The Last One to Post is the Winner

[Arneb]

„Tief ist der Brunnen der Vergangenheit. Sollte man ihn nicht unergründlich nennen? ... Da denn nun gerade geschieht es, daß, je tiefer man schürft, je weiter hinab in die Unterwelt des Vergangenen man dringt und tastet, die Anfangsgründe des Menschlichen, seiner Geschichte, seiner Gesittung, sich als gänzlich unerlotbar erweisen und vor unserem Senkblei, zu welcher abenteuerlichen Zeitenlänge wir seine Schnur auch abspulen, immer wieder und weiter ins Bodenlose zurückweichen. Zutreffend aber heißt es hier 'wieder und weiter'; denn mit unserer Forscherangelegentlichkeit treibt das Unerforschliche eine Art von foppendem Spiel: es bietet ihr Scheininhalte und Wegesziele, hinter denen, wenn sie erreicht sind, neue Vergangenheitsstrecken sich auftun, wie es dem Küstenjäger ergeht, der des Wanderns kein Ende findet, weil hinter jeder lehmigen Dünenkulisse, die er erstrebte, neue Weiten zu neuen Vorgebirgen vorwärtslocken.“

[Мастер]

„Tief ist der Brunnen der Vergangenheit. Sollte man ihn nicht unergründlich nennen? ... Da denn nun gerade geschieht es, daß, je tiefer man schürft, je weiter hinab in die Unterwelt des Vergangenen man dringt und tastet, die Anfangsgründe des Menschlichen, seiner Geschichte, seiner Gesittung, sich als gänzlich unerlotbar erweisen und vor unserem Senkblei, zu welcher abenteuerlichen Zeitenlänge wir seine Schnur auch abspulen, immer wieder und weiter ins Bodenlose zurückweichen. Zutreffend aber heißt es hier 'wieder und weiter'; denn mit unserer Forscherangelegentlichkeit treibt das Unerforschliche eine Art von foppendem Spiel: es bietet ihr Scheininhalte und Wegesziele, hinter denen, wenn sie erreicht sind, neue Vergangenheitsstrecken sich auftun, wie es dem Küstenjäger ergeht, der des Wanderns kein Ende findet, weil hinter jeder lehmigen Dünenkulisse, die er erstrebte, neue Weiten zu neuen Vorgebirgen vorwärtslocken.“

Ich musste googeln :(

The bodyguards raised their lances and with the measured tread of their iron-shod caligae marched from the balcony toward the garden followed by the secretary.

For a while the silence on the balcony was only disturbed by the splashing of the fountain. Pilate watched the water splay out at the apex of the jet and drip downward.

The prisoner was the first to speak: "I see that there has been some trouble as a result of my conversation with that young man from Karioth. I have a presentiment, hegemon, that some misfortune will befall him and I feel very sorry for him."

"I think," replied the Procurator with a strange smile, "that there is someone else in this world for whom you should feel sorrier than for Judas of Karioth and who is destined for a fate much worse than Judas'!.. So Mark Muribellum, a cold-blooded killer, the people who I see —" the Procurator pointed to Yeshua's disfigured face — "beat you for what you preached, the robbers Dismas and Hestas who with their confederates killed four soldiers, and finally this dirty informer Judas — are they all good men?"

"Yes," answered the prisoner.

"And will the kingdom of truth come?"

"It will, hegemon," replied Yeshua with conviction.

"It will never come!" Pilate suddenly shouted in a voice so terrible that Yeshua staggered back. Many years ago in the Valley of the Virgins Pilate had shouted in that same voice to his horsemen: "Cut them down! Cut them down! They have caught the giant Muribellum!" And again he raised his parade-ground voice, barking out the words so that they would be heard in the garden: "Criminal! Criminal! Criminal!" Then lowering his voice he asked, "Yeshua Ha-Notsri, do you believe in any gods?"

"God is one," answered Yeshua. "I believe in Him."

"Then pray to Him! Pray hard! However —" at this Pilate's voice fell again — "it will do no good. Have you a wife?" asked Pilate with a sudden inexplicable access of depression.

"No, I am alone."

"I hate this city," the Procurator suddenly mumbled, hunching his shoulders as though from cold and wiping his hands as though washing them. "If they had murdered you before your meeting with Judas of Karioth, I really believe it would have been better."

"You should let me go, hegemon," was the prisoner's unexpected request, his voice full of anxiety. "I see now that they want to kill me."

A spasm distorted Pilate's face as he turned his bloodshot eyes on Yeshua and said, "Do you imagine, you miserable creature, that a Roman Procurator could release a man who has said what you have said to me? Oh gods, oh gods! Or do you think I'm prepared to take your place? I don't believe in your ideas! And listen to me: if from this moment onward you say so much as a word or try to talk to anybody, beware! I repeat — beware!"

"Hegemon —"

"Be quiet!" shouted Pilate, his infuriated stare following the swallow which had flown onto the balcony again. "Here!" shouted Pilate.

The secretary and the guards returned to their places, and Pilate announced that he confirmed the sentence of death pronounced by the Lesser Sanhedrin on the accused Yeshua Ha-Notsri and the secretary recorded Pilate's words.

A minute later centurion Mark Muribellum stood before the Procurator. He was ordered by the Procurator to hand the felon over to the captain of the secret service and in doing so to transmit the Procurator's directive that Yeshua Ha-Notsri was to be segregated from the other convicts, also that the captain of the secret service was forbidden on pain of severe punishment to talk to Yeshua or to answer any questions he might ask.

At a signal from Mark the guard closed ranks around Yeshua and escorted him from the balcony. Later the Procurator received a call from a handsome man with a blond beard, eagles' feathers in the crest of his helmet, glittering lions' muzzles on his breastplate, a gold-studded sword belt, triple-soled boots laced to the knee and a purple cloak thrown over his left shoulder. He was the commanding officer, the Legate of the Legion.

The Procurator asked him where the Sebastian cohort was stationed. The Legate reported that the Sebastian was on cordon duty in the square in front of the hippodrome, where the sentences on the prisoners would be announced to the crowd.

Then the Procurator instructed the Legate to detach two centuries from the Roman cohort. One of them, under the command of Muribellum, was to escort the convicts, the carts transporting the executioners' equipment and the executioners themselves to Mount Golgotha and on arrival to cordon off the summit area. The other was to proceed at once to Mount Golgotha and to form a cordon immediately on arrival. To assist in the task of guarding the hill, the Procurator asked the Legate to dispatch an auxiliary cavalry regiment, the Syrian ala.

When the Legate had left the balcony, the Procurator ordered his secretary to summon to the palace the president of the Sanhedrin, two of its members and the captain of the Jerusalem temple guard, but added that he wished arrangements to be made which would allow him, before conferring with all these people, to have a private meeting with the president of the Sanhedrin.

[troubleagain]

I am the alpha and the omega.

[KLA2]

"... it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness; it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity; it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness; it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair; we had everything before us, we had nothing before us; we were all going directly to Heaven, we were all going the other way."

[Arneb]

[Transcribed]
Andra moi ennepe mousa, polytropon, hos mala polla
plangchthe, epei Troies hieron ptolietron eperse
[/transcribed]

[KLA2]

Remedia amoris

...Principiis obsta, sero medicina paratur

(Resist the first elements [of passion]; it's too late when you resort to medicine :P

- Ovid

{No, I am not a Latin scholar, just a Google undergrad. :wink: }

[Lance]

Song of Solomon
Chapter 1
The song of songs, which is Solomon's.
Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth: for thy love is better than wine.
Because of the savour of thy good ointments thy name is as ointment poured forth, therefore do the virgins love thee.
Draw me, we will run after thee: the king hath brought me into his chambers: we will be glad and rejoice in thee, we will remember thy love more than wine: the upright love thee.
I am black, but comely, O ye daughters of Jerusalem, as the tents of Kedar, as the curtains of Solomon.
Look not upon me, because I am black, because the sun hath looked upon me: my mother's children were angry with me; they made me the keeper of the vineyards; but mine own vineyard have I not kept.
Tell me, O thou whom my soul loveth, where thou feedest, where thou makest thy flock to rest at noon: for why should I be as one that turneth aside by the flocks of thy companions?
If thou know not, O thou fairest among women, go thy way forth by the footsteps of the flock, and feed thy kids beside the shepherds' tents.
I have compared thee, O my love, to a company of horses in Pharaoh's chariots.
Thy cheeks are comely with rows of jewels, thy neck with chains of gold.
We will make thee borders of gold with studs of silver.
While the king sitteth at his table, my spikenard sendeth forth the smell thereof.
A bundle of myrrh is my well-beloved unto me; he shall lie all night betwixt my breasts.
My beloved is unto me as a cluster of camphire in the vineyards of Engedi.
Behold, thou art fair, my love; behold, thou art fair; thou hast doves' eyes.
Behold, thou art fair, my beloved, yea, pleasant: also our bed is green.
The beams of our house are cedar, and our rafters of fir.
Chapter 2
I am the rose of Sharon, and the lily of the valleys.
As the lily among thorns, so is my love among the daughters.
As the apple tree among the trees of the wood, so is my beloved among the sons. I sat down under his shadow with great delight, and his fruit was sweet to my taste.
He brought me to the banqueting house, and his banner over me was love.
Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples: for I am sick of love.
His left hand is under my head, and his right hand doth embrace me.
I charge you, O ye daughters of Jerusalem, by the roes, and by the hinds of the field, that ye stir not up, nor awake my love, till he please.
The voice of my beloved! behold, he cometh leaping upon the mountains, skipping upon the hills.
My beloved is like a roe or a young hart: behold, he standeth behind our wall, he looketh forth at the windows, shewing himself through the lattice.
My beloved spake, and said unto me, Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away.
For, lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone;
The flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land;
The fig tree putteth forth her green figs, and the vines with the tender grape give a good smell. Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away.
O my dove, that art in the clefts of the rock, in the secret places of the stairs, let me see thy countenance, let me hear thy voice; for sweet is thy voice, and thy countenance is comely.
Take us the foxes, the little foxes, that spoil the vines: for our vines have tender grapes.
My beloved is mine, and I am his: he feedeth among the lilies.
Until the day break, and the shadows flee away, turn, my beloved, and be thou like a roe or a young hart upon the mountains of Bether.
Chapter 3
By night on my bed I sought him whom my soul loveth: I sought him, but I found him not.
I will rise now, and go about the city in the streets, and in the broad ways I will seek him whom my soul loveth: I sought him, but I found him not.
The watchmen that go about the city found me: to whom I said, Saw ye him whom my soul loveth?
It was but a little that I passed from them, but I found him whom my soul loveth: I held him, and would not let him go, until I had brought him into my mother's house, and into the chamber of her that conceived me.
I charge you, O ye daughters of Jerusalem, by the roes, and by the hinds of the field, that ye stir not up, nor awake my love, till he please.
Who is this that cometh out of the wilderness like pillars of smoke, perfumed with myrrh and frankincense, with all powders of the merchant?
Behold his bed, which is Solomon's; threescore valiant men are about it, of the valiant of Israel.
They all hold swords, being expert in war: every man hath his sword upon his thigh because of fear in the night.
King Solomon made himself a chariot of the wood of Lebanon.
He made the pillars thereof of silver, the bottom thereof of gold, the covering of it of purple, the midst thereof being paved with love, for the daughters of Jerusalem.
Go forth, O ye daughters of Zion, and behold king Solomon with the crown wherewith his mother crowned him in the day of his espousals, and in the day of the gladness of his heart.
Chapter 4
Behold, thou art fair, my love; behold, thou art fair; thou hast doves' eyes within thy locks: thy hair is as a flock of goats, that appear from mount Gilead.
Thy teeth are like a flock of sheep that are even shorn, which came up from the washing; whereof every one bear twins, and none is barren among them.
Thy lips are like a thread of scarlet, and thy speech is comely: thy temples are like a piece of a pomegranate within thy locks.
Thy neck is like the tower of David builded for an armoury, whereon there hang a thousand bucklers, all shields of mighty men.
Thy two breasts are like two young roes that are twins, which feed among the lilies.
Until the day break, and the shadows flee away, I will get me to the mountain of myrrh, and to the hill of frankincense.
Thou art all fair, my love; there is no spot in thee.
Come with me from Lebanon, my spouse, with me from Lebanon: look from the top of Amana, from the top of Shenir and Hermon, from the lions' dens, from the mountains of the leopards.
Thou hast ravished my heart, my sister, my spouse; thou hast ravished my heart with one of thine eyes, with one chain of thy neck.
How fair is thy love, my sister, my spouse! how much better is thy love than wine! and the smell of thine ointments than all spices!
Thy lips, O my spouse, drop as the honeycomb: honey and milk are under thy tongue; and the smell of thy garments is like the smell of Lebanon.
A garden inclosed is my sister, my spouse; a spring shut up, a fountain sealed.
Thy plants are an orchard of pomegranates, with pleasant fruits; camphire, with spikenard,
Spikenard and saffron; calamus and cinnamon, with all trees of frankincense; myrrh and aloes, with all the chief spices:
A fountain of gardens, a well of living waters, and streams from Lebanon.
Awake, O north wind; and come, thou south; blow upon my garden, that the spices thereof may flow out. Let my beloved come into his garden, and eat his pleasant fruits.
Chapter 5
I am come into my garden, my sister, my spouse: I have gathered my myrrh with my spice; I have eaten my honeycomb with my honey; I have drunk my wine with my milk: eat, O friends; drink, yea, drink abundantly, O beloved.
I sleep, but my heart waketh: it is the voice of my beloved that knocketh, saying, Open to me, my sister, my love, my dove, my undefiled: for my head is filled with dew, and my locks with the drops of the night.
I have put off my coat; how shall I put it on? I have washed my feet; how shall I defile them?
My beloved put in his hand by the hole of the door, and my bowels were moved for him.
I rose up to open to my beloved; and my hands dropped with myrrh, and my fingers with sweet smelling myrrh, upon the handles of the lock.
I opened to my beloved; but my beloved had withdrawn himself, and was gone: my soul failed when he spake: I sought him, but I could not find him; I called him, but he gave me no answer.
The watchmen that went about the city found me, they smote me, they wounded me; the keepers of the walls took away my veil from me.
I charge you, O daughters of Jerusalem, if ye find my beloved, that ye tell him, that I am sick of love.
What is thy beloved more than another beloved, O thou fairest among women? what is thy beloved more than another beloved, that thou dost so charge us?
My beloved is white and ruddy, the chiefest among ten thousand.
His head is as the most fine gold, his locks are bushy, and black as a raven.
His eyes are as the eyes of doves by the rivers of waters, washed with milk, and fitly set.
His cheeks are as a bed of spices, as sweet flowers: his lips like lilies, dropping sweet smelling myrrh.
His hands are as gold rings set with the beryl: his belly is as bright ivory overlaid with sapphires.
His legs are as pillars of marble, set upon sockets of fine gold: his countenance is as Lebanon, excellent as the cedars.
His mouth is most sweet: yea, he is altogether lovely. This is my beloved, and this is my friend, O daughters of Jerusalem.
Chapter 6
Whither is thy beloved gone, O thou fairest among women? whither is thy beloved turned aside? that we may seek him with thee.
My beloved is gone down into his garden, to the beds of spices, to feed in the gardens, and to gather lilies.
I am my beloved's, and my beloved is mine: he feedeth among the lilies.
Thou art beautiful, O my love, as Tirzah, comely as Jerusalem, terrible as an army with banners.
Turn away thine eyes from me, for they have overcome me: thy hair is as a flock of goats that appear from Gilead.
Thy teeth are as a flock of sheep which go up from the washing, whereof every one beareth twins, and there is not one barren among them.
As a piece of a pomegranate are thy temples within thy locks.
There are threescore queens, and fourscore concubines, and virgins without number.
My dove, my undefiled is but one; she is the only one of her mother, she is the choice one of her that bare her. The daughters saw her, and blessed her; yea, the queens and the concubines, and they praised her.
Who is she that looketh forth as the morning, fair as the moon, clear as the sun, and terrible as an army with banners?
I went down into the garden of nuts to see the fruits of the valley, and to see whether the vine flourished and the pomegranates budded.
Or ever I was aware, my soul made me like the chariots of Amminadib.
Return, return, O Shulamite; return, return, that we may look upon thee. What will ye see in the Shulamite? As it were the company of two armies.
Chapter 7
How beautiful are thy feet with shoes, O prince's daughter! the joints of thy thighs are like jewels, the work of the hands of a cunning workman.
Thy navel is like a round goblet, which wanteth not liquor: thy belly is like an heap of wheat set about with lilies.
Thy two breasts are like two young roes that are twins.
Thy neck is as a tower of ivory; thine eyes like the fishpools in Heshbon, by the gate of Bathrabbim: thy nose is as the tower of Lebanon which looketh toward Damascus.
Thine head upon thee is like Carmel, and the hair of thine head like purple; the king is held in the galleries.
How fair and how pleasant art thou, O love, for delights!
This thy stature is like to a palm tree, and thy breasts to clusters of grapes.
I said, I will go up to the palm tree, I will take hold of the boughs thereof: now also thy breasts shall be as clusters of the vine, and the smell of thy nose like apples;
And the roof of thy mouth like the best wine for my beloved, that goeth down sweetly, causing the lips of those that are asleep to speak.
I am my beloved's, and his desire is toward me.
Come, my beloved, let us go forth into the field; let us lodge in the villages.
Let us get up early to the vineyards; let us see if the vine flourish, whether the tender grape appear, and the pomegranates bud forth: there will I give thee my loves.
The mandrakes give a smell, and at our gates are all manner of pleasant fruits, new and old, which I have laid up for thee, O my beloved.
Chapter 8
O that thou wert as my brother, that sucked the breasts of my mother! when I should find thee without, I would kiss thee; yea, I should not be despised.
I would lead thee, and bring thee into my mother's house, who would instruct me: I would cause thee to drink of spiced wine of the juice of my pomegranate.
His left hand should be under my head, and his right hand should embrace me.
I charge you, O daughters of Jerusalem, that ye stir not up, nor awake my love, until he please.
Who is this that cometh up from the wilderness, leaning upon her beloved? I raised thee up under the apple tree: there thy mother brought thee forth: there she brought thee forth that bare thee.
Set me as a seal upon thine heart, as a seal upon thine arm: for love is strong as death; jealousy is cruel as the grave: the coals thereof are coals of fire, which hath a most vehement flame.
Many waters cannot quench love, neither can the floods drown it: if a man would give all the substance of his house for love, it would utterly be contemned.
We have a little sister, and she hath no breasts: what shall we do for our sister in the day when she shall be spoken for?
If she be a wall, we will build upon her a palace of silver: and if she be a door, we will inclose her with boards of cedar.
I am a wall, and my breasts like towers: then was I in his eyes as one that found favour.
Solomon had a vineyard at Baalhamon; he let out the vineyard unto keepers; every one for the fruit thereof was to bring a thousand pieces of silver.
My vineyard, which is mine, is before me: thou, O Solomon, must have a thousand, and those that keep the fruit thereof two hundred.
Thou that dwellest in the gardens, the companions hearken to thy voice: cause me to hear it.
Make haste, my beloved, and be thou like to a roe or to a young hart upon the mountains of spices.

[KLA2]

Hey, Mactep, this is like a nightly bedtime story. Please do not stop now!

Junior:
Tell me a story, tell me a story
Tell me a story, remember what you said
You promised me you said you would
You got to give in so I'll be good
Tell me a story, then I'll go to bed

Father:
Oh, worry, worry, weary ends my day
Time to go home without my raise in pay
Home by the fire where a man can just relax
Slippers there by the chair, not a worry, not a care
Along comes Junior swinging his little axe

Junior:
Tell me a story, tell me a story
Tell me a story, remember what you said
Tell me about the birds and bees
How do you make a chicken sneeze
Tell me a story, then I'll go to bed

Father:
Came home so late one evening last July
Played a little poker the time had passed me by
Shoes in my hand and my darlin' wife in bed
Up the stairs sayin' a prayer
Then a voice comes through the air ....

Junior:
Hi you there, Daddy
Remember what you said

Tell me a story, tell me a story
Tell me a story, remember what you said
Tell me how your eye got black
Because the doorway hit you back
Tell me a story, then I'll go to bed

Father:
Once upon a time I remember long ago

Junior:
Don't go back in history your memory's kinda slow

Father:
Stop your noisy talkin' until I finish with my tale
Once upon a ...

Junior:
Upon a what ...

Father:
Upon your back you'll get a swat

Junior:
Tell me about the fish you caught
That's was bigger than a whale

Junior:
Tell me a story, tell me a story
Tell me a story, remember what you said
You promised me, you said you would
You gotta give in so I'll be good
Tell me a story, then I'll go to bed ...

-Frankie Laine

[Мастер]

Hey, Mactep, this is like a nightly bedtime story. Please do not stop now!

Very well, but I have a problem coming up soon - the place where I'm copying these from doesn't have all the chapters :(

The Procurator's orders were carried out rapidly and precisely, and the sun, which had lately seemed to scorch Jerusalem with such particular vehemence, had not yet reached its zenith when the meeting took place between the Procurator and the president of the Sanhedrin, the High Priest of Judea, Joseph Caiaphas. They met on the upper terrace of the garden between two white marble lions guarding the staircase.

It was quiet in the garden. But as he emerged from the arcade onto the sun-drenched upper terrace of the garden with its palms on their monstrous elephantine legs, the terrace from which the whole of Pilate's detested city of Jerusalem lay spread out before the Procurator with its suspension bridges, its fortresses and over it all that indescribable lump of marble with a golden dragon's scale instead of a roof — the temple of Jerusalem — the Procurator's sharp hearing detected far below, down there where a stone wall divided the lower terraces of the palace garden from the city square, a low rumbling broken now and again by faint sounds, half groans, half cries.

The Procurator realized that already there was assembling in the square a numberless crowd of the inhabitants of Jerusalem, excited by the recent disorders; that this crowd was waiting impatiently for the pronouncement of sentence and that the water-sellers were busily shouting their wares.

The Procurator began by inviting the High Priest on to the balcony to find some shade from the pitiless heat, but Caiaphas politely excused himself, explaining that he could not do that on the eve of a feast day.

Pilate pulled his cowl over his slightly balding head and began the conversation, which was conducted in Greek.

Pilate remarked that he had considered the case of Yeshua Ha-Notsri and had confirmed the sentence of death. Consequently those due for execution that day were the three robbers — Hestas, Dismas and Bar-Abba — and now this other man, Yeshua Ha-Notsri. The first two, who had tried to incite the people to rebel against Caesar, had been forcibly apprehended by the Roman authorities; they were therefore the Procurator's responsibility and there was no reason to discuss their case. The last two, however, Bar-Abba and Ha-Notsri, had been arrested by the local authorities and tried before the Sanhedrin. In accordance with law and custom, one of these two criminals should be released in honor of the imminent great feast of Passover. The Procurator therefore wished to know which of these two felons the Sanhedrin proposed to discharge — Bar-Abba or Ha-Notsri?

Caiaphas inclined his head as a sign that he understood the question and replied, 'The Sanhedrin requests the release of Bar-Abba."

The Procurator well knew that this would be the High Priest's reply; his problem was to show that the request aroused his astonishment.

This Pilate did with great skill. The eyebrows rose on his proud forehead, and the Procurator looked the High Priest straight in the eye with amazement. "I confess that your reply surprises me," began the Procurator softly. "I fear there may have been some misunderstanding here."

Pilate stressed that the Roman government wished to make no inroads into the prerogatives of the local priestly authority, the High Priest was well aware of that, but in this particular case an obvious error seemed to have occurred. And the Roman government naturally had an interest in correcting such an error. The crimes of Bar-Abba and Ha-Notsri were after all not comparable in gravity. If the latter, a man who was clearly insane, was guilty of making some absurd speeches in Jerusalem and various other localities, the former stood convicted of offenses that were infinitely more serious. Not only had he permitted himself to make direct appeals to rebellion, but he had killed a sentry while resisting arrest. Bar-Abba was immeasurably more dangerous than Ha-Notsri. In view of all these facts, the Procurator requested the High Priest to reconsider his decision and to discharge the least dangerous of the two convicts and that one was undoubtedly Ha-Notsri... Therefore?

Caiaphas said in a quiet but firm voice that the Sanhedrin had taken due cognizance of the case and repeated its intention to release Bar-Abba.

"What? Even after my intervention? The intervention of the representative of the Roman government? High Priest, say it for the third time."

"And for the third time I say that we shall release Bar-Abba," said Caiaphas softly.

It was over and there was no more to be discussed. Ha-Notsri had gone forever and there was no one to heal the Procurator's terrible, savage pains; there was no cure for them now except death. But this thought did not strike Pilate immediately. At first his whole being was seized with the same incomprehensible sense of grief that had come to him on the balcony. He at once sought for its explanation, and its cause was a strange one: the Procurator was obscurely aware that he still had something to say to the prisoner and that perhaps, too, he had more to learn from him.

Pilate banished the thought and it passed as quickly as it had come. It passed, yet that grievous ache remained a mystery, for it could not be explained by another thought that had flashed in and out of his mind like lightning: "Immortality... immortality has come." Whose immortality had come? The Procurator could not understand it, but that puzzling thought of immortality sent a chill over him despite the sun's heat.

"Very well," said Pilate. "So be it."

With that he looked around. The visible world vanished from his sight and an astonishing change occurred. The flower-laden rosebush disappeared, the cypresses fringing the upper terrace disappeared, as did the pomegranate tree, the white statue among the foliage and the foliage itself. In their place came a kind of dense purple mass in which seaweed waved and swayed and Pilate himself was swaying with it. He was seized, suffocating and burning, by the most terrible rage of all rage — the rage of impotence.

"I am suffocating," said Pilate. "Suffocating!"

With a cold damp hand he tore the buckle from the collar of his cloak and it fell onto the sand.

"It is stifling today, there is a thunderstorm brewing," said Caiaphas, his gaze fixed on the Procurator's reddening face, foreseeing all the discomfort that the weather was yet to bring. "The month of Nisan has been terrible this year!"

"No," said Pilate. "That is not why I am suffocating. I feel stifled by your presence, Caiaphas." Narrowing his eyes, Pilate added, "Beware, High Priest!"

The High Priest's dark eyes flashed and — no less cunningly than the Procurator — his face showed astonishment.

"What do I hear, Procurator?" Caiaphas answered proudly and calmly. "Are you threatening me — when sentence has been duly pronounced and confirmed by yourself? Can this be so? We are accustomed to the Roman Procurator choosing his words carefully before saying anything. I trust no one can have overheard us, hegemon?"

[KLA2]

:wink: Good night, Mactep.

[Мастер]

With lifeless eyes Pilate gazed at the High Priest and manufactured a smile.

"Come now, High Priest! Who can overhear us here? Do you take me for a fool, like that crazy young vagrant who is to be executed today? Am I a child, Caiaphas? I know what I'm saying and where I'm saying it. This garden, this whole palace, is so well cordoned that there's not a crack for a mouse to slip through. Not a mouse — and not even that man — what's his name? — that man from Karioth. You do know him, don't you, High Priest? Yes... if someone like that were to get in here, he would bitterly regret it. You believe me when I say that, don't you? I tell you, High Priest, that henceforth you shall have no peace! Neither you nor your people." Pilate pointed to the right where the pinnacle of the temple flashed in the distance. "I, Pontius Pilate, Knight of the Golden Lance, tell you so!"

"I know it!" fearlessly replied the bearded Caiaphas. His eyes flashed as he raised his hand to the sky and went on: "The Jewish people knows that you hate it with a terrible hatred and that you have brought it much suffering, but you will never destroy it! God will protect it. And he shall hear us — mighty Caesar shall hear us and protect us from Pilate the oppressor!"

"Oh, no!" rejoined Pilate, feeling more and more relieved with every word that he spoke; there was no longer any need to dissemble, no need to pick his words. "You have complained of me to Caesar too often and now my hour has come, Caiaphas! Now I shall send word — but not to the viceroy in Antioch, not even to Rome but straight to Capraia, to the Emperor himself, word of how you in Jerusalem are saving convicted rebels from death. And then it will not be water from Solomon's pool, as I once intended for your benefit, that I shall give Jerusalem to drink — no, it will not be water! Remember how, thanks to you, I was made to remove the shields with the imperial cipher from the walls, to transfer troops, to come and take charge here myself! Remember my words, High Priest: you are going to see more than one cohort here in Jerusalem! Under the city walls you are going to see the Fulminata Legion at full strength and Arab cavalry too. Then the weeping and lamentation will be bitter! Then you will remember that you saved Bar-Abba and you will regret that you sent that preacher of peace to his death!"

Flecks of color spread over the High Priest's face, his eyes burned. Like the Procurator, he grinned mirthlessly and replied, "Do you really believe what you have just said, Procurator? No, you do not! It was not peace that this rabble-rouser brought to Jerusalem, and of that, hegemon, you are well aware. You wanted to release him so that he could stir up the people, curse our faith and deliver the people to your Roman swords! But as long as I, the High Priest of Judea, am alive I shall not allow the faith to be defamed and I shall protect the people! Do you hear, Pilate!" With this Caiaphas raised his arm threateningly. "Take heed, Procurator!"

Caiaphas was silent, and again the Procurator heard a murmuring as of the sea, rolling up to the very walls of Herod the Great's garden. The sound flowed upward from below until it seemed to swirl around the Procurator's legs and into his face. Behind his back, from beyond the wings of the palace, came urgent trumpet calls, the heavy crunch of hundreds of feet, the clank of metal. It told the Procurator that the Roman infantry was marching out, on his orders, to the execution parade that was to strike terror into the hearts of all thieves and rebels.

"Do you hear, Procurator?" the High Priest quietly repeated his words. "Surely you are not trying to tell me that all this —" here the High Priest raised both arms and his dark cowl slipped from his head — "can have been evoked by that miserable thief Bar-Abba?"

With the back of his wrist the Procurator wiped his damp, cold forehead, stared at the ground, then frowning skyward he saw that the incandescent ball was nearly overhead, that Caiaphas' shadow had shrunk to almost nothing, and he said in a calm, expressionless voice, "The execution will be at noon. We have enjoyed this conversation, but matters must proceed."

Excusing himself to the High Priest in a few artificial phrases, he invited him to sit down on a bench in the shade of a magnolia and to wait while he summoned the others necessary for the final short consultation and to give one more order concerning the execution.

Caiaphas bowed politely, placing his hand on his heart, and remained in the garden while Pilate returned to the balcony. There he ordered his waiting secretary to call the Legate of the Legion and the Tribune of the Cohort into the garden, also the two members of the Sanhedrin and the captain of the temple guard, who were standing grouped around the fountain on the lower terrace awaiting his call. Pilate added that he would himself shortly return to join them in the garden and disappeared inside the palace.

While the secretary convened the meeting, inside his darkened, shuttered room the Procurator spoke to a man whose face, despite the complete absence of sunlight from the room, remained half-covered by a hood. The interview was very short. The Procurator whispered a few words to the man, who immediately departed. Pilate passed through the arcade into the garden.

There in the presence of all the men he had asked to see, the Procurator solemnly and curtly repeated that he confirmed the sentence of death on Yeshua Ha-Notsri and inquired officially of the Sanhedrin members as to which of the prisoners it had pleased them to release. On being told that it was Bar-Abba, the Procurator said, "Very well," and ordered the secretary to enter it in the minutes. He clutched the buckle which the secretary had picked up from the sand and announced solemnly, "It is time!"

At this all present set off down the broad marble staircase between the lines of rosebushes, exuding their stupefying aroma, down toward the palace wall, to a gate leading to the smoothly paved square at whose end could be seen the columns and statues of the Jerusalem hippodrome.

As soon as the group entered the square and began climbing up to the broad temporary wooden platform raised high above the square, Pilate assessed the situation through narrowed eyelids.

The cleared passage that he had just crossed between the palace walls and the scaffolding platform was empty, but in front of Pilate the square could no longer be seen — it had been devoured by the crowd. The mob would have poured onto the platform and the passage too if there had not been two triple rows of soldiers, one from the Sebastian cohort on Pilate's left and on his right another from the Ituraean auxiliary cohort, to keep it clear.

Pilate climbed the platform, mechanically clenching and unclenching his fist on the useless buckle and frowning hard. The Procurator was not frowning because the sun was blinding him but somehow to avoid seeing the group of prisoners which, as he well knew, would shortly be led out on the platform behind him.

The moment the white cloak with the purple lining appeared atop the stone block at the edge of the human sea a wave of sound — "Aaahh" — struck the unseeing Pilate's ears. It began softly, far away at the hippodrome end of the square, then grew to thunderous volume and, after a few seconds, began to diminish again. "They have seen me," thought the Procurator. The wave of sound did not recede altogether and began unexpectedly to grow again and rose waveringly to a higher pitch, and on top of the second surge of noise, like foam on the crest of a wave at sea, could be heard whistles and the shrieks of several women audible above the roar. "That means they have led them out onto the platform," thought Pilate, "and those screams are from women who were crushed when the crowd surged forward."

He waited a while, knowing that nothing could silence the crowd until it had let loose its pent-up feelings and quieted of its own accord.

[Enzo]

If nature has made you a bat, you shouldn't try to turn yourself into an ostrich.

[Arneb]

OK, I won the thread in the original form, I don't have to follow suit here anymore....

[Lance]

Main Entry: nar·cis·sism
Pronunciation: \'när-sə-ˌsi-zəm\
Function: noun
Etymology: German Narzissismus, from Narziss Narcissus, from Latin Narcissus
Date: 1822
1 : egoism , egocentrism
2 : love of or sexual desire for one's own body

[KLA2]

Well. Um, I find you ... that is, I assume you are ... a passable ... I mean, very attractive ... to ... erm ...

Oh, screw it, I will just find another thread to post in.

{Not that there is anything wrong with that. :P }

ETA: Teri Tait, you have been away too long. Please come back ... for the of 's

[Arneb]

Why don'T we just ignore this guy and just revert to our usual routine?

I WIN!!

[KLA2]

Good for you, Arneb. First time I have seen that icon properly used on this board.

Won one, you did. That once. :wink:

Kent Brockman voice on /"However I for one welcome the new Llama Overlord and cede him all the love he commands." /off

[KLA2]

... Mactep? Chapter?

[Мастер]

... Mactep? Chapter?

When that moment came, the Procurator threw up his right hand and the last murmurings of the crowd expired. Then Pilate took as deep a breath of the hot air as he could, and his cracked voice rang out over the thousands of heads: "In the name of imperial Caesar!"

At once his ears were struck by a clipped, metallic chorus as the cohorts, raising lances and standards, roared out their fearful response: "Hail, Caesar!"

Pilate jerked his head up straight at the sun. He had a sensation of green fire piercing his eyelids, his brain seemed to burn. In hoarse Aramaic he flung his words out over the crowd:

"Four criminals, arrested in Jerusalem for murder, incitement to rebellion, contempt of the law and blasphemy, have been condemned to the most shameful form of execution — crucifixion! Their execution will be carried out shortly on Mount Golgotha! The names of these felons are Dismas, Hestas, Bar-Abba and Ha-Notsri, and there they stand before you!"

Pilate pointed to the right, unable to see the prisoners but knowing that they were standing where they should be.

The crowd responded with a long rumble that could have been surprise or relief. When it had subsided, Pilate went on:

"But only three of them are to be executed for, in accordance with law and custom, in honor of the great feast of Passover the Emperor Caesar in his magnanimity will, at the choice of the Lesser Sanhedrin and with the approval of the Roman government, render back to one of these convicted men his contemptible life!"

As Pilate rasped out his words, he noticed that the rumbling had given way to a great silence. Now not a sigh, not a rustle reached his ears, and there even came a moment when it seemed to Pilate that the people around him had vanished altogether. The city he so hated might have died and only he alone stood there, scorched by the vertical rays of the sun, his face craning skyward. Pilate allowed the silence to continue and then began to shout again: "The name of the man who is about to be released before you ..."

He paused once more, holding back the name, mentally confirming that he had said everything, because he knew that as soon as he pronounced the name of the fortunate man the lifeless city would awaken and nothing more that he might say would be audible.

"Is that everything?" Pilate whispered soundlessly to himself. "Yes, it is. Now the name!" And rolling the "r" over the heads of the silent populace he roared: "Bar-Abba!"

It was as though the sun detonated above him and drowned his ears in fire, a fire that roared, shrieked, groaned, laughed and whistled.

Pilate turned and walked back along the platform toward the steps, glancing only at the particolored wooden blocks of the steps beneath his feet to save himself from stumbling. He knew that behind his back a hail of bronze coins and dates was showering the platform, that people in the whooping crowd, elbowing each other aside, were climbing onto shoulders to see a miracle with their own eyes — a man already in the arms of death and torn from their grasp! They watched the legionaries as they untied his bonds, involuntarily causing him searing pain in his swollen arms, watched as grimacing and complaining he nevertheless smiled an insane, senseless smile.

Pilate knew that the escort was now marching the three bound prisoners to the side steps of the platform to lead them off on the road westward, out of the city, toward Mount Golgotha. Only when he stood beneath and behind the platform did Pilate open his eyes, knowing that he was now safe — he could no longer see the convicted men.

As the roar of the crowd began to die down, the separate, piercing voices of the heralds could be heard repeating, one in Aramaic, the other in Creek, the announcement that the Procurator had just made from the platform. Besides that his ears caught the approaching irregular clatter of horses' hoofs and the sharp, bright call of a trumpet. This sound was echoed by the piercing whistles of boys from the rooftops and by shouts of "Look out!"

A lone soldier, standing in the space cleared in the square, waved his standard in warning, at which the Procurator, the Legate of the Legion and their escort halted.

A squadron of cavalry entered the square at a fast trot, cutting across it diagonally past a knot of people, then down a sidestreet along a vine-covered stone wall in order to gallop on to Mount Golgotha by the shortest route.

As the squadron commander, a Syrian as small as a boy and as dark as a mulatto, trotted past Pilate, he gave a high-pitched cry and drew his sword from its scabbard. His sweating, ugly-tempered, black horse snorted and reared up on its hind legs. Sheathing his sword, the commander struck the horse's neck with his whip, brought its forelegs down and moved off down the side street, breaking into a gallop. Behind him in a column of threes galloped the horsemen in a haze of dust, the tips of their bamboo lances bobbing rhythmically. They swept past the Procurator, their faces unnaturally dark in contrast with their white turbans, grinning cheerfully, teeth flashing.

Raising a cloud of dust, the squadron surged down the street, the last trooper to pass Pilate carrying a glinting trumpet slung across his back.

Shielding his face from the dust with his hand and frowning with annoyance, Pilate walked on, hurrying toward the gate of the palace garden followed by the Legate, the secretary and the escort.

It was about ten o'clock in the morning.

[troubleagain]

[KLA2]

^ Werewolf doing the "funky chicken"? After eating a funky chicken? Me, before I shave in the morning? :?

Mactep? {OK, I guess fair is fair. I should buy the book.}

[Мастер]

"Yes, it was about ten o'clock in the morning, my dear Ivan Nikolayich," said the professor.

The poet drew his hand across his face like a man who has just woken up and noticed that it was now evening. The water in the pond had turned black, a little boat was gliding across it and he could hear the splash of an oar and a girl's laughter in the boat. People were beginning to appear in the avenues and were sitting on the benches on all sides of the square except on the side where our friends were talking.

Over Moscow it was as if the sky had blossomed: a clear, full moon had risen, still white and not yet golden. It was much less stuffy and the voices under the lime trees now had an even-tide softness.

"Why didn't I notice what a long story he's been telling us?" thought Bezdomny in amazement." It's evening already! Perhaps he hasn't told it at all but I simply fell asleep and dreamed it?'

But if the professor had not told the story Berlioz must have been having the identical dream because he said, gazing attentively into the stranger's face:

"Your story is extremely interesting, professor, but it diners completely from the accounts in the gospels."

"But surely," replied the professor with a condescending smile, "you of all people must realise that absolutely nothing written in the gospels actually happened. If you want to regard the gospels as a proper historical source..." He smiled again and Berlioz was silenced. He had just been saying exactly the same thing to Bezdomny on their walk from Bronnaya Street to Patriarch's Ponds.

"I agree," answered Berlioz, "but I'm afraid that no one is in a position to prove the authenticity of your version either."

"Oh yes! I can easily confirm it!" rejoined the professor with great confidence, lapsing into his foreign accent and mysteriously beckoning the two friends closer. They bent towards him from both sides and he began, this time without a trace of his accent which seemed to come and go without rhyme or reason:

"The fact is..." here the professor glanced round nervously and dropped his voice to a whisper, "I was there myself. On the balcony with The Seventh Proof, in the garden when he talked to Caiaphas and on the platform, but secretly, incognito so to speak, so don't breathe a word of it to anyone and please keep it an absolute secret, sshhh..."

There was silence. Berlioz went pale.

"How... how long did you say you'd been in Moscow?" he asked in a shaky voice.

"I have just this minute arrived in Moscow," replied the professor, slightly disconcerted. Only then did it occur to the two friends to look him properly in the eyes. They saw that his green left eye was completely mad, his right eye black, expressionless and dead.

"That explains it all," thought Berlioz perplexedly. "He's some mad German who's just arrived or else he's suddenly gone out of his mind here at Patriarch's. What an extraordinary business!" This really seemed to account for everything — the mysterious breakfast with the philosopher Kant, the idiotic ramblings about sunflower-seed oil and Anna, the prediction about Berlioz's head being cut off and all the rest: the professor was a lunatic.

[troubleagain]

^ Werewolf doing the "funky chicken"? After eating a funky chicken? Me, before I shave in the morning? :?

Mactep? {OK, I guess fair is fair. I should buy the book.}

It's a yeti.

WIN!

[Мастер]

Berlioz at once started to think what they ought to do. Leaning back on the bench he winked at Bezdomny behind the professor's back, meaning "Humour him!" But the poet, now thoroughly confused, failed to understand the signal.

"Yes, yes, yes," said Berlioz with great animation. "It's quite possible, of course. Even probable — The Seventh Proof, the balcony, and so on... Have you come here alone or with your wife?"

"Alone, alone, I am always alone," replied the professor bitterly.

"But where is your luggage, professor?" asked Berlioz cunningly. "At the Metropole? Where are you staying?"

"Where am I staying? Nowhere..." answered the mad German, staring moodily around Patriarch's Ponds with his green eye.

"What!.. But... where are you going to live?"

"In your flat," the lunatic suddenly replied casually and winked.

"I'm... I should be delighted..." stuttered Berlioz, "but I'm afraid you wouldn't be very comfortable at my place... - the rooms at the Metropole are excellent, it's a first-class hotel...'

"And the devil doesn't exist either, I suppose?" the madman suddenly enquired cheerfully of Ivan Nikolayich.

" And the devil...'

"Don't contradict him," mouthed Berlioz silently, leaning back and grimacing behind the professor's back.

"There's no such thing as the devil!" Ivan Nikolayich burst out, hopelessly muddled by all this dumb show, ruining all Berlioz's plans by shouting: "And stop playing the amateur psychologist!"

At this the lunatic gave such a laugh that it startled the sparrows out of the tree above them.

"Well now, that is interesting," said the professor, quaking with laughter. "Whatever I ask you about — it doesn't exist!" He suddenly stopped laughing and with a typical madman's reaction he immediately went to the other extreme, shouting angrily and harshly: "So you think the devil doesn't exist?"

"Calm down, calm down, calm down, professor," stammered Berlioz, frightened of exciting this lunatic. "You stay here a minute with comrade Bezdomny while I run round the corner and make a phone call and then we'll take you where you want to go. You don't know your way around town, sitter all..." Berlioz's plan was obviously right — to run to the nearest telephone box and tell the Aliens' Bureau that there was a foreign professor sitting at Patriarch's Ponds who was clearly insane. Something had to be done or there might be a nasty scene.

"Telephone? Of course, go and telephone if you want to," agreed the lunatic sadly, and then suddenly begged with passion:

"But please — as a farewell request — at least say you believe in the devil! I won't ask anything more of you. Don't forget that there's still the seventh proof — the soundest! And it's just about to be demonstrated to you!"

" All right, all right," said Berlioz pretending to agree. With a wink to the wretched Bezdomny, who by no means relished the thought of keeping watch on this crazy German, he rushed towards the park gates at the corner of Bronnaya and Yermolayevsky Streets.

At once the professor seemed to recover his reason and good spirits.

"Mikhail Alexandrovich!" he shouted after Berlioz, who shuddered as he turned round and then remembered that the professor could have learned his name from a newspaper.

The professor, cupping his hands into a trumpet, shouted:

"Wouldn't you like me to send a telegram to your uncle in Kiev?"

Another shock — how did this madman know that he had an uncle in Kiev? Nobody had ever put that in any newspaper. Could Bezdomny be right about him after all? And what about those phoney-looking documents of his? Definitely a weird character... ring up, ring up the Bureau at once... they'll come and sort it all out in no time.

Without waiting to hear any more, Berlioz ran on.

At the park gates leading into Bronnaya Street, the identical man, whom a short while ago the editor had seen materialise out of a mirage, got up from a bench and walked toward him. This time, however, he was not made of air but of flesh and blood. In the early twilight Berlioz could clearly distinguish his feathery little moustache, his little eyes, mocking and half drunk, his check trousers pulled up so tight that his dirty white socks were showing.

[KLA2]

Still enjoying it, Mactep. Hope you are copying and pasting, not typing this all!