The stout Procurator lay comfortably stretched upon his velvet divan in the sitting room of his spacious villa, with elaborate Illyrian fabric designs adorning the walls and rare imported fur-skins from the North gracing the marble floor. Yes, the gods had been gracious to the Roman Empire ...
Pontius Pilate motioned to the Roman Centurion to take a seat and raising himself on his elbow poured some delicious vintage imported from Florence into two gold-embossed goblets.
‘To the success of our Final Act’, said Lucius raising his goblet to clink a tinkle.
‘Not yet, my Lucius’, said the heavy-jowled Procurator. ‘There are a number of scenes for us to enjoy. Patience!’ – tiny grey eyes shining. ‘First, my friend, we must prepare the lackey.’
‘Ah, yes’, the Centurion agreed, ‘but remember these Jews are very strange. Their faceless god forbids them to eat good food’, he added with a chuckle.
‘Never you fear’, said the Procurator, – suddenly staring at him with icy eyes, the jowls vibrating with fury, the right hand lifting the sword from its scabbard.
The Roman Centurion laughed, slapping his knee with pleasure. ‘O, you are a combination Homer–Virgil. What a scene!’
‘And you, my Lucius, are clever as well. Graced by the gods! You have done a fine job with this – this, Judas, is it?’
‘Well, then’, said Lucius modestly, ‘I’m glad to have played my small role in priming him for your, ah, gift of appreciation. It will be forthcoming, no?’
‘But, of course!’ said the Procurator, helping himself to a succulent fig and offering one to the Centurion. ‘How much?’
The Centurion hesitated. ‘An exorbitant sum?’
‘Not really!’ said Pontius Pilate, the huge jowls vibrating with pleasure. ‘Start with number three: The faceless one, his wife, and his son. How much do you think the heir to the kingdom of heaven is worth?’
‘Three hundred shekels?’ Lucius ventured.
‘What? You underestimate me! I am sorely grieved!’
‘More? Three thousand?’ the Roman Centurion asked incredulously.
‘Three thousand? Hah! You injure me ... Thirty shekels! Not enough for the king of the Jews?’
‘Thirty shekels? Will Judas agree to accept it?’
‘Certainly!’ said the Procurator, arranging his face once more into a mask of barely controlled fury.
The Roman Centurion roared his delight!
‘He will identify the king with a kiss on the cheek – a Judas kiss’, Pontius Pilate chuckled. ‘Ah, yes! and we shall have their king flogged!’
‘Flogged?’ For a moment a wave of pity for the fool... Ah, but he was being unmanned again. This feminine softness of which he was so ashamed dated back to the eighteenth birthday of his beloved Selena, to whom he had stupidly confided his peccadillo with the luscious Salomé, three years her junior. O, how she had wept, his golden-haired goddess, and he had melted... Again, whilst holding his last fruit in his arms – his golden-haired, blue-eyed infant treasure, Luke... Now, once more? Conflict rippled his powerful jaw. The Procurator noticed and smiled. The brave warrior, part woman...
‘Yes, he should be flogged!’ said Lucius harshly.
‘Why?’ asked the Procurator smoothly. ‘Flogged and crucified?’
‘Well, then’, said the Roman Centurion, ‘he does have his eye on the Roman Empire!’
‘But we are just’, said the Procurator. ‘Why flogged and crucified?’ A pause and, then, the grey eyes twinkling: ‘If the king is flogged, he could be exiled instead of crucified...’
‘You would free him?’ said Lucius incredulously.
‘Again, you underestimate me’, said the Procurator patiently. ‘They shall condemn him!’
‘And if they do not?’ said Lucius after a pause.
‘They shall condemn him, I tell you! Once again, you insult me! I shall put the words into their mouth’ – the heavy jowls vibrating – ‘and they shall do the rest! You will enjoy it; I promise you...’
No wonder he has achieved the position of Procurator, thought Lucius with admiration. ‘Brilliant!’ said the Roman Centurion, and Pontius Pilate refilled their goblets, handing him another fig.
‘Rather than a messy massacre’, said the Procurator, ‘we shall crucify this one man – and we shall emerge form this nasty little job unstained,’ steel eyes shining. ‘I shall order my man to bring a bowl of warm water and a fresh linen towel and I shall wash and dry my hands whilst announcing: “I find no guilt in this man. May his blood be upon the heads of your children’s children!” How’s that for a finale? With him out of the way’, the Procurator added fervently, ‘the Roman Empire and the gods shall rule to Eternity, unmolested...’
A third round of the aromatic vintage! The two exuberant men toasted one another on their invincible Empire: ‘Log live the Roman Empire! Long live our glorious Emperor! Long live the gods!’
‘A safe journey, my Lucius. May the gods bestow their blessings upon you and yours’, said Pontius Pilate benevolently. ‘Do not forget strategically placed warriors – several hundred – arranged for action at all times, just to make sure the faceless one doesn’t suddenly appear – gods forbid! – like he did in the desert when the Hebrews left Egypt...’
The sun set upon the magnificent villa and – although they did not realize it at the time – the pagan Roman Empire!