THE DREAM OF PILATE'S WIFE.
fortress of antonia, jerusalem
(called pilate's house).
t was early morning, not yet seven o'clock. Yet Pontius Pilate, the Roman Governor of Judæa, was astir. For the Paschal Feast of the Jews was fast approaching, and having heard rumours of strange things going on amongst them, he anticipated some serious disturbance. He was, therefore, in no pleasant humour, and his dark brow was contracted, his teeth were firmly set, and in his stern and somewhat fierce eyes was a look of mingled anger, scorn, and disgust.
How weary he was of these perpetual riots! How he despised the conquered Jews and their pretensions of religion, while their actions were mean and vile. They professed a sanctity superior to that of any nation upon earth. And yet he knew that every day they indulged in flagrant sins, and were influenced by motives that others would scorn to yield to. Oh! if he dared but show them what he thought of them and their hollow professions. But he must restrain his feelings. Several times already, in his impatience of their ways, he had given vent to his wrath in actions that, he knew too well, would not bear the examination of his master, the emperor of Rome.
The Roman emperors, bad as some of them were, liked to know that all their provinces were well governed, that the people had no just cause of complaint; and that their customs, religions, and prejudices were respected. And they would punish severely any governor who, by misrule, brought dishonour on the name of Rome.
Pilate knew that he had wilfully trampled upon the religious prejudices of the Jews, and that when they had risen up against him he had massacred them by the thousand. He remembered how he had once brought some Roman eagles from Cæsarea to Jerusalem, where no heathen ensign could be suffered; how he had also placed there some gilt votive shields, dedicated to the Emperor Tiberius; and how, to bring water from the pools of Solomon into the city, he had taken money from the sacred treasury. He remembered, too, how, when the Jews had rebelled against these proceedings, he had sent disguised soldiers amongst them, to stab them with daggers concealed beneath their garments; how he had once massacred 3,000 of them, and how at another festal season, 20,000 dead bodies had strewed the courts of the Temple. And up before his mind there came also the recollection of how, at one of their feasts, he had killed some Galilæans, and mingled their blood with that of their sacrifices upon the altar; and how he had also attacked the Samaritans, as they worshipped upon Mount Gerizim.
Yes, he had given the Jews just cause of complaint; and if he vexed them further, they might report him to Rome, and have him banished or put to death. So he would have to be careful how he treated them for the future.
The knowledge of this in nowise calmed his perturbed spirit. And as he wondered how, in case of another riot, he should manage to curb his wrathful and impatient disgust, he paced uneasily the Hall of Judgment.
This was an apartment in a splendid edifice—which was known as the fortress of Antonia—in which he resided when at Jerusalem, an old palace of Herod the Great. Its floors were of agate and lazuli. The ceilings of its gilded roofs were of cedar painted with vermilion. The bema, on which he sat to administer justice, was probably the golden throne of Archelaus. In front of the Hall of Judgment was a costly pavement of variously coloured marble, called by the Jews Gabbatha. Yet amid all this splendour he was but ill at ease.
And now suddenly the Roman procurator stopped and listened. Hooting and yelling, there were the wild cries of a dreaded mob, as he had anticipated. Yes, it was even so. They had begun early enough, those Jews. What could it be all about?
Nearer and nearer came the ominous sounds. He went to the door of his apartment, and looked out. There, coming across the bridge that spanned the Tyropœon Valley, was an infuriated crowd, venting their spleen upon some poor victim, whom they were evidently bringing to him. His arms were fast bound to His side. A rope was round His neck. And they were dragging Him along, as if He were some wild beast that they had caught in the act of making ravages amongst them.
After Him came the chief men of Jerusalem, the Sanhedrists, with, perhaps, the High Priest at their head, followed by the chief priests and scribes, and a great crowd of people.
Now they reached the Hall of Judgment; and the foremost of them were dragging the poor Man up the noble flight of stairs.
The Roman knight scowled as they approached, and darted at them a look of bitterest resentment.
What faces they had! Did ever any one see features so distorted by wicked passions? How he would have liked to drive them all away! But he must not. They were evidently in a fury; and what might they not do, if he opposed them?
He turned to look at their prisoner, expecting to see some murderous-looking fellow, who had been taken in some act of wicked outrage. But what a different sight met his view!
Instead of a defiant thief or murderer, a pale and weary Man stood before him. A world of suffering was in His sorrowful eyes; but there was no trace of violence there. He had the purest, noblest, most open countenance that Pilate had ever beheld; and the governor's attention was arrested. In the face of that poor, worn-out sufferer were expressed the meekness and gentleness of a lamb, the deepest tenderness and pity, the most ineffable sweetness and perfect calmness, the majesty of a king, the perfection of a god. Who could He be? Was He really only human? Or had the spirit of some of the Roman gods come down and taken up its abode in Him? Pilate could not tell; but he was amazed and confounded; and in his contemplation of that wondrous countenance he forgot for a while his trouble and vexation.
All too soon, however, he was recalled to the business before him. The Jews were clamouring outside the Hall to have sentence of death passed upon their Victim.
But it was not so easy to gain their point as they had expected. The Roman knight, who had not hesitated to order his soldiers to fall upon the ignoble Jews, could not condemn, without trial, that Man who was undoubtedly the one perfect type of the human race. And he sternly demanded, "What accusation bring ye against this Man?"
Then came a storm of bitter invective and false accusations. He had been stirring up the people against the Roman government, they said. He had been forbidding them to pay tribute to Cæsar; and proclaiming Himself a King.
As Pilate looked upon Jesus, he felt that there was no sedition in Him. They were rioters, he knew too well; but as for that Man—well, there might be some truth in His kingship, there was something so noble, so majestic about Him. And entering the hall, into which Jesus had been led, he asked, "Art Thou the King of the Jews?"
"I am a king," Jesus, acknowledged, as He thought of the myriads of bright-winged angels who in the Better Land had flown to do His bidding, and of the thousands upon thousands of faithful followers, not yet born, who would some day share His throne. "I am a King, but not of this world." And at His simple words Pilate's heart misgave him still more.
Who could this strange man be, who was so far above all other men? Where had He come from? And where was His kingdom? Was He in some mysterious way connected with the heavens?
Oh, how he wished that those Jews had settled the matter amongst themselves, and that he could avoid having anything to do with it! They were resolved, he could see, on having His blood; and he dared not go altogether against them. Yet how could he condemn a Man like that?
But, suddenly, his face brightened. Some one in the crowd said that Jesus belonged to Galilee. Then he could send Jesus to Herod, the tetrarch of Galilee, who was then in Jerusalem, having come up to the feast. By doing so he should throw the responsibility on to Herod, and should then not be compelled either to vex the Jews, on the one hand, and thus bring about his own punishment, or to crucify this Man, who was so great a mystery to him, and, perhaps, bring down upon himself the anger of the gods.
Pilate heaved a great sigh of relief, as Jesus was led away to Herod. Now he was free, he thought, and, if that more than innocent Man were put to death, as He would be, he, at least, would be guiltless of his blood, and very cleverly he had managed it, without stirring up against himself the wrath of the Jews.
But it was not to be so.
Before long the dreaded mob returned. Herod had sent Jesus away, finding no fault in Him. And the Jews brought him again to Pilate.
Heavily as lead the hooting and the yelling fell upon the governor's ears. What should he do? What could he do? Oh, if only he had not acted so wrongly in the past, he might have dared to do right now! If only he had not violated the Roman law he might now have vindicated its majesty! He might have told the Jews that he, a Roman governor, could not think of so gross an injustice as condemning such a Man, and that they were only actuated by envy and hatred. Oh, if he could only wipe out his past offences, and stand clear concerning the Jews, he might, also, stand clear concerning this Jesus, who was called the Christ!
But his hands were stained with crime; and, like a child who tells a second falsehood to get out of the trouble of having told a first, he must make the guilt of a still deeper dye.
But could he not in some way conciliate the Jews, and save Jesus as well? he wondered. Yes; he would pretend to look upon Him as guilty; but would remind them of the custom of releasing some prisoner at the Passover; and try to persuade them to have Jesus set free. But they preferred Barabbas; and Pilate tried another plan. He would inflict upon Jesus the painful and humiliating punishment of scourging and let Him go.
But what right had he to do that to an innocent Man? How fast he was yielding! And what a coward a guilty conscience had made of him!
But much as he was to blame, there was sent to him a warning that could not be despised.
That morning, a troublous dream had come to Claudia Procula, Pilate's wife, who was a Jewish proselyte. And now, messengers from her came running out of breath, and standing before the golden bema, delivered the message she had sent; "Have thou nothing to do with that just Man; for I have suffered many things this day in a dream because of Him."
This troubled Pilate more and more; and his face paled, and his strong limbs trembled. He remembered how, not very long before, when Cæsar's enemies were plotting against his life, a dream had come to his wife, Calpurnia, who had sent to warn him not to go to the meeting of the senate, on the Ides of March. But he went in spite of the dream, and was murdered! And now, a similar warning was sent to him to strengthen him to do right. Should he heed it, and let the innocent Jesus go free? It was still in his power to refuse to crucify Him; and what remorse he would save himself? and what bitter anguish! But notwithstanding the warning dream, he took the last fatal step.
"Ibis ad crucem," "Thou must go to the cross," he said to Jesus, and to the attendant, "I miles, expedi crucem," "Soldier, go prepare the cross."
Unable to shake off that ominous dream, he called for water, and washed his hands, saying, "I am innocent of the blood of this just person." But he could not wash away his responsibility, or that last greatest crime of giving up to the fiendish malice of a cruel mob the Innocent One about whom he had had such misgivings and such a warning.
From that day all peace of mind fled from him; and before long he was pining away in bitter exile and poverty; the very punishment having come upon him that he had tried to avert.
H. D.