wherever they could find a
listener. And
listeners they found a-
plenty.
They gave up their occupations to
wander about the country like
beggars, disputing and bickering with the rabbis and Talmudists in
the synagogues and
temple porches. It was in Galilee, a district of
little
repute, the inhabitants of which were looked upon as witless,
that I crossed the track of the man Jesus. It seems that he had
been a
carpenter, and after that a
fisherman, and that his fellow-
fishermen had ceased dragging their nets and followed him in his
wandering life. Some few looked upon him as a
prophet, but the most
contended that he was a
madman. My
wretched horse-boy, himself
claiming Talmudic knowledge second to none, sneered at Jesus,
calling him the king of the beggars,
calling his
doctrine Ebionism,
which, as he explained to me, was to the effect that only the poor
should win to heaven, while the rich and powerful were to burn for
ever in some lake of fire.
It was my
observation that it was the custom of the country for
every man to call every other man a
madman. In truth, in my
judgment, they were all mad. There was a
plague of them. They cast
out devils by magic charms, cured diseases by the laying on of
hands, drank
deadly poisons unharmed, and unharmed played with
deadly snakes--or so they claimed. They ran away to
starve in the
deserts. They emerged howling new
doctrine,
gathering crowds about
them, forming new sects that split on
doctrine and formed more
sects.
"By Odin," I told Pilate, "a
trifle of our northern frost and snow
would cool their wits. This
climate is too soft. In place of
building roofs and
hunting meat, they are ever building
doctrine."
"And altering the nature of God," Pilate corroborated
sourly. "A
curse on
doctrine."
"So say I," I agreed. "If ever I get away with unaddled wits from
this mad land, I'll
cleave through
whatever man dares mention to me
what may happen after I am dead."
Never were such trouble makers. Everything under the sun was pious
or
impious to them. They, who were so clever in hair-splitting
argument, seemed
incapable of grasping the Roman idea of the State.
Everything political was religious; everything religious was
political. Thus every procurator's hands were full. The Roman
eagles, the Roman statues, even the votive shields of Pilate, were
deliberate insults to their religion.
The Roman
taking of the
census was an abomination. Yet it had to be
done, for it was the basis of
taxation. But there it was again.
Taxation by the State was a crime against their law and God. Oh,
that Law! It was not the Roman law. It was their law, what they
called God's law. There were the zealots, who murdered anybody who
broke this law. And for a procurator to
punish a zealot caught red-
handed was to raise a riot or an insurrection.
Everything, with these strange people, was done in the name of God.
There were what we Romans called the THAUMATURGI. They worked
miracles to prove
doctrine. Ever has it seemed to me a witless
thing to prove the
multiplication table by turning a staff into a
serpent, or even into two serpents. Yet these things the
thaumaturgi did, and always to the
excitement of the common people.
Heavens, what sects and sects! Pharisees, Essenes, Sadducees--a
legion of them! No sooner did they start with a new quirk when it
turned political. Coponius, procurator fourth before Pilate, had a
pretty time crushing the Gaulonite sedition which arose in this
fashion and spread down from Gamala.
In Jerusalem, that last time I rode in, it was easy to note the
increasing
excitement of the Jews. They ran about in crowds,
chattering and spouting. Some were proclaiming the end of the
world. Others satisfied themselves with the
imminentdestruction of
the Temple. And there were rank revolutionises who announced that
Roman rule was over and the new Jewish kingdom about to begin.
Pilate, too, I noted, showed heavy
anxiety. That they were giving
him a hard time of it was
patent. But I will say, as you shall see,
that he matched their
subtlety with equal
subtlety; and from what I
saw of him I have little doubt but what he would have confounded
many a disputant in the synagogues.
"But half a
legion of Romans," he regretted to me, "and I would take
Jerusalem by the
throat . . . and then be recalled for my pains, I
suppose."
Like me, he had not too much faith in the auxiliaries; and of Roman
soldiers we had but a scant handful.
Back again, I lodged in the palace, and to my great joy found Miriam
there. But little
satisfaction was mine, for the talk ran long on
the situation. There was reason for this, for the city buzzed like
the angry hornets' nest it was. The fast called the Passover--a
religious affair, of course--was near, and thousands were pouring in
from the country, according to custom, to
celebrate the feast in
Jerusalem. These newcomers, naturally, were all excitable folk,
else they would not be bent on such
pilgrimage. The city was packed
with them, so that many camped outside the walls. As for me, I
could not
distinguish how much of the
ferment was due to the
teachings of the
wandering
fisherman, and how much of it was due to
Jewish
hatred for Rome.
"A tithe, no more, and maybe not so much, is due to this Jesus,"
Pilate answered my query. "Look to Caiaphas and Hanan for the main
cause of the
excitement. They know what they are about. They are
stirring it up, to what end who can tell, except to cause me
trouble."
"Yes, it is certain that Caiaphas and Hanan are responsible," Miriam
said, "but you, Pontius Pilate, are only a Roman and do not
understand. Were you a Jew, you would realize that there is a
greater
seriousness at the bottom of it than mere
dissension of the
sectaries or trouble-making for you and Rome. The high priests and
Pharisees, every Jew of place or
wealth, Philip, Antipas, myself--we
are all fighting for very life.
"This
fisherman may be a
madman. If so, there is a
cunning in his
madness. He preaches the
doctrine of the poor. He threatens our
law, and our law is our life, as you have
learned ere this. We are
jealous of our law, as you would be
jealous of the air denied your
body by a throttling hand on your
throat. It is Caiaphas and Hanan
and all they stand for, or it is the
fisherman. They must destroy
him, else he will destroy them."
"Is it not strange, so simple a man, a
fisherman?" Pilate's wife
breathed forth. "What manner of man can he be to possess such
power? I would that I could see him. I would that with my own eyes
I could see so
remarkable a man."
Pilate's brows corrugated at her words, and it was clear that to the
burden on his nerves was added the overwrought state of his wife's
nerves.
"If you would see him, beat up the dens of the town," Miriam laughed
spitefully. "You will find him wine-bibbing or in the company of
nameless women. Never so strange a
prophet came up to Jerusalem."
"And what harm in that?" I demanded,
driven against my will to take
the part of the
fisherman. "Have I not wine-guzzled a-plenty and
passed strange nights in all the provinces? The man is a man, and
his ways are men's ways, else am I a
madman, which I here deny."
Miriam shook her head as she spoke.
"He is not mad. Worse, he is dangerous. All Ebionism is dangerous.
He would destroy all things that are fixed. He is a revolutionist.
He would destroy what little is left to us of the Jewish state and
Temple."
Here Pilate shook his head.