Pilate squirmed uneasily in his chair – this was not how interviews with the Roman Courier were supposed to turn out. The Roman Courier was the Roman Empire’s ‘In-house magazine’, lots of glossy sketches of important people: senators, tribunes, generals and the like, with cute little pen-pictures of their wives and girlfriends, flavoured with ‘hot gossip’ to keep the readers interested. “What the wags are wearing this month” or “How I keep my hubby’s trendy tonsure in trim”.
He’d been asked to do an interview on the ‘Jesus-story’ as an example of how the Roman Empire, great and powerful though it is, could listen to the concerns of the people, even in one of its most distant and unimportant outposts. He’d agreed readily. Like most people, the thought of his name being discussed at the highest level was flattering to say the least and it might even mean promotion. Say a transfer from dusty and dirty Palestine to a lovely little town on the outskirts of Rome or to a village on the Italian Coast where he could fill his days up to retirement with easy hours deciding which flowers to use to celebrate Caesar’s Birthday or how many public holidays should be granted at the Summer Solstice.
Sweat dripped off him – why did his mouth feel so dry? One thing was for sure, Jeremias Paxhominem wasn’t going to take ‘no’ for an answer. What was he thinking of? He couldn’t say ‘no’ or ‘yes’, this was an open question, he’d have to do more than grunt in reply, he’d actually have to make his mind up and answer it . . . .
“I listened carefully to all sides of the argument and, on balance, Jesus was more trouble than he was worth. After that it was just a matter of following orders, as laid down in the Codex Virtute, section VII part CCIII ‘Procedure for the judicial execution of the enemies of Rome.’”
Jeremias’ questions moved up a gear. This interview would guarantee that he kept his reputation as the most feared reporter in the Roman Empire.
“So, you were simply following orders. Is that what you’ll say to God when he asks you why you killed his one and only Son in cold blood?”
“Yes, I mean no, I’ll . . . . I’ll just say that . . . that I had no choice.”
“But isn’t your job all about making choices and taking decisions? Do you often hide behind paper-thin excuses like that?”
His dreams of a life on the Italian Coast suddenly faded to nothing. At this rate he’d be lucky to have any job at all.
“My training, excellent though it was, did not prepare me for situations involving the children of the gods. At such times I just have to follow my instincts. I can’t be expected to get it right every time!”
If he’d hoped that his strong reply would silence Jeremias, he was wrong.
“So you make a habit of ordering executions and then realising, when it’s too late, that you were wrong? Perhaps being a ruler is too much for you, maybe a job as a body-slave might be more your level, washing the feet or trimming the toenails of your betters.”
“I didn’t get where I am today without knowing how to give orders and then stand by them. The job of a ruler is to rule!”
“The job of a ruler is to rule wisely and courageously –is that how you see your decision to kill Jesus, wise and courageous?”
Jeremias had taken the brakes off now and his foot was hard down on the accelerator. Pilate slumped even further into his chair.
“Isn’t it the truth that you were simply panicking, that you were afraid of what the Pharisees might say to Herod, terrified that Caesar would be angry, worried that you might not get so many invitations to those posh suppers hosted by Palestinian High Society?”
Jeremias’ eyes glinted with glee. Pilate’s eyes closed in confusion. Pontius had nothing more to say.
“In the light of these events, do you consider yourself to be a good ruler, Pontius Pilate or would you rather be a body-slave after all. At least that way you’d only have to decide which scrubbing brush to use on the centurion’s feet!”
Pilate knew now that his career was in ruins. All his hopes were dashed. The story in the Roman Courier would be his swan-song. His next posting would be amongst the barbarian tribes in Germany and, if he survived that, his pension would be taken away and he’d have to rely on the taxes he’d stolen over the years. It wouldn’t be enough to pay for the new villa he’d promised his wife, Aquila.
Aquila, oh, no, what would she say . . . what would she do . . ? Perhaps being a body-slave might be the best option, all things considered. Compared to Aquila’s anger, filthy, warty, blistered, slimy, smelly feet suddenly didn’t seem too bad at all.
Still loving this piece - is this the one you sent to Two Valleys Radio for consideration as a radio play?
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