But still the prisoner refused to speak.

"Are you King of the Jews?" Pilatus asked, clipping off the words in a dry tone that clearly proclaimed this to be his last chance to recant.

Seeming to realize this, the young rabbi lifted his head and said, "My kingdom is not of this world."

"There!" my master said triumphantly. "Did you hear that? His kingdom is not of this world. He denies being king of anything real and substantial. He no longer claims to be King of the Jews!"

But the tenacious scribe had no intention of losing his prey. "But he has stirred up the people throughout all Jewry, all the way from Galilee to here!"

"From Galilee?" Pilatus said, suddenly seeing a way to slip between the horns of his dilemma. "You say this man is a Galilaean? Well then, he falls under the jurisdiction of Herod Antipas, who happens to be here in Jerusalem to celebrate your Passover. Bring your prisoner before Herod, for I find no fault in him."

With a gesture, he commanded the guards to escort the accused man down to the awaiting throng, then he turned and strode back into the Praetorium followed by his guards. After watching the priests and scribes take their prisoner and, with angry growls, push him roughly before them out of the Judgment Hall, I followed my master into the feasting place.

When I approached, Pilatus was receiving a cup of wine from the hands of Claudia Procula, whose countenance revealed deep concern. I stood near, my eyes lowered and my face turned aside in a way I have of becoming nearly invisible while not missing a word.

"...but you mustn't worry," Pilatus told his wife. "It's nothing serious. Just another of those cristos."

"You say don't worry, Pontius, but I can't help it. If they're so unimportant as you claim, I cannot understand why you take the risks involved in dealing with them yourself."

"It's my job, my dear. And, to tell the truth, they intrigue me, with their eagerness to sacrifice everything for notoriety, even their lives. It's the professional actor's disease writ large."

"Pontius, I beg you. Please have nothing more to do with this affair. All last night I was tormented by a recurring dream about these wild-eyed fanatics, a dream that you were being destroyed by them, your reputation annihilated."

Pilatus chuckled. "My reputation in Rome is already in tatters, as you know."

"Don't joke, Pontius. I have a very strong, very dark premonition about this evening."

"Now, now, go back to our guests, Claudia. I'll join you soon."

"You are such a foolsometimes, Pontius."

"Mm? Yes, yes, I suppose so."

She turned angrily and went to the guests, and for a moment my master sipped his wine meditatively. "There's something that's been tickling my curiosity," he said, almost to himself, but knowing that I was nearby and listening.

"And what is that, master?"

"You suggested that one of these messiahs might someday gain a great following from among the world's unwashed and unwanted, and you used some sort of muddy metaphor about embers and grassfires to describe the spread of the messiah's cult."

"...Muddy?"

"But how can that be? Surely when posterity looks back upon this plague of messiahs it will harbor grave doubts that one among them could have been the true son of god, while all the rest were rogues or fools."

"Oh no, sire. Future generations will not wonder about the scores of unsuccessful cristos, because they will not know about them. History is always written by the winners, and if my doleful prediction comes true, the tale will be written by the followers of the successful messiah-whichever one that turns out to be. And you can bet that these disciples will make no mention of the other messiahs, because to do so would diminish their own importance as the followers of the one true voice out of the wilderness. The scores of forgotten messiahs of my 'muddy metaphor' will fall from the memory of man, and the successful messiah will shine forth without blemish or defect. His doubts will be glorified into philosophical questions while his weaknesses-if any are admitted-will be lauded as proofs of his humanity. He will be presented as perfect, pure of spirit and body. A virgin, like his mother. If he had a wife in life, his disciples will debase her or deny her existence. No, master, the successful cristo will have neither flaw nor competitor."

Pilatus had listened to me with an air of thinking of something else, something dark and deep, and this made me uneasy, for I was sure he needed his wits about him now more than ever.

"Sire, may I speak?" I asked.

"You do little else," he muttered.

"I fear there may be something to your noble wife's premonitions of danger. When dealing with these messiahs, you might quickly find your neck in a forked stick. If you decide in favor of the rustic preachers, the priests and scribes are sure to protest loudly enough to be heard in Rome. If you decide in favor of the priests and scribes, then you can expect scores of fanatical disciples to bare their chests to Roman spears and clamber up onto crosses to inflict their public suffering on you."

"You're saying there is no way I can win?"

"Once they start hurling the corpses of their 'oiled ones' at your head, it will no longer be a matter of winning, just a matter of not losing too much, and not losing it too publicly. Your salvation lies in doing nothing, while seeming to understand and sympathize with the rights and fears of both sides."

The Procurator nodded thoughtfully. Then he said, "I wonder how our lad is doing with Herod Antipas?"

"What do you plan to do, should he be dragged before you again?"

He closed his eyes and pressed his fingers deep into the sockets in weariness. "I shall do what I can to save the poor fellow's life, and if that fails, I shall try to give him a dignified death. Perhaps I can satisfy the priests by merely chastising and mocking him publicly, hoping they'll let it go at that."

"And if they won't let it go at that?"

"Then I'll offer to exchange the life of this harmless preacher for that of one of the condemned murderers we have in custody. Surely that will satisfy them."

"Surely? Have you forgotten that you are in Judaea?"

"What do you suggest I do?"

"If your efforts to placate them by chastizing and mocking this poor fanatic fail, and if the blood lust of the mob will not be satisfied by throwing them a murderer, then there is only one thing you can do. Publicly wash your hands of the matter and let the priests punish the man for blasphemy."

"But the penalty for blasphemy is stoning."

"It's theirpenalty. Their tradition. Your hands will be clean. Rome will not be responsible."

"Have you ever seen a stoning? I have. The first year I was here, I forced myself to witness one of their ritual lapidations. The spectacle of the vicious mob was more revolting, more frightening, than the gruesome fate of the victim, a poor woman taken in adultery. If you had seen the way they all joined in to deliver the punishment-tentatively at first... one small stone taken up and thrown listlessly, more a gesture of disapproval of the sin than a punishment for the sinner. But then a second stone was thrown, and a third, and suddenly the madness was upon them. Their eyes shone... little yapping cries escaped them as each encouraged the others... flecks of foam at the corners of their mouths. And the victim. The poor woman! Pleading... weeping... trying to reason with them as the stones struck her, knocking dust puffs from her robes. She tried at first not to show pain, because she sensed that pain would stimulate their frenzy... then she panicked when she tasted the blood running down her face. She fell, and the stones rained down upon her. She staggered to her feet, but the storm of stones continued. The stones they use are small ones, too small for any one blow to kill. This has the double advantage of freeing individual members of the mob from the guilt of murder and prolonging the victim's torment. She fell again and lay unmoving, and the mob waited, silent and panting. She quivered, then moved, then slowly rose and stood there, weak and swaying, blinded by her own blood, muttering words of gratitude as best she could through broken teeth, thinking that they had decided to show her mercy after all. The crowd listened and watched in tense, tingling silence. Then, as though stirred by a single urge, they began pelting her again. Finally... more than two hours after the thing began... a pulpy mess lay in the middle of the panting, sweating circle. The occasional stone made a thick plopping sound as it hit the amorphous bog they had created out of a woman. Then the crowd moved away in silence, chastened, satisfied, and no doubt many of them expressed to their families their disgust at the animal nature of their fellowman." My master's eyes focused again upon the here and now. "And the worst part was that no one was responsible. No individual citizen had killed her. It was the anonymous, snarling mob that had done this terrible thing." He looked at me, his eyes haggard from having reseen the horrors of the stoning in his memory. "Have you ever noticed, Greek, that when I am obliged to punish some rogue everyone says: 'Pilatus had the poor devil whipped', or "The Procurator crucified three murderers'. But when they speak of a stoning, they always use the passive voice, saying: 'The criminal was stoned to death', as though the stones themselves had done the deed, not those who cast them? No, I will not let them stone this poor fanatic whose only crime is a terrible lust for fame and significance. If there is no option but to execute him, I'll oblige them to use a more humane way."