Chapter Text
“Where are we walking?”
“Down the path, Hegemon.”
The narrow, silvery way stretches out before them, cleared and endless. The jagged landscape accommodates the path, the gray mountains are unhappy to bow to it. The road leads straight ahead, unaware of the cliffs and edges it comes close to tumbling over.
“Why call me Hegemon,” he asks, “when all that made me so no longer exists? One cannot be Caesar’s administrator in Judea if there is no soldier or juror or treasurer or secretary left to administrate.”
“Would you prefer I address you differently now, Hegemon?” The other man looks forward into the bright abyss, a smile at one corner of his thin mouth and a grimace at the other. “There was a time when you wished to be called nothing else.”
The words conjure the memory of Yeshua crushed to the floor beneath the enormous shadow of Pilate’s disfigured proxy. Over the image paints the soft brush of Yeshua’s forgiveness, like a hand against Pilate's forehead. The shapes and lines of the picture stay unchanged, but the harsh colors fade.
“I don’t know. Perhaps.”
At his admission, Yeshua nods, thoughtful. “Do you believe that the Procurator of Judea no longer exists?”
“Has time not turned the bones of Dismas and Gestas, Yedduah of Kerioth, and Mark the Rat-Killer to dust?”
“It has.”
“Has it not burned and crushed the Temple of Herod?”
“It has.”
“Has the eagle I swore myself to not fallen, trodden into the ground by the heels of King Alaric and interred beneath the gold of greedy bishops?”
“It has.”
Yeshua still sounds unconvinced, so Pilate continues with growing passion, his face reddening and voice becoming louder. “What of Latin, Greek, and Aramaic? Have those alive not cast our languages aside, cast our stories aside?”
“They have,” Yeshua concedes.
“Then there is no fifth province of Caesar's Judea. There is no Procurator, no Hegemon, and no title for me to claim.”
He deflates, the ire of a moment ago quickly draining into the ground. This explanation does not satisfy the conclusion which he knows to be true, that the title Hegemon does not belong to him anymore. He reaches down to brush Banga’s fur, reminding himself of the dog’s company, and waits for Yeshua to contradict him with a truer story.
Time pulls away. He waits two minutes, two millennia, two eternities for this rebel of Nazareth, well-spoken and wiry and resilient, to defy him.
“You expect me to disagree.”
“Don’t you?” Pilate looks and sees now where time has born down on Yeshua. Though his back has not bent to its weight, the seams of Yeshua’s patience and gentleness have worn thin. He encourages Banga to walk between them, hoping the dog’s presence will be equally soothing to the other man. “I survived my hell by waiting to hear you speak again,” Pilate admits. “Imagining what brash and unfounded arguments you would have for me. Dreaming of new words coming from your mouth.”
The sharpest laugh. “Have you not heard?” Pilate cannot tell if it is bitterness or confusion or exhaustion that laces Yeshua’s voice. Perhaps all of them. “I have been speaking for many centuries, through the mouths of many people I have never met and never seen. The world cannot hear enough of my voice.”
“Charlatans don’t count.”
“They do. My words belong to them now. I nearly prefer it that way. Through them, I have seen what my voice can do. I feel afraid of it now.”
They continue down the path. Yeshua gently pats Banga’s fur, unsure and unpracticed.
“When you are ready to speak,” Pilate whispers. "I will listen. Until then, we walk."