About ten cubits from the place of execution they would say, “Make your confession.”
“May my death be an atonement for all my sins,” would have been a standard response, though Jesus would not have made it.
At the place of stoning, his clothes would have been stripped off. Then one of the Sanhedrists, as witness to his “blasphemy,” would have shoved him off a precipice onto the rocks below. If he were still alive, a second member of the Sanhedrin would have dropped a boulder onto his heart. If he still survived, the entire Sanhedrin and any others present would have been obliged to hurl stones down on him until he died.
However, with the jus gladii now reserved for the Roman prefect, Pilate would have to review the Sanhedrin’s verdict, pronounce sentence, and issue orders for execution—or dismiss the case. Had he been in Caesarea and the Antonia commandant otherwise occupied, the Sanhedral authorities might have risked taking matters into their own hands and stoning Jesus anyway, claiming mob action. But Pilate was very much present in the Holy City of Jerusalem.
Chapter 18
It was six o’clock in the morning of Friday, April 3, A.D. 33—to Jews, Nisan 14, of the year 3793. In the sumptuous royal bedroom of the Herodian palace, Procula was sleeping later than usual. Her husband glanced at the tousle of hair spilling over the pretty face on the pillow next to him and did not disturb her as he pulled himself out of bed. He needed an early start for the docket of cases awaiting him at the tribunal.
Pilate looked out over Jerusalem on that crisp spring morning. The sun was starting to daub a hazy luminescence on the mists hovering over the summit of the Mount of Olives. Soon it would be unseasonably warm. He gave orders to have his official dais set up in the inner shaded courtyard of the palace, as on the previous morning. It would be transferred to the front of the palace in the afternoon when he no longer had to face the sun.
After a quick breakfast, Pilate mounted his tribunal and glanced at the small knots of people before him who would play some role in the day’s litigation. He now called for unfinished business from yesterday. The two highwaymen whose sentencing had been postponed were brought before him.
“I judge you guilty,” Pilate told them. ‘’The sentence, in both cases, is death.” The men did not flinch. The extreme penalty was standard punishment in that era for offenses less than theirs, and they fully expected it. “Staurotheto kai staurotheto,” Pilate called to his guards while nodding at the two culprits—“Let him be crucified, and let him be crucified.” And the pair were prepared for that dreaded punishment, the regular Roman method of execution for slaves and criminals who did not possess Roman citizenship.
While this case was concluding, a rather remarkable procession of priests, temple guardsmen, scribes, and a great crowd of people were filing into the esplanade before the palace. In the interior courtyard, a man came running up to the tribunal. Angrily, Pilate asked him, “What do you mean by this interruption, Malchus?”
“Forgive this intrusion, Excellency. My Lord Caiaphas and the entire Sanhedrin are outside to ask your confirmation of their verdict against Yeshu Hannosri.”
“Do you mean they’ve already tried him?” snapped Pilate.
“Yes,” replied Malchus, with a slight frown.
“But there hasn’t been enough time…”
“Hardly enough, though two sessions of the Sanhedrin have been held since the arrest.”
“What was their verdict?”
“Guilty.”
“The punishment?”
“They seek the death penalty.”
“Death?”
“Yes. Otherwise they would not have brought the prisoner here.” A centurion broke into their conversation. “Pardon, my Prefect, but you should know that a huge crowd is gathering in front of the palace. Shall I send to the Antonia for reinforcements?”
“Yes, but keep them out of sight.” Then, turning back to Malchus, he said, “This is extraordinary. The high priest should not have dared to interrupt my tribunal in this manner.” Pilate thought seriously of making the Sanhedrin wait its turn for a hearing, perhaps until after the Bar-Abbas trial the following week. But, sobered by past confrontations with the Jews and with another eye to the throng which was gathering for obviously this case, he thought better of the plan.
“My Lord Caiaphas told me to express his profound regret for this interruption,” Malchus continued, “but he said you would understand the danger of serious rioting if this matter were not adjudicated promptly. He also stated that the Sanhedrin does not expect you to interrupt your schedule with a trial at this time—the trial has already taken place—they merely request a simple confirmation of their sentence, which should not take long.”
Pilate was angry. “Let them come in, then,” he said quietly.
“Unfortunately, Sire, they must remain outside the praetorium to avoid defilement, so that they can eat the Passover Seder tonight.”
Struggling to control his fury, Pilate waved Malchus away. Then he ordered his ivory sella curulis, the magistrate’s chair, moved outdoors to the regular afternoon location facing the esplanade. The transfer made, he emerged from the palace to face the multitude, ascending his elevated tribunal.
Pilate sat down in his curule chair, grasping the arms of it with a grip which whitened his knuckles. For some moments he pondered the issue…How the Sanhedrin could have given the complex case of Jesus a fair hearing in the brief interval since Pilate received the note which promised it, he could not fathom…And the death penalty? While not surprising, in view of the hatred between the Jewish authorities and Jesus, it was at least inexpedient, considering Caiaphas’s concern about a riot erupting. Kill the prophet and disorder would break out…Then, without advance word, to confront him like this…And finally the implication: “Don’t bother judging him, Pilate. You wouldn’t be qualified. This is a religious case. Just countersign our order for execution, like a good prefect.”
“But I will,” he decided. “I will judge this case. And thoroughly.”
He looked down from his dais. Jesus was stationed directly in front of the tribunal, with members of the Sanhedrin flanking him on both sides. Ranging off to Pilate’s right were the familiar faces of Annas, Caiaphas, Ananias, Zadok, Helcias, Eleazar, and Jonathan. He guessed they would constitute the chief accusers if, as they thought unlikely, it came to a formal trial; for without accusers, there could be no trial in Roman law. Behind Jesus stood the leading Pharisees, Sadducees, scribes, elders, and the temple guard. Beyond the semicircle of these principals, some two hundred in number, ranged the vast and growing mass of spectators.
But only one face in this rising lake of humanity intrigued Pilate. He scrutinized the figure immediately in front of him and was a trifle disappointed. In the past months he had heard so many reports about the mysterious powers of Jesus that the man was becoming larger than life in his imagination, and yet here he was, bound, unkempt, evidently powerless. His dark hair, parted roughly in the middle, fell to shoulder length. This, along with his mustache and beard marked him as a typical Palestinian Jew of the time. Still, the erect and tallish figure seemed to speak eloquently through his eyes. They were tired, but they were not the eyes of a prisoner—not imploring, fearful, or ashamed; nor were they vindictive or threatening. Pilate had seen all these eyes in prisoners whom he had condemned. Those of Jesus registered only serenity, with a trace of disappointment and resignation.