h to realise, as he clutched his  head, that he had
left his hat in his office.
     Nothing -would have induced  him to go back for it and he  ran  panting
across  the  wide  street  to  the cinema on the opposite  corner,  where  a
solitary cab  stood on the rank. In a minute he had reached it before anyone
else could snatch it from him.
     'To the Leningrad Station--hurry  and  I'll make it worth  your while/
said the old man, breathing heavily and clutching his heart.
     'I'm only going to the garage,' replied the driver turning away with a
surly face.
     Rimsky unfastened  his  briefcase, pulled out  fifty roubles and thrust
them at the driver through the open window.
     A few moments  later the taxi, shaking  like  a leaf in  a  storm,  was
flying along  the ring boulevard. Bouncing  up and down in his  seat, Rimsky
caught occasional glimpses  of the driver's delighted expression and his own
wild look in the mirror.
     Jumping out of the car at the station, Rimsky shouted  to the first man
he saw, who was wearing a white apron and a numbered metal disc :
     'First class single--here's thirty roubles,' he said as he fumbled for
the  money in his briefcase. ' If  there aren't any seats left in the  first
I'll take second ... if  there aren't  any in  the second,  get me  " Hard "
class! '
     Glancing round at the illuminated clock the man with the apron snatched
the money from Rimsky's hand.
     Five minutes later the express  pulled  out of the glass-roofed station
and steamed into the dark. With it vanished Rimsky.



        15. The Dream of Nikanor Ivanovich


     It is not hard to guess that the  fat man with the  purple face who was
put into room No. 119 at the clinic was Nikanor Ivanovich Bosoi.
     He had not, however, been put into Professor Stravinsky's care at once,
but  had first spent some  time in another place, of which he could remember
little except a desk, a cupboard and a sofa.
     There some  men had  questioned Nikanor  Ivanovich,  but since his eyes
were  clouded by a flux of blood and extreme  mental anguish,  the interview
was muddled and inconclusive.
     'Are you Nikanor Ivanovich Bosoi,' they began, ' chairman of the house
committee of No. 302a, Sadovaya Street? '
     Nikanor Ivanovich gave a wild peal of laughter and replied:
     'Of course I'm Nikanor! But why call me chairman? '
     'What do you mean? ' they asked, frowning.
     'Well,' he replied,' if I'm a chairman I would have seen at  once that
he was an  evil  spirit, wouldn't I? I should have realised,  what with  his
shaky   pince-nez,  his  tattered  clothes--how  could   he   have  been  an
interpreter? '
     'Who are you talking about? '
     'Koroviev! ' cried  Nikanor Ivanovich. '  The man who's moved into No.
50. Write it  down--Koroviev!  You must  find him  and arrest him  at  once.
Staircase 6--write it down--that's where you'll find him.'
     'Where  did  you   get  the  foreign  currency  from?  '  they  asked
insinuatingly.
     'As almighty God's my  witness,'  said  Nikanor  Ivanovich, ' I  never
touched any and I never even suspected that  it was  foreign money. God will
punish me for my  sin,' Nikanor Ivanovich went on feelingly, unbuttoning his
shirt, buttoning it  up  again and crossing  himself.  ' I took the money--I
admit  that--but  it was Soviet money. I  even signed a receipt for it.  Our
secretary Prolezhnov is just as bad--frankly  we're all thieves in our house
committee. . . . But I never took any foreign money.'
     On being told to stop playing the fool and to tell them how the dollars
found  their way  into his ventilation  shaft, Nikanor Ivanovich fell on his
knees and rocked backwards and forwards with  his mouth  wide open as though
he were trying to swallow the wooden parquet blocks.
     'I'll do anything  you like,' he groaned, ' that'll make you believe I
didn't take the stuff. That Koroviev's nothing less than a devil!'
     Everyone's patience has its limit; voices were raised behind  the  desk
and  Nikanor  Ivanovich  was  told  that  it  was  time he  stopped  talking
gibberish.
     Suddenly the room was filled with  a savage roar from Nikanor Ivanovich
as he jumped up from his knees:
     'There he is! There--behind the cupboard! There--look at him grinning!
And his pince-nez . . . Stop him! Arrest him! Surround the building! '
     The blood drained from Nikanor Ivanovich's face. Trembling, he made the
sign of the  cross in the air, fled for the door, then back again, intoned a
prayer and then relapsed into complete delirium.
     It   was  plain  that  Nikanor   Ivanovich  was  incapable  of  talking
rationally.  He was  removed and put  in  a room by himself, where he calmed
down slightly and only prayed and sobbed.
     Men  were sent  to the house on Sadovaya Street  and inspected flat No.
50, but they found no Koroviev  and no one  in the building who had seen him
or  heard of him. The flat belonging to Berlioz and Likhodeyev was empty and
the wax seals, quite intact,  hung on all  the cupboards  and drawers in the
study.  The  men left the  building,  taking  with  them the  bewildered and
crushed Prolezhnev, secretary of the house committee.
     That evening Nikanor Ivanovich was  delivered to  Stravinsky's  clinic.
There  he behaved so violently that he had to be  given one  of Stravinsky's
special injections and it  was midnight before Nikanor Ivanovich tell asleep
in room No. 119, uttering an occasional deep, tormented groan.
     But  the longer he  slept  the calmer  he  grew. He stopped tossing and
moaning, his breathing grew light and even,  until finally  the doctors left
him alone.
     Nikanor Ivanovich then had a dream, which was undoubtedly influenced by
his recent  experiences.  It began  with  some  men carrying golden trumpets
leading  him, with great  solemnity, to a pair of huge painted doors,  where
his companions blew  a  fanfare in  Nikanor Ivanovich's honour.  Then a bass
voice boomed at him from the sky :
     'Welcome, Nikanor Ivanovich! Hand over your foreign currency! ' Amazed
beyond  words, Nikanor Ivanovich saw in  front of  him a black  loudspeaker.
Soon he found himself  in an  auditorium lit by crystal candelabra beneath a
gilded ceiling and by sconces on the walls. Everything resembled a small but
luxurious theatre.  There was a stage, closed by a velvet curtain whose dark
cerise background  was  strewn with enlargements of  gold ten-rouble pieces;
there was a prompter's box and even an audience.
     Nikanor Ivanovich  was surprised to  notice  that the  audience  was an
all-male one  and  that its  members all wore beards. An odd feature  of the
auditorium was that it had no seats  and  the entire assembly was sitting on
the beautifully polished and extremely slippery floor.
     Embarrassed  at finding himself in  this large and unexpected  company,
after some hesitation Nikanor Ivanovich followed the general example and sat
down Turkish-fashion  on  the  parquet,  wedging  himself  between  a  stout
redbeard and a pale and extremely hirsute citizen. None of the audience paid
any attention to the newcomer.
     There came the gentle sound  of a bell, the house-lights  went out, the
curtains parted and revealed  a lighted stage set with an armchair,  a small
table on which was a little golden bell, and a heavy black velvet backdrop.
     On to the stage came an actor, dinner-jacketed, clean-shaven, his  hair
parted in the  middle above a young, charming face. The audience grew lively
and  everybody  turned to  look  at the  stage. The  actor  advanced to  the
footlights and rubbed his hands.
     'Are you sitting down? ' he enquired in a soft  baritone and smiled at
the audience.
     'We are, we are,' chorused the tenors and basses.
     'H'mm . . .' said  the actor thoughtfully, ' I realise, of course, how
bored  you  must be. Everybody else is out of  doors now, enjoying  the warm
spring  sunshine, while  you  have  to squat on the  floor  in  this  stuffy
auditorium. Is the  programme  really  worth while?  Ah  well,  chacun a son
gout,' said the actor philosophically.
     At this he changed the tone of his voice and announced gaily :
     'And  the next number  on our programme is--Nikanor Ivanovich  Bosoi,
tenants'  committee chairman and manager of a diabetic  restaurant. This way
please, Nikanor Ivanovich! '
     At the  sound of the friendly applause which greeted his name,  Nikanor
Ivanovich's  eyes bulged with astonishment and the compere, shading his eyes
against the  glare of  the footlights, located  him among the  audience  and
beckoned  him  to  the stage. Without  knowing  how, Nikanor Ivanovich found
himself on stage. His eyes were dazzled from above and below by the glare of
coloured lighting which blotted out the audience from his sight.
     'Now  Nikanor  Ivanovich, set  us an example,' said  the  young  actor
gently and confidingly, ' and hand over your foreign currency.'
     Silence. Nikanor Ivanovich took a deep breath and said in a low voice :
' I swear to God, I . . .'
     Before  he  could finish, the whole audience had  burst into  shouts of
disapproval. Nikanor Ivanovich  relapsed into uncomfortable  silence. ' Am I
right,' said the compere, ' in thinking that you were about to  swear by God
that  you had no  foreign currency?' He gave Nikanov Ivanovich a sympathetic
look.
     'That's right. I haven't any.'
     'I see,' said the actor.  ' But ... if you'll forgive the indelicacy .
. . where did those four hundred  dollars  come from that were  found in the
lavatory of your flat, of which you and your wife are the sole occupants? '
     'They were  magic ones! ' said a sarcastic voice somewhere in the dark
auditorium.
     'That's right, they were  magic ones,' said Nikanor Ivanovich timidly,
addressing  no  one  in  particular but adding :  '  an  evil  spirit,  that
interpreter in a check suit planted them on me.'
     Again the audience roared in protest. When calm was restored, the actor
said:
     'This  is  better  than  Lafontaine's fables!  Planted  four  hundred
dollars!  Listen,  you're all  in the currency  racket--I ask  you  now,  as
experts : is that possible? '
     'We're not currency racketeers,' cried a  number  of offended  voices
from the audience, ' but it's impossible! '
     'I entirely agree,' said the actor firmly, ' and  now I'd  like to ask
you : what sort of things do people plant on other people? '
     'Babies! ' cried someone at the back.
     'Quite  right,'  agreed  the  compere.  ' Babies,  anonymous letters,
manifestos, time bombs and God knows what else,  but no one would ever plant
four  hundred dollars on a  person because  there just  isn't anyone idiotic
enough  to try.' Turning  to  Nikanor Ivanovich  the artist  added sadly and
reproachfully: ' You've disappointed me, Nikanor Ivanovich. I was relying on
you. Well, that number was a flop, I'm afraid.'
     The audience began to boo Nikanor Ivanovich.
     'He's in the currency  black market all right,' came a  shout from the
crowd, ' and innocent people like us have to suffer  because of the likes of
him.'
     'Don't  shout at  him,'  said the compere  gently.  '  He'll repent.'
Turning his blue eyes, brimming  with tears,  towards Nikanor Ivanovich,  he
said : ' Go back to your place Nikanor Ivanovich.'
     After this the actor rang the bell and loudly announced:
     'Interval! '
     Shattered by  his involuntary debut in  the theatre, Nikanor  Ivanovich
found  himself back at his  place  on the floor. Then he began dreaming that
the auditorium was plunged into  total  darkness  and fiery red words leaped
out from the walls ' Hand over all foreign cirrency! '
     After a while the curtains opened again and the compere announced:
     'Sergei Gerardovich Dunchill on stage, please! '
     Dunchill was a good-looking though very stout man of about fifty.
     'Sergei Gerardovich,' the compere  addressed  him,  ' you  have  been
sitting here for six  weeks  now, firmly refusing to give up  your remaining
foreign currency, at a time when your country  has desperate need of it. You
are extremely  obstinate. You're an intelligent man, you understand all this
perfectly well, yet you refuse to come forward.'
     'I'm  sorry,  but  how  can  I,  when I  have  no more currency? ' was
Dunchill's calm reply.
     'Not even any diamonds, perhaps? ' asked the actor.
     'No diamonds either.'
     The  actor  hung his  head, reflected for  a moment,  then  clapped his
hands.  From  the wings emerged a fashionably dressed middle-aged woman. The
woman  looked worried as Dunchill stared  at her without the flicker  of  an
eyelid.
     'Who is this lady? ' the compere enquired of Dunchill.
     'She is my wife,' replied Dunchill with dignity, looking  at the woman
with a faint expression of repugnance.
     'We  regret  the inconvenience to  you,  madame  Dunchill,' said  the
compere, ' but we have invited you here to ask  you whether your husband has
surrendered all his foreign currency? '
     'He handed  it all in when he  was told to,' replied  madame  Dunchill
anxiously.
     'I see,' said the actor, ' well, if you say so, it must be true. If he
really has handed  it  all in, we must regretfully deprive ourselves  of the
pleasure  of Sergei Gerardovich's company. You may  leave the theatre if you
wish, Sergei Gerardovich,' announced the compere with a regal gesture.
     Calmly and with dignity Dunchill turned and walked towards the wings.
     'Just a minute! ' The compere stopped him. ' Before you go just let me
show you one more number from our programme.' Again he clapped his hands.
     The dark backdrop parted and  a beautiful young  woman  in a ball  gown
stepped  on stage. She  was holding  a golden salver on  which lay  a  thick
parcel  tied with coloured ribbon, and  round  her neck  she  wore a diamond
necklace that flashed blue, yellow and red fire.
     Dunchill took a  step  back and  his face turned pale. Complete silence
gripped the audience.
     'Eighteen  thousand dollars and  a necklace worth forty thousand gold
roubles,' the compere solemnly  announced, ' belonging to Sergei Gerardovich
and kept  for him in Kharkov in the flat of his  mistress,  Ida Herkulanovna
Vors, whom you have the pleasure of seeing before you now and who has kindly
consented  to help in displaying  these treasures  which, priceless as  they
are, are useless in private hands. Thank you very much, Ida Herkulanovna.'
     The beauty flashed her teeth and fluttered her long eyelashes. ' And as
for  you,' the  actor said to  Dunchill, '  we  now  know that  beneath that
dignified mask lurks a vicious spider, a liar and a disgrace to our society.
For six weeks you have worn us all  out with your stupid obstinacy. Go  home
now  and  may  the  hell which  your  wife  is  preparing  for  you be  your
punishment.'
     Dunchill staggered and was about to collapse when a sympathetic pair of
arms supported him. The curtain then fell and bid the occupants of the stage
from sight.
     Furious applause shook  the auditorium  until Nikanor Ivanovich thought
the lamps were going  to jump out  of the  candelabra. When the curtain rose
again there  was  no one on  stage except the  actor.  To  another salvo  of
applause he bowed and said :
     'We have just shown you a typically  stubborn case.  Only yesterday I
was saying how senseless it was to try and conceal a secret hoard of foreign
currency. No one who has one can make use of  it. Take Dunchill for example.
He is well paid and  never short of anything. He has a splendid flat, a wife
and a beautiful mistress. Yet instead of  acting  like a law-abiding citizen
and handing in his  currency and jewellery, all that this incorrigible rogue
has  achieved is  public exposure and a family scandal. So who wants to hand
in his currency? Nobody? In that case, the next number on our programme will
be  that famous actor Savva  Potapovich Kurolesov  in  excerpts from  "  The
Covetous Knight" by the poet Pushkin.'
     Kurolesov entered, a tall, fleshy, clean-shaven  man in tails and white
tie. Without a word of introduction he scowled, frowned and began, squinting
at the golden bell, to recite in an unnatural voice :
     'Hastening to meet Ills courtesan, the young gallant. . .'
     Kurolesov's  recital  described a  tale  of  evil. He confessed how  an
unhappy widow had knelt weeping before him in the rain, but the actor's hard
heart had remained untouched.
     Until  this dream,  Nikanor  Ivanovich  knew nothing  of  the  works of
Pushkin, although he knew his name well enough and almost every day he  used
to make  remarks like  '  Who's going  to pay the  rent--Pushkin? ',  or ' I
suppose Pushkin stole the light bulb on the staircase', or ' Who's  going to
buy the fuel-oil for  the boilers--Pushkin, I suppose? ' Now as he  listened
to one of Pushkin's dramatic poems for the first time Nikanor Ivanovich felt
miserable, imagining the woman on  her knees in the rain  with her  orphaned
children and he could  not help thinking what a beast this fellow  Kurolesov
must be.
     The  actor  himself,  his  voice  constantly  rising,  poured  out  his
repentance and finally he completely muddled Nikanor Ivanovich by talking to
someone who wasn't on the stage at all, then answered for the invisible man,
all the time calling himself first  ' king ', then  ' baron ', then ' father
',  then '  son  '  until the  confusion was  total.  Nikanor Ivanovich only
managed to  understand that the actor  died a  horrible death shouting  ' My
keys!  My  keys! ',  at which he  fell croaking  to the ground, having first
taken care to pull off his white tie.
     Having died,  Kurolesov  got up, brushed  the  dust from his  trousers,
bowed, smiled an  insincere  smile and walked off  to  faint  applause.  The
compere then said :
     'In Sawa Potapovich's masterly  interpretation we have just  heard the
story of " The Covetous Knight". That knight saw himself as  a Casanova; but
as you saw, nothing came of his efforts, no nymphs threw themselves  at him,
the  muses refused  him  their  tribute, he built  no palaces and instead he
finished miserably  after an attack on his hoard of money and jewels. I warn
you that something of the kind  will happen to you, if not worse, unless you
hand over your foreign currency! '
     It may have  been  Pushkin's  verse  or  it may have been the compere's
prosaic remarks  which had  such an effect; at all  events a timid voice was
heard from the audience :
     'I'll hand over my currency.'
     'Please  come up on stage,' was the compere's welcoming response as he
peered into the dark auditorium.
     A short blond man, three weeks unshaven, appeared on stage.
     'What is your name, please? ' enquired the compere.
     'Nikolai Kanavkin ' was the shy answer.
     'Ah! Delighted, citizen Kanavkin. Well? '
     'I'll hand it over.'
     'How much? '
     'A thousand dollars and twenty gold ten-rouble pieces.'
     'Bravo! Is that all you have? '
     The compere  stared straight into  Kanavkin's  eyes  and it  seemed  to
Nikanor Ivanovich that those eyes  emitted rays  which  saw through Kanavkin
like X-rays. The audience held its breath.
     'I believe you! ' cried the actor at last and extinguished his gaze. '
I believe you! Those eyes are not lying! How many
     times have  I said that your fundamental error is to underestimate  the
significance  of  the human  eye. The tongue  may  hide  the  truth  but the
eyes--never! If somebody springs a question  you may not even  flinch ; in a
second you  are in control of yourself and you know what to say in  order to
conceal the truth. You can be very convincing and not a wrinkle will flicker
in your expression, but alas! The truth will start forth in a flash from the
depths of your soul to your eyes and the game's up! You're caught!'
     Having  made this highly  persuasive speech, the  actor  politely asked
Kanavkin:
     'Where are they hidden? '
     'At my aunt's, in Prechistenka.'
     'Ah! That  will  be ... wait  . . .  yes,  that's  Claudia Ilyinishna
Porokhovnikova, isn't it? ' ' Yes.'
     'Yes, yes,  of course.  A little bungalow, isn't it?  Opposite a high
fence? Of course, I know it. And where have you put them? '
     'In a box in the cellar.'
     The actor clasped his hands.
     'Oh, no! Really! ' he cried  angrily.  ' Its  so damp  there-- they'll
grow  mouldy!  People like  that aren't  to  be  trusted  with  money!  What
child-like innocence. What will they do next?'
     Kanavkin, realising that he was doubly at fault, hung his curly head.
     'Money,' the actor went on, ' should be kept in the State Bank, in dry
and specially  guarded  strongrooms, but  never  in your aunt's cellar where
apart  from anything else, the rats may  get  at it. Really,  Kanavkin,  you
should be ashamed : you--a grown man! '
     Kanavkin did not know which way to look and could only twist the hem of
his jacket with his finger.
     'All right,'  the artist relented  slightly, ' since you have owned up
we'll be lenient.  . .' Suddenly he added unexpectedly :  ' By the way . . .
we might as well kill two birds  with one stone and  not waste a car journey
... I expect your aunt has some of her own hidden away, hasn't she? '
     Not expecting the conversation to take this turn, Kanavkin gave a start
and silence settled again on the audience.
     'Ah, now, Kanavkin,' said the compere  in a tone of kindly reproach, '
I was just going to say  what  a good boy you were I  And now you have to go
and upset  it all! That  wasn't very clever, Kanavkin! Remember  what I said
just now about  your eyes? Well, I can see from your eyes that your aunt has
something hidden. Come on--don't tantalise us! '
     'Yes, she has! ' shouted Kanavkin boldly.
     'Bravo! ' cried the compere.
     'Bravo! ' roared the audience.
     When the noise had died  down the compere congratulated Kanavkin, shook
him by the hand, offered him a car to take  him home and ordered somebody in
the wings to go and see the aunt in the same car and invite her to appear in
the ladies' section of the programme.
     'Oh yes, I nearly forgot to ask you--did your aunt tell you where she
has hidden hers? ' enquired the compere, offering Kanavkin a cigarette and a
lighted  match. His cigarette lit, the wretched man gave  an apologetic sort
of grin.
     'Of  course, I believe you. You don't know,'  said  the  actor with a
sigh.  ' I suppose the old skinflint wouldn't tell  her  nephew. Ah well, we
shall just have to try and appeal to her better nature. Perhaps we can still
touch a chord in her miserly old heart. Goodbye, Kanavkin--and good luck! '
     Kanavkin departed relieved and happy.  The  actor then enquired whether
anyone else wished  to  surrender  his foreign  currency,  but there  was no
response.
     'Funny, I must say!  ' said the compere with a shrug of his shoulders
and the curtain fell.
     The lights went out, there was darkness for a while, broken only by the
sound of a quavering tenor voice singing :
     'Heaps of gold--and mine, all mine ...'
     After a  burst of applause,  Nikanor  Ivanovich's red-bearded neighbour
suddenly announced :
     'There's  bound to be a  confession  or two in the ladies' programme.'
Then with  a sigh he added: ' oh, if only they don't get  my geese! I have a
flock of geese at  Lianozov, you  see. They're savage birds, but  I'm afraid
they'll die if I'm not there. They need a lot of looking after . . . Oh,  if
only they don't  take my geese! They don't impress me by quoting Pushkin . .
.' and he sighed again.
     The auditorium was suddenly flooded with  light  and  Nikanor Ivanovich
began dreaming that  a gang of cooks  started  pouring through all the doors
into the  auditorium. They wore white  chef's hats, carried ladles and  they
dragged into the theatre a vat  full of  soup  and a  tray of  sliced  black
bread. The audience livened up as the cheerful cooks  pushed their way  down
the aisle pouring the soup into bowls and handing out bread.
     'Eat up,  lads,' shouted the cooks, ' and hand over your currency! Why
waste your time sitting here? Own up and you can all go home! '
     'What  are you doing here,  old  man?' said a fat, red-necked  cook to
Nikanor Ivanovich  as he handed him a bowl of soup with a  lone cabbage leaf
floating in it.
     'I haven't got any! I haven't, I swear it,' shouted Nikanor Ivanovich
in a terrified voice.
     'Haven't you? ' growled the cook in a fierce bass. ' Haven't you? ' he
enquired in  a  feminine  soprano. ' No, I'm sure you  haven't,' he muttered
gently as he turned into the nurse Praskovya Fyodorovna.
     She gently shook Nikanor Ivanovich by the shoulder as he groaned in his
sleep. Cooks, theatre, curtain and stage dissolved. Through the tears in his
eyes Nikanor Ivanovich  stared round at his hospital room  and at two men in
white overalls. They turned out not to be cooks but doctors, standing beside
Praskovya Fyodorovna who instead of a soup-bowl was  holding a gauze-covered
white enamelled dish containing a hypodermic syringe.
     'What are you doing? '  said Nikanor  Ivanovich bitterly  as they gave
him an injection. ' I haven't any I tell you! Why doesn't Pushkin hand  over
his foreign currency? I haven't got any! '
     'No, of course you haven't,' said  kind Praskovya Fyodorovna, ' and no
one is going to take you to court, so you can forget it and relax.'
     After  Ms  injection  Nikanor  Ivanovich  calmed  down  and fell into a
dreamless sleep.
     His  unrest,  however, had  communicated itself to  No. 120  where  the
patient woke  up and began  looking for his head; No. 118 where the nameless
master wrung his hands as he gazed at the moon, remembering that last bitter
autumn night, the patch of light  under  the  door in his  basement  and the
girl's hair blown loose.
     The anxiety  from No. 118 flew along  the balcony to Ivan, who  woke up
and burst into tears.
     The  doctor soon calmed all his distraught patients and  they went back
to sleep.  Last of all was  Ivan, who only dozed off as  dawn began to break
over  the  river.  As the  sedative spread  through his  body,  tranquillity
covered him like a slow wave. His body relaxed and  his head was filled with
the  warm breeze of slumber.  As he fell asleep the last thing that he heard
was the  dawn chorus of  birds in the wood. But they were soon  silent again
and he began dreaming  that the sun had already set over Mount  Golgotha and
that the hill was ringed by a double cordon. ...




        16. The Execution



     The sun  had already set over Mount Golgotha and the hill was ringed by
a double cordon.
     The  cavalry ala that had held up the  Procurator that morning had left
the  city  at  a  trot by  the Hebron Gate, its  route  cleared ahead of it.
Infantrymen of the Cappadocian cohort pressed back a  crowd of people, mules
and camels, and  the ala, throwing up pillars of white dust, trotted towards
the  crossroads  where  two ways met--one southward to Bethlehem, the  other
northwestward  to Jaffa.  The ala took the north-westward route. More of the
Cappadocians had been posted along the edge of the road in time to clear the
route of all  the  caravans moving  into Jerusalem for  Passover. Crowds  of
pilgrims stood behind the line of troops,  leaving  the temporary shelter of
their  tents pitched on the grass. After  about a kilometre the ala overtook
the  second  cohort  of the  Lightning  legion  and  having  gone  a further
kilometre arrived  first  at the foot of Mount Golgotha. There the commander
hastily  divided  the ala into  troops and cordoned off  the base of the low
hill, leaving only a small gap where a path led from the  Jaffa road  to the
hilltop.
     After a while the second cohort arrived, climbed up and  formed another
cordon round the hill.
     Last on the scene was the century under the command of Mark Muribellum.
It marched in two single files, one along each edge of the road, and between
them, escorted by  a secret service  detachment, drove the cart carrying the
three prisoners.  Each wore a white board hung round his neck  on which were
written the words  ' Robber  &  Rebel'  in  Aramaic  and  Greek. Behind  the
prisoners'  cart   came  others,   loaded   with  freshly  sawn  posts   and
cross-pieces,  ropes,  spades, buckets  and  axes.  They  also  carried  six
executioners. Last in the convoy rode Mark the centurion, the captain of the
temple guard and the same hooded man  with whom Pilate had briefly conferred
in a darkened room of the palace.
     Although the  procession  was  completely enclosed by  troops,  it  was
followed by  about two thousand curious sightseers determined to watch  this
interesting spectacle  despite the infernal  heat. These spectators from the
city were now being joined by crowds of pilgrims, who were allowed to follow
the tail of the  procession unhindered, as it  made  its way  towards  Mount
Golgotha  to  the  bark  of  the heralds' voices as  they repeated  Pilate's
announcement.
     The ala allowed  them through as  far  as the second cordon,  where the
century admitted  only those concerned  with the execution and  then, with a
brisk manoeuvre, spread the crowd round the hill between the  mounted cordon
below and the upper ring formed by  the infantry, allowing the spectators to
watch the execution through a thin line of soldiery.
     More than three hours had gone by since the procession had  reached the
hill and although the sun over Mount Golgotha had already begun its descent,
the heat was still unbearable.  The troops  in both  cordons were  suffering
from it; stupefied with boredom, they cursed the three robbers and sincerely
wished them a quick death.
     At the gap in the lower cordon the diminutive commander of the ala, his
forehead damp  and  his white  tunic  soaked  with  the sweat of  his  back,
occasionally walked over to  the  leather bucket in No.  I.  Troop's  lines,
scooped up the water in  handfuls, drank and moistened his turban. With this
slight relief  from the heat he  would return and  recommence pacing up  and
down  the dusty  path leading to the top. His long sword bumped against  his
laced leather  boot. As commander he had  to  set an example of endurance to
his men, but he considerately  allowed them  to  stick their lances into the
ground and drape their white cloaks over the tops of the shafts. The Syrians
then  sheltered  from  the  pitiless  sun under these  makeshift tents.  The
buckets emptied quickly and a rota of  troopers was kept busy fetching water
from  a ravine  at the foot of the hill, where a muddy stream flowed  in the
shade of a clump of  gaunt  mulberry trees. There, making the  most  of  the
inadequate shade, the bored grooms lounged beside the horse-lines.
     The  troops  were exhausted  and their resentment of  the  victims  was
understandable.  Fortunately,  however, Pilate's fears that  disorders might
occur in Jerusalem  during the  execution were unjustified. When  the fourth
hour of the execution had passed, against all expectation not a man remained
between the  two  cordons. The sun had scorched the crowd and driven it back
to Jerusalem. Beyond the ring formed by the  two Roman  centuries there were
only a couple of  stray dogs. The heat had exhausted  them too  and they lay
panting with their tongues out,  too weary  even  to chase the  green-backed
lizards,  the only  creatures unafraid of the sun, which  darted between the
broken stones and the spiny, ground-creeping cactus plants.
     No one  had tried to attack the prisoners, neither in Jerusalem,  which
was packed with troops, nor on the cordoned hill. The crowd had drifted back
into  town,  bored  by  this  dull  execution  and  eager  to  join  in  the
preparations for the feast which were already under way in the city.
     The  Roman infantry forming  the second  tier  was  suffering even more
acutely than  the cavalrymen. Centurion  Muribellum's only concession to his
men  was to allow them to take  off their helmets and put on white headbands
soaked in  water, but he kept  them standing,  lance  in hand. The centurion
himself,  also wearing  a  headband though a dry one, walked up and  down  a
short distance from  a group of executioners without even removing his heavy
silver badges of rank, his sword or his dagger. The sun  beat  straight down
on the centurion  without causing  him the least distress  and such was  the
glitter  from  the  silver of his lions' muzzles that a glance  at them  was
almost blinding.
     Muribellum's disfigured face showed  neither exhaustion nor displeasure
and the  giant centurion seemed  strong enough to  keep pacing all  day, all
night and all the next day. For as long as might be necessary he would go on
walking with his  hands on his heavy bronze-studded  belt, he would keep his
stern gaze either on the crucified victims or on the line of troops, or just
kick  at the rubble  on  the  ground  with  the toe of  his rough hide boot,
indifferent to whether it was a whitened human bone or a small flint.
     The hooded  man had placed  himself  a short way from the  gibbets on a
three-legged stool and  sat in calm immobility, occasionally poking the sand
with a stick out of boredom.
     It  was  not quite true that no one was left of  the crowd  between the
cordons. There  was  one man, but he was partly  hidden. He was not near the
path, which was the best place from  which to see the  execution, but on the
northern  side,  where the hill was  not smooth and passable but  rough  and
jagged with gulleys  and  fissures,  at a  spot  where  a  sickly  fig  tree
struggled to keep alive on that arid soil by rooting itself in a crevice.
     Although the fig tree gave no shade, this sole remaining spectator  had
been sitting  beneath it on a stone  since the  very start  of the execution
four  hours before.  He had chosen the worst  place to  watch the execution,
although he had  a direct view  of the gibbets  and could even  see  the two
glittering  badges  on  the  centurion's  chest.  His  vantage  point seemed
adequate, however, for a man who seemed anxious to remain out of sight.
     Yet four hours ago  this man had behaved quite differently and had made
himself all too conspicuous,  which was probably the  reason why he  had now
changed his tactics  and  withdrawn  to  solitude.  When the procession  had
reached the top of the hill he had been the first of the crowd to appear and
he had shown all the signs of a man arriving late. He had run panting up the
hill,  pushing people aside,  and  when halted by the  cordon he  had made a
naive attempt, by pretending not to understand  their angry shouts, to break
through the line of  soldiers and reach  the  place of execution  where  the
prisoners were  already  being led  off the cart.  For this he  had earned a
savage  blow on the  chest with the blunt end of  a lance  and had staggered
back with  a cry, not of pain but of despair. He had stared at the legionary
who had  hit him  with  the bleary, indifferent look of  a man past  feeling
physical pain.
     Gasping  and clutching his chest he had  run round to the northern side
of the hill, trying to find a gap in the cordon where he might slip through.
But it  was too  late,  the  chain had been  closed. And the  man, his  face
contorted  with  grief, had had to give up trying  to break  through to  the
carts,  from  which men were  unloading  the gibbet-posts.  Any such attempt
would have led to his arrest and as his  plans  for that day did not include
being arrested, he had hidden himself  in the  crevice  where he could watch
unmolested.
     Now as he sat on his stone, his eyes festering from heat, dust and lack
of sleep, the black-bearded man felt miserable. First he would sigh, opening
his travel-worn tallith, once blue but  now turned dirty grey, and bare  his
sweating,  bruised chest,  then  he  would raise  his  eyes  to the  sky  in
inexpressible agony, following the three vultures who had long been circling
the hilltop in expectation of a feast, then gaze  hopelessly  at  the yellow
soil where he stared at the half-crushed skull of a dog and the lizards that
scurried around it.
     The man  was in  such distress  that now  and  again he  would  talk to
himself.
     'Oh, I am a fool,' he mumbled, rocking back and forth in agony of soul
and scratching his swarthy chest. ' I'm a  fool,  as stupid  as a woman--and
I'm a coward! I'm a lump of carrion, not a man I '
     He hung  his head in silence,  then revived by  a drink of  tepid water
from  his  wooden flask he gripped  the  knife  hidden under his  tallith or
fingered the piece of  parchment lying  on a stone  in front of  him  with a
stylus and a bladder of ink.
     On the parchment were some scribbled notes :
     'Minutes pass while I, Matthew the Levite, sit here  on Mount Golgotha
and still he is not dead!'
     Late:
     'The sun is setting  and death not yet come.' Hopelessly, Matthew  now
wrote with his sharp stylus :
     'God! Why are you angry with him? Send him death.'
     Having written  this, he  gave a tearless  sob and  again scratched his
chest.
     The cause  of  the Levite's despair was his own and  Yeshua's  terrible
failure. He was also tortured by  the fatal mistake  which he,  Matthew, had
committed.  Two days  before, Yeshua and Matthew had  been in Bethphagy near
Jerusalem, where they had been staying with a market gardener who had  taken
pleasure in  Yeshua's preaching.  All that  morning  the two  men had helped
their host at  work in his garden, intending to walk on  to Jerusalem in the
cool of the evening. But for some reason  Yeshua had been in a hurry, saying
that he had something urgent to do in the city, and  had  set  off alone  at
noon. That was Matthew the Levite's first mistake. Why,  why had he  let him
go alone?
     That evening  Matthew had  been unable  to  go to  Jerusalem, as he had
suffered a  sudden and unexpected  attack of sickness. He shivered, his body
felt as if it were on fire and he constantly begged for water.
     To go anywhere was out of the question. He had collapsed on to a rug in
the gardener's  courtyard and had lain  there until dawn on Friday, when the
sickness left Matthew as suddenly as it had struck him. Although still weak,
he  had  felt  oppressed  by a foreboding  of disaster  and bidding his host
farewell had set out for Jerusalem. There he had learned that his foreboding
had not deceived him and that the disaster had occurred. The Levite had been
in the crowd that had heard the Procurator pronounce sentence.
     When  the prisoners  were  taken away  to Mount  Golgotha,  Matthew the
Levite ran alongside the escort amid the crowd of sightseers, trying to give
Yeshua an inconspicuous signal that at  least he, the Levite,  was here with
him, that he had  not  abandoned him on  his  last journey and  that  he was
praying for  Yeshua  to be  granted  a quick death.  But Yeshua, staring far
ahead to where they were taking him, could not see Matthew.
     Then,  when the procession had  covered  half a  mile or so of the way,
Matthew, who  was being pushed  along by the crowd level with the prisoners'
cart, was struck by a  brilliant  and simple idea. In his fervour  he cursed
himself  for not having thought of it before. The soldiers were not marching
in close order, but with a  gap  between each man. With great  dexterity and
very  careful timing it would be possible to bend down  and jump between two
legionaries, reach the cart and  jump on it. Then Yeshua would be saved from
an agonising death. A moment would be enough to stab Yeshua in the back with
a knife,  having  shouted to him: ' Yeshua! I shall save you and depart with
you! I, Matthew, your faithful and only disciple!'
     And if God were  to bless him with one more moment  of freedom he could
stab himself as well and avoid a death on the gallows. Not that Matthew, the
erstwhile tax-collector,  cared  much  how  he  died:  he  wanted  only  one
thing--that Yeshua, who had never done  anyone  the least harm  in his life,
should be spared the torture of crucifixion.
     The plan was a very good one, but it  had a great flaw--the  Levite had
no knife and no money.
     Furious with himself, Matthew pushed his way out of  the  crowd and ran
back to the city. His head burned with the single thought of how he might at
once, by whatever means,  find  a knife  somewhere in town and then catch up
with the procession again.
     He ran as far as the city gate, slipping through the crowd of pilgrims'
caravans pouring into town,  and  saw on his left the open door of a baker's
shop. Breathless from running on  the hot road,  the  Levite pulled  himself
together,  entered the shop very sedately, greeted the baker's wife