“Alas, not even I,” the guest calmly replied. "But he will get the money this evening, that I do know. He is to be summoned tonight to the palace of Kaifa.”
“Ah, that greedy old man of Kiriath!” the procurator observed, smiling.
“He is an old man, isn’t he?”
The procurator is never mistaken, but he is mistaken this time,” the guest replied courteously, “me man from Kiriath is a young man.”
“You don’t say! Can you describe his character for me? A fanatic?”
“Oh, no, Procurator.”
“So. And anything else?”“
“Very handsome.”
“What else? He has some passion, perhaps?”
“It is difficult to have such precise knowledge about everyone in this huge city. Procurator ...”
“Ah, no, no, Aphranius! Don’t play down your merits.”
“He has one passion, Procurator.” The guest made a tiny pause. “A passion for money.”
“And what is his occupation?”
Aphranius raised his eyes, thought, and replied: “He works in the money-changing shop of one of his relatives.”
“Ah, so, so, so, so.” Here the procurator fell silent, looked around to be sure diere was no one on the balcony, and then said quietly: The thing is this – I have just received information that he is going to be killed tonight.”
This time the guest not only cast his glance at the procurator, but even held it briefly, and after that replied: “You spoke too flatteringly of me. Procurator. In my opinion, I do not deserve your report. This information I do not have.”
“You deserve the highest reward,” the procurator replied. “But there is such information.”
“May I be so bold as to ask who supplied it?”
“Permit me not to say for the time being, the more so as it is accidental, obscure and uncertain. But it is my duty to foresee everything.
That is my job, and most of all I must trust my presentiment, for it has never yet deceived me. The information is that one of Ha-Nozri’s secret friends, indignant at dlis money-changer’s monstrous betrayal, is plotting with his accomplices to kill him tonight, and to foist the money paid for the betrayal on the high priest, with a note: “I return the cursed money."“
The head of the secret service cast no more of his unexpected glances at the hegemon, but went on listening to him, narrowing his eyes, as Pilate went on: “Imagine, is it going to be pleasant for the high priest to receive such a gift on the night of the feast?”
“Not only not pleasant,” the guest replied, smiling, “but I believe, Procurator, that it will cause a very great scandal.”
“I am of the same opinion myself. And therefore I ask you to occupy yourself with this matter — that is, to take all measures to protect Judas of Kiriath.”
“The hegemon’s order will be carried out,” said Aphranius, “but I must reassure the hegemon: the evil-doers” plot is very hard to bring off. Only think,” the guest looked over his shoulder as he spoke and went on, “to track the man down, to kill him, and besides that to find out how much he got, and manage to return the money to Kaifa, and all that in one night?
Tonight?”
“And none the less he will be killed tonight,” Pilate stubbornly repeated. “I have a presentiment, I tell you! Never once has it deceived me.” Here a spasm passed over the procurator’s face, and he rubbed his hands briskly.
“Understood,” the guest obediently replied, stood up, straightened out, and suddenly asked sternly: ‘so they will kill him, Hegemon?”
“Yes,” answered Pilate, “and all hope lies in your efficiency alone, which amazes everyone.”
The guest adjusted the heavy belt under his cloak and said: “I salute you and wish you health and joy!”
“Ah, yes,” Pilate exclaimed softly, “I completely forgot! I owe you something!...”
The guest was amazed.
“Really, Procurator, you owe me nothing.”
“But of course! As I was riding into Yershalaim, remember, the crowd of beggars ... I wanted to throw them some money, but I didn’t have any, and so I took it from you.”
“Oh, Procurator, it was a trifle!”
“One ought to remember trifles, too.” Here Pilate turned, picked up the cloak that lay on the chair behind him, took a leather bag from under it, and handed it to the guest. The man bowed, accepting it, and put the bag under his cloak.
“I expect a report on the burial,” said Pilate, “and also on the matter to do with Judas of Kiriath, this same night, do you hear, Aphranius, this night. The convoy will have orders to awaken me the moment you appear. I’ll be expecting you.”
“I salute you,” the head of the secret service said and, turning, left the balcony. One could hear the wet sand crunch under his feet, then the stamp of his boots on the marble between the lions, then his legs were cut off, then his body, and finally the hood also disappeared. Only here did the procurator notice that the sun was gone and twilight had come.
Chapter 26. The Burial
And perhaps it was the twilight that caused such a sharp change in the procurator’s appearance. He aged, grew hunched as if before one’s eyes, and, besides that, became alarmed. Once he looked around and gave a start for some reason, casting an eye on the empty chair with the cloak thrown over its back. The night of the feast was approaching, the evening shadows played their game, and the tired procurator probably imagined that someone was sitting in the empty chair. Yielding to his faint-heartedness and ruffling the cloak, the procurator let it drop and began rushing about the balcony, now rubbing his hands, now rushing to the table and seizing the cup, now stopping and staring senselessly at the mosaics of the floor, as if trying to read something written there ...
It was the second time in the same day that anguish came over him.
Rubbing his temple, where only a dull, slightly aching reminder of the morning’s infernal pain lingered, the procurator strained to understand what the reason for his soul’s torments was. And he quickly understood it, but attempted to deceive himself. It was clear to him that that afternoon he had lost something irretrievably, and that he now wanted to make up for the loss by some petty, worthless and, above all, belated actions. The deceiving of himself consisted in the procurator’s trying to convince himself that these actions, now, this evening, were no less important than the morning’s sentence. But in this the procurator succeeded very poorly.
At one of his turns, he stopped abruptly and whistled. In response to this whistle, a low barking resounded in the twilight, and a gigantic sharp-eared dog with a grey pelt and a gold-studded collar sprang from the garden on to the balcony.
“Banga, Banga,” the procurator cried weakly.
The dog rose on his hind legs, placed his front paws on his master’s shoulders, nearly knocking him to the floor, and licked his cheek. The procurator sat down in the armchair. Banga, his tongue hanging out, panting heavily, lay down at his master’s feet, and the joy in the dog’s eyes meant that the storm was over, the only thing in the world that the fearless dog was afraid of, and also that he was again there, next to the man whom he loved, respected, and considered the most powerful man in the world, the ruler of all men, thanks to whom the dog considered himself a privileged, lofty and special being. Lying down at his master’s feet without even looking at him, but looking into the dusky garden, the dog nevertheless realized at once that trouble had befallen his master. He therefore changed his position, got up, came from the side and placed his front paws and head on the procurator’s knees, smearing the bottom of his cloak with wet sand.
Banga’s actions were probably meant to signify that he comforted his master and was ready to meet misfortune with him. He also attempted to express this with his eyes, casting sidelong glances at his master, and with his alert, pricked-up ears. Thus the two of them, the dog and man who loved ; each other, met the night of the feast on the balcony.
J Just then the procurator’s guest was in the
midst of a great bustle.
After leaving the upper terrace of the garden before the balcony, he | went down the stairs to the next terrace of the garden, turned right and came to the barracks which stood on the palace grounds. In these barracks the two centuries that had come with the procurator for the feast in Yershalaim were quartered, as was the procurator’s secret guard, which was under the command of this very guest. The guest did not spend much time in the barracks, no more than ten minutes, but at the end of these ten minutes, three carts drove out of the barracks yard loaded with entrenching tools and a barrel of water. The carts were escorted by fifteen mounted men in grey cloaks. Under their escort the carts left the palace grounds by the rear gate, turned west, drove through gates in the city wall, and followed a path first to the Bethlehem road, then down this road to the north, came to the intersection by the Hebron gate, and then moved down the Jaffa road, along which the procession had gone during the day with the men condemned to death. By that time it was already dark, and the moon appeared on the horizon.
Soon after the departure of the carts with their escorting detachment, the procurator’s guest also left the palace grounds on horseback, having changed into a dark, worn chiton. The guest went not out of the city but into it. Some time later he could be seen approaching the Antonia Fortress, located to the north and in the vicinity of the great temple.
The guest did not spend much time in the fortress either, and then his tracks turned up in the Lower City, in its crooked and tangled streets. Here the guest now came riding a mule.
Knowing the city well, the guest easily found the street he wanted. It was called Greek Street, because there were several Greek shops on it, among them one that sold carpets. Precisely by this shop, the guest stopped his mule, dismounted, and tied it to the ring by the gate. The shop was closed by then. The guest walked through the little gate beside the entrance to the shop and found himself in a small square courtyard surrounded on three sides by sheds. Turning a corner inside the yard, the guest came to the stone terrace of a house all twined with ivy and looked around. Both the little house and the sheds were dark, no lamps were lit yet. The guest called softly: “Niza!”
At this call a door creaked, and in the evening twilight a young woman without a veil appeared on the terrace. She leaned over the railing, peering anxiously, wishing to know who had come. Recognizing the visitor, she smiled amiably to him, nodded her head, waved her hand.
“Are you alone?” Aphranius asked softly in Greek.
“Yes,” the woman on the terrace whispered, “my husband left for Caesarea in the morning.” Here the woman looked back at the door and added in a whisper: “But the serving-woman is at home.” Here she made a gesture meaning “Come in”.
Aphranius looked around and went up the stone steps. After which both he and the woman disappeared into the house. With this woman Aphranius spent very little time, certainly no more than five minutes. After which he left the house and the terrace, pulled the hood down lower on his eyes, and went out to the street. Just then the lamps were being lit in the houses, the pre-festive tumult was still considerable, and Aphranius on his mule lost himself in the stream of riders and passers-by. His subsequent route is not known to anyone.
The woman Aphranius called “Niza”, left alone, began changing her clothes, and was hurrying greatly. But difficult though it was for her to find the things she needed in the dark room, she did not light a lamp or call the serving-woman. Only after she was ready and her head was covered by a dark veil did the sound of her voice break the silence in the little house: “If anyone asks for me, say I went to visit Enanta.”
The old serving-woman’s grumbling was heard in the darkness: “Enanta? Ah, this Enanta! Didn’t your husband forbid you to visit her?
She’s a procuress, your Enanta! Wait till I tell your husband ...”
“Well, well, be quiet,” Niza replied and, like a shadow, slipped out of the house. Niza’s sandals pattered over the stone flags of the yard. The serving-woman, grumbling, shut the door to the terrace. Niza left her house.
Just at that time, from another lane in the Lower City, a twisting lane that ran down from ledge to ledge to one of the city pools, from the gates of an unsightly house with a blank wall looking on to the lane and windows on the courtyard, came a young man with a neady trimmed beard, wearing a white kefia falling to his shoulders, a new pale blue festive tallith with tassels at the bottom, and creaking new sandals. The handsome, aquiline-nosed young fellow, all dressed up for the great feast, walked briskly, getting ahead of passers-by hurrying home for the solemn meal, and watched as one window after another lit up. The young man took the street leading past the bazaar to the palace of the high priest Kaifa, located at the foot of the temple hill.
Some time later he could be seen entering the gates of Kaifa’s courtyard. And a bit later still, leaving the same courtyard.
After visiting the palace, where the lamps and torches already blazed, and where the festive bustle had already begun, the young man started walking still more briskly, still more joyfully, hastening back to the Lower City. At the corner where the street flowed into the market-place, amidst the seething and tumult, he was overtaken by a slight woman, walking with a dancer’s gait, in a black veil that came down over her eyes. As she overtook the handsome young man, this woman raised her veil for a moment, cast a glance in the young man’s direction, yet not only did not slow her pace, but quickened it, as if trying to escape from the one she had overtaken.
The young man not only noticed this woman, no, he also recognized her, and, having recognized her, gave a start, halted, looking perplexedly into her back, and at once set out after her. Almost knocking over some passer-by carrying a jug, the young man caught up with the woman, and, breathing heavily with agitation, called out to her: “Niza!”
The woman turned, narrowed her eyes, her face showing cold vexation, and replied drily in Greek: “Ah, it’s you, Judas? I didn’t recognize you at once. That’s good, though. With us, if someone’s not recognized, it’s a sign he’ll get rich ...”
So agitated that his heart started leaping like a bird under a black cloth, Judas asked in a faltering whisper, for fear passers-by might overhear: “Where are you going, Niza?”
“And what do you want to know that for?” replied Niza, slowing her pace and looking haughtily at Judas.
Then some sort of childish intonations began to sound in Judas’s voice, he whispered in bewilderment: “But why? ... We had it all arranged ... I wanted to come to you, you said you’d be home all evening ...”
“Ah, no, no,” answered Niza, and she pouted her lower lip capriciously, which made it seem to Judas that her face, the most beautiful face he had ever seen in his life, became still more beautiful. “I was bored. You’re having a feast, and what am I supposed to do? Sit and listen to you sighing on the terrace? And be afraid, on top of it, that the serving-woman will tell him about it? No, no, I decided to go out of town and listen to the nightingales.”
“How, out of town?” the bewildered Judas asked. “Alone?”
“Of course, alone,” answered Niza.
“Let me accompany you,”Judas asked breathlessly. His mind clouded, he forgot everything in the world and looked with imploring eyes into the blue eyes of Niza, which now seemed black.
Niza said nothing and quickened her pace.
“Why are you silent, Niza?” Judas said pitifully, adjusting his pace to hers.
Won’t I be bored with you?” Niza suddenly asked and stopped. Here Judas’s thoughts became totally confused.
Well, all right,” Niza finally softened, “come along.”
“But where, where?”
"Wait ... let’s go into this yard and arrange it, otherwise I’m afraid some acquaintance will see me and then they’ll tell my husband I was out with my lover.”
And here Niza and Judas were no longer in the bazaar, they were whispering under the gateway of some yard.
“Go to the olive es
tate,” Niza whispered, pulling the veil over her eyes and turning away from a man who was coming through the gateway with a bucket, “to Gethsemane, beyond the Kedron, understand?”
“Yes, yes, yes ...”
“I’ll go ahead,” Niza continued, “but don’t follow on my heels. Keep separate from me. I’ll go ahead ... When you cross the stream ... you know where the grotto is?”
“I know, I know ...”
“Go up past the olive press and turn to the grotto. I’ll be there. Only don’t you dare come after me at once, be patient, wait here,” and with these words Niza walked out the gateway as though she had never spoken with Judas.
Judas stood for some time alone, trying to collect his scattering thoughts. Among them was the thought of how he was going to explain his absence from the festal family meal. Judas stood thinking up some lie, but in his agitation was unable to think through or prepare anything properly, and slowly walked out the gateway.
Now he changed his route, he was no longer heading towards the Lower City, but turned back to Kaifa’s palace. The feast had already entered the city. In the windows around Judas, not only were lights shining, but hymns of praise were heard. On the pavement, belated passers-by urged their donkeys on, whipping them up, shouting at them. Judas’s legs carried him by themselves, and he did not notice how the terrible, mossy Antonia Towers flew past him, he did not hear the roar of trumpets in the fortress, did not pay attention to the mounted Roman patrol and its torch that flooded his path with an alarming light.
Turning after he passed the tower, Judas saw that in the terrible height above the temple two gigantic five-branched candlesticks blazed. But even these Judas made out vaguely. It seemed to him that ten lamps of an unprecedented size lit up over Yershalaim, competing with the light of the single lamp that was rising ever higher over Yershalaim — the moon.
Now Judas could not be bothered with anything, he headed for the Gethsemane gate, he wanted to leave the city quickly. At times it seemed to him that before him, among the backs and faces of passers-by, the dancing little figure flashed, leading him after her. But this was an illusion.