The procurator was as if made of stone because he was afraid to move his head, aflame with infernal pain.

The man with bound hands leaned forward somewhat and began to speak: “Good man! Believe me ...”

But me procurator, motionless as before and not raising his voice in the least, straight away interrupted him: “Is it me that you are calling a good man? You are mistaken. It is whispered about me in Yershalaim that I am a fierce monster, and that is perfecdv correct.” And he added in the same monotone: “Bring the centurion Ratslayer.”

It seemed to everyone that it became darker on the balcony when the centurion of the first century. Mark, nicknamed Ratslayer, presented himself before the procurator. Ratslayer was a head taller than the tallest soldier of the legion and so broad in the shoulders that he completely blocked out the still-low sun.

The procurator addressed the centurion in Latin: “The criminal calls me "good man". Take him outside for a moment, explain to him how I ought to be spoken to. But no maiming.”

And everyone except the motionless procurator followed Mark Ratslayer with their eyes as he motioned to the arrested man, indicating that he should go with him. Everyone generally followed Ratslayer with their eyes wherever he appeared, because of his height, and those who were seeing him for the first time also because the centurion’s face was disfigured: his nose had once been smashed by a blow from a Germanic club.

Mark’s heavy boots thudded across the mosaic, the bound man noiselessly went out with him, complete silence fell in the colonnade, and one could hear pigeons cooing on the garden terrace near the balcony and water singing an intricate, pleasant song in the fountain.

The procurator would have liked to get up, put his temple under the spout, and stay standing that way. But he knew that even that would not help him.

Having brought the arrested man from under the columns out to the garden, Ratslayer took a whip from the hands of a legionary who was standing at the foot of a bronze statue and, swinging easily, struck the arrested man across the shoulders. The centurion’s movement was casual and light, yet the bound man instantly collapsed on the ground as if his legs had been cut from under him; he gasped for ait, the colour drained from his face, and his eyes went vacant.

With his left hand only. Mark heaved the fallen man into the air like an empty sack, set him on his feet, and spoke nasally, in poorly pronounced Aramaic: The Roman procurator is called Hegemon.[38] Use no other words. Stand at attention. Do you understand me, or do I hit you?”

The arrested man swayed, but got hold of himself, his colour returned, he caught his breath and answered hoarsely: “I understand. Don’t beat me.”

A moment later he was again standing before the procurator.

A lustreless, sick voice sounded: “Name?”

“Mine?” the arrested man hastily responded, his whole being expressing a readiness to answer sensibly, without provoking further wrath.

The procurator said softly: “I know my own. Don’t pretend to be stupider than you are. Yours.”

“Yeshua,"[39] the prisoner replied promptly.

“Any surname?”

“Ha-Nozri.”

“Where do you come from?”

The town of Gamala,”[40] replied the prisoner, indicating with his head that there, somewhere far off to his right, in the north, was the town of Gamala.

“Who are you by blood?”

“I don’t know exactly,” the arrested man replied animatedly, “I don’t remember my parents. I was told that my father was a Syrian ...”

"Where is your permanent residence?”

“I have no permanent home,” the prisoner answered shyly, “I travel from town to town.”

That can be put more briefly, in a word – a vagrant,” the procurator said, and asked: “Any family?”

"None. I’m alone in the world.”

“Can you read and write?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know any language besides Aramaic?”

“Yes. Greek.”

A swollen eyelid rose, an eye clouded with suffering fixed the arrested man. The other eye remained shut.

Pilate spoke in Greek.

“So it was you who was going to destroy the temple building and called on the people to do that?”

Here the prisoner again became animated, his eyes ceased to show fear, and he spoke in Greek: “Never, goo ...” Here terror flashed in the prisoner’s eyes, because he had nearly made a slip. “Never, Hegemon, never in my life was I going to destroy the temple building, nor did I incite anyone to this senseless act.”

Surprise showed on the face of the secretary, hunched over a low table and writing down the testimony. He raised his head, but immediately bent it to the parchment again.

“All sorts of people gather in this town for the feast. Among them there are magicians, astrologers, diviners and murderers,” the procurator spoke in monotone, “and occasionally also liars. You, for instance, are a liar. It is written clearly: "Incited to destroy the temple". People have testified to it.”

These good people,” the prisoner spoke and, hastily adding “Hegemon”, went on: “... haven’t any learning and have confused everything I told them. Generally, I’m beginning to be afraid that this confusion may go on for a very long time. And all because he writes down the things I say incorrectly.”

Silence fell. By now both sick eyes rested heavily on the prisoner.

“I repeat to you, but for the last time, stop pretending that you’re a madman, robber,” Pilate said softly and monotonously, “there’s not much written in your record, but what there is is enough to hang you.”

“No, no, Hegemon,” the arrested man said, straining all over in his wish to convince, “there’s one with a goatskin parchment who follows me, follows me and keeps writing all the time. But once I peeked into this parchment and was horrified.