Delphi collected works o.., p.305
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli, page 305
part #22 of Delphi Series Series
“My lord!” — faltered the Arimathean in dismay and fear.
Justitia slipped one arm around her husband’s neck and said something to him in a soothing whisper. Pilate smiled somewhat piteously, and drawing her hand down to his lips kissed it.
“This gentle lady, — my wife, good sir, — tells me that my thoughts wander and that I fail to give thee fitting answer. I crave thy pardon, counsellor, — thou art a counsellor it seems, and therefore no doubt hast patience with the erring and wisdom for the weak. Thou wouldst ensepulchre the ‘Nazarene?’ — the body of the Crucified thou wouldst number with dead men? — why then, even so let it be! — take thou possession of That which thou dost deem a corpse of common clay, — thou hast my leave to honourably inter the same. My leave!” — and he laughed wildly—” My leave to shut within the tomb that which no tomb can hold, no close-barred cave can keep, no time destroy! Go! — do as thou wilt, — do all thou wilt! — thou hast thy boon!”
Relieved from his suspense, and full of gratitude, the Arimathean bowed profoundly to the ground, and was about to retire, when a great noise of disputation was heard in the outer vestibule. Justitia started up from her husband’s side in wondering indignation and was on the point of going forth to inquire the cause of such unseemly disturbance when the door of the apartment was furiously flung open, and the high-priest Caiaphas burst in, his glistening sacerdotal garments disordered and trailing behind him, and his face livid with passion.
“Thou art a traitor, Pilate!” he exclaimed—” Already dost thou scheme with tricksters for the pretended resurrection of the ‘Nazarene’!”
CHAPTER XXVI.
PILATE rose slowly up and confronted him, Justitia at his side. He was now perfectly calm, and his pale features assumed a cold and repellent dignity. “Whom callest thou traitor, thou subject of Rome?” he said—” Knowest thou not that though thou art highpriest of the Jewish faith, thou art answerable to Cæsar for insult to his officer?”
Caiaphas stood breathless and trembling with rage.
“Thou also art answerable to Cæsar if thou dost lend thyself to low imposture!” he said—” Dost thou not remember that this vile deceiver out of Galilee who hath been crucified, did say ‘After three days I will rise again’? And do I not find thee giving audience to one of His known followers who oft hath entertained Him and listened to His doctrines? This counsellor” — and he emphasised the term sarcastically, eyeing the unmoved and stately figure of Joseph of Arimathea up and down angrily—” now seeks His body to bury it in a sepulchre, whereof he only hath the seal and secret. And why doth he offer this free service? That he may steal the corpse in the silence of the second night, and make away with it, and then give out a rumour that the Christ is risen! So shall the hist error be worst than the first with the silly multitude, if his scheme be not prevented.” Joseph lifted his clear grave eyes and looked full at the speaker.
“I heed not thy wicked accusation, Caiaphas,” he said tranquilly—” Thou knowest it is false, and born from out the fury and suspicion of thy mind. Thy fears do make a coward of thee, — perchance when thou didst find the veil of the Temple rent in the midst this day, and knewest by inquiry that so it had been torn at the very moment of the passing of the soul of the ‘Nazarene,’ thou wert shaken with strange terrors that still do haunt and trouble thee. Rally thyself and be ashamed, — for none shall steal the body I have claimed from Pilate, — rest for the dead is granted even by the most unmerciful, and this rest is mine to give to one who, whether human or divine, was innocent of sin and died through treachery undeservedly.”
The blood rushed to the high-priest’s brows, and he clenched his hands in an effort to keep down his rising wrath.
“Hearest thou that, Pilate?” he exclaimed—” Sufferest thou this insolence?”
“What insolence?” asked Justitia, suddenly—”’Tis true the Man of Nazareth had no fault in Him at all and that ye slew Him out of fear!”
Caiaphas glared at her, his cold eyes sparkling with rage.
“I argue not with women!” he said through his set teeth—” They are not in our counsels, nor have they any right to judgment.”
Justitia smiled. Her full black eyes met his piercing shallow ones with such immeasurable scorn as made him for the moment tremble. Avoiding her glance, he addressed himself once more to Pilate —
“Hear me, thou governor of Judæa under Cæsar” — he said—” And weigh thou this matter well lest thou unheedfully fall beneath the weight of the Imperial displeasure. Thy Roman soldiery are stricken with some strange disease and speak as with the milky mouths of babes, concerning mercy!— ’tis marvellous to note you bearded men seized with effeminate virtue! Wherefore, out of this sudden craze of mercy they have spared to break the limbs of the blasphemous ‘Nazarene,’ proffering for excuse that He is dead already. What matter! I would have had every joint within His body wrenched apart! —— yea, I would have had His very flesh hewn into pieces after death, if I had had my way!” He paused, quivering with passion and breathing heavily. Pilate looked at him with immovable intentness. “Thy centurion is at fault” — he continued—” for he it is who hath, upon his own authority, given the corpse unto the women who besought it of him, and they make such a weeping and a lamentation as might rouse the multitude an’ ‘twere not that the hour is late, and night has fully fallen. And with them is that evil woman of the town, the Magdalen, who doth defy us to remove the body and place it as it should be, with the other malefactors, saying that this man” — and he indicated by a disdainful gesture the Arimathean counsellor, “ hath sought thy leave to lay it in his own new tomb with honour. Honour for a trickster and blasphemer! — If thou dost grant him this permit, I swear unto thee, Pilate, thou dost lend thyself unto a scheme of deep-laid cunning treachery!”
Still Pilate eyed him with the same fixed steadfastness. “My centurion, thou sayest, is at fault” — he observed presently in cold meditative accents—” What centurion?”
“Petronius, — even he who was in charge. I made him accompany me hither. He waits without.”
“Call him, Justitia,” — said Pilate, seating himself upon his couch and assuming an attitude of ceremonious dignity and reserve. —
Justitia obeyed, and in answer to her summons, the centurion entered, saluted and stood silent.
“The ‘ Nazarene’ is dead?” said Pilate addressing him in the measured tones of judicial inquiry.
“Sir, He hath been dead these two hours and more.” Thou art not herein deceived?” — and Pilate smiled strangely as he put the question.
Petronius stared in respectful amazement.
“My lord, we all beheld him die, — and one of us did pierce His side to hasten dissolution.”
“Why didst thou practise mercy thus?”
A troubled look clouded the soldier’s honest face.
“Sir, there have been many terrors both in earth and air this day, — and — He seemed a sinless man and of a marvellous courage.” —
Pilate turned towards Caiaphas. Seest thou the reason of this matter?” he said — This Petronius is a Roman, — and ’tis in Roman blood to give some reverence to courage. Your Jew is no respecter of heroic virtues, — an’ he were, he would not need to pay tribute unto Cæsar!” The high-priest gave a scornful, half-derisive gesture. “The very man now crucified, whose heroism thy soldier doth admire, was a Jew,” — he said.
“Not altogether,” interposed Joseph of Arimathea suddenly— “Mary, His mother, was of Egypt.”
Caiaphas sneered.
“And Joseph his father was of Nazareth,” — he said — And as the father is, so is the son.”
At these words a singular silence fell upon the group, Justitia grew: deadly pale, and leaned on the corner of her husband’s couch for support, — her breath came and went hurriedly and she laid one hand upon her bosom as though to still some teasing pain. Pilate half rose, — there was a strange light in his eyes and he seemed about to speak, — but apparently on consideration altering his intention he sat down again, turning so wild a gaze upon Petronius that that officer was both dismayed and startled.
“Thou hast done well” — he said at last, breaking the oppressive stillness by an evident effort, “ Mercy doth well become a stalwart Roman, strong in brute strength as thou art. I blame thee not in aught. And thou, great Caiaphas” — here he fixed his eyes full on the highpriest, “dost nobly practise sentiments which best befit thy calling, — revenge, bloodthirstiness and fear. Peace! — snatch not the words from out my mouth by thy unseemly rage of interruption, — I know the terror that thou hast of even the dead body of Him that thou hast slain, — but thou art too late in thy desire to carry cruelty beyond the grave. The Arimathean counsellor hath my permit to bury the ‘Nazarene’ in honour even as he doth desire, in his own sepulchre newly hewn. But if thou dost suspect his good intent, and thinkest there is treachery in his honest service, seal thou the tomb thyself with thine own mark, and set a watch of as many as thou wilt, picked men and cautious, to guard the sepulchre till the third day be past. Thus shall all sides have justice, — thou, Joseph, and thou, Caiaphas, — and inasmuch as this Petronius showeth too much mercy, thou canst choose another centurion than he to head thy band. More I cannot do to satisfy demand” — here he broke off with a shuddering sigh of weariness.
“’Tis enough” — said Caiaphas sullenly— “Nevertheless, Pilate, hadst thou been wise, thou wouldst have refused the malefactor’s body to this counsellor.”
And he darted an angry and suspicious glance at the Arimathean, who returned his look steadily.
“Hast urged enough against me, Caiaphas?” he said—” Verily, were it not for my race and lineage, I would take shame unto myself this day that I am born a Jew, hearing thee vent such paltry rage and puny fear, and thou the high-priest of the Temple! But I will not bandy words with thee; — I do most readily accept the judgment of our excellent lord the governor, and herewith invite thee to be witness of the burial of the ‘Nazarene.’ Thou canst examine the sepulchre within and without to make thyself sure there is no secret passage to serve for thy suspected robbers of the dead. Bring thou thy seals of office, and set a watch both night and day, — I give thee promise that I will not hinder thee.” Caiaphas bent his head in stiff and haughty acknowledgment, and turned on his heel to leave the apartment, then glancing over his shoulder at the pensive and drooping figure of Pilate he said with forced pleasantness, —
“I wish thee better health, Pilate!”
“I thank thee, priest” — responded Pilate without looking up—” I wish thee better courage!”
With an indifferent nod, Caiaphas was about to leave, the room, when seeing that Petronius the centurion had just saluted the governor and was also departing he stopped him by a gesture.
“Didst thou inquire, as I bade thee, concerning young Iscariot?”
“Sir,” answered Petronius gravely—”’tis rumoured in the city that Iscariot is dead.”
“Dead!” Caiaphas clutched at him to steady himself for everything seemed suddenly reeling, — then he repeated again in a hoarse whisper—” Dead!”
For a moment the air around him grew black, and when he recovered his sickening senses, he saw that Pilate had risen and had come forward with his wife clinging to him, and that both were looking at him in undisguised astonishment, while Joseph of Arimathea was shaking him by the arm.
“What ails thee, Caiaphas?” asked the counsellor, “ Why art thou thus stricken suddenly?”
“’Tis naught— ’tis naught!” and the proud priest drew himself up erect, the while his eyes wandered to the face of the centurion once more, “ Thou didst say” — and he spoke with hesitation and difficulty—” that ’tis rumoured Judas is dead? Surely ’tis false, — how could he die?”
“Sir, he hath slain himself, — so runs the people’s whisper.”
Caiaphas pressed one hand over his eyes to shut out the specks of red that swam before his sight like drops of blood. Then he looked round him with feigned composure — his countenance was very pale.
“See you,” he said unsteadily—” It can but move me to think that yesterday Judas was well and full of life, and that to-day he should be dead! A foolish youth, — of wild and erring impulse, but nevertheless much beloved by his father and — his sister Judith” — Here he broke off with a fierce exclamation of mingled wrath and pain and, seizing the Arimathean by the arm, he cried boisterously —
“Come, thou subtle and righteous counsellor! On with me, and open thou thy rocky cave of death that we may thrust within it the cause of all this mischief. Farewell, Pilate! — take health upon thee speedily and my blessing! — for thou hast done justice in this matter, albeit late and forced from thee! And by thy legal sanction, I will set such a watch around the dead blasphemer’s sepulchre as hath not been excelled in vigilance or guardianship for any treasure of the world! — his prophecy shall prove a lie! ‘ After three days’!... nay! — not after a thousand and three! Let thunders crash, earth yawn, and mountains split asunder, the ‘ Nazarene’ shall never rise again!”
And with a wild gesture of defiance he rushed from the room, dragging the Arimathean with him and followed by Petronius in a state of wonderment and fear.
CHAPTER XXVII.
PILATE and his wife remained standing where they were for a moment, looking at each other in silence. The mingled light of the flickering lamps around them and the moonbeams pouring in through the open window gave a spectral pallor to their faces, which in absorbed expression reflected the same trouble, the same perplexed unquiet thought. After a pause, Pilate turned and moved feebly back to his couch, — Justitia following him.
“Oh, to escape this terror!” he murmured, as he sank among his pillows once more and closed his eyes—”’Tis everywhere, ’tis upon Caiaphas even as it is upon us all! A terror of the unknown, the undeclared, the invisible, the deathless! What hath been done this day we cannot comprehend, — we can but feel a mystery in the air, — and we grope blindly, seeing nothing — touching nothing — and therefore doubting everything, but nevertheless afraid! Afraid of what? Of ourselves? Nay, for we have killed the Man who did so much amaze us. What more then? Why, no more, since He is dead. And being dead, what cause is there for fear?”
He sighed heavily. Justitia knelt beside him.
“Dear, my lord,” — she began softly, her voice trembling a little. He turned his head towards her.
“What wouldst thou say, Justitia?” he asked gently — Methinks my moods do trouble thee, thou most beloved of women, — I fain would be more cheerful for thy sake. But there is a darkness on my spirit that not even thy love can lift, — thou hast wept also, for I see the tears within thine eyes. Why art thou moved to weakness, thou strong heart? — what would they say of thee in Rome, thou who art adjudged a very queen of pride, if they beheld thee now?”
Justitia answered not, for all at once her head drooped upon her husband’s breast, and clinging to him close, she gave way to a sudden paroxysm of passionate weeping. Pilate held her to him, soothing her with trembling touch and whispered words, now and again lifting his eyes to look with a kind of apprehension and expectancy round the silent room as though he thought some one besides themselves witnessed their actions. After a while, when the violence of her sobbing ceased, he said, —
“Tell me, Justitia — tell me all that troubles thee. Some secret grief thou hast kept pent up within thee through the day, — and what with storm and earthquake and darkness and thy fears for me, thou hast brooded on sorrow dumbly, as women often do when they have none to love them. But I who love thee more than life, Justitia, have the right to share thy heaviness, — I am strong enough or should be strong, — look up!” and he raised her tearful face between his hands and gazed at her tenderly—” Unburden thy soul, Justitia!... tell me thy dream!”
With a cry she sprang erect, pushing back her ruffled hair from her brows and gazing out into the moonlit garden with a strange expression of alarm and awe.
“No, no!” she whispered— “I cannot, — I dare not. ’Tis dark with the terror thou hast spoken of, — a portent and a mystery; it brings no comfort, — and thou canst not bear to hear more evil omens of disaster” —
She broke off, adding presently in the same hushed accents, —
“Didst thou understand, Pontius, when Petronius spoke, that Iscariot was dead?”
“Surely I understood” — responded Pilate—” What marvel in it. ’Twas he that did betray his Master to the priests. He dared not testify of this his treachery, — and when I asked for him at this morning’s trial, he could not be found. Out of remorse he slew himself, or so I judge — a fitting death for such a traitor. Thou dost not grieve for him?”
“I knew him not” — said Justitia thoughtfully—” else — perchance if I had known — I might have pitied him. But Judith loved him.”
Pilate moved impatiently among his cushions.
“Much do I marvel at thy interest in that most haughty and most forward maiden” — he said— “That she is beautiful, I grant, — but vanity doth make her beauty valueless. How earnest thou to choose her as a friend?”
“She is no friend of mine,” Justitia answered slowly still looking out at the clear night—” Save that she has been long left motherless, and is unguided and undisciplined, wherefore I have counselled her at times, — though truly my counsels are but wasted words, and she hath evil rooted in her soul. Nevertheless believe me, Pontius, now will her vanity have end, — for if she hath a heart, that heart will break to-night!”
Her husband made no reply, and a long silence fell between them. During this pause, a sound of joyous singing reached them, — a party of young men and maidens were strolling homeward from some festive meeting thrumming on stringed instruments and carolling as they went. Over the wall of Pilate’s enclosed garden their figures could be seen passing along the open street beyond, and occasional scraps of their conversation echoed distinctly through the air.
