man’s nationality. The chief determinant of his face was perhaps its good-natured expression, which, however, was not in accord with his eyes, or, rather, not his eyes but the visitor’s way of looking at his interlocutor. Ordinarily he kept his small eyes under his lowered, somewhat strange, as if slightly swollen eyelids. Then the slits of these eyes shone with an unspiteful slyness. It must be supposed that the procurator’s guest had a propensity for humour. But occasionally, driving this glittering humour from the slits entirely, the procurator’s present guest would open his eyelids wide and look at his interlocutor suddenly and point-blank, as if with the purpose of rapidly scrutinizing some inconspicuous spot on his interlocutor’s nose. This lasted only an instant, after which the eyelids would lower again, the slits would narrow, and once again they would begin to shine with good-naturedness and sly intelligence.
The visitor did not decline a second cup of wine, swallowed a few oysters with obvious pleasure, tried some steamed vegetables, ate a piece of meat. Having eaten his fill, he praised the wine:
‘An excellent vintage, Procurator, but it is not Falerno?’1
‘Caecuba,2 thirty years old,’ the procurator replied courteously.
The guest put his hand to his heart, declined to eat more, declared that he was full. Then Pilate filled his own cup, and the guest did the same. Both diners poured some wine from their cups on to the meat platter, and the procurator, raising his cup, said loudly:
‘For us, for thee, Caesar, father of the Romans, best and dearest of men! ...’
After this they finished the wine, and the Africans removed the food from the table, leaving the fruit and the jugs. Again the procurator motioned for the servants to withdraw and remained alone with his guest under the colonnade.
‘And so,’ Pilate began in a low voice, ‘what can you tell me about the mood of this city?’
He inadvertently turned his eyes to where the colonnades and flat roofs below, beyond the terraces of the garden, were drying out, gilded by the last rays.
‘I believe, Procurator,’ the guest replied, ‘that the mood of Yershalaim is now satisfactory.’
‘So it can be guaranteed that there is no threat of further disorders?’
‘Only one thing can be guaranteed in this world,’ the guest replied, glancing tenderly at the procurator, ‘the power of great Caesar.’
‘May the gods grant him long life!’ Pilate picked up at once, ‘and universal peace!’ He paused and then continued: ‘So you believe the troops can now be withdrawn?’
‘I believe that the cohort of the Lightning legion can go,’ the guest replied and added: ‘It would be good if it paraded through the city in farewell.’
‘A very good thought,’ the procurator approved, ‘I will dismiss it the day after tomorrow, and go myself, and — I swear to you by the feast of the twelve gods,3 by the lares4 I swear - I’d give a lot to be able to do so today!’
‘The procurator doesn’t like Yershalaim?’ the guest asked good-naturedly.
‘Good heavens,’ the procurator exclaimed, smiling, ‘there’s no more hopeless place on earth. I’m not even speaking of natural conditions — I get sick every time I have to come here - but that’s only half the trouble! ... But these feasts! ... Magicians, sorcerers, wizards, these flocks of pilgrims! ... Fanatics, fanatics! ... Just take this messiah5 they suddenly started expecting this year! Every moment you think you’re about to witness the most unpleasant bloodshed ... The shifting of troops all the time, reading denunciations and calumnies, half of which, moreover, are written against yourself! You must agree, it’s boring. Oh, if it weren’t for the imperial service!’
‘Yes, the feasts are hard here,’ agreed the guest.
‘I wish with all my heart that they should be over soon,’ Pilate added energetically. ‘I will finally have the possibility of going back to Caesarea. Believe me, this delirious construction of Herod’s’ — the procurator waved his arm along the colonnade, to make clear that he was speaking of the palace — ‘positively drives me out of my mind! I cannot spend my nights in it. The world has never known a stranger architecture! ... Well, but let’s get back to business. First of all, this cursed Bar-Rabban — you’re not worried about him?’
And here the guest sent his peculiar glance at the procurator’s cheek. But the latter, frowning squeamishly, gazed into the distance with bored eyes, contemplating the part of the city that lay at his feet and was fading into the twilight. The guest’s eyes also faded, and his eyelids lowered.
‘It may be supposed that Bar has now become as harmless as a lamb,’ the guest began to say, and wrinkles appeared on his round face. ‘It would be awkward for him to rebel now.’
‘Too famous?’ Pilate asked with a smirk.
‘The procurator has subtly understood the problem, as always.’
‘But in any case,’ the procurator observed with concern, and the thin, long finger with the black stone of its ring was raised, ‘there must be...’
‘Oh, the procurator can be certain that as long as I am in Judea, Bar will not take a step without having someone on his heels.’
‘Now I am at peace — as I always am, incidentally, when you are here.’
The procurator is too kind!‘
‘And now I ask you to tell me about the execution,’ said the procurator.
‘What precisely interests the procurator?’
‘Were there any attempts on the part of the crowd to display rebelliousness? That is the main thing, of course.’
‘None,’ replied the guest.
‘Very good. Did you personally establish that death took place?’
The procurator may be certain of it.‘
