Pilate, his round face livid with anger, was remonstrating with the priests. “But shall I crucify your King? Shall I crucify the King of the Jews?”
Crucify Jesus of Galilee?
“No, Pilate! No! No!” She was running toward the Procurator to stand beside the Galilean. “No, my husband, have nothing to do with this good man!”
... But Pilate does not see me or hear me. Nor does the Galilean. Am I a disembodied spirit? But there are no spirits. Oh, Tullia. But Tullia neither hears nor sees me....
“Then take him yourselves and crucify him. His death be your responsibility.” Pilate was speaking again. “I am free of his blood.”
“No! No! No, Pilate! You are sending an innocent man to his death! You can never disavow responsibility! Oh, hear me, my husband! Hear me!”
But the Praetorium and its tribunal, the tall, bound Galilean, the railing priests and their blood-hungry supporters were suddenly vanished.
The great throne room of the Imperial Palace in Rome was strangely darkened. She could hear the voice of the Emperor, but she could hardly distinguish his features. Was he her stepfather Tiberius, incredibly old now, or a younger Emperor? The voice was somewhat strange, too. “You have failed miserably,” the voice was saying. “You have been rash and stubbornly determined to govern in accordance with your own whims, you have not only permitted, but you have, through your intemperate governing, created much turmoil and insurrection within your province; in short, your rule has been a travesty of Roman administration.” The voice paused. “But I shall not order you executed, as you deserve. Instead, I decree that you be banished, forthwith and forever....”
The voice had faded out as the light came up, and she saw standing with bowed head, old and bent and his once round face thinned and haggard and hopeless, Pontius Pilate.
“No! No! If you had only listened....”