jug. The servant, who had been setting the table before the storm, had become flustered by the procurator’s stare and upset that he had displeased him in some way, and the procurator, angry at the servant, had smashed the jug on the mosaic floor, saying, “Why don’t you look me in the eye when you serve me? Have you stolen something?” The African’s black face turned gray, mortal terror appeared in his eyes, he began to tremble, and almost broke the other jug; but for some reason the procurator’s anger subsided as quickly as it had flared up. Just as the African was about to pick up the broken pieces and wipe up the puddle, the procurator waved him away, and the slave ran off. And the puddle remained.

Now, as the hurricane raged the African huddled near a niche, which held a statue of a white naked woman bowing her head—the African was afraid of showing himself at the wrong moment, yet also fearful lest he miss the procurator’s summons.

Reclining on his couch in the semidarkness of the storm, the procurator poured himself some wine, drank it in long gulps, and reached occasionally for the bread, crumbling it, and swallowing it in small pieces. Now and again he would suck on an oyster, chew on a slice of lemon, and then take another drink.

Were it not for the roar of the water, the claps of thunder that threatened to smash in the palace roof, the clatter of hail that pounded against the balcony steps, it might have been possible to hear the procurator mumbling something as he talked to himself. And if the intermittent flickers of heavenly fire had been transformed into a steady light, an observer might have been able to see that the procurator’s face, its eyes inflamed by wine and by recent bouts of insomnia, expressed impatience, that the procurator was not only gazing at the two white roses, which had drowned in the red puddle, but was constantly turning his face toward the garden and the onslaught of watery dust and sand, that he was waiting for someone, waiting impatiently.

A short time passed, and the veil of water before the procurator’s eyes began to thin. As fierce as the hurricane had been, it was growing weaker. Branches no longer cracked and fell. The claps of thunder and flashes of lightning became less frequent. The violet coverlet with the white trim that had been floating above Yershalaim was gone, and all that remained was an ordinary gray, rear-guard cloud. The thunderstorm was moving out to the Dead Sea.

Now it was possible to hear the separate sounds of the rain and of the water as it streamed through the gutters and down the steps of the staircase which the procurator had traversed earlier that day when he had gone to announce the sentence in the square. And finally the gush of the fountain could be heard, which earlier had been drowned out. It was growing lighter. Dark-blue windows began to appear in the gray veil that was sweeping eastward.

Then from afar, breaking through the patter of the now utterly feeble drizzle, the faint sounds of trumpets and the clatter of several hundred hooves reached the procurator’s ears. Hearing those sounds, the procurator shifted position, and his face became animated. The ala was returning from Bald Mountain. Judging by the sound, it was moving across the square where the sentence had been pronounced.

At last the procurator heard both the long-awaited footsteps, and the shuffling on the staircase that led to the garden’s upper terrace right in front of the balcony. The procurator craned his neck, and his eyes began to sparkle with joy.

The first thing to appear between the two marble lions was a head in a hood, followed by a drenched man in a cloak that stuck to his body. It was the same man who had had a hushed conversation with the procurator in a darkened room of the palace before the pronouncement of the sentence and who, during the execution, had sat on a three-legged stool, playing with a twig.

Heedless of the puddles, the man in the hood cut across the garden terrace, stepped onto the mosaic floor of the balcony, and, raising his arm, said in a pleasant, high-pitched voice, “Health and happiness to the Procurator!” The newcomer spoke in Latin.

“Gods!” exclaimed Pilate. “You haven’t a dry thread on you! What a hurricane! Eh? Please go to my room. Do me the favor of changing into dry clothes.” The visitor threw off his hood, revealing his completely soaked head, his hair plastered to his forehead, and with a polite smile on his clean-shaven face, he began to refuse a change of clothes, assuring the procurator that a little rain would cause him no harm.

“I won’t hear of it,” replied Pilate. He clapped his hands and summoned the servants, who had been hiding from him, to attend to the visitor’s needs, and then to serve hot food at once. The procurator’s visitor required very little time to dry his hair, change his clothes and footwear, and tidy up in general, and he soon appeared on the balcony steps in dry sandals, a dry crimson military cloak, and with his hair smoothed down.

By this time the sun had returned to Yershalaim, and before departing to sink into the Mediterranean, it sent its farewell rays to the city detested by the procurator and gilded the balcony steps. The fountain had revived completely and was gurgling at full strength, the pigeons had come out on the sand, and were cooing and hopping over the broken twigs, and pecking at something in the wet sand. The red puddle had been mopped up, the pieces of broken pottery had been cleared away, and meat was steaming on the table.

“I await the Procurator’s orders,” said the visitor, approaching the table.

“But you will hear none until you sit down and have some wine,” replied Pilate courteously, indicating the other couch.

The visitor reclined, and a servant poured deep red wine into his cup. Another servant leaned carefully over Pilate’s shoulder and filled the procurator’s cup. When this was done, the latter signalled both servants to leave.

While the visitor ate and drank, Pilate, sipping his wine, watched his guest with narrowed eyes. The man who had appeared before Pilate was middle-aged, with a very pleasant, round, well-groomed face with a fleshy nose. His hair was of indeterminate color. Now as it dried, it grew lighter. It would have been hard to guess the visitor’s nationality. The main thing that defined his face was probably its good-natured expression, an expression belied, however, by his eyes, or, more precisely, not by the eyes themselves, but by the way the visitor looked at his interlocutor. Usually the visitor concealed his small eyes beneath their somewhat odd, puffy-looking lids. A benign slyness shone in the slits of his eyes when he did this. One had to suppose that the procurator’s guest was a man inclined to humor. But the humor gleaming in the slits of his eyes would occasionally be banished, when the present guest of the procurator would open his eyelids wide and stare suddenly and directly at his interlocutor, as if he were trying to locate some imperceptible spot on his nose. This would last only for a moment, after which his eyelids would drop again, the slits would reappear, and they would shine again with the same good will and sly intelligence.

The visitor did not refuse a second cup of wine, swallowed several oysters with obvious pleasure, sampled the boiled vegetables, and ate a piece of meat.

After eating his fill, he praised the wine, “A superb wine, Procurator. Is it a Falernum?” “A thirty-year-old Cecubum,” replied the procurator amiably.

The guest pressed his hand to his heart, declined any more food and said he was full. Then Pilate filled his own cup, and his guest did the same. Both of them poured some of their wine onto a platter with the meat, and, raising his cup, the procurator said in a low voice, “To us, to you, Caesar, father of the Romans, dearest and best of men!” After this they drank their wine, and the Africans cleared the table of food, leaving just the fruit and the jugs. Once again the procurator signalled the servants to leave, and he and his guest were left alone under the colonnade.

“And so,” Pilate began softly, “what can you tell me of the mood in the city?”

Involuntarily, he turned his gaze to the place beyond and below the garden terraces, where the colonnades and flat roofs were being gilded by the sun’s last rays.

“I believe, Procurator,” replied the guest, “that the mood in Yershalaim is now satisfactory.” “So we can count on there being no more disturbances?”

“We can count,” replied the guest, looking affectionately at the procurator, “on only one thing in this world—the power of the mighty Caesar.” “May the gods grant him long life,” joined in Pilate immediately, “and universal peace.” After a brief silence he continued, “So you think we can have the troops withdrawn?” “I think that the Lightning Cohort can be withdrawn,” replied the guest, adding, “But it would be a good idea if it marched around the city as it left.” “A very good idea,” the procurator agreed, “I shall have the Lightning Cohort withdrawn the day after tomorrow, and I myself shall leave—and I swear to you by the Feast of the Twelve Gods, and by the Lares—I would have given a great deal to have been able to leave today!” “The Procurator does not like Yershalaim?” queried the guest good-humoredly.

“Have mercy on me,” exclaimed the procurator, smiling, “There is no more hopeless place on earth. To say nothing of the climate! I get sick every time I am forced to come here. But that alone would not be so bad. It’s these holidays—magicians, sorcerers, wizards, these hoards of pilgrims … Fanatics, fanatics! Look at the trouble caused by this messiah alone, who they’ve suddenly started waiting for this year! Every minute expecting to have to witness some ghastly bloodbath. Constantly having to transfer troops around, reading accusations and denunciations, half of which are written against you yourself! You will agree, that’s tedious. Oh, if weren’t for the imperial service …” “Yes, the holidays here are difficult,” agreed the guest.

“With all my heart I wish them to be over soon,” added Pilate vigorously. “Then I shall at last be able to return to Caesarea. Can you believe that this absurd construction of Herod’s,”—the procurator waved his hand at the colonnade to show that he was referring to the palace—“is positively driving me out of my mind. I cannot bear to spend the night here. No stranger piece of architecture has ever been seen! But let’s get back to business. First of all, is that damned Bar-rabban causing you any concern?” Here the guest looked at the procurator’s cheek with that peculiar stare of his. But the procurator was gazing off into the distance with a bored expression, frowning with distaste and contemplating that part of the city which lay at his feet and was fading into the dusk. The guest’s stare also faded, and his eyelids drooped.

“One must assume that Bar is now as harmless as a lamb,” began the guest, wrinkles appearing on his round face. “It’s awkward for him to rebel now.” “Because he’s too famous?” asked Pilate with a laugh.

“As always, the Procurator shows a subtle grasp of the issue!”

“But, in any case,” the procurator noted with concern, raising a long, slender finger that bore a ring with a black stone, “it will be necessary to …” “Oh, the Procurator can rest assured that so long as I am in Judea, Bar will not take a step without me being at his heels.” “Now I am calm, as, by the way, I always am when you are here.”

“The Procurator is too kind!”

“And now please tell me about the execution,” said the procurator.

“What is it precisely that interests the Procurator?”

“Were there no attempts by the crowd to express their outrage? That’s the main thing, of course.” “None,” replied the guest.

“Very good. Did you yourself establish that death had occurred?”

“The Procurator can be sure of that.”

“And tell me … were they given a drink before being hanged on the posts?”

“Yes. But he,” here the guest closed his eyes, “refused to drink anything.”

“Whom do you mean?” asked Pilate.

“Forgive me, Hegemon!” exclaimed the guest. “Did I not give his name? Ha-Notsri.”

“Madman!” said Pilate, grimacing for some reason. A vein twitched under his left eye. “Dying from exposure to the sun! Why refuse what is allowed by the law? How did he express his refusal?” “He said,” replied the guest, again closing his eyes, “that he was grateful and cast no blame for the taking of his life.” “On whom?” asked Pilate in a hollow voice.

“That he did not say, Hegemon.”

“Did he try to preach anything in front of the soldiers?”

“No, Hegemon, he was not talkative on this occasion. The only thing he said was that he considered cowardice one of the worst of all human vices.” “What made him say that?” the guest heard a suddenly cracked voice say.

“There is no way of knowing. His behavior was strange in general, as it always was, I might add.” “What was strange about it?”

“He kept trying to look those around him in the eyes and he kept smiling a distracted kind of smile.” “Nothing else?” asked the hoarse voice.

“Nothing else.”

The procurator banged his cup as he poured himself more wine. After draining it to the dregs, he began speaking, “This is the fact of the matter: although we have been unable—at least for the present—to locate any of his disciples or followers, we should not assume that there are none.” The guest listened attentively, his head bowed.

“And so, to avoid surprises of any kind,” continued the procurator, “immediately and without any fuss, please make the bodies of all three executed men disappear from the face of the earth and bury them quietly and in secret so that neither hide nor hair of them remains.” “Yes, Hegemon,” said the guest, and rose, saying, “In view of the complexity and seriousness of this matter, permit me to leave right away.” “No, sit down for a while longer,” said Pilate, gesturing to his guest to stay. “There are two other matters. First—your vast accomplishments in the highly demanding post of chief of the secret service for the procurator of Judea afford me the pleasant opportunity of informing Rome of that fact.” Here the visitor’s face turned pink, he got up and bowed to the procurator, saying, “I am merely doing my duty as a member of the imperial service!” “But I would like to request,” continued the Hegemon, “that if you are offered a transfer with a promotion, that you refuse it and stay here. I do not wish to lose you on any account. Let them find some other way to reward you.” “I am happy to serve under you, Hegemon.”

“I am very glad to hear that. And so, to turn to the other matter. It concerns that, what’s his name … Judas of Kerioth.” Here the guest gave the procurator that stare of his, and then, as usual, extinguished it.

“They say,” continued the procurator, lowering his voice, “that he allegedly received money for welcoming that crazy philosopher into his house.” “Will receive,” the chief of the secret service gently corrected the procurator.

“And is it a large sum?”

“No one can know that, Hegemon.”

“Even you?” asked the Hegemon, his astonishment an expression of praise.

“Alas, even I,” calmly replied the guest. “But I do know that he will receive the money this evening. He has been summoned today to Kaifa’s palace.” “Ah, that greedy old man from Kerioth,” remarked the procurator, smiling. “He is an old man, isn’t he?” “The Procurator is never wrong, but this time he is mistaken,” replied the guest amiably. “The man from Kerioth is a young man.” “You don’t say! Can you describe him to me? Is he a fanatic?”

“Oh, no, Procurator.”

“I see. Anything else?”

“He’s very handsome.”

“And? Has he perhaps one particular passion?”

“It’s hard to have precise knowledge of everyone in this vast city, Procurator …”

“Oh, no, no, Afranius! Don’t underestimate your talents.”

“He does have one passion, Procurator.” The guest paused briefly. “A passion for money.” “And what is his occupation?”

Afranius raised his eyebrows, thought a moment, and replied, “He works in a money-changer’s shop that belongs to one of his relatives.” “Ah, yes, yes, yes, yes.” Here the procurator fell silent, looked around to make sure there was no one on the balcony, and then said quietly, “The fact is today I received information that he will be murdered tonight.” Here the guest not only fixed the procurator with his gaze, he even held it there for a while, and then replied, “You have given too flattering an account of me, Procurator. In my opinion I do not deserve your recommendation. I have no such information.” “You merit the highest possible reward,” replied the procurator, “but such information does exist.” “Dare I inquire who gave you this information?”

“Allow me not to disclose that for the moment, especially since the information is accidental, unclear, and unreliable. But it is my duty to foresee everything. That is my job, and more than anything else, I must trust my own intuition because it has never deceived me. According to the information I have, one of Ha-Notsri’s secret friends, outraged by this money-changer’s monstrous betrayal, has conspired with accomplices to kill him tonight, and to send the money he received for his betrayal back to the high priest with a note saying: ‘I am returning your accursed money.’” The head of the secret service gave the Hegemon no more of his sudden stares and continued listening to him with narrowed eyes, as Pilate continued, “Do you think the high priest will find it pleasant to receive such a gift on the night of the holiday?” “Not only will it not be pleasant,” replied the guest, smiling, “but I believe it will cause a huge scandal, Procurator.” “And I share your opinion. That is why I want you to take care of this matter, that is, take every measure to insure the safety of Judas of Kerioth.” “The Hegemon’s command shall be executed,” began Afranius, “but I must reassure the Hegemon: the villains’ plot is extraordinarily difficult to carry out. After all, just think,”—as he spoke, the guest turned and continued—“they have to track him down, murder him, find out how much money he received, find a way of returning it to Kaifa, and do it all in one night? Today?” “All the same, he will be murdered tonight,” Pilate repeated stubbornly. “I’m telling you, I have a premonition! And my premonitions have yet to deceive me,” whereupon a spasm passed over the procurator’s face, and he briefly rubbed his hands.

“Yes, sir,” obediently replied the guest, who then rose, stood up straight, and suddenly asked severely, “So, they’ll murder him, Hegemon?” “Yes,” replied Pilate, “and our only hope is your astonishing proficiency which so amazes everyone.” The guest adjusted the heavy belt under his cloak and said, “I have the honor of wishing you health and happiness.” “Ah, yes,” Pilate exclaimed softly, “I almost forgot! I owe you money!”

The guest showed surprise.

“Really, Procurator, you don’t owe me anything.”

“Yes I do! Remember the crowd of beggars when I entered Yershalaim … I wanted to throw them money, but I didn’t have any, so I borrowed some from you.” “Oh, Procurator, that was such a trifle!”

“Even trifles should be remembered.”

Pilate then turned, lifted his cloak, which was lying on the chair behind him, took a leather pouch out from underneath, and handed it to the guest. Bowing, the latter accepted it, and hid it under his cloak.

“I shall expect your report,” Pilate began, “on the burial and also on this matter of Judas of Kerioth tonight. You hear me, Afranius, tonight. The escort will be given orders to wake me as soon as you appear. I shall be expecting you.” “It has been an honor,” said the chief of the secret service, and he turned and left the balcony. A crunching sound was heard as he walked over the wet sand on the terrace, and then the shuffling of his sandals sounded on the marble surface between the two lions. Then his legs, torso, and finally, his hood disappeared from view. Only then did the procurator see that the sun had already set and twilight had come.