fortress, after which
his route took him to the winding, crooked streets of the Lower City. He had
now changed his mount to a mule.
     Thoroughly at home in the city, the man easily found the street he  was
looking for. It was known as  the street  of the Greeks, as  it  contained a
number of  Greek  shops,  including  one  that  sold  carpets. There the man
stopped his mule, dismounted and tethered it to a ring outside the gate. The
shop was shut. The guest passed through a wicket gate in the wall beside the
shop  door  and  entered  a small  rectangular  courtyard, fitted out  as  a
stables. Turning the  corner of the yard the  visitor reached the  ivy-grown
verandah of the  owner's house and looked round him. House  and stables were
dark, the lamps not yet lit. He called softly:
     'Niza!'
     At the sound  of his voice a door  creaked  and a young woman, her head
uncovered, appeared on the verandah in the evening dusk. She leaned over the
railings, looking anxiously to see who had arrived. Recognising the visitor,
she gave him a welcoming smile, nodded and waved.
     'Are  you alone?  '  asked  Arthanius softly in  Greek. ' Yes, I am,'
whispered  the  woman on the verandah. '  My husband  went to Caesarea  this
morning '--here the woman glanced at the door and added in a whisper--'  but
the servant is here.' Then she beckoned him to come in.
     Arthanius glanced round, mounted the stone  steps and went indoors with
the woman. Here he spent no more than five minutes, after  which he left the
house, pulled his cowl lower over his eyes  and went out into the street. By
now  candles were  being lit in all the houses,  there was a large feast-day
crowd in the  streets,  and Arthanius on his mule was lost in the  stream of
riders and people on foot. Where he went from there is unknown.
     When Arthanius had left her, the woman called Niza began to change in a
great hurry, though despite  the difficulty of finding the things she needed
in her dark room she lit  no candle and  did not call her servant. Only when
she was ready, with a black shawl over her head, did she say :
     'If anybody asks for me tell them that I've gone to see Enanta.'
     Out of the dark her old serving-woman grumbled in reply :
     'Enanta? Thait  woman! You know  your husband's forbidden you to  see
her.  She's nothing but a  procuress,  that Enanta of  yours. I'll tell your
husband . . .'
     'Now, now, now, be quiet,' retorted Niza and slipped out of doors like
a  shadow,  her  sandals  clattering  across  the  paved  courtyard.   Still
grumbling, the servant shut the verandah door and Niza left her house.
     At the  same time a young man  left a tumbledown little  house with its
blind  side  to the  street and whose only windows gave on to the courtyard,
and  passed through the wicket into an unpaved alley that descended in steps
to  one of  the  city's  pools.  He  wore a  white kefiyeh  falling  to  his
shoulders, a new dark-blue fringed tallith fo:r the feast-day,  and creaking
new sandals. Dressed up for the occasion, the handsome, hook-nosed young man
set off  boldly, overtaking passers-by  as he hurried  home  to  the  solemn
Passover-night table, watching  the candles as they were lit in  house after
house.  The  young man  took  the  road  leading past the bazaar towards the
palace of Caiaphas the High Priest at the foot of the temple hill.
     After a while he entered the gates of Caiaphas' palace and  left  it  a
short time later.
     Leaving the palace, already bright with candles and torches and festive
bustle,, the young man returned, with an even bolder and more cheerful step,
to the Lower City.  At the corner where the street joined the bazaar square,
he was passed in the seething crowd by a woman walking with the hip-swinging
gait of a prostitute  and wearing a black shawl low  over her  eyes.  As she
overtook him the woman raised her shawl slightly and flashed a glance in the
young man's  direction,  but instead of  slowing  down she  walked faster as
though trying to run away from him.
     The young  man not only noticed the woman but recognised her. He gave a
start, halted, stared perplexedly at her back  and at once set  off to catch
her up.  Almost knocking over a man carrying a jug, the young man drew level
with the woman and panting with agitation called out to her :
     'Niza! '
     The woman turned, frowned with a look of chilling irritation and coldly
replied in Greek :
     'Oh, it's you, Judas. I didn't  recognise you. Still,  it's  lucky. We
have a saying that if you  don't recognise a person he's going to be rich. .
. .'
     So  excited  that  his heart began  to leap like a wild bird in a cage,
Judas asked in a jerky whisper, afraid that the passers-by might hear:
     'Where are you going, Niza? '
     'Why do you want  to know? '  answered  Niza, slackening  her pace and
staring haughtily at Judas.
     In a childish, pleading voice Judas whispered distractedly :
     'But Niza ...  we agreed ...  I was to come to see you, you said you'd
be at home all evening . . .'
     'Oh no,' replied  Niza, pouting capriciously, which to  Judas made her
face, the most beautiful he had ever seen in the world, even prettier, ' I'm
bored. It's a  feast-day for you, but  what do you  expect me to do? Sit and
listen to you  sighing on the verandah? And always frightened of the servant
telling  my  husband? No, I've decided to go  out of town  and listen to the
nightingales.'
     'Out  of town?  '  asked Judas, bewildered. ' What--alone? ' ' Yes, of
course,' replied Niza.
     'Let me  go  with  you,' whispered Judas with  a  sigh. His  mind  was
confused, he had forgotten  about everything  and he  gazed  pleadingly into
Niza's blue  eyes that now  seemed black in the darkness. Niza  said nothing
but walked faster.
     'Why don't you say something, Niza? ' asked Judas miserably, hastening
to keep pace with her.
     'Won't I be bored with you?  ' Ni2a asked suddenly and stopped.  Judas
now felt utterly hopeless.
     'All right,' said Niza, relenting at last. ' Come on!'
     'Where to? '
     'Wait. . . let's go into this courtyard and arrange it,  otherwise I'm
afraid of someone seeing  me and  then telling  my husband that I was out on
the streets with my lover.'
     Niza and Judas vanished from the bazaar and  began whispering under the
gateway of a courtyard.
     'Go to the  olive-grove,'  whispered Niza, pulling her shawl down over
her eyes  and turning away from a man who came into the courtyard carrying a
bucket, ' in Gethsemane, over Kedron, do you know where I mean? '
     'Yes, yes . . .'
     'I'll go first,' Niza went  on, ' but don't follow close behind me, go
separately.  I'll go ahead. . . . When you've crossed the stream  ... do you
know where the grotto is? '
     'Yes, I know, I know . . .'
     'Go on through the olive grove on the hill and then turn right towards
the grotto. I'll be there. But whatever you do, don't follow me  at once, be
patient, wait a  while here.' With  these  words  Niza slipped  out  of  the
gateway as though she had never spoken to Judas.
     Judas  stood  alone  for some  time, trying  to  collect  his  whirling
thoughts.  Among other  things  he tried  to think how he would  explain his
absence from the Passover table to his  parents. He stood and tried to  work
out some  lie, but  in his excitement his mind refused to function properly,
and still lacking an excuse he slowly walked out of the gateway.
     Now he  took another direction and instead of making for the Lower City
he turned back  towards the palace of Caiaphas. The celebrations had already
begun. From windows  on all sides came  the murmur of the Passover ceremony.
Latecomers hastening home urged on their donkeys, whipping them and shouting
at them. On  foot Judas hurried on, not noticing the menacing turrets of the
fortress  of  Antonia,  deaf to the  call  of  trumpets from  the  fortress,
oblivious  of the Roman  mounted  patrol with their torches  that  threw  an
alarming glare across his path.
     As  he  turned  past  the  fortress   Judas  saw   that   two  gigantic
seven-branched candlesticks had been lit at a dizzy height above the temple.
But he only saw them in a blur. They seemed like dozens of lamps that burned
over  Jerusalem  in rivalry  with the single  lamp  climbing high above  the
city--the moon.
     Judas had no thought for anything now but his urgent haste to leave the
city as quickly as possible  by the Gethsemane gate. Occasionally he thought
he  could see, among the backs  and  faces of the people in front of  him, a
figure dancing along and drawing him after it. But it was an illusion. Judas
realised that  Niza  must  be  well  ahead  of  him.  He  passed  a  row  of
moneychangers' shops and at last reached the Gethsemane  gate. Here, burning
with impatience,  he was forced to wait. A camel caravan was coming into the
city, followed  by a mounted Syrian patrol, which Judas mentally cursed. . .
.
     But the  delay was short and  the impatient Judas was soon  outside the
city wall. To his left was a small cemetery,  beside it the striped tents of
a  band  of pilgrims.  Crossing the  dusty,  moonlit road  Judas  hurried on
towards the stream Kedron and crossed  it, the water bubbling  softly  under
his feet as he leaped from stone to stone. Finally he reached the Gethsemane
bank  and saw with joy that the road ahead was deserted. Not far away  could
be seen the half-ruined gateway of the olive grove.
     After the stifling city Judas  was struck by the intoxicating freshness
of  the spring night. Across  a garden fence the scent of myrtles and acacia
was blown from the fields of Gethsemane.
     The gateway  was unguarded and  a few  minutes later Judas was far into
the olive grove  and running  beneath  the mysterious shadows of the  great,
branching  olive  trees.  The  way  led  uphill.  Judas  climbed,   panting,
occasionally  emerging  from  darkness into chequered  carpets  of moonlight
which  reminded  him  of  the  carpets in the  shop kept  by  Niza's jealous
husband.

     Soon an oil-press came in sight in a clearing to Judas'  left, with its
heavy  stone crushing-wheel and a pile of barrels. There was no  one in  the
olive grove--work  had  stopped at sunset  and choirs  of nightingales  were
singing above Judas' head.
     He was near his goal. He knew that in a moment from the darkness to his
right  he would  hear the quiet  whisper of running water  from the  grotto.
There was the sound now and the  air was cooler  near the grotto. He checked
his pace and called:
     'Niza! '
     But instead  of  Niza slipping out from behind a thick olive trunk, the
stocky  figure of a  man jumped out  on  to the  path.  Something  glittered
momentarily in his hand. With a faint cry Judas started  running back, but a
second man blocked his way.
     The first man asked Judas:
     'How much did you get? Talk, if you want to save your life.'
     Hope welled up in Judas' heart and he cried desperately :
     'Thirty  tetradrachms! Thirty tetradrachms!  I  have  it  all on  me.
There's the money! Take it, but don't kill me! '
     The man snatched the purse from Judas' hand. At the same moment a knife
was  rammed into Judas' back under his shoulder-blade. He  pitched  forward,
throwing up his hands, fingers clutching. The man  in front caught Judas  on
his knife and thrust it up to the hilt into Judas' heart.
     'Ni . . .  2a . .  .' said Judas, in  a low, reproachful growl  quite
unlike his own, youthful, high-pitched voice and made not another sound. His
body hit the ground so  hard  that the air whistled as it was knocked out of
his lungs.
     Then a third figure stepped out on to the path, wearing a hooded cloak,
     'Don't waste any time,' he ordered. The cowled man  gave the murderers
a note and they wrapped purse  and note  into a piece of leather  which they
bound criss-cross  with  twine.  The  hooded  man put  the  bundle down  his
shirt-front, then the two assassins ran off the  path and were  swallowed by
the darkness between the olive trees.
     The third man squatted down  beside the body  and looked into his face.
It seemed as white as chalk, with an expression not unlike spiritual beauty.
     A  few seconds later there  was not a  living  soul on  the  path.  The
lifeless body  lay with  arms outstretched. Its left  foot was in a patch of
moonlight that showed up every strap and lace of the man's sandal. The whole
of Gethsemane rang with the song of nightingales.
     The  man with the hood left the path and plunged deep through the olive
grove,  heading  southward.  He  climbed over the wall  at the  southernmost
corner of the olive grove where the upper course of masonry jutted out. Soon
he reached the bank of  Kedron,  where he waded in  and waited in  midstream
until he saw the distant outlines of two horses and  a man beside them, also
standing in the  stream. Water flowed past,  washing their hooves. The groom
mounted one of the horses, the cowled man the other and both set off walking
down the bed  of the stream,  pebbles  crunching beneath the horses' hooves.
The riders left the water, climbed up the bank and followed the  line of the
city  walls at  a walk. Then the groom galloped  ahead and disappeared  from
sight while the man  in  the cowl stopped his horse, dismounted on the empty
road, took off his cloak, turned it inside out, and producing a flat-topped,
uncrested  helmet  from the folds, put it on. The  rider was now in military
uniform with a  short sword at his hip. He flicked the  reins and the  fiery
cavalry charger broke into a trot. He had not far to go before he rode up to
the southern gate of Jerusalem.
     Torch-flames danced and flickered restlessly under the arch of the gate
where the sentries from the  second cohort  of the Lightning  legion  sat on
stone benches  playing dice. As the mounted officer approached the  soldiers
jumped up, the officer waved to them and rode into the city.
     The town  was  lit up for the festival.  Candle  flames played at every
window and from each one came the sound of sing-song incantations.  Glancing
occasionally  into the  windows that opened on to  the street the  rider saw
people  at their  tables set  with  kid's meat and cups  of wine between the
dishes  of bitter  herbs. Whistling  softly  the rider  made  his way  at  a
leisurely trot  through the  deserted streets  of  the Lower  City,  heading
towards the  fortress of  Antonia  and  looking  up  now  and  then  at vast
seven-branched candlesticks flaring over  the  temple  or at the moon  above
them.
     The palace of Herod the Great had no part in the ceremonies of Passover
night. Lights  were burning in the outbuildings on the south side where  the
officers of the Roman cohort  and the Legate  of the Legion were  quartered,
and there were signs of movement and life. The frontal wings, with their one
involuntary occupant--the Procurator--with their arcades and gilded statues,
seemed  blinded by  the  brilliance of the moonlight. Inside the palace  was
darkness and silence.
     The  Procurator, as he had told Arthanius, preferred  not to go inside.
He had ordered a  bed to be prepared  on the balcony where he  had dined and
where  he  had conducted the interrogation that morning. The Procurator  lay
down on the couch, but he could not sleep. The naked moon hung far up in the
clear sky and for several hours the Procurator lay staring at it.
     Sleep  at  last took  pity on  the  hegemon towards  midnight.  Yawning
spasmodically,  the Procurator unfastened  his cloak and threw it  off, took
off the strap that belted his tunic  with  its steel sheath-knife, put it on
the  chair beside the bed, took off his  sandals and stretched out. Banga at
once jumped up beside him on the bed and lay down, head to head. Putting his
arm round the dog's neck  the Procurator at last closed his eyes.  Only then
did the dog go to sleep.
     The couch  stood in half darkness,  shaded from  the moon by  a pillar,
though a long ribbon of  moonlight  stretched from the staircase to the bed.
As the Procurator drifted away from reality he  set  off along  that path of
light, straight up  towards the  moon.  In his sleep he  even  laughed  from
happiness  at the unique beauty of  that  transparent blue  pathway. He  was
walking with Banga and the vagrant philosopher beside him. They were arguing
about a weighty and complex problem over which  neither could gain the upper
hand.  They disagreed entirely, which made their argument the more absorbing
and interminable. The execution, of course, had been a pure misunderstanding
:  after all this same man, with his ridiculous philosophy that all men were
good, was walking  beside  him--consequently he was alive.  Indeed the  very
thought of executing such a man was absurd. There had been no execution I It
had never taken place! This  thought  comforted  him as  he strode along the
moonlight pathway.
     They had as  much  time to spare  as  they  wanted, the storm would not
break until evening. Cowardice was  undoubtedly one  of  the  most  terrible
sins.  Thus spake Yeshua Ha-Notsri. No, philosopher, I disagree--it  is  the
most terrible sin of all!
     Had  he not shown  cowardice, the man who was  now Procurator of Judaea
but who had once been a Tribune  of  the legion on that day in the Valley of
the Virgins when the wild Germans had so nearly clubbed Muribellum the Giant
to death? Have pity on me,  philosopher! Do you, a man of your intelligence,
imagine that the Procurator of Judaea would ruin his career for the sake  of
a man who had committed a crime against Caesar?
     'Yes, yes . . .' Pilate groaned and sobbed in his sleep.
     Of course he  would risk ruining  his career.  This morning he had  not
been ready to, but now at  night, having thoroughly weighed  the matter,  he
was prepared to ruin himself if need be. He would do  anything to save  this
crazy, innocent dreamer, this miraculous healer, from execution.
     'You and I will always be together,' said the ragged tramp-philosopher
who had so mysteriously become the travelling companion of the Knight of the
Golden  Lance. '  Where one of us  goes, the  other shall go  too.  Whenever
people think of me they  will think  of you--me, an orphan  child of unknown
parents and you the son of an  astrologer-king  and a miller's daughter, the
beautiful Pila! '
     'Remember to pray for me, the astrologer's son,'  begged Pilate in his
dream. And reassured by  a  nod from  the pauper from Ein-Sarid  who was his
companion,  the cruel Procurator of Judaea wept with joy and  laughed in his
sleep.
     The hegemon's  awakening was all the more fearful after the euphoria of
his  dream. Banga  started  to  growl  at the  moon, and  the  blue pathway,
slippery as butter, collapsed in front of the Procurator. He opened his eyes
and the first  thing he remembered was that the execution  had  taken place.
Then the Procurator  groped mechanically for Banga's collar, then turned his
aching eyes in  search of the moon and noticed that it had moved slightly to
one side and was silver in colour. Competing with its light was another more
unpleasant  and disturbing  light that  nickered in front of  him. Holding a
naming, crackling  torch,  Muribellum  scowled with fear and dislike at  the
dangerous beast, poised to spring.
     'Lie down, Banga,' said the Procurator in a suffering voice, coughing.
Shielding his eyes from the torch-flame, he went on:
     'Even by moonlight there's no  peace for  me  at  night.  . . . Oh, ye
gods! You too have a harsh duty. Mark. You have to cripple men. . . .'
     Startled,  Mark stared at  the Procurator, who recollected  himself. To
excuse  his   pointless  remark,  spoken  while  still   half-dreaming,  the
Procurator said :
     'Don't be  offended,  centurion. My duty is even worse, I  assure you.
What do you want? '
     'The  chief of  the  secret service has  come to  see you,' said Mark
calmly.
     'Send him in, send  him in,' said the Procurator, clearing  his throat
and fumbling  for his  sandals with bare feet.  The  flame danced  along the
arcade, the centurion's  caligae rang out on the mosaic as he went  out into
the garden.
     'Even  by moonlight there's no  peace for me,' said the Procurator  to
himself, grinding his teeth.
     The centurion was replaced by the man in the cowl.
     'Lie down,  Banga,' said the Procurator quietly, pressing down  on the
dog's head.
     Before speaking Arthanius gave his habitual glance round and moved into
a shadow.  Having ensured  that apart from Banga there  were no strangers on
the balcony, he said :
     'You may  charge  me with negligence,  Procurator. You were  right.  I
could not  save  Judas  of  Karioth  from being  murdered.  I  deserve to be
court-martialled and discharged.'
     Arthanius felt that of the  two pairs of eyes  watching  him; one was a
dog's, the other a wolf's. From under his tunic  he  took out a bloodstained
purse that was sealed with two seals.
     'The murderers threw this purseful of money into the house of the High
Priest. There is blood on it--Judas of Kariodh's blood.'
     'How much money is there in it? ' asked  Pilate,  noddling towards the
purse.
     'Thirty tetradrachms.'
     The Procurator smiled and said :
     'Not much.'
     Arthanius did not reply.
     'Where is the body? '
     'I do not  know,' replied the cowled man with dignity. '  This morning
we will start the investigation.'
     The  Procurator shuddered and gave up trying to lace his sandal,  which
refused to tie.
     'But are you certain he was killed? '
     To this the Procurator received the cool reply :
     'I have been working in Judaea for fifteen years. Procurator. I began
my service  under Valerius Gratus. I don't have to see a body to be able  to
say that a man is dead and I am stating that the man called Judas of Karioth
was murdered several hours ago.'
     'Forgive me, Arthanius,' replied Pilate. ' I made that remaa-k because
I haven't quite woken up yet. I sleep badly,' the Procurator smiled, ' I was
dreaming of a moonbeam. It  was funny, because I seemed to be walking  along
it. ... Now, I want your suggestions for dealing with this affair. Where are
you going to look for him? Sit down.'
     Arthanius  bowed, moved  a chair  closer to the bed  and sat  down, his
sword clinking.
     'I shall  look for him not  far from the oil-press in the  Geth-semane
olive-grove.'
     'I see. Why there? '
     'I believe, hegemon, that Judas was killed neither in Jerusalem itself
nor far from the city, but somewhere in its vicinity.'
     'You are an expert at your job. I don't know about Rome itself, but in
the colonies there's not a man to touch you. Why do you think that? '
     'I cannot believe for one moment,' said Arthanius  in a low voice,  '
that Judas would  have allowed  himself to  be caught by any ruffians within
the city limits. The street is no place for a  clandestine murder. Therefore
he must  have been  enticed into  some cellar  or courtyard. But the  secret
service has already made a thorough search of the Lower City and if he  were
there they would have found him by  now.  They  have not found him  and I am
therefore convinced that he is not in the city. If he had been killed a long
way from Jerusalem, then the packet of money could not have been thrown into
the  High Priest's palace so soon. He  was murdered near the city after they
had lured him out.'
     'How did they manage to do that? '
     'That, Procurator, is the most difficult problem of  all and I  am not
even sure that I shall ever be able to solve it.'
     'Most puzzling, I  agree. A believing Jew leaves the city to go heaven
knows where on the eve of Passover and is killed. Who could have enticed him
and  how?  Might  it  have been done by a woman? ' enquired  the Procurator,
making a sudden inspired guess.
     Arthanius replied gravely :
     'Impossible,  Procurator. Out of the question. Consider it  logically:
who  wanted  Judas  done  away with?  A band of  vagrant cranks,  a group of
visionaries which, above all, contains no women. To marry and start a family
needs  money, Procurator.  But to  kill  a man  with a  woman  as  decoy  or
accomplice needs  a  very  great deal  of  money  indeed and  these men  are
tramps-- homeless and destitute. There was no woman involved in this affair,
Procurator. What is more,  to theorise on those lines  may even throw us off
the scent and hinder  the  investigation.' ' I see,  Arthanius, that you are
quite right,' said Pilate. ' I was merely putting forward a hypothesis.'
     'It is, alas, a faulty one, Procurator.'
     'Well then--what  is your theory? ' exclaimed the Procurator, staring
at Arthanius with avid curiosity.
     'I still think that the bait was money.'
     'Remarkable! Who,  might I  ask, would be likely to entice him  out of
the city limits in the middle of the night to offer him money? '
     'No one, of course,  Procurator. No, I  can only make one guess and if
it  is  wrong, then I confess I am  at  a loss.' Arthanius  leaned closer to
Pilate and  whispered : ' Judas intended to  hide his money in a safe  place
known only to himself.'
     'A very shrewd explanation. That must be the answer. I see it now : he
was not lured out of town--he went of his own accord. Yes, yes, that must be
it.'
     'Precisely. Judas trusted nobody. He wanted to hide his money.'
     'You  said Gethsemane  .  . . Why  there?  That, I confess,  I  don't
understand.'
     'That, Procurator, is the simplest  deduction of all. No one is going
to  hide money in the road or out in the open. Therefore Judas  did not take
the  road to Hebron  or to  Bethany. He will have gone to  somewhere hidden,
somewhere where there are trees. It's obvious--there is no place round about
Jerusalem that answers to that description except Gethsemane. He cannot have
gone far.'
     'You have completely convinced me. What is your next move? '
     'I shall  Immediately start searching for the  murderers who  followed
Judas out  of the  city and meanwhile, as I  have already proposed to you, I
shall submit myself to be court-martialled.'
     'What for? '
     'My men lost track of Judas  this evening in  the bazaar after  he had
left Caiaphas' palace. How it occurred, I don't know. It has never  happened
to me before. He was put under obser-vation immediately after our  talk, but
somewhere an  the  bazaar area  he gave  us the slip and disappeared without
trace.'
     'I  see. You will be glad to hear that I do not  consider it necessary
for you to  be court-martialled. You did all you  could  and  no one  in the
world,'--the  Procurator smiled--' could possibly have done  more. Reprimand
the men  who lost  Judas. But let  me warn  you  that  I do  not  wish  your
reprimand to  be a  severe one. After all,  we did  our best to protect tlhe
scoundrel.  Oh yes--I forgot to ask '--the Procurator wiped his forehead-- '
how did they manage to return the money to Caiaphas? '
     'That  was  not particularly  difficult. Procurator. The avengers went
behind   Caiaphas'  palace,  where  that  back  street  overlooks  the  rear
courtyard. Then they threw the packet over the fence.'
     'With a note? '
     'Yes, just as you said they  would. Procurator. Oh, by the way .  . .'
Arthanius broke the seals on the packet and showed its contents to Pilate.
     'Arthanius! Take care what you're doing. Tho se are temple seals.'
     'The Procurator  need have  no fear on that sicore,' replied Arthanius
as he wrapped up the bag of money.
     'Do you mean to say that you have  copies of  all their seals? ' asked
Pilate, laughing.
     'Naturally, Procurator,' was Arthanius' curt, unsmiling reply.
     'I can just imagine how Caiaphas must have felt! '
     'Yes, Procurator, it caused a great stir. They sent for me at
     once.
     Even in the dark Pilate's eyes could be seen glittering.
     'Interesting . . .'
     'If  you'll  forgive  my  contradicting,   Procurator,  it  was  most
uninteresting.  A  boring and  time-wasting  case.  When I enquired  whether
anybody in Caiaphas' palace had paid out this money I was told categorically
that no one had.'
     'Really? Well,  if they say so, I suppose they didn't. That will  make
it all the harder to find the murderers.' ' Quite so, Procurator.'
     'Arthanius, it  has  just  occurred to  me--might  he not have killed
himself?'
     'Oh no. Procurator,' replied Arthanius,  leaning back in his chair and
staring in astonishment, ' that, if you will forgive me, is most unlikely! '
     'Ah, in this city anything is likely. I am prepared to bet that before
long the city will be full of rumours about his suicide.'
     Here  Arthanius gave  Pilate  his peculiar stare, thought a moment, and
answered:
     'That may be, Procurator.'
     Pilate was obviously obsessed with the problem of  the murder of  Judas
of Karioth, although it had been fully explained,
     He said reflectively:
     'I should have liked to have seen how they killed him.'
     'He  was killed with great artistry. Procurator,'  replied  Arthanius,
giving Pilate an ironic look.
     'How do you know? '
     'If you will kindly inspect the bag, Procurator,' Arthanius replied, '
I  can  guarantee from its condition that Judas' blood flowed freely. I have
seen some murdered men in my time.'
     'So he will not rise again? '
     'No,  Procurator.  He  will rise again,'  answered Arthanius,  smiling
philosophically, '  when the trumpet-call  of their  messiah sounds for him.
But not before.'
     'All  right, Arthanius, that case is  dealt with. Now what  about  the
burial? '
     'The executed prisoners have been buried. Procurator.'
     'Arthanius, it would be a crime to  court-martial you. You deserve the
highest praise. What happened? '
     While Arthanius had been engaged on the Judas case,  a  secret  service
squad under the  command  of Arthanius' deputy  had reached the hill shortly
before  dark. At the hilltop one body was missing. Pilate shuddered and said
hoarsely :
     'Ah, now why didn't I foresee that? '
     'There is no cause for worry. Procurator,' said Arthanius and went on
: ' The bodies of Dismas and Hestas, their eyes picked out by carrion crows,
were loaded  on  to  a cart. The men at once set  off to look for the  third
body. It was soon found. A man called . . .'
     'Matthew  the  Levite,' said  Pilate. It  was  not  a  question but an
affirmation.
     'Yes, Procurator . . . Matthew the Levite  was hidden in a cave on the
northern  slope  of  Mount  Golgotha, waiting  for darkness.  With  him  was
Ha-Notsri's  naked  body. When the guard entered the cave with a torch,  the
Levite fell into a fit. He shouted that he had committed no crime  and  that
according to  the law every man had a right to  bury the body of an executed
criminal if he wished to. Matthew  the Levite  refused to leave the body. He
was excited, almost delirious, begging, threatening, cursing . . .'
     'Did they have to arrest him? ' asked Pilate glumly.
     'No, Procurator,'  replied  Arthanius reassuringly. '  They managed to
humour the lunatic by telling him that the body would be  buried. The Levite
calmed down but announced that he still refused to leave the body and wanted
to assist in the burial. He said he refused to go even if they threatened to
kill him and even offered them a bread knife to kill him with.'
     'Did they send him away? ' enquired Pilate in a stifled voice.
     'No, Procurator. My deputy allowed him to take part in the burial.'
     'Which of your assistants was in charge of this detail? '
     'Tolmai,' replied Arthanius, adding anxiously : ' Did I do wrong? '
     'Go on,'  replied Pilate. '  You  did right. I  am beginning to think,
Arthanius, that I am dealing with  a  man  who never makes a mistake--I mean
you.'
     'Matthew the Levite was taken away by cart, together  with the bodies,
and about  two hours later  they reached  a deserted  cave to the  north  of
Jerusalem. After an hour working in shifts  the squad had dug a deep pit  in
which they buried the bodies of the three victims.'
     'Naked?' ' No, Procurator, the squad had taken  chitons  with them for
the purpose.  Rings were put  on the bodies' fingers : Yeshua's ring had one
incised  stroke,  Dismas'  two  and Hestas' three.  The  pit was filled  and
covered with stones. Tolmai knows the recognition mark.'
     'Ah, if  only I could have  known! ' said Pilate, frowning. ' I wanted
to see that man Matthew the Levite.' ' He is here, Procurator.'
     Pilate stared at Arthanius for a moment with wide-open eyes, then said:
     'Thank you  for everything you have done on this case. Tomorrow please
send Tolmai to see me and before  he comes tell him  that I am pleased  with
him. And you, Arthanius,'--  the Procurator  took out a ring from the pocket
of his  belt and handed it to the chief  of secret service--'  please accept
this as a token of my gratitude.'
     With a bow Arthanius said :
     'You do me a great honour,  Procurator.' ' Please give my commendation
to  the  squad that carried out the burial and  a  reprimand  to the men who
failed  to protect Judas.  And send Matthew the Levite to me at once. I need
certain details from him on the case of Yeshua.'
     'Very good. Procurator,' replied Arthanius and  bowed himself out. The
Procurator clapped his hands and shouted:
     'Bring me candles in the arcade! '
     Arthanius had not even reached the garden when servants began to appear
bearing  lights. Three candlesticks were placed on the table in front of the
Procurator and instantly the moonlit night retreated to the garden as though
Arthanius had taken it with him. In his place a small, thin stranger mounted
to the balcony  accompanied  by  the giant  centurion. At  a  nod  from  the
Procurator Muribellum turned and marched out.
     Pilate studied the new arrival with an eager, slightly fearful look, in
the way people look at someone of whom they have heard a great deal, who has
been in their thoughts and whom they finally meet.
     The  man who  now appeared was  about  forty, dark, ragged,  covered in
dried mud,  with a suspicious,  wolfish stare. In a  word  he was  extremely
unsightly and looked most of all like one of the city beggars who were to be
found in crowds on the terraces of the temple or in the bazaars of the noisy
and dirty Lower City.
     The silence was  long and made awkward by  the man's strange behaviour.
His face worked, he staggered and he would have fallen if he had not put out
a dirty hand to grasp the edge of the table.
     'What's the matter with you? ' Pilate asked him.
     'Nothing,' replied Matthew the  Levite, making a movement as though he
were  swallowing something.  His  thin, bare, grey neck bulged and  subsided
again.
     'What is it--answer me,' Pilate repeated.
     'I am tired,' answered the Levite and stared dully at the floor.
     'Sit down,' said Pilate, pointing to a chair.
     Matthew gazed mistrustfully at the Procurator, took a  step towards the
chair, gave  a frightened look at its gilded armrests and  sat  down on  the
floor beside it.
     'Why didn't you sit in the chair? ' asked Pilate.
     'I'm dirty, I would make it dirty too,' said the Levite staring at the
floor.
     'You will be given something to eat shortly.'
     'I don't want to eat.'
     'Why  tell lies? ' Pilate asked  quietly. ' You haven't eaten  all day
and probably longer. All right, don't eat. I called you here to show me your
knife.'
     'The soldiers took it away from me when they brought me here,' replied
the Levite and added dismally: ' You must give it back to me, because I have
to return it to its owner. I stole it.'
       Why?'
     'To cut the ropes.'
     'Mark!'  shouted the  Procurator and the  centurion stepped  into  the
arcade. ' Give me his knife.'
     The  centurion  pulled a dirty breadknife out of one of the two leather
sheaths on his belt, handed it to the Procurator and withdrew.
     'Where did you steal the knife? '
     'In a baker's shop just inside the Hcbron gate, on the left.'
     Pilate inspected the  wide blade  and tested the edge with his  finger.
Then he said :
     'Don't worry about the knife, it will be returned to  the shop.  Now I
want something else--show  me the parchment you carry with you  on which you
have written what Yeshua has said.'
     The  Levite looked  at Pilate with  hatred and smiled  a smile  of such
ill-will that his face was completely distorted.
     'Are you going to take it away from me? The last thing I possess? '
     'I didn't say  " give it ",' answered Pilate.  ' I  said " show  it to
me".'
     The Levite  fumbled  in  his shirt-front  and  pulled  out  a  roll  of
parchment. Pilate took  it, unrolled it, spread it out in the  light  of two
candles and with a frown began to study the barely decipherable script.  The
uneven strokes were hard to understand and Pilate  frowned and bent over the
parchment, tracing  the lines  with his finger.  He  nevertheless managed to
discern that the  writings  were  a  disjointed sequence of sayings,  dates,
household notes and snatches of poetry. Pilate managed to read:
     'there is no death . . . yesterday we ate sweet cakes . . .'
     Grimacing with strain, Pilate squinted and read:  '...  we  shall see a
pure river of  the water of life . . . mankind will look at the sun  through
transparent crystal. . .'
     Pilate shuddered. In  the last few lines of the parchment he deciphered
the words: '. . . greatest sin ... cowardice . . .'
     Pilate rolled up the parchment  and  with a brusque movement handed  it
back to the Levite.
     'There, take it,' he said, and after a short silence he added:
     'I see you are a man of learning and there is  no need for you, living
alone, to walk around in  such wretched clothes and without a home. I have a
large library at Caesarea, I am  very  rich and I would like you to come and
work for  me. You would catalogue and look after the papyruses, you would be
fed and clothed.'
     The Levite stood up and replied :
     'No, I don't want to.'
     'Why  not?  '  asked the Procurator, his expression darkening.  '  You
don't like me ...are you afraid of me? '
     The same evil smile twisted Matthew's face and he said :
     'No, because you  would be afraid  of  me.  You would not find it very
easy to look me in the face after having killed him.'
     'Silence,' Pilate cut him off. ' Take this money.'
     The Levite shook his head and the Procurator went on :
     'You, I  know, consider yourself a disciple of Yeshua, but  I tell you
that you  have acquired nothing of what he taught you. For  if you  had, you
would have certainly accepted something from me. Remember--before he died he
said that he blamed no one--' Pilate raised his finger significantly and his
face twitched --' and I know  that he would have accepted something. You are
hard. He was not a hard man. Where will you go? '
     Matthew suddenly walked over to Pilate's table, leaned on  it with both
hands and staring at the Procurator with burning eyes he whispered to him :
     'Know,  hegemon, that there is one man in Jerusalem whom I shall kill.
I want to tell you this so that you are warned-- there will be more blood.'
     'I know that there  will be more  blood,'  answered Pilate. ' What you
have said does not surprise me. You want to murder me,I suppose?'
     'I shall not be able  to  murder you,' replied the  Levite, baring his
teeth in a smile. ' I am not so stupid as to count on that. But I shall kill
Judas of Karioth if it takes the rest of my life.'
     At this  the Procurator's eyes gleamed with pleasure. Beckoning Matthew
the Levite closer he said :
     'You  will  not succeed,  but  it  will not  be necessary.  Judas was
murdered tonight.'
     The Levite jumped back from the table, stared wildly round and cried:
     'Who did it? '
     Pilate a.nswered him :
       I did it.
     'You must not be jealous,' said Pilate, baring his teeth  mirthlessly
and  rubbing his  hands,  ' but I'm  afraid he  had other  admirers  Ibeside
yourself.'
     'Who did it? ' repeated the Levite in a whisper.
     Matthew  opened  his  mouth and  stared  at  the Procurator,  who  said
quietly:
     'It is mot  much, but I did it.' And he added : ' Now will you accept
something? '
     The Levite thought for a moment, relented and finally said :
     'Order them to give me a clean piece of parchment.'
     An  hour had  passed since the  Levite had  left  the palace. The  dawn
silence was only disturbed by the quiet tread of the sentries in the garden.
The  moon  was  fading and on  the other edge of heaven there  appeared  the
whitish speck  of the morning star.  The candl