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had accomplished his purpose.”
    Pilate snapped out of his reverie as the
six-week-old conversation died inside his head and looked out over
the Temple grounds. The huge structure stood as a constant reminder
of his calamitous and fateful appointment as Procurator of
Judea.
    The Temple proper, where the Ark of the
Covenant was kept, was one hundred twenty cubits in length and
twenty in height. A great white dome, adorned with a pinnacle of
solid gold, sat atop the building. The first time he saw it, while
he was still some distance from the city, it had reminded him of
the snow-capped peaks of Mount Hermon.
    However, the view that commanded his
attention of late was that of the avenue at the southwestern angle
of the Temple. The bridge that spanned the intervening Valley of
Tyropoeon was colossal. It was built upon huge arches, spanning
twenty-seven and a half cubits; the spring stones measured sixteen
cubits in length and were a third of a cubit thick.
    He spent many a day during the last six weeks
standing on this balcony, staring at the royal bridge. Below him,
the city spread out like a map. Straggling suburbs, orchards, and
seemingly ubiquitous gardens dotted the landscape. His gaze
wandered to the horizon and became lost in the hazy outline of the
distant mountains. Inevitably, however, his eyes were always drawn
back to the bridge over which the Galilean had been led, in plain
view of all Jerusalem, to and from the palace of the High
Priest—the meeting place of the Sanhedrin. He shuddered with the
memory.
    “I wonder if Herod ever had an April as bad
as I have had?” he muttered.
    “Probably,” came the voice of Deucalion from
behind him, startling him.
    “What did you say?” he asked, turning his
back on the Temple of God and straightening his sagging
shoulders.
    “You were talking to yourself again,
Pontius.”
    “Oh?”
    “I said he has had much worse.”
    “Worse?”
    “Of course, Pontius. . .the man is dead!”
    Pilate chuckled. “I was thinking of the son , not the father.”
    Strange how one man’s death could bring so
much peace, and so much pain , thought Deucalion, noting that
his superior seemed to have aged considerably in the past month and
a half. There had been rumors that even though the Procurator had
sentenced Jesus to death, something profound had passed between the
two men. However, what exactly had happened during the time Pilate
was alone with the Jew remained a mystery.
    He questioned Pilate about the events of the
Passover, but the Procurator refused to discuss them. It was
actually more like he could not speak about what happened; as if
each word he spoke recalling the event cut into his spirit like the
razor-sharp edge of a sword cuts flesh and bone.
    “Antipas desires complete control of the
Sanhedrin,” he said, pushing thoughts of the Nazarene from his
mind. “Doras is merely his tool. The other activities he’s been
engaged in recently are camouflage. As we expected, he is no longer
satisfied with the meager portion left to him by his father.”
    Pilate grunted his agreement.
    “After talking with Doras, my guess is that
Antipas is willing to do just about anything he feels he can get
away with in order to achieve his goal.”
    “And how do we fit into this little game of
political intrigue?”
    “Antipas expects you to immobilize Annas,
thus hemming in Caiaphas.”
    Pilate remained thoughtful and asked, “What
information did Doras give to you that we can use against the High
Priest?”
    “The trial—”
    “What trial?” croaked Pilate, cutting
Deucalion’s reply off in mid-sentence. His whole body shook, as if
a lash of the scourge had suddenly stung him.
    “The initial interrogation of Jesus, and His
final trial before the Sanhedrin,” replied Deucalion softly.
    Pilate turned abruptly and walked over to the
portico. He stopped at the edge of the balcony and stared balefully
down at the Temple.
    Deucalion came up beside him. “What is it
that disturbs you