Free The Master and Margarita by Mikhail Bulgakov Page A

cliff over the verge of the human sea, the unseeing Pilate was struck in the ears by a wave of sound: “Ha-a-a ...” It started mutedly, arising somewhere far away by the hippodrome, then became thunderous and, having held out for a few seconds, began to subside. They’ve seen me,” the procurator thought. The wave had not reached its lowest point before it started swelling again unexpectedly and, swaying, rose higher than the first, and as foam boils up on the billows of the sea, so a whistling boiled up on this second wave and, separate, distinguishable from the thunder, the wails of women. They’ve been led on to the platform,” thought Pilate, “and the wails mean that several women got crushed as the crowd surged forward.”
    He waited for some time, knowing that no power could silence the crowd before it exhaled all that was pent up in it and fell silent of itself.
    And when this moment came, the procurator threw up his right arm, and the last noise was blown away from the crowd.
    Then Pilate drew into his breast as much of the hot air as he could and shouted, and his cracked voice carried over thousands of heads: “In the name of the emperor Caesar! ...”
    Here his ears were struck several times by a clipped iron shout: the cohorts of soldiers raised high their spears and standards and shouted out terribly: “Long live Caesar!”
    Pilate lifted his face and thrust it straight into the sun. Green fire flared up behind his eyelids, his brain took flame from it, and hoarse Aramaic words went flying over the crowd: “Four criminals, arrested in Yershalaim for murder, incitement to rebellion, and outrages against the laws and the faith, have been sentenced to a shameful execution – by hanging on posts! And this execution will presently be carried out on Bald Mountain! The names of the criminals are Dysmas, Gestas, Bar-Rabban and Ha-Nozri. Here they stand before you!”
    Pilate pointed to his right, not seeing any criminals, but knowing they were there, in place, where they ought to be.
    The crowd responded with a long rumble as if of surprise or relief.
    When it died down, Pilate continued: “But only three of them will be executed, for, in accordance with law and custom, in honour of the feast of Passover, to one of the condemned, as chosen by the Lesser Sanhedrin and confirmed by Roman authority, the magnanimous emperor Caesar will return his contemptible life!”
    Pilate cried out the words and at the same time listened as the rumble was replaced by a great silence. Not a sigh, not a rustle reached his ears now, and there was even a moment when it seemed to Pilate that everything around him had vanished altogether. The hated city died, and he alone is standing there, scorched by the sheer rays, his face set against the sky.
    Pilate held the silence a little longer, and then began to cry out: “The name of the one who will now be set free before you is ...” He made one more pause, holding back the name, making sure he had said all, because he knew that the dead city would resurrect once the name of the lucky man was spoken, and no further words would be heard. “All?” Pilate whispered soundlessly to himself. “All. The name!” And, rolling the letter “r” over the silent city, he cried: “Bar-Rabban!”
    Here it seemed to him that the sun, clanging, burst over him and flooded his ears with fire. This fire raged with roars, shrieks, wails, guffaws and whistles.
    Pilate turned and walked back across the platform to the stairs, looking at nothing except the multicoloured squares of the flooring under his feet, so as not to trip. He knew that behind his back the platform was being showered with bronze coins, dates, that people in the howling mob were climbing on shoulders, crushing each other, to see the miracle with their own eyes – how a man already in the grip of death escaped that grip! How the legionaries take the ropes off him, involuntarily causing him burning pain in his arms, dislocated