“ ‘It’s not me,’ Rufus answered, ‘but Pilate who wants you. Come with me, please.’

“ ‘I’m coming,’ Jesus said calmly, and he turned his face toward Jerusalem.

“But we all fell upon him. ‘Rabbi, where are you going?’ we cried. ‘We won’t let you leave!’

“The centurion came between us and said, ‘Don’t be afraid. I give you my word he means well.’

“ ‘Go,’ the master commanded us, ‘and do not fear. The hour has not yet come.’

“But Judas interrupted. ‘I’ll come with you, Master; I won’t leave you.’

“ ‘Come,’ said the master. ‘I won’t leave you either.’ Off they went toward Jerusalem, the two in front and Judas behind like a sheep dog.”

While Matthew spoke, the disciples, without a word, approached and knelt on the floor.

“Your faces are troubled,” said the rabbi. “You are hiding something from us.”

“We have other worries, Father, other worries…” Peter mumbled, and he fell once more into silence.

And indeed just now, along their way, evil demons had entered them. The raising of the dead had commenced. Evidently the day of the Lord was coming near; the master would mount his throne. The time had therefore come for them to divide up the spoils. It was there, in the dividing, that the disciples had begun to quarrel.

“I shall sit on his right hand: he loves me the most,” said one.

They all dashed forward and shouted, “No, me! me!”

“Me!”

“Me!”

“I was the first to call him rabbi!” said Andrew.

“He comes more often to my dreams than to yours,” Peter objected.

“He calls me ‘beloved,’ ” said John.

“And me!”

“And me!”

Peter’s blood began to boil. “Step back-all of you!” he shouted. “Just the other day didn’t he say to me, ‘Peter, you are the rock, and upon you I shall build the new Jerusalem’?”

“He didn’t say ‘the new Jerusalem’! I have his words written down here,” exclaimed Matthew, tapping the notebook under his shirt.

“What did he say to me, then, scribbler? That’s what I heard!” said Peter angrily.

“He said, ‘You are Peter, and upon this rock I shall build my church.’ ‘My church,’ not ‘ Jerusalem ’-there’s a big difference!”

“And what else did he promise me?” Peter shouted. “Why did you stop? It goes against your interests to continue, eh? What about the keys? Well, speak!”

Matthew, not very eagerly, took his notebook, opened it, and read: “ ‘And I shall give you the keys of the kingdom of heaven-’ ”

“Go on! Go on!” Peter shouted triumphantly.

Matthew swallowed his saliva and bent again over his notebook. “ ‘And whatever you bind upon earth shall be bound in heaven; and whatever you loose on earth shall be loosed in heaven…’ There-that’s all!”

“And does it seem a mere trifle to you? I-listen, all of you-I hold the keys; it’s I who open and close the gates of Paradise. If I want, I let you in; if I don’t, I don’t!”

At that point the disciples went wild and certainly would have come to blows if they had not already neared Bethany. But they felt ashamed in front of the villagers and swallowed their anger. Their faces, however, were still completely dark.

Chapter Twenty-Six

MEANWHILE, Jesus marched along with the centurion, followed by Judas, the sheep dog. They entered the narrow, twisting alleyways of Jerusalem and proceeded in the direction of the Temple, toward the tower which was Pontius Pilate’s palace.

The centurion was the first to speak. “Rabbi,” he said with emotion, “my daughter is marvelously well and thinks of you always. Every time she learns you’re speaking to the people she secretly leaves our house and runs to hear you. Today I held her tightly by the hand. We were together, listening to you at the Temple, and she wanted to run to kiss your feet.”

“Why didn’t you let her?” Jesus asked. “One instant is enough to save the soul of man. Why did you let that instant go to waste?”

A Roman girl kiss the feet of a Jew! Rufus thought with shame, but he did not speak.

With a short whip which he held in his hand he forced the noisy crowd to make way for him. It was so hot you almost swooned, and there were clouds of flies. The centurion felt nauseated as he breathed in the Jewish air. He had been in Palestine so many years, yet he still was not accustomed to the Jewry… They were passing now through the bazaar ground, which was covered with straw mats. It was cooler here, and they slowed their pace.

“How can you talk to this pack of dogs?” the centurion asked. Jesus blushed. “They are not dogs,” he said, “but souls, sparks of God. God is a conflagration, centurion, and each soul a spark which should be revered by you.”

“I am a Roman,” answered Rufus, “and my God is a Roman. He opens roads, builds barracks, brings water to cities, arms himself in bronze and goes to war. He leads, we follow. The body and the soul you talk about are one and the same to us, and above them is the seal of Rome. When we die both soul and body die together-but our sons remain. That is what we mean by immortality. I’m sorry, but what you say about kingdoms of heaven seems just a fairy tale to us.”

After a pause, he continued: “We Romans are made to govern men, and men are not governed by love.”

“Love is not unarmed,” said Jesus, looking at the centurion’s cold blue eyes, his freshly shaven cheeks and fat, short-fingered hands. “Love too makes war and runs to the assault.”

“It isn’t love, then,” said the centurion.

Jesus lowered his head. I must find new wineskins, he reflected, if I’m to pour in new wine. New wineskins, new words…

At last they arrived. Towering before them, at once fortress and palace, was the tower which guarded within the haughty Roman governor, Pontius Pilate. He detested the Jewish race and held a perfumed handkerchief in front of his nostrils whenever he walked in the lanes of Jerusalem or was compelled to speak with the Hebrews. He believed neither in gods nor in men-nor in Pontius Pilate, nor in anything. Constantly suspended around his neck on a fine golden chain was a sharpened razor which he kept in order to open his veins when he became weary of eating, drinking and governing, or when the emperor exiled him. He often heard the Jews shout themselves hoarse calling the Messiah to come and liberate them-and he laughed. He would point to the sharpened razor and say to his wife, “Look, here is my Messiah, my liberator.” But his wife, without answering him, would turn away her head.

Jesus halted outside the tower’s great door. “Centurion,” he said, “you owe me a favor. Do you remember? The time has come for me to demand it of you.”

“Jesus of Nazareth, to you I owe all the joy of my life,” Rufus answered. “Speak. What I can, I’ll do.”

“If they seize me, if they put me in prison, if they kill me-do nothing to save me. Will you give me your word?”

They were now passing through the tower gates. The guards lifted their hands and saluted the centurion.

“Is what you ask of me a favor?” said Rufus, astonished. “I don’t understand you Jews.”

Two huge Negro guards stood outside Pilate’s door.

“Yes, a favor, centurion,” said Jesus. “Do you give me your word?”

Rufus nodded to the Negroes to open the door.

Pilate sat reading on a raised throne which was decorated with grossly carved eagles. Crisp, clean-shaven, with low forehead, hard gray eyes and sword-straight narrow lips, he lifted his head to look at Jesus, who was standing in front of him.

“Are you Jesus of Nazareth, king of the Jews?” he hissed teasingly, putting the perfumed handkerchief to his nostrils.

“I am not a king,” Jesus answered.

“What? Aren’t you the Messiah, and isn’t it the Messiah that your fellow countrymen the Abrahamites have been waiting for over so many generations-waiting for him to free them, to sit on the throne of Israel and to throw out us Romans? Why, then, do you say you’re not a king?”