The Weeping Chamber Page 19

  “But My kingdom is not of this world.”

  Pilate had first sent Yeshua away to simply thwart Caiaphas. Now, however, his determination to resist the crowd’s call for the man’s death came from the brief time he had spent with the prophet. Yeshua’s peace spoke loudly, and His single statement of defense echoed through Pilate’s mind.

  “But My kingdom is not of this world.”

  Nothing in Roman law could convict Yeshua. If Pilate took pride in any institution, it was Roman law and tradition. Aside from his unexpected admiration for the prophet, Pilate had no intention of betraying his personal convictions as a soldier and citizen of the republic.

  Pilate began loudly, intending to forestall a formal trial. “You brought this man to me, accusing Him of leading a revolt. I have examined Him thoroughly on this point in your presence and find Him innocent. Herod came to the same conclusion and sent Him back to us. Nothing this man has done calls for the death penalty. So I will have Him flogged, but then I will release Him.”

  Some of Caiaphas’s men had been circulating near the back. They shouted as previously instructed, “Take this man away! Crucify Him!”

  In the shocked silence that followed Pilate’s quick verdict, those shouts rang as clearly as trumpet blasts.

  Within seconds, a few of the drunks took up the cry, looking to generate excitement. Their hoarse voices prompted the conservative Jews in the middle of the crowd to join in. “Crucify Him! Crucify Him!”

  The shouts soon became a unified chant. Others, at Caiaphas’s orders, had spread dissension by telling people this had become an issue of autonomy; Rome was refusing to do the bidding of Jerusalem. Still others went through the crowd, spreading the story of how Yeshua had failed to perform a miracle in front of Herod. Rage at Rome and disappointment in a failed messiah were fueling the discontent.

  Caiaphas, near the front, sat serenely, delighted that his masterful plan was working so well.

  Pilate beckoned Caiaphas forward. “If a riot occurs,” Pilate said in a near yell, “I hold you responsible. To keep peace, I suggest you withdraw the charges. That way I don’t have to declare Him innocent. As for my part, I am willing to have the man flogged to save face for you. Later, if you build a case against Him that will stand up in court, bring Him back to me.”

  Caiaphas merely backed away, smiling his contempt for Pilate. Caiaphas lifted his hands, as if accepting the orchestrated shouting of the crowd in triumphant tribute.

  “Crucify Him! Crucify Him!”

  Pilate saw a solution.

  Chapter Fifty-five

  I left the highway and pushed my way through low brush, sweating despite the coolness of the early morning. My progress was impeded by loose sand and rocks and by the steepness of the climb.

  I would not be stopped, however.

  By following the empty wash of a ravine as it narrowed upward, I could reach the highest point of these hills. Then, at the top, walking along the edge of the cliff, I would see the bottom of the ravine at its widest and deepest. I would find a place where the drop was far enough and steep enough to be certain of quick death.

  But certainty in this world is deceptively slippery.

  **

  Pilate knew his solution would not fail.

  He had remembered a recently captured notorious insurrectionist named Barabbas. A member of the Sicarri, infamous for the short curved swords they used to assassinate Jews they marked as traitors, Barabbas had proudly confessed to killing more than twenty Jews, usually by sneaking up behind them in a crowd and stabbing them in the liver. The Romans had arrested him as he led an attempt to steal a supply train of mules.

  It was the custom to release one prisoner to the Jews at Passover. Few were those who might want this killer loose among the general population.

  Barabbas, of course, was the solution.

  Pilate stood. Silence rippled back through the crowd, so that when he spoke, all heard him clearly.

  “Which one do you want me to release to you—Barabbas, or Jesus who is called the Messiah?”

  Pilate sat again, expecting the obvious answer to the artful dilemma he had placed upon the Jews.

  He might have received it, had he not attributed kingship to Yeshua. But his reminder of Yeshua’s messianic claim played directly into the anger of a crowd fanatically determined to preserve its religion by ridding themselves of a heretic.

  “Not this man!” It was a roar that surged forward. “But Barabbas!”

  Among the crowd there were a few weak shouts for the prophet, but in the confusion of the swaying mob, these people were beaten and dragged away by Caiaphas’s men. No others dared to resist the outcry for Yeshua’s blood.

  “Barabbas! Barabbas!”

  Pilate was astounded. Before he could react, however, a slave brought him a wax tablet with a message from his wife: “Have nothing to do with that innocent man, for I have suffered a great deal in a dream because of Him.”

  It was an ominous inscription arriving at an ominous moment. The night before Caesar’s assassination, Calpurnia, Caesar’s third wife, had dreamed of Caesar’s torn and bloody toga and had unsuccessfully tried to prevent his departure in the morning. All Romans knew of the dream, and all Romans treated dreams with respect.

  For Pilate, however, it was far too late to take his wife’s advice.

  Pilate stood. It took five minutes for the crowd to settle. Five minutes with sweat growing heavy on Pilate’s face. Sweat he dared not wipe for fear of showing weakness.

  When finally he could speak without yelling, Pilate asked, “So what should I do with Yeshua, the one called the Christ?” He not only unwittingly repeated his mistake, but he had also thrown it at them with the imperial arrogance of Rome.

  “Crucify Him!” The roar from the crowd was like an army charging forward. “Crucify Him!”

  Pilate looked sideways at Yeshua. The prophet was cloaked with resigned sadness but had not lost His air of deep, intense peace.

  “But My kingdom is not of this world.”

  A soldier who reaches governorship is not bullied easily.

  Pilate raised his arms and held them high until he had the crowd’s silence. “Why? What crime has He committed? I have found no reason to sentence Him to death. I will therefore flog Him and let him go.”

  “Crucify Him! Crucify Him!” The shouts became more frenzied.

  Pilate wondered for a moment if the mob would attack. He didn’t wait to give it the opportunity. Above the deafening noise, he motioned to his soldiers to take Yeshua back inside the palace.

  Chapter Fifty-six

  I stood at the edge of the cliff. Wind pushed against my face, its freedom mocking me.

  The sky. The corner of the distant city. The red stone of the hills. All of it filled my eyes. As a last sight of the world, it was better than a sword slashing downward, or disbelief at blood pouring from a speared belly, or fevered thrashings against dirty sheets, or dark cold water closing in, or any of a number of possible final images.

  I was hopeful, too, that my death would be quick.

  Eyes closed, all that remained was to dive forward into emptiness. The blue sky and red stone hills in my mind would be a balm in those final seconds. Time would have no meaning once my skull exploded against rock.

  There would be only nothingness.

  **

  At the whipping pillar, as the soldiers gathered around Yeshua and began to strip Him, Pilate knew what to expect. During his long career, he had often been among the enlisted soldiers who engaged in the ancient custom—the games of mockery that followed after a criminal had been whipped bloody.

  One soldier already held a purple robe. Another soldier had gathered thorn branches and woven them into a crown to force upon Yeshua’s head. From the vulgar banter Pilate overheard, these soldiers found it humorous that this lone, naked figure had claimed to be king. They would savage Him for it and, in so doing, vent their hatred for Jews, a conquered people who refused to play the role
of the conquered.

  Several soldiers forced Yeshua to bend over the waist-high pillar. Runnels had been gouged into the ground below to drain blood, and flies collected on the small pools of red that lay stagnant from the earlier whippings of two convicted robbers.

  A burly man stood ready on each side of the pillar, each holding a whip of leather strands woven around dozens of small shards of pottery. They waited for a signal from the governor.

  Pilate told himself he was letting an innocent man be whipped for a good reason. He hoped the intense pain of the scourging would force Yeshua to defend Himself against the accusations. Pilate hoped, too, that once he showed a bloody, beaten man to the crowd—especially a beaten Jew to a crowd of other Jews—a collective pity would satiate the lust for His death.

  Pilate nodded.

  Soldiers kicked Yeshua’s legs apart to expose all parts of His body equally.

  With a grunt of effort, one of the burly men swung his whip down, cracking the thongs of leather against Yeshua’s back. As he pulled the whip away, his companion aimed lower and lashed savagely from the other side. Shards of pottery raked Yeshua and curled around the inside of His thighs.

  Incredibly, Yeshua did not cry out.

  His silence spurred both men into an enthusiastic attack of alternating whips that caused instant rivers of blood to blossom across His shoulders, ribs, and legs.

  Pilate kept waiting for the man to cry out. Instead, Pilate broke first. “Enough!” he barked.

  Pilate turned his back as the soldiers swarmed in with the robe and the crown of thorns. Yet his ears could not block out the jeers of their taunts. Nor the thuds of their blows against the beaten man’s face.

  Chapter Fifty-seven

  I discovered I could not do it. Standing at the edge of the cliff, I could not will myself to close my eyes and embrace death by diving forward. The spark of life burned too brightly.

  I have searched myself many times since, wondering if fear or cowardice stopped me.

  With all honesty, I believe it was neither.

  As I closed my eyes to ready myself to jump, I could not hold the blue sky or red stone hills as my final image. Instead my daughter’s face pushed its way into my mind. I saw it not defeated or in agony, but as it had been before the flames had melted the flesh of her legs: beautiful, innocent, and full of love for me. It reminded me of how much penalty I deserved because of my folly.

  At that moment, I finally realized that death was too easy an escape. A more just punishment would be to live out my life with my daughter and her crippled, scarred legs as reminders of what I had done.

  **

  Pilate preceded Yeshua and His escort to the front of the crowd. The voices had become hoarse from shouting. Only a minority of Jews wanted Yeshua dead, but their fanaticism made up for their lack of numbers.

  At the sight of Pilate, the jostling and unruliness calmed.

  “Look,” Pilate said, “I am bringing Yeshua out to you. I want you to know that I find nothing against Him.”

  Pilate crossed his arms and stared at them. He did not want more of his own speech to diminish the pitiful horror of what he was about to do.

  Moments later, the soldiers pushed Yeshua forward.

  Pilate had guessed correctly. For a moment, no man in the crowd spoke as all strained to see the prophet from Galilee.

  Yeshua was too exhausted to lift His head and face them squarely. He shivered from shock and pain. The purple robe was black with His blood. The crown of thorns had been jammed so securely on His head that more blood streamed down His cheeks and neck.

  “Here is the man!” Pilate said.

  Only a second passed before Caiaphas screamed, “Crucify Him! Crucify Him!”

  It was enough to send the crowd into another frenzy. Not even Pilate’s raised arms could stop it. He was forced to wait until the cries finally faded.

  “You crucify Him,” Pilate said, directing his words at Caiaphas. “I find Him not guilty.”

  Pilate spoke with a finality that was clear in the set of his square face. Enough had been done to the man. Pilate intended to provide an imperial escort to take Yeshua to Galilee.

  Caiaphas saw that determination. Finally, forced to the wall, Caiaphas made known the true charge held against Yeshua. It explained, too, why Herod had sent the prophet back unjudged.

  Caiaphas said, “By our laws, He ought to die because He called Himself the Son of God.”

  Pilate felt a lurch of sliding visceral fear. The Son of God. Soldier or not, he was susceptible to superstition. The uncanny peace of his prisoner, the silence of the man against all accusations. What kind of spirit ruled this man, that He would make such a claim?

  Then anger displaced the fear as Pilate realized the implications of Caiaphas’s statement. Because, worse, the emperor was considered a god. If word were to reach Caesar that another had claimed divinity and had not received punishment . . .

  “This is a new matter,” Pilate snarled at Caiaphas. “I should throw the case out simply because you failed to cite this earlier. Instead, I will interview the prisoner again. In private.”

  **

  “Where are You from?” Pilate asked Yeshua.

  “But My kingdom is not of this world.”

  Yeshua gave Pilate no answer. Blood had crusted in His beard. He stood half crippled from torn flesh and muscles. But as always, He maintained the unearthly calm that so unnerved the Roman governor.

  “You won’t talk to me?” Pilate demanded, still angry that Caiaphas had manipulated him. “Don’t You realize that I have the power to release You or crucify You?”

  Yeshua answered, “You would have no power over Me at all unless it were given to you from above. So the one who brought Me to you has the greater sin.”

  “But My kingdom is not of this world.”

  **

  “If you had not taken away our rights to capital punishment,” Caiaphas told Pilate, “you would not be faced with this problem.”

  They stood at the edge of the restless crowd. Yeshua was still inside the palace.

  “That is the past,” Pilate answered. “The man will be set free. I have no grounds to order his death.”

  “There will be rioting.”

  “Over one man?”

  “You Romans never understand the Jews,” Caiaphas said. “This trial is not merely about a magician seducing the people with his heretical claims. Our freedom of religion is at stake. That is why the crowd is so determined to see Him crucified.”

  “You have a stench that offends me,” Pilate said. “This is about you and a battle for power. You are jealous of what this man has because of all who follow Him. Don’t try to dab perfume on a rotting carcass by claiming religious piety.”

  Caiaphas gave Pilate a silky smile of hatred. “As you well know,” Caiaphas answered, “your own power is slipping. You have mishandled other affairs; Tiberius Caesar is tired of disturbances in Judea. He has charged you with upholding our religious customs.”

  “He has charged me with upholding the law.”

  Caiaphas shook his head, sensing victory. “If you release this man, you are not a friend of Caesar. Anyone who declares himself a king is a rebel against Caesar.”

  It was not a subtle threat.

  On his index finger, Pilate wore the gold ring engraved “Caesar’s friend,” a symbol the emperor had bestowed on Pilate before his departure from Rome. Did he want to keep the ring?

  Behind Caiaphas’s accusation was obvious political blackmail. If Pilate did not do as requested, the Sanhedrin could send a delegation to Tiberius with two charges against him: direct disobedience to the emperor’s wish that the Jews be allowed to handle their own religious affairs and neglect of duty for failing to punish a subversive attempting to set himself up as king.

  Pilate had no place to go, unless he was willing to sacrifice his political career for a peasant.

  He had Yeshua brought before the crowd.

  “Here is your king!”
Pilate said. These Jews had spent generations defying Rome, declaring allegiance only to their God. If Pilate was going to be defeated, at the very least he wanted to expose their hypocrisy.

  “Away with Him,” they yelled. “Away with Him—crucify Him!”

  “What? Crucify your king?”

  “We have no king but Caesar,” Caiaphas and the other leaders shouted back.

  Another time, Pilate might have enjoyed victory. Not only had he just heard Caiaphas pledge loyalty to Rome, but the chief religious leaders of the Jews had also just denied the lordship of their almighty God.

  But this was not a moment to enjoy. The crowd had begun to shout again for crucifixion.

  Pilate ordered a slave to fetch him a golden bowl with water. It was his last resort. Surely if he declared the execution of Yeshua a judicial murder, the crowd would respect this rarely used custom and let Yeshua go.

  Pilate rose from the judgment seat to perform the symbolic act. He washed his hands in full view of the crowd.

  “I am innocent of the blood of this man,” he said. “The responsibility is yours!”

  Caiaphas led the crowd by calling out the Old Testament formula reply for accountability. “We will take responsibility for His death—we and our children!” Caiaphas shouted.

  The frenzied crowd picked up the chant. “We and our children will be responsible for His death!”

  Pilate spoke with weariness to a nearby guard, pronouncing his final verdict in Latin for the records.

  “Let him be crucified.”

  Chapter Fifty-eight

  I remained on the edge of the cliff, uncaring of the passage of time. I did not want to die; neither did I want to live.  What then, I asked myself again and again.

  What then?

  **

  In a small courtyard surrounded by the soldiers’ barracks, a centurion—his grizzled face reflecting his boredom with a duty he’d carried out dozens of times—organized the required soldiers and wood beams to execute the criminals sentenced earlier. A slave paced at the fringes of the group, carrying two bags—one with nails and a hammer, the other with the provisions to last the soldiers during their guard vigils beneath the crosses.