Nevertheless, he replied alertly to every question put to him by Aubrey. He also replied, though less quickly, to questions put to him by the others. A curious relief betrayed itself in his features, as slowly drawn out of the depth of memory, his story unfolded itself before the astounded ears of the three men.

THE day set for the trial of Jesus was mild and cool. I dressed myself carefully in my new uniform of a Roman Captain, an honor unique for a Hebrew boy.

The streets were crowded with pedestrians and riders on donkeys. The Jews in constant fear of persecution or oppression, grasped any occasion, however insignificant, of making merry or at least of vociferating. It was this, and not the fact that a matter of colossal importance was about to take place, that brought large multitudes to the Court. The same need for excitement and noise made them shout afterwards: “Crucify him! Crucify him!”

The people entertained no hatred for Jesus. They had seen many erratic prophets. Peculiar claims to divinity or royalty rather amused than angered them. But this was a rare privilege,—to see a prophet taken seriously by the priests, and actually brought to trial.

The Courtroom was already filled. I recognized a few officers who invited me to join them, but I preferred to remain alone in a corner. Two young men near me were talking in Latin, and changed immediately to Hebrew, taking me for a Roman, no doubt. They were tall, thin, wore short beards, and their dress was a compromise between the Roman toga and the Hebrew kaftan.

“Whatever,” remarked the older of the two, “our love for our country may be, we must acknowledge that Jerusalem produces no artists.”

“If only,” replied the other, “our ancestors had accepted the Golden Calf in place of the tablets…”

“Yes, we should have had artists instead of priests, for we certainly do not lack ability.”

“The priests are a plague, but I prefer them to the reformers. I prefer them because they are corrupt. Beauty may grow on the soil of corruption even as the rose feeds on ordure. But reformers, being obstinate, ignorant boors, are always at war with Beauty. Did you ever hear the fellow whom the priests are dragging before the Governor?”

“Yes, on two occasions.”

“What does he say?”

“He hides the poverty of his thought under a cloak of parables. A paradox conceals his lack of logic. ‘Love your enemy!’ he says. What lack of pride! How typical of slaves! Strength and hate are brothers. Indeed, it is more important to hate than to love indiscriminately. Jesus of Nazareth speaks as a slave preaching to slaves!”

“Why do they take him seriously? If he is crucified, he may become a source of danger. Some poet may write a song about him, embellishing his philosophy and his ancestry.”

“He calls himself the Son of God…”

“I should like to go away from Jerusalem to Athens or Rome– —”

“So should I.”

“Any place indeed, where one does not meet so many sons of God.”

Pilate entered, followed by two Roman officers. He seated himself upon the judgment seat and breathed heavily for several moments. He was becoming too stout and tired rapidly. The Jews glanced furtively at him. They had heard all sorts of fantastic stories about his cruelties and his orgies. The Romans, however, looked at him smilingly. A few of the officers nodded.

Procla, the wife of Pilate, came in unnoticed, and hid behind a pillar near her husband. She was slim and tall. Her eyebrows, several shades darker than her hair, contrasted vividly with her pale face. Her lips were always red, her hands moved restlessly.

“Bring in the prisoner,” Pilate commanded.

Jesus was brought in by a soldier. He was dressed in tatters and on his head he wore a withered wreath. The populace hissed. Some called out: “King! King!” An old woman spat. Jesus showed no emotion. His blue eyes were fixed beyond Pilate.

“Silence!” Pilate ordered.

“What is this man’s guilt?” he asked of the High Priest, a stout individual, gaudily dressed.

“He blasphemes against our faith.”

“Words, words, vague words! Is he guilty of any concrete transgression against the law?”

“He calls himself king, Pilate.”

“He speaks in metaphors,” Pilate yawned, bored. “I do not find him guilty.”

“He is guilty! He is guilty!” shouted the populace.

“You hear it, Pilate,” the High Priest added. “He is guilty. It is the truth.”

“Truth? What is truth?” Pilate asked, addressing Jesus.

“Everyone that is of the truth heareth my voice,” answered Jesus gently.

“He blasphemes again. Blasphemer! Traitor!” shouted the people.

“You hear it, Pilate?”

The air was becoming insufferable. Pilate was feeling drowsy. He longed to be back at the palace, drink cool wine, and read the new edition of Ovid’s Ars Amatoria, which amused him greatly.

“Ye have a custom that I should release unto you one at the Passover; will ye therefore that I release unto you the king of the Jews?”

“No, not this man! Barabbas!” shouted a thousand voices. “Crucify him, crucify him!”

Pilate turned his head for a moment and saw Procla. “Ah, my dear, you see it is not possible. I would gladly save him for one of your philosophic receptions, but the rabble, my love– —” He made a gesture of despair. Pilate’s wife did not answer. She made an indefinite motion.

“Take him!” Pilate commanded, and turning to a soldier, “Bring me some perfumed water that I may wash my hands and face.”

“Saviour! Save yourself! Try a miracle! King, look to your crown!”

The people were frantic with joy. They laughed, shouted, parodied the words of Jesus. “ ‘Everyone who heareth my voice– —’ ”

“Who heareth his voice?”

“Where are your chariots, King?”

A cross was dragged through the crowd, and laid upon the back of Jesus. He accepted the burden with the same meekness and unconcern with which he had accepted the judgment.

I pushed through the crowd, and shouted at him, “If you are man, raise your cross and smite them.”

Jesus answered without looking at me, “Love your enemies!”

“Love! Love! It is more important to hate,” I answered, remembering the conversation of the young men. The people pressed in front and back of Jesus. The soldiers made a passage-way with their elbows, swearing at the top of their voices. Jesus stumbled under the weight of his cross.

“Why do you hanker for martyrdom if your back is too weak for a wooden cross?” I asked. Somehow I felt his humiliation was my humiliation. It made all Jewry contemptible. My thwarted pity turned to mockery. I was not mocking Jesus alone. I was mocking myself. I was mocking all Judea.

Jesus, paying no attention to his tormentors, flashed a look of anger at me, which struck me like a blow. To regain my composure, I continued, “You are a slave, preaching a slave-creed to slaves!”

“Your crown is falling, King!” several shouted. The wreath fell. Someone raised it, and was about to replace it tauntingly upon the head of Jesus, but it crumbled in his hands.

Many laughed, slapping their thighs.

Procla motioned to me. “Cartaphilus, I must see you this evening!”

I nodded.

The rabble followed Jesus for a little while, jeering and throwing pebbles and refuse at him, but gradually growing weary, began to disperse. Something prompted me to continue. I walked leisurely at a distance, watching the shadow of Jesus and the cross, changing positions and sizes and mingling with each other.

Suddenly from a nearby alley, John emerged, frail, slim, almost boyish, his tawny head disheveled.

“They are taking him! They are taking him!” he cried.