Pilate Read online

  Pilate’s eyes yellowed and he could discern a distinct shape. It was something that was familiar and

  always avoided. His heart began to chug.

  “LIGHTS!” bawled Herod. Instantly, four spotlights popped to life. They flooded the wall with

  their bright glow. They were in pairs, the lights.

  There were two pairs and Pilate saw what the spotlights glaringly illuminated.

  Pilate’s hands burned as if hot coals were glued

  to them. He fell swift and weak to his knees when

  he saw the object beneath the lights. The weakness

  infused Pilate to the nucleus of his mortal coil. Immanuel came toward Pilate and knelt beside

  him.

  “Thus it was written,” she tried to explain. Pilate blinked and started to rise. His talons were out.

  His hands were aflame and the fangs exposed. Herod’s men misinterpreted Pilate’s vampire

  signs as fight or flight, heavy on the former. The

  cops began moving quick toward Immanuel and Pilate. Herod continued doing nothing but pointing at

  the wall and smiling at his own private Idaho. The

  police had guns drawn and were aiming, some triggers depressing, Herod smiling still at the vicious

  moment the Most Vile ordered begun.

  “Stop,” she muttered aloud while gazing deep

  into Pilate’s eyes.

  All Herod’s cops stopped on a dime, frozen motionless in place. Herod himself still moved freely.

  But, all he did was waggle bug-encrusted eyebrows,

  nod and grin like a fool some more. Herod gestured

  with quick jerks of his head to the wall and the

  source of Pilate’s collapse.

  Pilate felt Immanuel approach his weakness and

  pain. He thought this must be what its like to be

  human. He was weak, in pain, and at the mercy of

  others.

  She came to him. Pilate noticed for the first

  time Immanuel smelled just like a newborn baby:

  innocent, unblemished and without distractions or

  fault. Before the world gets its sticky, rotting hands

  on it, that is.

  She is the Christ, Pilate thought, this is Truth. Immanuel touched Pilate lightly and gleaned his

  heart, mind and soul. She knew his intent. She indicated the wall that tormented him so. She snatched

  up his cold hands. She leaned in and pressed her

  forehead to his, emitting a tiny quick hiss.

  “Wilst thou,” Immanuel asked, “washeth thy

  hands of me a second time?” She pushed back a

  touch and made Pilate see her. “Wilst thou,” she

  repeated, “Pontius Pilate?”

  And then he fell once more. For the last time,

  Pilate tumbled headlong into another vision of his

  past. His first life as a human he shall revisit. Meanwhile, a laughing Herod had his men grab

  hold of Pilate and drag him to the wall. Immanuel

  said nothing further. Even as Herod’s eyes gleamed

  at her and his robe became undone and dropped to

  the floor.

  33, anno Domini The seasonal population of Jerusalem swelled incredibly with the onset of Passover. The city was suffering from the crush of humanity. Food and well-water became scarce. The year-round residents of the Walled City barred their doors. A riotous feeling hung in the air like an overseer: always there and ready to strike you down.

  The city filled to near the breaking point. AntiRoman sentiment abounded and insurrection was at any moment possible. Citizens were frightened and Jerusalem threatened to boil over.

  The Roman Prelate sent for reinforcements from detachments camped outside Jerusalem. He seriously doubted they could get through the mob to help them if things went sour. Not in time, anyway.

  Pontius Pilate, the Roman Prelate for Judea, stood before the mob. He was high above on a balcony jutting from the building Rome used to enforce its will. One day each year the Roman governor allowed the conquered people to choose a prisoner they wished to exonerate. Today was that day.

  The crowd was restless and dangerous. They were clamoring for Jesus of Nazereth. The mob was clamoring for blood. They did not want the rabbi set free. Instead, the unruly crowd chose Barabas, a local idiot and unrepentant criminal.

  The Roman gazed out over this sea of rage, beside himself. He was hoping the mob would have chosen Jesus, but they did not wish to have him freed. They wished to have him dead. Barabas was their choice.

  Pontius Pilate addressed the crowd from the very balcony edge attached to the official Roman seat of power. The mob was murmuring ugliness and hatred. Passover was a memory and Pilate got increasingly agitated and deflated over this disgusting, growing thing. It was building, this thing. The people were losing control.

  Pilate thought the mob was behaving like a bunch of stubborn asses, demanding the release of a true criminal. They were demanding the death of Jesus of Nazareth. This struck the Prelate as crazy since this same crowd greeted Jesus as a king when he entered the city a few short days past.

  The mob demanded the Nazarene’s execution for the crime of blasphemy. Pilate didn’t care. Blasphemy, they say. A cartload of dung, says he.

  Pilate, as Prelate, was mandated to preserve order. Rome, he knew only too well, was watching him. Spies were everywhere. If he stumbled, Rome would know about it before he even hit the ground. It unnerved him, but it was the way things were.

  One does not question the Empire.

  He must keep order in this far-flung slice of mighty Caesar’s great pie. It was how honors and opportunities were procured. Judea was certainly not where Pontius Pilate wished to end his military career. He must discourage an uprising at all costs.

  Pilate stood before the crowd, ramrod straight. He was almost regal in demeanor. The crowd taunted the military commander, made angry threats and stipulates. Pilate gave nothing away, but inside he was raging to match the mob.

  They were shouting out their demands.

  Barabas had already been located and released. The freed criminal was delivered unto the crowd. They greeted him as a returning hero. Idiots: all. And it was still not enough to pacify them. The crowd was not satisfied, they wanted still more.

  The crowd shouted out their demands.

  A knot of tense fear balled in Pilate’s stomach. He stepped down, away from the edge and barked out an order. He called for the Nazarene and Jesus was brought to him.

  With Jesus and guard in tow, Pilate stepped to the edge of the balcony. He looked down at the still growing mob and addressed them.

  “I can find no fault with this man,” he told them.

  “CRUCIFY!” the mob shouted, “CRUCIFY!”

  Pontius Pilate dismayed at their reaction. Crucify? A curse on them, he thought, a curse on their collective heads.

  “Is this man not your king?” asked Pilate. He recalled four days earlier. This same Jesus rode triumphantly into Jerusalem on the back of a donkey. The murmuring crowd exploded. Their reaction was violent enough to cause Pilate to take an involuntary step back. Their fury reached him; found him in his lofty perch. He ordered the prisoner returned inside.

  The Praetorian Guard encircled a stunned Pilate. They used shields to cover their commander. Pilate was shielded from all sides, including from above. They were trained very well, his soldiers, but this was no good. The shouts from below were deafening. Rocks began broaching the balcony’s ledge and raining down upon the Romans.

  “We have no king but Caesar!” someone shouted above the din and roar of the crowd. It was picked swiftly up by others. Soon the entire throng was chanting it.

  “Brutes,” muttered Pilate as more rocks rained. The guard escorted him back inside the building.

  The soldiers spread themselves out from the Roman governor, but remained on high alert.

  “A show of force, Flaviu
s,” Pilate ordered. The captain acknowledged the order and spun around. “Flavius,” called Pilate. The captain turned back, “A show, only.”

  Flavius turned again and called for archers. They appeared on the roof above the balcony in seconds, higher than and further back. The archers were beyond rock-throwing range, they hoped.

  The archers pressed right up against the roof wall barricade. As one, the score of archers notched their arrows, pulled them back. With forearm muscles engaged and all arrows pointing skyward, the order was delivered. The archers, in an instant and together, rotated their bows downward and pointed the arrowheads at the mob below. The crowd went stark raving mad.

  I see, thought Pilate, They require more than a show.

  Pontius Pilate motioned for Flavius. When he came down from the roof and was near, Pilate leaned in close. He made sure he was well back from the balcony ledge and out of the way of any rocks. An order was whispered. Flavius looked to Pilate to see if he was serious, but did not question the order. Flavius was a good soldier.

  “Is he still down there?” asked Pilate. “If he is, can you spot him from here?”

  “I probably can find him,” Flavius replied, louder now due to the racket from the mob below. “Yes, Prelate, I can most likely find him, but reach him? I doubt it.”

  The crowd was still shouting and chanting. They were pushing each other around in frustration. Pilate knew he had to act swiftly and decisively. His contingent of men was armed and the building barricaded, but the rock-hurling mob outnumbered the Romans twenty to one.

  “Who can reach him?” Pilate asked.

  Flavius considered. “Ovid can,” he replied.

  “Good. Find Ovid and tell him what I need.”

  “Yes Prelate.”

  “And Flavius,” Pilate added. “No mistakes.”

  Flavius spun on heel, climbed to the barricaded rooftop. He quickly scanned the crowd below. There he was; the one the Prelate wanted, right in the middle of the riotous mob. The target was laughing and smiling like he was on holiday.

  Flavius signaled and Pilate gave the go-ahead. Flavius went down the line of notched, ready archers and found Ovid. The Roman soldier was an Albino, white-blonde, his exposed skin cracked and red from the harsh Judean sun.

  Flavius came to him and gestured down to the crowd; singled out the one he wanted. The man was laughing and dancing. He was easy to spot. Flavius made sure Ovid aimed at the correct member of the unruly crowd.

  “Just him,” the captain ordered his most proficient archer, “And I want it right between the eyes.”

  Flavius then got out of the way.

  Ovid’s bow was knocked and steady. The archer had one washed-out pale blue eye focused on the intended target. He raised the bow and pulled back a touch more to account for the distance. The bow creaked under the added tension. Ovid exhaled, ever so slowly, and released.

  Blood, small bits of brain and a solid chip of skull tattooed an old woman’s face. She screamed and fainted dead away. She was caught by people surrounding her and eased gently to the ground.

  Barabas leaned precariously back, rocking on his bare heels. He pitched forward and landed hard. He hit the ground face first so hard his remaining front teeth were demolished by the impact. A long arrow had sprouted from the back of his head. It was a good thing Barabas was dead before he hit the ground.

  Flavius barked once more and the rest of the archers leaned forward. The mob stared in disbelief. Those near the victim backed away. The archers above each found and locked onto a new target. The mob knew there was nowhere to run.

  The noise of the crowd faded. They waited a moment longer and the crowd began to thin. A few, women and children mostly, left the gathering and went home. They’d had enough.

  Flavius reported the favorable outcome to Pontius Pilate. He sent for this Jesus. He was going to get to the bottom of this. Pilate was not yet finished with the carpenter.

  Jesus of Nazareth was surrounded by a guard. He was a prisoner and needed protection from the mob below. At least until Pilate could cogitate a viable solution to this prickly pear of a problem.

  Pilate watched Jesus. He was kept nearby, always under heavy guard. Pilate studied him as he would a battle plan. The Jew intrigued and troubled him.

  Jesus of Nazareth did not look like a king. Pilate sat and studied him. He wasn’t bejewled and draped in finery, but the man sure did carry himself as a king. The Nazarene was not a physically imposing man and he said little. At least to Pilate he said little.

  Pilate was watching Jesus closely. The prisoner did not boast, nor did he threaten. He most certainly did not beg. And there was something else: something impressive that surrounded and protected the man. It began to concern Pilate.

  Pontius Pilate had ordered many men whipped and flogged in his years of service to the Empire. Some were nothing more than petty thieves. They always pleaded for mercy. Then there were the tyrants and conspirators. These men would, sometimes, conjure up a façade of bravery, only to pass out after barely one or two lashes. There has even been a few of his very own men put beneath the whips.

  Pilate remembered the guard. That one was truly brave and had the constitution to match. The guard was to take eight lashes for falling asleep on duty. He’d kept his head through the first five. Each lash split skin and exposed muscle beneath, but the guard kept his head. Until the sixth one proved to be too much. He’d snapped from the unbearable agony and shouted curses on Caesar’s head for all to hear. The guard cooked his own bacon.

  Even if the crazed soldier wasn’t sentenced to be executed for his ill-advised outburst, he wouldn’t have been any use to Pilate. The guard had gone stark-raving mad. In the end, his execution was mercy. Pilate had to have the man’s head cut off to shut his filthy, offending mouth.

  Jesus of Nazareth was entirely different. Not a sound came out of him. There was no sweat, or signs of worry. There were no tears from him, either. He accepted his lashes stoically, all of them. As a king truly would.

  When they fashioned a crown out of thorns and shoved rudely over his head, Jesus bled profusely. He was spit on and hit with fist and club. The only change in Jesus was to blink more rapidly, keep the blood from filling his eyes.

  The royal purple cape placed about the shoulders of Jesus was meant as the highest insult. His shredded back was then pounded by even more blows from the Roman soldiers.

  None of Pilate’s soldiers seemed to see, not even Flavius. This Jesus was wordlessly taunting them back. Jesus should not be able to stand after the abuse was liberally heaped upon him, but he stood straight and with a look in his eyes.

  What was it about him, contempt? No; not contempt. Not madness either, his eyes were clear and sharp. Not defiant hatred or religious fervor either. Not one derogatory word has left his lips. Nothing has been asked or demanded from him. What was it then? He was…well…majestic.

  Pontius Pilate rose from his chair. He strode purposefully toward the prisoner and the bevy of soldiers that were, without orders, abusing the bleeding man. One of the soldiers viciously backhanded Jesus, a back tooth shot out of the prisoner’s mouth.

  “ENOUGH!” shouted Pilate and ran to them. With angry momentum behind him, Pilate punched the soldier in the face and broke his nose.

  The soldier covered his bloody mess of a nose with his hands as Pilate sneered at him. Bloody mucous and tears escaped the soldier’s fingers and streamed down his front. Pilate said nothing. He removed the snot and blood from his fist, using the soldier’s tunic. Then he dismissed the soldier, even though there was none to replace him.

  Pontius Pilate studied the prisoner. He was standing regal and straight. Pilate unabashedly studied Jesus, looking him up and down. There was something inside the man. It was something that fairly reeked of fully restrained power. And then there was that ever-present expression.

  Pontius Pilate studied his face. Jesus was a handsome man Pilate supposed, but otherwise unremarkable. It was the eyes, Pilate finally de
cided, yes. How they looked at you, through you. Jesus looked at you as if he knew all your dirty little secrets.

  Jesus didn’t spit out the blood from his broken tooth. It amazed Pilate. He knew that if roles were reversed, Pilate’s jailer would wear a mouthful of blood on his face by now. But: not from this man.

  Jesus swallowed his blood without even a wince. He stood ever straight, royally and almost indulgent.

  That was it, Pilate thought, the look in the eyes of this Jesus of Nazareth. He seemed to be viewing this tragedy from afar. Jesus was seeing all this as a parent watched his coddled and spoiled children. Jesus was allowing this to happen. He was tolerating what they were doing. They were just children being children.

  Right then, Pilate noticed Jesus smile and felt a sharp stab of fear. Pilate was taken aback from the straight arrow shot of terror that hit his chest like blunt force trauma. He felt the overpowering compulsion to bolt from the room and dive off the balcony ledge to the waiting crowd and certain death below. And then, as quickly as it came, the terror vanished. It left behind only the pounding of his heart and the shortness of breath. His hands shook, but Pilate now felt calm and at peace. As if it all should be as it is and he had naught to worry about.

  Then the smile of Jesus stretched a little further. As if he knew Pilate’s hidden thoughts.

  This must end. Pilate must show the crowd and shock them. He will give to them a true taste of Roman brutality standing before them. What Jesus had suffered at the hands of Pilate’s men would certainly be enough to placate the mob.

  “Take the prisoner out, display him before the crowd,” ordered Pilate. The crowd roared loudly when they once again saw Jesus. “Turn the prisoner around and show to them his back!” shouted Pilate.

  Flavius removed the purple cape. It tore free the scabs beginning to form. Blood puddled in deep, angry grooves. It ran wholesale from his stripes. His face was a sheet of red from the thorny crown.

  “CRUCIFY!” the crowd shouted with force and venom, “CRUCIFY!”

  Pontius Pilate motioned for the prisoner’s return inside when the rock-throwing resumed with full force. Jesus remained Jesus.

  Pilate paced about the room and thought further. He went to address the crowd once more. He held his hands aloft and waited for quiet.