Delphi collected works o.., p.291
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli, page 291
part #22 of Delphi Series Series
“Thou hast given you condemned malefactor but the mildest scourging, Pilate,” he said—” Why hast thou cast aside the lash so soon?”
Pilate’s eyes flashed fire.
“Press not my humour too far, thou vengeful priest!” he muttered breathlessly— “I have done my accursed work. See ye to the rest!”
Caiaphas retreated a step or two, somewhat startled. There was something in the expression of Pilate’s face that was truly terrifying, — a dark and ghastly anguish that for the moment disturbed even the high-priest’s cold and self-satisfied dignity. After a brief pause, however, he recovered his wonted composure, and by a sign to the centurion in command, intimated that the scourging was over and that the Prisoner was now abandoned to His fate. And, this culminating point having been reached, all the members of the Sanhedrim, together with the scribes and elders present, saluted the governor ceremoniously and left the Tribunal, walking slowly down two by two into the lower hall called “Praetorium.” Thither too the soldiers were preparing to lead or drag the doomed Nazarene. Filing away in solemn and dignified order, the sacerdotal procession gradually disappeared, and only Pilate lingered, chained to the spot by a sort of horrible fascination. Sheltering himself from the public view behind a massive marble column, he leaned against that cold support in utter weariness, broken in body and mind by the fatigue and, to him, inexplicable anguish of the morning’s trial. In his dazed brain he strove hard to realise what it was, what it could be, that made him feel as if the most unutterable crime ever committed on earth was about to be perpetrated this very day in this very city of Jerusalem. He had become a torturing problem to himself, — he could not understand his own overwhelming emotion. His wife’s message had greatly disturbed him; he had thrust the scroll hurriedly in his breast, but now he drew it out and once more reread the strange injunction, —
“Have thou nothing to do with that just man, for I have suffered this day many things in a dream because of him.” Mysterious words! — what could they mean? What could she, Justitia, the proud, fearless and beautiful woman of Rome have “suffered”? In a dream, too, — she who scarcely ever dreamed, — who laughed at auguries and omens, and had even been known to say satirical things against the gods themselves! She was totally unimaginative; and to a certain extent her nature was hard and pitiless, or what her own people would have termed “heroic.” She would look on, pleased and placid, at the most hideous gladiatorial contests and other barbarous spectacles then in vogue in her native city, — when she was but twelve years of age she had watched unmoved the slow torturing of a slave condemned to be flayed alive for theft and perjury. Hence, this action of hers in protesting against the condemnation of any particular criminal, was sufficiently unusual and unlike her to be remarkable. “Have thou nothing to do with that just man!” What would she say if she could see that same “just man” now! Pilate, looking fearfully round from his retired coign of vantage, turned sick and cold at the horror of the scene that was being enacted, — but though he would have given his life to interfere he knew that he dared not. The people had declared their will, — and that will must needs be done. There was no help and no hope for a Truth unanimously condemned by this world’s liars. There never has been, and there never shall be!
The previous intense silence of the multitude had given way to fierce clamour; the air resounded with discordant bellowings as though a herd of wild beasts had broken loose to ravage the earth. The soldiery, no longer restrained by the presence of sacerdotal authority, and moreover incited to outrage by the yells of the mob, were violently pushing their Prisoner along with the hut-ends of their weapons in a brutal endeavour to make Him lose His footing and fall headlong down the steps that led into the Praetorium. Their savage bufferings were unprovoked assaults, dealt out of a merely gratuitous desire to insult the sublime Sufferer, — for He Himself gave them no cause of affront, but went with them peaceably. His shoulders, still bare, were bleeding from the scourge, — His hands and arms were still tightly bound, — yet neither pain nor humiliation had lessened the erect majesty of His bearing or the aerial pride of His step, — and His beautiful eyes kept the lustrous, dreamy splendour of a thought and a knowledge beyond all human ken. Pressing close about Him His ruffianly guards derided Him with mocking gestures and laughter, shouting obscenities in His ears and singing scraps of ribald songs. A scarlet mantle had been left by chance on one of the benches in the hall, and this was spied out by one of the men, who snatched it up in haste and flung it across the Captive’s wounded shoulders. It trailed behind Him in regal flowing folds; and the fellow who had thrown it thus in position, gave a wild shout, and pointing with his pike exclaimed derisively, —
“Hail, King of the Jews!”
Shrieks of applause and bursts of laughter answered this ebullition of wit, and Barabbas alone, out of all the callous crowd, made protest.
“Shame!” he cried, “ Shame on you, Romans! Shame on you, people of Jerusalem! Why mock that which is condemned?”
But his voice was lost in the uproar around him, or if not utterly lost, it fell unheeded on the ears of those who did not choose to hear. And anon, a fresh burst of taunting merriment split the air into harsh echoings, — a new phase of bitter jesting moved the crowd, — the “King” was being crowned! A spearman acting on the initiative given by his fellow, had leaped into the outer garden-court, and had there torn from the wall three long branches of a climbing rose, thick with thorns. Pulling off all the delicate buds, blossoms and leaves, he twisted the prickly stems into a coronal and with this approached the silent Christ, his companions greeting him with hoarse yells of approving laughter.
“Hail, King of the Jews!” he cried, as he placed it on the Divine brows, pressing the spiky circlet fiercely down into the tender flesh till the pained blood sprang beneath its pressure—” Hail, all hail!”
And he struck the fair and tranquil face with his steel gauntlet.
“A sceptre! A sceptre for the King!” shouted a little lad, running out from the crowd excitedly, and waving a light reed aloft as he came. The soldiers laughed again, and snatching the reed, sat it upright between the bound wrists of their blameless Captive. Then with devilish howlings and wild gestures a group of disorderly ruffians rushed forward pell-mell and dropped on their knees, turning up their grimy grinning faces in pretended worship and mocking servility the while they yelled in frantic chorus, —
“Hail! Hail, King of the Jews!”
They might as well have stormed the Sun, or flung insults at a Star. Mystically removed above and beyond them all was the Man of Sorrows, — His lips, close set in that wondrous curve of beauty such as sculptors give to the marble god of song, opened not for any utterance of word or cry; — scarcely indeed did He appear to breathe, so solemn and majestic a stillness encompassed Him. That tranquil silence irritated the mob, — it implied perfect courage, indifference to fate, heroic fortitude, and sublime endurance, — and thus seemed to be a dignified, dumbly declared scorn of the foolish fury of the people.
“A curse on him!” cried a man in the crowd—” Hath he no tongue? Hath he no more doctrines to teach before he dies? Make him speak!”
“Speak, fellow!” roared a soldier, striking him heavily on the shoulder with the handle of his spear, “ Thou hast babbled oft of both sin and righteousness, — how darest thou now hold thy peace?”
But neither taunt nor blow could force an answer from the immortal “King.” His noble features were composed and calm, — His luminous eyes looked straight ahead as though beholding some glory afar off in shining distance, — and only the slow drops of blood starting from under the sharp points of His thorny crown, and staining the bright hair that clustered on His temples, gave any material evidence of life or feeling.
“He hath a devil!” shouted another man—” He is hardened in impenitence and feels nothing. Away with him! Let him he crucified!”
While this incessant clamour was going on, Pilate had stood apart, watching the scene with the doubtful and confused sensations of a man in delirium. As in some horrid vision, he beheld the stately Figure, draped in the scarlet robe and crowned with thorns, being hustled along the Prætorium towards the open court outside which had to be reached by yet another descending flight of steps, — and, yielding to a sudden impulse he moved quickly forward, so that he came in the way of the advancing guard. Seeing him appear thus unexpectedly, the centurion in command paused. The soldiers too, somewhat taken aback at being caught in their brutal horse-play by no less a personage than the governor himself, ceased their noisy shouts abruptly and rested on their weapons, sullenly silent. Once more, and for the last time on earth, Pilate ventured to look straight at the Condemned. Bruised, bound, and bleeding, the twisted rose-thorns setting their reluctant prongs ever more deeply into his brows, the “Nazarene” met that questioning, appealing, anguished human gaze with a proud yet sweet serenity; while Pilate, staring wildly in terror and wonderment, saw that above the crown of thorns there glittered a crown of light, — light, woven in three intertwisted rays of dazzling gold and azure, which cast prismatic reflections upward, like meteor-flames flashing between earth and heaven. A Crown of Light!... a mystic Circle, widening, ever widening into burning rings that seemed endless,... how came such glory there? What could it mean?... Like a drowning man desperately clutching at a floating spar while sinking in the depths of the sea, Pilate clutched vaguely and half blindly at the flowing scarlet mantle which, as a symbol of the world’s mockery, robed the regal form of the world’s Redeemer, and dragged at it as though he sought to pull its wearer forward. The clamorous touch was obeyed; the Man of Nazareth suffered Himself to be led by His judge to the summit of the last flight of steps leading downwards and outwards from the Praetorium. There, He fully faced the assembled multitude in all His sorrowful sublimity and tragic splendour, and for a moment deep silence ruled the throng. Then, suddenly heart-stricken and overwhelmed at the sight of such pure and piteous majesty, Pilate dropped the edge of the scarlet robe as though it had scorched his flesh.
“ECCE HOMO!” he exclaimed, tossing up his arms as he shrieked the words out in his native tongue, careless as to whether they were understood or not by the startled Jewish crowd— “ECCE HOMO!”
And breaking into a wild fit of delirious laughter and weeping, he flung his mantle desperately across his mouth to stifle the agonized convulsion, and, swerving aside giddily, fell, face forward on the ground, insensible.
CHAPTER IX.
ALOUD cry went up from the multitude, and in the consternation and confusion which ensued, the crowd swiftly divided itself into various sections. Some rushed to proffer assistance in lifting the unconscious governor and carrying him to his palace; others gathered once more around the released Barabbas with fresh adulation and words of welcome, — but by far the larger half of the mob prepared to follow the Divine Condemned and see Him die. Fearful and unnatural as it seems, it is nevertheless true that in all ages the living have found a peculiar and awful satisfaction in watching the agonies of the dying. To be alive and to look on while a fellow-creature gasps out in torture the last reluctant breath, is a position that has always given a mysteriously horrible pleasure to the majority. And on this particular day more than the customary morbid diversion was expected, for a rumour had gone the round of the populace that two notorious thieves were to be executed at the same time as the young “prophet” out of Galilee. Such a spectacle was assuredly worth waiting for! — and accordingly they waited, a motley-garbed, restless, expectant mass of men and women, the perpetual hum of their voices sounding like the noise made by thousands of swarming bees, the while they occasionally varied the monotony of speech by singing, stamping and whistling. The Roman soldiers, greatly disconcerted by Pilate’s sudden and inexplicable illness, and in their own mind superstitiously connecting it with some spell they imagined to have been secretly wrought by the “Nazarene,” were now in no mood for trifling. Dragging off the scarlet robe from their Prisoner, they hastily flung His own raiment upon Him, and, with many dark and threatening looks, led him forth, closely guarded.
The morning was intensely hot and bright, — in the outer court a fountain was in full play, casting up a silvery column of foam-dust to the burning blue of the sky. The whole band of soldiers halted while their centurion conferred apart with the criminal executioner, whose duty it was to provide crosses suitable for the legal mode of punishment then in vogue, and who also was bound to assist in nailing those condemned in the barbarous position needful to ensure a lingering and horrible death. Three crosses were required that day, he said, — and he was in doubt as to whether any that he had were sufficiently strong enough to sustain the powerful and splendid figure of the Captive now pointed out to him.
“I’ faith I am sorry he is condemned,” he muttered with a touch of commiseration in his rough accents— “He hath a noble presence, and of a surety to slay him thus shamefully is an error, Petronius. Believe me, so thou wilt find it! Rememberest thou not how one of thine own calling, dwelling in Capernaum, had his servant sick of a palsy, and yonder man did heal him without so much as visiting the house where he lay? I tell thee, mischief will come of his death. And now I look at thee, thou hast a sober air, — thou art not in tune with this deed, methinks?”
Petronius lowered his eyes, and meditatively traced out the pattern of the pavement with the point of his drawn weapon.
“Our governor hath not condemned him” — he said in a low tone—” And therefore Rome is not responsible. Pilate would have saved him, — but the Jews have willed otherwise.”
“Ay, ay!” grumbled the executioner, himself a native of Apulia, “ The Jews, the Jews! Dark and bloody are their annals, — Jove knoweth! — and they have been known to murder their own children to please the savage deity they worship. Look you, the fat priests devour the firstlings of a flock in their own houses, pretending ’tis their God who hath such greedy appetite, — and those among them who accumulate more gold than is lawful will swear that even high rates of usury are the divine blessing on the righteous! Hypocrites all, Petronius! — but yonder Prisoner is not a Jew?”
The centurion looked wistfully at the Condemned, now reclothed in His own white garments, but still wearing the crown of thorns. A smile irradiated His fair face, — His soft eyes were watching with tenderness the dainty caperings of a butterfly that fluttered for mere joyous caprice just near enough to the fountain to catch a drop or two on its azure wings, and then danced off again high up into the sunshine. Even so absorbed and gentle might have been His aspect when He said, “Behold the lilies of the field! They toil not, neither do they spin, — and yet I say unto you, that Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these!”
“He is not, — he cannot be a Jew?” repeated the executioner questioningly.
“Yea verily he is a Jew,” replied Petronius at last with a slight sigh—” Or so it is reported. He is of that vile Nazareth; the son of Joseph the carpenter there, — and Mary his mother is, or was, here, a while ago with the women.”
The executioner shook his head obstinately.
“Thou wilt never make me believe it!” he said—” He hath the air of an alien to this land. Look you, there is no face like his in the crowd, — he is neither Greek nor Roman nor Egyptian, — but though I cannot fix his race I would swear his father was never a Jew! And as for the cross, ye will all have to wait while I go and test which is the strongest and least worn, for, on my life, it must lift up a Hercules! Seest thou not what height and muscle? — what plenitude of vigour? — By Jupiter! an’ I were he I would make short work of the guard!”
Chuckling hoarsely at what he considered an excellent jest, he disappeared on his gruesome errand, taking three or four of the soldiers with him. The rest of the troop remained surrounding the “Nazarene,” while the crowd of spectators increased every moment, extending itself far into the street beyond. All the people were growing more and more excited and impatient, — some of them were conscious of a certain vague disappointment and irritation. There was no amusement in seeing a Man condemned to death if He refused to be interested in His own fate, and stood waiting as resignedly and patiently as this “Prophet of Nazareth” who looked more happy than pained. Several minutes elapsed, and the cross had not yet been brought. The enforced delay seemed likely to be prolonged, and several thirsty souls edged themselves out of the crush to get refreshment while they had time and opportunity. Among these was Barabbas. Some former old acquaintances of his had taken possession of him, and now insisted upon his accompanying them, somewhat against his will, into an inn close by, where they drank his health with boisterous acclamations. Barabbas ate and drank with them, — and the natural avidity of an almost starving man enabled him to assume the air of a boon companionship he was far from feeling, but when his appetite was moderately appeased, he pushed away the remaining morsels and sat silent and abstracted in the midst of the loud laughter and jesting around him.
