CHAPTER 25

Two hours later Jesus was back, looking worse than before. I was struck by the contrast between his battered appearance and the elegant purple robe Herod’s men had draped around his shoulders. A guard told me Herod had mocked him, disdainfully calling him the “King of the Jews.” But he had found no fault in the man, so he had sent him back to Pilate. Technically, Herod could have released him. But Jesus had been our problem from the start. It would now be up to Pilate to render a final decision.

The crowd crammed even tighter into the Stone Pavement Courtyard, growing to nearly a thousand. There was a sense of desperation in the air. The soldiers paraded Jesus to the bottom of the steps, forming a wedge around him, using their shields to keep the crowd at bay. Around the perimeter, troops were being jostled by the crowd, and I could see the hatred fomenting in the eyes of the soldiers. They looked at Pilate and Longinus with exasperation. How long before you give the order?

Many of these same men had been involved in the attack on the Jews following the aqueduct fiasco. I wasn’t there for that debacle, but I thought it must have begun just like this. Tensions simmering until Pilate became so aggravated that he issued the order he would later regret. Once the bloodshed started, there was no stopping the soldiers.

Pilate stood motionless as he prepared to address the crowd, announce his final verdict, and take his place on the judgment seat. Even as his closest adviser, I had no idea what he was going to say.

While Jesus was gone, Pilate had been nearly despondent, speaking in a low, gruff voice about the choices before him. He was convinced the entire trial was a setup by Caiaphas and Annas, a ruse so that they could write another letter to Tiberius and end Pilate’s reign.

Procula had weighed in, and she wasn’t making it easy for him. She had watched the proceedings from a second-story window and recognized the face of the prisoner with astonishing clarity. It was the same face, she told Pilate, that she had seen in the temple of Aesculapius on the night she was healed. This man was innocent! She begged Pilate not to sentence him to death. “Have nothing to do with that innocent man,” she pleaded. “How can you execute the one who healed me?”

Pilate had looked at me.

“She’s right,” I said. “The man is innocent.”

But now the decision belonged to Pilate and Pilate alone.

He took his time and surveyed the courtyard, mindful that his next words might well start a massacre. He held his head high, the imperial look that he had learned so well in Rome, and thrust his chin out. “You brought this man to me and accused him of leading a revolt. I have examined him thoroughly on this point in your presence and have found him innocent. Herod came to the same conclusion and sent him back to us.”

A malicious murmur rippled through the crowd. The faces of the leaders darkened with rage. I thought the crowd might rush the portico.

Pilate glanced up toward a second-story window on the west side of the courtyard, and I could see the shadow of Procula there. He seemed to gain strength from her and continued, his voice rising. “Nothing this man has done calls for the death penalty. I will have him flogged and then release him.”

Pilate took his seat, signaling an end to the matter, but the crowd wasn’t having it. Someone in the back yelled, “Crucify him!” Others joined in. The crowd found a rhythm, and a collective chant of “Crucify him!” rolled from one end of the courtyard to the other. A soldier on the outskirts scuffled with a man and knocked a Jewish woman to the ground. Other soldiers were being taunted and bumped from behind.

I decided the time had come to make my final recommendation. I had been thinking about an alternate strategy the entire time Jesus was with Herod. I didn’t want to suggest it until we had tried everything else.

“Pilate,” I called out.

He stood and huddled with me again.

I looked down at the stoic prisoner, the cause of so much turmoil. He was about to be flogged, the skin ripped from his back, yet when his eyes met mine, I sensed that he was at peace with his destiny. If he only knew that I was about to gamble with his life.

“There is an old custom, Your Excellency,” I said. “And it may be time to revive it.”

“Go on.”

“Your predecessors used to release a prisoner every year at Passover. It was a symbolic concession to the Jewish holiday. I suggest we reinstitute that now and give them a choice: Jesus or Barabbas.”

“Barabbas?” Pilate asked disdainfully. He kept his voice low, his eyes on the crowd. Barabbas had killed a Temple guard and tried to lead a revolt against Rome. He was one prisoner Pilate couldn’t wait to put on the cross. But more important, the Jewish leaders hated him too.

“We’ve got to make it easy,” I said.

Pilate glanced at the second-story window, but Procula was gone. He stepped away from me and raised his hand. For a long time, the crowd chanted on defiantly, ignoring him. Eventually their own leaders urged them to stop so they could hear Pilate out.

“Bring out Barabbas!” he ordered Longinus.

A few minutes later, the wild man was dragged to the bottom of the portico steps, hair disheveled, a maniacal look in his eyes. They stood him next to Jesus. As if on cue, Barabbas cursed and tried to attack his Roman guards. They beat him into submission and drove him to the ground.

“We have a custom,” Pilate shouted. “Historically, at the Passover, we have released one prisoner. Do you want me to release Jesus or Barabbas?”

The words were no sooner out of his mouth than the crowd started shouting the name of Barabbas. I searched for my Jewish friends —Joseph of Arimathea, Nicodemus, a dozen other leaders with whom I had developed relationships. I saw a few of them on the edge of the mob, looks of concern on their faces. But not one person shouted the name of the rabbi.

Pilate was as stunned as I. He shot me a look, and I knew this entire debacle would now be my fault. Longinus was getting antsy, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as if he couldn’t control his troops any longer.

“Release Barabbas,” Pilate ordered. A cheer rose up, and the soldiers unchained the man. He stood there for a moment in his loincloth, his body covered with hair. He rubbed his wrists where the shackles had been. He squinted at the sun. He looked at Pilate, then at Longinus. He laughed. He started backing away, then turned and pushed his way through the crowd.

“What should I do with Jesus?” Pilate asked.

Again the chant resounded: “Crucify him! Crucify him! Crucify him!”

I stared in hatred at the high priest and his cohorts, men with arrogant smirks on their faces. My stomach was in a knot. I realized that my desperate gamble might have cost an innocent man his life.

Pilate rose to his full height. “I will have him flogged, and then I will release him,” he said for the second time. Most of the crowd couldn’t hear, their chants drowning out the words of the prefect. But the soldiers at the foot of the steps had heard.

They forced the crowd back, clearing out a space immediately in front of the steps where the flogging would occur. There was a hole in the pavement there. Two soldiers brought out a whipping pole that they slid into the hole and anchored it by chains to two iron rings bolted to the pavement. The entire time the crowd continued its chant.

Pilate took his place on the judgment seat, and the Syrian guard in charge of the punishment unwound his whip. It had jagged pieces of metal woven into the end. The crowd gathered closer, those in back standing on their toes. The chants died down as the guards tied the hands of Jesus to the whipping post.

The Syrian looked up at Pilate, and the prefect nodded. Under Roman law, only the prefect possessed the power to spill blood, the right of the sword, the responsibility to pronounce the exact number of lashes. Pilate would have to count them out until the bright flow of blood spattered the stone pavement. Only Pilate could stop them.

My job would be to stand behind the prefect and never flinch, never take my eyes off the pitiful sight of the prisoner being torn to shreds. My job was to watch the punishment my reckless gamble had caused.

I had never been so ashamed of being a Roman.