“I say to you, Pontius Pilate, that your days of command here are at an end! Did you not, recently, slay many Samaritans upon their arrival in the village of Tirathana before they could ascend Mount Gerizim for religious services?”

For a moment he forgot I was his prisoner. “They were gathered in that village,” he whined, “not to worship their god but to mobilize a military force for rebellion against Rome!”

“My friend Vitellius does not agree with you. After being visited by a delegation of Samaritans, he has come to the conclusion that your conduct in that affair was little more than the murder of unarmed men, women, and children, and he has finally tired of your heavy-handed methods of dealing with the people here. Marcellus is in Jerusalem to relieve you of your procuratorship. He came to tell you that Vitellius has ordered your immediate return to Rome, where you are to give an account of yourself to Tiberius. Marcellus is to take command here pending the selection of a new procurator by the emperor!”

It was impossible to measure which face registered more shock. Both Pilate and Marcellus turned as pale as their skins would allow. Marcellus was the first to regain enough composure to speak.

“I can assure you, procurator, that the governor has no knowledge of this man. He is obviously a foreign agent sent here to stir up trouble. Perhaps a little time at the flogging post would encourage him to reveal his true identity and purpose.”

Apparently Marcellus was not yet ready to relieve Pilate of his command. Perhaps the instructions from Vitellius had been that he conduct a thorough investigation into the incident near Mount Gerizim before he made his move. In any event, my ploy hadn’t worked. The enemy had been divided—but not long enough for me to claim any victories. Despite the tribune’s noncommittal response, color began to seep back into Pilate’s face and his shoulders straightened. He marched toward me, eyes narrowed. I braced myself for the next blow.

“Are you just another believer in that dead rebel, Jesus, who was crucified?” he asked. “Is that why you asked so many questions concerning him?”

No one had to remind me that I was face to face with the supreme law of the land. If Pontius Pilate decided that I should be nailed on a cross, this very day, I would be crucified.

“No. I am only a historian, from Rome.”

I suddenly remembered Peter and his three denials of Jesus in the high priest’s courtyard. Self-preservation is an instinct that can turn nearly all of us into cowards.

“Does Joseph of Arimathea know your real identity?”

“Joseph is an old friend. He knows my only identity. I am Matthias.”