The soldier who had led Jesus forth from the pavement into the courtyard had returned to the Praetorium. “Sir, the titulus board is complete. They are ready to proceed with the crucifixions, except....”
“Then start at once with the three prisoners to the Hill of the Skull.” He paused. “Except? What were you going to say?”
“You have assigned no centurion, sir, to have charge of the crucifixion of this fellow whom you have just condemned. Do you wish Porcius, who was to have crucified Bar Abbas....”
“No.” Then, in a flash came an idea. Pilate maintained a sternly impassive countenance, but inwardly he exulted in the suddenly revealed manner of solving his dilemma. Now no one would be sending stories to Rome, for certainly nobody would be foolish enough to reveal to Sejanus the execution of an innocent Jew if he himself had participated with the Procurator in that Jew’s crucifixion. “I wish Porcius for another duty today.” He pointed upward. “Go at once to the apartment of the Centurion Longinus and inform him that the Procurator assigns him to take charge of the quaternion and orders him to proceed immediately with the crucifixion of the Galilean.”
50
Beside a cluster of gnarled olive trees along the Bethany road Centurion Cornelius halted his weary cavalcade. They had attained the summit of the Mount of Olives. Steady climbing from the Jericho plain had lathered the laboring horses, and the dust-grimed faces of the men were streaked with perspiration. Since the passing of midday the heat had grown increasingly oppressive; now, as they approached Jerusalem in the eerie half-darkness, it weighed upon them like a heavy blanket.
The dark cloud over the city that hardly two hours ago they had seen from the narrow defile between the boulders had grown to envelop them, and as they came over the rise and looked across toward the walled density of flat-roofed stone structures, they could scarcely make out the usually dominating mass of the Temple. Ordinarily on an early afternoon in April the sun would have been reflected brilliantly in the gold plates of the Temple’s roof, but today it was barely able to penetrate the overcast. In the strangely thickening gloom the resplendent plates had taken on a dull coating of bilious green. Faintly discernible to the right were the darker masses of the Fortress Antonia towers upthrust in the cloaking shadows; but westward, beyond Antonia, the great Palace of the Herods and the other splendid abodes of the privileged were completely shrouded; Mount Zion and the Ophel shared equally in oblivion.
“What is it, Centurion?” Decius shook his head perplexedly. “I’ve been out here a long time, but I’ve never seen anything like it. This strange darkness, this stillness, and the peculiar blue-green cast. Centurion, this isn’t just another storm coming up, another thunderstorm following excessive heat. It’s got a queer, ghastly look, as if the gods might be angry ...”
“The gods, Decius?”
The soldier laughed uneasily. “I use the term broadly, for want of one more accurate.” He waved an arm in the direction of the darkened city. “But it does have a sort of supernatural look, doesn’t it, Centurion?”—he smiled—“though of course I have little belief in the supernatural.” He shrugged. “How do you explain it?”