The Master and Margarita 3 страница

"No, I came to that conclusion on my own."

"And that is what you preach?"

"Yes."

"But what about the centurion Mark, whom they call Ratkiller, is he— a good man?"

"Yes, he is," answered the prisoner, "but he's an unhappy man. Ever since good people disfigured him, he's been cruel and hard. I'm curious to know, who mutilated him?"

"I'll gladly tell you," retorted Pilate, "because I was a witness. Good people attacked him the way dogs attack bears. The Germans grabbed him by his neck, arms, and legs. An infantry maniple had been ambushed, and if the cavalry turma under my command had not broken through from the flank, then you, philosopher, would not have had to talk with Ratkiller. It happened in the battle of Idistaviso, in the Valley of the Maidens."

"If I could just talk to him," interjected the prisoner wistfully, "I'm sure he would change drastically."

"I imagine," rejoined Pilate, "that the legate of the legion would have little cause to rejoice if you took it into your head to talk to one of his officers or soldiers. Fortunately for all of us, however, that will not happen, and I'm the one who will see that it doesn't."

At that moment a swallow darted into the colonnade, flew in a circle under the gilded ceiling, swooped down, its pointed wing almost grazing the face of one of the bronze statues in the niche, and then took cover behind the capital of the column. Perhaps it had decided to build a nest there.

During the swallow's flight, the following thought was taking shape in the procurator's now bright and dear head: the Hegemon had looked into the case of the vagrant philosopher Yeshua, called Ha-Notsri, and found the criminal charges against him to be unsubstantiated. Specifically, he found no connection whatsoever between Yeshua's actions and the recent disorders in Yershalaim. The vagrant philosopher turned

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out to be mentally ill. In consequence of which, the procurator does not confirm the death sentence pronounced against Ha-Notsri by the Lesser Sinedrion. However, in view of the fact that Ha-Notsri's insane, Utopian speeches might cause unrest in Yershalaim, the procurator is removing Yeshua from Yershalaim and sentencing him to confinement in Strato's Caesarea on the Mediterranean, that is, the site of the procurator's residence.

All he had to do was to dictate it to the secretary.

The swallow's wings whirred above the Hegemon's head, the bird made a dash for the basin of the fountain and flew out into freedom. The procurator looked up at the prisoner and saw a column of dust swirling up next to him.

"Is that all there is against him?" Pilate asked the secretary.

"Unfortunately, no," replied the secretary unexpectedly, and he handed Pilate another piece of parchment.

"What else is there, then?" asked Pilate with a frown.

After he read the parchment, his face changed even more. Either because of the dark blood suffusing his neck and face, or because of something else, his skin lost its yellow cast, turned grayish brown, and his eyes seemed to sink in.

The blood pouring and pounding into his temples was probably also responsible for what had happened to the procurator's vision. He seemed to see the prisoner's head float off somewhere, and another head appear in its place. On top of this bald head was a gold crown with widely-spaced points. On the forehead was a round sore, eating away at the skin and smeared with ointment. The mouth was sunken and toothless, with a capricious and protruding lower lip. Pilate had the feeling that the rose columns on the balcony had disappeared as had the roofs of Yershalaim in the distance below the garden, and that everything around him had drowned in the thick greenery of the Capreaean gardens. And something strange had happened to his hearing too—trumpets seemed to be sounding softly and menacingly in the distance and a nasal voice was dearly heard, haughtily intoning the words, "The law pertaining to insults to the sovereign..."

Brief, strange, disconnected thoughts sped through his brain, "He is lost!"—then, "We are lost!" And included among them was a totally absurd notion about some sort of immortality, and for some reason this immortality evoked a sense of unbearable anguish.

Pilate pulled himself together, drove away the vision, directed his gaze back to the balcony, and the eyes of the prisoner again appeared before him.

"Listen, Ha-Notsri," began the procurator, looking at Yeshua rather strangely: the procurator's face was menacing, but his eyes were anxious. "Did you ever say anything about the great Caesar? Answer! Did you? Or... did you... not?" Pilate drew out the word "not" a bit longer

22 The Master and Margarita

than was appropriate at a trial, and his eyes transmitted a certain thought to Yeshua, which he seemed to want to suggest to the prisoner.

"It is easy and pleasant to tell the truth," observed the prisoner.

"I do not care," retorted Pilate in a choked and angry voice, "whether you find it pleasant or unpleasant to tell the truth. But you will have to tell the truth. And when you speak, weigh every word, unless you want a death that is not only inevitable, but excruciating as well."

No one knows what had come over the procurator of Judea, but he permitted himself to raise his arm, as if shielding himself from the sun, and, using his hand as a shield, to shoot a meaningful glance at the prisoner.

"And so," he said, "answer the question: do you know a certain Judas from Kerioth, and if so, what exactly did you say to him, if you said anything, about Caesar?"

"It happened like this," began the prisoner willingly, "the day before yesterday in the evening, I met a young man near the temple, who called himself Judas, from the town of Kerioth. He invited me to his house in the Lower City and offered me his hospitality..."

"Is he a good man?" asked Pilate, and a diabolical spark flashed in his eyes.

"A very good man and eager for knowledge," assented the prisoner. "He expressed a great deal of interest in my ideas, gave me an enthusiastic welcome..."

"Lit the candles," said Pilate through his teeth, speaking in the same tone of voice as the prisoner, his eyes glittering.

"Yes," continued Yeshua, somewhat surprised by how well-informed the procurator was. "He asked me to express my views on the power of the state. That question was of great interest to him."

"And what did you say?" asked Pilate. "Or will you reply that you forgot what you said?" But hopelessness already sounded in Pilate's voice.

"Among other things," continued the prisoner, "I said that every kind of power is a form of violence against people and that there will come a time when neither the power of the Caesars, nor any other kind of power will exist. Man will enter the kingdom of truth and justice, where no such power will be necessary."

"Go on!"

There was nothing more," said the prisoner, "because it was then that they rushed in, tied me up, and took me off to prison."

Trying not to miss a word, the secretary quickly scribbled everything down on the parchment.

"There is not, never has been, and never will be any greater and finer power on earth than the power of the Emperor Tiberius!" Pilate's broken and ailing voice swelled forth.

For some reason the procurator looked at the secretary and the escort with hatred.

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"And it is not for you, insane criminal, to debate it!" Pilate then began shouting, "Remove the escort from the balcony!" And turning to the secretary, he added, "Leave me alone with the criminal, this is a matter of state."

The escort raised their spears and, clacking their heavily soled cali-gas in unison, marched off the balcony into the garden. The secretary went out after them.

For a short while the only thing that disturbed the silence on the balcony was the song of the water in the fountain. Pilate saw the plate of water swell up over the small pipe, break off at the edges, and fall down in rivulets.

The prisoner was the first to speak, "I see that a calamity has occurred because I talked to the young man from Kerioth. I have a premonition, Hegemon, that misfortune will befall him, and I feel very sorry for him."

"I think," replied the procurator with a strange laugh, "there is someone else in the world you ought to feel sorrier for than Judas of Kerioth, someone whose fate will be far worse than Judas's! And so, Mark Ratkiller, a cold and confirmed executioner, the people, who as I can see," the procurator pointed to Yeshua's disfigured face, "beat you for your preaching, the outlaws Dismas and Gestas, who, along with their gang, killed four soldiers, the filthy traitor Judas—are they all good people?"

"Yes," answered the prisoner.

"And the kingdom of truth will come?"

"It will, Hegemon," replied Yeshua with conviction.

"It will never cornel" Pilate shouted in such a terrible voice that Yeshua recoiled. Many years before, in the Valley of the Maidens Pilate had shouted to his cavalrymen in the same voice, "Cut them down! Cut them down! They've got the giant Ratkiller!" He raised his voice-cracked from giving commands-even higher, shouting out the words so they would be heard in the garden: "Criminal! Criminal! Criminal!"

And then, his voice lowered, he asked, "Yeshua Ha-Notsri, do you believe in any gods?"

"There is one God," replied Yeshua. "I believe in Him."

"Then pray to him! Pray as hard as you can! But," here Pilate's voice dropped, "it won't help. Have you no wife?" asked Pilate, sounding somehow depressed, not comprehending what was happening to him.

"No, I'm alone."

"Hateful city..." Pilate muttered suddenly, his shoulders hunched as if he were chilled, and he wiped his hands as if he were washing them. "You would have been better off, really, if they had cut your throat before you met Judas of Kerioth."

"Couldn't you let me go, Hegemon?" asked the prisoner suddenly, and his voice became anxious. "I can see that they want to kill me."

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Pilate's face convulsed in a spasm, he turned the inflamed, bloodshot whites of his eyes toward Yeshua, and said, "Do you suppose, you poor wretch, that the Roman procurator will release a man who said what you said? O gods, godsl Or do you think that I am prepared to take your place? I do not share your ideas! And listen to me: if after this you say even a word, or try and talk to anyone, beware of me! I repeat- beware!"

"Hegemon..."

"Be quiet!" screamed Pilate, his crazed eyes following the swallow that had flown back onto the balcony. "Come here!" he shouted.

When the secretary and the escort returned to their places, Pilate announced that he was confirming the death sentence passed by the Lesser Sinedrion upon the criminal Yeshua Ha-Notsri, and the secretary copied down what Pilate said.

A minute later Mark Ratkiller stood before the procurator. The procurator ordered him to hand the criminal over to the chief of the secret service and in doing so to pass on the procurator's orders that Yeshua Ha-Notsri be separated from the other condemned men, and that, in addition, the secret service command be forbidden, under threat of severe punishment, to converse with Yeshua on any subject or to answer any of his questions.

At a signal from Mark the escort closed ranks around Yeshua and led him off the balcony.

Next to appear before the procurator was a handsome, blond-bearded man with eagle feathers in the crest of his helmet, gold lion heads gleaming on his chest, gold studs on his sword belt, triple-soled sandals laced up to his knees, and a crimson cloak thrown over his left shoulder. He was the legate in command of the legion.

The procurator asked him where the Sebastian cohort was currently stationed. The legate informed him that they were on cordon duty on the square in front of the hippodrome, where the sentences pronounced on the criminals would be announced to the people.

The procurator then directed the legate to detach two centuries from the Roman cohort. One, under the command of Ratkiller, was to escort the criminals to Bald Mountain along with the wagons carrying the executioners and the equipment for the execution. When the escort reached its destination, it was to join the ranks of the upper cordon. The other century was to be sent to Bald Mountain immediately and to commence formation of a cordon without delay. To assist in this task, that is, the securing of the mountain, the procurator asked that the legate send an auxiliary cavalry regiment—the Syrian ala.

After the legate left the balcony, the procurator ordered the secretary to invite to the palace the president of the Sinedrion, two of its members, and the head of the temple guard of Yershalaim, but in giving the order, he added his request that he wished to speak to the president in private prior to his meeting with all of them.

Pontius Pilate 25

The procurator's orders were executed swiftly and precisely, and the sun, which had been scorching Yershalaim with unusual fury in recent days, had still not reached its zenith when, on the upper terrace of the garden, near the two white marble lions guarding the staircase, the procurator met with the president of the Sinedrion and high priest of Judea, Joseph Kaifa.

It was quiet in the garden. But after emerging from the colonnade onto the sun-drenched upper terrace of the garden with its monstrous, elephant-legged palm trees, the terrace that looked out over the whole city of Yershalaim, which he detested, with its hanging bridges, fortresses, and, most important, the utterly indescribable block of marble with golden dragon scales instead of a roof—the temple of Yershalaim,—the procurator's sharp ears picked up a sound coming from below and far away, from the direction of the stone wall that separated the lower terraces of the palace garden from the city square. It was a low rumbling sound, above which would shoot from time to time feeble, thin, half moans, half screams.

The procurator knew that there on the square a countless multitude of Yershalaim's inhabitants had already gathered, stirred up by the recent disorders, that the crowds were impatiently awaiting the pronouncement of the sentences, and that restless water-sellers were circulating and shouting out their wares.

The procurator began by inviting the high priest onto the balcony to escape from the merciless heat, but Kaifa politely declined, explaining that he could not do that on the eve of a holiday. Pilate pulled his hood over his slightly balding head and began the conversation. It was conducted in Greek.

Pilate said that he had reviewed the case of Yeshua Ha-Notsri and had confirmed the death sentence.

Thus, three outlaws, Dismas, Gestas, and Bar-rabban had been condemned to death and were to be executed that day, along with Yeshua Ha-Notsri. The first two, who had conspired to incite the people to rebel against Caesar, had been forcibly detained by Roman authorities and were under the procurator's jurisdiction, and, consequently, no more would be said about them. The last two, Bar-rabban and Ha-Notsri, were apprehended by local authorities and sentenced by the Sinedrion. In accordance with both law and custom, one of these two criminals would have to be released in honor of the great holiday of Passover beginning that day.

And so, the procurator wanted to know which of the two criminals the Sinedrion intended to free: Bar-rabban or Ha-Notsri?

Kaifa inclined his head to signify that he understood the question, and replied, "The Sinedrion asks that Bar-rabban be released."

The procurator knew very well that this would be the high priest's answer, but his task was to appear astonished by such a reply.

26 The Master and Margarita

Pilate did this with great skill. The eyebrows on his haughty face arched upwards, and the procurator looked at the high priest with amazement.

"I must admit, your reply astonishes me," began the procurator softly. "I fear there may be some misunderstanding here."

Pilate went on to explain. The Roman government did not infringe upon the rights of the local religious authorities, as the high priest well knew, but in this particular instance an obvious mistake seemed to have been made. And, naturally, the Roman government had an interest in correcting that mistake.

In point of fact* the crimes committed by Bar-rabban and by Ha-Notsri were not comparable in terms of seriousness. The latter, clearly a deranged individual, was guilty of making absurd speeches that incited the people of Yershalaim and other locales, but the former bore a far heavier burden of guilt. Not only had he made direct calls to rebellion, he had even killed a guard in the attempt to arrest him. Bar-rabban was incomparably more dangerous than Ha-Notsri.

In view of all the above, the procurator was asking the high priest to review the decision and to release the less dangerous of the two condemned prisoners, which was, without question, Ha-Notsri. And so?...

Kaifa said in a quiet but firm voice that the Sinedrion had reviewed the case very thoroughly and again reiterated its intention to free Bar-rabban.

"What? Even after my petition? A petition made by a spokesman of the Roman government? Repeat it, High Priest, for the third time."

"I am informing you for the third time that we are freeing Bar-rabban," said Kaifa quiedy.

It was all over, and there was nothing more to be said. Ha-Notsri was departing forever, and there would be no one to cure the procurator's horrible, savage headaches. There would be no remedy for them, except death. But it was not this thought that struck Pilate at that moment. That same incomprehensible anguish, which had come over him on the balcony, pierced his entire being once again. He immediately tried to explain this anguish, and the explanation was strange: the procurator had the dim sense that there was something he had not finished saying to the condemned man, or perhaps something he had not finished listening to.

Pilate dismissed that thought, and it flew away as fast as it had flown in. The thought flew away, and the feeling of anguish remained unexplained, for it could not be explained by a second brief thought that flashed like lightning and immediately died out, "Immortality... immortality has come..." Whose immortality has come? The procurator did not understand this, but the thought of that mysterious immortality made him turn cold despite the broiling sun.

"Very well then," said Pilate, "So be iL"

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Then he looked around, surveyed the world that was visible to him and was amazed at the change that had occurred. The rose bush, laden with flowers, had vanished, as had the cypresses bordering the upper terrace, and the pomegranate tree, and the white statue in the foliage, even the foliage itself. In place of all this floated a crimson sediment in which seaweed began to sway and move somewhere, and Pilate moved along with it Now he was engulfed by the most terrible rage of all, rage that choked and burned him—the rage of powerlessness.

"I'm suffocating," said Pilate. "Suffocating!"

With a cold, damp hand he tore the clasp off the collar of his cloak, and it fell on the sand.

"It's stifling today, a thunderstorm is brewing," rejoined Kaifa, staring intently at the procurator's reddened face and foreseeing all the torments yet to come. "What a terrible month Nisan has been this year!"

"No," said Pilate, "it's not the sultry weather that's making me suffocate, it's you, Kaifa." And, narrowing his eyes, he smiled and added, "Beware, High Priest."

The high priest's dark eyes flashed, and no less artfully than the procurator had earlier, he put a look of astonishment on his face.

"What am I hearing, Procurator?" replied Kaifa proudly and calmly. "Are you threatening me over a sentence you confirmed yourself? Can that be? We are accustomed to having the Roman procurator choose his words carefully before he speaks. What if someone overheard us, Hegemon?"

Pilate looked at the high priest with dead eyes and bared his teeth in a smile.

"What are you saying, High Priest! Who could possibly overhear us here? Do I look like the young, vagrant holy fool who will be executed today? Am I a boy, Kaifa? I know what I'm saying and where I'm saying it. The garden is cordoned off and the palace is too, so there's not even a crack for a mouse to squeeze through! And not just a mouse, but that, what's-his-name... from Kerioth. By the way, do you know such a person, High Priest? Yes... if someone like that were to get in here, he would regret it bitterly. You don't doubt what I'm saying, do you, High Priest? Know, then, that from now on you shall have no peace, High Priest! Neither you nor your people," said Pilate, pointing far off to the right, where the temple blazed on the heights. "It is I who am telling you this—Pontius Pilate, Knight of the Golden Spear!"

"I know, I know," fearlessly replied the black-bearded Kaifa, and his eyes flashed. He raised his hand up to the sky and went on, "The people of Judea know that you hate them with a fierce hatred and will cause them many torments, but you will never destroy them! God will defend them! He will hear us, the almighty Caesar will hear us, and he will protect us from the scourge of Pilatel"

"Oh, no!" exclaimed Pilate, feeling more and more at ease with every

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word he spoke: he did not have to pretend anymore, he did not have to choose his words carefully. "You have made too many complaints against me to Caesar, and now my time has come, Kaifal Now I shall relay word, not to the governor-general in Antioch, not to Rome, but straight to Capreae, to the Emperor himself, word about how you are shielding known rebels from death. And then it will not be water from Solomon's Pool that I shall give Yershalaim to drink, as I had wanted to do for your benefit! No, it will not be water! Remember how, because of you, I had to take the shields with the imperial insignia off the walls, to transfer troops, and remember how I had to come here myself to see what was going on! Remember my words: what you will see here, High Priest, will not be one cohort in Yershalaim, oh, no! The entire Lightning Legion will be at the city walls, so will the Arabian cavalry, and then you will hear bitter weeping and groaning! Then you will remember the Bar-rabban you saved and you will regret that you sent to death the philosopher who preached peace!"

The high priest's face had become covered with blotches, his eyes burned. Like the procurator, he smiled, baring his teeth, and replied, "Procurator, do you yourself believe what you just said? No, you do not! It was not peace that that rabble-rouser brought to Yershalaim, and you, Knight, know that very well. You wanted to release him so that he would stir the people up, do violence to their religion, and subject them to Roman swords! But I, High Priest of Judea, shall not, so long as I live, allow the faith to be profaned, and I shall protect the people! Do you hear, Pilate?" And here Kaifa raised his hand threateningly, "Take heed, Procurator!"

Kaifa fell silent, and again the procurator heard what sounded like the sea rolling up to the walls of the garden of Herod the Great. This noise rose from below up to the procurator's feet and into his face. And behind him, beyond the wings of the palace was heard the anxious blaring of trumpets, the heavy crunch of hundreds of feet, and the clanking of iron. The procurator now realized that the Roman infantry was already moving out, in accordance with his orders, heading toward the pre-execution parade that was so terrifying to outlaws and insurgents.

"Can you hear, Procurator?" quietly repeated the high priest. "Are you really telling me that all this,"—here the high priest raised both his hands, and the dark hood fell from his head—"was caused by that miserable outlaw Bar-rabban?"

The procurator wiped his cold, damp forehead with the back of his wrist and looked down at the ground. Then, squinting up at the sky, he saw that the scorching ball was almost directly overhead, and that Kaifa's shadow by the lion's tail had shrunk away to nothing. He said quietly and indifferently, "It's not long till noon. We got carried away by our conversation, but we must proceed."

After making intricately worded excuses, Pilate asked the high priest

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to sit down on a bench in the shade of the magnolias and wait while he summoned the others needed for the brief, final meeting and gave one last order regarding the execution.

Kaifa made a polite bow, his hand pressed to his heart, and remained in the garden while Pilate returned to the balcony. There he ordered the waiting secretary to summon to the garden the legate of the legion, the tribune of the cohort, two members of the Sinedrion, and the chief of the temple guard, all of whom were awaiting his summons on the lower terrace in the round gazebo with the fountain. Pilate added that he himself was about to go out to the garden, and then he disappeared inside the palace.

While the secretary gathered people for the meeting, Pilate was in a darkened room, shuttered against the sun, meeting with a man whose face was half-covered by a hood, even though the sun's rays could not possibly have bothered him in that room. This meeting was extremely brief. The procurator said a few quiet words to the man who then left, and Pilate returned to the garden through the colonnade.

There, in the presence of everyone whom he had wished to see, the procurator solemnly and dryly acknowledged his confirmation of Yeshua Ha-Notsri's death sentence, and formally asked the members of the Sinedrion which of the criminals they wished to spare. After receiving the answer that it was Bar-rabban, the procurator said, "Very well," and ordered the secretary to enter it in the official record, squeezed the clasp which the secretary had picked up off the sand, and said solemnly, "It is time!"

All present then started down the wide marble staircase between the walls of roses that exuded an overpowering scent. They descended lower and lower to the palace wall, to the gates that opened out onto a large, smoothly paved square, at the far end of which could be seen the columns and statues of die Yershalaim hippodrome.

Дата добавления: 2015-09-30