Nikos Kazantzakis - The Last Temptation of Christ

Pilate became angry. “Forget the sky,” he yelled. “You’d better look at me! Don’t you know I’ve got the authority to release you or crucify you?”

“You have no authority over me whatever,” Jesus calmly replied. “No one has but God.”

Below, there were maniacal cries: “Death! Death!”

“Why are they so rabid?” Pilate asked. “What have you done to them?”

“I proclaimed the truth to them,” Jesus answered.

Pilate smiled. “What truth? What does truth mean?”

Jesus’ heart constricted with sorrow. This was the world, these the rulers of the world. They ask what truth is, and laugh.

Pilate stood before the window. He remembered that just yesterday they had seized Barabbas for the murder of Lazarus. It was an established custom to release a prisoner on the day of the Passover.

“Whom do you want me to release to you,” he shouted, “Jesus the king of the Jews or Barabbas the bandit?”

“Barabbas! Barabbas!” howled the people.

Pilate called the guards and pointed to Jesus. “Scourge him,” he ordered, “place a crown of thorns on his head, wrap him in a scarlet cloth and give him a long reed to hold as a scepter. He is a king-dress him like a king!”

He had devised to present him to the people in this pitiful state, hoping they would feel sorry for him.

The guards seized him, bound him to a column and began to thrash him and spit on him. They plaited him a crown of thorns and thrust it onto his head. The blood spurted from his forehead and temples. They threw a scarlet cloth over his back, passed a long reed through his fingers, then brought him back to Pilate. When the Roman saw him, he could not keep from laughing.

“Welcome to His Majesty!” he said. “Come, let me show you to your subjects.”

He took him by the hand and they went out onto the terrace.

“Behold the man!” he shouted.

“Crucify him! Crucify him!” the people began to howl.

Pilate ordered a basin and a pitcher of water brought him. He leaned over and washed his hands in front of the crowd.

“I wash and rinse my hands,” he said. “It is not I who spill his blood, I am innocent. May the sin fall on you!”

“His blood be on our heads and on the heads of our children!” the people bellowed.

“Take him,” Pilate said, “and don’t bother me any more!”

They seized him, loaded the cross on his back, spit at him, beat him, kicked him toward Golgotha. The cross was heavy. Staggering, he looked about him. Perhaps he would discover one of the disciples and nod to him so that he might take pity on him. He looked and looked. No one. He sighed.

“Blessed is death,” he murmured. “Glory be to God!”

The disciples, meanwhile, had burrowed into Simon the Cyrenian’s tavern. They were waiting for the crucifixion to be over and night to fall so that they could escape without being seen. Squatting behind the barrels, they listened with cocked ears to the happy throngs which passed by outside in the street. The whole city-men and women-had begun to run toward Golgotha. The people had enjoyed a fine Passover, had eaten more than enough meat, drunk more than enough wine; and now here was the crucifixion to while away their time.

The people ran; the disciples listened to the noise in the street and trembled. Now and then John’s muffled weeping could be heard. At times Andrew rose and paced up and down the tavern uttering threats. Peter cursed and vilified himself for being a coward and not having the courage to race outside to be killed along with the master. How many times he had sworn to him: “With you, Rabbi, to the death!” But now that death had appeared, he had burrowed behind the barrels.

Jacob grew furious. “John,” he said, “stop your bawling-you’re a man. And you, gallant Andrew, don’t twist your mustache. Sit down. Sit down, all of you. Let’s come to a decision. Suppose he’s really the Messiah. With what kind of faces will we appear before him if he is resurrected in three days’ time? Did you ever think about that? What do you say, Peter?”

“If he’s the Messiah, we’re done for-that’s what I say,” answered Peter hopelessly. “I told you, I already denied him three times.”

“But if he isn’t the Messiah, we’re still done for,” said Jacob. “What do you say, Nathanael?”

“I say we should get out of here. Whether he’s the Messiah or not, we’re done for.”

“And leave him like this, unprotected? How can your hearts endure that?” said Andrew, starting to rush toward the door.

But Peter caught hold of his tunic. “Sit down, wretch, before I break you into a thousand pieces! Let’s find another solution.”

“Hypocrites and Pharisees!” Thomas hissed. “What solution? Let’s speak out and not blush over it: we made a transaction, we sank in all our capital. Yes: business! Why look daggers at me-that’s what we did; we transacted a little business. You give me and I give you. I gave my wares-combs, spools of thread, pocket mirrors-in exchange for the kingdom of heaven. All of you did the same. One gave his boat, another his sheep, a third his peace of mind. And now the whole affair has gone to the devil. We’re bankrupt; our capital has disappeared down the drain. Look out we don’t lose our lives in the bargain. What advice do I give, then? Go while the going’s good!”

“Agreed!” shouted both Philip and Nathanael. “Go while the going’s good!”

Peter turned anxiously to Matthew, who was sitting off to one side. He had been listening with cupped ear, not breathing a word. “For God’s sake, Matthew,” Peter said, “don’t write all this down. Play deaf. Don’t make us ridiculous for all eternity!”

“Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing,” Matthew answered. “I see and hear a lot, but I select… A word, however, for your own good: Come to a noble decision; show how brave you are-so that I can write about it, and you poor fellows can be glorified. You are apostles, and that’s no small matter!”

Just then Simon the Cyrenian shoved open the tavern door and entered. His clothes were torn, his face and chest full of blood, his right eye swollen and running. Cursing and groaning, he threw off the rags that remained to him, plunged his head in the tub he used to clean the wineglasses, grabbed a towel and wiped his chest and back, all the while bellowing and spitting. Then he put his mouth to the tap of the barrel and drank. Hearing a disturbance behind the barrels, he leaned over. When he saw the pile of huddling disciples, he went wild.

“Out of my sight, filthy dogs!” he screamed at them. “Bah! Is this the way you stick by your chief! Ducking out of battle, eh! Lousy Galileans, lousy Samaritans, lousy bastards!”

“God knows our souls were willing,” Peter ventured, “but our bodies-”

“Shut up, jabber-jaws! Bah! When the soul is willing, the body doesn’t mean a thing. All becomes soul, even the club in your hand, the coat on your back, the stones you walk over-all, all! Look, cowards, look at me: black and blue, my clothes in tatters, my eyeballs ready to fall out of my head. Why?-the devil take you, filthy disciples!-because, damn it, I defended your master. I fought the whole population-me, me, the innkeeper, the lousy Cyrenian! And why did I do it? Was it because I believed he was the Messiah and tomorrow he’d make me great and important? Not a bit; no, not a single bit. It was because my confounded self-respect got hold of me, and I’m not sorry, either!”

He paced up and down, tripped over the stools, spat, cursed. Matthew was sitting on hot coals. He wanted to learn what happened at Caiaphas’s palace, what at Pilate’s, what the teacher said, what the people shouted, so that he could record it all in his book.