Mikhail Bulgakov. The Master and Margarita -
42 >
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, towards 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 others
in Greek, 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 side-street 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 columns of three galloped
the horsemen in a ha2e 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.