“He has been in love with me always.”

“Ha, ha, ha! He, he, he!”

“Please… I beg you…”

“Come, come, don’t be angry, Cartaphilus—Much-Beloved. You’re the only Hebrew I care for,—but then you are not really a Hebrew, are you? You look and act like a Roman. Who knows who your real father was? Ha, ha, ha! Maybe a Roman Officer!”

I was not entirely displeased by this insinuation.

“We were speaking about the Jew you condemned to the cross this morning, dear, and his eyes…” Procla interjected.

“You know how I hate to think of state matters at home. So let us not– —”

“He had such eyes as I have never seen. Cartaphilus hates them, but I– —”

The Governor waved his hand.

“By the way, Cartaphilus, I have a gift for you. Ha, ha! a magnificent gift. Will you excuse us for a few moments, my dear? I want to give my friend– —”

I saluted, and followed Pilate, who was laughing uninterruptedly. He led me into his private library in a remote wing of the palace. The two torches which lit the room were wavering, making curious patterns. Like a tree, I thought.

“A magnificent gift, I assure you.”

I thought it would be a sword or a piece of statuary. He knew my passion for these two objects. Instead, however, he pointed to a couch in the farthest angle of the room. Upon it reclined a woman.

She was a Greek, slim and athletic. She wore her brown hair tied in a knot. Her small firm breasts, trembling like doves, bespoke passion. Her face was illuminated by a smile, but there was tragedy in her eyes. The smile emphasized the somberness that slept in their depths.

“Lydia, come here.” She approached us. I remembered having seen her once in the country home of the governor. “Cartaphilus—the Much-Beloved—your new lover.”

“I regret giving her to you,” he added, “but one must not be selfish…and I am near fifty. Lydia has afforded me more pleasure than any other woman, excepting Procla. Procla is incomparable…”

He slapped my back.

I wondered if the compliment to his wife was intended to tantalize me. However, Lydia was young and pretty, and the pride of being the Governor’s successor thrilled me. I bowed and thanked him profusely.

“But does Lydia accept me?” I asked suddenly.

“She has chosen you herself. And now take her away. I must keep my wife company. She is lonesome tonight.”

I took Lydia to my villa. We spent a few hours carousing and love-making. My tension relaxed, I fell asleep on her bosom. I dreamt that Jesus was coming toward me. On either side of him, and keeping him by the hand, were John and Mary. They were talking and laughing, and seemed very happy. They looked at me, without recognizing me, and passed on. I called after them. “John! John!” “Mary! Mary!” They walked on. I knew that if I called Jesus, they would stop. But I refused to do so, preferring to see them turn a corner, and disappear.

I awoke. A feeling of great loneliness overwhelmed me. Lydia was snoring—daintily, but unmistakably. Her mouth was half open. Her teeth looked like tiny chisels. I dressed myself and walked out. It was still dark. I breathed deeply, hoping to overcome my drowsiness and my headache. The streets were empty, except for a soldier or some laborer. I remembered the dream too vividly, and as if to run away from it, I took very long strides. I am certain I had no intention to go to the Place of Skulls. On the contrary, it was what I desired to avoid most. Was it a kind of somnambulism that led me to the cross? I walked so fast, my head bent, that I nearly struck the feet of Jesus before I became aware of my whereabouts. I stopped short as if suddenly imprisoned.

It was dawn. A flock of crows turned in wide circles about the head of the crucified one. Enormous flies with bellies and wings the color of mother-of-pearl were devouring the black wounds, buzzing like jews’ harps. One alighted on the sharp tip of the nose, and remained motionless, as if meditating, or in profound amazement. An old woman passing by, muttered a prayer.

Like a disk thrown by a clever athlete, the sun turned about itself, seeming motionless. Cocks, vainglorious and ridiculous prophets, crowed their ancient illusion.

I was seized with nausea. I shivered like a man in fever. Was it simply a physical disgust, was it sorrow, was it something for which the human tongue had fashioned no word? Suddenly, as if prompted by an extraneous power, I raised my arms and shouted to the dead man, “I hate you!”

“Thou must tarry until I return,” answered the voice, and the words reverberated for a long while. I was stunned. Who was it that spoke? It was no illusion, I was certain of that! I heard the words as distinctly as if someone had spoken them into my very ear. “I hate you!” I repeated.

“Thou must tarry until I return.”

I fled. I was afraid I was becoming mad. When I reached home, Lydia opened her eyes. “Come back to bed, Cartaphilus,” she whispered.

“I am ill, Lydia. My head aches.”

She rose, undressed me, and helped me to bed.

I WAS in bed for several days, almost steadily asleep. I saw in my dreams the court scene, the crucifixion, John, Mary, Pilate’s wife—but in the most grotesque arrangements. My head was like a vast merry-go-’round.

On the morning of the third day, I awoke, with a jerk. My headache had disappeared. I was very hungry. Lydia was overjoyed. She kissed me innumerable times, told me how anxious she was about me, what strange things I was talking of in my sleep.

“What did I say?” I asked.

“Oh, so many things. You seemed to be afraid of someone’s eyes. You shouted, ‘Away, away!’ oh, I don’t know how many times. Then you cried, ‘Crucify him! Crucify him! I hate him!’ But the worst time, when I was really scared, was when you got off the bed, your eyes closed, and began to sob, ‘I will not tarry. I will not tarry.’ But I knew it would soon pass. I once saw Pilate in a worse condition than this. The Phoenician wine has queer powers. You must promise not to drink so much of it, Cartaphilus.”

It seemed to me that I was hearing my mother’s voice. She used to admonish me in the same gentle manner. I threw my arms around her neck.

Lydia was happy.

“You must be hungry, and I am chattering here. I shall prepare a dinner fit for my lover.”

I knew that Lydia was my only salvation. I was already thirty years old, had seen and read many things, and I realized that happiness was largely an effortless and spontaneous consolation.

I took a walk in the city. Jerusalem was normal. I looked into the faces of the people. They seemed supremely unconscious that an event of importance had taken place two days previously.

I reached the gate of the Temple. John was leaning against it.

“Isaac– —”

My blood rushed to my head, but I made believe I did not hear him.

“Isaac– —”

I turned around. “My name is Cartaphilus.”

“As you will. Cartaphilus—the Much-Beloved—He has risen!”

“What do you mean?”

“Jesus has risen from the dead. They have buried him, but He has risen.”

“No man has ever risen from the dead.”

“Cartaphilus—Isaac Laquedem—Isaac aforetime—believe me—He has risen!”

“You are raving.”

“I am not raving. I saw Him, and they who will not see Him now, will see Him…who knows when? Believe me… Look now, before it is too late.”

“John, come back to your friend. Let him take care of you, make your career, make you happy…”

He looked at me very sadly. “I am waiting for the Master. It is to Him I shall go…and as for you… Isaac… You must tarry until He comes again.”

He sighed. His eyes filled with tears, and he turned his head.

“You are stark mad!” I shouted, and walked off. It was the intolerable phrase that I wished above all to crush within my memory. How did he know about it? Did the whole city ring with its echo? Was it a trick of the Nazarene’s followers to repeat the same words again and again to frighten the people into belief?