The Painted Messiah (13 page)

She heard their prayers even as she lay in her bed. She could not sleep, not for a long time, but it was not the noise they made. It was the prayer itself. Like these strange Jews, Claudia Procula had begun to repeat the phrase over and over - a prayer for the impossible whispered by the oppressed.

Pilate seemed irritable at dinner the next evening. He and Procula were alone for once, their engagements cancelled by Pilate without explanation. He wanted to know where the wine had come from. It did not seem up to standard. He was not sure the beef was cooked well enough. Had the fruit been imported from Egypt as he liked it, or was it from a Judaean field? When this last question could not be answered by his server, he demanded to see his steward. The steward came before the master nervously. Threats were issued. No beatings, however.

Silence followed until Pilate offered the smile he used on diplomats and merchants he wanted to cheat as he asked Procula quite suddenly, 'Was your day pleasant, my dear?'

'Very fine, sir.'

The smile seemed to curdle, the eyes to grow colder, but the voice remained as strong and cheerful as if he were speaking about good weather. 'Our visitors from Jerusalem . . . are they disturbing you?'

His courtesy had all the evidence of good training.
In
the first days of their marriage he had been less schooled and more genuine. 'God, turn his heart from stone,' Procula whispered to herself, first in Latin then in the Aramaic, or as close as she could approximate the sound. Then, for her husband to hear, 'I'm beginning to enjoy them. I think I will miss them when they are gone.'

Pilate laughed because he imagined she had made a joke.

'I thought this evening I could smell them,' he said, his smile simply disappearing. 'The wind had shifted, or the stink of them had simply saturated our apartments. I'm considering moving them further back from the city wall because of it.'

'But they have a right to petition the prefect?'

'They have the rights I allow them and no more!'

'Is it such a very important thing, this image of Tiberius?'

'It is a matter of principle. These people believe only their religion is important. I happen to believe my own is equally valid.'

'They do not protest the imperial standards in Caesarea, sir. They ask only for an exception to be made in Jerusalem, as it has been since the friendship between Augustus and Herod the Great.'

'Perhaps I should summon Cornelius and send him out to tell them their prayers are working. Pilate's wife defends Jews!'

From her terrace the following morning Procula smiled at the sight of the Jews still murmuring the same prayer.
God, turn his heart from stone. God, turn his heart from stone.
They still marched in place with the weary patience of holy men. She watched them openly now, sending for her breakfast so she could stay outside and enjoy the sight of them.

When Pilate's favorite asked about the strange men and what they were saying, Procula answered the slave honestly. 'They pray for your master because he is an important man.'

***

At dinner Pilate entertained friends of Philip, the estranged half-brother of Antipas. They had already heard Pilate would visit Antipas and were urging him in the gentlest possible terms to reconsider his decision. Antipas was passionately disliked by the Jews, they said. A show of friendship could have devastating consequences on Pilate's ability to govern.

'One need only look from one's window to see the kind of determination the Judaeans have when they are angry.'

Pilate, who might under ordinary circumstances have played these men against the ambassadors of Herod Antipas, listened sullenly up to this point. Once they touched upon the subject of ten thousand Jews standing before his bedroom window, however, he could no longer keep his silence. 'Do you imagine Caesar's prefect fears the prayers of madmen?'

The ambassadors seemed to understand their mistake and retreated to a more general discussion of Antipas's corruption. He had, after all, married his brother's wife. There was a time, of course, when Antipas had impressed Rome, but those days were past. He bore his father's name, they said, not his father's talents.

Pilate asked Philip's ambassadors if they would have him insult Herod Antipas, a man who, only a year ago, Tiberius received graciously into his palace?

'Before his sin,' one of them answered with an irritating confidence in his moral superiority.

'I must honour the friends of Tiberius so long as they are his friends. You would do well to petition Tiberius for sanctions against Philip's brother, if that is your desire. For my part, I pray only for peace and prosperity in our time.'

He left abruptly that they would know the subject was finished forever. He gave orders that the gentlemen might enjoy the evening in the prefect's palace. At sunrise they were to be shown the gate. He was not really angry with them. They were doing what ambassadors do. He had greater matters to worry about - namely ten thousand Jews at his throat! He could hear them at the banquet, in his bed, even in the great hall. It had been four days. They had not eaten in all that time, and he had not enjoyed a meal! Not a single moment of serenity! That night was the worst. They murmured incessantly, the sound coming as if from a single throat, and he could not sleep. At dawn he walked into Procula's bedroom as she stood on the terrace watching them - in spite of his instructions.

'By my calculations, they have gone eight days without food,' he said.

Procula blushed at being discovered in her disobedience, though she did not apologize for it. 'You startled me, sir.'

'How did you sleep?' he asked. Procula stared out at the Jews as she answered him. 'I do not mind them, sir. Their prayer is like a song. I have grown very fond of it, actually.'

'Its meaning or its sound?' She blushed but did not answer him. 'It does not matter,' he said. 'It cannot go on much longer.'

'Perhaps you should give them what they want.'

'Perhaps you should love your own life more.' At her look of surprise, he continued, 'I do not take instructions from slaves or women, Procula. Those foolish enough to offer it, do so at their peril!'

'You asked me before any of this began if I thought it was a good idea.'

'You thought it was an excellent idea.'

'You
thought it was an excellent idea! I simply agreed. I think now I made a mistake.'

'The mistake you make is resisting the will of your husband!'

Pilate awoke early the following morning to the sound of the prayer. He summoned his adjutant before he even left his bed. Cornelius came into his presence still fighting off the effects of the previous evening's drunkenness and still stinking of his Syrian whores. 'I want a cohort of infantry in full battle gear, assembled in the great stadium, Centurion, with a second cohort of cavalry in support. In addition to that, I want a century to escort our visitors into the stadium, where I will give them my decision. Make sure all but the century remain concealed until I give the signal for you to prepare for attack. At that point I will give them one last chance. Should they refuse to accept my decision, we will end it there - killing every last man.'

Cornelius answered that he would make the arrangements.

Pilate proceeded to his barber, where he dictated a number of letters. Then he enjoyed his breakfast of wine-soaked bread, eggs, and
mulsum
, a drink made of honey and wine. At midmorning his slaves dressed him for military combat, and he rode his horse into the great stadium. His escort included a half a dozen

servants and a squad of officers. Joining Pilate at the gates to the stadium, Cornelius informed him that everything had been arranged. As Pilate rode into the arena the Jews accosted him with the same droning prayer to their god, and he congratulated himself on calling an end to it. When he had settled his horse in front of them he commanded Cornelius to silence them.

Cornelius lifted his arm. Slowly, inevitably the prayer ceased. 'You will tell the prefect what it is you desire of him!' he shouted in Latin.

The command was translated, and one of the protestors stepped forward. He spoke Latin with surprising ease. 'We desire that no image - either that of man or beast or pagan god - reside within the walls of the holy city of Jerusalem. It is the place of our Temple, the place where our God resides, and His commandments forbid us to look upon such images.'

'In all the empire one city alone resists the law requiring the public display of the
imago
standard,' Pilate answered. 'What you ask of me is to insult Caesar. This no intelligent man dares, but I will give you something. I am a reasonable man after all. Accept what I have placed within the city of Jerusalem, and I will not push for further concessions. Jerusalem has always been distinct from all other cities in the empire, because the Jews befriended Julius Caesar when he sorely needed friends. Augustus Caesar recognized this, and Tiberius carries the tradition forward. I change nothing. I only require that the universal law be applied universally! It is a matter of principle, which the prefects before me ought to have enforced but failed to do because of a lack of resolve.'

'You defile our city!' their spokesman answered. Pilate, having quickly grown sick of that particular accusation, felt a stirring of rage and stared at the young man who flung his accusations about so recklessly. He was a thin, dark haired man of middle height with a beauty Pilate had rarely seen in an otherwise masculine figure. He had the eyes of a fanatic, the voice of a man people follow. 'As to the law,' the Jew continued, as if trained to rhetoric, 'your order is contrary to all agreements between our two nations. We therefore humbly ask you to remove the image!'

'What is your name, man, that I may know with whom I am dealing?

'I am called Judas,' he answered. 'A perfect name for a rebel. It was a Judas, as I recall, who nearly destroyed the Jews with war after the death of Herod. Centurion, give
our
Judas my answer to his prayer.'

Cornelius drew his sword and shouted his command: 'Soldiers of Rome! Prepare for battle!'

A moment later, horse and infantry appeared, weapons drawn and glistening in the midday sun. They came in squads and centuries, tightly grouped, just as they would enter a battlefield. They swept out from under the stadium seats and from under the flooring of the racetrack along the ramps the charioteers used to enter the track, flanking an enemy that found itself quite suddenly and completely at Pilate's mercy. Pilate gave an order to his centurion, who repeated it. The troops ceased their advance. 'Here is my answer to your prayer, Judas! What do you say to it?' The certainty of death swept through the crowd, and it was not without satisfaction that Pilate saw the effect. He let it take hold before he committed his troops to slaughter. 'Now, tell me, man. Are you prepared to die for the sake of one small bronze head inside the walls of Jerusalem?'

Pulling his hair ceremoniously away from his neck, Judas fell to his knees and ripped his tunic, exposing his neck for the Roman swords. 'To the last man!' he said and dropped his chin to his chest that the sword might cut him cleanly. Those closest to him, fell to their knees as well and pushed their long hair away from their necks, after his example. As others saw what these men did, they too knelt, until the entire stadium presented only Roman soldiers with weapons drawn and Jews kneeling submissively, every last man offering his neck.

Pilate's victory soured, but he commanded the centurion to have the men prepare to attack. 'Soldiers of Rome! Advance to battle!' Cornelius shouted.

'Your time is running out, Judas!' Pilate called.

Judas was the first to begin the chant: 'God, turn his heart from stone.' First hundreds, then thousands picked up the chant. 'God, turn his heart from stone.' Finally, they all recited it as they waited on their knees to die.

Pilate had only to keep silent and the racetrack would run with blood - for the sake of an image as common as the Roman Eagle! He nearly did. He should have, he knew, but something stopped him. The absurdity of the principle, perhaps. They were willing to give their lives for it, but he could not kill two legions' worth of men over something so insignificant. It simply was not worth that much carnage.

'Stand down, Centurion.'

Cornelius gave the order, and the troops obeyed crisply, stopping their march only steps from the first of the kneeling Jews. They would have marched forward with the same indifference. Did these Jews know that? Did they imagine their god had saved them? No, he thought. Pontius Pilate has spared your miserable lives, but he will not do it a second time! As soon as Judas understood that he had won, he stood. His people followed his lead and the prayer stopped. 'I will give you what you desire,' Pilate said to him. 'The
imago
standard will be removed before you return to your city. You have won a small battle, Judas, because your lives are not worth the trouble of taking - not on this occasion - but there will be a day when you offer your necks and I will take them and those of your women and children as well!'

As Pilate's words were translated into Aramaic, the exhausted men broke into a spontaneous prayer that was, finally, something other than the one they had uttered incessantly. Only Judas did not speak to his god. He kept his eyes on Pilate. Pilate recognized the challenge but refused to be drawn into it. He had given his order. As far as he was concerned the matter was finished.