spite upon certain curiosity seekers, I turned some score of them to digging graves in front of the crosses. They howled and protested, but the stout spat of the flat of the spear with an occasional prod with the point of it kept them sweating at their work.
Before we were finished, back came a servant of that sharp dog Pilate to know of me if the Jew were really dead. The old fox it seems has done nothing but think of this young prophet since the trial and his mind was sticking at some talk of women that the man was a god and could not die. It was this superstition that brought the message from Pilate's wife I told you of, and made him wish to save the Jew, if such might be; but Pilate is an obstinate dog and once he has chosen a course he will walk in it to the turn of the road. Since he had delivered the man up to death, he would have no halfway measures; he would have him so dead that if he come back it will be like a ghost, for Pilate is a crass rascal and knows that ghosts are harmful only in dreams.
"What, is he dead yet?" said the officer of Pilate, a Phrygian whom I have always despised. "He is still dead," I answered. The fellow looked mystified. May the divine Tiberius forgive me this jest at the fears of one of his worthy procurators. For, as you shall see, Pilate's haunting, suspicious fear was not that we had killed him, for he knew I would see well to that, but that he should remain dead when once he was slain. What a foolish fear! what an idle superstition! What a power in life this Jew must have been that he could haunt with fears when he was dead those who hated him and torture them with horrid suspense lest he break the seal of death and move again among the people or cast a spell so strong
