Chapter 20

It was a beautiful night, warm enough to be comfortable out-of-doors, and the Procurator was entertaining his long-time friends on the spacious porch of the Insula.

‘What now?’ he growled, as the mob swarmed up the marble steps. He scowled at the note that Malchus handed him and stared hard at the prisoner.

‘What evil have you been up to,’ he demanded, ‘on a night when you’re supposed to be attending to your religious duties? You are a Jew, aren’t you?’

It was not a question that could be answered in a word, and Jesus was tardy with a reply. The butler jabbed him in the ribs with his elbow and shouted, ‘Speak up, fellow!’

Pilate’s lip curled.

‘And who are you?’ he demanded scornfully.

‘My name is Malchus. I am of the High Priest’s household.’

‘Well, you’re no credit to it, I must say. Malchus, eh? That doesn’t sound Jewish.’

‘I’m a Roman, sir!’ said the butler, with a little more confidence.

‘That’s unfortunate,’ snapped Pilate. ‘Take your hands off the prisoner and stand aside!’ He held the note at arm’s length and scanned it distastefully. ‘Now, then, Jesus, what’s all this about? You’re said to be a disturber of the peace. In the name of all the Gods, where—in this quarrelsome country—have you found any peace to disturb?’

The crowd was getting restless, a few of them suspecting—and not without warrant—that the Procurator was more interested in amusing his grinning guests than attending to his business as judge. The muttering in the rear of the pack grew urgent. Somebody shouted, ‘Away with the Galilean!’

Pilate caught at it.

‘Are you a Galilean?’ he inquired, and slowly turning his head toward Legate Julian of Capernaum, he winked impishly.

Jesus said that he was a Galilean.

‘Then you don’t belong here at all,’ declared Pilate… ‘You—Malchus—or whatever your name is. Take him to the Galilean Embassy and tell your troubles to Herod Antipas.’

There were many angry shouts of ‘No!’ But the Procurator hurled an overhand gesture of dismissal at the crowd—and ordered some more wine. The Chief of the city patrols stepped forward and whispered, ‘Shall I send a deputation over there to keep order, sire?’ To which Pilate replied indifferently, ‘No—let the Tetrarch attend to that; unless,’ he added, ‘there is disorderly conduct in the streets.’

And so, bitterly disappointed and noisily disgruntled, they led Jesus to the Embassy, the crowd increasing as they proceeded. The disciples had fallen far behind the shouting mob, and trudged along, silent, helpless, frightened.

They hammered at the imposing bronze doors of the Embassy until they were admitted, and stormed into the beautiful, high-domed courtroom, yelling impudently for Antipas. All of the disciples edged themselves into the lobby, all but Peter. For a while he stood irresolute and alone on the pavement outside, tugging nervously at his underlip. Then he ambled over to the wide-open gate to the carriage-court and looked in.

There was a pleasant fire burning in the middle of it and a few tall, gaudily uniformed patrols were warming their hands. Peter felt chilly and advanced toward the fire. The urbane legionaries saw him coming—and grinned. He knew they were amused at his provincial garb. For a moment he had a notion to retreat; but, presuming that the soldiers would laugh scornfully if he did so, he shambled on, feeling himself very much out of place; for the first time in his life an object of derision.

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