Grudgingly, Pilate nodded to the robber chief’s guards. “Release him.” The Procurator had lost. He had been sure the Galilean’s followers would outnumber the vociferous Zealots. But Caiaphas had been the better schemer.
Quickly the soldiers freed the hulking Bar Abbas, and in another moment he disappeared with a tumultuously happy group of his supporters, probably members of his own band, in the mass of people thronging the Court of the Gentiles. But the High Priest and his hirelings kept their places on the pavement before the Praetorium. Now the Procurator, pointing toward the Galilean, spoke to them.
“What then shall I do with the King of the Jews?” His tone was sarcastic. “I find no fault in him. I shall release him, just as I have already released your robber.”
“No! No! Crucify him! He is not our king! He is a blasphemer who would destroy us!”
“Crucify your king?” A cold smile lifted the corners of the Procurator’s heavy lips. “Crucify the King of the Jews?”
“We have no king, O Procurator,” Caiaphas declared evenly, when he had lifted his hands to still the clamor, “no king but Caesar. And if you are a friend of Caesar, O Excellency, you will rid us of this one who not only seeks to destroy our religion but also to set himself upon the restored throne of King David. Should word get to Tiberius or Sejanus in Rome....” The High Priest shrugged and smiled suggestively.
Word would certainly reach the capital. And the story would be of the High Priest’s coloring. The Procurator Pontius Pilate, despite repeated warning and ample testimony establishing the guilt of the accused, it would be told, had released a dangerously clever revolutionary intent upon restoring the ancient kingdom of the Jews in Palestine with himself as king.
“But he declares that his kingdom is not of this world,” Pilate tried to protest. “He’s nothing but a harmless babbler, a religious fanatic whom too much reasoning has driven mad....”
“So he would have you think, O Procurator. The man is cunning, amazingly clever, captivating.” Caiaphas smiled indulgently. “Has he not already deceived even the wise and discerning Procurator?”
The High Priest Joseph Caiaphas had won. Already too many reports of the conduct of the Procurator’s office had gone to Rome; one more might be sufficient to arouse the wrath of the Prefect Sejanus. Nevertheless, since the High Priest had forced the verdict, the responsibility would rest on him. He clapped his hands and when a servant came running, called for a basin of water. A moment later, as the servant held the basin before him, the Procurator plunged his hands into the water and rubbed them together vigorously. “Let the people heed,” he said loudly and with ostentation, “that I wash my hands of the blood of this man. I am guiltless. His blood is not upon me.”