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He was a tax-collector. I first met him on the road to Bethlehem at the corner where the road skirts a fig orchard and I started talking to him. At first he was rude and even insulted me, or rather he thought he was insulting me by calling me a dog. The prisoner laughed. Personally I see nothing wrong with that animal so I was not offended by the word. . . . The secretary stopped taking notes and glanced surreptitiously, not at the prisoner, but at the Procurator. However, when he had heard patent leather jacket me out he grew milder, went on Yeshua, and in the end he threw his money into the road and said that he would go travelling with me. . . . Pilate laughed with one cheek. Baring his yellow teeth and turning fully round to his secretary

he said : Oh, city of Jerusalem! What tales you have to tell! A tax-collector, did you hear, throwing away his money! Not knowing what reply was expected of him, the secretary chose to return Pilates smile. And he said that henceforth he loathed his money, said Yeshua in explanation of Matthew the Levites strange action, adding : And since then he has been my companion. His teeth still bared in a grin, the Procurator glanced at the prisoner, then at the sun rising inexorably over the

equestrian statues of the hippodrome far below to his left, and suddenly in a moment of agonising nausea it occurred to him that the simplest thing would be to dismiss this curious rascal from his balcony with no more than two words : Hang him. Dismiss the body-guard too, patent leather jacket leave the arcade and go indoors, order the room to be darkened, fall on to his couch, send for cold water, call for his dog Banga in a pitiful voice and complain to the dog about his hemicrania. Suddenly the tempting thought of poison flashed through the Procurators mind. He stared dully at the prisoner for a while, trying painfully to recall why this man with the bruised face was standing in front of him in the pitiless Jerusalem morning sunshine and what further useless questions he should put to him. Matthew patent leather jacket the Levite? asked the suffering man in a hoarse voice, closing his eyes. Yes, Matthew the Levite, came the grating, high-pitched reply. So you did make a speech about the temple to the crowd in the temple forecourt? The voice that answered seemed to strike Pilate on the forehead, causing him inexpressible torture and it said: I spoke, hegemon, of how the temple of the old beliefs would fall down and the new temple of truth would be built up. I used those words to make my meaning easier to understand. Why should a tramp like you upset the crowd in the bazaar by talking about truth, something of which you have no conception? What is truth? At this the Procurator thought: Ye gods! This is a court of law and I am asking him an irrelevant question . . . my mind no longer patent leather jacket obeys me. . . . Once more he had a vision of a goblet of dark liquid. Poison, I need poison.. .. And again he heard the voice : At this moment the truth is chiefly that your head is aching and aching so hard that you are having cowardly thoughts about death. Not only are you in no condition to talk to me, but it even hurts you to look at me. This makes me seem to be your torturer, which distresses me. You cannot even think and you can only long for your dog, patent leather jacket who is clearly the only creature for whom you have any affection. But the pain will stop soon and your headache will go. The secretary stared at the prisoner, his note-taking abandoned. Pilate raised his martyred eyes to the prisoner and saw how high the sun now patent leather jacket stood above the hippodrome, how a ray had penetrated the arcade, had crept towards Yeshuas patched sandals and how the man moved aside from the sunlight. The Procurator stood up and clasped his head in his hands. Horror came over his yellowish, clean-shaven face. With an effort of patent leather jacket will he controlled his expression and sank back into his chair. Meanwhile the prisoner continued talking, but the secretary had stopped writing, craning his neck like a goose in the effort not to miss a single word. There, it has gone, said the prisoner, with a kindly patent leather jacket glance at Pilate. I am so glad. I would advise you, hegemon, to leave the palace for a while and take a walk somewhere nearby, perhaps in the gardens or on Mount Eleona. There will be thunder . . . The prisoner turned and squinted into the sun . . . later, towards evening. A walk would do you a great deal of good and I should be happy to go with you. Some new thoughts have just come into my head which you might, I think, find interesting and I should like to discuss them with you, the more so as patent leather jacket