The Redemption of Pontius Pilate (49 page)

“Did they really heal a lame man, though?” asked Pilate.

“That old beggar has been lying on his cot outside the Temple for as long as I've been coming to Jerusalem,” said Appius. “His legs were no bigger than sticks, but now his calves are as big as mine! I don't think he's quit running and leaping since he was healed yesterday.”

A few weeks later, Pilate returned to Caesarea to take care of business and see all of his clients. His nightmares were gradually lessening in intensity, although he still found himself unconsciously rubbing his hands together at odd times, trying to wash away a stain only he could see. Near the turn of the year he and his family journeyed to Jerusalem, since the Jews were gathering to celebrate the Feast of Lights. Longinus had explained this particular festival to Pilate long ago—something to do with lamps in the Temple burning for eight days on one day's worth of oil—but Pilate really only cared to see that the city remained calm and peaceful despite the arrival of thousands of pilgrims.

A few days after his arrival, little Decimus fell sick. His fever spiked dangerously high, and neither water nor food would stay in his stomach. Porcia and Pilate took turns staying up with him, and Pilate watched helplessly as the hope slowly drained from his wife's face. Aristarchus the physician was called in, and his diagnosis was bleak.

“There is no easy way to tell you this, Prefect, so I will be blunt,” the Greek told him. “The boy has the flux. It is nearly always fatal in children. The disease is halfway through its course; it will be another three days to a week before he becomes too weak to endure it any longer. I am deeply sorry. Some of the milk of poppy will ease his pain, but that is the most we can do for him.”

Pilate bowed his head and waved the man out. Porcia came storming into the room, grief and fury etched into her features.

“Did I not tell you?” she shrieked. “Did I not warn you to have nothing to do with his death?”

Pilate looked at her numbly. “You would send me away from our son's sickbed?” he asked in bewilderment.

“Not Decimus!” she snapped. “The Nazarene! This is your punishment for killing an innocent man, Proconsul Pontius Pilate! My dream told me that our son's life would be forfeit if you did not save him!”

“Save him?” Pilate said. “I could not save him. I could not . . . save him!” Suddenly an idea flared in his head. He shoved his wife aside as gently as his haste allowed and ran downstairs in his tunic, barefoot, not even worried about the appearance he was presenting to his men.

“Brutus Appius!” he roared. The big centurion emerged from the barracks moments later, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

“Yes, Governor?” he asked.

“Do you know how to find Cassius Longinus?” he asked.

“He and his family have taken rooms over by the weaver's market,” said Appius.

“In the name of all the gods, man, go and find him. Tell him that he must bring one of the Nazarene's apostles to me right away. Perhaps the one named John—he at least knows me. Go, centurion, and quickly!”

“What if he won't come?” asked Appius.

“Tell him—” Pilate paused a moment and swallowed hard. “Tell him that I am begging him to.”

The big officer pulled on a cloak and disappeared into the night. Pilate went back up to his quarters and took up his place by the boy's bed. Decimus was now five and a half years old, and big for his age, but the disease made him look shrunken and lifeless, like a porcelain doll. Beads of sweat glittered on his forehead, and the room stank of vomit and diarrhea. Porcia had wetted a cloth and was letting him suck moisture out of it, trying to slake his thirst without triggering the retching that would dehydrate him further. Pilate took his son's hand and looked his wife in the eye. Her raw grief and anger had made a wasteland of her beauty; accusation radiated out of her countenance like the raw cold of a winter storm in the mountains.

They sat there like that, neither saying a word, with the unconscious, whimpering child between them. Finally, after the changing of the midnight guard outside, they heard voices in the courtyard, and the outer door of the apartment opened. Pilate, now decently clad in a robe and sandals, stepped out of the sick room to see if his desperate summons had been answered.

There in his office stood Brutus Appius and Cassius Longinus. Between them stood a young man that Pilate had last seen outside the empty tomb of Jesus of Nazareth. He extended his hand.

“Your name is John, is it not?” he asked.

“Yes, Governor,” said the young Jew. “The others were afraid, but I know that you are no threat to us.”

“And I will not be, unless you become a threat to Rome,” said Pilate. “I regret the outcome of that trial more than anything I have ever done. But that is not why I have brought you here. My son is deathly ill; the doctors give no hope for him. I have heard that you and the others have been given the gift of healing your master once had. Can you help him?”

“Can I help him?” asked John. “No. But God can help anyone. Do you believe that?”

Pilate hung his head. “I don't know what I believe,” he finally said. “Except that I know your master was more than a normal man. I believe that he would have healed my son if I asked, and I believe that you can, too—whether it be by the power of God, or the power of the man I crucified.”

John nodded. “Take me to the boy,” he said.

Pilate led him into the sick room, where Porcia looked more grief-stricken than ever. She stared at the young Jew as he followed Pilate into the room. Finally she spoke.

“Are you one of the disciples of the Galilean?” she asked.

John nodded. “I am a follower of Jesus,” he said.

“Do you come here to behold your master's vengeance on my husband?” she said bitterly.

John gave her a look full of compassion. “My master did not believe in vengeance,” he said. “He taught us to love our enemies and do good to those who hate us.”

She gave him a desperate look of hope. “Can this be true?” she said.

John bent over Decimus' tiny form. He took in the pale face, the drawn expression, the tortured breathing, and a single tear ran down his cheek. He gently laid his hand across the boy's forehead and bowed his head. His lips moved in silent prayer.

For a few moments nothing changed. Then, gradually, the ambiance of the room began to subtly shift. The aroma of sickness was replaced by a much more subtle scent—the hint of flowers, of springtime, of sunshine on green meadows. The shadows crept back into the corners, and the oil lamp seemed to burn brighter. Finally, the Galilean leaned forward and kissed the boy's forehead, and then he sat back, exhausted.

Pilate was astonished. Decimus' face color was normal; his breathing was even, his cheeks full and ruddy. As Porcia took him in her arms, he opened one eye.

“Mama, I'm hungry,” he said.

Pilate hugged his son and called for broth, then kissed his wife on the forehead. By the time he turned around to thank John, the apostle of Jesus had quietly slipped out the door and was gone.

“Wait!” Pilate yelled, limping across the courtyard after John's retreating form. The disciple of Jesus paused at the gate and allowed Pilate to catch up. Pilate got within a few feet and paused, his old injury throbbing.

“What else may I do for you, Governor?” John asked calmly.

“I just wanted to thank you,” said Pilate, “and give you whatever reward you ask.”

“Thank God, and his Son, Jesus,” said the Galilean. “I did nothing but act as an instrument of their power.”

“But it was you that answered my summons,” said Pilate.

“A sick child needed healing, so I came.” said John. “But I perceive that your need for healing is just as great as his.”

“Me?” asked Pilate. “No, this injury is over a year old. It is as healed as it is going to get, at my age.”

“I do not speak of your knee,” said John. “I speak of your spirit. You are a tortured soul, in the agony of perdition.”

Pilate stopped, stunned that this stranger could know so well what he was feeling. “I don't know who told you this—” he began.

“No one told me,” said John. “It is written in every line of your face. The guilt of sending the Son of Man to the cross is more than anyone can bear. But He offers you His forgiveness, even now!”

Pilate's face darkened. “I neither want nor deserve his forgiveness, or anyone else's. You do not know me, Jew. My life's path has been stained with much blood—your master's was just the latest.”

“You speak out of pride, Governor. All men need forgiveness,” said John. “That is why the Master came into the world—so that the forgiveness of all the sins of man could be purchased once and for all. Would you not find peace?”

“Peace?” Pilate asked. “I don't even know what that means. But I owe you a debt for my son's life. What can I do to repay you?”

John shrugged. “I want nothing for myself,” he said. “The only thing I ask is this, because I know you did your best to spare my Master. You believed in his innocence. My brothers and I are likewise innocent of any crime, as Rome reckons such things. Will you continue to let us speak of The Way without interference?”

Pilate nodded. “As long as I am convinced that you and your fellow disciples pose no threat to Rome, I see no reason to interfere with you. I do not think that the religious leaders of the Jews share my sentiment, however.”

John smiled. “How could they?” he said. “To acknowledge the merits of our Gospel is to acknowledge their own guilt towards our Master. But we will bear their hostility and resistance as a badge of honor, and rejoice that we have been found worthy to suffer in the name of Jesus.”

With that, the young man smiled beatifically at Pilate. “When the burden of your sin becomes so heavy you can no longer bear it, my Master will lift it from your shoulders. All you need to do is ask.
Shalom
, Prefect Pontius Pilate!”

Then John turned and was gone, leaving Pilate staring after him. He felt drained of all energy, and yet the gnawing anger and frustration that had defined his life since the death of his daughter nearly eight years before was lightened. He slowly climbed the steps back to the room, where Porcia cradled their sleeping son in her arms. Her face was still streaked with tears.

“Forgive me, husband,” she said. “I said things in my grief that I would recall, if I could.”

Pilate looked at her and saw the young girl he had fallen in love with so long before, looking so aged and careworn that his heart broke for her. He limped across the room and kissed her furrowed brow. “You said nothing to me that I had not already said to myself many times over,” he said. “The Galilean holds no grudge, it seems. So how can I?”

He took Decimus' sleeping form in his arms and looked at the calm, untroubled face of the child, seeing in its planes the faces of his beloved wife, his lost daughter, his distant brothers, and even his own youthful self. He wondered what this child of the Pontii would grow up to be one day. He kissed the tiny, ruddy face, and the boy opened one eye and gave an enormous yawn.

“Hello,
tata
,” he said. “Have I been asleep long?”

“Only a little while,” Pilate answered. “You can go back to sleep if you want.”

“I think I will,” said the boy. “I was dreaming of the kindest man. He had a beard and funny scars on his hands, and he gave me a tiny little lamb to play with. Do you think I could have a pet lamb?”

Pilate nodded gravely. “I believe that the governor of Judea can procure one for you,” he said.

“That's silly,” said Decimus. “You are the governor!” Then he let out another yawn and closed his eyes. Pilate watched him fade back off to sleep, and then laid him back on his bed. He took his wife by the hand and led her to their own bedchamber, which they had not shared since the boy first grew sick days before. They held each other tightly until sleep claimed them both, and for once, Pilate did not dream of the blood on his hands.

The next few years were eventful. The followers of The Way continued to increase in numbers, boldly preaching the “gospel” of Jesus on the steps of the Temple, until finally the Sanhedrin felt forced to act. About a year after the healing of Decimus, one of the leaders of the new sect, a Greek proselyte named Stephen, was accused of blasphemy and dragged before the Jew's religious tribunal. When the charges against him were read out, he responded with a lengthy diatribe, accusing the Pharisees and priests of perverting and distorting the laws of Moses, and of murdering the Messiah of Israel. Unable to refute his soaring eloquence, the Temple supporters stopped up their ears and mobbed him, dragging him into the streets of Jerusalem and stoning him to death just outside the city walls. Even in death, Stephen conducted himself with grace and dignity, asking Jesus to forgive the men who slew him. Bleeding from a dozen cuts and gashes, Stephen exclaimed that he could see the Messiah standing in heaven at the right hand of God—and then he collapsed beneath the barrage of deadly rocks.

Stephen's murder broke the strange paralysis that had kept the priests from acting against the followers of Jesus for the two years since the death of the Galilean. Suddenly the open-air meetings were targets of violent attacks by the Temple priests, and many of the converts fled the city to avoid arrest. But they were not silenced; instead, they continued to preach the message of Jesus—which they had learned from his Apostles—wherever they went.

Pilate was angry at the flouting of Roman law—the Temple had no authority to execute anyone without his consent—and summoned Caiaphas before him at Herod's palace, charging him with breaking the peace. Caiaphas was not in the least repentant.

“We have repeatedly asked you, Prefect, to arrest these troublemakers!” he said. “But you have refused to do so, and their blasphemy finally angered the people so much that a spontaneous demonstration of outrage was necessary.”