Lazarus, a tale of the world's great miracle/Chapter 36
CHAPTER XXXVI.
UP and down paced Pilate in his private chamber, while the weary, bleeding figure of the Nazarene was tottering along the road to Golgotha. Never more while a breath remained in his body would peace be in his heart. Each day doubt would strengthen, till from it should be born conviction; when that should come no place on earth could hold him.
On his return to his house he had dreaded to meet his wife, yet the first person he met was she.
She had told him of her dreams, she had even sent a message to the Judgment chamber, knowing full well how, to obtain their end, the Jews would press him. She knew Pilate well enough to fear that his frank, intrepid nature would be ill-matched against the crafty subtlety of the law-versed Jews.
"Well?" she asked, without greeting him, in her excitement, "hast thou released Him? Where is He?"
"Oh, Claudia, Claudia, blame me not!" he said. "I could not. They would not. They prevailed with me, as those cursed Jews do ever."
" 'T is not true; it cannot be true!" shrieked Claudia.
"What is Truth? What is Truth?" murmured Pilate. "Would I knew the Truth."
"What is Truth?" repeated Claudia scornfully, her eyes flashing with the wrath that stirred her. "What is Truth is this: thou art a coward, a mean, shrinking coward. The Romans were called ever brave, but in all Judæa there is no such coward as thou. For fear of the multitude thou hast struck at God, if He be indeed the Son of God!"
Surely his retribution was coming swiftly, dealt by the hand that could wound the most; for all this man's great love was centred in, and wisely so, his wife.
"Oh, Claudia, Claudia, blame me not," he said again, in a voice beseeching as a little child's. "He blamed me not, for when I said, 'Speakest Thou not unto me? knowest Thou not that I have power to crucify Thee, and have power to release Thee?' He answered me, 'Thou wouldst have no power at all against Me, except it were given Thee from above: therefore he that delivered Me unto thee hath the greater sin.' Then, when I heard those words, I tried all I could to save Him; believe me, Claudia, I brought Him forth as a king; I cried, 'Will ye crucify your King?' And, when they derided me, I said again, 'Behold your King!' Yet they cried only the more, 'We have no King but Cæsar. Crucify Him! Crucify Him!' Then I sent Him to Herod, but he, too, would not condemn Him; and methinks the people would have listened to Herod, but that hell-hound Caiaphas, that suave-mouthed, leprous-souled High Priest, had paid many of the Jews to cry out 'Crucify!' and, for fear of an uproar, and lest the multitude should tear the Nazarene to pieces, I did let them have Him."
"Thou wert sore-pressed, truly, Pilate," said the just Claudia, "but yet thou hadst power to release this Man; and now thou wilt see that all our glory will fade away and great misfortunes will befall us, and through endless ages we shall be cursed for this thing which thou hast done; for a dream this night did tell me that He was the Son of God and that He will come with power again upon the earth." Then, changing her tone, she shrieked out: "But why converse we here? There is yet time. He is not dead. Release Him yet. O Pilate, for love of me, the wife of thy bosom, whom thou sayest thou lovest; O Pilate, noble Pilate, release Him, save Him yet!" And she flung herself at his feet, appealing to him by every loving name.
One faint gleam of almost savage hope flashed up, then flickered feebly in the Roman's eyes.
"Ye know not these vile Jews, they thirst for blood; like dogs, they would lick sores; they have no mercy. If I release Him now, Caiaphas will excite the people and they will rend Him limb from limb. Leave Him to die, Claudia, for 't is the kindest thing that thou canst do. Let Him sleep tonight in heaven."
Awed by his words, Claudia said after him: "In heaven? Dost thou, too, believe He is the Son of God?"
And Pilate stood there silent, while his deep-set eyes gazed far beyond the hills to where he knew a cross was being raised against the sky.
As in a vision he saw the bleeding body on the cross. He knew the torture, for he had seen many hanging so; the body, with its weight, tearing the flesh from the nails that pierced the hands; the strain of outstretched arteries and nerves; the one position that never, never could be changed; the scorching sun beating fierce on eyes and brain, and the maddening thirst; the swollen flesh, the aching back, the smarting seams inflicted by the scourge; the taunts, the insults, the abuse; then the solitude and the silent agony of death. This for a man; and, for a God, the awful load of foulest, unrepented sins. Better, better, to go and pierce Him with his own hands, than to leave Him to that lingering death.
"Oh, what is Truth? Who will explain? Who is He? Whence is He?"
Then life's business intruded itself upon these awful thoughts; a soldier came with tablets in his hand.
"We would know what thou wouldst have placed above the cross," he said.
Yes, there was a possibility of avenging the Nazarene, of insulting the whole Jewish nation, of maddening with fury those two high priests. It was the last sweet moment of Pilate's darkened life; he would make the most of it.
"Write," he said to the grovelling scribe who stood cringingly awaiting his commands "Write,
'JESUS OF NAZARETH THE KING OF THE JEWS.' "
Then, when the emissary of Caiaphas seemed to hesitate, he said: "Dost hear me? In Latin and in Greek and in Hebrew shalt thou write, so that all men and nations can read, ' Jesus of Nazareth the King of the Jews.' "
And, wondering, the man fled from Pilate's presence to obey.
The Saviour was now hanging on the cross; the last drops of agony were being drunk; the cup was nearly empty. But Pilate could do something to curtail His sufferings, and he would. His remorse was maddening.
"Send me hither," he commanded, "Portius and Tertius, my two most trusted soldiers."
"Go," he said, "to the cross of the—the—the Nazarene that is crucified to-day, and let Him not die a lingering death; but, when the multitude press round, pierce Him with your spears close to the heart, so that He die and hang not long. Even to the condemned we may show mercy."
Then again he began to pace his chamber, and from his heart, unconsciously, there rose a prayer for light and truth.