.' He pressed his hand to his heart and gazed imploringly at Azazello.
     'All right.  Off you go  home!  ' said  Azazello and Varenukha melted
away.
     'Now  all of  you  leave me alone with  these two,'  ordered  Woland,
pointing to the master and Margarita.
     Woland's  command was obeyed instantly. After a  silence he said to the
master :
     'So you're going back to  your basement near the Arbat. How will you be
able to write now? Where are your dreams, your inspiration? '
     'I  have  no  more dreams and  my  inspiration is  dead,'  replied the
master,  ' nobody interests me any longer  except  her  '--he laid his  hand
again on Margarita's head--' I'm finished. My only wish is to return to that
basement.'
     'And what about your novel? What about Pilate? '
     'I hate  that  novel,' replied  the master. ' I  have been through too
much because of it.'
     'Please,' begged  Margarita piteously, ' don't talk like that. Whv are
you  torturing me? You know I've put  my whole life into your work,' and she
added,  turning to Woland : ' Don't  listen to him, messire, he has suffered
too much.'
     'But won't you need to  re-write some of it?  ' asked Woland. ' Or if
you've exhausted  your Procurator,  why not write  about somebody else--that
Aloysius, for instance . . .'
     The master smiled.
     'Lapshennikova  would never print  it  and in  any case that  doesn't
interest me.'
     'How will you earn your living, then? Won't you mind being poor? '
     'Not a bit,' said the master, drawing  Margarita to him. Embracing her
round the  shoulders  he  added:  '  She'll leave me when she  comes to  her
senses.'
     'I doubt it,'  said  Woland, teeth  clenched.  He went on  : 'So  the
creator of Pontius Pilate proposes to go and starve in a basement? '
     Margarita unlinked her arms from the master's and said passionately :
     'I've done  all I can. I whispered  to  him the most tempting thing of
all. And he refused.'
     'I  know what you whispered to him,'  said Woland, '  but that is  not
what tempts him most. Believe me,' he turned  with a smile to  the master, '
your novel has some more surprises in store for you.'
     'What a grim prospect,' answered the master.
     'No, it is not grim at all,' said Woland. ' Nothing terrible will come
of  it,  I  assure  you.  Well  now,  Margarita  Nikolayevna, everything  is
arranged. Have you any further claims on me?'
     'How can I, messire? '
     'Then take this as a souvenir,'  said Woland and took a  small golden,
diamond-studded horseshoe from under a cushion.
     'No--I couldn't take  it. Haven't you done enough for  me? ' ' Are you
arguing with me? ' asked Woland, smiling.
     As Margarita had no  pocket in her gown  she wrapped the horseshoe in a
napkin and knotted it. Then something seemed to worry her. She looked out of
the window at the moon and said :
     'One  thing  I  don't understand--it  still  seems  to  be  midnight.
Shouldn't it be morning? '
     'It's pleasant  to stop the clock on  a  festive  night such as this,'
replied Woland. ' And now--good luck!'
     Margarita stretched  both hands  to Woland in  entreaty,  but found she
could come no nearer to him.
     'Goodbye! Goodbye!'
     'Au revoir,' said Woland.
     Margarita  in  her  black  cloak  and  the   master  in  his   hospital
dressing-gown walked  out into the corridor  of Berlioz's  flat,  where  the
light was burning and Woland's retinue was waiting for them. As they  passed
along  the corridor Hella, helped  by the cat, carried the suitcase with the
novel and Margarita Nikolayev-na's few belongings.
     At the door of the flat  Koroviev bowed and vanished, while the  others
escorted them down the staircase. It was  empty.  As  they  passed the third
floor landing a faint bump was heard, but no  one paid it  any attention. At
the front door of staircase 6 Azazello blew into the air and as they entered
the dark courtyard they saw a man  in boots and peaked cap sound  asleep  on
the doorstep  and a  large,  black car  standing by the entrance with dimmed
lights. Barely visible in the driver's seat was the outline of a crow.
     Margarita  was just  about to sit  down when she gave a stifled  cry of
despair:
     'Oh God, I've lost the horseshoe.'
     'Get into the car,' said Azazello, ' and  wait for me. I'll be back in
a moment  as  soon as I've  looked into this.' He  walked back  through  the
doorway.
     What had happened was this: shortly  before Margarita,  the  master and
their escort had left No. 50, a shrivelled  woman carrying a bag  and  a tin
can had emerged  from No. 48,  the flat immediately below.  It was Anna--the
same Anna who the previous Wednesday had spilt the sunflower-seed  oil  near
the turnstile with such disastrous consequences for Berlioz.
     Nobody  knew and no  one probably ever will  know  what this  woman was
doing in Moscow or what she lived on. She was  to be seen  every  day either
with her tin can or her bag or both, sometimes at the oil-shop, sometimes at
the market,  sometimes  outside the block of flats or  on the staircase, but
mostly in the kitchen of flat No. 48, where she lived. She was notorious for
being a harbinger of disaster wherever she went and she was nicknamed ' Anna
the Plague '.
     Anna the Plague usually got up  very  early in the  morning,  but  this
morning something  roused her long before dawn, soon after midnight. Her key
turned in the door, her nose poked through and was followed by Anna herself,
who slammed  the door behind  her.  She  was just about to set  off  on some
errand when the  door banged on  the  upstairs landing, a man came  bounding
downstairs, crashed into Anna and knocked her sideways so hard  that she hit
the back of her head against the wall.
     'Where  the  hell  do  you  think  you're  going  like  that--in  your
underpants? ' whined Anna, rubbing the back of her head.
     The  man,  who was wearing  underclothes  and  a  cap  and  carrying  a
suitcase, answered in a sleepy voice with his eyes closed:
     'Bath . . . whitewash . . . cost me a fortune . . .' and bursting into
tears he bellowed : ' I've been kicked out! '
     Then he dashed  off--not  downstairs  but upstairs  again to  where the
windowpane  had been broken by  Poplavsky's foot, and  through it  he glided
feet first out into the  courtyard. Forgetting about  her  aching head, Anna
gasped and rushed up to the broken window. She lay flat on the landing floor
and stuck her head out in the courtyard, expecting to see the mortal remains
of the man with the suitcase  lit  up  by the courtyard lamp. But  there was
absolutely nothing to be seen on the courtyard pavement.
     As far as Anna could tell, this weird  sleepwalker had flown out of the
house like a bird,  leaving not a trace. She crossed herself  and thought: '
It's that No. 50! No wonder people say it's haunted . . .'
     The thought  had  hardly  crossed  her mind  before  the  door upstairs
slammed  again and someone else came running  down.  Anna pressed herself to
the wall and saw a respectable looking gentleman with a little beard and, so
it seemed to her, a slightly piggish face, who slipped past her and like the
first man left the building  through  the  window, also without  hitting the
ground  below. Anna had long since forgotten her original reason for  coming
out,  and stayed on the staircase, crossing herself, moaning and talking  to
herself. After a  short  while a third man, with  no  beard but with a round
clean-shaven face and wearing a shirt,  emerged and  shot through the window
in turn.
     To give Anna her due  she  was of  an enquiring  turn  of mind  and she
decided to wait  and  see  if  there  were to  be  any further marvels.  The
upstairs door opened again and a whole crowd started coming downstairs, this
time not running but  walking  like ordinary people. Anna ran  down from the
window back to her own front door, quickly opened it, hid behind it and kept
her eye, wild with curiosity, fixed to the crack which she left open.
     An  odd sick-looking man, pale with a stubbly beard, in a black cap and
dressing-gown, was walking unsteadily downstairs, carefully helped by a lady
wearing what looked to Anna in the gloom like a black cassock. The lady  was
wearing  some transparent  slippers, obviously  foreign,  but  so  torn  and
shredded that she was almost barefoot. It was indecent--bedroom slippers and
quite obviously naked except for a black gown billowing out as she walked! '
That No. 50!' Anna's mind was  already savouring the story she was going  to
tell the neighbours tomorrow.
     After this lady came a naked  girl carrying a suitcase and helped by an
enormous black cat. Rubbing her eyes, Anna could barely help bursting into a
shriek  of  pure amazement. Last  in  the  procession was a  short,  limping
foreigner with a wall eye, no  jacket, a white evening-dress waistcoat and a
bow  tie. Just as  the whole  party had  filed downstairs  past Anna's door,
something fell on to the landing with a gentle thump.
     When the  sound  of footsteps had died  away, Anna wriggled out  of her
doorway like a snake,  put  down her tin can, dropped on  to her stomach and
started groping  about  on  the landing  floor. Suddenly she  found  herself
holding something heavy wrapped in a table-napkin. Her eyes started from her
head as she untied the napkin and lifted the jewel close to eyes that burned
with a wolfish greed. A storm of thoughts whirled round her mind:
     'See no sights and  tell no  tales! Shall I take it  to my nephew? Or
split it up into pieces? I could  ease the stones out  and sell them off one
at a time. . . .'
     Anna hid her find in the front of her blouse, picked up her tin can and
was  just about  to abandon  her errand and slip back indoors when  she  was
suddenly  confronted  by the  coatless  man with  the white  shirtfront, who
whispered to her in a soft voice :
     'Give me that horseshoe wrapped in a serviette! '
     'What serviette? What horseshoe? ' said Anna, prevaricating with great
skill. ' Never seen a serviette. What's the matter with you--drunk? '
     Without another word but with fingers  as  hard  and  as  cold  as  the
handrail of a bus,  the man in the white shirtfront gripped Anna's throat so
tightly that he prevented all air from entering her lungs. The tin  can fell
from  her  hand.  Having  stopped  Anna  from  breathing  for  a  while, the
jacketless stranger removed his fingers from her neck.  Gasping  for breath,
Anna smiled.
     'Oh,  you mean the little horseshoe? ' she said.  ' Of course!  Is it
yours? I looked and there  it was wrapped in a serviette, I picked  it up on
purpose in case anybody else might find it and vanish with it! '
     With the  horseshoe in his possession again, the stranger  began bowing
and scraping to  Anna, shook her  by  the hand and  thanked her  warmly in a
thick foreign accent:
     'I  am most deeply grateful to you, madame. This horseshoe  is dear to
me  as a memory. Please allow me to give you two  hundred roubles for saving
it.' At which  he pulled the money from his  waistcoat pocket and gave it to
Anna, who could only exclaim with a bewildered grin :
     'Oh, thank you so much! Merci!'
     In one leap the generous stranger had  jumped  down  a whole flight  of
stairs,  but before  vanishing altogether he  shouted up at  her,  this time
without a trace of an accent:
     'Next time you find someone else's things,  you old witch, hand it  in
to the police instead of stuffing it down your front! '
     Utterly confused by  events and by the singing  in her ears, Anna could
do nothing for a long time  but  stand  on the staircase  and croak: '  Mem!
Merci! ' until long after the stranger had vanished.
     Having returned Woland's present to Margarita, Azazello said goodbye to
her, enquiring  if she was comfortably  seated ;  Hella  gave her a smacking
kiss and the cat pressed  itself affectionately  to her hand. With a wave to
the master as he  lowered himself awkwardly into his seat and a wave  to the
crow, the party vanished into thin air,  without bothering to return indoors
and walk up the staircase. The crow switched on the headlights and drove out
of the courtyard past the man asleep at the entrance. Finally  the lights of
the big  black car were lost as they  merged into the rows of streetlamps on
silent, empty Sadovaya Street.
     An  hour later Margarita  was sitting,  softly weeping from  shock  and
happiness, in the basement of the little house in one of the sidestreets off
the Arbat. In the master's study all was as it had been before that terrible
autumn night of the year  before. On the table, covered with a velvet cloth,
stood  a  vase  of   lily-of-the-valley  and  a  shaded  lamp.  The  charred
manuscript-book  lay in front of her, beside  it a pile of undamaged copies.
The  house  was  silent.  Next door  on  a divan, covered  by  his  hospital
dressing-gown,  the  master  lay  in  a deep sleep,  his  regular  breathing
inaudible from the next room.
     Drying her tears, Margarita picked  up one  of the unharmed  folios and
found  the  place that  she  had  been  reading  before she had met Azazello
beneath  the  Kremlin  wall.  She  had no wish  to sleep. She  smoothed  the
manuscript tenderly as one strokes  a favourite cat and  turning it  over in
her hands she inspected it from every angle, stopping now on the title page,
now at  the  end.  A fearful thought  passed  through  her mind that  it was
nothing  more than  a piece  of wizardry,  that the folio  might vanish from
sight, that she would wake up and  find that she was in her bedroom  at home
and  it  was time to get up and  stoke the boiler. But this was only  a last
terrible fantasy,  the echo  of long-borne suffering. Nothing  vanished, the
all-powerful Woland  really was all-powerful and Margarita was able  to leaf
through the manuscript to her heart's  content, till dawn  if she wanted to,
stare at it, kiss it and re-read the words :
     'The mist that came  from the Mediterranean sea blotted out the  city
that Pilate so detested . . .'




        27. How the Procurator Tried to Save Judas of Karioth



     The mist that came from the Mediterranean sea blotted out the city that
Pilate so detested. The  suspension bridges connecting  the  temple with the
grim  fortress  of Antonia  vanished,  the murk descended  from  the sky and
drowned  the winged gods above  the hippodrome,  the crenellated  Hasmonaean
palace,  the bazaars,  the  caravanserai,  the  alleyways, the pools .  .  .
Jerusalem, the great city,  vanished  as though it had never been. The  mist
devoured everything, frightening every  living creature in Jerusalem and its
surroundings. The  city was engulfed by a strange cloud which had crept over
it from the sea towards the end of that day, the  fourteenth of the month of
Nisan.
     It  had emptied  its belly over Mount  Golgotha, where the executioners
had  hurriedly  despatched their victims, it had flowed over the  temple  of
Jerusalem, pouring down in smoky cascades from the mound  of the  temple and
invading  the  Lower City. It  had rolled  through open  windows  and driven
people indoors from the winding  streets. At first it held back its rain and
only spat lightning, the flame  cleaving through the  smoking  black vapour,
lighting up the great pile of the temple and its glittering, scaly roof. But
the  flash passed in a moment and the temple was plunged again into an abyss
of darkness. Several times it loomed through the  murk  to vanish again  and
each time  its disappearance  was accompanied by  a noise  like the crack of
doom.
     Other shimmering flashes lit up  the palace of Herod the  Great  facing
the temple on the western  hill; as they did so  the golden statues, eyeless
and fearful, seemed  to leap up into the black  sky  and stretch  their arms
towards it. Then  the fire from heaven would be quenched  again and  a great
thunderclap would banish the gilded idols into the mist.
     The rainstorm burst suddenly and the  storm turned into a hurricane. On
the  very spot near  a marble bench in  the garden,  where that  morning the
Procurator had spoken to the High Priest, a thunderbolt snapped the trunk of
a cypress as though it had been a twig. With  the water vapour and the hail,
the balcony  under the  arcade  was  swept with  torn  rose-heads,  magnolia
leaves, small branches and sand as the hurricane scourged the garden.
     At the moment when the storm broke only the Procurator was left beneath
the arcade.
     He was no longer sitting in a chair but lying on a couch beside a small
low table laid with  food and jugs  of wine.  Another, empty, couch stood on
the far side of the table. An untidy, blood-red puddle lay spread out at the
Procurator's feet amid the sherds of a broken jug.  The servant who had laid
the  Procurator's table had been so terrified  by his look and so nervous at
his apparent  displeasure that the Procurator had lost  his temper  with him
and smashed the jug on the mosaic floor, saying:
     'Why don't you look me in the  eyes when you serve me? Have you stolen
something? '
     The African's black face turned grey,  mortal terror came into his eyes
and he trembled so much that he almost broke another jug, but the Procurator
waved him away and the slave ran off, leaving the pool of spilt wine.
     As the hurricane  struck,  the African hid himself in a niche beside  a
statue of a white, naked woman with bowed  head, afraid to  show himself too
soon yet frightened of missing the call should the Procurator summon him.
     Lying  on  his couch  in the half-darkness of the  storm the Procurator
poured out his own wine, drank it  in long gulps, stretching out his arm for
an occasional piece of bread which he crumbled and ate in little pieces. Now
and again he would swallow an oyster, chew a slice of lemon and drink again.
Without the  roar of water, without  the claps of thunder which seemed to be
about to  smash the palace roof, without the crash of hail that hammered  on
the  steps leading  up  to  the  balcony,  a listener might have  heard  the
Procurator muttering as he talked to himself. And if the  momentary  flashes
of lightning  had shone with a steady  light an observer might have  noticed
that the Procurator's face, the eyes inflamed with insomnia and wine, showed
impatience ; that the  Procurator's  glance was not only taken up by the two
yellow roses drowning  in the red puddle, but that he was constantly turning
his face towards the garden, towards the  water-lashed sand and mud; that he
was expecting someone, waiting impatiently.
     A little time  passed and the veil of  water in front of the Procurator
began to thin  out. The storm, though  still furious,  was abating.  No more
branches creaked and fell. The lightning  and thunder grew  more infrequent.
The cloud hovering over Jerusalem was no  longer violet edged with white but
a  normal  grey,  the rearguard  of the  storm that was  now moving  onwards
towards the Dead Sea.
     Soon the  sound of  the rain could  be  distinguished from the noise of
water running  down  the gutters and on  to  the staircase  down  which  the
Procurator had walked to the square to pronounce sentence. At last even  the
tinkle of the fountain,  drowned until now, could be heard. It grew lighter.
Windows of blue began to appear in the grey veil as it fled eastward.
     Then from far away, above the weak patter of rain, the Procurator heard
faint trumpet-calls and the tattoo of several score  of horses' hooves.  The
sound caused the Procurator to stir and his expression to liven. The ala was
returning from  Mount Golgotha. To  judge  from the  sound, they  were  just
crossing the hippodrome square.
     At last the Procurator heard the long-awaited footsteps and the slap of
shoe-leather on the staircase leading to the upper terrace  of the garden in
front of  the balcony.  The Procurator craned his neck and  his  eyes  shone
expectantly.
     Between the two marble lions there appeared first the cowled
     head, then  the  figure of a  man  closely wrapped  in his soaking  wet
cloak.  It  was  the  same man with whom the Procurator,  before pronouncing
sentence, had held a whispered conference in a darkened room of the  palace,
and  who had  watched  the execution as he played  with  a stick seated on a
three-legged stool.
     Walking straight  through  the  puddles,  the  cowled  man crossed  the
terrace, crossed  the mosaic floor of the balcony, and raising his hand said
in a pleasant, high-pitched voice :
     'Hail, Procurator! ' The visitor spoke in Latin.
     'Gods! ' exclaimed Pilate. ' There's not a dry stitch  on you!' What a
storm! Please go to my room at once and change.'
     The man pushed back his cowl, revealing a  completely wet head with the
hair  plastered  down  over  his  forehead.  With  a  polite  smile  on  his
clean-shaven  face he  declined the offer of a change of clothing,  assuring
the Procurator that a little rain would do him no harm.
     'I won't hear of it,' replied Pilate. He clapped his  hands, summoning
his cowering servant, and ordered him to help the visitor to change and then
to bring him some hot food.
     The Procurator's visitor needed  only a  short while to  dry his  hair,
change  his  clothes,  his  footgear,  and  tidy himself  up,  and  he  soon
reappeared  on the  balcony in dry sandals,  in a purple army cloak and with
his hair combed.
     At that moment the sun returned to Jerusalem and before  setting in the
Mediterranean it sent its parting rays over the Procurator's hated city  and
gilded the balcony  steps.  The fountain  was  now  playing  again  at  full
strength, pigeons had landed  on the terrace, cooing and hopping between the
broken  twigs and pecking at  the  sand. The  red puddle was  mopped up, the
fragments removed, a steaming plateful of meat was set on the table.
     'I await the Procurator's orders,' said the visitor  as he  approached
the table.
     'Forget about  my orders until you have sat down and drunk your wine,'
answered Pilate kindly, pointing to the other couch.
     The man reclined, the servant poured some thick red wine  into his cup.
Another servant,  bending  cautiously  over  Pilate's shoulder,  filled  the
Procurator's cup, after which he dismissed them both with a gesture.
     While the visitor ate and  drank Pilate sipped his wine and watched his
guest through  narrowed  eyes.  The man was middle-aged with very  pleasant,
neat, round  features  and a fleshy nose. The colour of his  hair was vague,
though  its colour  lightened as it dried  out. His nationality  was hard to
guess. His main feature was a  look of good nature, which was belied  by his
eyes --or rather not so much by his eyes as by a peculiar way of looking  at
the person  facing him. Usually the man kept his small eyes  shielded  under
eyelids that were curiously  enlarged,  even  swollen. At these  moments the
chinks in his eyelids  showed nothing but mild cunning,  the look of  a  man
with a sense of humour. But there were times when the man  who  was  now the
Procurator's guest  opened  his eyelids  wide and gave  a  person  a sudden,
unwavering stare as though to search out an inconspicuous spot on  his nose.
It only lasted  a  moment, after which the  lids  dropped, the eyes narrowed
again and they shone with goodwill and sly intelligence.
     The visitor accepted a second cup of wine, swallowed a few oysters with
obvious relish, tasted the boiled vegetables  and ate  a piece of meat. When
he had eaten his fill he praised the wine :
     'An excellent vintage. Procurator--is it Falernian? '
     'Cecuba--thirty years old,' replied the Procurator amiably.
     The visitor placed his hand on his heart and declined the offer of more
to  eat, saying that he had had enough. Pilate refilled his  own cup and his
guest did the same. The two men each poured a libation into the dish of meat
and the Procurator, raising his cup, said in a loud voice :
     'To thee,  0  Caesar, father  of thy people, best and most beloved of
men.'
     Both drank their wine to its  dregs and the Africans cleared the dishes
from the table, leaving fruit and jugs of wine. The Procurator dismissed the
servants, and was left alone with his visitor under the arcade.
     'So,' began Pilate quietly, ' what  have you to tell me of the mood of
the city? ' Involuntarily he turned his glance downwards to  where, past the
terraces  of the garden, the colonnades and flat roofs glowed  in the golden
rays of the setting sun.
     'I  believe,  Procurator,'  said  his visitor,  '  that the  mood  of
Jerusalem can now be regarded as satisfactory.'
     'So I can rely on there being no further disorders? '
     'One can only rely,' Arthanius replied with a reassuring glance at the
Procurator, ' on one thing in this world--on the power of great Caesar.'
     'May  the  gods send  him long life! ' Pilate said fervently,  '  And
universal peace! ' He was silent for a moment then went on : ' What  do  you
think--can we withdraw the troops now? '
     'I think the  cohort from the Lightning can be sent away,' replied the
visitor, and added : ' It would be a good  idea if it were to parade through
the city before leaving.'
     'A very good idea,'  said the Procurator approvingly.  ' I shall order
it away the  day  after tomorrow. I shall also go myself and--I swear to you
by the feast of the twelve gods, I swear by the Lares--I  would have given a
lot to have been able to do so today!'
     'Does  the  Procurator  not  like  Jerusalem?'  enquired  the visitor
amicably.
     'Merciful  heavens!  ' exclaimed the Procurator,  smiling. ' It's the
most  unsettling place on earth. It isn't only the climate--  I'm ill  every
time I have to come here--that's only half the trouble. But these festivals!
Magicians,  sorcerers, wizards,  the hordes  of pilgrims.  Fanatics--all  of
them. And what price this  messiah of  theirs,  which they're expecting this
year?  Every moment there's likely to be some act of gratuitous bloodshed. I
spend  all my time shuffling the troops about  or reading  denunciations and
complaints, half of which are directed  at you. You  must admit it's boring.
Oh, if only I weren't in the imperial service! '
     'Yes, the festivals here are trying times,' agreed the visitor.
     'I  wish  with  all  my  heart that this  one was  over,' said  Pilate
forcibly.  '  Then  I can go back  to  Caesarea.  Do you know,  this lunatic
building of  Herod's'--the Procurator  waved  at the  arcade, embracing  the
whole palace  in a  gesture--'  is positively  driving me  out of my mind. I
can't  bear  sleeping  in  it.  It  is  the  most  extraordinary   piece  of
architecture in the world . . . However, to  business. First of all--is that
cursed Bar-Abba giving you any trouble? '
     At this  the visitor directed his peculiar stare at the Procurator, but
Pilate was gazing  wearily into the  distance,  frowning with  distaste  and
contemplating the quarter of the city which lay at his feet, fading into the
dusk. The visitor's glance also faded and his eyelids lowered again.
     'I think that Bar is now as harmless as a lamb,' said the visitor, his
round face wrinkling. ' He is hardly in a position to make trouble now.'
     'Too busy? ' asked Pilate, smiling.
     'The Procurator, as usual, has put the point with great finesse.'
     'But at  all events,' remarked  the Procurator anxiously and  raised a
long, thin finger adorned with a black stone,' we must...'
     'The Procurator may rest assured that  as  long as  I am in Judaea Bar
will not move a step without my being on his heels.'
     'That is comforting. I am always comforted when you are here.'
     'The Procurator is too kind.'
     'Now tell me about the execution,' said Pilate.
     'What interests the Procurator in particular? '
     'Chiefly,  whether there were  any  attempts at insurrection  from the
mob?'
     'None,' answered the visitor.
     'Good. Did you personally confirm that they were dead? '
     'Of that the Procurator may be sure.'
     'And tell me ... were they given a drink before being gibbeted?'
     'Yes.  But he '--the visitor closed his eyes--'  refused  to drink.' '
Who did? ' asked Pilate.
     'I beg your pardon, hegemon! ' exclaimed the  visitor. ' Didn't I say?
Ha-Notsri! '
     'Madman! ' said Pilate, grimacing. A vein twitched under his left eye.
' To die  of  sunstroke!  Why refuse  what the law  provides for? How did he
refuse? '
     'He said,' replied the guest, shutting his  eyes again, '  that he was
grateful and blamed no one for taking his life.'
     'Whom did he thank? ' asked Pilate in a low voice.
     'He did not say, hegemon . . .'
     'He didn't try to preach to the soldiers, did he? '
     'No, hegemon, he was not very loquacious  on this occasion.  His  only
words were that he regarded cowardice as one of the worst human sins.'
     'What made him say that? ' The Procurator's voice suddenly trembled.
     'I have no idea. His behaviour was in  any case strange, as  it always
has been.'
     'In what way strange? '
     'He kept staring  at individuals among the people standing around him,
and always with that curiously vague smile on his face.'
     'Nothing more? ' asked the husky voice.
     'Nothing more.'
     The jug clattered against his cup as the Procurator poured himself some
more wine. Having drained it he said :
     'My conclusion  is as  follows  :  although we  have not been able--at
least  not  at  present--to  find  any  followers  or disciples  of his,  we
nevertheless cannot be certain that he had none,'
     The visitor nodded, listening intently.
     'Therefore  to avoid  any  untoward consequences,' the Procurator went
on, '  please remove the three victims' bodies  from  the face of the earth,
rapidly and without attracting attention. Bury them secretly and silently so
that nothing more is heard of them.'
     'Very good,  hegemon,' said  the visitor. He stood up  and  said: ' As
this matter  is important and  will present certain difficulties, may I have
your permission to go at once? '
     'No,  sit down  again,' said  Pilate,  restraining his  visitor with a
gesture.  '  I have  a  couple  more questions to  ask you.  Firstly--  your
remarkable diligence  in  carrying out your  task as  chief  of  the  secret
service to the Procurator  makes it my  pleasant duty  to  mention  it in  a
report to Rome.'
     The visitor blushed as he rose, bowed to the Procurator and said:
     'I am only doing my duty as a member of the imperial service.'
     'But,' said the hegemon,  ' if you are  offered promotion and transfer
to another post, I should like to ask  you to refuse  it and stay here. I do
not wish to  be parted from you on any account. I shall  see to it  that you
are rewarded in other ways.'
     'I am happy to serve under you, hegemon.'
     'I am  very glad to hear it. Now for the second  question. It concerns
that man . . . what's his name? . . . Judas of Karioth.'
     At this the visitor again  gave  the Procurator  his  open-eyed glance,
then, as was fitting, hooded his eyes again.
     'They say,'  the Procurator went on, lowering his voice, ' that  he is
supposed to have been paid for  the way he took that idiot home and made him
so welcome.'
     'Will be paid,' corrected the visitor gently.
     'How much? '
     'No one can tell, hegemon.'
     'Not even you? ' said the hegemon, praising the man by his surprise.
     'Alas, not even I,' replied the visitor calmly. '  But I do know  that
he  will be  paid  this evening. He  has been  summoned to  Caiaphas' palace
today.'
     'Ah,  he must  be  greedy, that  old man  from Karioth!  '  said  the
Procurator with a smile. ' I suppose he is an old man, isn't he?'
     'The Procurator is never  mistaken,  but on this occasion  he has been
misinformed,' replied the man  kindly. '  This man from Karioth  is a  young
man.'
     'Really? Can you describe him? Is he a fanatic? '
     'Oh no, Procurator.'
     'I see. What else do you know about him? '
     'He is very good-looking.'
     'What else? Has he perhaps a special passion? '
     'It  is  hard to  know  so  much  with  certainty  in this huge  city,
Procurator.'
     'Come now, Arthanius! You underestimate yourself.'
     'He has one passion. Procurator.' The visitor  made a tiny pause. ' He
has a passion for money.'
     'What is his occupation? '
     Arthanius looked up, reflected and answered :
     'He works for one of his relatives who has a money-changer's booth.'
     'I see,  I see.' The Procurator was silent, looked round to  make sure
that  there was  no one on the  balcony and then said in a low voice : ' The
fact is--I have received information that he is to be murdered tonight.'
     At  this the visitor not only turned  his glance on the Procurator  but
held it for a while and then replied :
     'You have  nattered me. Procurator, but  I fear I have not earned your
commendation. I have no such information.'
     'You deserve  the highest possible praise,' replied the Procurator, '
but there is no doubting this information.'
     'May I ask its source? '
     'You must allow me not  to divulge that for the  present, particularly
as it  is casual, vague and unreliable. But it is my duty to allow for every
eventuality. I place great reliance on my instinct in these matters, because
it has never  failed  me  yet. The information is  that one  of  Ha-Notsri's
secret followers, revolted  by this money-changer's monstrous treachery, has
plotted  with  his confederates to kill  the man tonight  and to  return his
blood-money to the High Priest with a note reading :
     " Take back your accursed money! " ' The chief  of  the  secret service
gave the hegemon no more of his startling glances and listened, frowning, as
Pilate continued :
     'Do  you think  the  High  Priest  will be pleased at  such a gift on
Passover night? '
     'Not only will he not be pleased,' replied the visitor with a smile, '
but I think. Procurator, that it will create a major scandal.'
     'I think so  too. That is why I am asking you to look after the affair
and take all possible steps to protect Judas of Karioth.'
     'The hegemon's orders will be carried out,'  said  Arthanius, ' but I
can assure  the  hegemon  that these  villains  have  set  themselves a very
difficult task. After  all, only think '--the  visitor  glanced round  as he
spoke--' they have to trace the man, kill him, then find out how much  money
he  received and return it to  Caiaphas  by stealth. All that in  one night?
Today? '
     'Nevertheless he will be murdered tonight,' Pilate repeated  firmly. '
I have a presentiment, I tell you! And it  has never yet played me false.' A
spasm crossed the Procurator's face and he rubbed his hands.
     'Very well,' said the visitor obediently. He rose, straightened up and
suddenly said coldly :
     'You say he will be murdered, hegemon? '
     'Yes,'  answered  Pilate,  '  and  our  only  hope  is  your  extreme
efficiency.'
     The visitor adjusted the heavy belt under his cloak and said:
     'Hail and farewell, Procurator! '
     'Ah, yes,' cried Pilate, ' I almost forgot. I owe you some money.'
     The visitor looked surprised.
     'I am sure you do not. Procurator.'
     'Don't you remember? When I arrived in Jerusalem there was  a crowd of
beggars, I wanted  to throw  them  some money, I had none  and borrowed from
you.'
     'But Procurator, that was a trifle! '
     'One should remember trifles.' Pilate turned, lifted a cloak lying on
a chair behind him, picked up a leather purse from
     beneath it and handed  it to Arthanius.  The  man bowed, took the purse
and put it under his cloak.
     'I expect,' said Pilate, ' a report on the burial and on the matter of
Judas of Karioth tonight, do you hear, Arthanius,  tonight.  The guards will
be given  orders to wake  me as soon as you  appear. I shall  be waiting for
you.'
     'Very well,' said the chief of the secret service and walked out on to
the balcony. For a while Pilate could hear the sound of  wet  sand under his
feet, then the  clatter of his sandals on  the marble paving between the two
stone lions. Then legs, torso and finally  cowl  disappeared. Only then  did
the Procurator notice that the sun had set and twilight had come.





        26. The Burial



     It may have been the twilight which seemed to cause such a sharp change
in the Procurator's  appearance. He  appeared  to have aged  visibly  and he
looked hunched and worried. Once he glanced  round and shuddered, staring at
the empty chair  with his cloak thrown over its back. The night of the feast
was approaching, the evening shadows were  playing tricks and  the exhausted
Procurator may have thought he  had seen someone  sitting in the chair. In a
moment  of superstitious  fear  the Procurator  shook the cloak, then walked
away and  began pacing the balcony, occasionally rubbing his hands, drinking
from the  goblet on the  table, or halting to stare unseeingly at the mosaic
floor as though trying to decipher some writing in it.
     For the second time that day a brooding depression overcame him. Wiping
his  brow, where he felt only a faintly nagging memory  of  the hellish pain
from that morning, the Procurator racked  his brain  in an attempt to define
the cause of his mental agony. He  soon realised what it  was, but unable to
face it, he tried to deceive himself.  It was clear to him that this morning
he had irretrievably lost something  and now he was striving  to  compensate
for that loss with  a  trivial substitute, which took  the form  of  belated
action. His self-deception consisted in trying to persuade himself  that his
actions this evening were no less significant than the sentence which he had
passed  earlier in the day. But  in  this attempt the Procurator  had little
success.
     At one of  his turns he stopped abruptly and whistled. In  reply  there
came a  low bark  from the twilight shadows and a  gigantic grey-coated  dog
with pointed ears bounded in from the garden, wearing a gold-studded collar.
     'Banga, Banga,' cried the Procurator weakly.
     The  dog stood  up on its  hind legs, put its forepaws  on its master's
shoulders, almost knocking him  over, and  licked his cheek. The  Procurator
sat down in a chair. Banga, tongue hanging out and panting fast, lay down at
Pilate's feet with an expression of delight that the thunderstorm was  over,
the  only thing in the world that frightened this otherwise fearless animal;
delighted, too, because it was back again with  the  man it loved, respected
and  regarded  as the most  powerful being on  earth, the  ruler of all men,
thanks to whom the dog too felt itself a specially privileged  and  superior
creature. But lying  at  his feet and gazing into the twilit  garden without
even looking at Pilate the dog knew at once that its master was troubled. It
moved, got up, went round to Pilate's side and laid its forepaws and head on
the Procurator's knees, smearing the hem of his cloak with wet sand. Banga's
action  seemed to mean that he wanted to comfort his master and was prepared
to face misfortune with him. This he tried to express in his eyes and in the
forward set of his ears. These two, dog and man who loved each other, sat in
vigil together on the balcony that night of the feast.
     Meanwhile Arthanius was busy. Leaving the upper terrace  of the garden,
he  walked down the steps to the next terrace  and turned right towards  the
barracks inside the  palace grounds. These quarters housed the two centuries
who had accompanied the Procurator to Jerusalem for the feast-days, together
with  the Procurator's  secret bodyguard commanded  by Arthanius. He spent a
little while in the barracks,  no  longer than  ten minutes, but immediately
afterwards three carts drove out of the barrack yard loaded with entrenching
tools and  a vat  of water, and escorted by a section of fifteen mounted men
wearing grey  cloaks.  Carts  and  escort  left  the  palace  grounds  by  a
side-gate, set off westward, passed through  a  gateway in the city wall and
first took the Bethlehem road northward; they reached the crossroads  by the
Hebron gate and there turned on to the Jaffa road, along the  route taken by
the execution  party that morning. By now it was dark and the moon had risen
on the horizon.
     Soon after the  carts and their escort section had set off,  Ar-thanius
also  left  the  palace on  horseback, having changed into  a  shabby  black
chiton, and rode into the city. After a while he could have been seen riding
towards  the fortress  of Antonia, situated immediately north of  the  great
temple. The visitor spent an equally short time in the