skepticlawyer

Having offended some of the crispier varieties of Christian over at Online Opinion with my Christmas piece (some of the comments are clearly eligible for the inaugural ‘Graeme Bird and Steve Munn Grumpy Blogizen Award’), I thought I’d better get a start on Easter. Unlike my previous effort, this piece is fiction, and - I think - more sympathetic to the Christian world-view than the item featured on OLO. So that Sinclair doesn’t finish up hanging by his thumbs waiting for installments, the whole story is available below the fold. I’ve also decided to have a little play with some photoshop.

Lawyers, I suppose, were children once.
Charles Lamb

Part I

Claudia stretched out on the bed, wriggled her toes and stared at the ceiling. She pulled the pillow into a friendlier, more comfortable lump underneath her neck and shut her eyes. The headache hovered angrily just above her eyebrows, knotting the muscles in her forehead. She flung her arms wide and licked her lips, tasted orange tangy lipstick and remonstrated with the pain. Just back off. Just leave me alone.

A little later, she heard the downstairs front door slam. Voices murmured softly at the base of the stairs.
‘Beer’s in the kitchen’.
‘Any cold?’
‘Two in the fridge’.
Camilla. My baby girl. And Marius. The boyfriend. She heard glasses clink and plastic crumple as he poured beer and rummaged in the pantry for chips and dip.
‘Put some in the fridge for dad.’
Camilla was yelling from her upstairs ensuite, her voice muffled.
‘He gets the shits when there’s no cold beer.’

Claudia watched the lazy motion of the ceiling fan. He gets the shits when there’s no cold beer. So that’s what we are. Beery prelude to a night’s amusements. Marius the entertainer. Marius thumped up the steps, past her door, glass in hand. Still in his combat fatigues. She picked out the purple SPQR stitched across his tan and brown sleeve.
‘Here’s yours.’
Camilla poked her head around the door, her top lip covered with beer froth. Marius slouched behind; Claudia could see his bristly head.
‘You awake, mum?’
Claudia slowly sat up, her eyes raw and bleary.
‘Trying to sleep. Not very well’.
Camilla frowned gently, concerned.
‘We’ll order pizza for dinner. Keep sleeping.’

Claudia nodded and tried to smile. They meant well. Cheery Marius who bonked her baby daughter every time they came to Jerusalem. My baby Camilla of the black-varnished fingernails and pierced nose. Doesn’t know the difference between a vegetable bowl and a soup tureen, but knows how to order pizza. My babychild. It’ll be a pierced navel next. Camilla’s breasts pushed out against her halter-neck top. Claudia could see Marius staring, eating her up. They turned to go. Claudia pulled herself fully upright.

‘Where’s Antony?’
‘In the den. Playing PS2.’
Claudia sank slowly back into the bed. My other baby. She stared at the ceiling again and started to count mammoths. Counting sheep, she found, just didn’t work these days. A fine specimen ambled from the bottom of her mind, tusked and hairy.

Pontius Pilate tucks the swollen file under his arm and grunts at the two soldiers on duty outside his front door. The taller of the two smiles broadly. Both snap to attention.
‘Hail Caesar, sir!’
‘Open the fucking door.’
The soldier’s smile remains unaltered.
‘With pleasure, sir!’

Pilate pushes inside, fingers scrabbling at the manilla folder, trying to avoid spilling its contents everywhere. He dumps it on the kitchen table and stretches his hands towards the ceiling. Four dead marines and two frothy glasses litter the kitchen bench. Two empty chip packets sit on the kitchen table. He yanks open the fridge door. Good. Another six-pack. He twists the top off one bottle and rocks his head back. Nice and cold. Been under the freezer.
‘Yes! World record score! Ooooo!’
Antony’s voice floats up from the den. Pilate clumps heavily down the stairs to investigate. He pauses outside the door. At least the den’ll be neat, he thinks. Supervised the cleaning myself yesterday. He opens the door.

Every object Antony owns has been dumped on the carpet. Pilate looks at the floor, then Antony, then the TV set. Dayglo creatures glide back and forth. Antony smiles and scratches his ear. How, in the midst of this, can he have such an innocent look on his face?
‘What happened here?’
‘What?’
‘Look at this mess. This isn’t possible.’
‘My room?’
‘This isn’t a room. It’s an accident. What’d you do? Hire a whirling dervish?’
‘Sorry, dad.’ He settles comfortably on his haunches and looks up, truly endearing. ‘Couldn’t find my Final Fantasy X disk.’
‘Final Fantasy X,’ Pilate repeats softly. Remember that one.
‘Yeah! I’m almost through.’
Pilate rests the neck of the bottle against the bridge of his nose, contemplates his son and looks around the den.
‘You want to repaint in here? It’s getting grungy.’
Antony’s eyes widen, joyous. His mouth curves into a smile.
‘Yeah! Terrific!’
‘What colour?’
‘Black.’
Black. Great. A healthy sign. Pilate takes a swig from the bottle.
‘Have you done your maths homework?’
‘Not yet.’
Pilate feels weariness nag at him.
‘Come on. Get started on it.’

Damn Jerusalem, he thinks. Every year, this happens. My kids go to the Roman school here for three weeks and treat the whole exercise as a holiday. Get miles behind with their schoolwork. Play up something fierce. He looks forward to returning to Caesarea, and normalcy. Where the procurator’s children go to a regular private school. Mix with Romans and educated Syrians and Greeks. Learn to be good citizens. And do their maths homework without constant reminding.

Pilate sits, remote-control in hand, channel-surfing desultorily and guzzling more beer. The Jerusalem station is full of not-so-subtle Roman propaganda and local religious crap. He pauses briefly when Caiaphas, serene, grey-bearded, comes on screen.

Caiaphas: We’re most concerned with keeping the Jewish community united this Passover-
JTN: There’ve been a number of serious disturbances in the city of late, like yesterday’s Temple Riot-
Caiaphas: Not as serious as you’ve been led to -

Pilate changes channel. Picks up Communicatio Roma and settles down to watch some real news.

- confirmed today that the current arms talks with China were amicable, but are likely to remain unresolved at this point. In other news, negotiations with Germany’s Hermann III for the return of captured legionary standards have progressed rapidly. The Emperor issued a statement from Capreae this morning confirming that discussions were well -

Pilate flicks again. The Emperor, dressed in full robes of state, stares down a packed press conference, his stern face illuminated by glaring flashes. He looks profoundly uncomfortable. Poor old Tiberius Caesar. Just not a media performer. Pilate stumbles into the kitchen and collects a third beer. Claudia pours mineral water into a chilled glass beside the range hood. She turns around groggily, wiping her eyes with one hand.

‘Sorry. I went to sleep. Right off.’
Pilate shrugs indifferently.
‘What’s for dinner, hon?’
‘Marius and Camilla ordered pizza.’
‘Pizza in Jerusalem tastes shithouse. You know that. Where’s our amah?’
‘I sent her home. All her relatives have turned up for Passover.’
Pilate grunts and balls his shirt to wrench the top off the bottle. She watches him tear the shirt, then methodically find a new spot. He looks at her.
‘Great. So we get to eat pizza á la Jerusalem.’
Claudia rolls her eyes.
‘Pontius. Please’.

Antony trotted into the kitchen and saw his parents arguing about pizza. He was going to tell them about his second record score for the evening. He stopped short beside the sink. Raincheck. Jerusalem made Claudia grumpy. Your mother’s allergic to Jerusalem, his father told him once. It makes her hate everyone, you and me included. Antony stood and watched until she noticed him.

‘Antony honey. You know when the pizza’s coming?’
He nodded his head. ‘Soon, I think. In about two minutes.’
Claudia hugged him to her stomach.
‘My Final Fantasy boy’, she whispered. ‘My baby lion’. She mussed his hair and tweaked his ears. The television burred irritatingly in the background. Live via Telecast she saw onscreen. A wide shot of light pylons above the amphitheatre. Antony hugged her tightly and looked up.
‘Can I watch? Can I?’
She nodded tiredly. Camilla and Marius meandered down the stairs, hand in hand, clothes crumpled. The pizza man knocked on the door.

Pilate washes the greasy remains of pizza off his hands, splashes his face and collects another beer. He examines his greying hair in the mirror behind the herb shelf, touching the dark circles under his eyes with gentle fingers. He wipes away water with one of Claudia’s fancy embroidered SPQR teatowels and sits meaningfully before the fat manilla folder open on the table. A long epistle from Caiaphas on Sanhedrin letterhead first up. He sighs, gathers up the file and walks out onto the portico. Orange shafts of light gleam and shimmer on the domes and spires of the city. A molasses sun sets behind him. Over the balustrade, downstairs in the courtyard, Marius and Camilla neck leisurely. They’ve taken Camilla’s black boom-box with them. Girl, you’ll be a woman soon it sings. He watches them clutch and maul each other, backs turned to the world. The shadow of the Temple steals across the tiles, slowly sliding up Camilla’s bare legs.

From Caiaphas, High Priest of Jerusalem, to Pontius Pilate, Procurator of Judaea, Greetings!

Please accept my best wishes for your continued good health and good governance - and also allow me to extend my regards to Claudia, Antony and Camilla - may your Gods and my God smile warmly on your family.

The purpose of this letter is to acquaint you with some background information on the forthcoming trial of Jeshua Ben Joseph, known to you as Jesus Christ. Of course, my interest in this case is hardly academic. I believe that Jeshua Ben Joseph represents the most serious threat to the internal security of this province seen during your procuratorship.

Ben Joseph, as you are no doubt aware, is an itinerant preacher with a natural eloquence capable of winning him large numbers of adherents. He makes good use of the empire’s excellent railway network, spending his nights with friends in each town. He spouts the most ridiculous nonsense, and were it not for the fact that he is such a gifted speaker, his beliefs would be of no concern either to you or the Sanhedrin. Among other things, he variously claims to be on a mission from God, the son of God, God’s representative on earth and the King of the Jews. One of his followers, Mary Magdalena, worked for a number of years with the Jerusalem Television Network. She has secured him numerous television and radio appearances through her industry contacts.

I am aware that this does not constitute any crime under Roman law, and one could argue that the so-called ‘news’ media are there to be exploited. It is, nonetheless, gravely offensive to our traditions, and many people have been deeply hurt by Ben Joseph’s portentous (and inaccurate) pronouncements on the meaning of scripture and the observance of religious law.

Matters have been exacerbated of late. Ben Joseph was almost entirely responsible for the Temple riot yesterday, which caused considerable damage to Temple property. Two people were also hospitalised. Worse, numerous individuals participated in what amounted to the wholesale pillaging of a shopping centre. It is only a matter of time (apart from his trampling on religious principles) before Ben Joseph turns the blowtorch on Roman government in Judaea.

In the attached documentation, I refer you particularly to Item #046, Judas Iscariot’s statement. Iscariot has been a close associate of Ben Joseph’s for a number of years. His testimony clearly describes a deluded, power-crazed man with at best a tenuous grip on reality. However, despite what are doubtless deep-seated psychological problems, Ben Joseph has enjoyed growing popularity. It was only with difficulty that my Temple Guard effected his arrest. I do feel bound to inform you that Andreius Linnaeus, your distinguished colleague, is acting for Ben Joseph. I know that Linnaeus’ legal aid work is highly regarded throughout the empire, and I regret that I am opposed to such an outstanding individual in this…

Pilate sees there’s more, shoves the letter aside and flicks cursorily through the file. Pages of typescript full of strikeovers and erasures from Iscariot. Photocopies of Jewish religious code. Ben Joseph’s carpentry papers. Police photos of the wrecked temple precinct after rioting. Transcripts of interviews. A handwritten note from Linnaeus on Valens & Cato Attorneys stationary.

Pontius,
Excuse this scribble, but need to talk with you about the Christ case urgently. Will see you tomorrow 1100 hours unless I hear o/wise. Please fax me on above number (direct line) if not ok.
Thumbs up,
Andreius L.

He scratches his chin and looks out at tiny smudges of orange fading into indigo night over the city. Marius and Camilla clatter up the stairs, complaining about mosquitos. Marius tucks Camilla’s boom box under his arm. I found it hard it was hard to find oh well whatever nevermind it cries now. Pilate looks at Caiaphas’ letter, puzzling over things. Hmm. Be good to catch up with Andreius.

‘Pontius, you coming in?’
Barefoot and wrapped in a sarong, Claudia steps onto the portico, pungent with insect repellent, a glass of wine in hand.
‘Or you going to let the mozzies carry you away?’

Part II

Linnaeus leans forward now, turns Pilate’s No Smoking sign face down and starts rolling a cigarette. He lights it, puffing contentedly.
‘It’s the miracles. Just blow me away. Real showman stuff.’
Pilate raises one eyebrow, unconvinced.
‘What’s he do? Change Coke into Pepsi?’
Linnaeus laughs. ‘Something like that. He walks on water. Turns chateau cardboard into Bollinger. Gets right up Caiaphas’ nostril.’
Pilate claps his hands and chuckles. ‘Couldn’t happen to a nicer man.’

Linnaeus points the lit end of his cigarette at Pilate’s nose. ‘That’s it, mainly.’ He draws deeply on the cigarette, blows half-a-dozen perfectly formed smoke rings at the ceiling. ‘Caiaphas has to keep this place together religion wise. He can’t have competition.’ He looks around and nods wryly. ‘Ben Joseph won’t help himself, either. Keeps going on and on about some out of this world kingdom.’
Pilate scratches his chin, contemplative.
‘Even so, you’ll win this one, Andreius. The Sanhedrin hasn’t got a pinch of shit for evidence.’
Linnaeus shakes his head firmly, gazes over Pilate’s shoulder through the smoked glass window to the Temple and Antonia and the most attractive part of the city. His voice lowers. ‘No. He doesn’t want me to win. That’s the thing. And Caiaphas seems too determined.’
‘Another lost cause?’
‘You could say that. I don’t know yet.’

Pilate thinks of Linnaeus and his cases. ‘Defender of lost causes’, people at his firm say. Although he does nicely out of fantastically intricate inheritance briefs for the Roman rich. Pilate rocks back in his chair, thinks just how much he admires Andreius Linnaeus. He looks up at Emperor Tiberius’ statue set into the wall and remembers…

Andreius Linnaeus who when they were studying together scythed through the opposition at Collegia Roma to register the highest individual results in law since Cicero over a hundred years before. Who persuaded half the law faculty to go on a much publicised ‘brothel crawl’ in protest against Emperor Augustus’ morality legislation. Who takes on rapacious provincial governors and crooked politicians and sometimes even wins. Who, along with his med student sister, pinched a cadaver from the university anatomy labs, dressed it up, rouged its cheeks and perched a trilby on its head. Then took it to dinner at the flashest restaurant in Rome with half-a-dozen friends. They ate and drank heartily. Pilate made a successful move on the med student sister. Linnaeus ordered food for Signor Corpse. Another friend disposed of said food surreptitiously in the gents. No-one noticed. Pilate almost forgot the dead presence. Med student sister gave him a nice hand job under the table. At the end of the night, led by her, all alive walked out of the restaurant. Linnaeus strolled over to the maitre d’ and jerked a thumb at the seated silent fellow in the trilby.
‘He’s paying.’

Linnaeus leans across Pilate’s desk and stubs out his cigarette.
‘I got some wild shit. Want to clear things a little?’
Pilate nods silently and licks his lips. Linnaeus rummages in his briefcase, comes up with some goodies in a plastic baggie and uses the fine sharp edge of Pilate’s No Smoking sign to cut cocaine on the green marble tabletop. The two men stand, leaning over the desk opposite each other. They snort simultaneously.

Claudia stands at the entrance to Antony’s den, knowing what must be done. To a place cluttered with objects of peculiar uselessness. To an eight years old boy’s room. Den. Something like that.

She starts organising, discarding, filing. She hangs his model gladiators from the ceiling. Drives his remote controlled drag racer into the cupboard. Puts all his game disks in one drawer. She has no ideas for the stolen street sign. Probably wanted it for the pretty Hebraic script. She hopes he’s not anal, destined to cover his walls with street signs in every conceivable language. She wants to shout at him, deepening the shriek lines around her mouth. This is how your den is supposed to look, baby lion. All the time. So we don’t think we’re living on a rubbish tip. She doesn’t. He’s at Jerusalem’s Roman School. With his red-eyed overtired big sister. There was a long sad parting outside the school gates this morning. Marius and Camilla joined at the lips until he left for barracks.

She sits on one of the kitchen stools, sinking nearly a whole bottle of Perrier in one guzzling swallow. She holds the cold glass against her forehead and searches through her handbag with probing fingers, finds a bottle of Normison. She looks at the shiny green tablets, tips four into her hand, swallows them with what’s left of the Perrier. She stumbles upstairs, stretches out on the bed. Shoes off, hands out. Mammoth counting doesn’t work. She casts around the animal kingdom for something more suitable. A crocodile swims elegantly towards her out of the dark, teeth sparkling. After the crocodile, the dream. And after the dream, the terror.

She flies through a country no-one has ever seen. Towns shrink. Stone buildings stretch skyward at the centre of each, their windows absurd patterns of brilliantly coloured glass. Things her people built in pride lay in ruins. Smashed. Defaced. ‘These roads are the work of giants’, she hears these new folk say. They gaze on the fallen remains of communications towers, universities, television stations. And wonder what they are, if they are the work of supermen, or creatures from elsewhere. She tries to touch the massive new temples of stone. Her hand passes through sculpture and glass and timber. She shakes and chews on her knuckle. She hovers outside one of these absurd skyward striving buildings. People inside kneel. A robed man before them is speaking. She hears lines and snatches in a language that is her language but not her language for the words echo strangely, seem misplaced … and suffered under Pontius Pilate … rose again on the third day … judge the quick and the dead …

Pilate wanders over to the mineral water dispenser and pours out two plastic cups full. He sets one down in front of Linnaeus.
‘You know, I’m thinking of dumping this whole thing in Herod’s lap.’
‘That dickless piece of shit? Come on. He’ll only chuck it back at you.’
Pilate has to agree. He stands slowly, walks over to the smoked glass window, looks out over the shining city, thinks of Herod.
‘The Jerusalem Times reckons Herod’ll let him off if he does a miracle.’
Linnaeus cackles, rocks his head back, feeling the hit take effect.
‘Probably wants a cellar full of Bollinger and Moët.’
He stares at the SPQR pattern in Pilate’s office carpet and is suddenly serious.
‘Pontius.’
Pilate turns round. Linnaeus stoops slightly.
‘Pontius. There’s nothing you can do about this one. That’s all.’
Pilate rubs his temples with fingers cool from holding the cold plastic cup.
‘I’ll be responsible. In the end.’
Linnaeus’ thoughts seem elsewhere. He gazes far away.
‘Maybe one of the big planets is moving signs. You know.’

Pilate leans over his desk, pushes buttons, talks to his secretary. There is an irritated edge to his voice.
‘Can we get some lunch in here? Two, yes. Caesar salad and cappuccino for me.’ He glances up at Linnaeus. ‘Filet mignon and short black for Andreius. And a good chardonnay first up.’

They eat and drink and talk. Pilate grumbles about Jerusalem. Linnaeus tells about bills currently before the Senate. They share rumours about the Emperor’s scandalous private life. They laugh together, remembering good times. They comment favourably on the wine. ‘My secretary has superb taste,’ Pilate says.
Linnaeus is standing to leave when the fax squeals. Pilate reaches around salt shaker and sugar bowl, tearing the page off.
‘Hmm. From Claudia.’
He reads silently.

- to disturb you, but I’ve had the most horrendous dream about Ben Joseph. I’m sure he’s innocent of everything -

Part III

Marius carefully reviewed the two rows of soldiers before him, prowling, pacing, examining. He drew himself up.
‘Everyone detailed fall out. To your duties!’
‘Yes, sir!’
‘Sir, I’ve been rostered twice for kitchen duty.’
‘All right. I’ll detail someone else.’

A dozen men scattered, marching double time. Marius waited until the thump of their footsteps had faded completely away. He looked at the remainder. Bleaching heat poured down, pitiless and numbing. Sweat streamed down their faces. Wet circles showed dark under armpits. Bristly skulls glistened. Their shadows, sharpened by the sunlight, shortened as he spoke.
‘There will be a public execution here at 1500 hours. Three criminals sentenced by the Sanhedrin and the Procurator. This duty has fallen to us. You will assemble behind the Porta Antonia at 1300 hours and await further instructions.’ He glared hard, searching stony, impassive young faces for signs of weakness. He saw none.
‘Dismiss!’

Pilate watches from his glassed in observation box as men of Cohort I prepare the whitewashed square below for execution. The soldiers play rock music over the PA system. They dispute each other’s taste. Smells Like Teen Spirit vies with Crawling and Rebel Rebel in popularity. Pilate winces at this. Nothing like the Imperial Roman Army for sheer bloody crassness. Marius supervises things, yelling and pointing. Three posts are hammered into the ground equal distances apart. Marius loops electrical wiring around the wings of the giant concrete Roman eagle above Pilate’s box. Three placards on long poles with crimes recorded on them are dumped near one of the speakers. Citizens of Jerusalem gather around walls and barricades, curious. A JTN television crew sets up near the placards. One reporter sings along with a song as it echoes around the square. Pilate can see her lips moving.

Linnaeus clatters up the stairs, shows his id card, stands beside Pilate. Camilla sits in front of them, nervously running fingers through her hair. It’s black today, same as her nail varnish. Antony demolishes his third packet of salt & vinegar chips, scuffing his shoes against the carpet. Pilate snaps his fingers at one of the guards at the top of the stairs.
‘Get my gown.’
‘At once, sir.’
He turns to Linnaeus as the guard drapes the clumsy toga over his suit.
‘Wish they’d get rid of this bullshit.’
Linnaeus smiles at his discomfort.
‘Lawyers got to look like lawyers. That way the sharks know who to leave alone.’

Marius shades his eyes, watching the crowd massing behind the double cordon of soldiers around the square. Never known it like this. He steps into the cool of the Porta Antonia, pointing to six soldiers in turn.
‘You lot. Bring the prisoners up from the cage.’
‘Yes, sir!’
He watches as three men are frogmarched up the stars and spun round to face him. He looks at each in turn. Ben Joseph has an ugly - and recent - black eye.
‘Okay. Strip.’

The music stops playing. Pilate’s secretary tests the microphone. Marius catches two men tossing a coin for Ben Joseph’s shirt. He grimaces painfully.
‘Is that really necessary?’
‘Look, sir. It’s silk. And not stitched. I mean, there’s no seams in it, sir.’

Caiaphas and Annas look into the sky above the walls of Antonia and Pilate’s box. Bronze and purple clouds boil and spread. Lightning snakes out from the belly of one, brilliant and glittering. A halo of light glows for an instant around the flagpole above the eagle’s head. Caiaphas strokes his beard, slowly climbing the stairs to the official box. Annas follows, a few paces behind. The Roman guards - chic in full dress uniform, automatic rifles perched on shoulders - salute smartly. The two men of religion nod and smile in response.

Pilate and Linnaeus lean against the bar at the back of the box, talking and drinking. Pilate’s secretary attempts to control screaming, footstamping Antony. Hyperactive kid if ever I saw one, Caiaphas thinks. Camilla looks at Caiaphas as he sits at one end of the row of seats. She sneers. Annas orders two mineral waters. ‘Claudia’s got the shits with me,’ he hears Pilate say. ‘I’ll be glad when this thing’s over.’

Ever polite, Pilate walks over and shakes hands, extending his good wishes. Caiaphas sees Andreius Linnaeus hovering in the background and remembers his concluding comments at the trial … When faced with something we do not understand, Messrs Caiaphas and Annas have a simple solution. Freeze it out. Stamp on it. Burn it. Stop thinking. Engage intellectual automatic pilot and let the executioner do the rest … Pilate’s good friend Linnaeus, defender of lost causes. Caiaphas nods calmly to Pilate and smiles at Linnaeus.

The trumpet sounds. Three prisoners are marched out, single file. Six soldiers led by Marius tie them to their respective posts, then blindfold them. Marius wheels, salutes the glass box above. His subordinates follow. Pilate - surrounded by guards - walks out of the carpeted, air-conditioned room. He stands on the marble balcony, gown billowing behind. He returns the salute and indicates towards the Porta Antonia with one hand. Two rows of soldiers march out in front of the posts, turn to Pilate, salute, and turn away. The men in the front row bend down on one knee. Pilate rests his bottom lip against the microphone. Lightening flashes above.

‘These men stand condemned by the authorities of Rome and Judaea. We do not permit murderers, rabble rousers and terrorists to live among law abiding citizens.’ He rolls his eyes, glaring hard at Caiaphas. ‘Bar Gesta is a terrorist. He hated Rome so much he saw fit to plant a bomb in a school, thereby killing five Jewish civilians.’ The crowd seethes. Bar Gesta is still popular. ‘Ben Matthias is a murderer. He hated his neighbour, so he knifed him over dinner late one night.’ He closes his eyes now, inhaling deeply. ‘Ben Joseph is a crazy man, who thought he was king. Rome does not tolerate kings.’ His hands grip the balustrade, his knuckles whitening. ‘Bar Gesta and Ben Matthias deserve to die. Ben Joseph does not.’

The crowd shrieks and cries now. Pilate knows Caiaphas is grinding his teeth with rage. ‘Ben Joseph will die because the High Priest does not like his religious politics…’ Camilla gazes at her father, pop eyed. He seems to have grown taller. ‘…and because he refuses to speak in his own defence. I am responsible for the first two deaths only. I am not responsible for the third.’ Even aided by the microphone, he is forced to shout over the roar of the mob. ‘Men of the Ist Cohort,’ he stares at Marius. Pauses. His voice breaks.
‘Do your melancholy duty!’

The troops present arms, take aim, fire. Calm and unmoved. Marius strides forward, fires a single pistol shot into the head of each man. The sky splits apart above. Squally rain scythes across the square in horizontal sheets. For a moment, every light in the vicinity shorts out. Television crewmen sprint away, cameras under their arms. Two soldiers hammer the placards on poles into the ground beside the exposed corpses, cursing the storm as they work.

Caiaphas and Annas followed Pilate’s steps as he stalked inside. Camilla cried. Antony was still and quiet. Linnaeus looked down at his feet.
‘Caiaphas,’ said Annas. ‘Look at Ben Joseph’s placard.’
Jesus Christ, the King of the Jews.
Caiaphas caught Pilate’s arm as he passed.
‘Procurator,’ he said softly, pointing. ‘You shouldn’t write “The King of the Jews”. Ben Joseph said he was King of the Jews.’
Pilate looked directly into Caiaphas eyes, not unkindly, but with intent.
‘What I have written, stays written.’
Caiaphas nodded and motioned to Annas to leave with him. Pilate gathered Antony up in his arms. The boy rested his head on his father’s shoulder. The storm intensified. The corpses, guarded by a cordon of sodden soldiers, dripped blood and water. Lightening struck the flagpole above the Roman eagle.

Smoke rose from it, twisting high into legend.