Chapter Twenty-Nine

THEY SEIZED JESUS. Hooting at him, they dragged him over the rocks, through the clumps of cypresses and olive trees, down into the Cedron Valley, into Jerusalem and finally to Caiaphas’s palace, where the Council was assembled and waiting to judge the rebel.

It was cold. The servants warmed themselves before fires they had lighted in the courtyard. Levites constantly issued from within with reports. The evidence brought against Jesus was enough to make the hair stand on end: this recipient of the divine malediction had uttered such-and-such blasphemies concerning the God of Israel, such-and-such concerning the Law of Israel; and he had said he was going to tear down the Holy Temple and sow it with salt!

Peter, heavily bundled up, slid into the yard. Keeping his head bowed, he held his hands before the fire, warmed himself and listened tremblingly to the reports.

A maidservant came by and halted when she saw him. “Hey, old man,” she said, “why are you hiding from us? Lift your head so we can see you. I think you were with him.”

Several Levites heard her words and approached.

Peter was afraid. He raised his hand. “I swear I don’t know the man!” he said, and he drew toward the door.

Another maidservant passed by, saw him trying to leave, and put out her hand. “Hey, old man, where are you going? You were with him. I saw you!”

“I don’t know the man,” Peter cried once more. Pushing the girl aside, he continued on. But at the door two Levites stopped him, They grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him violently.

“Your accent betrays you,” they shouted. “You’re a Galilean, one of his disciples!”

Then Peter began to swear and curse, and he shouted, “I don’t know the man!”

At that moment the cock of the yard crowed. Peter groaned loudly. He remembered the rabbi’s words: “Peter, Peter, before the cock crows, you will deny me three times.” He went out to the street, collapsed onto the ground and burst into tears.

Day was breaking. The sky turned blood-red.

A pale Levite flew out of the palace in an uproar. “The High Priest is rending his clothes. What do you think the criminal just said? ‘I am the Christ, the Son of God!’ All the Elders jumped up. They’re ripping their clothes and shouting, ‘Death! Death!’ ”

Another Levite appeared. “Now they’re going to take him and lead him to Pilate. He’s the only one who has the right to kill him. Make way for them to pass. The doors are opening!”

The doors opened and out came Israel’s nobility. First, walking slowly, the overwrought high priest Caiaphas. Behind him-a mass of beards, sly, malformed eyes, toothless mouths and evil tongues-the Elders. They were all staggering from rage, and steaming. Behind them, Jesus, tranquil and sad. Blood ran from his head, for they had struck him.

Hoots, laughter and cursing broke out in the yard. Peter jumped up and supported himself against the jamb of the street door, his tears flowing. “Peter, Peter,” he murmured, “coward, liar, traitor! Rise up and shout ‘I am with him!’ even if they kill you.” He advised his soul, excited it; but his body, motionless, leaned against the door post and trembled. On the threshold Jesus tripped and stumbled forward. Putting out his hand to catch hold somewhere, he found Peter’s shoulder. The other turned to marble and did not breathe a word, did not stir. He felt the rabbi’s hand hooked into him, not letting him go. It was not fully light out yet, and Jesus did not turn in the bluish darkness to see what he had grasped to prevent himself from falling. He regained his balance and-behind the Elders and surrounded by soldiers-started out once more toward the palace tower.

Pilate had awakened, washed, anointed himself with aromatic oil and was pacing nervously back and forth on the high solarium of his tower. He had never liked this Passover day. The Jews, drunk with their God, would work themselves into a frenzy, come to blows again with the Roman soldiers-and this year another massacre might break out, which was not in the best interests of Rome. This Passover he had an additional worry. The Hebrews would by all means crucify the poor Nazarene, the crazy one… Disgraceful race!

Pilate clenched his fist. He was overcome by an obstinate desire to save this imbecile, not because he was innocent (innocent: what did that mean?) nor because he pitied him (alas! if at this point he began to pity the Jews), but in order to enrage the disgraceful Hebrew race.

Pilate heard a great tumult beneath the tower windows. He leaned out and saw that his yard had filled with Jewry. He could also see the maniacal multitude which filled the porches and tiers of the Temple to overflowing. Armed with staffs and slings, the crowd shoved, kicked and hooted Jesus, whom the Roman soldiers were guarding and pushing toward the immense tower door.

Pilate went inside and sat down on his coarsely sculptured throne. The door opened. The two colossal Negroes pushed Jesus in. His clothes were in tatters and his face covered with blood, but he held his head high, and in his eyes gleamed a light, calm and far removed from men.

Pilate smiled. “Once more I see you before me, Jesus of Nazareth, king of the Jews. It seems they want to kill you.”

Jesus gazed through the window at the sky. His mind and body had already departed. He did not speak.

Pilate became angry. “Forget the sky,” he yelled. “You’d better look at me! Don’t you know I’ve got the authority to release you or crucify you?”

“You have no authority over me whatever,” Jesus calmly replied. “No one has but God.”

Below, there were maniacal cries: “Death! Death!”

“Why are they so rabid?” Pilate asked. “What have you done to them?”

“I proclaimed the truth to them,” Jesus answered.

Pilate smiled. “What truth? What does truth mean?”

Jesus’ heart constricted with sorrow. This was the world, these the rulers of the world. They ask what truth is, and laugh.

Pilate stood before the window. He remembered that just yesterday they had seized Barabbas for the murder of Lazarus. It was an established custom to release a prisoner on the day of the Passover.

“Whom do you want me to release to you,” he shouted, “Jesus the king of the Jews or Barabbas the bandit?”

“Barabbas! Barabbas!” howled the people.

Pilate called the guards and pointed to Jesus. “Scourge him,” he ordered, “place a crown of thorns on his head, wrap him in a scarlet cloth and give him a long reed to hold as a scepter. He is a king-dress him like a king!”

He had devised to present him to the people in this pitiful state, hoping they would feel sorry for him.

The guards seized him, bound him to a column and began to thrash him and spit on him. They plaited him a crown of thorns and thrust it onto his head. The blood spurted from his forehead and temples. They threw a scarlet cloth over his back, passed a long reed through his fingers, then brought him back to Pilate. When the Roman saw him, he could not keep from laughing.

“Welcome to His Majesty!” he said. “Come, let me show you to your subjects.”

He took him by the hand and they went out onto the terrace.

“Behold the man!” he shouted.

“Crucify him! Crucify him!” the people began to howl.

Pilate ordered a basin and a pitcher of water brought him. He leaned over and washed his hands in front of the crowd.

“I wash and rinse my hands,” he said. “It is not I who spill his blood, I am innocent. May the sin fall on you!”

“His blood be on our heads and on the heads of our children!” the people bellowed.

“Take him,” Pilate said, “and don’t bother me any more!”

They seized him, loaded the cross on his back, spit at him, beat him, kicked him toward Golgotha. The cross was heavy. Staggering, he looked about him. Perhaps he would discover one of the disciples and nod to him so that he might take pity on him. He looked and looked. No one. He sighed.