At this statement the tetrarch laughed too. He gave an order to Pahul, who vanished with a grin.
“He has jeered at the Temple your father built,” Caiaphas continued. “He has declared he could destroy it and rebuild a better one, in three days at that.”
“He is king, then, but of fools.”
“And he has called you a fox,” Caiaphas added, significantly.
“He doesn’t claim to be one himself, does he?”
“He is guilty of treason, and it is for you, his ruler, to sentence him.”
“Not I. The blood of kings is sacred. Pahul, make haste!”
The butler, reappearing, held in his hand the glittering white vestment of a candidate. The tetrarch took it and held it in air.
“Here, put this on him, and let his subjects admire him to their hearts’ content.”
“Antipas, you disgrace your purple!”
At the exclamation, the Sanhedrim, the guards, the assessors, the officials, Pilate himself, everyone save the prisoner, turned and looked. On the colored pavement Mary stood, her face very pale.
The tetrarch flushed mightily; anger mounted into his shifting eyes. For a moment the sky was bloodred; then he recovered himself and answered lightly:
“It seems to me, my dear, that you take things with a high hand. It may be that you forget yourself.”
“I take them from where I am,” she cried. “As for forgetfulness, remember that my grandfather was satrap of Syria, my father after him, while yours—”
“Yes, yes, I dare say. He is not in power now; I am.”
“Not here, Antipas, nor in Rome. I appeal to Pilate.”
The tetrarch rose from the throne. The elders whispered together. Pilate visibly was perplexed. Remembering Mary as he did, he looked upon the incident as a family quarrel, one in which it would be unseemly for him to interfere, and which none the less disturbed the decorum of his court.
Caiaphas edged up to the tetrarch, but the latter brushed him aside.
“The hetaira is right,” he exclaimed. “I am not in power here. If I were, she should be lapidated.”
And, preceded by the butler, Antipas passed through the parting ranks to the vestibule beyond.
The perplexity of the procurator increased. He did not in the least understand. To him Mary stood in the same relation to Antipas that Cleopatra had to Herod. There had been a feud between the tetrarch and himself, one recently mended, and which he had no wish to renew. Yet manifestly Antipas was aggrieved, and his own path in the matter by no means clear.
“Bah!” he muttered, in the consoling undertone of thought, “what are their beastly barbarian manners to me?”
These reflections Caiaphas interrupted.
“We are waiting, my lord, for the sentence to be pronounced.”
The tone he used was not, however, indicative of patience, and in conjunction with the incident that had just occurred it irritated and jarred. Besides, Pilate did not care to be prompted. It was for him to speak first. He strangled an oath, and, gathering some fringe of the majesty of Rome, he announced very measuredly:
“You have brought this man before me as a rebel. I have examined him and find no ground for the charge. His ruler, the tetrarch, has also examined him, and by him too he has been acquitted. But in view of the fact that he appears to have contravened some one or another of your laws I order him to be scourged and to be liberated.”
With that he turned to the prisoner. During the entire proceedings the attitude of Jesus had not altered. He stood as a disinterested spectator might—one whom chance had brought that way and there hemmed in—his eyes on remote, inaccessible horizons, the tongue silent, the head a little raised.
“Scourging, my lord,” Caiaphas interjected, “is fit and proper, but,” he continued, one silk-gloved hand uplifted, “our law prescribes death. Only an enemy to Tiberius would prevent it.”
At the veiled menace Pilate gnawed his underlip. He had no faith at all in the loyalty of the hierarch; at any other time the affection the latter manifested for the chains he bore would have been ludicrous and nothing else. But at the moment he felt insecure. There were Galileans whom he had sacrificed, Judaeans whom he had slaughtered, Samaritans whom he had oppressed, an embassy might even now be on its way to Rome; he thought again of Sejanus, and, with cause, he hesitated. Yet of the inward perturbation he gave no outward sign.
“On this day,” he said at last, “it is customary that in commemoration of your nation’s delivery out of Egypt I should release a prisoner to you. There are three others here, among them Jesus Barabba.”
Then, for support perhaps, he looked over at the clamoring mob.
“I will leave the choice to the people.”
A wind seemed to raise the elders; they scattered through the court like leaves. “Have done with the Nazarene,” cried one. “He would lead you astray,” insinuated another. “He has violated the Law,” exclaimed a third.
And, filtering through the soldiery into the mob without, they exhorted and prayed and coerced. “Ask for Barabba; denounce the blasphemer. Trust to the Sanhedrim. We are your guides. Let him atone for his crimes. The God of your fathers commands that you condemn. Demand Barabba; uphold your nation. To the cross with the Nazarene!”
“Whom do you choose?” shouted Pilate.
And the pleb of Jerusalem shouted back as one man, “Barabba!”
At the moment Pilate fancied himself in an amphitheatre, the arena filled with beasts. There were the satin and stripes of the panther, the yellow of treacherous eyes, the gnash of fangs, the guttural rumble, the deafening yell, the scent of blood, and above, the same blue tender sky.
“What of the prisoner?” he called.
A roar leapt back. “Sekaph! Sekaph! Let him be crucified.”
Pilate had fronted a rabble before, and in two minutes had turned that rabble into so many dead flies, the legs in the air. He shook his head, and told himself he was not there to be coerced.
“Release Barabba,” he ordered. “And as for the prisoner, take him to the barracks and have him scourged.”
“Brute!” cried a
