nd from  happiness.  The notebook disfigured by fire lay before
her, and next to  it rose a  pile of intact notebooks.  The little house was
silent.  On a sofa in  the small adjoining room,  covered with  the hospital
robe, the master lay in a deep sleep. His even breathing was noiseless.
     Having wept her fill, Margarita  went to the intact notebooks and found
the place she had been rereading  before  she met Azazello under the Kremlin
wall. Margarita did not want to sleep. She caressed the manuscript tenderly,
as one caresses a favourite cat, and kept turning it in her hands, examining
it from all sides, now  pausing  at the tide page, now opening to the end. A
terrible thought suddenly swept over  her,  that this was all  sorcery, that
the  notebooks would presently disappear from sight, and she would be in her
bedroom in  the old house, and that on  waking up she would have  to go  and
drown herself. But  this  was her last terrible thought, an echo of the long
suffering  she  had  lived through.  Nothing disappeared,  the  all-powerful
Woland really  was all-powerful,  and  as long as she liked, even  till dawn
itself, Margarita could  rustle the pages of  the notebooks, gaze  at  them,
kiss them, and read over the words:
     'The darkness that came  from  the Mediterranean Sea  covered  the city
hated by the procurator ...' Yes, the darkness...

        CHAPTER 25. How the Procurator Tried to Save Judas of Kiriath


     The  darkness  that came  from  the Mediterranean Sea covered the  city
hated  by the procurator. The hanging bridges connecting the temple with the
dread  Antonia  Tower disappeared,  the  abyss descended from  the  sky  and
flooded the winged gods over  the hippodrome, the Hasmonaean Palace with its
loopholes, the  bazaars,  caravanserais, lanes,  pools ... Yershalaim  - the
great city - vanished  as if it had  never existed in  the world. Everything
was  devoured  by  the darkness, which  frightened  every  living  thing  in
Yershalaim and round about. The strange cloud was swept from seaward towards
the end of the day, the fourteenth day of the spring month of Nisan.
     It   was  already  heaving  its  belly  over   Bald  Skull,  where  the
executioners  hastily stabbed the condemned men, it heaved itself  over  the
temple of  Yershalaim,  crept in smoky  streams down  the  temple hill,  and
flooded the Lower City. It poured through windows  and drove people from the
crooked streets into the houses. It was in no hurry to yield up its moisture
and gave off  only light. Each time the black smoky brew was ripped by fire,
the  great  bulk of the temple with its glittering scaly roof flew up out of
the pitch  darkness. But  the fire  would instantly go  out, and the  temple
would  sink into the dark abyss. Time and again it  grew out of  it and fell
back,  and  each  time  its  collapse  was accompanied  by  the  thunder  of
catastrophe.
     Other  tremulous glimmers  called out of the abyss  the palace of Herod
the  Great, standing opposite the temple on the western hill, and its dread,
eyeless golden statues flew up into the black sky, stretching their arms out
to  it.  But again the  heavenly fire would hide, and heavy claps of thunder
would drive the golden idols into the darkness.
     The  downpour  burst unexpectedly,  and then the  storm turned  into  a
hurricane. In the very  place where the  procurator and the  high priest had
had their talk  around noon,  by  the marble bench in the garden,  with  the
sound of a cannon shot, a cypress snapped like a reed. Along with the watery
spray and hail, broken-off roses, magnolia leaves, small twigs and sand were
swept on to the balcony under the columns. The hurricane racked the garden.
     At that time there was only one man under the columns, and that man was
the procurator.
     Now he was not  sitting in  the chair but lying on a couch by  a small,
low table set with food and jugs of wine. Another couch, empty, stood on the
other side of the  table.  By  the procurator's feet spread  an  unwiped red
puddle, as if  of blood, with pieces  of a  broken  jug. The servant who was
setting  the  table for the procurator before the  storm became disconcerted
for  some reason  under his  gaze, grew alarmed at  having displeased him in
some way, and the procurator, getting angry with him, smashed the jug on the
mosaic floor, saying:
     "Why  don't you look me in the face when  you serve me? Have you stolen
something?'
     The African's black face turned grey, mortal fear  showed in his  eyes,
he trembled and almost broke a second jug, but  the procurator's  wrath flew
away as quickly as it had flown in. The African  rushed to remove the pieces
and wipe up  the puddle, but the procurator waved his hand and the slave ran
away. The puddle remained.
     Now, during the hurricane, the African was hiding near a niche in which
stood the statue of a white,  naked woman  with a drooping  head, afraid  of
appearing  before  the procurator's eyes at  the wrong time, and at the same
time fearing to miss the moment when the procurator might call for him.
     Lying  on the couch in the storm's twilight, the procurator poured wine
into  the cup  himself,  drank it in long draughts, occasionally touched the
bread, crumbled it,  swallowed small pieces, sucked out  an oyster from time
to time, chewed a lemon, and drank again.
     Had it not been for the roaring of the water, had  it not been  for the
thunderclaps that seemed to threaten to lay flat the roof of the palace, had
it not been for  the rattle of  hail hammering on  the steps of the balcony,
one might have heard that the procurator was muttering something, talking to
himself. And if the unsteady glimmering of the heavenly fire had turned into
a constant  light,  an  observer  would  have  been  able  to  see  that the
procurator's face,  with  eyes inflamed by recent insomnia and wine,  showed
impatience, that the procurator was not  only looking at the two white roses
drowned  in  the red  puddle, but  constantly  turned  his  face towards the
garden, meeting the watery spray and sand, that  he was waiting for someone,
impatiently waiting.
     Time passed, and the veil of water  before the  procurator's eyes began
to thin. Furious as it was,  the hurricane was weakening. Branches no longer
cracked and fell. The thunderclaps and flashes came less frequently.  It was
no  longer  a  violet coverlet  trimmed  with  white, but an ordinary,  grey
rear-guard  cloud that  floated over Yershalaim. The storm  was  being swept
towards the Dead Sea.
     Now it was possible to hear separately the  noise of the  rain  and the
noise of water rushing along the gutters and also straight down the steps of
that stairway  upon  which  the procurator  had walked in  the  afternoon to
announce  the sentence in  the square. And  finally the hitherto drowned-out
fountain made itself heard. It was growing lighter. Blue windows appeared in
the grey veil fleeing eastward.
     Here,  from far  off, breaking  through  the patter  of the  now  quite
weakened  rainfall, there  came to the  procurator's  ears a  weak sound  of
trumpets  and  the  tapping  of several  hundred  hoofs.  Hearing this,  the
procurator stirred, and his face livened  up. The ala  was coming  back from
Bald Mountain. Judging by the sound, it was passing  through the same square
where the sentence had been announced.
     At last the procurator heard the long-awaited footsteps  and a slapping
on the stairs leading to  the upper terrace of the garden, just  in front of
the balcony. The procurator stretched his neck and  his eyes glinted with an
expression of joy.
     Between the two marble lions there appeared first a hooded head, then a
completely drenched man with his cloak clinging to his body. It was the same
man who had exchanged whispers with the procurator in a darkened room of the
palace before  the sentencing, and who during  the execution  had  sat  on a
three-legged stool playing with a twig.
     Heedless  of puddles, the  man in the hood crossed the  garden terrace,
stepped on to the mosaic floor of the balcony, and, raising his arm, said in
a high, pleasant voice:
     'Health and joy to the procurator!' The visitor spoke in Latin.
     'Gods!'  exclaimed  Pilate.  'There's not  a dry stitch on you! What  a
hurricane! Eh? I beg you to go inside immediately. Do me a favour and change
your clothes.'
     The visitor threw  back his hood, revealing a completely wet head  with
hair  plastered  to  the  forehead,  and,  showing  a  polite  smile on  his
clean-shaven  face, began refusing to change,  insisting that  a little rain
would not hurt him.
     'I won't hear of it,' Pilate replied and  clapped his hands. With  that
he called out the servants who were hiding  from him, and told  them to take
care of the visitor and then serve the hot course immediately.
     The procurator's  visitor  required very little time  to dry his  hair,
change his clothes and shoes,  and generally  put himself  in order,  and he
soon appeared on the balcony in dry  sandals, a dry crimson  military cloak,
and with slicked-down hair.
     Just then the sun returned to Yershalaim, and, before going to drown in
the  Mediterranean  Sea,  sent  farewell  rays  to  the  city hated  by  the
procurator  and  gilded the  steps  of the  balcony.  The  fountain  revived
completely  and sang away with all its  might,  doves came out on  the sand,
cooing, hopping over broken branches, pecking at something  in the wet sand.
The red puddle was wiped up, the broken pieces were removed, meat steamed on
the table.
     'I wait to hear the procurator's orders,' said the visitor, approaching
the table.
     'But you won't hear anything until you sit down and drink some wine,'
     Pilate replied courteously and pointed to the other couch.
     The  visitor reclined, a servant poured  some  thick  red wine into his
cup. Another  servant, leaning cautiously over Pilate's shoulder, filled the
procurator's cup. After that, he motioned for the two servants to withdraw.
     While  the  visitor  drank  and ate, Pilate,  sipping  his  wine,  kept
glancing with narrowed eyes at his guest. The man who had come to Pilate was
middle-aged, with a very pleasant, rounded and neat face and a fleshy mouth.
His hair  was of some indeterminate colour. Now,  as  it  dried,  it  became
lighter. It would be difficult to establish the man's nationality. The chief
determinant  of  his  face was  perhaps its good-natured  expression, which,
however, was not in accord with his eyes, or, rather,  not his eyes but  the
visitor's way of looking at  his interlocutor. Ordinarily he kept  his small
eyes under his  lowered,  somewhat strange, as if  slightly swollen eyelids.
Then the  slits of  these eyes shone with an unspiteful  slyness. It must be
supposed that  the  procurator's guest  had  a  propensity  for  humour. But
occasionally,  driving this glittering humour  from  the slits entirely, the
procurator's  present  guest would open his  eyelids  wide  and look  at his
interlocutor  suddenly  and point-blank, as if with  the purpose of  rapidly
scrutinizing some inconspicuous spot on his interlocutor's nose. This lasted
only an instant, after which the eyelids would lower again,  the slits would
narrow, and once again they would  begin to shine with  good-naturedness and
sly intelligence.
     The  visitor  did not  decline  a second cup of  wine, swallowed  a few
oysters with obvious pleasure, tried some steamed vegetables, ate a piece of
meat. Having eaten his fill, he praised the wine:
     `An excellent vintage, Procurator, but it is not Falerno?''
     'Caecuba,  [2] thirty  years old,' the  procurator replied courteously.
The guest put  his hand to his heart, declined to eat more, declared that he
was full. Then Pilate filled his own cup, and the  guest did the same.  Both
diners poured some  wine  from their  cups  on to the meat platter,  and the
procurator, raising his cup, said loudly:
     'For us,  for thee, Caesar,  father of the Romans,  best and dearest of
men! ...'
     After this they finished  the wine,  and  the Africans removed the food
from  the table, leaving  the  fruit  and  the  jugs.  Again  the procurator
motioned for  the servants to withdraw and  remained  alone with  his  guest
under the colonnade.
     'And so,' Pilate began in a low  voice, 'what can you tell me about the
mood of this city?'
     He inadvertently turned his eyes to where the colonnades and flat roofs
below, beyond  the  terraces of  the garden, were drying out, gilded  by the
last rays.
     `I  believe,  Procurator,'  the   guest  replied,  `that  the  mood  of
Yershalaim is now satisfactory.'
     'So it can be guaranteed that there is no threat of further disorders?'
     'Only  one thing can be guaranteed in this  world,'  the guest replied,
glancing tenderly at the procurator, 'the power of great Caesar.'
     'May the  gods grant  him long life!'  Pilate  picked up  at once, 'and
universal peace!' He paused and then  continued: 'So  you believe the troops
can now be withdrawn?'
     'I believe  that the cohort of the Lightning legion  can go,' the guest
replied  and added: 'It  would be good  if it  paraded  through the  city in
farewell.'
     'A very  good thought,' the procurator approved, 'I will dismiss it the
day  after tomorrow, and go myself, and - I swear to you by the feast of the
twelve gods, [3] by the lares [4] I swear - I'd give a lot to  be able to do
so today!'
     'The   procurator   doesn't   like   Yershalaim?'   the   guest   asked
good-naturedly.
     `Good  heavens,' the  procurator exclaimed, smiling, `there's  no  more
hopeless place on earth. I'm not even speaking of natural conditions - I get
sick every time I have to come here - but that's  only half the trouble! ...
But  these  feasts!  ...  Magicians,  sorcerers,  wizards, these  flocks  of
pilgrims!  ...  Fanatics,  fanatics!  ...  Just take this messiah  [5]  they
suddenly started expecting this year! Every moment you think you're about to
witness the most  unpleasant bloodshed... The  shifting  of  troops  all the
time,  reading denunciations and calumnies,  half of  which,  moreover,  are
written against yourself! You must agree, it's boring. Oh, if it weren't for
the imperial service!'
     'Yes, the feasts are hard here,' agreed the guest.
     'I wish with all my  heart that they should be over soon,' Pilate added
energetically.  `I  will finally  have  the  possibility  of going  back  to
Caesarea.  Believe  me,  this  delirious  construction  of  Herod's'  -  the
procurator  waved  his arm along the  colonnade, to  make  clear that he was
speaking  of  the  palace  - 'positively drives  me out of my mind! I cannot
spend  my nights in it. The world has  never known  a stranger architecture!
...  Well, but let's  get  back  to  business.  First  of  all,  this cursed
Bar-Rabban - you're not worried about him?'
     And here the guest sent his peculiar glance at the procurator's cheek.
     But the  latter,  frowning  squeamishly, gazed  into  the distance with
bored eyes, contemplating the part of the city that lay  at his feet and was
fading  into  the  twilight. The guest's eyes also  faded,  and  his eyelids
lowered.
     'It may be supposed that Bar has now become as harmless as a lamb,' the
guest began  to say, and wrinkles appeared on  his round face.  `It would be
awkward for him to rebel now.'
     'Too famous?' Pilate asked with a smirk.
     "The procurator has subtly understood the problem, as always.'
     'But in any case,'  the procurator observed with concern, and the thin,
long finger with the black stone of its ring was raised, 'there must be...'
     'Oh, the procurator can be  certain that as long  as I am in Judea, Bar
will not take a step without having someone on his heels.'
     'Now I am at peace - as I always am, incidentally, when you are here.'
     The procurator is too kind!'
     `And  now  I  ask  you  to  tell  me  about  the execution,'  said  the
procurator.
     'What precisely interests the procurator?'
     Were   there  any  attempts  on  the  part  of  the  crowd  to  display
rebelliousness? That is the main thing, of course.'
     'None,' replied the guest.
     'Very good. Did you personally establish that death took place?'
     "The procurator may be certain of it.'
     `And  tell me ... were  they  given the  drink before being hung on the
posts?'[6]
     'Yes. But he,' here the guest closed his eyes, 'refused to drink it.'
     'Who, precisely?' asked Pilate.
     `Forgive  me,  Hegemon!'  the guest  exclaimed.  `Did  I not name  him?
Ha-Nozri!'
     'Madman!' said Pilate, grimacing for some reason. A  little nerve began
to twitch under  his left eye. To die of sunburn! Why refuse what is offered
by law! In what terms did he refuse it?'
     'He said,' the guest answered,  again  closing his eyes, 'that  he  was
grateful and laid no blame for the taking of his life.'
     'On whom?' Pilate asked in a hollow voice.
     That he did not say, Hegemon...'
     'Did he try to preach anything in the soldiers' presence?'
     'No,  Hegemon, he was not  loquacious this time. The only thing he said
was that among human vices he considered cowardice one of the first.'[7]
     This was said with regard  to what?' the guest heard a suddenly cracked
voice.
     That  was  impossible  to  understand.  He  generally  behaved  himself
strangely - as always, however.'
     'What was this strangeness?'
     'He kept trying to peer into the eyes of one or another of those around
him, and kept smiling some sort of lost smile.'
     'Nothing else?' asked the hoarse voice.
     'Nothing else.'
     The procurator knocked against the cup as he poured himself some wine.
     After draining it to the very bottom, he spoke:
     The matter consists in  the following: though we have been  unable - so
far at least - to discover any admirers or followers of his, it  is none the
less impossible to guarantee that there are none.'
     The guest listened attentively, inclining his head.
     'And  so, to avoid surprises of any sort,' the procurator continued, 'I
ask you to  remove the bodies of all three executed men from the face of the
earth, immediately  and without any  noise, and  to bury them in secrecy and
silence, so that not another word or whisper is heard of them.'
     'Understood, Hegemon,' replied the guest, and he got up, saying:
     'In view  of the complexity and responsibility  of the matter, allow me
to go immediately.'
     'No,  sit down again,' said Pilate, stopping  his guest with a gesture,
`there are  two  more  questions.  First, your enormous merits in  this most
difficult  job  at the post of head of the secret service for the procurator
of Judea give me the pleasant opportunity of reporting them to Rome.'
     Here the guest's face turned pink, he rose and bowed to the procurator,
saying:
     'I merely fulfil my duty in the imperial service.'
     `But  I wanted to  ask  you,' the  hegemon  continued, `in  case you're
offered a transfer elsewhere with a raise - to decline it and remain here. I
wouldn't  want to part  with you for anything. Let  them  reward you in some
other way.'
     'I am happy to serve under your command, Hegemon.'
     'That  pleases me very much. And  so,  the second question. It concerns
this ... what's his name ... Judas of Kiriath.'
     Here  the guest sent the procurator his glance, and at once, as was his
custom, extinguished it.
     They say,'  the  procurator continued,  lowering  his  voice, `that  he
supposedly got some money for receiving this madman so cordially?'
     'Will get,' the head of the secret service quietly corrected Pilate.
     'And is it a large sum?'
     That no one can say, Hegemon.'
     'Not even you?' said the hegemon, expressing praise by his amazement.
     '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 there 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  this 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.
     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 neatly  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 estate,'  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.
Judas  realized that Niza was significantly  ahead of him. Judas rushed past
the  money-changing shops and  finally got to  the  Gethsemane gate.  There,
burning  with impatience, he was  still  forced to wait. Camels were  coming
into  the  city, and after them rode a  Syrian  military patrol, which Judas
cursed mentally ...
     But  all  things come to an end. The impatient Judas was already beyond
the city  wall. To the left  of him Judas saw a small  cemetery, next to  it
several striped  pilgrims'  tents.  Crossing  the dusty  road  flooded  with
moonlight, Judas headed for  the stream of the Kedron with the intention  of
wading across it. The water babbled quietly under Judas's feet. Jumping from
stone to stone, he finally came out on the Gethsemane bank  opposite and saw
with  great  joy  that  here  the  road below  the  gardens  was empty.  The
half-ruined gates of the olive estate could already be seen not far away.
     After the stuffy city, Judas was struck by  the stupefying smell of the
spring  night.  From  the  garden  a  wave  of  myrtle and  acacia  from the
Gethsemane glades poured over the fence.
     No  one was guarding the gateway,  there was no  one  in it, and  a few
minutes later  Judas was already running under the mysterious  shade of  the
enormous, spreading  olive  trees.  The road  went uphill.  Judas  ascended,
breathing heavily, at  times emerging from  the  darkness  on  to  patterned
carpets of moonlight, which reminded him  of the carpets he had  seen in the
shop of Niza's jealous husband.
     A short time later  there flashed  at Judas's left hand, in a clearing,
an olive press with a heavy st