Pilate shrugged.
“What is truth?” He resumed his seat.
I did not respond.
“What is truth?” he repeated. He waited a little while and then said, looking at me closely: “I find no fault in this man.”
Spectators and priests protested. Someone shouted:
“He stirs up the people from here to Galilee. He’s a troublemaker. He drove us out of our temple market.”
At that moment Pilate may have become aware of my accent or remembered I was born in Nazareth for he ordered me brought to trial before Herod, the local governor. Herod, I thought, the name stunning me as I recalled his crime.
We crossed a bridge, a hostile crowd following; young Herod welcomed me because he had heard of my miracles and wanted me to perform for his benefit. Was I wizard, necromancer, fakir?
I could not speak to this murderer: I envisioned John in prison, waiting, waiting for the liberty that never came. I saw his decapitated head on a tray, displayed for a dancing girl.
Because I could not speak Herod had his men throw a purple robe over my shoulders and place me on a chair. They mocked me, spat on me, and demanded I save myself.