This thing had to be.
All was well.
The serenity of Jesus in the heart of the tumult and pain became my serenity.
I was scarce moved by any thought to save him.
On the other hand, I had gazed on too many wonders of the human in my wild and varied years to be affected to foolish acts by this particular wonder.
I was all serenity.
I had no word to say.
I had no judgment to pass.
I knew that things were occurring beyond my comprehension, and that they must occur.
Still Pilate struggled.
The tumult increased.
The cry for blood rang through the court, and all were clamouring for crucifixion.
Again Pilate went back into the judgment hall.
His effort at a farce having failed, he attempted to disclaim jurisdiction. Jesus was not of Jerusalem.
He was a born subject of Antipas, and to Antipas Pilate was for sending Jesus.
But the uproar was by now communicating itself to the city.
Our troops outside the palace were being swept away in the vast street mob.
Rioting had begun that in the flash of an eye could turn into civil war and revolution.
My own twenty legionaries were close to hand and in readiness.
They loved the fanatic Jews no more than did I, and would have welcomed my command to clear the court with naked steel.
When Pilate came out again his words for Antipas’ jurisdiction could not be heard, for all the mob was shouting that Pilate was a traitor, that if he let the fisherman go he was no friend of Tiberius.
Close before me, as I leaned against the wall, a mangy, bearded, long-haired fanatic sprang up and down unceasingly, and unceasingly chanted:
“Tiberius is emperor; there is no king!
Tiberius is emperor; there is no king!”
I lost patience.
The man’s near noise was an offence.
Lurching sidewise, as if by accident, I ground my foot on his to a terrible crushing.
The fool seemed not to notice.
He was too mad to be aware of the pain, and he continued to chant:
“Tiberius is emperor; there is no king!”
I saw Pilate hesitate.
Pilate, the Roman governor, for the moment was Pilate the man, with a man’s anger against the miserable creatures clamouring for the blood of so sweet and simple, brave and good a spirit as this Jesus. I saw Pilate hesitate.
His gaze roved to me, as if he were about to signal to me to let loose; and I half-started forward, releasing the mangled foot under my foot.
I was for leaping to complete that half-formed wish of Pilate and to sweep away in blood and cleanse the court of the wretched scum that howled in it.
It was not Pilate’s indecision that decided me.
It was this Jesus that decided Pilate and me.
This Jesus looked at me.
He commanded me.
I tell you this vagrant fisherman, this wandering preacher, this piece of driftage from Galilee, commanded me.
No word he uttered. Yet his command was there, unmistakable as a trumpet call.
And I stayed my foot, and held my hand, for who was I to thwart the will and way of so greatly serene and sweetly sure a man as this?
And as I stayed I knew all the charm of him—all that in him had charmed Miriam and Pilate’s wife, that had charmed Pilate himself.
You know the rest.
Pilate washed his hands of Jesus’ blood, and the rioters took his blood upon their own heads.
Pilate gave orders for the crucifixion.
The mob was content, and content, behind the mob, were Caiaphas, Hanan, and the Sanhedrim.
Not Pilate, not Tiberius, not Roman soldiers crucified Jesus.
It was the priestly rulers and priestly politicians of Jerusalem.
I saw.
I know.