“Sir,” I said, “according to Caiaphas, the Sanhedrin found Jesus guilty of blasphemy and agreed unanimously that he should die. They brought him here, early the next morning, as you and the high priest had agreed, for your approval to execute him—by stoning. What happened? What happened after they arrived that made you take the case out of the Sanhedrin’s hands, find Jesus guilty of sedition, and crucify him, considering what you have just told me about not wanting to get involved? The high priest will not discuss any of that with me. He maintains that his jurisdiction ended at the gates of this fortress and that any information concerning what happened that morning within these walls will have to come from you.”

“That wretch!” he roared. “If Caiaphas implies that his mouth is sealed, it is only because he has sealed it himself. He has never had the courage to admit that he betrayed me, before the people and my superiors, and forced me to act!”

Now we were getting somewhere! Thieves do fall out. Confide in me, Pilate. I’m on your side. See the purple stripe running down my tunic? We Romans must stick together.

Pilate continued. “I was awake before sunrise, as is my custom, and already waiting below in the Hall of Judgment when the Sanhedrin arrived with their prisoner. Rome, in their infinite wisdom, does not consider Judaea important enough to have a quaestor sitting in judgment on criminal cases, so it is necessary that I handle those matters myself. Since I had held court on the previous day, I had no other obligations that morning except to fulfill my promise to Caiaphas. Three tribunes from our headquarters in Antioch, here on their annual inspection tour of our fortress, were with me, delaying their departure so they could witness the simple procedure involved in sanctioning a Sanhedrin verdict for a capital offense. Caiaphas, curse him forever, made me appear as a fool in their eyes that morning.”

“How?”

Pilate stood and gestured for me to follow. He opened a door and I followed him out onto a balcony overlooking the parade grounds. There it is, there it is! I kept repeating to myself between my galloping heartbeats. The pavement, the place where Jesus had been tried and condemned by Pilate—the Gabbatha in Aramaic, the Lithostroton in Greek, the square of sadness for every Christian who has relived the agonies of Jesus for two thousand years! I blinked several times at the glare from stones polished by countless boots and horses’ hooves parading back and forth across fifty square yards of immortality.