“Well”—Pilate’s voice interrupted us—“have you managed to uncover any more truths, historian?” The procurator marched toward us with a touch of insolence, head high, his confidence apparently restored by his change into uniform. Now he stood before us as a warrior of Rome, from his polished breastplates to the belted harness around his waist with its many leather strips studded in silver. Clothes always make the man, I guess. He walked us to the door and down the long musty hallway.

“Tell me, Matthias,” he said in that small-talk tone hosts assume while they are repeating farewells to their guests, “does Vitellius still ride his Arabian horses every morning?”

“Just as always,” I assured him. “One could have worse vices, you know.”

“Yes.” He grinned, dripping with charm. “And most of us do.”

“Pilate, do you still stand on your statement made at the beginning of our talk today?”

“What was that?” he asked wearily, as if the interview was over so far as he was concerned.

“As I recall, you said that in your opinion any mention of Jesus in my history was only deserving of a sentence or two, if that.”

He released his hold on my arm and muttered, “I don’t know, I don’t know. I do know I wish I had never heard that name!”

We approached the landing with its cluttered array of statues. I stopped and asked, “Did you, by any chance, have the body of Jesus removed from the tomb, either to embarrass Caiaphas and the Sanhedrin or for any other reason?”

His laugh reverberated down the empty corridor. “If I had, you can be certain I would have produced it long before this. Do you realize that within a few months after the crucifixion there were thousands running around this city, agitating and stirring up trouble, all claiming that Jesus had risen from the dead and would return soon? Ever since then I have had to station four additional centuries of men here, just to keep order, and I could use more during the feast days if Vitellius would only give them to me. No, my friend, I have no idea who took the body, but I would pay dearly for information as to its resting place.”

I couldn’t resist one final shot. Turning to point down the long, lonely corridor that had not heard the voice of his wife, Claudia Procula, for more than six years, I said, “Jesus has already cost you dearly, hasn’t he, procurator?”

Joseph stared morosely out the carriage window on his side as we rode through the busy streets back to his home. Finally, and without turning his head, he asked, “Whom would you like to visit next, Matthias?”

“The apostle John and then Mary Magdalene, if possible.”

“You are in luck,” he replied, but not with his usual enthusiasm.

“Why?”